IL MATRIMONIO SEGRETO
When the first pale rays of dawn broke upon the glass of the porthole,
Pierre rose and went on deck. Dickie Marsh was there already, regarding
the sky and the sea with the attentive scrutiny of an old sailor.
"For a Frenchman," he said to the young man, "you surprise me. I have
seen a good many of your countrymen upon the _Jenny_. And yet you are
the first that I have seen, so far, who rises at the most delicious hour
of the day on sea.--Just breathe the breeze that comes from the open.
You could work for ten hours without feeling tired, after taking a
supply of such oxygen into your lungs.--The sky makes me a little
uneasy," he added. "We have gone too far out of our course. We cannot
reach Genoa before eight o'clock and the _Jenny_ may receive a good
tossing before that time.--I never had any sympathy for those yachtsmen
who invite their friends to enjoy the hospitality of a stateroom in
company with a slop-pail!--We could have gone from Cannes to Genoa in
four hours, but I thought it better to let you sleep away from the
tumult of the port.--The barometer was very high! I have never seen it
descend so quickly."
The dome of the heavens, so clear all the preceding day and night, had
indeed, little by little, been obscured by big, gray, rock-like clouds.
Others were spread along the line of the horizon like changing lines
fleeing from each other. Pale rays of sunlight struggled to pierce this
curtain of gray vapor. The sea was still all around them, but no longer
motionless and glossy. The water was leadlike in hue, opaque, heavy,
menacing. The breeze freshened rapidly, and soon a strong gust of wind
swept over the sullen sheet of the water. It caused a trembling to run
along the surface, as though it shuddered. Then thousands of ripples
showed themselves, becoming larger and larger, until they swelled into
countless short, choppy waves, curling over and tossing their white
crests in the air.
"Are you a good sailor?" Marsh asked Hautefeuille. "However, it does not
matter. I was mistaken in my calculations. The _Jenny_ will not get much
tossing about, after all.--We're going before the wind and will soon be
under the shelter of the coast. Look! There is the Porto-Fino
lighthouse. As soon as we have rounded the cape, we shall be out of
danger."
The sea, by this time, was completely covered with a scattered mass of
bubbling foam through which the yacht ploughed her way easily without
rolling much, although she listed alternately to the right and then to
the left like a strong swimmer accommodating his stroke to the waves.
Close to a ruined convent, some distance ahead, a rocky point projected,
bearing a dazzlingly white lighthouse at its extremity. The promontory
was covered, as with a fleece, with a thick growth of silvery olive
trees, between which could be seen numerous painted villas, while its
rocky base was a network of tiny creeks. This was Cape Porto-Fino, a
place rendered famous by the captivity there of Francis I. after Pavia.
The yacht rounded it so closely that Hautefeuille could hear the roar of
the waves breaking upon the rocks. Beyond the promontory again stretched
the sullen sheet of water with the long line of the Ligurian coast,
which descends from Chiappa and Camogli as far as Genoa by way of Recco,
Nervi, and Quinto. Height ascending after height could be seen, the
hills forming the advance guard of the Apennines, their valleys planted
with figs and chestnuts, their villages of brightly painted cottages,
dotting the scene, and with, in the foreground, the narrow strip of
sandy soil that serves as seashore. The landscape, at once savage and
smiling, impressed the business man and the lover in different ways, for
the former said with disdain:--
"They have not been able to make a double track railway along their
coast! I suppose the task is too big for these people.--Why, my line
from Marionville to Duluth has four tracks--and we had to make tunnels
of a different sort from these!"
"But even one line is too much here," replied Hautefeuille, pointing to
a locomotive that was slowly skirting the shore, casting out a thick
volume of smoke. "What is the good of modern inventions in an old
country?--How can one dream of an existence of struggles amid such
scenery?" he continued, as though thinking aloud. "How is it possible to
contemplate the stern necessities of life upon this Riviera, or upon the
other?--Provence and Italy are oases in your desert of workshops and
manufactories. Have a little respect for them. Let there be at least a
corner of the world left for lovers and poets, for those who yearn for a
life of peace and happiness, for those who dream of a solitude shared
only by some beloved companion and surrounded by the loveliness of
nature and of art.--Ah! how sweet and peaceful this morning is!"
This state of enraptured exaltation, which made the happy lover reply
with dreamy poetical reflections to the American's practical remarks,
without noticing the comical character of the contrast, lasted all
through the day. It even increased as time passed. The _Jenny's_
passengers came up on deck one by one. And then Madame de Carlsberg
appeared, pale and languid. In her eyes was the look of tender anxiety
that gives such a touching aspect to the expression of a loving woman on
the morrow of her first complete surrender. And what a happy revulsion,
what rejoicing, when she sees, as Ely de Carlsberg did in her first
glance, that the soul of her beloved vibrates in sympathy with her own,
that he is as sensitive, as tender, as loving as before! This similarity
of nature was so sweet, so deep, so penetrating, for the charming woman,
that she could have gone down upon her knees before Pierre. She adored
him at this moment for being so closely the image of what she desired
him to be. And she felt compelled to speak of it, when they were seated
side by side, as upon the night before, watching the gulf growing into
life before them, with Genoa the Superb surging from the waves.
"Are you like me?--Were you afraid and yet longing to see me again, just
as I longed to see you and yet was afraid? Were you also afraid of being
soon called upon to differ for so much happiness? Did you feel as though
a catastrophe were close at hand?--When I awoke and saw stretching
before me the leaden sea and clouded sky, a shudder of dread ran through
me like a presentiment.--I thought all was over, that you were no longer
my Prince Beau-Temps"--this was a loving title she had conferred upon
Pierre, alleging that the sky had cleared each time she had met him.
"How exquisite it is," she continued caressingly, with the irresistible
fascination of a loving woman, "to have trembled with apprehension and
then to find you just as you were when I left you last night--no, not
last night, this morning!"
