and over-bending blossom, I once spent an autumn afternoon with my old
friend, the Professor,--“Professor of Modern Languages and Ancient
Legends,” as some of the more flippant of the _habitués_ of Florian’s
were wont to style him. The old Frenchman had justly earned this title.
He had not only made every tradition and fable of Venice his own,
often puzzling and charming the Venetians themselves with his intimate
knowledge of the many romances of their past, but he could tell most
wonderful tales of the gorgeous fêtes of the seventeenth century, the
social life of the nobility, their escapades, intrigues, and scandals.
If some fair Venetian had loved not wisely but too well, and, clinging
to brave Lorenzo’s neck, had slipped down a rope ladder into a closely
curtained, muffled-oared gondola, and so over the lagoon to Mestre,
the old Frenchman could not only point out to you the very balcony,
provided it were a palace balcony and not a fisherman’s window,--he
despised the _bourgeoisie_,--but he could give you every feature of
the escapade, from the moment the terror-stricken duenna missed her
charge to that of the benediction of the priest in the shadowed isle.
So, when upon the evening preceding this particular day, I accepted
the Professor’s invitation to breakfast, I had before me not only his
hospitality, frugal as it might be, but the possibility of drawing upon
his still more delightful fund of anecdote and reminiscence.
Neither the day nor the hour had been definitely set. The invitation, I
afterwards discovered, was but one of the many he was constantly giving
to his numerous friends and haphazard acquaintances, evincing by its
perfect genuineness his own innate kindness and his hearty appreciation
of the many similar courtesies he was daily receiving at their hands.
Indeed, to a man so delicately adjusted as the Professor and so
entirely poor, it was the only way he could balance, in his own mind,
many long-running accounts of, coffee for two at the _Calcina_, with a
fish and a fruit salad, the last a specialty of the Professor’s--the
oil, melons, and cucumbers being always provided by his host--or a dish
of _risotto_, with kidneys and the like, at the _Bauer-Grünwald_.
Nobody ever accepted these invitations seriously, that is, no one who
knew the Professor at all well. In fact, there was a general impression
existing among the many frequenters of Florian’s and the _Quadri_
that the Professor’s hour and place of breakfasting were very like
the birds’--whenever the unlucky worm was found, and wherever the
accident happened to occur. When I asked Marks for the old fellow’s
address--which rather necessary item I remembered later had also been
omitted by the Professor--he replied, “Oh, somewhere down the Riva,”
and dropped the subject as too unimportant for further mental effort.
All these various eccentricities of my prospective host, however,
were at the time unknown to me. He had cordially invited me to
breakfast--“to-morrow, or any day you are near my apartments, I would
be so charmed,” etc. I had as graciously accepted, and it would have
been unpardonable indifference, I felt sure, not to have continued the
inquiries until my hand touched his latch-string.
The clue was a slight one. I had met him once, leaning over the side of
the bridge below Danieli’s, the _Ponte del Sepolcro_, looking wistfully
out to sea, and was greeted with the remark that he had that moment
left his apartments, and only lingered on the bridge to watch the play
of silvery light on the lagoon, the September skies were so enchanting.
So on this particular morning I began inspecting the bell-pulls of all
the doorways, making inquiry at the several caffès and shops. Then I
remembered the apothecary, down one step from the sidewalk, in the _Via
Garibaldi_--a rather shabby continuation of the Riva--and nearly a mile
below the more prosperous quarter where the Professor had waved his
hand, the morning I met him on the bridge.
“The Signor Croisac--the old Frenchman?” “Upstairs, next door.”
He was as delightful as ever in his greetings; started a little when I
reminded him of his invitation, but begged me to come in and sit down,
and with great courtesy pointed out the view of the garden below, and
the sweep and glory of the lagoon. Then he excused himself, adjusted
his hat, picked up a basket, and gently closed the door.
The room, upon closer inspection, was neither dreary nor uninviting.
