conform to fashion," said the recumbent figure on the sofa without
disturbing itself further.
"And each age acts and relates its own stories," interpolated the
chess-player. "So long as the right of the strongest prevailed, stories
were decidedly material in their interest, from Achilles down to the
noble knight of La Mancha. Since life has become more spiritual,
and its incidents more internal, they can no longer be outwardly
expressed by a few coarse strokes, as was the case with a middle-aged
dagger-and-sword-romance. Mere outline with some light and shade no
longer suffices; we want the whole range of colour, the most delicate
gradations of tint, and all the charms of chiaroscuro, and as we
ourselves have become in a great measure men of sentiment, the
sentiment an author manifests either for or against his characters is
no longer indifferent to us."
"Oh I know," returned Erminus, "little flesh, much soul, that is the
motto of the present day. But I happen to be just a man of the
unsentimental middle ages, though not in the romantic sense, and
therefore I had better keep my story to myself, for its structure is
by no means adapted to the attire of the present day, and while the
poets now present might turn up their nose at its very decidedly
old-fashioned form, I should fear to shock the ladies by its incidents,
though I for my part consider it perfectly moral."
"Since you yourself are quite sufficiently moral for us," said Frau
Eugenie, "this assurance will induce us to listen to your story without
a scruple."
"Especially since there is no un-confirmed young lady present," added
Frau Helena.
"With the exception of the little innocent here in the cradle,"
observed Frau Anna, "but she apparently intends to shut her eyes to
it."
"As to that point then I may feel safe in venturing," said Erminus.
"But now a sudden fear comes over me that this favourite of mine that
pleased me so much in private, may show itself awkward and unattractive
if I introduce it into such a fastidious circle. And my old chronicler
from whom I copied these few unpretending pages merely for my own
pleasure, was, I own, no poet like Boccacio and his companions, though
in this story he came pretty near them."
"Do not let us waste more time on the preface," said the professor.
"The worst that can happen to your story, is a poet's looking on it as
merely raw material, and, if it rains for another fortnight, making a
tragedy or a comedy out of it which may remain as a blot on the stage."
"So be it, then!" sighed Erminus, thus fairly driven into a corner, and
off he went to fetch his tale.
Before long he returned, a portfolio under his arm, from which he drew
a manuscript volume.
"The manuscript is twenty years old," he said, taking his seat in the
window, and spreading it out on his knee. "I chanced at that time to be
gathering materials for a history of the Lombard towns, and had come to
Treviso, where I hoped to find both in the Civic Records and in the
cloister-library treasures, which, alas! did not fall to my share. It
was only at the Dominicans at San Niccolo that I stumbled on a
remarkable chronicle, dating about the end of the 14th century, which I
would gladly have bought from the good fathers. But all that I could
attain to, was leave to copy out in their cool refectory, under the
eyes of a brother Antonio, whatever I thought useful for my purpose.
These sheets bear traces of the fragrant ruby-coloured cloister wine
with which I now and then washed down the dust of the chronicle, till
after many and many dry records, I lit upon the history of the fair
Giovanna, which like a spring of water in an arid steppe, suddenly
refreshed me more than any wine could do.
"At this time," (the chronicle refers to the first quarter of the
fourteenth century) "a bitter feud existed between the town of Treviso
and the neighbouring one of Vicenza, originating apparently in trivial
public matters, but fed by secret jealousy, even as the unseen wind
fans a feeble spark into flame. The inhabitants of Vicenza called the
Venetians to their aid, and were thus enabled by a rapid man[oe]uvre to
take possession, first of the castle of San Salvatore di Collatto, and
next to conquer the very town of Treviso itself, and it was only after
inflicting on it the utmost humiliation, and imposing a considerable
tribute, that they consented to withdraw, encumbered with booty and
hostages. As soon as these occurrences transpired--and the rumour
spread as far as Milan--no one was more enraged than a noble youth
belonging to our heavily-visited city, one Attilio Buonfigli by name,
(son of the most distinguished of Treviso's citizens, and nephew to the
Gonfaloniere Marco Buonfigli,) who had from early childhood been
brought up as a page in the house of the noble Matteo Visconti, had at
this time reached the age of twenty-five, and was thoroughly instructed
and practised in all knightly arts. As soon as he learnt the misfortune
that had befallen his beloved native town, he took an oath never to
sleep except in his coat of mail, until he had revenged the insult; and
accordingly he obtained leave of absence from his lord, and rode with
some friends of his, all clad in armour, out of the gates of Milan. And
since, young as he was, he had already made himself a proud name in the
feuds of the Visconti, no sooner was his purpose known than adventurous
youths from all sides flocked to swear fealty to him as to their
Condottiere, against whatever foe he might choose to lead them.