At the remembrance of the fact that they had parted only so short a time
before, she smiled. Her face lit up with an expression in which languor
was mingled with such archness, grace with such voluptuous charm, that
the young man, at the risk of being seen by the Chésys or Dickie Marsh,
printed a kiss upon the hem of the loose Scotch cloak that enveloped
her, its long hood streaming behind in the wind. Happily the American
and his two guests had eyes for nothing but the beautiful city growing
nearer and nearer and more distinct. It towered aloft now, girdled by
its encircling mountains. Beyond the two ports, with their forests of
masts and spars, could be seen the countless houses of the town, of all
shapes and heights, pressed closely one upon the other. Tiny, narrow
streets, almost lanes, wound upward, cutting through the mass of
dwellings at right angles. The colors of the houses, once bright and
gay, were faded and washed out by sun and rain. And yet it seemed still
a city of wealth and caprice, with the terraces of its palaces outlined
and covered with rare plants and statues. The apparently endless line of
scattered villas stretching along the coast were here clustered in
groups like little hamlets, forming suburbs outside the suburbs, and
further on stood isolated in the luxuriant verdure of gardens and
shrubbery. With the simple aid of a field-glass Marsh recognized
everything, palaces, villas, suburbs, one after the other.
"There is San Pier d'Arena," he said, handing the glass to Yvonne and
her husband, "and there are Cornegliano and Sestri to the left. To the
right you can see San Francesco d'Albaro, Quarto, Quinto, San Mario
Ligure, the Villa Gropallo, the Villa Croce."
"Why, Commodore, there is another trade you can turn to the day your
pockets are empty," said Madame de Chésy, laughingly. "You can become
cicerone."
"Oh," said Marsh, "it is the easiest thing in the world. When I see a
place that I cannot recognize or that I do not know, I feel as though I
were blind."
"Ah! You are not like me," cried Chésy. "I never could understand a
map, and yet that has not prevented me getting a lot of amusement out of
my travels.--Believe me, my dear fellow, we are right not to trouble
about such things; we have sailors on sea and coachmen on land to attend
to them!"
While this conversation was going on at the bow, Florence Marsh was aft
trying to instil a little courage into Andryana Bonnacorsi. The future
Vicomtesse de Corancez would not even glance at the town, but remained
with her eyes looking fixedly at the vessel's wake.
"I feel convinced," she said with a sigh, "that Genoa will be fatal to
me; 'Genova prende e non rende,' as we Italians say."
"It will take your name, Bonnacorsi, and will not return it, that is
all," replied Florence, "and the proverb will be verified!--We have a
proverb, too, in the United States, one that Lincoln used to quote. You
ought to take note of it, for it will put an end to all your fears. It
is not very, very pretty, particularly to apply to a marriage, but it is
very expressive. It is, 'Don't trouble how to cross a mud creek before
you get to it.'"
"But suppose Lord Bohun has changed his mind and the _Dalilah_ is in the
port with my brother on board? Suppose the Chésys want to come with us?
Suppose Prince Fregoso at the last minute refuses to lend us his
chapel?"
"And suppose Corancez says, 'I will not' at the altar?" interrupted
Florence. "Suppose an earthquake engulfs the lot of us?--Don't be
uneasy, the _Dalilah_ is riding at anchor in the roadstead at Calvi or
Bastia. The Chésys and my uncle have five or six English and American
yachts to visit, and it is madness to think that they will sacrifice
this arrangement for the sake of going with us to museums and churches.
Since the old prince has consented to lend his place to Don Fortunato it
is not likely that he has changed his mind--particularly as he and the
abbé were companions in prison in 1859. Between Italians anything
concerning the _Risorgimento_ is sacred. You know that better than I do.
I have only one fear," she added with a gay laugh, "and that is that
this Fregoso may have sold some of his finest paintings and his most
beautiful statuary to one of my countrymen. Those pirates loot
everything, under the plea that they have not only the money but also
good taste, and that they are connoisseurs. Would you believe it, when I
was at college in Marionville, the professor of archæology taught us
the history of Grecian art anterior to Phidias with the aid of
photographs of specimens in the collection belonging to this very
Fregoso?"
"Well, what did I tell you?" Florence Marsh again asked her friend, a
couple of hours later. "Was I right? Have you come to the mud creek?"
The passengers had landed, just as had been prearranged. The Chésys and
Dickie Marsh had gone off to visit the fleet of pleasure yachts moored
near the pier. The Marchesa had received a telegram from Navagero
announcing the arrival of the Dalilah in Corsican waters. And now a
hired landau was bearing the tender-hearted woman, in company with
Florence, Madame de Carlsberg, and Pierre Hautefeuille, toward the
Genoese palace, where Corancez was awaiting them. The carriage climbed
up the narrow streets, passing the painted façades of the old marble
houses whose columns, all over the city, testify to the pretentious
opulence of the old half-noble, half-piratical merchants. All along the
route the streets, or rather the corridors, that descended to the port
swarmed with a chattering, active, gesticulating people. Although the
north wind was now blowing keenly, the three women had insisted upon the
carriage being left open, so that they could see the crowd, the
crumbling, splendid façades, and the picturesque costumes. The Marchesa
smiled, still agitated, but now happy, in reply to Miss Marsh's words of
encouragement, as she said:--
"Yes, you were right. I am not afraid now, and begin to think that I am
awake and not dreaming.--Yet, if any one had told me that some day I
should go with you three along the Piazza delle Fontane Morose to do
what I am going to do.--Ah! _Jésus Dieu_! there is Corancez!--How
imprudent he is!"
It was, indeed, the Provençal. He was standing at the corner of the
famous square and the ancient via Nuova, now the via Garibaldi, the
street which Galéas Alessi, Michael Angelo's pupil, glorified with the
palaces of Cambiaso, Serra, Spinola, Doria, Brignole-Sale, and Fregoso,
masterpieces of imposing architecture that, by themselves, are
sufficient justification for the title of Superb, given to Genoa by its
arrogant citizens.
It was certainly ill-advised to venture into the streets, risking a
meeting with some French acquaintance. But Corancez had not been able to
resist the temptation. He was playing for such high stakes that for once
his nervousness had overmastered the natural prudence of the Provençal,
ordinarily patient and circumspect, one of those people for whom the
Genoese would seem to have invented this maxim: "He who is patient will
buy thrushes for a liard each."