It had a sort of annex, or enlarged closet, with a drawn curtain
partly concealing a bed, a row of books lining one wall, a table
littered with papers, a smaller one containing a copper coffee-pot
and a scant assortment of china, some old chairs, and a disemboweled
lounge that had doubtless lost heart in middle life and committed
hari-kari. There were also a few prints and photographs, a corner of
the Parthenon, a mezzo of Napoleon in his cocked hat, and an etching
or two, besides a miniature reduction of the Dying Gladiator, which he
used as a paper-weight. All the windows of this modest apartment were
filled with plants, growing in all kinds of pots and boxes, broken
pitchers, cracked dishes--even half of a Chianti flask. These, like
their guardian, ignored their surroundings and furnishings, and flamed
away as joyously in the summer sun as if they had been nurtured in the
choicest of majolica.
He was back before I had completed my inventory, thanking me again and
again for my extreme kindness in coming, all the while unwrapping the
Gorgonzola, and flecking off with a fork the shreds of paper that still
clung to its edges. The morsel was then laid upon a broad leaf gathered
at the window, and finally upon a plate covered by a napkin so that
the flies should not taste it first. This, with a simple salad, a pot
of coffee and some rolls, a siphon of seltzer and a little raspberry
juice in a glass,--“so much fresher than wine these hot mornings,” he
said,--constituted the entire repast.
But there was no apology offered with the serving. Poor as he was, he
had that exquisite tact which avoided burdening his guest even with
his economies. He had offered me all his slender purse could afford.
Indeed, the cheese had quite overstrained it.
When he had drawn a cigarette from my case,--it was delightful to
see him do this, and always reminded me of a young girl picking
bonbons from a box, it was so daintily done,--the talk drifted into
a discussion of the glories of the old days and of the welfare of
Italy under the present government. I made a point of expressing my
deep admiration for the good King Humbert and his gracious queen. The
Professor merely waved his hand, adding:--
“Yes, a good man and a noble lady, worthy successors of the old
régime!” Then, with a certain air, “I have known, professionally, very
many of these great families. A most charming, delightful society!
The women so exquisite, with such wealth of hair and eyes, and so
_gentilles_: always of the _Beau Monde_! And their traditions and
legends, so full of romance and mystery! The palaces too! Think of
the grand staircase of the Foscari, the entrance to the Barbaro, and
the superb ceilings of the Albrezzi! Then their great gardens and
vine orchards! There is nothing like them. Do you happen to know
the old garden on the Giudecca, where lived the beautiful Contessa
Alberoni? No? And you never heard the romantic story of her life, her
disappearance, and its dramatic ending?”
I shook my head. The Professor, to my delight, was now fairly in the
saddle; the best part of the breakfast was to come.
“My dear friend! One of the most curious of all the stories of Venice!
I know intimately many of her descendants, and I know, too, the old
gardener who still cares for what is left of the garden. It has long
since passed out of the hands of the family.
“Let me light another cigarette before I tell you,” said the Professor,
crossing the room, “and just another drop of seltzer,” filling my
glass.
“Is it to be a true story?” I asked.
“_Mon cher ami!_ absolutely so. Would you care to see the garden
itself, where it all occurred, or will you take my word for it? No, not
until you sit under the arbors and lean over the very balcony where
the lovers sat. Come, is your gondola here? Under the window?” pushing
aside the flowers. “Which is your gondolier? The one in blue with the
white _tenda_ over his boat? Yes, sound asleep like all the rest of
them!”
Here the old gentleman picked up his silk hat, passed his hand once
or twice around its well-brushed surface, discarded it for a white
straw with a narrow black band, adjusted his cravat in a broken mirror
that hung near the door, gave an extra twist to his gray mustache, and
preceded me downstairs and out into the blinding light of a summer day.
Several members of the Open-Air Club were hanging over the bridge as
we passed--Luigi flat on his face and sound asleep in the shadow of
the side-wall, and Vittorio sprawled out on the polished rail above.
Those who were awake touched their hats respectfully to the old fellow
as he crossed the bridge, he returning their salutations quite as a
distinguished earl would those of his tenants. Vittorio, when he
caught my eye, sprang down and ran ahead to rouse Espero, and then back
for Luigi, who awoke with a dazed look on his face, only regaining
consciousness in time to wave his hat to me when we were clear of the
quay, the others standing in a row enjoying his discomfiture.
