A BROTHER TO ORPHEUS
From that first evening, Stelio had preferred to go to the house of
his beloved through the gate of the Gradenigo garden, making his way
through trees and shrubs that had become wild again. The actress had
received permission to open a communication between her own garden
and that of the long-abandoned palace by means of an opening in the
dividing wall. But soon afterward, the Lady Myrta had come to live in
the great silent rooms wherein the last guest had been the son of the
Empress Josephine, the Viceroy of Italy. The apartments were ornamented
with old, stringless musical instruments, and the garden was peopled by
graceful hounds, that lacked any prey.
To Stelio, nothing seemed sweeter or more sad than that walk toward
the woman that waited for him while counting the hours--so slow, yet
so swift in their flight. In the afternoon, the path of San Simeone
Piccolo turned a pale golden hue, like a bank of the finest alabaster.
The reflected rays of sunlight danced on the iron prows that stood in
a row by the pier. A few decaying gondola cabins lay in the shadow of
the pavements, with their curtains and cushions stained and spoiled by
rain, as if they were catafalques worn out by continual use in funeral
ceremonies, grown old on the way to the churchyard. The garden gate
opened at the end of the Campiello della Comare, green and mossy like a
country cemetery; it spread out between two columns, topped by broken
statues, on the limbs of which the dry branches of ivy were outlined
like veins.
"Helion! Sirius! Altair! Donovan! Ali-Nour! Nerissa! Piuchebella!"
Seated on a bench near a rose-covered wall, Lady Myrta was calling
her dogs. La Foscarina stood near her, in a fawn-colored costume, the
material of which resembled that superb textile called _rovana_, used
in ancient times in Venice. The sunlight bathed the women and the roses
in the same soft warmth.
"You are dressed like Donovan to-day," said Lady Myrta to the actress,
with a smile. "Did you know that Stelio prefers Donovan to all the
others?"
A slight blush rose to La Foscarina's cheeks; she looked at the
fawn-colored greyhound.
"He is the strongest and the most beautiful," she replied.
"I believe that Stelio would like to have him," added the old lady,
with a sweet, indulgent smile.
"What is there that he would not like to have?"
Lady Myrta noted the tinge of melancholy in the tone of the woman in
love. She remained silent.
The dogs lay near them, serious and sad, sleepy and dreamy, far from
plains, steppes, and deserts, stretched out in the clover, where also
grew the gourds, with their greenish-yellow fruit.
"Does your lover grieve you?" the elder woman would have liked to ask
of the woman in love, for the silence weighed on her, and she felt her
own heart revivified by the fire within that sorrowful soul. But she
dared not. She only sighed. Her heart, ever young, still throbbed at
the sight of despairing passion and beauty menaced.
"Ah, you are still beautiful, and your lips still attract kisses, and
the man that loves you can still be intoxicated with your sweet pallor
and your eyes," she thought, as she looked at the pensive actress,
toward whom the November roses leaned. "But I am a specter."
