THE LAST FAREWELL
All the world seemed to have diminished in value.
The nomad woman had armed herself anew with courage, and planned the
route of her next professional tour. From the thought of the hero
lying in his coffin, a lofty inspiration came to all noble hearts. La
Foscarina knew how to receive it and to convert it to the thoughts and
actions of daily life.
It happened that her beloved surprised her at the time she was packing
her familiar books, the little cherished treasures from which she never
parted--things that for her possessed the power of imparting dreams or
consolation.
"What are you doing?" Stelio asked.
"I am making ready to leave the country."
She saw a change pass over his face, but she did not waver.
"And where are you going?"
"A long distance from here--I shall cross the Atlantic."
Stelio became slightly paler. But suddenly he was seized with doubt; he
thought she was not speaking the truth; that she wished only to prove
him; that her decision was not absolutely fixed, and that she expected
to be persuaded to remain. The unlooked-for disillusion on the banks of
Murano had left its mark on his heart.
"Have you really decided on this, then, so suddenly?"
She was simple, sure of herself, and prompt in her reply.
"My decision is not exactly sudden. My idleness has lasted too long,
and I have the responsibility of all my company on my shoulders. While
I am waiting for the Theater of Apollo to be opened, and for _The
Victory of Man_ to be finished, I shall go once more to bid farewell
to the Barbarians. I must work for your beautiful enterprise. We
shall need a great deal of gold to restore the treasures of Mycenæ.
And all that is connected with your work must appear with unrivaled
magnificence. I do not wish Cassandra's mask to be of some base metal.
But, above all, I wish to satisfy your desire that for the first three
days the populace shall have free admission to the theater, and after
that on one day of every week. My faith aids me to leave you. Time
flies. It is necessary that each person should be in his own place,
ready and full of strength, when the great day comes. I shall not fail
you. I hope that you will be satisfied with your friend. I am going
away to work, and certainly the task will be more difficult than I ever
have found it before. But you, my poor boy, what a burden you have to
bear! What an effort we demand from you! What great things we expect
from you! Ah, you know it!"
She had begun courageously, in a tone that was almost blithe, trying
to seem what above all she must be--a good and faithful instrument at
the service of a powerful genius, a strong and willing companion. But
a wave of repressed emotion would rise in her throat and stop her
speech. Her pauses grew longer, and her hand wandered uncertainly among
her books and treasures.
"May everything be ever propitious to your work! That is the only thing
that really matters--all else is nothing. Let us lift our hearts!"
She shook her head, with its two wild wings, and held out both hands
to her beloved. He, pale and grave, clasped them close. In her dear
eyes, that were like sparkling springs of water, he saw a flash of the
same beauty that had dazzled him one evening in the room where the fire
had roared, and he had listened to the development of the two great
melodies.
"I love you and I have faith in you," he said; "I will not fail you and
you will not fail me. Something springs from us that shall be stronger
than life itself."
"A great melancholy," she answered.
Before her, on a table, lay the familiar book, with pages turned
down and margins full of scribbled notes; here and there a petal, a
flower, a blade of grass lay between the leaves--signs of the sorrow
that had asked and obtained from them the consolation of relief or of
forgetfulness. Before her were strewn all the little cherished objects
dear to her, strange, varied; nearly all were things of no value: a
doll's foot, a silver heart, an ivory compass, a watch without a dial,
a small iron lantern, a single earring, a flint, a key, a seal, and
other trifles; but all were consecrated by some memory, animated by
some superstitious belief, touched by the finger of love or of death,
relics that could speak only to one of war and of truce, of hope
and of sadness. Among these objects were figures to which artists
had entrusted their secret confession, signs and enigmas, profound
allegories, hiding truths that, like the sun, could not be gazed at by
mortal eyes.
The young man put his arm around his friend's waist, and silently
they went to the window. They saw the far-distant sky, the trees, the
towers, the end of the lagoon over which Twilight was bending her face,
while the Euganean hills were as quiet and blue as if they were the
wings of earth folded in the peacefulness of eventide.
They turned toward each other, looking into the depths of each other's
eyes. Then they embraced, as if to seal a silent compact.
* * * * *
Yes, all the world seemed to have diminished in value.
Stelio Effrena had asked of the widow of Richard Wagner that the two
young Italian men that had carried the unconscious hero from the vessel
to the shore that night in November, with four of their friends,
might have granted to them the honor of bearing the coffin from the
death-chamber to the boat and from the boat to the hearse. This request
was granted.
It was the sixteenth of February, at one o'clock in the afternoon.
Stelio Effrena, Daniele Glauro, Francesco de Lizo, Baldassare Stampa,
Fabio Molza, and Antimo della Bella waited in the hall of the palace.
