Produced by Charles Bowen
Weird Tales
BY
E. T. A. Hoffmann
_A NEW TRANSLATION FROM THE GERMAN_
WITH A BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR
By J. T. BEALBY, B.A.
FORMERLY SCHOLAR OF CORPUS CHRISTI COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE
IN TWO VOLUMES
VOL. II.
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1885
TROW'S
PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY,
NEW YORK.
CONTENTS OF VOLUME II.
THE DOGE AND DOGESS
MASTER MARTIN THE COOPER
MADEMOISELLE DE SCUDÉRI
GAMBLER'S LUCK
MASTER JOHANNES WACHT
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES
THE DOGE AND DOGESS1
This was the title that distinguished in the art-catalogue of the works
exhibited by the Berlin Academy of Arts in September, 1816, a picture
which came from the brush of the skilful clever Associate of the
Academy, C. Kolbe.2 There was such a peculiar charm in the piece that
it attracted all observers. A Doge, richly and magnificently dressed,
and a Dogess at his side, as richly adorned with jewellery, are
stepping out on to a balustered balcony; _he_ is an old man, with a
grey beard and rusty red face, his features indicating a peculiar
blending of expressions, now revealing strength, now weakness, again
pride and arrogance, and again pure good-nature; _she_ is a young
woman, with a far-away look of yearning sadness and dreamy aspiration
not only in her eyes but also in her general bearing. Behind them is an
elderly lady and a man holding an open sun-shade. At one end of the
balcony is a young man blowing a conch-shaped horn, whilst in front of
it a richly decorated gondola, bearing the Venetian flag and having two
gondoliers, is rocking on the sea. In the background stretches the sea
itself studded with hundreds and hundreds of sails, whilst the towers
and palaces of magnificent Venice are seen rising out of its waves. To
the left is Saint Mark's, to the right, more in the front, San Giorgio
Maggiore. The following words were cut in the golden frame of the
picture.
Ah! senza amare,
Andare sul mare
Col sposo del mare,
Non puo consolare.
To go on the sea
With the spouse of the sea,
When loveless I be,
Is no comfort to me.
One day there arose before this picture a fruitless altercation as to
whether the artist really intended it for anything more than a mere
picture, that is, the temporary situation, sufficiently indicated by
the verse, of a decrepit old man who with all his splendour and
magnificence is unable to satisfy the desires of a heart filled with
yearning aspirations, or whether he intended to represent an actual
historical event. One after the other the visitors left the place,
tired of the discussion, so that at length there were only two men
left, both very good friends to the noble art of painting. "I can't
understand," said one of them, "how people can spoil all their
enjoyment by eternally hunting after some jejune interpretation or
explanation. Independently of the fact that I have a pretty accurate
notion of what the relations in life between this Doge and Dogess were,
I am more particularly struck by the subdued richness and power that
characterises the picture as a whole. Look at this flag with the winged
lions, how they flutter in the breeze as if they swayed the world. O
beautiful Venice!" He began to recite Turandot's3 riddle of Lion of the
Adriatic, "_Dimmi, qual sia quella terribil fera_," &c. He had hardly
come to the end when a sonorous masculine voice broke in with Calaf's4
solution, "_Tu quadrupede fera_," &c. Unobserved by the friends, a man
of tall and noble appearance, his grey mantle thrown picturesquely
across his shoulder, had taken up a position behind them, and was
examining the picture with sparkling eyes. They got into conversation,
and the stranger said almost in atone of solemnity, "It is indeed a
singular mystery, how a picture often arises in the mind of an artist,
the figures of which, previously indistinguishable, incorporate mist
driving about in empty space, first seem to shape themselves into
vitality in his mind, and there seem to find their home. Suddenly the
picture connects itself with the past, or even with the future,
representing something that has really happened or that will happen.
Perhaps it was not known to Kolbe himself that the persons he was
representing in this picture are none other than the Doge Marino
Falieri5 and his lady Annunciata."
The stranger paused, but the two friends urgently entreated him to
solve for them this riddle as he had solved that of the Lion of the
Adriatic. Whereupon he replied, "If you have patience, my inquisitive
sirs, I will at once explain the picture to you by telling you
Falieri's history. But have you patience? I shall be very
circumstantial, for I cannot speak otherwise of things which stand so
life-like before my eyes that I seem to have seen them myself. And that
may very well be the case, for all historians--amongst whom I happen to
be one--are properly a kind of talking ghost of past ages."
