An Embassy from Venice was expected upon important affairs of State, and
there was an unusual radiance in the face of the Queen, for it had been
announced that the Illustrissimo, the Signor Zorzi Cornaro, brother to
Caterina, was chief of the Commission, and it was long since one of her
very own had been with her.
"_Zia mia_," she said eagerly to the elder Lady of the Bernardini. "Thou
wilt see that no courtesy of reception shall be omitted--it is to
welcome one of my very own!"
She dwelt on the phrase with a pathetic accent of delight, returning to
it again as she discussed some details of the welcome that should be
offered to her brother, whom, for years she had not seen.
Never had an ambassador been received with higher honors in the Court of
Nikosia, or with such glad faces by all the attendant circle--for was
not His Excellency of the Queen's own household?--and it had been rare
to see such a light of happiness in her beloved eyes.
And well did the Cornaro seem to carry the honors due to his
house--being very noble in bearing, as befitted the brother of the
Queen; and so eloquent in speech that already before the first day had
passed, the scholarly men of the Court were exchanging glances of
admiration at the skill with which he parried their compliments; while
Caterina, noting their courtesy and the deftness with which he had won
them, grew more than ever radiant, with a certain look of restfulness
and of heart-satisfaction which, since the death of the child, those who
loved her had scarcely seen her wear.
But Aluisi Bernardini grew somewhat graver than his wont, as the banquet
proceeded, while he watched his cousin, the newly-arrived Ambassador,
less graciously, his lady thought, than he need have done on this first
evening when all were hastening to shower honors upon him.
"Whatever cometh," he said to his wife, as they rose at last from the
brilliant tables and passed out upon the terraces at the invitation of
the Queen; "whatever cometh, leave her not alone with him, though she
should urge thee; use thy sweet insistance--as thou knowest how--to keep
others about them for this first evening."
"What meanest thou, Aluisi?" she asked in alarm, and moving quickly
aside, as the gay company swept by, that he might explain himself.
"Surely she might wish to speak with him alone; she is more happy in his
presence than she hath been for years. Seest thou not?"
"Aye, my very dear one, I see it well. It is that I would hold this rare
happiness for her so long as may be; and there is that in the manner of
my cousin, the Cornaro, which pleaseth me not. I would not have him
unfold to her the matter of his Embassy, if it may be a little
deferred."
"It hath been told thee, already?"
"Not more than to thee. But in all the grace of him I see his head above
his heart--a certain quality of his father, the 'Magnifico, Marco
Cornaro'--as he was known in Venice. Yet one who standeth watching,
somewhat apart, may note a hint of displeasure at the splendor of his
welcome and the loyalty of the court for the Queen: and the ready wit
with which he answereth concealeth under its sparkle a certain
persistent measuring of some purpose which he hath much at heart--as if
he were studying meanwhile how best to compass his end."
She laid her hand entreatingly on his arm. "For once, my Aluisi, it may
be thou dost o'er-reach thyself. Is he not her brother?"
He smiled at her, unconvinced.
"I have watched so long," he said, "and the life of our Queen-Cousin
hath been so sadly thwarted that it may well be my fear for her taketh
flame too lightly. But she hath set such store upon his coming, and with
such gracious scheming for his pleasure, that if he leave her time she
may soften any hard intent. San Marco grant that I have misjudged him,
for he is of our house."
"Thou hast much weight with her," the Dama Margherita answered very low.
"Stay near me, that we may guard her."
But scarcely had they reached the terraces where all the Court were
scattered, than they found the Queen pleading with her brother.
"Not to-night, Zorzi mio! For this one night let us take the pleasure of
thy coming as a brother to my home. Thou must know our customs and our
people and let them offer thee glad welcome. I have music and song
planned for thee:--and our Cyprian gardens--with their delights!--Let us
stroll awhile."
He made a gesture of dissent.
"The banquet hath been long enough," he said, "nor lacking for sweets.
There is meat of stronger quality to digest. Not for feasting I came,
but upon an embassy the matter of which we must discuss."
"And _now_?" she asked, still unwilling.
"Said I not 'now'?" he answered resolutely, advancing toward the arches
which admitted to the palace.
But Bernardini stood in his way, arresting his quick pace.
"My cousin, thy 'now' must wait upon the Queen's good pleasure," he
said, with due deference. Then, more lightly, "It is the way of our
Court in Cyprus--which would do thee honor. Her Majesty hath ordered
some festive trifle of music, or other entertainment, which our
music-maidens, skilled upon the lute, would fain begin."