“This garden,” continued the Professor, settling himself on the
cushions and drawing the curtains so that he could keep the view toward
San Giorgio and still shut out the dazzling light, “is now, of course,
only a ghost of its former self. The château is half in ruins, and one
part is inhabited by fishermen, who dry their nets in the grape arbors
and stow their fish-baskets in the porticoes. Many of the fruit-trees,
however, still exist, as do many of the vines, and so my old friend
Angelo, the gardener, makes a scanty living for himself and his pretty
daughter, by supplying the fruit-stands in the autumn and raising
lettuce and melons in the spring and summer. The ground itself, like
most of the land along the east side of the islands of the Giudecca, is
valueless, and everything is falling into ruin.”
We were rounding the Dogana, Espero bending lustily to his oar as we
shot past the wood-boats anchored in the stream. The Professor talked
on, pointing out the palace where Pierre, the French adventurer, lived
during the Spanish conspiracy, and the very side door in the old
building, once a convent, from which an Englishman in the old days
stole a nun who loved him, and spirited her off to another quaint nook
in this same Giudecca, returning her to her cell every morning before
daybreak.
“Ah, those were the times to live in. Then a _soldo_ was as large as a
_lira_. Then a woman loved you for yourself, not for what you gave her.
Then your gondolier kept your secrets, and the keel of your boat left
no trace behind. Then your family crest meant something more than the
name-plate on your door, upon which to nail a tax-levy.”
The old man had evidently forgotten his history, but I did not check
him. It was his buoyant enthusiasm that always charmed me most.
As Espero passed under Ponte Lungo, the wooden bridge leading to the
_Fondamenta della Pallada_, the Professor waved his hand to the right,
and we floated out into the lagoon and stopped at an old water-gate,
its doors weather-stained and broken, over which hung a mass of tangled
vines.
“The garden of the Contessa,” said the Professor, his face aglow with
the expectancy of my pleasure.
It was like a dozen other water-gates I had seen, except that no
gratings were open and the surrounding wall was unusually high. Once
inside, however, with the gate swung-to on its rusty hinges, you felt
instantly that the world had been shut away forever. Here were long
arbors bordered by ancient box, with arching roofs of purple grapes.
Against the high walls stood fragments of statues, some headless,
some with broken arms or battered faces. Near the centre of the great
quadrangle was a sunken basin, covered with mould, and green with the
scum of stagnant water. In the once well-regulated garden beds the
roses bloomed gayly, climbing over pedestal and statue, while the
trumpet-flower and scarlet-creeper flaunted their colors high upon the
crumbling walls overlooking the lagoon. At one end of this tangled
waste rose the remains of a once noble château or summer home, built
of stone in the classic style of architecture, the pediment of the
porch supported by a row of white marble columns. Leaning against these
columns stood old fish-baskets, used for the storing of live fish,
while over the ruined arbors hung in great festoons the nets of a
neighboring fisherman, who reserved this larger space for drying and
mending his seines.
It was a ruin, and yet not a hopeless one. You could see that each year
the flowers struggled into life again; that the old black cypresses,
once trimmed into quaint designs, had still determined to live on,
even without the care of their arboreal barber; that really only the
pruning-knife and spade were needed to bring back the garden to its
former beauty. And the solitude was there too, the sense of utter
isolation, as if the outside world were across the sea, whither nor eye
nor voice could follow.
Old Angelo and his pretty daughter--a pure type of the Venetian girl
of to-day, as she stood expectantly with folded arms--met us at the
gate, and led the way to a sort of summer-house, so thickly covered
with matted vines that the sun only filtered through and fell in drops
of gold, spattering the ground below. Here, encrusted with green mould,
was a marble table of exquisite design, its circular top supported by a
tripod with lions’ feet.
Angelo evidently knew my companion and his ways, for in a few moments
the girl returned, bringing a basket of grapes, some figs, and a flask
of wine. The Professor thanked her, and then, dismissing her with one
of his gentle hand-waves and brushing the fallen leaves from the stone
bench with his handkerchief, sat down.
“And now, right here,” said the old fellow, placing his straw hat
on the seat beside him, his gray hair glistening in the soft light,
“right here, where she loved and died, I will tell you the story of the
Contessa Alberoni.