The friends accompanied the stranger into a retired room, when, without
further preamble, he began as follows:--
It is now a long time ago, and if I mistake not, it was in the month of
August, 1354, that the valiant Genoese captain, Paganino Doria6 by
name, utterly routed the Venetians and took their town of Parenzo. And
his well-manned galleys were now cruising backwards and forwards in the
Lagune, close in front of Venice, like ravenous beasts of prey which,
goaded by hunger, roam restlessly up and down spying out where they may
most safely pounce upon their victims; and both people and seignory
were panic-stricken with fear. All the male population, liable to
military service, and everybody who could lift an arm, flew to their
weapons or seized an oar. The harbour of Saint Nicholas was the
gathering-place for the bands. Ships and trees were sunk, and chains
riveted to chains, to lock the harbour-mouth against the enemy. Whilst
there was heard the rattle of arms and the wild tumult of preparation,
and whilst the ponderous masses thundered down into the foaming sea, on
the Rialto the agents of the seignory were wiping the cold sweat from
their pale brows, and with troubled countenances and hoarse voices
offering almost fabulous percentage for ready money, for the straitened
republic was in want of this necessary also. Moreover, it was
determined by the inscrutable decree of Providence that just at this
period of extreme distress and anxiety, the faithful shepherd should be
taken away from his troubled flock. Completely borne down by the burden
of the public calamity, the Doge Andrea Dandolo7 died; the people
called him the "dear good count" (_il caro contino_), because he was
always cordial and kind, and never crossed Saint Mark's Square without
speaking a word of comfort to those in need of good advice, or giving a
few sequins8 to those who were in want of money. And as every blow is
wont to fall with double sharpness upon those who are discouraged by
misfortune, when at other times they would hardly have felt it at all,
so now, when the people heard the bells of Saint Mark's proclaim in
solemn muffled tones the death of their Duke, they were utterly undone
with sorrow and grief. Their support, their hope, was now gone, and
they would have to bend their necks to the Genoese yoke, they cried, in
despite of the fact that Dandolo's loss did not seem to have any very
counteractive effect upon the progress that was being made with all
necessary warlike preparations. The "dear good count" had loved to live
in peace and quietness, preferring to follow the wondrous courses of
the stars rather than the problematical complications of state policy;
he understood how to arrange a procession on Easter Day better than how
to lead an army.
The object now was to elect a Doge who, endowed at one and the same
time with the valour and genius of a war captain, and with skill in
statecraft, should save Venice, now tottering on her foundations, from
the threatening power of her bold and ever-bolder enemy. But when the
senators assembled there was none but what had a gloomy face, hopeless
looks, and head bent earthwards and resting on his supporting hand.
Where were they to find a man who could seize the unguided helm and
direct the bark of the state aright? At last the oldest of the
councillors, called Marino Bodoeri, lifted up his voice and said, "You
will not find him here around us, or amongst us; direct your eyes to
Avignon, upon Marino Falieri, whom we sent to congratulate Pope
Innocent9 on his elevation to the Papal dignity; he can find better
work to do now; he's the man for us; let us choose him Doge to stem
this current of adversity. You will urge by way of objection that he is
now almost eighty years old, that his hair and beard are white as
silver, that his blithe appearance, fiery eye, and the deep red of his
nose and cheeks are to be ascribed, as his traducers maintain, to good
Cyprus wine rather than to energy of character; but heed not that.
