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Andrea Delfin, by Paul Heyse (1830-1914)
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Andrea Delfin, by Paul Heyse (1830-1914)
Translated by Gunther Olesch in 2000.
(C) 2000 Gunther Olesch.
You may enjoy this text for your personal pleasure.
Any commercial exploitation requires the translator's consent.
Title: Andrea Delfin
Author: Paul Heyse
Translator: Gunther Olesch
Release Date: April, 2002 [Etext #3156C]
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Andrea Delfin, by Paul Heyse (1830-1914)
Translated by Gunther Olesch in 2000.
(C) 2000 Gunther Olesch.
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Andrea Delfin, by Paul Heyse (1830-1914)
Translated by Gunther Olesch in 2000.
(C) 2000 Gunther Olesch.
You may enjoy this text for your personal pleasure.
Any commercial exploitation requires the translator's consent.
**This is a COPYRIGHTED Project Gutenberg Etext, Details Above**
Andrea Delfin (1859)
by Paul Heyse (1830-1914)
Translated by Gunther Olesch in 2000 from the HTML files available
at http://gutenberg.aol.de/heyse/delfin/delfin.htm
Translator's Comments
Paul Johann Ludwig Heyse was born on March 15, 1830, in Berlin.
His father was a professor of philology and his mother was a
relative of Mendelssohn-Bartholdy, the composer. Thus, Paul Heyse
grew up in an atmosphere of appreciation for the fine arts. He
studied classical philology, art history, and Romance philology,
obtaining his doctorate in 1852, and became a widely respected
authority on literature.
In 1910, Paul Heyse was awarded the Nobel Prize for literature and
was ennobled as Paul von Heyse. He died on April 4, 1914, in
Munich.
Trying to find out whether English translations of Paul Heyse's
work were already available, I turned to the online catalog of the
Library of Congress. Aside from many German editions, I found the
following books, which seem to contain English translations:
1867-68 Good stories ... [various authors: N.Hawthorne,
F.J.O'Brien, H.Zschokke, P.J.L.Heyse, W.M.Thackeray.]
1867 L'Arrabiata and other tales. Tr. by Mary Wilson.
1870 The solitaires. A Tale.
1878 In paradise; a novel.
1879 Tales from the German of Paul Heyse.
1881 Doomed.
1881 Fortnight at the dead lake, and Beatrice.
1882 Barbarossa, and other tales.
1882 L'Arrabiata, and other tales.
1882 The witch of the Corso. Tr. by George W. Ingraham.
1883 Children of the world.
1886 Selected stories.
1888 Words never to be forgotten and The donkey. Tr. by Abbie
E. Fordyce.
1890 Masterpieces of German fiction. [various authors: R.Lindau,
F.Lewald-Stahr, E.Eckstein, A.v.Wilbrandt, P.J.L.Heyse,
H.Hopfen.]
1894 The children of the world. New ed., rev.
1894 At the ghost hour. The forest laugh.
1894 At the ghost hour. Mid-day magic. Tr. by Frances A. Van
Santford.
1894 At the ghost hour. The fair Abigail. Tr. by Frances A. Van
Santford.
1894 At the ghost hour. The house of the unbelieving Thomas. Tr.
by Frances A. Van Santford.
1894 Children of the world.
1894 A divided heart, and other stories. [A divided heart.--
Minka.--Rothenburg on the Tauber.] Translated into English
with an introduction by Constance Stewart Copeland.
1900 Mary of Magdala: a drama in five acts. Tr. by Alexis Irénée
du Pont Coleman.
1902 Heyse's L'Arrabbiata in English, ed. Warren Washburn Florer.
1902 Mary of Magdala; an historical and romantic drama in five
acts, adapted in English by Lionel Vale.
1903 Mary of Magdala; an historical and romantic drama in five
acts, the translation freely adapted and written in English
verse by William Winter.