At a signal from the Lady Margherita, they came floating out upon the
terrace: but the Cornaro turned frowning from them and signed with his
hand that his cousin, the Bernardini, should let him pass.
At a glance from the Queen, Bernardini moved courteously aside, but
Caterina did not follow: she waited for a moment before she spoke--as if
to weigh her speech.
"If it be for matter of the Embassy which may not be delayed," she said,
"I will bid our Chamberlain advise our Council of the Realm, that we may
receive it with all honor befitting the Court of Venice, so soon as they
shall be gathered in the Audience-Chamber. Though the hour be strange,
it is of thy choosing; and thou art our dear guest--as, also, our
honored Ambassador from the Republic."
The Cornaro stood for a moment as if uncertain what part to play; then,
making light of it all, he dismissed his frown and with a whimsical
laugh and graceful deprecatory motions, he turned to his sister and
offered his hand to lead her in.
"Nay, nay, my sister; I spoke of no formal session of State to receive
my Embassy; rather of a friendly talk between us two, touching the
matter upon which the Republic hath sent me hither--that we may better
understand each other before it be laid before the Council. With thy
leave, my cousin."
He passed with a friendly nod and some jesting word, which the
Bernardini returned more gravely:
"Thou dost verily surround thyself with state, Caterina!" her brother
exclaimed in a tone of stern displeasure, when she had indicated a
chamber where they might be alone, and he had carefully assured himself
that the quaint Eastern draperies concealed no guards--the while she
watched him in amazement.
"It is better for thee that there be no listeners," he said, as he
placed a seat before her and sat down, fixing her with his gaze.
"Hearken without speech until I have spoken." His tone was threatening.
She turned white and red, half starting up, but cowed by his manner,
fell back into her seat again.
"Is this my brother," she asked, "or is it the Ambassador?"
"Nay; leave tragedy, Caterina; I am come to bring thee word of a great
opportunity."
"For my people?--For Cyprus?" she responded with instant interest.
He laughed, a curious, unmirthful laugh.
"Aye--for 'thy people'--'for Cyprus,' verily. Listen! Thou hast it in
thy power, at this moment, to bestow a gift upon the Republic--thou who
art the Daughter of Venice--that shall make thee memorable throughout
the ages."
She was taken unaware; yet suddenly the happenings of all the past years
seemed to converge in her, as their central point, binding her hand and
foot so that she might not free herself: an icy bolt shot through her:
"I--I fail to understand," she answered faintly, for there was somewhat
in his look that interpreted the meaning she would fain have missed.
"Aye: it _is_ hard to understand--that thou, who art one of our Casa
Cornaro--a woman--upon whom Venice hath bestowed such fatherly and
unceasing care--should have it in thy power so to reward the Republic,
who might have seized the throne of Cyprus, without waiting for thy
gift! Yet, of her grace, the Serenissima Repubblica doth verily ask it
of thee, as a favor--thou who art Daughter to Venice. Thou mayest well
find it hard to understand!"
She rose, indignantly.
"Hath the Signoria of Venice broken faith with her ally of Cyprus? Is
she not content to wait for the sovereignty of this realm until my
death--knowing that by my will Venice hath been created heir to this
throne--that she should wish to deprive me now of that which hath come
to me through so great sorrow, by the will of my husband, the King?"
He watched her curiously, while the color came and went with her
tumultuous emotions, and her troubled breathing; and he changed his
tone--being subtle.
"I said that the Signoria would have thanked thee for thy gift of the
realm; and that the ages should have decreed thee great honor for thy
queenly giving: but it would have been more of their courtesy than of
thine. For thou dost verily hold too great a matter this little kingdom
of Cyprus--forgetting the nets that have many times been spread for
thee; and the disfavor of those Cyprian nobles who would have a man to
rule over them and not a woman--young and without power--unless Venice
be her ally and defender! Even now, thou mightest have been a slave in
the land of the Turk, were it not for thy faithful upholding by the
galleys of Venice, which came between thee and the devastators. Where is
the generous response of a woman who, without them, were nothing?--I
thought thee more noble!"
She was bewildered, and he had cut her to the quick.
"Nay, Zorzi: thou dost not comprehend. A Queen must first be faithful to
her people."
"Aye--'to her people!'" he retorted scornfully. "And are thy people of
Venice, or of Cyprus?--that thou mayest be faithful neither to one nor
to the other! Wilt thou show thy faith to Cyprus by turning thine only
helpers and defenders from thee, that thine enemies of the coasts may
have free entrance to thine unprotected harbors, while the galleys of
Venice no longer waste upon thine ingratitude their unrequited care?"