Remember what conspicuous bravery this Marino Falieri showed as admiral
of the fleet in the Black Sea, and bear in mind the great services
which prevailed with the Procurators of Saint Mark to invest this
Falieri with the rich countship of Valdemarino." Thus highly did
Bodoeri extol Falieri's virtues; and he had a ready answer for all
objections, so that at length all voices were unanimous in electing
Falieri. Several, however, still continued to allude to his hot,
passionate temper, his ambition, and his self-will; but they were met
with the reply: "And it is exactly because all these have gone from the
old man, that we choose the _grey-beard_ Falieri and not the _youth_
Falieri." And these censuring voices were completely silenced when the
people, learning upon whom the choice had fallen, greeted it with the
loudest and most extravagant demonstrations of delight. Do we not know
that in such dangerous times, in times of such tension and unrest, any
resolution that really is a resolution is accepted as an inspiration
from Heaven? Thus it came to pass that the "dear good count" and all
his gentleness and piety were forgotten, and every one cried, "By Saint
Mark, this Marino ought long ago to have been our Doge, and then we
should not have yon arrogant Doria before our very doors." And crippled
soldiers painfully lifted up their wounded arms and cried, "That is
Falieri who beat the Morbassan10--the valiant captain whose victorious
banners waved in the Black Sea." Wherever a knot of people gathered,
there was one amongst them telling of Falieri's heroic deeds; and, as
though Doria were already defeated, the air rang with wild shouts of
triumph. An additional reason for this was that Nicolo Pisani11 who,
Heaven knows why! instead of going to meet Doria with his fleet, had
coolly sailed away to Sardinia,12 was now returned. Doria withdrew from
the Lagune; and what was really due to the approach of Pisani's fleet
was ascribed to the formidable name of Marino Falieri. Then the people
and the seignory were seized by a kind of frantic ecstasy that such an
auspicious choice had been made; and as an uncommon way of testifying
the same, it was determined to welcome the newly elected Doge as if he
were a messenger from heaven bringing honour, victory, and abundance of
riches. Twelve nobles, each accompanied by a numerous retinue in rich
dresses, had been sent by the Seignory to Verona, where the ambassadors
of the Republic were again to announce to Falieri, on his arrival, with
all due ceremony, his elevation to the supreme office in the state.
Then fifteen richly decorated vessels of state, equipped by the
Podesta13 of Chioggia, and under the command of his own son Taddeo
Giustiniani, took the Doge and his attendant company on board at
Chiozza; and now they moved on like the triumphal procession of a most
mighty and victorious monarch to St. Clement's, where the Bucentaur14
was awaiting the Doge.
At this very moment, namely, when Marino Falieri was about to set foot
on board the Bucentaur,--and that was on the evening of the 3d of
October about sunset--a poor unfortunate man lay stretched at full
length on the hard marble pavement in front of the Customhouse. A few
rags of striped linen, of a colour now no longer recognisable, the
remains of what apparently had once been a sailor's dress, such as was
worn by the very poorest of the people--porters and assistant oarsmen,
hung about his lean starved body. There was not a trace of a shirt to
be seen, except the poor fellow's own skin, which peeped through his
rags almost everywhere, and was so white and delicate that the very
noblest need not have been shy or ashamed of it Accordingly, his
leanness only served to display more fully the perfect proportions of
his well-knit frame. A careful scrutiny of the unfortunate's light-
chestnut hair, now hanging all tangled and dishevelled about his
exquisitely beautiful forehead, his blue eyes dimmed with extreme
misery, his Roman nose, his fine formed lips--he seemed to be not more
than twenty years old at the most--inevitably suggested that he was of
good birth, and had by some adverse turn of fortune been thrown amongst
the meanest classes of the people.
As remarked, the youth lay in front of the pillars of the Custom-house,
his head resting on his right arm, and his eyes riveted in a vacant
stare upon the sea, without movement or change of posture. An observer
might well have fancied that he was devoid of life, or that death had
fixed him there whilst turning him into an image of stone, had not a
deep sigh escaped him from time to time, as if wrung from him by
unutterable pain. And they were in fact occasioned by the pain of his
left arm, which had apparently been seriously wounded, and was lying
stretched out on the pavement, wrapped up in bloody rags.
All labour had ceased; the hum of trade was no longer heard; all
Venice, in thousands of boats and gondolas, was gone out to meet the
much-lauded Falieri. Hence it was that the unhappy youth was sighing
away his pain in utter helplessness. But just as his weary head fell
back upon the pavement, and he seemed on the point of fainting, a
hoarse and very querulous voice cried several times in succession,
"Antonio, my dear Antonio." At length Antonio painfully raised himself
partly up; and, turning his head towards the pillars of the Custom-
house, whence the voice seemed to proceed, he replied very faintly, and
in a scarce intelligible voice, "Who is calling me? Who has come to
cast my dead body into the sea, for it will soon be all over with me."