She lowered her eyes, gazed upon her own deformed hands lying on her
lap, and wondered that those hands were hers, they were so dead and
distorted, lamentable monsters that could no longer touch anyone
without exciting disgust, that had nothing to caress any more except
the dogs. She felt the wrinkles in her face, the false teeth against
her gums, the false hair on her head, all the ruin of her poor body,
which once was obedient to the graceful will of her delicate spirit;
and she wondered at her own persistence in struggling against the
outrages of Time, in deceiving herself, in recomposing every morning
that ridiculous illusion with essences, oils, unguents, rouge and
powder. But, in the perpetual springtime of her dreams, was she not
ever youthful? Was it not yesterday, only yesterday, that she had
caressed a loved face with her perfect fingers, hunted the fox and the
deer in the northern counties, danced with her betrothed in the park
to an air of John Dowland's?--There are no mirrors in the house of the
Countess Glanegg; there are too many in Lady Myrta's house--was La
Foscarina's thought.--One has hidden her decline from herself and from
everyone else; the other sees herself growing older day by day. She
counts her wrinkles one by one, gathers up her dead hair in her comb,
feels her teeth rattling against her pale gums, and tries to repair
the damage by artificial devices. Poor tender soul, who wishes still
to be smiling and charming! But we must die, disappear, descend into
the earth!--She observed the little cluster of violets that Lady Myrta
had pinned to her skirt. In all seasons fresh flowers were fastened
there, barely visible, hidden among the folds, a sign of her daily
illusion of springtime, of the ever-new enchantment she wove about
herself by the aid of memory, music, poetry, and all the arts of dreams
against old age, infirmity, and solitude.--We should live one supreme,
flaming hour, then disappear forever in the earth before all charm has
vanished, before all grace is dead!--
She felt the beauty of her own eyes, the careless strength of her
hair, blown back by the wind, all the power of rhythm and transport
that slumbered in her muscles and her bones. She heard again in fancy
the words of her lover, saw him again in his tender transport of love,
in the sweetness of languor, the moments of profound oblivion.--Still
a little while, still a few days longer I shall please him, and
seem beautiful to him, and put fire in his blood. A little while
longer!--With her feet in the deep grass, her brow raised to the
sunlight, amid the fragrance of fading roses, in the fawn-colored robe
that made her seem like the magnificent beast of prey, she glowed with
passionate joy of life and hope, a sudden quickening of the blood, as
if that future which she had renounced by her resolution to die were
flowing back into the present.--Come! come!--Within herself she called
to her beloved with a sort of intoxication, sure that he would come,
because she already felt that he would, and never had she been deceived
by her presentiment.
"Ah, here is Stelio!" said Lady Myrta at that instant, seeing the young
man advancing among the laurels.
La Foscarina turned swiftly, with a blush. The greyhounds rose,
pricking up their slender ears. The meeting glance of those lovers
had something in it like an electric flash. Again, as always, in the
presence of that wonderful creature, her lover had the divine sensation
of suddenly being enfolded in a cloud of flaming ether, in a vibrant
wave that seemed to isolate him from ordinary atmosphere and almost to
ravish his senses.
"You were awaited here by all that dwell in this seclusion," said Lady
Myrta, with a smile that hid the emotion that stirred the youthful
heart in the infirm and aged body at the sight of love and longing. "In
coming here, you have responded to a call."
"That is true," said the young man, holding the collar of Donovan,
which, remembering his caresses, had run to meet him. "The fact is, I
have come a long distance. Guess from where?"
"From the country of Giorgione!"
"No, from the cloister of Santa Apollonia. Do you know that place?"
"Is that one of your inventions to-day?"
"Invention? It is a cloister of stone, a real cloister, with a well and
with little columns."
"It may be so, but everything that you have once looked at, Stelio,
becomes your invention."
"Ah, Lady Myrta, I should like to offer you that gem of a cloister. I
wish I might move it here, into your garden. Imagine a small, secret
cloister, opening on a sequence of slender columns, set in pairs like
nuns when they walk, fasting, in the sun; very delicate, neither white,
gray nor black, but that most mysterious tint ever given to stone by
the great master colorist--Time. In the midst of these is a well,
and on the curb, which is worn by the rope, hangs a pail without a
bottom. The nuns have disappeared, but I believe that the shades of the
Danaïdes frequent the place."
He stopped speaking suddenly, seeing himself surrounded by the
greyhounds, and began to imitate the guttural sounds the kennel-men
make to gather the dogs. The animals became excited; their wistful eyes
brightened.
"Ali-Nour! Crissa! Nerissa! Clarissa! Altair! Helion! Hardicanute!
Veronese! Hierro!"