"As soon, therefore, as he had secured a sufficiently large body of men
to encounter the Venetians unaided, he sent secret messages to Treviso,
to inform his father and uncle of his plans, and of the day when he
purposed entering the gates of Vicenza to demand compensation for the
wrongs endured. They were to hold themselves in readiness to support
him, and with the help of God to place their feet on the necks of their
enemies.
"And thus indeed it came to pass, and was all so judiciously and
zealously carried out, that the men of Treviso succeeded in surprising
the retreating troops on their homeward way to Venice and depriving
them of their booty and hostages; while young Attilio, on the same day
in a hot encounter on the small river Bacchiloni, proved himself
victorious over the men of Vicenza. There was one thing only to trouble
the joy of our good city. The youthful victor had received a deep wound
in the throat from the sword of a Vicentine, and for some days his life
hung on a slender thread. His own father, as well as his noble mother,
nursed him in the conquered town's chief mansion, which belonged to its
most leading citizen, Signor Tullio Scarpa, whose eldest son, named
Lorenzaccio, had always been one of the bitterest foes of Treviso, so
much so indeed, that while the wounded hero remained an inmate of the
paternal abode, he never crossed its threshold. This only led to
Attilio--although a foe to her city--being regarded with greater
tenderness by the young Emilia, the only sister of Lorenzaccio; so that
his father and mother became aware of her partiality, and began to
found thereon a hope that through the union of the two leading families
of both towns, the long-existing bad blood and mutual jealousy might be
transformed into friendship and good will. And while his wound was
healing, in a confidential hour Attilio was induced by his dear mother
to entertain the idea, seeing that he had nothing to urge against it,
as his own heart was perfectly free, and the young Vicentine a comely
maiden. In secret, however, he felt a repugnance to take to wife a
daughter of that city: even after their betrothal he held himself aloof
from the girl, and would gladly have broken off altogether, but that he
feared to sow the germs of fresh hate amidst the up-springing crop of
peace. In this manner six or seven weeks passed by, and the leech
declared that the wounded man would no longer be running any risk by
mounting his horse and bearing shield and lance, even though he had
better for a further season avoid the pressure of his steel haubergeon.
Accordingly it was decided that he should set out for Treviso, whither,
in the course of a few weeks, the bride with her parents was to follow,
the rescued city being resolved to celebrate the marriage of their
noble son and deliverer with all possible splendour. Meanwhile the good
citizens had not lost the time spent by him on a sick bed, for they had
prepared for their loved young hero, whose name was on every lip, an
entry more triumphal than had ever yet been accorded to any prince.
"Amidst other offerings which the city meant to bestow upon him was a
banner, which his own uncle was to make over to him in the name of the
whole Council; a perfect marvel both as to material and skilful work.
The pole of ten feet was of polished oak, ornamented by bosses of
silver, the handle was set with rubies, and the point was gilt, so that
when the sun shone it was dazzling to look upon. From this pole hung a
heavy pennon of silver brocade, on which was represented a golden
griffin--the crest of the Buonfigli crowned with the mural crown of
Treviso--strangling a red serpent, whose coils were so natural, and
covered with such fine gold scales, that you seemed to see a living
snake writhing before your eyes. Above this was a Latin inscription in
flaming letters, which ran 'Fear not, for I will deliver thee.'
"This wondrous achievement of a skilful needle had, during the six
weeks that Attilio was laid low by his wound, proceeded from the hands
of one maiden only, whose talent for executing such work in gold,
silver, and silken thread, was renowned far and near. This maiden was
named Gianna--that is, Giovanna--the Blonde, for her hair was exactly
like bright spun gold, so that she had actually worked a church banner
for the Blessed Virgin, in the chapel of San Sebastiano, with nothing
but her own tresses. She had cut them off in her excessive grief when
her betrothed, who was, called Sebastian, a brave and handsome youth of
the district, had died of small-pox a few weeks before their marriage.