Then a little shrivelled wrinkled crone came up panting and coughing,
hobbling along by the aid of her staff; she approached the wounded
youth, and squatting down beside him, she burst out into a most
repulsive chuckling and laughing. "You foolish child, you foolish
child," whispered the old woman, "are you going to perish here--will
you stay here to die, while a golden fortune is waiting for you? Look
yonder, look yonder at yon blazing fire in the west; there are sequins
for you! But you must eat, dear Antonio, eat and drink; for it's only
hunger which has made you fall down here on this cold pavement. Your
arm is now quite well again, yes, that it is." Antonio recognised in
the old crone the singular beggar-woman who was generally to be seen on
the steps of the Franciscan Church, chuckling to herself and laughing,
and soliciting alms from the worshippers; he himself, urged by some
inward inexplicable propensity, had often thrown her a hard-earned
penny, which he had not had to spare. "Leave me, leave me in peace, you
insane old woman," he said; "but you are right, it is hunger more than
my wound which has made me weak and miserable; for three days I have
not earned a farthing. I wanted to go over to the monastery15 and see
if I could get a spoonful or two of the soup that is made for invalids;
but all my companions have gone; there is not one to have compassion
upon me and take me in his _barca_;16 and now I have fallen down here,
and shall, I expect, never get up again." "Hi! hi! hi! hi!" chuckled
the old woman; "why do you begin to despair so soon? Why lose heart so
quickly? You are thirsty and hungry, but I can help you. Here are a few
fine dried fish which I bought only to-day in the Mint; here is
lemon-juice and a piece of nice white bread; eat, my son; and then we
will look at the wounded arm." And the old woman proceeded to bring
forth fish, bread, and lemon juice from the bag which hung like a hood
down her back, and also projected right above her bent head. As soon as
Antonio had moistened his parched and burning lips with the cool drink,
he felt the pangs of hunger return with double fury, and he greedily
devoured the bread and the fish.
Meanwhile the old woman was busy unwrapping the rags from his wounded
arm, and it was found that, though it was badly crushed, the wound was
progressing favourably towards healing. The old woman took a salve out
of a little box and warmed it with the breath of her mouth, and as she
rubbed it on the wound she asked, "But who then has given you such a
nasty blow, my poor boy?" Antonio was so refreshed and charged anew
with vital energy that he had raised himself completely up; his eyes
flashed, and he shook his doubled fist above his head, crying, "Oh!
that rascal Nicolo; he tried to maim me, because he envies me every
wretched penny that any generous hand bestows upon me. You know, old
dame, that I barely managed to hold body and soul together by helping
to carry bales of goods from ships and freight-boats to the _dépôt_ of
the Germans, the so-called Fontego17--of course you know the
building"--Directly Antonio uttered the word Fontego, the old woman
began to chuckle and laugh most abominably, and to mumble, "Fontego--
Fontego--Fontego." "Have done with your insane laughing if I am to go
on with my story," added Antonio angrily. At once the old woman grew
quiet, and Antonio continued, "after a time I saved a little bit of
money, and bought a new jerkin, so that I looked quite fine; and then I
got enrolled amongst the gondoliers. As I was always in a blithe
humour, worked hard, and knew a great many good songs, I soon earned a
good deal more than the rest. This, however, awakened my comrades'
envy. They blackened my character to my master, so that he turned me
adrift; and everywhere where I went or where I stood they cried after
me, 'German cur! Cursed heretic!' Three days ago, as I was helping to
unload a boat near St. Sebastian, they fell upon me with sticks and
stones. I defended myself stoutly, but that malicious Nicolo dealt me a
blow with his oar, which grazed my head and severely injured my arm,
and knocked me on the ground. Ay, you've given me a good meal, old
woman, and I am sure I feel that your salve has done my arm a world of
good. See, I can already move it easily--now I shall be able to row
bravely again." Antonio had risen up from the ground, and was swinging
his arm violently backwards and forwards, but the old woman again fell
to chuckling and laughing loudly, whilst she hobbled round about him in
the most extraordinary fashion--dancing with short tripping steps as it
were--and she cried, "My son, my good boy, my good lad--row on
bravely--he is coming--he is coming. The gold is shining red in the
bright flames. Row on stoutly, row on; but only once more, only once
more; and then never again."