1916 L'Arrabbiata, literally tr. by Vivian Elsie Lyon.
The most striking aspect of this list is that it ends in 1916. It
seems as if for the larger part of the 20th century no English
translations of Paul Heyse's stories have been published.
Perhaps, my translation of "Andrea Delfin", contained in this
file, might inspire someone to dig up some of those older
translations and to prepare them as etexts for the Project
Gutenberg.
According to www.nobel.se/literature/laureates/1910/press.html,
Andrea Delfin, written in 1859, is part of a series of novellas,
which Paul Heyse had published between 1855 and 1862 in four
volumes.
The story of "Andrea Delfin" is set in 18th century Venice and
contains a few, mostly Italian, expressions which might require an
explanation. I have looked up the most important ones and
compiled a very short list here:
bora: A strong, cold wind, blowing from the mountains to the
Adriatic Sea.
Bridge of Sighs: The bridge on the east side of the Doges'
Palace, leading across a narrow canal to the prisons.
doge: Duke, the head of state in Venice from 697 to 1797.
felucca: A small ship with two masts, equipped with sails as well
as oars, a smaller type of galley.
faro: A game of cards, also spelled "pharaoh" in English.
lido: A sandbank, which separates the lagoon of Venice from the
sea. There are several settlements on these sandbanks
(but the one called Lido did not exist yet at the time of
this story).
Piazzetta: A small square near the Piazza San Marco. The
administration of the Venetian republic resided in the
buildings surrounding these squares. The entrance to the
Piazzetta was the ceremonial landing spot for high
officials and is marked by two massive granite columns.
procurator: One of the nine highest ranking officials in Venice,
among which the doge was elected.
Procurators' Offices: These buildings are on the northern and
southern sides of the Piazza San Marco.
Angelo Querini: This is not a fictional character, but an actual
historic person.
Rialto: A corruption of "Rivo Alto", this is the oldest and most
central part of Venice.
sbirro: A member of the secret police.
signoria: The highest public authority in Venice.
tarock: A game of cards, usually played by three people with a
deck of 78 cards.
Terraferma: The land under the control of Venice, outside of the
city itself. It stretched from the borders of Milan in the
west to the Istrian Peninsula in the east and from the Alps
in the north to the Po River in the south.
zecchino: A gold coin (ducat), produced in Venice since 1284,
until the beginning of the 19th century.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Andrea Delfin
A Venetian novella
by Paul Heyse
Original title: Andrea Delfin, eine venezianische Novelle
[Translated by Gunther Olesch in 2000]
In that Venetian alley which bears the friendly name of "Bella
Cortesia", there was, in the middle of the past century, the
simple, one-story house of a common family; over its low portal,
framed by two wooden spiral columns and a baroque ledge, resided
an image of the Madonna in a niche, and an eternal flame flickered
humbly behind its red glass. Entering the lower corridor, one
would have found oneself at the foot of a broad, steep staircase,
which, without any bents, went straight up to the rooms upstairs.
Here also, a lamp burnt day and night, which hang by shiny,
delicate chains from the ceiling, since daylight could only enter
inside, whenever the front door happened to be opened. But in
spite of this everlasting gloom, the staircase was the place where
Signora Giovanna Danieli, the owner of the house, liked to sit the
most. Since the death of her husband, she inhabited the inherited
house together with Marietta, her only daughter, and let a few
unneeded rooms to quiet lodgers. She maintained that the tears
she had cried for her dear husband had weakened her eyes too much
to be still able to withstand direct sunlight. But the neighbours
said about her that the only reason for her continued presence at
the top of the stairs, from morning until nightfall, was to enable
her to start a conversation with everyone leaving or entering the
house and not to let him pass, before he had payed his dues to her
curiosity and her talkative nature. At the time when we are now
about to make her acquaintance, this could hardly have been the
reason for her preferring the hard seat of the stairs over a
comfortable armchair. It was in August of the year 1762. For
half a year, the rooms she used to let were empty, and she had
only little contact with her neighbours. Furthermore, night had
already fallen, and a visit at this time of day would have been
quite unusual. Nevertheless, the little woman sat persistently at
her post and thoughtfully looked down the empty corridor. She had
sent her child to bed and had placed a few pumpkins by her side,
to take out the seeds before she would go to sleep. But all kinds
of thoughts and ideas had made her forget her task. Her hands
rested in her lap, her head was leaning against the banister; it
had not been the first time that she had fallen asleep in this
position.