By means of a messenger he had been informed of the arrival of the
_Jenny_. He had then left the safe shelter of the palace so as to be
sure that his _fiancée_ had arrived. When he saw the beautiful golden
hair of Madame Bonnacorsi, a wave of hot blood seemed to course through
his veins. He jumped upon the carriage-step gayly, boyishly even,
without waiting for the carriage to stop. Without any more delay than
was required to kiss his betrothed's hand, to utter a word of welcome to
Madame de Carlsberg and Florence, and to greet Hautefeuille gratefully,
he began to tell of his two weeks' exile with his usual gayety.
"Don Fortunato and I are already a couple of excellent friends," he
said. "Wait till you see what a comical little fellow he is with his
knee-breeches and big hat. You know him, Marchesa, so you can imagine. I
am already his _figlio mio_!--As for you, Andryana, he worships you. He
has written, specially for you, an epithalamium in fifty-eight
cantos!--And yet this religious marriage without the civil ceremony
disquiets him.--What would Count Camillo Cavour, whose walking-stick and
portrait he piously cherishes, have said of it? Between Cavour and the
Marchesa, the Marchesa and Cavour, he has been hard pushed to make a
choice. However, he has thrown in his lot with the Marchesa, a decision
that I understand very easily. All the same, he is now afraid to even
glance at the portrait and the stick, and will not dare to do so until
we have complied with all the requirements of the Italian law.--I vowed
to him that there would only be a delay of a few days, and then Prince
Pierre reassured him.--That is another character.--You will have to
visit the museum and see his favorites there.--But, here we are!"
The landau stopped before the imposing door of a palace, having, like
its neighbors, a marble peristyle, and brilliantly painted, like the
other houses. The balustrade of the balcony upon the first floor bore a
huge carved escutcheon, displaying the three stars of the Fregosi, an
emblem that was once dreaded all over the Mediterranean when the vessels
of the Republic swept the seas of the Pisans, the Venetians, the
Catalans, Turks, and French.
The new arrivals were received by a _concierge_ wearing the livery, very
much soiled, of the Fregosi, the buttons stamped with armorial bearings.
He carried a colossal silver pommelled cane in his hand, and led the
visitors into a vaulted vestibule at the foot of a huge staircase.
Beyond they could see an enclosed garden, planted with orange trees.
Ripe fruit glowed among the sombre foliage, through which glimpses could
be obtained of an artificial grotto peopled with gigantic statuary.
Several sarcophagi embellished the entrance, characterized by that air
of magnificence and decay common to old Italian mansions. How many
generations had mounted that worn staircase since the gifted genius
designed the white moulding upon a yellow background that decorated the
ceiling! How many visitors had arrived here from the distant colonies
with which the great Republic traded! And yet probably no more singular
spectacle had been seen for three centuries, than that presented by the
noble Venetian lady arriving from Cannes upon the yacht of an American,
for the purpose of marrying a ruined would-be gentleman from Barbentane,
and accompanied by a young American girl, and the morganatic wife of an
Austrian archduke with her lover, one of the most artless, most
provincial Frenchmen of the best school of French chivalry.
"You must admit that my wedding _cortège_ is anything but commonplace,"
said Corancez to Hautefeuille, glancing at the three women behind whom
he and his friend were standing.
They had not met since the morning they had visited the _Jenny_ at
Cannes. The acute Southerner, the moment of his arrival, had felt that
there was a vague embarrassment in Pierre's greeting and in his
expression. Upon the boat, the young lover's happiness had not been in
the least troubled by the presence of Miss Marsh and of the Marchesa,
although he knew they could not be ignorant of his sentiments. But he
also knew that they would respect his feelings. With Corancez it was
different. A mere glance of Corancez's disturbed him. "All is over," the
Provençal had evidently thought. And, with his easy-going instincts of
loose morality, Corancez was all the happier for his friend's happiness;
he rejoiced in his friend's joy. He therefore bent all his energies upon
the task of dispelling Hautefeuille's slight uneasiness, which he had
discovered with his infallible tact.
"Yes," he went on in a conciliatory tone, "this staircase is a little
more chic than the staircase of some vile _mairie_.--And it is also
delightful to have such a friend as you for my witness! I don't know
what life may hold in store for us, and I am not going to make a lot of
protestations, but, remember, you can ask me anything, after this proof
of your friendship.--There must have been a host of things that were
disagreeable to you in this expedition. Don't deny it. I know you so
well!--And yet you have faced them all for the sake of your old friend,
who is not, for all that, Olivier du Prat.--Isn't my _fiancée_
gloriously beautiful this morning?" he continued. "But, hush! here comes
the old Prince in person, and Don Fortunato.--Watch closely, and listen;
you'll find it worth your while!"
Two old gentlemen were just issuing from the entrance of a high windowed
hall, at the top of the staircase. They might have stepped out of one of
the pictures in which Longhi has fixed so accurately, and so
unpretentiously, the picturesque humor of ancient Italy. One was the
Abbé Lagumina, very thin, very little; with his shrivelled legs, no
thicker than skeleton's, buried in knee-breeches, and stockings that
came above his knees. His bowed body was wrapped in a long
ecclesiastical frock-coat. He rubbed his hands together unceasingly and
timidly, bowing all the time. And yet his physiognomy was so acute, so
stamped with intelligence, that the ugliness of his huge nose and his
toothless gums was forgotten and only the charm of his expression
remained.
The other was Prince Paul Fregoso, the most celebrated descendant of
that illustrious line, whose doughty deeds are inscribed in the golden
book of Genoa's foreign wars, and, alas! in the book of brass devoted to
her civil conflicts. The Prince owed his Christian name, Paul, an
hereditary one in the family, to the legendary souvenirs of the famous
Cardinal Fregoso, who was driven from the city, and ruled the seas for
a long time as pirate.
This grandnephew of the curious hero was a veritable giant. His features
were massive, and his eyes intensely bright. His feet and hands were
distorted by gout. In spite of his faded, sordid costume, in spite of
the fact that he was almost bent in two and leaned upon his stick, of
which the point was protected from slipping by an india-rubber shield,
Prince Paul looked every inch a descendant of the doges by his haughty
mien. He spoke with a deep, voluminous, cavernous voice, that indicated
great vigor even at his advanced time of life, for he was about
seventy-nine years of age.
