IV

_The Fisherman's_ RING

_The Fisherman's_ RING

During the reign of the Doge Gradenigos there lived in Venice an old

fisherman, Cecco by name. He had been an unusually strong man, and was

still very strong for his age, but lately he had given up work and left

it to his two sons to provide for him. He was very proud of his sons,

and he loved them--ah, signor, how he loved them!

Fate had so ordered it that their bringing up had been almost entirely

left to him. Their mother had died early, and so Cecco had to take care

of them. He had looked after their clothes and cooked their food; he had

sat in the boat with needle and cotton and mended and darned. He had not

cared in the least that people had laughed at him on that account. He

had also, quite alone, taught them all it was necessary for them to

know. He had made a couple of able fishermen of them, and taught them to

honour God and San Marco.

'Always remember,' he said to them, 'that Venice will never be able to

stand in her own strength. Look at her! Has she not been built on the

waves? Look at the low islands close to land, where the sea plays

amongst the seaweed. You would not venture to tread upon them, and yet

it is upon such foundation that the whole city rests. And do you not

know that the north wind has strength enough to throw both churches and

palaces into the sea? Do you not know that we have such powerful

enemies, that all the princes in Christendom cannot vanquish them?

Therefore you must always pray to San Marco, for in his strong hands

rests the chains which hold Venice suspended over the depths of the

sea.'

And in the evening, when the moon shed its light over Venice,

greenish-blue from the sea-mist; when they quietly glided up the Canale

Grande and the gondolas they met were full of singers; when the palaces

shone in their white splendour, and thousands of lights mirrored

themselves in the dark waters--then he always reminded them that they

must thank San Marco for life and happiness.

But oh, signor! he did not forget him in the daytime either. When they

returned from fishing and glided over the water of the lagoons,

light-blue and golden; when the city lay before them, swimming on the

waves; when the great ships passed in and out of the harbour, and the

palace of the Doges shone like a huge jewel-casket, holding all the

world's treasure--then he never forgot to tell them that all these

things were the gift of San Marco, and that they would all vanish if a

single Venetian were ungrateful enough to give up believing in and

adoring him.

Then, one day, the sons went out fishing on the open sea, outside Lido.

They were in company with several others, had a splendid vessel, and

intended being away several days. The weather was fine, and they hoped

for a goodly haul.

They left the Rialto, the large island where the city proper lies, one

early morning, and as they passed through the lagoons they saw all the

islands which, like fortifications, protect Venice against the sea,

appear through the mist of the morning. There were La Gindecca and San

Giorgio on the right, and San Michele, Muracco and San Lazzaro on the

left. Then island followed upon island in a large circle, right on to

the long Lido lying straight before them, and forming, as it were, the

clasp of this string of pearls. And beyond Lido was the wide, infinite

sea.

When they were well at sea, some of them got into a small boat and rowed

out to set their nets. It was still fine weather, although the waves

were higher here than inside the islands. None of them, however, dreamt

of any danger. They had a good boat and were experienced men. But soon

those left on the vessel saw that the sea and the sky suddenly grew

darker in the north. They understood that a storm was coming on, and

they at once shouted to their comrades, but they were already too far

away to hear them.

The wind first reached the small boat. When the fishermen suddenly saw

the waves rise around them, as herds of cattle on a large plain arise in

the morning, one of the men in the boat stood up and beckoned to his

comrades, but the same moment he fell backwards into the sea.

Immediately afterwards a wave came which raised the boat on her bows,

and one could see how the men, as it were, were shaken from off their

seats and flung into the sea. It only lasted a moment, and everything

had disappeared. Then the boat again appeared, keel upwards. The men in

the vessel tried to reach the spot, but could not tack against the wind.

It was a terrific storm which came rushing over the sea, and soon the

fishermen in the vessel had their work set to save themselves. They

succeeded in getting home safely, however, and brought with them the

news of the disaster. It was Cecco's two sons and three others who had

perished.

Ah me! how strangely things come about! The same morning Cecco had gone

down to the Rialto to the fish-market. He went about amongst the stands

and strutted about like a fine gentleman because he had no need to work.

He even invited a couple of old Lido fishermen to an asteri and stood

them a beaker of wine. He grew very important as he sat there and

bragged and boasted about his sons. His spirits rose high, and he took

out the zecchine--the one the Doge had given him when he had saved a

child from drowning in Canale Grande. He was very proud of this large

gold coin, carried it always about him, and showed it to people whenever

there was an opportunity.

Suddenly a man entered the asteri and began to tell about the disaster,

without noticing that Cecco was sitting there. But he had not been

speaking long before Cecco threw himself over him and seized him by the

throat.

'You do not dare to tell me that they are dead!' he shrieked--'not my

sons!'

The man succeeded in getting away from him, but Cecco for a long time

went on as if he were out of his mind. People heard him shout and groan;

they crowded into the asteri--as many as it could hold--and stood round

him in a circle as if he were a juggler.

Cecco sat on the floor and moaned. He hit the hard stone floor with his

fist, and said over and over again:

'It is San Marco, San Marco, San Marco!'

'Cecco, you have taken leave of your senses from grief,' they said to

him.

'I knew it would happen on the open sea,' Cecco said; 'outside Lido and

Malamocco, there, I knew it would happen. There San Marco would take

them. He bore them a grudge. I have feared it, boy. Yes,' he said,

without hearing what they said to quiet him, 'they once laughed at him,

once when we were lying outside Lido. He has not forgotten it; he will

not stand being laughed at.'

He looked with confused glances at the bystanders, as if to seek help.

'Look here, Beppo from Malamocca,' he said, stretching out his hand

towards a big fisherman, 'don't you believe it was San Marco?'

'Don't imagine any such thing, Cecco.'