Today, it had almost happened to her again, when three slow, but
forceful, thumps to the front door suddenly made her start.
"Misericordia!" said the woman, as she was getting up, but
remained standing there motionlessly, "what's this? Have I
dreamt? Could it really be him?"
She listened. The thumps of the knocker were repeated. "No," she
said, "it isn't Orso. His knocks sounded differently. It aren't
the sbirri either. Let's see what heaven sends." - With these
words, she sluggishly walked down the stairs and asked without
opening the door who would wish to enter.
A voice answered that there was a stranger outside, looking for
lodgings here. The house had been highly recommended to him; he
hoped to stay for a long time and the landlady would probably be
satisfied with him. All of this had been said politely and in
good Venetian, so that Signora Giovanna, in spite of the late
hour, did not think twice before opening the door. The appearance
of her guest justified her confidence. He wore, as far as she
could make out in the gloom, the decent, black garments of the
lower middle class, carried a leather portmanteau under his arm,
and held the hat modestly in his hand. Only his face made the
woman wonder. It was not young, not old, the beard was still dark
brown, the forehead without wrinkles, the eyes lively, but the
expression of his mouth and the way he talked was tired and worn
out, and the short hair was, in a strange contrast with his still
youthful features, completely gray.
"Kind woman," he said, "I've disturbed you in your sleep, and
perhaps even in vain. For, let me say it right away, if you have
no room with a window above the canal, I won't be your lodger.
I've come from Brescia, my physician has recommended the damp air
of Venice to me for my weak chest; I've been told to live above
the water."
"Well, thank God!" said the widow, "so here, for a change, comes
someone who'll respect our canal. Last summer, I've had a
Spaniard, who moved out, because, as he said, the water had a
smell as if rats and melons had been cooked in it! And it has
been recommended to you? We do say here in Venice:
"The channel's water will
harshly cure what's ill.
"But this has a hidden meaning, sir, an evil meaning, considering
how often, at the command of the rulers, a gondola has set out to
the lagoon with three persons on board and returned with only two.
Let's not talk about this any more, sir - God save us all! But is
your passport in order? Otherwise, I wouldn't be able to let you
stay."
"I have already shown it three times, kind woman, in Mestre, out
on the lagoon at the guard's gondola, and at the Traghetto. My
name is Andrea Delfin, my profession is that of a notary's legal
clerk, as which I've worked in Brescia. I'm a calm person and
never liked having any business with the police."
"Just the better," said the woman, walking up the stairs again,
ahead of her guest. "It's better to be unharmed than to be
mourned, one eye on the cat, the other on the pan, and it's more
useful to be afraid than to suffer the loss. Oh, those times we
live in, Signore Andrea! One shouldn't think about it. Thinking
shortens one's life, but worry unlocks the heart. There, look,"
and she opened a large room, "isn't it pretty in here, isn't it
homely? There, the bed, I've sown it with my own hands, when I
was young, but in the morning one wouldn't know the day. And
there's the window going out to the canal, which isn't wide as you
can see, but runs just the more deeply, and the other window over
there is going out to the little alley, but you'll have to keep it
shut, for the bats are getting more and more of a pest. Look
there, on the other side of the canal, you can almost reach it
with your hand, it's the palace of Countess Amidei, who's as blond
as gold, and is just as frequently handed from one man to another.
But here I'm standing and chatting, and you've neither any light
nor water, and you'd also be hungry."
The stranger had inspected the room throughly with one swift look,
as soon as he had entered; he had gone from one window to the
other, and then, he threw his portmanteau onto an armchair.