"Ladies," he said, "I beg you to excuse me for not having descended this
diabolical staircase in order to greet you as I ought to have done.
Please do not believe the epigram that our Tuscan enemies have made
about us: 'At Genoa there are no birds in the air, the sea has no fish,
the mountains are woodless, and the men without politeness.'--You see my
birds," and he pointed through the window to the gulls that soared above
the port in search of food. "I hope, if you do me the honor of lunching
with me, that you will find my mullets are as good as those you get at
Leghorn.--And, with your permission, we will go at once into another
salon, where there is a fireplace. In that fireplace you will see plenty
of wood that comes from my estates outside the Roman gate. With such a
north wind we need plenty of warmth in these big halls, which in our
fathers' time required only a scaldino.--The first greeting is that due
to the health of our guests! Madame la baronne! Madame la marquise! Miss
Marsh!"--And he bowed to each of the three ladies, although he did not
know either of them, with an indescribable air of easy grace and
ceremonious courtesy.--"The abbé will lead the way.--I can only follow
you like an unfortunate _gancio di mare_--the deformed, miserable
creature you call a crab," he added, addressing Corancez and
Hautefeuille. He made them go on before him, and then dragged himself
along in their wake with his poor, feeble steps, to a rather smaller
salon.
Here a meagre wood fire smouldered, making much smoke in a badly
constructed chimney. The floor was formed of a mosaic of precious
marbles, and the ceiling decorated with colored stuccoes and frescoes,
representing the arrival of Ganymede at the feast of the gods. It was
painted lightly and harmoniously with colors whose brilliancy seemed
quite fresh. The graceful figures, the exquisite fancifulness of
landscape and architecture, all the pagan charm, in fact, in its very
delicacy, spoke of some pupil of Raphael. Below the moulding were hung
several portraits. The aristocratic touch of Van Dyck was apparent at
the first glance. Beneath the huge canvases antique statues were grouped
on the floor, and stools that had once been gilded, shaped like the
letter X, and without backs, gave the air of a museum to the salon. The
three women could not restrain their admiration.
"How beautiful it is! What treasures!" they cried.
"Look at the Prince," said Corancez, in a whisper to Pierre. "Do you see
how disgusted he is? You have got a front seat for a comedy that I can
guarantee as amusing. I am going to pay a little attention to my
_fiancée_. Don't lose a word; you will find it worth attention."
"You think this is beautiful?" said the Prince to the Baroness and Miss
Marsh, who stood beside him, while Corancez and Madame Bonnacorsi
chatted in a corner. "Well, the ceiling is not too bad in its way.
Giovanni da Udine painted it. The Fregoso of that time was jealous of
the Perino del Vagas of the Doria Palace. That particular head of the
house was my namesake, Cardinal Paolo, the one you know who was a
pirate--before he was a cardinal. He summoned another of Raphael's
pupils, the one who had aided the master at the Vatican.--Each of those
gods has a history. That Bacchus is the cardinal himself, and that
Apollo, whose only garment is his lute, was the cardinal's
coadjutor!--Don't be shocked, Don Fortunato.--Ah, I see, he has gone off
to prepare for the marriage sacrament; _mene malo_.--The Van Dycks,
also, are not bad as Van Dycks.--They too have their history. Look at
that beautiful woman, with her impenetrable, mysterious smile.--The one
holding a scarlet carnation against her green robe.--And then look at
that young man, with the same smile, his pourpoint made of the same
green material, with the same carnation.--They were lovers, and had
their portraits painted in the same costume. The young man was a
Fregoso, the lady an Alfani, Donna Maria Alfani.--All this was going on
during the absence of the husband, who was a prisoner among the
Algerians. They both thought he would never return.--'Chi non muore, si
revede,' the cardinal used to like to say, 'He who is not dead always
returns.'--The husband came back and slew them both.--These portraits
were hidden by the family. But I found them and hung them there."
The two immense pictures, preserved in all their brilliancy by a long
exile from the light, smiled down upon the visitors with that
enigmatical smile of which the old collector had spoken. A voluptuous,
culpable grace shone out of the eyes of Donna Maria Alfani, lingered
upon her crimson lips, her pale cheeks, and her dark hair. The delicate
visage, so mobile, so subtle, preserved a dangerous, fascinating
attraction even up there in the stiff outlines of the lofty green
frieze. The passionate pride of a daring lover sparkled in the black
eyes of the young man. The perfect similarity in the colors of their
costumes, in the hue of the carnations they held in their hands, in the
pose of the figures, and in the style of the paintings seemed to prolong
their criminal liaison even after death. It seemed like a challenge to
the avenger. He had killed them, but not separated them, for they were
there, upon the same panel of the same wall, proclaiming aloud their
undying devotion, glorified by art's magic, looking at each other,
speaking to each other, loving each other.
Ely and Pierre could not resist the temptation to exchange a glance, to
look at each other with the tenderness evoked by the meeting of two
lovers with the relics of a passion long since passed away. In it could
be read how keenly they felt the evanescent nature of their present
happiness in the face of this vanished past. Ely was moved more deeply
still. The cardinal-pirate's threatening adage, "Chi non muore, si
revede," had made her shudder again, had thrilled her with the same
terror she had felt upon the boat at the sweetest moment of that
heavenly hour. But this terror and melancholy were quickly dissipated
like an evil dream when Miss Marsh replied to the commentaries of the
Genoese prince:--
"My uncle would pay a big price for those two portraits. You know how
fond he is of returning from his visits to the Old World laden with
knick-knacks of this kind! He calls them his scalps.--But Your Highness
values them very highly, I suppose? They are such beautiful works of
art!"
"I value them because they descend to me as heirlooms from my family,"
replied Fregoso. "But don't profane in that way the great name of Art,"
he added solemnly. "This and that," he continued, pointing to the
vaulted dome and to the picture, "can be called anything you like,
brilliant decoration, interesting history, curious illustrated legend,
the reproduction of customs of a past age, instructive psychology.--But
it is not Art.--There has never been any art except in Greece, and once
in modern times, in the works of Dante Alighieri. Never forget that,
Miss Marsh."