He knew them all by name, and when he called them they seemed to
recognize him for their master. There was the Scottish hound, native of
the highlands, with thick, rough coat; the Irish wolf-hound, ruddy and
strong, with brown irises showing clearly in their whites; the Tartary
hound, spotted with black and yellow, a native of vast Asiatic steppes,
where at night he had guarded a tent against hyenas and leopards;
the Persian dog, light-colored and small, with ears covered with long
silky hair, a fluffy tail, of lighter tint on the sides and legs, more
graceful than the antelopes he had killed; there was also the Spanish
_galgo_ that had migrated with the Moors, that magnificent animal held
in leash by a pompous dwarf in the painting by Velásquez, instructed
to course and to force on the naked plains of the Mancha; the Arabian
_sloughi_, illustrious depredator of the desert, with black tongue and
palate, a noble animal, all pride, courage, and elegance, accustomed
to sleep on rich rugs and to lap pure milk from a pure vase. Assembled
in a pack, they quivered around him who knew how to reawaken in their
torpid blood their primitive instincts of pursuit and carnage.
"Which among you was Gog's best friend?" he asked, looking from one to
another of the pairs of beautiful, eager eyes fixed upon him. "You,
Hierro? You, Altair?"
His peculiar accent animated the sensitive creatures, which listened
with suppressed and intermittent growls.
"Well, I must tell you all something that I have kept secret till
to-day. Gog--do you hear?--who could crush a hare with one snap of his
jaws--Gog is crippled."
"Oh, indeed!" exclaimed Lady Myrta, concerned. "Is it possible, Stelio?
And Magog--how is he?"
"Magog is safe and well."
These were the names of a pair of greyhounds that Lady Myrta had given
to the young man.
"How did it happen?"
"Alas, poor Gog! He had already killed thirty-seven hares. He
possessed all the virtues of his fine breed: swiftness, resistance,
incredible rapidity in turning, and the constant desire to kill his
prey, besides the classical manner of running straight and seizing his
prey from behind almost at the same instant. Have you ever watched a
greyhound in coursing, Foscarina?"
"Never."
"Then you never have seen one of the rarest spectacles of daring,
vehemence, and grace in the world. Look!"
He drew Donovan toward him, knelt beside him, and began feeling the
animal with his expert hands.
"No machine in nature exists that is more exactly and powerfully
adapted to its purpose. The muzzle is sharp in order to penetrate the
air; it is long, so that the jaws can crush the prey at the first snap.
The skull is wide between the ears in order to contain the greatest
courage and skill. The jowls are dry and muscular, and the lips so
short they hardly cover the teeth."
With sure and easy touch, he opened the mouth of the dog, which offered
no resistance.
"Look at those white teeth! See how long the eyeteeth are, with a
little curve at the top, the better to hold his prey. No other species
of dog has a mouth so well constructed for biting."
His hands lingered over the examination, and his admiration for the
superb specimen was unbounded. He was kneeling in the clover, and
received in his face the breath of the dog, which quietly permitted
him to examine it, as if it comprehended and enjoyed the praise of the
connoisseur.
"See what elegance in his ribs, arranged with the symmetry of a fine
keel, and in that line curved inward toward the abdomen, which is
hidden. All point to one aim. The tail, thick at the root and slender
at the tip--look! almost like that of a rat--serves as a sort of
rudder, necessary to enable him to turn swiftly when the hare doubles.
Let us see, Donovan, whether you are perfect also in this respect."
He took the tip of the tail, passed it under the leg, and drew it
toward the haunch-bone, where it exactly touched the projecting part.
"Yes, perfect! Once I saw an Arab of the tribe of Arbâa measuring his
_sloughi_ in that way. Ali-Nour, did you tremble when you discovered
the herd of gazelles? Imagine, Foscarina--the _sloughi_ trembles when
he discovers his prey, quivers like a willow, and turns his soft,
pleading eyes toward his master, begging to be released. I do not know
the reason why this pleases me and stirs me so much. His desire to kill
is terrible; his whole body is ready to stretch itself like a bow,
yet he trembles! Not with fear, nor with uncertainty, but with sheer
desire. Ah, Foscarina! if you could see a _sloughi_ at that moment, you
would not fail to learn from him his manner of quivering, and you would
render the manner human by the power of your tragic art, and would
give mankind a new sensation. Up, Ali-Nour! swift desert arrow! Do you
remember? But now you tremble only when you are cold."