"Everything's perfect," he said. "We'll surely agree on the
price. Just bring me a bite to eat and, if you should have any, a
small glass of wine. Afterwards, I want to sleep."
There was something strangely commanding about his gesture, in
spite of the mild sound of his words. Hastily, the woman obeyed
and left him alone for a short time. Now, he instantly stepped
back up to the window, leant out, and looked down at the very
narrow canal, which showed no movement of its black waters, and
thus by no means revealed that it had its share in liveliness of
the great sea, in the breaking waves of the ancient Adriatic Sea.
The palace on the other side rose before him as a heavy mass, all
windows were dark, since the front was not facing the canal; only
a narrow door opened to this side, down below, closely above the
face of the waters, and a black gondola had been chained to a pole
before its threshold.
All of this seemed to conform very well to the wishes of the new
arrival, who also did not seem less pleased with the fact that
through the other window, facing the blind alley, nobody would be
able to look into his room. For on the other side ran a
windowless wall without any other interruptions than a few ledges,
cracks, and cellar-holes, and only cats, martens, and owls would
have regarded these gloomy nooks as pleasant and habitable.
A ray of light shone into his chamber from the corridor, the door
was opened and, holding a candle in her hand, the small widow
entered again, followed by her daughter, who hurriedly had to get
out of bed again, to assist her in welcoming the guest. The
girl's stature was almost even smaller than her mother's, but
nevertheless seemed, due to her most extreme daintiness and the
hardly matured slenderness of all shapes, taller and as if she was
gliding along on the tips of her toes, while in her face the
resemblance, except for the differences accounted for by her age,
was recognisable at the first sight. Only the expression on both
faces seemed to be incapable of ever taking on any similarity.
Between the dense eyebrows of Signora Giovanna, there was a tense
trait, as if she was sorrowfully waiting for something, which even
all experiences of growing older would not be able to place
permanently on Marietta's clear brow. These eyes always had to be
smiling, this mouth always had to be a bit open, to release any
humorous remark without delay. It was infinitely cute to see how
now, in this pretty face, cunningness, surprise, curiosity, and
wantonness fought with one another. Upon entering, she tilted her
head, the loose braids of which where wrapped in a scarf, to the
side, to see the new fellow inhabitant of their house. Even his
serious demeanour and his gray hair did not reduce her high
spirits. "Mother," she whispered, while putting a large plate
with ham, bread, and fresh figs onto the table, "he has a strange
face, like a new house in winter, when the snow has fallen onto
the roof."
"Be quiet, you evil witch!" the mother said swiftly. "White hair
gives false testimony. He's ill, you know, and you ought to be
respectful, because illness arrives on horseback, but leaves on
foot, and may God protect you and me, for the ill eat little, but
the illness devours everything. Just get a little bit of water,
as much as we've still got. Tomorrow, we'll have to get up early
and buy more. Look, there he's sitting, as if he was asleep.
He's tired from his journey, and you're tired from sitting still.
This is how different things are in this world."
During this quiet conversation, the stranger had been sitting by
the window, holding his head in his hand. Even after he had
looked up, he hardly seemed to notice the presence of the dainty
girl, who was bowing to him.
"Come on, and eat something, Signore Andrea," said the widow. "He
who doesn't eat his supper will suffer hunger in his dreams.
Look, the figs are fresh, and the ham is tender, and this is wine
from Cyprus, just as good as what the doge would drink. His
cellarer has sold it to us himself, an old acquaintance of my
husband. You've travelled, sir. Didn't you happen to meet him
some time, my Orso, Orso Danieli?"
"Kind woman," said the stranger, pouring a few drops of wine into
the glass and cracking open one of the figs, "I have never
travelled beyond Brescia and don't know anyone by this name."
Marietta left the room, and she could be heard singing a song to
herself in her clear voice, while rushing down the stairs.