But Antonio was not paying the slightest heed to the old woman's words,
for the most splendid of spectacles was unfolding itself before his
eyes. The Bucentaur, with the Lion of the Adriatic on her fluttering
standard, was coming along from St. Clement's to the measured stroke of
the oars like a mighty winged golden swan. Surrounded by innumerable _
barcas_ and gondolas, and with her head proudly and boldly raised, she
appeared like a princess commanding a triumphing army, that had emerged
from the depths of the sea, wearing bright and gaily decked helmets.
The evening sun was sending down his fiery rays upon the sea and upon
Venice, so that everything appeared to have been plunged into a bath of
blazing fire; but whilst Antonio, completely forgetful of all his
unhappiness, was standing gazing with wonder and delight, the gleams of
the sun grew more bloody and more bloody. The wind whistled shrilly and
harshly, and a hollow threatening echo came rolling in from the open
sea outside. Down burst the storm in the midst of black clouds, and
enshrouded all in thick darkness, whilst the waves rose higher and
higher, pouring in from the thundering sea like foaming hissing
monsters, threatening to engulf everything. The gondolas and _barcas_
were driven in all directions like scattered feathers. The Bucentaur,
unable to resist the storm owing to its flat bottom, was yawing from
side to side. Instead of the jubilant notes of trumpets and cornets,
there was heard through the storm the anxious cries of those in
distress.
Antonio gazed upon the scene like one stupefied, without sense and
motion. But then there came a rattling of chains immediately in front
of him; he looked down, and saw a little canoe, which was chained to
the wall, and was being tossed up and down by the waves; and a thought
entered his mind like a flash of lightning. He leaped into the canoe,
unfastened it, seized the oar which he found in it, and pushed out
boldly and confidently into the sea, directly towards the Bucentaur.
The nearer he came to it the more distinctly could he hear shouts for
help. "Here, here, come here--save the Doge, save the Doge." It is well
known that little fisher-canoes are safer and better to manage in the
Lagune when it is stormy than are larger boats; and accordingly these
little craft were hastening from all sides to the rescue of Marino
Falieri's invaluable person. But it is an invariable principle in life
that the Eternal Power reserves every bold deed as a brilliant success
to the one specially chosen for it, and hence all others have all their
pains for nothing. And as on this occasion it was poor Antonio who was
destined to achieve the rescue of the newly elected Doge, he alone
succeeded in working his way on to the Bucentaur in his little
insignificant fisher-canoe. Old Marino Falieri, familiar with such
dangers, stepped firmly, without a moment's hesitation, from the
sumptuous but treacherous Bucentaur into poor Antonio's little craft,
which, gliding smoothly over the raging waves like a dolphin, brought
him in a few minutes to St. Mark's Square. The old man, his clothing
saturated with wet, and with large drops of sea-spray in his grey
beard, was conducted into the church, where the nobles with blanched
faces concluded the ceremonies connected with the Doge's public entry.
But the people, as well as the seignory, confounded by this unfortunate
_ contretemps_, to which was also added the fact that the Doge, in the
hurry and confusion, had been led between the two columns where common
malefactors were generally executed, grew silent in the midst of their
triumph, and thus the day that had begun in festive fashion ended in
gloom and sadness.
Nobody seemed to think about the Doge's rescuer; nor did Antonio
himself think about it, for he was lying in the peristyle of the Ducal
Palace, half dead with fatigue, and fainting with the pain caused by
his wound, which had again burst open. He was therefore all the more
surprised when just before midnight a Ducal halberdier took him by the
shoulders, saying, "Come along, friend," and led him into the palace,
where he pushed him into the Duke's chamber. The old man came to meet
him with a kindly smile, and said, pointing to a couple of purses lying
on the table, "You have borne yourself bravely, my son. Here; take
these three thousand sequins, and if you want more ask for them; but
have the goodness never to come into my presence again." As he said
these last words the old man's eyes flashed with fire, and the tip of
his nose grew a darker red Antonio could not fathom the old man's mind;
he did not, however, trouble himself overmuch about it, but with some
little difficulty took up the purses, which he believed he had honestly
and rightly earned.