'Now you shall hear, Beppo, how it happened. You see, we were lying out

at sea, and to while away the time I told them how San Marco had come to

Venice. The evangelist San Marco was first buried in a beautiful

cathedral at Alexandria in Egypt. But the town got into the possession

of unbelievers, and one day the Khalifa ordered that they should build

him a magnificent palace at Alexandria, and take some columns from the

Christian churches for its decoration. But just at that time there were

two Venetian merchants at Alexandria who had ten heavily-laden vessels

lying in the harbour. When these men entered the church where San Marco

was buried and heard the command of the Khalifa, they said to the

sorrowful priests: "The precious body which you have in your church may

be desecrated by the Saracens. Give it to us; we will honour it, for San

Marco was the first to preach on the Lagoon, and the Doge will reward

you." And the priests gave their consent, and in order that the

Christians of Alexandria should not object, the body of another holy man

was placed in the Evangelist's coffin. But to prevent the Saracens from

getting any news of the removal of the body, it was placed at the bottom

of a large chest, and above it were packed hams and smoked bacon, which

the Saracens could not endure. So when the Custom-house officers opened

the lid of the chest, they at once hurried away. The two merchants,

however, brought San Marco safely to Venice; you know, Beppo, that this

is what they say.'

'I do, Cecco.'

'Yes; but just listen now,' and Cecco half arose, and in his fear spoke

in a low voice. 'Something terrible now happened. When I told the boys

that the holy man had been hidden underneath the bacon, they burst out

laughing. I tried to hush them, but they only laughed the louder.

Giacomo was lying on his stomach in the bows, and Pietro sat with his

legs dangling outside the boat, and they both laughed so that it could

be heard far out over the sea.'

'But, Cecco, surely two children may be allowed to laugh.'

'But don't you understand that is where they have perished to-day--on

the very spot? Or can you understand why they should have lost their

lives on that spot?'

Now they all began to talk to him and comfort him. It was his grief

which made him lose his senses. This was not like San Marco. He would

not revenge himself upon two children. Was it not natural that when a

boat was caught in a storm this would happen on the open sea and not in

the harbour?

Surely his sons had not lived in enmity with San Marco. They had heard

them shout, '_Eviva San Marco!_' as eagerly as all the others, and had

he not protected them to this very day. He had never, during the years

that had passed, shown any sign of being angry with them.

'But, Cecco,' they said, 'you will bring misfortune upon us with your

talk about San Marco. You, who are an old man and a wise man, should

know better than to raise his anger against the Venetians. What are we

without him?'

Cecco sat and looked at them bewildered.

'Then you don't believe it?'

'No one in his senses would believe such a thing.'

It looked as if they had succeeded in quieting him.

'I will also try not to believe it,' he said. He rose and walked towards

the door. 'It would be too cruel, would it not?' he said. 'They were

too handsome and too brave for anyone to hate them; I will not believe

it.'

He went home, and in the narrow street outside his door he met an old

woman, one of his neighbours.

'They are reading a Mass in the cathedral for the souls of the dead,'

she said to Cecco, and hurried away. She was afraid of him; he looked so

strange.

Cecco took his boat and made his way through the small canals down to

Riva degli Schiavoni. There was a wide view from there; he looked

towards Lido and the sea. Yes, it was a hard wind, but not a storm by

any means; there were hardly any waves. And his sons had perished in

weather like this! It was inconceivable.

He fastened his boat, and went across the Piazetta and the Market Place

into San Marco. There were many people in the church, and they were all

kneeling and praying in great fear; for it is much more terrible for the

Venetians, you know, than any other people when there is a disaster at

sea. They do not get their living from vineyards or fields, but they are

all, everyone of them, dependent on the sea. Whenever the sea rose

against any one of them they were all afraid, and hurried to San Marco

to pray to him for protection.

As soon as Cecco entered the cathedral he stopped. He thought of how he

had brought his little sons there, and taught them to pray to San Marco.

'It is he who carries us over the sea, who opens the gates of Byzance

for us and gives us the supremacy over the islands of the East,' he

said to them. Out of gratitude for all this the Venetians had built San

Marco the most beautiful temple in the world, and no vessel ever

returned from a foreign port without bringing a gift for San Marco.

Then they had admired the red marble walls of the cathedral and the

golden mosaic ceiling. It was as if no misfortune could befall a city

that had such a sanctuary for her patron Saint.

Cecco quickly knelt down and began to pray, the one _Paternoster_ after

the other. It came back, he felt. He would send it away by prayers. He

would not believe anything bad about San Marco.

But it had been no storm at all. And so much was certain, that even if

the Saint had not sent the storm, he had, in any case, not done anything

to help Cecco's sons, but had allowed them to perish as if by accident.

When this thought came upon him he began to pray; but the thought would

not leave him.

And to think that San Marco had a treasury in this cathedral full of all

the glories of fairyland! To think that he had himself prayed to him all

his life, and had never rowed past the Piazetta without going into the

cathedral to invoke him!

Surely it was not by a mere accident that his sons had to-day perished

on the sea! Oh, it was miserable for the Venetians to have no one better

to depend upon! Just fancy a Saint who revenged himself upon two

children--a patron Saint who could not protect against a gust of wind!

He stood up, and he shrugged his shoulders, and disparagingly waved his

hand when he looked towards the tomb of the Saint in the chancel.

A verger was going about with a large chased silver-gilt dish,

collecting gifts for San Marco. He went from the one person to the

other, and also came to Cecco.

Cecco drew back as if it were the Evil One himself who handed him the

plate. Did San Marco ask for gifts from him? Did he think he deserved

gifts from him?

All at once he seized the large golden zecchine he had in his belt, and

flung it into the plate with such violence that the ring of it could be

heard all over the church. It disturbed those who were praying, and made

them turn round. And all who saw Cecco's face were terrified; he looked

as if he were possessed of evil spirits.