"Then you prefer these statues to the pictures?" asked Madame de
Carlsberg, amused by the tone of his sally.
"These statues?" he replied. He looked around at the white figures
ranged along the walls, and the grand lines of his visage took on an
expression of extreme contempt. "Those who bought these things did not
even know what Greek art was. They knew about as little as the
ignoramuses who collected the mediocrities of the Tribune or of the
Vatican."
"What?" interrupted Madame de Carlsberg. "The Venus de' Medici is at the
Tribune and the Apollo and the Ariadne at the Vatican!"
"The Venus de' Medici!" cried Fregoso, angrily, "don't speak to me about
the Venus de' Medici!--Look," he went on, pointing to one of the statues
with his gouty fingers, "do you recognize it? That is your Venus!--It
has the same slender, affected body, the same pose of the arms, the same
little cupid at her feet, astride a playful dolphin, and, like the
other, it is a base copy made from Praxiteles's masterpiece in the taste
of the Roman epoch which brought it into existence.--Would you have in
your house one of those reproductions of 'Night' which encumber the
shops of the Tuscan statuary dealers?'--Copies, I tell you; they are all
copies, and made in such a way!--That is the sort of art you admire in
Florence, Rome, Naples.--All those emperors and Roman patricians who
stocked their villas with the reproductions of Greek _chefs d'œuvre_
were barbarians, and they have left to us the shadow of a shadow, a
parody of the real Greece, the true, the original, the Greece that
Pausanias visited!--Why, that Venus is a pretty woman bathing, who takes
flight to arouse desire! She is a coquette, she is lascivious!--What has
she in common with the Anadyomene, with the Aphrodite who was the
incarnation of all the world's passionate energies, and whose temple was
forbidden to men, with the goddess that was also called the Apostrophia,
the Preserver?--Think of asking this one to resist desire, to tear Love
from the dominion of the senses!--And look at this Dromio of your
Apollo.--Does it not resemble in a confusing way the Belvedere that
Winckelmann admired so much?--It is another Roman copy of a statue by
Scopas. But what connection is there between this academic gladiator and
the terrible god of the Iliad, such as he is still figured on the
pediment at Olympia?--The original was the personification of terrible,
mutilating, tragical light. You feel the influence of the East and of
Egypt, the irresistible power of the Sun, the torrid breath of the
desert.--But here?--It is simply a handsome young man destined to
lighten the time of a depraved woman in a secluded chamber, a _venereo_,
such as you can find by the hundred in the houses at Pompeii.--There is
not an original touch about these statues; nothing that reveals the hand
of the artist, that discloses the eye guiding the hand, the soul guiding
the eye, and guiding the soul, the city, the race, all those virtues
that make Art a sacred, magisterial thing, that make it the divine
blossom of human life!"
The old man spoke with singular exaltation of spirit. His faded visage
was transfigured by a noble, intellectual passion. Suddenly the comical
and familiar side of the man came uppermost again. His long lips
protruded in a ludicrous pout and, threateningly shaking his knotted
finger at one of the statues, a Diana with a quiver, whose countenance,
white in some parts and yellow in others, disclosed the fact that it had
been restored, he added:--
"And the hussies are not even intact!--They are only patched-up
copies.--Just look at this one.--Ah, you baggage, you should not keep
that nose if it were not too much trouble to knock it off!--Ah!" he
continued, as a servant opened the double door at the end of the
gallery, "a thoroughbred needs no spur--Don Fortunato is ready."
Approaching Andryana Bonnacorsi, he said:--
"Will Madame la marchesa do me the honor of accepting my arm to lead her
to the altar? My age gives me the right to play the rôle of father. And
if I cannot walk quickly enough you must excuse me; the weight of years
is the heaviest man ever has to carry.--And don't be alarmed," added the
good old man in a whisper, as he felt the arm of his companion tremble.
"I have studied your Corancez very deeply for several days. He is an
excellent and good fellow."
"Well," said Corancez to Madame de Carlsberg, offering her his arm,
while Florence Marsh took Hautefeuille's, "are you still as sceptical as
you were about chiromancy and the line of fate? Is it simply a chance
that I should have the Baroness Ely leaning on my arm in my wedding
procession? And is it merely hazard that has provided me with an
original like our host to amuse you during the wearisome affair?"
"It is not wearisome," replied the Baroness, laughing. "All the same,
you are lucky in marrying Andryana; she is looking so beautiful to-day,
and she loves you so much!--As to the Prince, you are right; he is
unique. It is pleasant to find such enthusiasm in a man of his
age.--When Italians are taken up with an idea they are infatuated with
it passionately, devotedly, as they are with a woman.--They have rebuilt
their country with the help of that very quality."
During these few minutes Miss Marsh was talking to Hautefeuille.
"You cannot understand that feeling," she was saying, "for you belong to
an old country. But I come from a town that is very little older than
myself, and it is an ecstasy to visit a palace like this where
everything is eloquent of a long past."
"Alas, Miss Marsh," replied Hautefeuille, "if there is anything more
painful than living in a new country, it is living in one that wants to
become new at any price when it is filled to overflowing with relics of
the past, of a glorious past,--a country where every one is making
desperate efforts to destroy everything.--France has had that mania for
about a hundred years."
"Yes, and Italy has had it for twenty-five years," said the American
girl. "But we are here," she added gayly, "to buy everything and to
preserve it.--Oh! what an exquisite chapel.--Just look at it!--Now I'll
bet you that those frescoes will finish their existence in Chicago or
Marionville."
As she spoke she pointed out to Pierre the mural paintings that
decorated the chapel they entered at the moment. The little place where
the cardinal-pirate had doubtless often officiated was embellished with
a vast symbolical composition from floor to ceiling. It was the work of
one of those unknown masters whose creations confront one at every step
in Italy and which anywhere else would be celebrated. But there, as the
soldiers in the famous charge say, they are too numerous! This
particular painter, influenced by the marvellous frescoes with which
Lorenzo Lotto had beautified the Suardi Chapel at Bergamo, had
represented, above the altar, Christ standing up and holding out His
hands. From the Saviour's finger-tips a vine shoot spread out, climbing
up and up to the dome, covered with grapes. The tendrils wound round,
making frames for the figures of five saints on one side, and on the
other five female figures. Above the head of Christ the inscription,
"Ego sum vitis, vos palmites," gave an evangelical significance to the
fantastic decoration.