Blithe and graceful, he had let Donovan go, and had taken between his
hands the serpentine head of the slayer of gazelles; he gazed into
those deep eyes, wherein lurked nostalgia for the silent, tropical
land; for tents unfolded after a march toward some deceiving mirage;
for fires kindled for the evening meal under stars that seemed to throb
in the waves of the wind just above the summits of the palm-trees.
La Foscarina had entered into that physical enchantment of love whereby
the limits of one's being seem to dilate and be fused in the air, so
that every word and movement of the beloved object brings a feeling
of happiness sweeter than any caress. Her lover had taken between his
hands the head of Ali-Nour, but she felt the touch of those hands upon
her own brow. He was gazing into Ali-Nour's eyes, but she could feel
that gaze deep in her own soul.
Had he not touched the obscurest mystery of her being? Did he not
compel her to feel within herself the animal depths whence had sprung
the unexpected revelation of her tragic genius, moving and maddening
the multitude as would a splendid spectacle of sea and sky, a gorgeous
sunrise, a tremendous tempest. When he had spoken of the trembling
_sloughi_, had he not divined the natural analogies whence she drew the
power of expression that amazed peoples and poets? It was because she
had re-discovered the Dionysian sense of Nature as a naturalizer, the
antique fervor of instinctive and creative energies, the enthusiasm of
the multiform god emerging from the fermentation of all sap, that she
appeared so new and so great on the stage. Sometimes she felt within
herself something like an immanence of the miracle which in the mystic
past swelled with divine milk the breasts of the Mænads at the approach
of the hungry young panthers.
Stelio began again to imitate the guttural call of the kennel-keeper.
The dogs grew more excited; their eyes brightened again; the tense
muscles swelled under the coats--tawny, black, white, gray, spotted;
the long haunches were curved like bows ready to hurl into space those
bodies dry and slender, like a quiver-full of arrows.
"There, Donovan, there!"
Stelio pointed to a reddish-gray object in the grass at the end of
the garden; it looked somewhat like a crouching hare with flattened
ears. The imperious voice deceived the hesitating hounds, and it was
beautiful to see the slender, vigorous bodies quivering in the sunlight.
"There, Donovan!"
The great tawny dog looked him deep in the eyes, gave a formidable
bound toward the imaginary prey, with all the vehemence of his
reawakened instinct. He reached the spot in an instant, then stopped,
disappointed, followed by the whole pack.
"A gourd! a gourd!" cried the deceiver, with shouts of laughter. "Not
even a rabbit. Poor Donovan! He bit only a gourd! Poor Donovan! what
humiliation! Take care, Lady Myrta, lest he drown himself in the canal
for very shame!"
From the contagion of her lover's gayety, La Foscarina laughed too. Her
fawn-tinted gown and the tan coats of the hounds shone in the sunlight
against the green clover. Her white teeth, revealed by rippling
laughter, graced her mouth with a renewal of youth.
"Would you like to own Donovan?" said Lady Myrta, with a touch of
graceful, malicious significance. "I know your arts!"
Stelio ceased laughing, and blushed like a boy.
A wave of tenderness filled La Foscarina's heart as she saw the boyish
blush. She fairly sparkled with love; she felt a wild wish to clasp him
in her arms at that very moment.
Before thanking Lady Myrta, Stelio looked again at the dog, admiring
him as he was, strong, splendid, perfect, with the mark of style on his
limbs as if Pisanello had drawn him for the reverse of a medal. Then he
looked at La Foscarina, who had turned to the group of animals, moving
over the grass with a swift undulation, like the movement called the
greyhound step by the ancient Venetians. She advanced, with Donovan,
holding him by the collar. The chill of evening began to be felt, the
shadow of the bronze cupola grew longer on the grass; a purple mist, in
which the last flecks of golden sunlight swam, began to spread over the
branches that swayed in the breeze.
--See, we are yours!--the woman seemed to be saying mutely, while the
animal, beginning to shiver, pressed close against her.--We are yours
forever. We are here to serve you!