Cecco immediately left the church, and at first felt it as a great

relief that he had been revenged upon the Saint. He had treated him as

one treats a usurer who demands more than he is entitled to. 'Take this

too,' one says, and throws his last gold piece in the fellow's face so

that the blood runs down over his eyes. But the usurer does not strike

again--simply stoops and picks up the zecchine. So, too, had San Marco

done. He had accepted Cecco's zecchine, having first robbed him of his

sons. Cecco had made him accept a gift which had been tendered with such

bitter hatred. Would an honourable man have put up with such treatment?

But San Marco was a coward--both cowardly and revengeful. But he was not

likely to revenge himself upon Cecco. He was, no doubt, pleased and

thankful he had got the zecchine. He simply accepted it and pretended

that it had been given as piously as could be.

When Cecco stood at the entrance, two vergers quickly passed him.

'It rises--it rises terribly!' the one said.

'What rises?' asked Cecco.

'The water in the crypt. It has risen a foot in the last two or three

minutes.'

When Cecco went down the steps, he saw a small pool of water on the

Market Place close to the bottom step. It was sea-water, which had

splashed up from the Piazetta. He was surprised that the sea had risen

so high, and he hurried down to the Riva, where his boat lay. Everything

was as he had left it, only the water had risen considerably. It came

rolling in broad waves through the five sea-gates; but the wind was not

very strong. At the Riva there were already pools of sea-water, and the

canals rose so that the doors in the houses facing the water had to be

closed. The sky was all gray like the sea.

It never struck Cecco that it might grow into a serious storm. He would

not believe any such thing. San Marco had allowed his sons to perish

without cause. He felt sure this was no real storm. He would just like

to see if it would be a storm, and he sat down beside his boat and

waited.

Then suddenly rifts appeared in the dull-gray clouds which covered the

sky. The clouds were torn asunder and flung aside, and large

storm-clouds came rushing, black like warships, and from them scourging

rain and hail fell upon the city. And something like quite a new sea

came surging in from Lido. Ah, signor! they were not the swan-necked

waves you have seen out there, the waves that bend their transparent

necks and hasten towards the shore, and which, when they are pitilessly

repulsed, float away again with their white foam-hair dispersed over the

surface of the sea. These were dark waves, chasing each other in furious

rage, and over their tops the bitter froth of the sea was whipped into

mist.

The wind was now so strong that the seagulls could no longer continue

their quiet flight, but, shrieking, were thrust from their course. Cecco

soon saw them with much trouble making their way towards the sea, so as

not to be caught by the storm and flung against the walls. Hundreds of

pigeons on San Marco's square flew up, beating their wings, so that it

sounded like a new storm, and hid themselves away in all the nooks and

corners of the church roof.

But it was not the birds alone that were frightened by the storm. A

couple of gondolas had already got loose, and were thrown against the

shore, and were nearly shattered. And now all the gondoliers came

rushing to pull their boats into the boathouses, or place them in

shelter in the small canals.

The sailors on the ships lying in the harbour worked with the

anchor-chains to make the vessels fast, in order to prevent them

drifting on to the shore. They took down the clothes hanging up to dry,

pulled their long caps well over their foreheads, and began to collect

all the loose articles lying about in order to bring them below deck.

Outside Canale Grande a whole fishing-fleet came hurrying home. All the

people from Lido and Malamocco who had sold their goods at the Rialto

were rushing homewards, before the storm grew too violent.

Cecco laughed when he saw the fishermen bending over their oars and

straining themselves as if they were fleeing from death itself. Could

they not see that it was only a gust of wind? They could very well have

remained and given the Venetian women time to buy all their cattle,

fish, and crabs.

He was certainly not going to pull his boat into shelter, although the

storm was now violent enough for any ordinary man to have taken notice

of it. The floating bridges were lifted up high and cast on to the

shore, whilst the washerwomen hurried home shrieking. The broad-brimmed

hats of the signors were blown off into the canals, from whence the

street-boys fished them out with great glee. Sails were torn from the

masts, and fluttered in the air with a cracking sound; children were

knocked down by the strong wind; and the clothes hanging on the lines in

the narrow streets were torn to rags and carried far away.

Cecco laughed at the storm--a storm which drove the birds away, and

played all sorts of pranks in the street, like a boy. But, all the same,

he pulled his boat under one of the arches of the bridge. One could

really not allow what that wind might take it into its head to do.

In the evening Cecco thought that it would have been fun to have been

out at sea. It would have been splendid sailing with such a fresh wind.

But on shore it was unpleasant. Chimneys were blown down; the roofs of

the boathouses were lifted right off; it rained tiles from the houses

into the canals; the wind shook the doors and the window-shutters,

rushed in under the open loggias of the palaces and tore off the

decorations.

Cecco held out bravely, but he did not go home to bed. He could not take

the boat home with him, so it was better to remain and look after it.

But when anyone went by and said that it was terrible weather he would

not admit it. He had experienced very different weather in his young

days.

'Storm!' he said to himself--'call this a storm? And they think,

perhaps, that it began the same moment I threw the zecchine to San

Marco. As if he can command a real storm!'

When night came the wind and the sea grew still more violent, so that

Venice trembled in her foundations. Doge Gradenigo and the Gentlemen of

the High Council went in the darkness of the night to San Marco to pray

for the city. Torch-bearers went before them, and the flames were spread

out by the wind, so that they lay flat, like pennants. The wind tore the

Doge's heavy brocade gown, so that two men were obliged to hold it.

Cecco thought this was the most remarkable thing he had ever seen--Doge

Gradenigo going himself to the cathedral on account of this bit of a

wind! What would those people have done if there had been a real storm?

The waves beat incessantly against the bulwarks. In the darkness of the

night it was as if white-headed wresters sprang up from the deep, and

with teeth and claws clung fast to the piles to tear them loose from the

shore. Cecco fancied he could hear their angry snorts when they were

hurled back again. But he shuddered when he heard them come again and

again, and tear in the bulwarks.