The latter had come from Rome, bringing with him the artisans engaged
in the building of the Theater of Apollo, that they might bear at the
funeral ceremony bunches of laurel gathered on the Janiculum.
They waited in silence, without even looking at one another, each
overcome by the throbbing of his own heart. Nothing was heard save a
faint dropping of water on the steps before the great door, where, on
the candelabra at the doorposts appeared the two words: DOMUS PACIS.
The boatman, who had been dear to the hero, came to call them. In that
rough yet faithful face, the eyes showed that the lids were burned by
weeping.
Stelio Effrena advanced first, followed by his companions. After
ascending the stairs, they entered a low-studded, darkened room, filled
with the melancholy odor of flowers and fluids. They paused there a few
minutes. A door opened. They passed through the doorway one by one into
the next room. Each turned pale as he entered.
The body was there, enclosed in its crystal coffin, and beside it stood
the woman with the face of snowy pallor. The second coffin, of polished
metal, stood shining on the floor.
The six bearers ranged themselves about the coffin, awaiting a sign.
The silence was profound, and no one moved; but an impetuous sadness
shook each soul like a tempest of wind.
Each gazed on the elect of Life and of Death. An infinite smile
illumined the face of the hero lying there--infinite and distant as the
glint of a glacier, as the sparkle of the sea, as the halo of the star.
Their eyes could not bear to look long at it, but their hearts, with
an awe-struck fear that made them religious, felt as if they had the
revelation of a divine secret.
The woman with the snow-white face made a slight movement, yet
preserved the same attitude, rigid as a statue.
Then the six friends approached the body, extended their arms, summoned
up their strength. Stelio Effrena took his place at the head and
Daniele Glauro took his at the feet, as on that day in November. The
young men lifted their burden with one movement, at a low-spoken word
from the leader. The eyes of each were dazzled, as if a sudden ray of
sunlight had pierced the crystal. Baldassare Stampa broke into sobs.
The same knot was in each throat. The coffin swayed, then it was
lowered into its metal covering, which enveloped it like a suit of
armor.
The six friends remained overcome with grief. They hesitated to put the
cover in its place, fascinated by that infinite smile. Stelio Effrena
heard a light rustling, and looked up. He saw the white face bending
over the body, a superhuman apparition of love and grief. That instant
was like eternity. The woman disappeared.
When the coffin was closed, they lifted their burden a second
time--heavier now. Out of the room and down the stairs they bore
it slowly. Rapt in a kind of sublime anguish, they could see their
fraternal faces reflected in the polished metal.
The funeral barge awaited them at the entrance. The pall was laid
over the coffin. The six friends waited, with heads uncovered, for the
family to descend. They came, all together. The widow passed them,
veiled. But the splendor of her face would remain in their memories
forever.
The procession was short; the funeral barge went first, followed by the
widow with her relatives; then came the young men. The sky was cloudy
above the broad road of stone and water. The deep silence was worthy of
Him who transformed the forces of the universe for man's worship into
infinite song.
A flock of doves, flying from the marbles of the Scalsi, winged their
way with a flash of plumage above the bier and across the canal,
circling the cupola of San Simeone.
At the quay a silent gathering of faithful friends was waiting. The
large wreaths perfumed the air. The water rippled softly under the
prows of the boats. The six companions lifted the coffin from the boat
and bore it on their shoulders to the railway and placed it in the
proper compartment. No one spoke.
Then the two artisans from Rome came forward, with the clusters of
laurel gathered on the Janiculum. They were tall, powerful men,
chosen among the strongest and finest, and seemed cast in the mold
of the ancient Roman race. They were calm and serious, with all the
wild freedom of the Agro in their eyes. Their bold outlines, narrow
foreheads, short curling hair, solid jaws and bull-necks, recalled
the profiles of ancient consuls. Their bearing, free from any servile
obsequiousness, showed them to be worthy of their function.
The six young men, rendered equal in their fervor, took the branches of
laurel and strewed them over the hero's coffin.
Noble were those Latin laurels, cut on the hill where, in a time long
past, the eagles descended bearing prophecies; where, in more recent
though still fabulous times, a river of blood has been shed for the
beauty of Italy by the legions of the Liberator. The branches were
straight, dark, and strong; the leaves were firm, deeply veined, with
sharp edges, green as the bronze of fountains, rich with triumphal
aroma.
And they journeyed toward the Bavarian hill still sleeping beneath its
frost and ice, while their trunks were already budding anew in the
light of Rome, to the murmur of invisible waters.
_Settignano di Desiderio:
February 13, 1900._