At that time she was eighteen years old, and the object of so many
secret wishes and so much open wooing, that she had often to hear
people prophecy that before her hair had grown again her bridegroom
would have a successor--agreeably to the proverb, Long hair, short
care. To speeches like these she would answer neither yea or nay, but
calmly look down upon her work like a being whose ear and mind were
closed against the idle sayings of this world. And in point of fact she
falsified all these prophecies, for she continued to live as if by her
votive offering of her hair to the Madonna she had vowed herself to
perpetual maidenhood, and never meant that any man should uncoil the
plaits which she again wound round her head, or twine their soft gold
about his fingers. Many thought that she would go into a convent,
because she preferred working church vestments and altar cloths, and
kept aloof from all public amusements. But she even contradicted this
opinion, and seemed to grow more cheerful as time went on, though still
more ready to listen than to speak; and after the early death of her
parents she removed to a small house in a turret on the city walls,
which had a wide view over the peaceful meadows that are watered by the
streams Piavesella and Rottiniga. There with an old deaf woman, her
nurse, she lived above comment or censure, during a space of ten years,
and no one entered her home except a neighbour now and then, or one of
the noble ladies of the city who came to order some piece of work.
Often, too, one of the spiritual fathers of the town might be seen to
raise the knocker of her door. On these occasions she would call her
nurse into the chamber while she received her visitors, and thus she
contrived to keep malice at bay. Although it was only on Saints' Days
that she allowed her needle to rest, and although she went but little
out of doors, she kept her beauty so unimpaired, that if she ever took
a Sunday walk in the cool of the evening on the walls, or in the
neighbouring woods, accompanied by her old servant, everyone who saw
her large black eyes look out calmly from between their fair lashes
stood as it were transfixed, to gaze after her; and even strangers and
distinguished noblemen who did not know her nature, and would not
credit the reports concerning her, made her many overtures, hoping to
lead her to renounce her single state. But she gave the same answer to
each and all of them, namely, that the life she led was dear and
familiar to her, and that she had no intention of changing it for any
other.
"Thus she had already attained her thirty-second year when the feud
between the two neighbouring towns broke out, and as she was a loyal
daughter of Treviso, she so bitterly felt all the misery and
humiliation that had befallen it, that its deliverance by the valiant
arm of a young fellow-citizen on whom her eyes had never rested,
impressed her as a supernatural portent, and the deliverer himself as
an angel with a flaming sword. Never had she more gladly undertaken a
task, or executed it with more skill and industry, than she did this
banner which the city meant to offer its triumphant son on his entry;
and when the festal day came, and everybody in Treviso who was not on a
sick-bed, sought themselves out a spot on market-place or street, at
gate or window, nay even on the very house-tops, from whence to shower
down flowers and congratulations on Attilio Buonfigli, even the fair
Gianna could no longer endure her narrow dwelling, though indeed she
might from the turret window have seen the procession from Vicenza well
enough. She procured herself a seat on a gaily decorated tribune near
the town hall, that she might see the hero quite closely, and she
dressed herself in her best attire, a bodice of silver tissue trimmed
with blue velvet, and a skirt of fine light blue woollen material, her
hair being according to the fashion of the time, richly intertwined
with ribands, so that even an hour before the entry, there was a rush
in the streets, and many exclamations of amazement when she, thus
arrayed, was seen to take her place by the side of a female friend. But
before long the eyes of the crowd were diverted from her, and fixed
impatiently on the street up which the hero was to ride. Part of the
town council had ridden at least a mile beyond the gates to meet and
honourably welcome him and his parents. His uncle, the Gonfaloniere,
remained standing with the rest on the steps of the town hall, which
was covered with costly red cloth, from whence a broad stripe of the
same led across the market-place to the door of the cathedral, a manner
of preparing the way hitherto reserved for consecrated and anointed
personages only.
"But who is able to describe the truly marvellous and unutterably
solemn impression made on all, when at length Attilio, in advance of
his escort, came riding up the street on his crimson-caparisoned bay
charger, he himself in plain attire, a steel coat of mail thrown over a
tabard; for the rest unarmed, with the exception of the sword that hung
from his girdle, his head adorned merely by its dark brown curls. His
chin and cheeks were shaded by a light beard, through which on the left
side the broad red scar of his wound was visible. And although his
management of his fiery charger proved his strength, a slight pallor
still lingered on his cheeks, over which every now and then a modest
blush flitted when he looked around him and saw on all sides white
heads bend reverently before his triumphal youth, or mothers hold up
their children the better to see the deliverer of their native city.
But what crowned the whole was the shower of flowers falling so thickly
from window and roof upon the hero, that his form was at times actually
lost to view beneath a many-coloured veil; and his good horse,
accustomed in battle to quite different missiles, pricked his ears,
shook his mane, and mingled his shrill neighing with the shouts of
triumph and the clamour of bells.