It seemed to him that the storm was far more terrible in the night. He

heard shouts in the air, and that was not the wind. Sometimes black

clouds came drifting like a whole row of heavy galleys, and it seemed as

if they advanced to make an assault on the city. Then he heard

distinctly someone speaking in one of the riven clouds over his head.

'Things look bad for Venice now,' it said from the one cloud. 'Soon our

brothers the evil spirits will come and overthrow the city.'

'I am afraid San Marco will not allow it to happen,' came as a response

from the other cloud.

'San Marco has been knocked down by a Venetian, so he lies powerless,

and cannot help anyone,' said the first.

The storm carried the words down to old Cecco, and from that moment he

was on his knees, praying San Marco for grace and forgiveness. For the

evil spirits had spoken the truth. It did indeed look bad for Venice.

The fair Queen of the Isles was near destruction. A Venetian had mocked

San Marco, and therefore Venice was in danger of being carried away by

the sea. There would be no more moonlight sails or her sea and in her

canals, and no more barcaroles would be heard from her black gondolas.

The sea would wash over the golden-haired signoras, over the proud

palaces, over San Marco, resplendent with gold.

If there was no one to protect these islands, they were doomed to

destruction. Before San Marco came to Venice it had often happened that

large portions of them had been washed away by the waves.

At early dawn San Marco's Church bells began to ring. People crept to

the church, their clothes being nearly torn off them.

The storm went on increasing. The priests had resolved to go out and

adjure the storm and the sea. The main doors of the cathedral were

opened, and the long procession streamed out of the church. Foremost the

cross was carried, then came the choir-boys with wax candles, and last

in the procession were carried the banner of San Marco and the Sacred

Host.

But the storm did not allow itself to be cowed; on the contrary, it was

as if it wished for nothing better to play with. It upset the

choir-boys, blew out the wax candles, and flung the baldachin, which was

carried over the Host, on to the top of the Doge's palace. It was with

the utmost trouble that they saved San Marco's banner, with the winged

lion, from being carried away.

Cecco saw all this, and stole down to his boat moaning loudly. The whole

day he lay near the shore, often wet by the waves and in danger of being

washed into the sea. The whole day he was praying incessantly to God and

San Marco. He felt that the fate of the whole city depended upon his

prayers.

There were not many people about that day, but some few went moaning

along the Riva. All spoke about the immeasurable damage the storm had

wrought. One could see the houses tumbling down on the Murano. It was as

if the whole island were under water. And also on the Rialto one or two

houses had fallen.

The storm continued the whole day with unabated violence. In the evening

a large multitude of people assembled at the Market Place and the

Piazetta, although these were nearly covered with water. People dared

not remain in their houses, which shook in their very foundations. And

the cries of those who feared disaster mingled with the lamentations of

those whom it had already overtaken. Whole dwellings were under water;

children were drowned in their cradles. The old and the sick had been

swept with the overturned houses into the waves.

Cecco was still lying and praying to San Marco. Oh, how could the crime

of a poor fisherman be taken in such earnest? Surely it was not his

fault that the saint was so powerless! He would let the demons take him

and his boat; he deserved no better fate. But not the whole city!--oh,

God in heaven, not the whole city!

'My sons!' Cecco said to San Marco. 'What do I care about my sons when

Venice is at stake! I would willingly give a son for each tile in danger

of being blown into the canal if I could keep them in their place at

that price. Oh, San Marco, each little stone of Venice is worth as much

as a promising son.'

At times he saw terrible things. There was a large galley which had torn

itself from its moorings and now came drifting towards the shore. It

went straight against the bulwark, and struck it with the ram's head in

her bows, just as if it had been an enemy's ship. It gave blow after

blow, and the attack was so violent that the vessel immediately sprang a

leak. The water rushed in, the leak grew larger, and the proud ship went

to pieces. But the whole time one could see the captain and two or three

of the crew, who would not leave the vessel, cling to the deck and meet

death without attempting to escape it.

The second night came, and Cecco's prayers continued to knock at the

gate of heaven.

'Let me alone suffer!' he cried. 'San Marco, it is more than a man can

bear, thus to drag others with him to destruction. Only send thy lion

and kill me; I shall not attempt to escape. Everything that thou wilt

have me give up for the city, that will I willingly sacrifice.'

Just as he had uttered these words he looked towards the Piazetta, and

he thought he could no longer see San Marco's lion on the granite

pillar. Had San Marco permitted his lion to be overthrown? old Cecco

cried. He was nearly giving up Venice.

Whilst he was lying there he saw visions and heard voices all the time.

The demons talked and moved to and fro. He heard them wheeze like wild

beasts every time they made their assaults on the bulwarks. He did not

mind them much; it was worse about Venice.

Then he heard in the air above him the beating of strong wings; this

was surely San Marco's lion flying overhead. It moved backwards and

forwards in the air; he saw and yet he did not see it. Then it seemed to

him as if it descended on Riva degli Schiavoni, where he was lying, and

prowled about there. He was on the point of jumping into the sea from

fear, but he remained sitting where he was. It was no doubt he whom the

lion sought. If that could only save Venice, then he was quite willing

to let San Marco avenge himself upon him.

Then the lion came crawling along the ground like a cat. He saw it

making ready to spring. He noticed that it beat its wings and screwed

its large carbuncle eyes together till they were only small fiery slits.

Then old Cecco certainly did think of creeping down to his boat and

hiding himself under the arch of the bridge, but he pulled himself

together and remained where he was. The same moment a tall, imposing

figure stood by his side.

'Good-evening, Cecco,' said the man; 'take your boat and row me across

to San Giorgio Maggiore.'

'Yes, signor,' immediately replied the old fisherman.