"Do you hear the child?" asked Signora Giovanna. "One might think
that she wasn't my daughter, though even a black hen might lay a
white egg. Always singing and jumping about, as if this wasn't
Venice, where it's a good thing that the fish can't talk, for
otherwise they'd tell thing, which would make your hair stand on
end. But her father was just the same, Orso Danieli, the foreman
of Murano, where they make these colourful glasses, like nowhere
else in the entire world. `A joyful heart gives red cheeks,' this
was what he always used to say. And therefore, he said to me one
day, `Giovannina,' he said, `I can't stand it here any more, the
air of Venice is choking me, just yesterday, another one has been
strangled and hung up on the gallows by his feet, because he's
been speaking out freely against the inquisition and the Council
of Ten. Everyone knows where he's been born, but not where he'll
die, and there are many who think they'd be riding high on their
horses, though they're sitting on the ground. So, Giovannina,' he
said, `I want to go to France, my craft will win me favours, and
petty cash chases the big money. I know my trade, and once I'll
have made it out there, you'll join me with our child.' - She was
eight years old then, Signore Andrea. She laughed, when she
kissed her father for the last time; this made him laugh, too.
But I cried, so he had to cry along, though he left quite happily
in the gondola, I even still heard him whistling, after he had
already turned around the corner. One year passed. And what
happened? The signoria asked where he was; nobody from Murano
was allowed to practice his craft abroad, so that the tricks of
the trade wouldn't be copied; I was told to write him, that he
should return or face the death penalty. He laughed about the
letter; but the gentlemen of the tribunal didn't think that this
was funny. One morning, when we were still in bed, they came for
me, and the child as well, they've dragged us up to the cells
under the lead roofs, and I had to write him again where I was, I
and our child, and that I would stay there, until he came
personally to Venice to get me out. It didn't take long, until I
received his answer, he didn't feel like laughing any more, and
he'd follow the letter as fast as his feet would carry him. Well,
I hoped daily that he'd make it true. But weeks and months
passed, and the pain in my heart as well as the sickness in my
head grew more and more, for it's hell up there, Signore Andrea,
my only comfort was the child I had with me, who didn't comprehend
any part of this misery, except that she ate little, and felt hot
during the day; but nevertheless, she sang, to cheer me up, so
that I was utterly overwhelmed to hold back the tears. Only after
three months, we were released; they said the glass-blower Orso
Danieli had died in Milan from a fever, and we could go home.
I've heard others say so, too - but he who'd believe this, doesn't
know the signoria. Dead? Would a man die when he has a wife and
a child sitting under the lead roofs and is supposed to get them
out?"
"And what do you think, happened to your husband?" asked the
stranger.
She gave him a look, which reminded him that the poor woman had
lived under the lead roofs for several long weeks. "It isn't
right," she said. "There are many who are alive and still don't
return, and many are dead, but do return. But let's not talk
about that. Indeed, if I'd tell you, who'd give me the guarantee
that you wouldn't go ahead and tell the tribunal all about it?
You look like a galantuomo; but who's still trustworthy,
nowadays? One in a thousand, none in a hundred. No offence,
Signore Andrea, but you might know what we say here in Venice:
"With lies and tricks you will not die,
With tricks and lies you will get by."
There was a pause in the conversation. A while ago, the stranger
had already pushed the plate aside and had eagerly listened to the
widow.
"I can understand," he said, "that you don't want to confide your
secrets in me. Furthermore, they are none of my business, and I
wouldn't know how to help you anyhow. But why, good woman, do you
nevertheless put up with this tribunal, under which you have
suffered so much, you and the entire people of Venice? For I do
know little about the local situation - I never took a deep
interest in political matters - but still I've heard that much
that just last year, there was an rebellion in this town, which
sought to abolish the secret tribunal, that even one of the
aristocrats spoke out against it, and that the Great Council
elected a commission to deliberate the matter, and that everyone
was very excitedly arguing for and against it. Even in my office
in Brescia, I've heard about it. And when, in the end, everything
remained the same and the power of the secret tribunal came out
stronger than ever, why did the people light bonfires then in all
of the squares and mocked those aristocrats, who had voted against
the tribunal and now had to fear its revenge? Why was there no
one to prevent the inquisition from banishing its bold enemy to
Verona? And who can tell whether they'll let him stay alive
there, or whether the daggers have already been sharpened to
silence him forever? I - as I've already said - know only little
about this; I also don't know this man, and I feel very
indifferent about everything which happens here, because I'm ill
and probably won't stay in this colourful world for much longer.