Next morning old Falieri, conspicuous in the splendours of his newly
acquired dignity, stood in one of the lofty bay windows of the palace,
watching the bustling scene below, where the people were busy engaged
in practising all kinds of weapons, when Bodoeri, who from the days
when he was a youth had enjoyed the intimate and unchangeable
friendship of the Doge, entered the apartment. As, however, the Doge
was quite wrapped up in himself and his dignity, and did not appear to
notice his entrance, Bodoeri clapped his hands together and cried with
a loud laugh, "Come, Falieri, what are all these sublime thoughts that
are being hatched and nourished in your mind since you first put the
Doge's bent bonnet on?" Falieri, coming to himself like one awakening
from a dream, stepped forward to meet his old friend with an air of
forced amiability. He felt that he really owed his bonnet to Bodoeri,
and the words of the latter seemed to be a reminder of the fact. But
since every obligation weighed like a burden upon Falieri's proud
ambitious spirit, and he could not dismiss the oldest member of the
Council, and his tried friend to boot, as he had dismissed poor
Antonio, he constrained himself to utter a few words of thanks, and
immediately began to speak of the measures to be adopted to meet their
enemy, who was now developing so great an activity in every direction.
Bodoeri interrupted him and said, cunningly smiling, "That, and all
else that the state demands of you, we will maturely weigh and consider
an hour or two hence in a full meeting of the Great Council. I have not
come to you thus early in order to invent a plan for defeating yon
presumptuous Doria or bringing to reason Louis18 the Hungarian, who is
again setting his longing eyes upon our Dalmatian seaports. No, Marino,
I was thinking solely about you, and about what you perhaps would not
guess--your marriage." "How came you to think of such a thing as
_that_?" replied the Doge, greatly annoyed; and rising to his feet, he
turned his back upon Bodoeri and looked out of the window. "It's a long
time to Ascension Day. By that time I hope the enemy will be routed,
and that victory, honour, additional riches, and a wider extension of
power will have been won for the sea-born lion of the Adriatic. The
chaste bride shall find her bridegroom worthy of her." "Pshaw! pshaw!"
interrupted Bodoeri, impatiently; "you are talking about that memorable
ceremony on Ascension Day, when you will throw the gold ring from the
Bucentaur into the waves under the impression that you are wedding the
Adriatic Sea. But do you not know,--you, Marino, you, kinsman to the
sea,--of any other bride than the cold, damp, treacherous element which
you delude yourself into the belief that you rule, and which only
yesterday revolted against you in such dangerous fashion? Marry, how
can you fancy lying in the arms of such a bride of such a wild, wayward
thing? Why when you only just skimmed her lips as you rode along in the
Bucentaur she at once began to rage and storm. Would an entire Vesuvius
of fiery passion suffice to warm the icy bosom of such a false bride as
that? Continually faithless, she is wedded time after time, nor does
she receive the ring as a treasured symbol of love, but she extorts it
as a tribute from a slave? No, Marino, I was thinking of your marriage
to the most beautiful child of the earth than can be found." "You are
prating utter nonsense, utter nonsense, I tell you, old man," murmured
Falieri without turning away from the window. "I, a grey-haired old
man, eighty years of age, burdened with toil and trouble, who have
never been married, and now hardly capable of loving"---- "Stop," cried
Bodoeri, "don't slander yourself. Does not the Winter, however rough
and cold he may be, at last stretch out his longing arms towards the
beautiful goddess who comes to meet him borne by balmy western winds?
And when he presses her to his benumbed bosom, when a gentle glow
pervades his veins, where then is his ice and his snow? You say you are
eighty years old; that is true; but do you measure old age then by
years merely? Don't you carry your head as erect and walk with as firm
a step as you did forty summers ago? Or do you perhaps feel that your
strength is failing you, that you must carry a lighter sword, that you
grow faint when you walk fast, or get short of breath when you ascend
the steps of the Ducal Palace?" "No, by Heaven, no," broke in Falieri
upon his friend, as he turned away from the window with an abrupt
passionate movement and approached him, "no, I feel no traces of age
upon me." "Well then," continued Bodoeri, "take deep draughts in your
old age of all the delights of earth which are now destined for you.