The principal episodes in the legend of St. Laurence, the patron saint
of the cathedral at Genoa, were painted on the walls and in the panels
made by the pillars. These were: Decius slaying the Emperor Philip in
his tent; the young sou of the dead Emperor confiding his father's
treasures to Sixtus to be distributed among the poor; Sixtus being led
to the scene of his martyrdom, followed by Laurence, crying, "Where art
thou going, O father, without thy son? Where art thou going, O priest,
without thy deacon?" Laurence receiving the treasures in his turn and
confiding them to the poor widow; Laurence in prison converting the
officer of the guard; Laurence in Sallust's gardens collecting together
the poor, the halt, and the blind, saying at the same time to Decius,
"Behold the treasures of the Church!" Laurence surrounded by flames upon
a bed of fire!--The picturesqueness of the costumes, the fancy displayed
in the architecture, the fruitful nature of the landscape, the breadth
of the drawing, and the warmth of the coloring revealed the influence of
the Venetian school, although attenuated and softened by the usury of
time, which had effaced the too glaring brilliancy and toned down the
too vivid warmth of the painting. It had taken on something of the faded
tone of old tapestry.
The whole gave to the marriage that was being celebrated in the old
oratory of the ancient palace of an aged prince by a Gallophobe priest a
fantastic character that was both delightful and droll. The ultra-modern
Corancez kneeling with the descendants of the doges with Don Fortunato
to bless them, in a setting of the sixteenth century, was one of those
paradoxes that only nature dare present, so pronounced are they as to be
almost incredible! And equally incredible was the simple-mindedness of
the abbé, the impassioned worshipper of Count Camillo. He rolled out a
little oration to the young _fiancés_ before uniting them. This oration
was in French, a condescension he had determined upon making, in spite
of his political hatreds, for the sake of the foreigner to whom he was
to marry his dear marchesa.
"Noble lady! Honored sir! I do not intend to say much.--Tongueless birds
furnish no auguries.--Sir, you are going to marry this dear lady in the
presence of God. In thus consecrating the union of a great Venetian name
with that of a noble French family, it seems as though I were asking
once more for the blessing of Him Who can do all things, that I were
appealing to Him to consecrate the friendship between two countries
which ought to be only one in heart; I mean, my lady, our dear Italy,
and your beautiful France, my lord!--Italy resembles that figure painted
by a master, a genius, upon the wall of this chapel. It is from her that
proud Spain and brilliant France, two young branches of the Latin race,
have sprung as from a fruitful vine. The same vigorous sap courses
through the veins of the three nations. May they be reunited some day!
May the mother once more have her two daughters by her side! May they be
united some day as they are already by the relationship of their
languages, by the communion of their religion! May they be bound
together by a bond of love that nothing can break, such as is going to
unite you, my dear lord and lady! Amen!"
"Did you hear him?" Corancez asked Hautefeuille an hour later.
The _Ita missa est_ had been spoken; the solemn "I will" had been
exchanged, and the luncheon--including the mullet that surpassed those
of Leghorn--had been brought to an end amid toasts, laughter, and the
reading of the epithalamium upon which Don Fortunato had worked so long
and so patiently. The entire company had adjourned to the gallery for
coffee, and the two young men were chatting in the angle of a window
close to the repaired Artemis.
"Did you hear him? The good old abbé simply worships me.--He worships
me even too much, for I am not as noble as he has made me out.--He has
given Andryana a proof of inalienable affection in consenting to our
secret marriage. He is as intelligent as it is possible to be. He knows
Navagero to the very marrow and dreaded an unhappy future for Andryana
if she did not escape from her brother's clutches. He is also a clever
diplomatist, for he persuaded his old companion in _carcere duro_ to
lend us his little chapel.--Well, intelligence, diplomacy, friendship,
and all the rest are swept on one side in the Italian soul by the law of
primogeniture. Did you not hear how, in his quality of Cavour's friend,
he made us feel that France was only the youngest scion of the great
Latin family?--In this case the youngest has fared better than the
eldest! But I pardoned all Don Fortunato's presumption when I thought of
the face my brother-in-law will pull, Italian though he is, when he is
shown the piece of paper which bears your name beside that of the
Prince.--Would you like another proof of Corancez's luck? Look over
yonder."
He pointed through the window to the sky covered with black clouds and
to the street below, at the foot of the palace, where the north wind,
sweeping along, made the promenaders huddle up in their cloaks.
"You don't understand?" he went on. "Don't you see you cannot sail again
while such a sea is on? The ladies will stay at the hotel all night." As
he spoke the Provençal smiled with an easy-going, semi-complicity.
Happily the newly made vicomtesse drew near and brought the
_tête-à-tête_ to an end. She was leaning on Madame de Carlsberg's
arm. The two young women, so beautiful, so graceful, so delicate, so
enamoured, formed a living commentary as they thus approached the two
young men. And the pagan air that one seems to breathe in Italy was so
keen, so penetrating, that Pierre's uneasy scruples were soothed by the
love he could read in his mistress's brown eyes that were lit up by the
same tender fire that shone in the blue eyes of the Venetian when she
regarded her husband.
"You have come to us from the Prince, I suppose?" asked Corancez. "I
know him! You will have no peace until he has shown you his treasures."
"Yes, he has been asking for you," said Andryana. "But I came on my own
account.--A husband who abandons his wife an hour after marriage is
rather hurried."
"Yes, it is a little too soon," repeated Ely. And the hidden meaning of
the words, addressed as it was in reality to Hautefeuille, was as sweet
as a kiss to the young man.
"Let us obey the Prince--and the Princess," he said, bearing his
mistress's hand to his lips as though in playful gallantry, "and go to
the treasure-house. You know all about it, I suppose?" he added, turning
to his friend.