But I'm nevertheless astonished to see these fickle people, which
one day call those three men their tyrants and rejoice the next
day, when those perish who wanted to put an end to this tyranny."
"The way you talk, sir!" said the widow and shook her head.
"You've never seen him, that Signore Avogadore Angelo Querini, who
has been banished for declaring war against the secret justice?
Well so, sir, but I've seen him, and the other poor people have
so, too, and they all say that he was an honest gentleman and a
very learned man, who has studied the old stories of Venice, day
and night, and knows the law like a fox knows the pigeonry. But
whoever had seen him cross the street or standing in the Broglio
with his friends, leaning against a column with his eyes half
closed, knew that he was a nobile from the feather on his hat down
to the buckles on his shoes, and whatever he said and did against
the tribunal, he didn't do for the people, but for the high and
mighty gentlemen. But the sheep don't care, Signore Delfin,
whether they are slaughtered or devoured by the wolf, and
"When the hawk fights with the kite,
The chickens can be free tonight.
"You see, my dear, that's why there was so much joy at their
failure, when all of the tribunal's rights were confirmed and it
wouldn't have to answer to anybody, just as before, except for God
Almighty on judgement day and their own conscience every day of
their lives. In Canale Orfano, there lie, out of the hundreds who
have prayed their last Ave there, ten poor men next to ninety
noble gentlemen. But supposed, aristocratic criminals and common
ones would be sentenced and executed in public by the Great
Council - misericordia! - we'd have eight hundred hangmen instead
of three, and the big thief would hang the little one."
It seemed as if he wanted to reply, but uttered nothing more than
a short laugh, which the landlady interpreted as an affirmation.
At this moment, Marietta entered again, carrying a pitcher of
water and a fumigating pan, on which pungently smelling herbs were
smoldering and blowing their fumes into her face, so that, as she
coughed, cursed, and rubbed her eyes, she made the cutest
gestures. With small steps, she carried the fumigant closely by
all four walls, which were covered by a huge number of flies and
gnats.
"Get yourself away from there, you scoundrels," she said, "you
bloodsuckers, worse than lawyers and doctors! Would you also like
to eat figs before bedtime and enjoy a sip of Cypriot wine? You
might as well laugh if you did and afterwards show your gratitude
by stinging this gentleman all over his face, when he's asleep,
you sneaky murderers! Just wait, I'll feed you with something
which shall put you to sleep without supper."
"Do you always have to babble on, you godless creature?" said the
mother, who was following every movement of her darling with
overjoyed looks. "Don't you know that an empty barrel makes the
loudest sound, and that she who talks much, says little?" -
"Mother," the girl said laughingly, "I have to sing a lullaby for
the gnats, and look how it works! Here, they are already dropping
off the wall. Good night, you loafers, you worst of all company,
not paying any rent and yet peeking into all pots. I'll take care
of you tomorrow again, if you didn't get enough today."
She once again swung the almost burnt out herbs over her head as
if she was casting a spell and poured the ashes into the canal;
then, she made a quick bow towards the stranger and rushed out of
the room as swiftly as the wind.
"Isn't she a witch, an ugly, naughty creature?" said Signora
Giovanna, while getting up and starting to leave as well. "And
yet, every female monkey likes her little monkey. And besides,
however little and useless she may be, to the same extent she's
also eager to help out, and it has also been said about her:
"Before the mother bends her back,
The herb is plucked, in the girl's sack.