It was as if he had awakened from a dream. The lion had disappeared, and

the man must be somebody who knew him, although Cecco could not quite

remember where he had seen him before. He was glad to have company. The

terrible heaviness and anguish that had been over him since he had

revolted against the Saint suddenly vanished. As to rowing across to

San Giorgio, he did not for a moment think that it could be done.

'I don't believe we can even get the boat out,' he said to himself.

But there was something about the man at his side that made him feel he

must do all he possibly could to serve him; and he did succeed in

getting out the boat. He helped the stranger into the boat and took the

oars.

Cecco could not help laughing to himself.

'What are you thinking about? Don't go out further in any case,' he

said. 'Have you ever seen the like of these waves? Do tell him that it

is not within the power of man.'

But he felt as if he could not tell the stranger that it was impossible.

He was sitting there as quietly as if he were sailing to the Lido on a

summer's eve. And Cecco began to row to San Giorgio Maggiore.

It was a terrible row. Time after time the waves washed over them.

'Oh, stop him!' Cecco said under his breath; 'do stop the man who goes

to sea in such weather! Otherwise he is a sensible old fisherman. Do

stop him!'

Now the boat was up a steep mountain, and then it went down into a

valley. The foam splashed down on Cecco from the waves that rushed past

him like runaway horses, but in spite of everything he approached San

Giorgio.

'For whom are you doing all this, risking boat and life?' he said. 'You

don't even know whether he can pay you. He does not look like a fine

gentleman. He is no better dressed than you are.'

But he only said this to keep up his courage, and not to be ashamed of

his tractability. He was simply compelled to do everything the man in

the boat wanted.

'But in any case not right to San Giorgio, you foolhardy old man,' he

said. 'The wind is even worse there than at the Rialto.'

But he went there, nevertheless, and made the boat fast whilst the

stranger went on shore. He thought the wisest thing he could do would be

to slip away and leave his boat, but he did not do it. He would rather

die than deceive the stranger. He saw the latter go into the Church of

San Giorgio. Soon afterwards he returned, accompanied by a knight in

full armour.

'Row us now to San Nicolo in Lido,' said the stranger.

'Ay, ay,' Cecco thought; 'why not to Lido?' They had already, in

constant anguish and death, rowed to San Giorgio; why should they not

set out for Lido?

And Cecco was shocked at himself that he obeyed the stranger even unto

death, for he now actually steered for the Lido.

Being now three in the boat, it was still heavier work. He had no idea

how he should be able to do it. 'You might have lived many years yet,'

he said sorrowfully to himself. But the strange thing was that he was

not sorrowful, all the same. He was so glad that he could have laughed

aloud. And then he was proud that he could make headway. 'He knows how

to use his oars, does old Cecco,' he said.

They laid-to at Lido, and the two strangers went on shore. They walked

towards San Nicolo in Lido, and soon returned accompanied by an old

Bishop, with robe and stole, crosier in hand, and mitre on head.

'Now row out to the open sea,' said the first stranger.

Old Cecco shuddered. Should he row out to the sea, where his sons

perished? Now he had not a single cheerful word to say to himself. He

did not think so much of the storm, but of the terror it was to have to

go out to the graves of his sons. If he rowed out there, he felt that he

gave the stranger more than his life.

The three men sat silently in the boat as if they were on watch. Cecco

saw them bend forward and gaze into the night. They had reached the gate

of the sea at Lido, and the great storm-ridden sea lay before them.

Cecco sobbed within himself. He thought of two dead bodies rolling about

in these waves. He gazed into the water for two familiar faces. But

onward the boat went. Cecco did not give in.

Then suddenly the three men rose up in the boat; and Cecco fell upon his

knees, although he still went on holding the oars. A big ship steered

straight against them.

Cecco could not quite tell whether it was a ship or only drifting mist.

The sails were large, spread out, as it were, towards the four corners

of heaven; and the hull was gigantic, but it looked as if it were built

of the lightest sea-mist. He thought he saw men on board and heard

shouting; but the crew were like deep darkness, and the shouting was

like the roar of the storm.

However it was, it was far too terrible to see the ship steer straight

upon them, and Cecco closed his eyes.

But the three men in the boat must have averted the collision, for the

boat was not upset. When Cecco looked up the ship had fled out to sea,

and loud wailings pierced the night.

He rose, trembling to row further. He felt so tired that he could hardly

hold the oars. But now there was no longer any danger. The storm had

gone down, and the waves speedily laid themselves to rest.

'Now row us back to Venice,' said the stranger to the fisherman.

Cecco rowed the boat to Lido, where the Bishop went on shore, and to San

Giorgio, where the knight left them. The first powerful stranger went

with him all the way to the Rialto.

When they had landed at Riva degli Schiavoni he said to the fisherman:

'When it is daylight thou shalt go to the Doge and tell him what thou

hast seen this night. Tell him that San Marco and San Giorgio and San

Nicolo have to-night fought the evil spirits that would destroy Venice,

and have put them to flight.'

'Yes, signor,' the fisherman answered, 'I will tell everything. But how

shall I speak so that the Doge will believe me?'

Then San Marco handed him a ring with a precious stone possessed of a

wonderful lustre.

'Show this to the Doge,' he said, 'then he will understand that it

brings a message from me. He knows my ring, which is kept in San Marco's

treasury in the cathedral.'

The fisherman took the ring, and kissed it reverently.

'Further, thou shalt tell the Doge,' said the holy man, 'that this is a

sign that I shall never forsake Venice. Even when the last Doge has left

Palazzo Ducali I will live and preserve Venice. Even if Venice lose her

islands in the East and the supremacy of the sea, and no Doge ever again

sets out on the Bucintoro, even then I will preserve the city beautiful

and resplendent. It shall always be rich and beloved, always be lauded

and its praises sung, always a place of joy for men to live in. Say

this, Cecco, and the Doge will not forsake thee in thine old age.'