"Do I know it?" replied Corancez. "I had not been here an hour before I
had gone through the whole place. He is a little bit--" and he tapped
his forehead significantly, pointing to the old Prince and Don
Fortunato, who were going out of the gallery with Miss Marsh. "He is a
little bit crazy.--But you will judge for yourself."
All the procession--to use the term employed by the "representative
of a great French family," as the Abbé Lagumina styled the
Provençal--followed in Fregoso's wake and descended a narrow staircase
leading to the private apartments of the collector. He was now leading,
eager to show the way. As is often the case in big Italian mansions, the
living rooms were as little as the reception halls were big. The Prince,
when alone, lived in four cramped rooms, of which the scanty furniture
indicated very plainly the stoicism of the old man, wrapped up in a
dream-world and as indifferent to comfort as he was impervious to
vanity. The twenty or twenty-five pieces that formed his museum were
hung on the walls. At the first glance the Fregoso collection,
celebrated all over the two hemispheres, was made up of shapeless
fragments, rudely carved, that could not fail to produce the same
impression upon the ignorant in such matters that Corancez had felt.
Fregoso had studied antique art so closely that he now cared for nothing
but statuary dating from an epoch anterior to Phidias. He worshipped
these relics of the sixth century which afford glimpses of primitive and
heroic Greece--the Greece that repulsed the Asiatic invasion by the
simple virtue of a superior, elevated race placed face to face with the
countless hordes of an inferior people.
The Genoese nobleman had become the most devoted of archæologists after
being one of the most active conspirators. And now he lived among the
gods and heroes of that little known and distant Hellas as though he had
been a contemporary of the famous soldier carved upon the stele of
Aristion.
The gouty old man seemed to be miraculously rejuvenated the moment the
last of his guests crossed the threshold of the first chamber, which
usually served him as a smoking-room. He stood erect. His feet no longer
dragged upon the floor as though too heavy for his strength. His dæmon,
as his beloved Athenians would have said, had entered into him and he
began to talk of his collection with a fire that arrested any
inclination to smile. Under the influence of his glowing language the
mutilated marble seemed to become animated and to live again. He could
see the figures of two thousand four hundred years ago in all their
freshness. And by a species of irresistible hypnotism his imagination
imposed itself upon the most sceptical among his auditors.
"There," he said, "are the oldest carvings known.--Three statues of
Hera, three Junos in their primitive form: that is, wooden idols copied
in stone by a hand that still hesitates as though unfamiliar with the
work."
"The xoanon!" said Florence Marsh.
"What! You have heard of the xoanon?" cried Fregoso. And from this point
on he addressed only the American girl. "In that case, Miss Marsh, you
are capable of understanding the beauty of these three examples of art.
They are unique.--Neither that of Delos, that of Samos, or that of the
Acropolis is worthy to be compared with them.--You can see the creation
of life in them.--Here you see the body in its sheath, and what a
sheath!--One as shapeless and rough as the harshest of wools. And yet it
breathes, the bosom is there, the hips, the legs are indicated.--Then
the material grows supple, becoming a delicate fabric of fine wool, a
long divided garment that lends itself to every movement. The statue
awakes. It walks.--Just look at the grandeur of the torso under the
peplum, the closely fitting cloak gathered in closely fitting folds on
one side and spread fanlike on the other. Don't you admire the pose of
the goddess as she stands, the weight of her body thrown upon the right
foot, with the left advanced?--Now she moves, she lives!--Oh! Beauty!
Heavenly Beauty!--And look at the Apollos!"
He was so excited by his feverish enthusiasm that he could no longer
speak. He pointed in speechless admiration to three trunks carved in
stone that had been turned red by a long sojourn in a ferruginous soil.
They were headless and armless, with legs of which only the stumps
remained.
"Are they not the models of those at Orchomenos, Thera, and Tenea?"
asked Miss Marsh.
"Certainly," replied the Prince, who could no longer contain his
happiness. "They are funeral images, statues of some dead hero deified
in the form of Apollo.--And to think that there are barbarians in the
world who pretend that the Greeks went to Egypt and to Mesopotamia in
search of their art!--Do you think an Egyptian or an Asiatic could ever
have imagined that proud carriage, that curved chest, that strong
back?--They never made anything but sitting idols glued to the
wall.--Just look at the thighs! Homer says that Achilles could leap
fifty feet. I have studied the subject deeply, and I find that the
tiger's leap at its maximum is exactly that distance. It appears
incredible to us that a man could do that. But look at those
muscles--that makes such a leap a possibility. Art is seen at its
perfection there; magnificent limbs capable of magnificent efforts. 'I
moti divini,' as Leonardo said. If you put that energy at the service of
the city and represent that city by gods, by its gods, you have Greece
before you."
"And you have Venice, you have Florence, you have Sienna, you have
Genoa, all Italy, in fact!" interrupted Don Fortunato.
"Italy is the humble pupil of Greece," replied Fregoso, solemnly. "She
has received touches of grand beauty, but she is not the grand beauty."
Looking around, he added mysteriously:--
"Ah! we must close the shutters and lower the curtains. Will you help
me, Don Fortunato?"
When the room had thus been darkened, the old man handed a lighted taper
to the abbé and made a sign for them all to follow him. Approaching a
head carved in marble placed upon a pedestal, he said, in a voice broken
with emotion:--
"The Niobe of Phidias!"
The three women and the two young men then saw by the light of the tiny
flame a shapeless fragment of marble. The nose had been broken and
shattered. The place where the eyes ought to have been was hardly
recognizable. Almost all the hair was missing. By chance, in all the
dreadful destruction through which the head had passed, the lower lip
and the chin had been spared. Accustomed as he was to the almost
infantile _mise-en-scène_ of the archæologist, Don Fortunato let the
light shine full on the mutilated mouth and chin.
"What admirable life and suffering is displayed in that mouth!" cried
Fregoso, "and what power there is in the chin!--Does it not express all
the will and pride and energy of the queen who defied Latona?--You can
hear the cry that issues from the lips.--Follow the line of the cheek.
From what remains you can figure the rest.--And what a noble form the
artist has given the nose!--Look at this."