"If I hadn't the child, Signore Andrea! But you want to sleep,
and I'm still standing here, chatting away like a soup, cooking
noisily over a hot fire. Sleep well, and welcome to Venice!"
Unemotionally, he returned her greeting and did not seem to notice
that she was obviously still expecting him to make a kind remark
about her daughter. When he was finally alone, he continued
sitting at the table for some time, and his face grew more and
more gloomy and pain-stricken. The light burnt on a long wick,
those flies which had managed to evade Marietta's witchcraft,
besieged the overripe figs in black clusters; outside, in the
blind alley, the bats were flying against the window and collided
with the bars - the lonely stranger seemed to be dead to
everything around him, and only his eyes were alive.
Only after the clock in the tower of a nearby church had struck
eleven, he rose mechanically and looked around. The pungent fumes
of the fumigating herbs moved along the ceiling of his low chamber
in gray strands and the smoke from the candle joined the cloud
above. Andrea opened the window going out to the canal, to
cleanse the air. In doing so, he saw a light on the other side,
coming from a window, which was only half covered by a white
curtain, and through the gap, he could clearly observe a girl,
sitting at a table with a bowl and hastily devouring the remains
of a large pie, putting the pieces into her mouth with her
fingers, and drinking once and again from a small crystal bottle.
Her face had a frivolous, but not enticing expression, being no
longer in her earliest youth. Her negligent clothing and
partially undone hair had something calculating and intentional
about it, which was nevertheless not an unpleasant sight. She
must have noticed already a while ago that the room on the other
side had got a new inhabitant; but though she now saw him at the
window, she calmly continued her feast, and only when she drank,
she first swung the little bottle in front of herself, as if she
was greeting someone who would drink with her. When she was
finished, she put the empty bowl aside, pushed the table with the
lamp on it against the wall, so that all of the light now fell on
a wide mirror in the back of the room, and began to try on one
costume after another from a colourful pile of clothes for a
masquerade, which lay on an armchair, standing in front of the
mirror, so that the stranger, to whom she had turned her back, had
to see her reflection just the more clearly. She seemed to like
herself rather much, wearing those disguises. At least, she most
approvingly nodded to her reflection, smiling at herself, showing
her brightly gleaming teeth and lips, frowning to act out a tragic
or longing expression of her face, and secretly looking sideways
towards her observer during all of this, also keeping an eye on
him in the mirror. When the dark figure remained motionless and
kept her waiting for the desired signs of applause, she became
irritated and prepared her main assault. She tied a large, red
turban around her temples, from which, attached to a shiny brooch,
a heron's feather stuck out. The red colour actually complemented
her yellow taint very well, and she gave herself a deep bow of
appreciation. But when, even now, everything continued to remain
quiet on the other side, she could not keep her patience any
longer, and hastily, still wearing the turban on her head, she
stepped to the window, pushing the curtain all the way back.
"Good day, Monsù," she said politely. "You're my neighbour now,
as I can see. I only hope that you don't play the flute like your
predecessor, who kept me awake half of the night."
"Beautiful neighbour," said the stranger, "I won't bother you with
any kind of music. I'm an ill man, who also prefers not to be
disturbed in his sleep."
"So!" - the girl replied in a stretched out tone of voice.
"You're ill? But are you at least rich?"
"No! Why do you ask?"
"Because it's so terrible to be ill and poor at the same time.
Who are you, anyway?"
"Andrea Delfin is my name. I used to be a clerk at the court in
Brescia and am looking for a quiet job with a notary, here."
This answer seemed to completely disappoint all of her hopes for
the new acquaintance. Lost in thought, she played with a golden
necklace, she wore around her neck.
"And who are you, beautiful neighbour?" asked Andrea in a tender
tone, which completely contradicted the motionless expression of
his face. "To have your charming sight so close to me, will
comfort me in my sufferings."
She apparently felt satisfied, since he now turned to that tone
which she had a right to expect.