“This most divine of women once lived in a grand old palace above the
Rialto. She belonged to a noble family of Florence, whose ancestors
fought with Philip, before the Campanile was finished. All over Italy
she was known as the most beautiful woman of her day, and that, let
me tell you, at a time when to be counted as beautiful in Venice was
to be beautiful the world over. She was a woman,”--here the Professor
rested his head on the marble seat and half closed his eyes, as if he
were recalling the vision of loveliness from out his own past,--“well,
one of those ideal women, with fathomless eyes and rounded white arms
and throat; a Catherine Cornaro type, of superb carriage and presence.
Titian would have lost his heart over the torrent of gold that fell in
masses about her shapely head, and Canova might have exhausted all his
skill upon the outlines of her form.
“In the beginning of her womanhood, when yet barely sixteen, she had
married, at her father’s bidding, a decrepit Italian count nearly
thrice her age, who, in profound consideration of her sacrifice, died
in a becoming manner within a few years of their marriage, leaving her
his titles and estates. For ten years of her wedded life and after,
she lived away off in the secluded villa of Valdagna, a small town
nestling among the foothills of the Alps. Then, suddenly awakening to
the power of her wonderful beauty, she took possession of the great
palace on the Grand Canal above the Rialto. You can see it any day; and
save that some of the spindles in the exquisite rose-marble balconies
are broken and the façade blackened and weather-stained, the exterior
is quite as it appeared in her time. The interior, however, owing to
the obliteration of this noble family and the consequent decay of its
vast estates, is almost a ruin. Every piece of furniture and all the
gorgeous hangings are gone; together with the mantels, and the superb
well-curb in the court below. Tell Espero to take you there some day.
You will not only find the grand entrance blocked with wine casks, but
my lady’s boudoir plastered over with cheap green paper and rented as
cheaper lodgings to still cheaper tenants. Bah!”
Then the Professor, dropping easily and gracefully into a style of
delivery as stilted as if he were remembering the very words of some
old chronicle, told me how she had lived in this grand palace during
the years of her splendor, the pride and delight of all who came under
her magic spell, as easily Queen of Venice as Venice was Queen of the
Sea. How at thirty, then in the full radiance of her beauty, beloved
and besought by every hand that could touch her own, painters vied
with each other in matching the tints of her marvelous skin; sculptors
begged for models of her feet to grace their masterpieces; poets sang
her praises, and the first musicians of Italy wrote the songs that
her lovers poured out beneath her windows. How there had come a night
when suddenly the whole course of her life was changed,--the night of
a great ball given at one of the old palaces on the Grand Canal, the
festivities ending with a pageant that revived the sumptuous days of
the Republic, in which the Contessa herself was to take part.
When the long-expected hour arrived, she was seen to step into her
gondola, attired in a dress of the period, a marvel of velvet and cloth
of gold. Then she disappeared as completely from human sight as if the
waters of the canal had closed over her forever.
For days all investigation proved fruitless. The only definite clue
came from her gondolier, who said that soon after the gondola had
left the steps of her palace, the Contessa ordered him to return home
at once; that on reaching the landing she covered her face with her
veil and reëntered the palace. Later it was whispered that for many
weeks she had not left her apartments. Then she sent for her father
confessor, and at a secret interview announced her decision never again
to appear to the world.
At this point of the story the Professor had risen from his seat and
poured half the flagon in his glass. He was evidently as much absorbed
in the recital as if it had all happened yesterday. I could see, too,
that it appealed to those quaint, romantic views of life which, for all
their absurdities, endeared the old fellow to every one who knew him.
“For a year,” he continued, “this seclusion was maintained; no one saw
the Contessa, not even her own servants. Her meals were served behind a
screen. Of course, all Venice was agog. Every possible solution of so
strange and unexpected a seclusion was suggested and discussed.
“In the beginning of the following winter vague rumors reached the good
father’s ears. One morning he left his devotions, and, waylaying her
duenna outside the palace garden, pressed his rosary into her hands
and said: ‘Take this to the Contessa.’” Here the Professor became very
dramatic, holding out his hand with a quick gesture, as if it clasped
the rosary. “‘Tell her that to-night, when San Giorgio strikes twelve,
I shall be at the outer gate of the palace and must be admitted.’”