Then he disappeared; and soon the sun rose above the gate of the sea at

Torcello. With its first beautiful rays it shed a rosy light over the

white city and over the sea that shone in many colours. A red glow lay

over San Giorgio and San Marco, and over the whole shore, studded with

palaces. And in the lovely morning radiant Venetian ladies came out on

to the loggias and greeted with smiles the rising day.

Venice was once again the beautiful goddess, rising from the sea in her

shell of rose-coloured pearl. Beautiful as never before, she combed her

golden hair, and threw the purple robe around her, to begin one of her

happiest days. For a transport of bliss filled her when the old

fisherman brought San Marco's ring to the Doge, and she heard how the

Saint, now, and until the end of time, would hold his protecting hand

over her.

_From a Swedish_ HOMESTEAD

V

_Santa_ CATERINA _of_ SIENA

_Santa_ CATERINA _of_ SIENA

At Santa Caterina's house in Siena, on a day towards the end of April,

in the week when her fête is being celebrated, people come to the old

house in the Street of the Dyers, to the house with the pretty loggia

and with the many small chambers, which have now been converted into

chapels and sanctuaries, bringing bouquets of white lilies; and the

rooms are fragrant with incense and violets.

Walking through these rooms, one cannot help thinking that it is just as

if she were dead yesterday, as if all those who go in and out of her

home to-day had seen and known her.

But, on the other hand, no one could really think that she had died

recently, for then there would be more grief and tears, and not only a

quiet sense of loss. It is more as if a beloved daughter had been

recently married, and had left the parental home.

Look only at the nearest houses. The old walls are still decorated as if

for a fête. And in her own home garlands of flowers are still hanging

beneath the portico and loggia, green leaves are strewn on the staircase

and the doorstep, and large bouquets of flowers fill the rooms with

their scent.

She cannot possibly have been dead five hundred years. It looks much

more as if she had celebrated her marriage, and had gone away to a

country from which she would not return for many years, perhaps never.

Are not the houses decorated with nothing but red table-cloths, red

trappings, and red silken banners, and are there not stuck red-paper

roses in the dark garlands of oak-leaves? and the hangings over the

doors and the windows, are they not red with golden fringes? Can one

imagine anything more cheerful?

And notice how the old women go about in the house and examine her small

belongings. It is as if they had seen her wear that very veil and that

very shirt of hair. They inspect the room in which she lived, and point

to the bedstead and the packets of letters, and they tell how at first

she could not at all learn to write, but that it came to her all at once

without her having learnt it. And only look at her writing--how good and

distinct! And then they point to the little bottle she used to carry at

her belt, so as always to have a little medicine at hand in case she met

a sick person, and they utter a blessing over the old lantern she held

in her hand when she went and visited the sick in the long weary nights.

It is just as if they would say: 'Dear me--dear me! that our little

Caterina Benincasa should be gone, that she will never come any more and

look after us old people!' And they kiss her picture, and take a flower

from the bouquets to keep as a remembrance.

It looks as if those who were left in the home had long ago prepared

themselves for the separation, and tried to do everything possible to

keep alive the memory of the one who had gone away. See, there they

have painted her on the wall; there is the whole of her little history

represented in every detail. There she is when she cut off her beautiful

long hair so that no man could ever fall in love with her, for she would

never marry. Oh dear--oh dear! how much ridicule and scoffing she had

suffered on that account! It is dreadful to think how her mother

tormented her and treated her like a servant, and made her sleep on the

stone floor in the hall, and would not give her any food, all because of

her being so obstinate about that hair. But what was she to do when they

continually tried to get her married--she who would have no other

bridegroom than Christ? And there she is when she was kneeling in

prayer, and her father coming into the room without her knowing it saw a

beautiful white dove hovering over her head whilst she was praying. And

there she is on that Christmas Eve when she had gone secretly to the

Madonna's altar in order the more fully to rejoice over the birth of the

Son of God, and the beautiful Madonna leaned out of her picture and

handed the Child to her that she might be allowed to hold it for a

moment in her arms. Oh, what a joy it had been for her!

Oh dear, no; it is not at all necessary to say that our little Caterina

Benincasa is dead. One need only say that she has gone away with the

Bridegroom.

In her home one will never forget her pious ways and doings. All the

poor of Siena come and knock at her door because they know that it is

the marriage-day of the little virgin, and large piles of bread lie in

readiness for them as if she were still there. They have their pockets

and baskets filled; had she herself been there, she could not have sent

them away more heavily laden. She who had gone away had left so great a

want that one almost wonders the Bridegroom had the heart to take her

away with him.

In the small chapels which have been arranged in every corner of the

house they read Mass the whole day, and they invoke the bride and sing

hymns in her praise.

'Holy Caterina,' they say, 'on this the day of thy death, which is thine

heavenly wedding-day, pray for us!'

'Holy Caterina, thou who hadst no other love but Christ, thou who in

life wert His affianced bride, and who in death wast received by Him in

Paradise, pray for us!'

'Holy Caterina, thou radiant heavenly bride, thou most blessed of

virgins, thou whom the mother of God exalted to her Son's side, thou who

on this day wast carried by angels to the kingdom of glory, pray for

us!'

* * * * *

It is strange how one comes to love her, how the home and the pictures

and the love of the old and the poor seem to make her living, and one

begins to wonder how she really was, whether she was only a saint, only

a heavenly bride, and if it is true that she was unable to love any

other than Christ. And then comes to one's mind an old story which

warmed one's heart long ago, at first quite vague and without shape, but

whilst one is sitting there under the loggia in the festively decorated

home and watching the poor wander away with their full baskets, and

hearing the subdued murmur from the chapels, the story becomes more and

more distinct, and suddenly it is vivid and clear.