"To you," she said, "I'm Princess Smeraldina, who is granting you
the permission to long for her favour from afar. Whenever you'll
see me putting on this turban, this shall be a sign for you that
I'm inclined to chat with you. For I'm more bored than I could
bear, considering my youth and my charms. You must know," she
continued, suddenly dropping out of character, "that my mistress,
the countess, won't permit me at all to have even the slightest
love affair, though she herself changes her lovers more frequently
than her shirts. She says that she had always thrown her
confidante and chamber-maid out of her services as soon as she
would have attempted to serve two masters, her and the little
winged god. I now have to suffer under her prejudice, and if I
wouldn't find some other satisfaction here, and if there wasn't,
from time to time, a kind stranger living over there in your room,
who'd fall just a little bit in love with me..."
"Who's the current lover of your mistress?" Andrea interrupted her
in an unemotional tone. "Does she receive the high aristocracy of
Venice? Are the foreign ambassadors among her regular guests?"
"They usually come wearing masks," Smeraldina replied. "But I
know that much that young Gritti is her favourite, she likes him
more than any other before for as long as I've been in her
service; even more than the Austrian ambassador, who courts her
so ridiculously much. Do you know my countess, too? She's
beautiful."
"I'm a stranger here, dear girl. I don't know her."
"You should know," the girl said with a clever face, "she wears a
lot of make-up, though she isn't even thirty, yet. If you'd like
to see her some time, nothing's easier than that. A board can
bridge the distance between your window and mine. You'll climb
across, and I'll lead you to a place where you'll be able to
observe her quite clandestinely. The things I'd do for a
neighbour! - But for now, it's good night. I'm being summoned."
"Good night, Smeraldina!"
She closed the window. "Poor - and ill," she said to herself,
while pulling the curtains completely shut. "Oh well, still good
enough to kill the boredom."
He had also closed the window and was now pacing up and down his
room in slow strides. "It's good," he said, "it fits well into my
plans. If it should come to the worst, I'll be able to use it to
my advantage as well."
The expression of his face proved that a love-affair was the
furthest thing from his mind.
Now, he unpacked the portmanteau, which contained only little
laundry and a few prayer-books, and put everything into the
cupboard, standing by the wall. One of the books fell to the
floor, and the stone plate made a hollow sound. Instantly, he put
out the light, locked the door, and started to examine the floor
more closely in the dusk created by the distant shimmer of
Smeraldina's lamp. After some work, he succeeded in lifting the
stone plate, which had been lodged into place to fit precisely,
but without the use of any mortar, and he discovered a rather
spacious hole underneath, as deep as the size of a hand and one
foot wide in both directions. Swiftly, he threw off his outer
garments and removed a heavy belt with several pockets, which he
had worn around his waist. He had already placed it inside the
hole, when he suddenly stopped to think. "No," he said, "it could
be a trap. It wouldn't be the first time for the police to have
such hiding places in rented apartments, to know later on, when
searching the premises, where they'd have to poke at. This is
just too enticingly arranged to be trustworthy."
He lowered the stone plate back into its place and searched for a
safe container for his secrets. The window to the blind alley had
bars in front of it, wide enough for an arm to fit through. He
opened it, reached outside, and groped along the wall. Directly
under the ledge, he found a small hole in the wall, which bats
seemed to have inhabited in the past. It could not be noticed
from below, and from above, it was covered by the ledge. Without
making a noise, he widened the opening with his dagger, breaking
out mortar and bricks, and soon, his work had progressed so far
that he could easily fit the wide belt inside. When he was
finished, his brow was covered with cold sweat. Once again, he
tried to feel, whether there was no strap or buckle hanging out of
the hole, and then he closed the window. One hour later, he lay,
still fully dressed, on the bed and slept. The gnats were buzzing
over his face, the birds of the night were curiously flapping
about the hole outside, in which his treasure lay hidden. But the
sleeping man's lips were closed too tightly, to betray any word of
his secrets, even in his dreams.