"As soon as the whole procession had gathered in front of the town
hall, Attilio leapt from the saddle and hastened up the steps to kneel
before his noble uncle, to receive from him the banner, and to kiss the
hand that bestowed so high an honour. But as he rose from his knees and
prepared to descend the steps and tread the way to the cathedral, he
started as though from some sudden pain of body or mind, and required
three minutes at least to regain consciousness of where he was, and of
the many thousand eyes riveted upon him. The fact was he had seen on
the tribune to his right, a face that, like a vision of paradise,
seemed to ravish him away from earth; and when the large black eyes
looked fixedly at him from under their blonde lashes with an
indescribable expression, half sweet, half melancholy, the blood
suddenly rushed to his heart, he grew pale as though an arrow had
smitten him in the breast, and had he not been holding the banner,
against the pole of which he was able to lean, he must a second
time--but this time involuntarily--have fallen upon his knees. Those
who stood nearest to him and noticed his faintness, attributed it to
his wound, and to the fatigue of so long a ride upon a hot day, no one
divining the real cause; and at last Attilio collected himself, and
forcing his eyes away from the enchanting face before him, trod the
path to the cathedral without once turning round his head to where the
women sat.
"All the people now streamed after him, and the tribunes emptied
themselves rapidly. The last who rose--and then only at the suggestion
of her neighbour--was Gianna the Blonde, who as if lapped in dreams, or
like one who gazes after the track of a falling star in the sky,
followed the young man with her eyes, till the deep shadow of the
cathedral portal swallowed up his lofty form. Her friend prepared to
follow the rest and be present at the high mass, but Gianna pleaded
indisposition, said she had sat too long in the sun, and with bent head
took her solitary way to her own home. One of the flowers with which
the streets were strewn, she picked up to carry back as a memorial; it
was a red carnation trodden down by a horse's hoof. This flower she
placed in a glass of water, and secretly settled with herself what it
should be held to betoken if it were to revive.
"Her old nurse who had been gazing at the procession through one of the
port-holes of the city-gates, overflowed with praises and admiration of
Attilio, of the modest way in which he had looked about him, he, an
immortal hero at such an early age! dwelling on all the honour and fame
he was sure to win in the future, making the name of his native town
great amongst all the cities of Italy, perhaps indeed greater than even
Florence or Rome! Then she fell to speaking of his betrothed, whom all
ladies must needs envy, and to wondering whether she was worthy of him,
and not by chance like her brother Signor Lorenzaccio, who stood in the
worst repute with the inhabitants of Treviso, the women more
especially. To all these remarks the fair Gianna replied nothing, or at
least very little, and much to the old woman's surprise, sat herself
down to her embroidery frame as though it were a common working-day,
only raising her eyes from time to time to look at the flower in the
glass. When afternoon came, and with it the rest of the amusements,
racing, dancing, and beautiful fireworks, she still remained quietly
seated, while the servant went out to enjoy the general hilarity. It
was indeed only late in the evening that she returned, tired to death
and covered with dust, but still with plenty to tell, and full of
tender pity for her mistress, who had lost so much by her sad headache.
The fair Gianna listened with a calm countenance, not joyous indeed,
yet not sad, as though she had no part in what was going on. Meanwhile
she had added a large piece to the stole she was working, and
apparently had never moved from her chair. But the carnation in the
glass was now in full bloom.
"By this time night had come, and after the women had got through their
silent supper, old Catalina, whose sexagenarian limbs had toiled hard
during the day, betook herself to her bed in the kitchen. Her mistress
remained up, looking at the rising of the moon above the broad plain,
and the flow of the Rottiniga; and now instead of the festal sounds
from the city, which had gradually died down, a nightingale who had her
nest under the window, began to sing so sweet and amorous a strain,
that tears came to the eyes of the solitary maiden as she listened. She
felt her heart so heavy and oppressed that she rose, put out her light,
and threw a dark cloak over her shoulders. Then she went down the steep
and narrow stair, opened the house-door, and stepped into the empty
street just to take a few steps in the cool night air, and quiet her
beating pulses. But lost in her own thoughts as she was, she forgot to
draw her hood about her head, so that although the moon did not shine
into the street, she was easily to be recognized by any passer-by. And
now, through a chance which, like all else that is earthly, obeyed a
higher will, she encountered the very one her thoughts--like moths
about a candle--had been fluttering round the whole day through.