Then, pacing up and down the narrow arbor, his face flushed, his eyes
glistening, the old fellow told the rest of the story. “When,” said he,
“the hour arrived, the heavy grated door, the same through which you
can now see the wine casks, was cautiously opened. A moment later the
priest was ushered into a dimly lighted room, luxuriously furnished,
and screened at one end by a silken curtain, behind which sat the
Contessa. She listened while he told her how all Venice was outraged
at her conduct, many hearts being grieved and many tongues dropping
foul slander. He remonstrated with her about the life she was leading,
condemning its selfishness and threatening the severest discipline.
But neither threats nor the voice of slander intimidated the Contessa.
She steadfastly avowed that her life had been blameless, and despite
the earnest appeals of the priest persisted in the determination to
live the rest of her days in quiet and seclusion. The most he was able
to effect was a promise that within a month she would open the doors of
her palace for one more great ball. Her friends would then be reassured
and her enemies silenced.
“The records show that no such festival had been seen in Venice for
many years. The palace was a blaze of light. So great was the crush of
gondolas bringing their beauteous freight of richly dressed Venetians,
that the traffic of the canal was obstructed for hours. Ten o’clock
came, eleven, and still there was no Contessa to welcome her guests.
Strange stories were set afloat. It was whispered that a sudden illness
had overtaken her. Then, as the hours wore on, the terrible rumor
gained credence, that she had been murdered by her servants, and that
the report of her illness was only a cloak to conceal their crime.
“While the excitement was at its height, a man, in the costume of a
herald, appeared in the great _salon_ and announced the arrival of the
hostess. As the hour struck twelve a curtain was drawn at the farther
end of the room, revealing the Contessa seated upon a dais, superbly
attired in velvet and lace, and brilliant with jewels. When the hum
and wonder of the surprise had ceased, she arose, stood like a queen
receiving the homage of her subjects, and, welcoming her guests to
her palace, bade them dance on until the sun rose over the Lido. Then
the curtains were drawn, and so ended the last sight of the Contessa
in Venice. Her palace was never opened again. Later she disappeared
completely, and the spiders spun their webs across the threshold.
“Years afterward, a man repairing a high chimney on a roof overlooking
this very garden--the chimney can still be seen from the far corner
below the landing--saw entering the arbor a noble lady, leaning upon
the arm of a distinguished looking man of about her own age. In the
lady he recognized the Contessa.
“Little by little, the story came out. It appeared that immediately
after the ball she had moved to this château, a part of her own
estates, which had been quietly fitted up and restored. It was then
remembered that soon after the château had been finished, a certain
Marquis, well known in France, who had adored the Contessa for years,
and was really the only man she ever loved, had disappeared from
Paris. He was traced at the time to Milan and Genoa, and finally to
Venice. There all trace of him was lost. Such disappearances were not
uncommon in those days, and it was often safer even for one’s relatives
to shrug their shoulders and pass on. Further confirmation came from
the gondolier, who had landed him the night of his arrival at the
water-gate of this garden,--just where we landed an hour ago,--and
who, on hearing of his supposed murder, had kept silent upon his share
in the suspected crime. Inquiries conducted by the State corroborated
these facts.
“Look around you, _mon ami_,” exclaimed the Professor suddenly.
“Underneath this very arbor have they sat for hours, and in the
window of that crumbling balcony have they listened to the low sound
of each other’s voice in the still twilight, the world shut out,
the vine-covered wall their only horizon. Here, as the years passed
unheeded, they dreamed their lives away. _L’amour, l’amour, vous êtes
tout puissant!_”
The Professor stopped, turned as if in pain, and rested his head
on his arm. For some moments neither of us spoke. Was the romance
to which I had listened only the romance of the Contessa, or had he
unconsciously woven into its meshes some of the silken threads of his
own past? When he raised his head I said: “But, Professor, you have not
told me the secret she kept from the priest. Why did she shut herself
up? What was it that altered the whole course of her life?”
“Did I not tell you? Then listen. She had overheard her gondolier say,
as she stepped into her gondola on the fatal night of the great fête
at the Foscari, ‘The Contessa is growing old; she is no longer as
beautiful as she was.’”
I looked at the old fellow to see if he were really in earnest, and,
throwing back my head, laughed heartily. For the first time in all my
intercourse with him I saw the angry color mount to his cheeks.
He turned quickly, looked at me in astonishment, as if unable to
believe his ears, and said sharply, knitting his brows, “Why do you
laugh?”