* * * * *

Nicola Tungo was a young nobleman of Perugia, who often came to Siena on

account of the races. He soon found out how badly Siena was governed,

and often said, both at the festive gatherings of the great and when he

sat drinking in the inns, that Siena ought to rise against the Signoria

and procure other rulers.

The Signoria had not been in power for more than half a year; they did

not feel particularly firm in their office, and did not like the

Perugian stirring up the people. In order promptly to put a stop to it,

they had him imprisoned, and after a short trial he was sentenced to

death. He was placed in a cell in the Palazzo Publico whilst

preparations were being made for his execution, which was to take place

the next morning in the Market Place.

At first he was strangely affected. To-morrow he would no more wear his

green velvet doublet and his beautiful sword; he would no more walk down

the street in his cap with the ostrich-feather and attract the glances

of the young maidens, and he had a feeling of painful disappointment

that he would never ride the new horse which he bought yesterday, and

which he had only tried once.

Suddenly he called the gaoler, and asked him to go to the gentlemen of

the Signoria and tell them that he could not possibly allow himself to

be killed; he had no time. He had far too much to do. Life could not do

without him. His father was old, and he was the only son; it was through

his descendants that the family should be continued. It was he who

should give away his sisters in marriage, he who should build the new

palace, he who should plant the new vineyard.

He was a strong young man; he did not know what sickness was, had

nothing but life in his veins. His hair was dark and his cheeks red. He

could not realize that he should die.

When he thought of their wanting to take him away from pleasure and

dancing, and the carnival, and from the races next Sunday, and from the

serenade he was going to sing to the beautiful Giulietta Lombardi, he

became furiously angry, and his wrath was roused against the councillors

as though they were thieves and robbers. The scoundrels--the scoundrels

that would take his life from him!

But as time went on his longings grew deeper; he longed for air and

water and heaven and earth. He felt he would not mind being a beggar by

the wayside; he would gladly suffer sickness and hunger and cold if only

he were allowed to live.

He wished that everything might die with him, that nothing would be left

when he was gone; that would have been a great consolation.

But that people should go to the Market Place and buy and sell, and that

the women would fetch water from the well, and that the children would

run in the streets the next day and all days, and that he would not be

there to see, that he could not bear. He envied not only those who

could live in luxury and pleasure, and were happy; he envied quite as

much the most miserable cripple. What he wanted was life, solely life.

Then the priests and the monks came to see him. It made him almost

happy, for now he had someone upon whom he could wreak his anger. He

first allowed them to talk a little. It amused him to hear what they had

to say to a man so deeply wronged as he was, but when they said that he

ought to rejoice that he was permitted to leave this life and gain the

bliss of heaven in the fulness of his youth, then he started up and

poured forth his wrath upon them. He scoffed at God and the joys of

heaven--he did not want them. He would have life, and the world, and its

pomps and vanities. He regretted every day in which he had not revelled

in earthly enjoyment; he regretted every temptation he had resisted. God

need not trouble Himself in the least about him; he felt no longing for

His heaven.

The priests continued to speak; he seized one of them by the throat, and

would have killed him had not the gaoler thrown himself between them.

They now bound and gagged him, and then preached to him; but as soon as

he was allowed to speak he raged as before. They talked to him for many

hours, but they saw that it was of no avail.

When they could think of nothing else to do, one of them suggested they

should send for the young Caterina Benincasa, who had shown great power

in subduing defiant spirits. When the Perugian heard the name he

suddenly ceased his abuse. In truth, it pleased him. It was something

quite different, having to do with a young, beautiful maiden.

'By all means send for the maiden,' he said.

He knew that she was the young daughter of a dyer, and that she went

about alone and preached in the lanes and streets of the town. Some

thought she was mad, others said that she had visions. For him she

might, anyhow, be better company than these dirty monks, who made him

completely beside himself.

The monks then went their way, and he was alone. Shortly afterwards the

door was again opened, but if she for whom they had sent had really

entered the cell, she must have walked with very light footsteps, for he

heard nothing. He lay on the floor just as he had thrown himself down in

his great anger; now he was too tired to raise himself, or make a

movement, or even to look up. His arms were tied together with ropes,

which cut deep into his flesh.

He now felt that someone began to loosen his bands; a warm hand touched

his arm, and he looked up. Beside him lay a little figure in the white

dress of the Dominicans, with head and neck so shrouded in a white veil

that there was not more of her face to be seen than of that of a knight

in helmet and closed visor.

She did not look so meek by any means; she was evidently a little

annoyed. He heard her murmur something about the gaolers who had

tightened the bands. It did not appear as if she had come for any other

purpose than these knots. She was only taken up with loosening them so

that they did not hurt. At last she had to bite in them, and then she

succeeded. She untied the cord with a light hand, and then took the

little bottle which was suspended from her belt and poured a few drops

upon the chafed skin.

He lay the whole time and looked at her, but she did not meet his

glance; it appeared as if she could think of nothing else but what she

had between her hands. It was as if nothing were further from her

thoughts than that she was there to prepare him for death. He felt so

exhausted after his passion, and at the same time so quieted by her

presence, that he only said:

'I think I will sleep.'

'It is a great shame that they have not given you any straw,' she said.

For a moment she looked about undecided. Then she sat down upon the

floor, and placed his head in her lap.

'Are you better now?' she said.

Never in his whole life had he felt such a rest. Yet sleep he could not,

but he lay and looked up in her face, which was like wax, and

transparent. Such eyes he had never seen before. They were always

looking far, far away, gazing into another world, whilst she sat quite

motionless, so as not to disturb his sleep.

'You are not sleeping, Nicola Tungo,' she said, and looked uneasy.

'I cannot sleep,' he replied, 'because I am wondering who you can be.'

'I am a daughter of Luca Benincasa the dyer, and his wife Lapa,' she

said.

