the lido and crossed the basin of the harbour, where only the
ships' lanterns were still standing guard. By the harbour's
entrance, lay the large felucca, which had prevented even the
smallest vessel from reaching the sea for the last week, unless
the challenge of the guard was answered by the password of the
inquisition. Like all other secret servants of the tribunal,
Andrea had been told the word this morning. Unhindered, he was
allowed to row out into the open sea.
The sea was calm. It were not the waves he had to struggle with
as he rowed along the coast for several hours. But in this calm,
lukewarm night, he only felt his agony even more harshly, and,
from time to time, he beat the sea with the oar like a madman,
just to hear a different sound than his friend's last words: "My
mother, my poor mother."
It was already well past midnight, when he pushed the gondola
ashore, jumped out, and walked towards a lonely monastery, which
stood on a spit of land and was well known by the poor mariners.
Capuchins dwelled here, who lived of the kindness of the people of
Chioggia and of begging on the mainland and gave them spiritual
comfort in return and have been a support for the people in many a
time of need. Andrea pulled the bell-rope by the gate. Soon
afterwards, he heard the porter's voice, asking who was out there.
"A dying man," Andrea answered. "Call Brother Pietro Maria, if
he's in the monastery."
The porter left the door. In the meantime, Andrea sat on the
bench of stone, pulled a piece of paper out of his wallet and
wrote by the light of a lantern, which was shining on him from the
porter's lodge, the following lines:
"To Angelo Querini.
"I have played the judge and have become a murderer. I have
wrongfully executed the justice which God has reserved for
Himself, and God has entangled me in my own blasphemous madness
and has let me spill innocent blood. The offering I intended to
make has been rejected. The time had not come yet, the sacred
office of liberating Venice has been destined for other hands. Or
is there no salvation at all?
"I am going to face God, the highest judge, who will justly weigh
on His eternal scales my guilt and my suffering. There is nothing
I could still hope to get from the people of this world; from
you, I expect only generous sympathy for my error and my
misfortune.
Candiano."
The door of the monastery was opening, and a venerable monk with a
bold head stepped outside towards him while he was still writing.
Andrea stood up. "Pietro Maria," he said, "I thank you for
coming. Have you brought my letter to the exiled man in Verona?"
The old man nodded.
"If you care for the last thanks of an wretched man, deliver this
piece of paper also safely into the same hands. Will you promise
me this?"
"I promise."
"It's good. God shall reward you for this! Farewell!"
He did not take the hand which the monk extended to him for the
farewell. Without delay, he again boarded the gondola and rowed
out to the open sea. When the old man, after quickly reading the
lines, was calling out for him in dismay, deploring him to return
once more, he did not answer. Being extremely agitated, the old
servant of the republic saw the last member of an old family
drifting out on the dreary waves, which now, being moved by an
early morning wind, formed a few lively ripples. He pondered
whether it was a good act, whether it was at all possible, to
stand against the firm wish of a dying man. Then, the dark figure
rose in the distant gondola, being clearly visible against the
gray horizon; he who was about to quit his life seemed to have
one final glance over the land and the sea and to gaze back at the
city, the outline of which swam on the mists of the lagoons like
on an island of clouds. Then, he jumped into the depth.
The monk, watching his end, folded his hands and prayed quietly
and fervently. Then, he also boarded a boat and rowed out to sea,
where the empty gondola was dancing on the surf. He did not find
a trace of the wretched man who had steered it.
(C) 2000 Gunther Olesch.
End of 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.
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