He took up the head, placed it at a certain angle, drew out his
handkerchief, and taking a portion of it in his hands, he stretched it
across the base of the forehead at the place where there was nothing but
a gaping fracture in the stone.
"There you have the line of the nose!--I can see it.--I can see the
tears that flow from her eyes," and he placed the head at another angle.
"I can see them!--Come!" he said, sighing, after a silence, "we must
return to everyday life. Draw up the curtains and open the shutters."
When daylight once more lit up the shapeless mass Fregoso sighed again.
Then, taking up a head, rather less battered than the Niobe, he bowed to
Miss Marsh, whose technical knowledge and attentive attitude had
appealed in a flattering way to his mania.
"Miss Marsh," he said, "you are worthy of possessing a fragment of a
statue that once graced the Acropolis.--Will you allow me to offer you
this head, one only recently discovered? Look how it smiles."
The head really seemed to smile in the old man's hands, with a curious,
disquieting smile, mysterious and sensual at the same time.
"It is the Eginetan smile, is it not?" asked the American girl.
"Archæologists have given it that name on account of the statues upon
the famous pediment. But I call it the Elysian smile, the ecstasy that
ought to wreathe forever the lips of those tasting the eternal
happiness, revealed in advance to the faithful by the gods and
goddesses.--Remember the line Æschylus wrote about Helen: 'Soul serene
as the calm of the seas.' That smile expresses the line completely."
When Hautefeuille and the three women were once again in the landau that
was taking them toward the port after the fantastic marriage and the
more fantastic visit, they looked at each other with astonishment. It
was about three o'clock in the afternoon and it seemed so strange to be
again in the streets full of people, to see the houses with the little
shops on the ground-floor, to read the bills that covered the walls, and
to form part of the swarming, contemporary life. They felt the same
impression that seizes one after a theatrical performance in the daytime
when one is again on the boulevard flooded with sunshine. The deception
of the theatre, which has held you for a couple of hours, makes the
reawakening to life almost painful. Andryana was the first to speak of
this uncomfortable sensation.
"If I had not Don Fortunato's epithalamium in my hand," she said,
showing a little book she held, "I should think I had been dreaming.--He
has just given it to me with great ceremony, telling me at the same time
that only four copies of it had been printed at the workshop where the
proclamations of Manin, our last doge, used to be, printed. There is one
for Corancez, one for Fregoso, one for the abbé himself, and this
one!--Yes, I should think I had been dreaming."
"And I also," said Florence, "if this head were not so heavy." She
weighed the strange gift which the archæologist had honored her with in
her little hands. "Heavens, how I should like to visit the museum
without the Prince!--I have an idea that he hypnotized us, and that if
he were not there we should see nothing.--For example, we saw the smile
on this face when Fregoso showed it to us.--I cannot find the least
trace of it now. Can you?"
"No!--Nor I!--Nor I!--" cried Ely de Carlsberg, Andryana, and
Hautefeuille in chorus.
"I am certain, however," the latter added, laughingly, "that I saw
Niobe, who had neither eyes nor cheeks, weeping."
"And I saw Apollo run, although he had no legs," said Madame de
Carlsberg.
"And I saw Juno breathe, though she had no bosom," said Andryana.
"Corancez warned me of it," said Hautefeuille. "When Fregoso is absent,
his collection is a simple heap of stones; when he is there, it is
Olympus."
"That is because he is a believer and impassioned about art," replied
the Baroness. "The few hours we spent with him have taught me more about
Greece than all my promenades in the Vatican, the capital, and the
Offices. I do not even regret being unable to show you the Red Palace,"
she said, addressing Hautefeuille, "notwithstanding the fact that its
Van Dycks are wonderful."
"You will have plenty of time to-morrow," said Miss Marsh. "My uncle
will sail to-night, I know; but he will leave us here, for the _Jenny_
is going to have a rough time, and he will not allow any one to be sick
on his boat. Look how the sea is already rolling in to the port.--There
is a tempest raging out at sea."
The landau arrived at the quay where the yacht's dingy was awaiting the
travellers. Little waves were breaking against the walls. All the
roadstead was agitated by the rising north wind and was a mass of tiny
ripples, too small to affect the big steamers riding at anchor, but
strong enough to pitch about the pleasure boats and fishing smacks. What
a difference there was between this threatening gray swell that was felt
even in the port, in spite of its protecting piers, and the wide
mirror-like expanse of motionless sapphire which had spread before them
the day before at the same hour in the open sea off Cannes! What a
contrast between this cloudy sky and the azure dome that smiled down
upon their departure, between this keen north wind and the perfumed
sighing of the breeze yesterday!--But who thought of this? Certainly not
Florence Marsh, completely happy in the possession of the archaic scalp
she was taking on board. Certainly not Andryana, to whom the prospect of
a night spent on shore was full of such happy promise; she was to meet
her husband, and the idea of this clandestine and at the same time
legitimate rendezvous after her romantic marriage had filled the loving
woman with happiness. It was the first time for many years that she had
forgotten her dreaded brother. Nor did Hautefeuille or his mistress
notice the contrast, for the long hours of the night were to be spent
together. The young man, who had fallen behind with Ely de Carlsberg,
said gayly and yet tenderly, as they walked down toward the dingy of the
Jenny, whose red, white, and black flag crackled in the breeze:--
"I am beginning to believe that Corancez is right about his lucky
line!--And it appears to be contagious."
At the very moment he spoke, and as Ely answered him with a smile full
of languor and voluptuousness, one of the sailors standing on the quay
near the boat handed a large portfolio to Miss Marsh. It was the
vessel's postman, who had just returned with the passengers' mail. The
young girl rapidly ran through the fifteen or twenty letters.
"Here is a telegram for you, Hautefeuille," she said.
"You will see," he said to Ely, continuing his badinage, "it is good
news."
He tore open the yellow slip. His visage lit up with a happy smile, and
he handed the telegram to Madame de Carlsberg, saying:--
"What did I tell you?"
The despatch said simply:--
"Am leaving Cairo to-day. Shall be at Cannes Sunday or Monday at latest.
Will send another telegram. So happy to see you again.
OLIVIER DU PRAT."