'I know that,' he said, 'and I also know that you go about and preach in

the streets. And I know that you have attired yourself in the dress of

a nun, and have taken the vows of chastity. But yet I don't know who you

are.'

She turned her head away a little. Then she said, whispering like one

who confesses her first love:

'I am the Bride of Christ.'

He did not laugh. On the contrary, he felt quite a pang in his heart, as

from jealousy.

'Oh, Christ!' he said, as if she had thrown herself away.

She heard that his tone was contemptuous, but she thought he meant that

she had spoken too presumptuously.

'I do not understand it myself,' she said, 'but so it is.'

'Is it an imagination or a dream?' he said.

She turned her face towards him. The blood rose red behind the

transparent skin. He saw suddenly that she was fair as a flower, and she

became dear to him. He moved his lips as if to speak, but at first no

sound came.

'How can you expect me to believe that?' he said defiantly.

'Is it not enough for you that I am here in the prison with you?' she

asked, raising her voice. 'Is it any pleasure for a young girl like me

to go to you and other evil-doers in their gloomy dungeons? Is it usual

for a woman to stand and preach at the street corners as I do, and to be

held in derision? Do I not require sleep as other people? And yet I must

rise every night and go to the sick in the hospitals. Am I not timid as

other women? And yet I must go to the high-born gentlemen at their

castles and reason with them, I must go to the plague-smitten, I must

see all vice and sin. When have you seen another maiden do all this? But

I am obliged to do it.'

'Poor thing!' he said, and stroked her hand gently--'poor thing!'

'For I am not braver, or wiser, or stronger than others,' she said. 'It

is just as hard for me as for other maidens. You can see that. I have

come here to speak with you about your soul, but I do not at all know

what I shall say to you.'

It was strange how reluctantly he would allow himself to be convinced.

'You may be mistaken all the same,' he said. 'How do you know that you

can call yourself the Bride of Christ?'

Her voice trembled, and it was as if she should tear out her heart when

she replied:

'It began when I was quite young; I was not more than six years old. It

was one evening when I was walking with my brother in the meadow below

the church of the Dominicans, and just as I looked up at the church I

saw Christ sitting on a throne, surrounded by all His power and glory.

He was attired in shining white garments like the Holy Father in Rome.

His head was surrounded by all the splendour of Paradise, and around Him

stood Pietro Paolo and the Evangelist Giovanni. And whilst I gazed upon

Him my heart was filled with such a love and holy joy that I could

hardly bear it. He lifted His hand and blessed me, and I sank down on

the meadow, and was so overcome with bliss, that my brother had to take

me in his arms and shake me. And ever since that time, Nicola Tungo, I

have loved Jesus as a bridegroom.'

He again objected.

'You were a child then. You had fallen asleep in the meadow and were

dreaming.'

'Dreaming?' she repeated. 'Have I been dreaming all the time I have seen

Him? Was it a dream when He came to me in the church in the likeness of

a beggar and asked for alms? Then I was wide awake, at any rate. And do

you think that for the sake of a dream only I could have borne all the

worries I have had to bear as a young girl because I would not marry?'

Nicola went on contradicting her because he could not bear the thought

that her heart was filled with love to another.

'But even if you do love Christ, maiden, how do you know that He loves

you?'

She smiled her very happiest smile and clapped her hands like a child.

'Now you shall hear,' she said. 'Now I will tell you the most important

of all. It was the last night before Lent. It was after my parents and I

had been reconciled, and I had obtained their permission to take the vow

of chastity and wear the dress of a nun, although I continued to live in

their house; and it was night, as I told you, the last night of the

carnival, when everybody turns night into day. There were fêtes in every

street. On the walls of the big palaces hung balconies like cages,

completely covered with silken hangings and banners, and filled with

noble ladies. I saw all their beauty by the light of the red torches in

their bronze-holders, the one row over the other quite up to the roof;

and in the gaily decorated streets there was a train of carriages, with

golden towers, and all the gods and goddesses, and all the virtues and

beauties went by in a long procession. And everywhere there was such a

play of masks and so much merriment that I am sure that you, sir, have

never taken part in anything more gay. And I took refuge in my chamber,

but still I heard laughter from the street, and never before have I

heard people laugh like that; it was so clear and bell-like that

everyone was obliged to join in it. And they sang songs which, I

suppose, were wicked, but they sounded so innocent, and caused such

pleasure, that one's heart trembled. Then, in the middle of my prayers,

I suddenly began to wonder why I was not out amongst them, and the

thought fascinated and tempted me, as if I were dragged along by a

runaway horse; but never before have I prayed so intensely to Christ to

show me what was His will with me. Suddenly all the noise ceased, a

great and wonderful silence surrounded me, and I saw a great meadow,

where the Mother of God sat amongst the flowers, and on her lap lay the

Child Jesus, playing with lilies. But I hurried thither in great joy,

and knelt before the Child, and was at the same moment filled with peace

and quietness, and then the Holy Child placed a ring on my finger, and

said to me, "Know, Caterina, that to-day I celebrate My betrothal with

thee, and bind thee to Me by the strongest faith."'

'Oh, Caterina!'

The young Perugian had turned himself on the floor, so that he could

bury his face in her lap. It was as if he could not bear to see how

radiant she was whilst she was speaking, and now her eyes became bright

as stars. A shadow of pain passed over him. For whilst she spoke a great

sorrow had sprung up in his heart. This little maiden, this little white

maiden, he could never win. Her love belonged to another; it could never

be his. It was of no use even to tell her that he loved her; but he

suffered; his whole being groaned in love's agony. How could he bear to

live without her? It almost became a consolation to remember that he was

sentenced to death. It was not necessary for him to live and do without

her.

Then the little woman beside him sighed deeply, and came back from the

joys of heaven in order to think of poor human beings.

'I forgot to speak to you about your soul,' she said.