"It is not true!" she cried; "they would not thus desert me."
"It is like a woman to build a belief without foundation," he answered
her--calmly, as one who makes a study at his ease.
"And this is verily thy mission from Venice--_and to me?_"
"I have spoken," he said, "but the time is short: thou mayest not delay
to reply--Venice hath so decreed."
"My people love me," she pleaded, with a gasp. "I have only them to live
for!"
"Thou hast only them, if thou wilt perforce give up thine own," he
answered readily; "it is of thine own choice."
"What meanest thou?" she questioned, grasping his arm in terror:
"Zorzi!"
He shook off her touch and answered her unmoved. "The choice will be
thine, between thy people of Cyprus--who love thee, thou sayest--and thy
people of Venice--we of the Casa Cornaro and the Signoria, whom thou
wilt offend and who have spent themselves upon thee. _They will leave
thee to thine own devices, withdrawing every galley from thy Cyprian
coasts._"
She gave a low moan, pressing her trembling hands to her brow, as if
brain-weary from perplexity; then she turned to her brother again with
the exclamation:
"How shouldst thou so utterly desert me, Zorzi--_thou_, and my people
whom I love!"
"The mercy of the Republic is at an end," he assured her
uncompromisingly, "and for the Casa Cornaro--thou dost mistake, which
seemeth easy for thee; it is rather thou who wilt disgrace me--thy
brother, with his honorable pride in his house and his most noble
country. For him and his children there will no longer be honors, nor
any favor of the Senate: upon thy brother, who doth so faithfully
counsel thee and from his heart, will fall the enmity of the Republic
who hath _forbidden him to fail_ in his mission. And what is left for a
patrician who hath suffered exile and confiscation, but death and the
extinction of his house? This will be thy doing."
She sprang up, attempting to reach a silken cord that swung upon the
wall near her; but Cornaro raised his hand above her and lightly tossed
it aside.
"No one shall come between us until I have thy promise: it lieth between
me and thee."
"I need some one to help me," she implored; "and Aluisi is of our Casa
Cornaro,--he would understand."
"Two are enough," he said,--"nay, too much; for where the matter is
urgent, one sufficeth."
She sat on mutely, wrestling with her problem.
From the time that she had first known of her royal destiny, problems of
rights of governments had never been put before her in unpartisan,
clear-cut lines of white and black--as right and wrong: her judgment had
been intentionally befogged by those who should have been her teachers,
until she found herself Queen by coronation and inheritance, consecrated
in her right by the awful seal of the great High-Priest Death--before
whose inviolable silence questions cease, and the scroll of the closed
life is no longer searched, save with eyes that blur the lines through
overflowing mercy.
It had been easy for Venice to retain her ascendency over Caterina by
intensifying her dependence, by fostering the distinctively feminine and
predominant side of her nature--by insisting upon abnormal claims to her
duty, her obedience, her love, her gratitude.
When the eyes of the Queen had finally been opened to see the danger of
these claims of Venice, it was already too late, for the freedom of her
realm had been inextricably tangled in the toils of Venice. Since then
she had struggled with all her soul to govern her recalcitrant people by
the only power that she believed in or possessed--the power of love. But
it was love with little knowledge of the problems of nations or the
measures needful to cope with the disaffected nobles who were numerous
enough to create an influence and who cared rather for their own
pleasure, than for any duty that they owed to enhance the unity or moral
splendor of their land.
"My Husband left me Queen," she said at last, raising her troubled eyes
to his. "It was by his Will that I rule. Have I the right to yield this
power?"
"POWER!"
She recoiled from the irony of the tone.
"They are my people--they love me," she persisted, "and thou canst not
know how the care for them doth fill my life. Have I the right to give
them to any other?"
He laughed again. "Thou hast a veritable talent for creating problems
wherewith to vex thyself, my sister, conscience-tossed! Hath one a right
to give that which he can no longer hold? Art thou the first who could
not rule, to _abdicate_ in favor of a stronger sceptre?"
"We must ask these questions," she said struggling to be firm, "for duty
is not easy to find."
"Nor fortune," he answered coldly. "And one must be wise indeed to know
when 'one may grasp it by the hair'--as thou hast the chance with this
most gracious proffer of the Signoria before thee to reject."
She turned her head away that he might not read her thoughts, while she
dwelt upon the full meaning of the cruel word he had spoken so
easily--_to abdicate_: it meant the disgrace of rulers, the
acknowledgment of supreme weakness--unless to the greater power belonged
the supreme right.
Was this supreme Right vested with Venice, that she might bow without
question? The word smote upon her like a touch of ice and her heart
quailed.
Meanwhile Cornaro was watching, urging her decision with further
arguments. The Signoria would provide for her; she should retain her
title; she should still be styled '_Caterina, Regina_;' she should live
in royal state.--But--_if she did not yield_--our Lord himself in heaven
would be displeased with her, hating no sin so much for any Christian as
base ingratitude;--with much more, to which she made no answer.
And thus the night wore on.
At last she rose, weary and heart-broken.
"My brother," she said in trembling tones, "none of thine arguments move
me: yet thou knowest I should grieve if thou, because of me, shouldst
suffer exile and disgrace, or thy children be held from any honor they
might win. But even for this I could not yield. Thy happiness and mine
must be as naught in this great crisis, against the welfare of my
people. Them only I must consider."
A torrent of imprecation rose to his lips, but he left it unuttered. For
as he turned his angry glance upon her and saw her face pallid and
distraught by the anguish of her struggle, with the strange gleam of
unearthly strength in her sorrowing eyes--it would have seemed like
cursing a spirit. He crossed himself unconsciously, drawing a little
apart from her, and waited impatiently.
There was a motion of her lips, as if she had more to say: but her
strength was spent, so that her voice would not come with her first
effort. Cornaro was conscious as he watched her of his fear lest it
should fail her utterly before she found her speech. He knew what he had
to expect if he did not succeed in his mission, and for him the moment
was crucial; others, for a far less bitter thwarting of the will of the
Signoria, had suffered death--which had been hinted to him. He had meant
to offer this as his supreme argument when all others had failed to
coerce her: but instinctively he held it back, fearing to anger her to
the point of stubborn refusal, for there was some unexpected power of
resistance within the soul of this slight woman.
Just as he was beginning to assure himself that, at all costs he must
use further persuasion, her voice came--far away and colorless:
"And if I yield----?"
He went nearer, almost abject in the joy of this sudden reaction,
promising her with glowing visions, state, glory, luxury, honor, favor
of the Senate, ease, everything that his vivid imagination could seize
upon to tempt the fancy of a woman; but she waved her hand impatiently
to arrest his quick flow of words.
"Not for myself--but for my people--what for them?"
"Everything!" he answered undaunted; "security, prosperity; they shall
be ruled as Venice rules her provinces--ever more wisely than the people
rule themselves. Thou knowest that, because of this, foreign States have
come to plead that Venice would accept their submission."
She knew that this was true; but her heart was like lead within her as
she raised her impotent clasped hands with a sudden, sharp cry of pain.
"My God! my God! I am not faithless to my vow--Thou knowest. I must
choose their welfare, though my heart should break!"
* * * * *
As the Cornaro gave his hand to lead her to her chamber in the light of
the early dawn, she turned to him pitifully imploring his comprehension
of her motive: "The Holy Mother knoweth that I am not faithless to my
people--since with the favor of the Republic turned from me, I might
neither serve nor guard them.--My lot is bitter!"
But the day had dawned for him, if not for her. "Nay; trust me, sweet
Sister and Queen, thou hast chosen wisely," he answered with easy
gallantry, as he kissed her hand and would have left her where the Lady
Margherita stood waiting with troubled eyes and heightened color to
receive her--scarcely condescending to notice the Cornaro's homage or
his gay, parting words--"your fair Queen hath done this night an act
that shall send her name down through coming ages, wreathed with glory."
For words came easily to him, and he had been too well content with his
own triumph and escape to weigh the effect of its cost upon Caterina.
But now, after the mockery of his conventional salutation--which none
knew better than he to make an expression of profound deference--as he
turned his bright gaze upon her, the strained pallor of her face with
its deep lines of suffering smote upon him, and he addressed Dama
Margherita again with some assumption of concern for his sister's
welfare.
"I fear she is overwearied; but the long discussion upon business of the
Senate hath been needful. Yet now there is only rest before her, and I
may leave her, in confidence, in your gracious care."
But the Lady Margherita had turned impatiently from him to busy herself
with the Queen before he had finished his speech; then she flashed him a
glance which he found it hard to meet.
"We who love her need not your counsel, my Lord, to strive to undo your
'doing of this night. These are the apartments of Her Majesty. We need
to be alone."