Elevate the woman whom I have chosen for you to be your Dogess; and
then all the ladies of Venice will be constrained to admit that she
stands first of all in beauty and in virtue, even as the Venetians
recognise in you their captain in valour, intellect, and power."
Bodoeri now began to sketch the picture of a beautiful woman, and in
doing so he knew how to mix his colours so cleverly, and lay them on
with so much vigour and effect, that old Falieri's eyes began to
sparkle, and his face grew redder and redder, whilst he puckered up his
mouth and smacked his lips as if he were draining sundry glasses of
fiery Syracuse. "But who is this paragon of loveliness of whom you are
speaking?" said he at last with a smirk. "I mean nobody else but my
dear niece--it's she I mean," replied Bodoeri. "What! your niece?"
interrupted Falieri. "Why, she was married to Bertuccio Nenolo when I
was Podesta of Treviso." "Oh! you are thinking about my niece
Francesca," continued Bodoeri, "but it is her sweet daughter whom I
intend for you. You know how rude, rough Nenolo was enticed to the wars
and drowned at sea. Francesca buried her pain and grief in a Roman
nunnery, and so I had little Annunciata brought up in strict seclusion
at my villa in Treviso"---- "What!" cried Falieri, again impatiently
interrupting the old man, "you mean me to raise your niece's daughter
to the dignity of Dogess? How long is it since Nenolo was married?
Annunciata must be a child--at the most only ten years old. When I was
Podesta in Treviso, Nenolo had not even thought of marrying, and
that's"---- "Twenty-five years ago," interposed Bodoeri, laughing;
"come, you are getting all at sea with your memory of the flight of
time, it goes so rapidly with you. Annunciata is a maiden of nineteen,
beautiful as the sun, modest, submissive, inexperienced in love, for
she has hardly ever seen a man. She will cling to you with childlike
affection and unassuming devotion." "I will see her, I will see her,"
exclaimed the Doge, whose eyes again beheld the picture of the
beautiful Annunciata which Bodoeri had sketched.
His desire was gratified the self-same day; for immediately he got back
to his own apartments from the meeting of the Great Council, the crafty
Bodoeri, who no doubt had many reasons for wishing to see his niece
Dogess at Falieri's side, brought the lovely Annunciata to him
secretly. Now, when old Falieri saw the angelic maiden, he was quite
taken aback by her wonderful beauty, and was scarcely able to stammer
out a few unintelligible words as he sued for her hand. Annunciata, no
doubt well instructed by Bodoeri beforehand, fell upon her knees before
the princely old man, her cheeks flushing crimson. She grasped his hand
and pressed it to her lips, softly whispering, "O sir, will you indeed
honour me by raising me to a place at your side on your princely
throne? Oh! then I will reverence you from the depths of my soul, and
will continue your faithful handmaiden as long as I have breath." Old
Falieri was beside himself with happiness and delight. As Annunciata
took his hand he felt a convulsive throb in every limb; and then his
head and all his body began to tremble and totter to such a degree that
he had to sink hurriedly into his great arm-chair. It seemed as if he
were about to refute Bodoeri's good opinion as to the strength and
toughness of his eighty summers. Bodoeri, in fact, could not keep back
the peculiar smile that darted across his lips; innocent, un*
sophisticated Annunciata observed nothing; and happily no one else was
present Finally it was resolved for some reason--either because old
Falieri felt in what an uncomfortable position he would appear in the
eyes of the people as the betrothed of a maiden of nineteen, or because
it occurred to him as a sort of presentiment that the Venetians, who
were so prone to mockery, ought not to be so directly challenged to
indulge in it, or because he deemed it better to say nothing at all
about the critical period of betrothal--at any rate, it was resolved,
with Bodoeri's consent, that the marriage should be celebrated with the
greatest secrecy, and that then some days later the Dogess should be
introduced to the seignory and the people as if she had been some time
married to Falieri, and had just arrived from Treviso, where she had
been staying during Falieri's mission to Avignon.
Let us now turn our eyes upon yon neatly dressed handsome youth who is
going up and down the Rialto with his purse of sequins in his hand,
conversing with Jews, Turks, Armenians, Greeks.19 He turns away his
face with a frown, walks on further, stands still, turns round, and
ultimately has himself rowed by a gondolier to St. Mark's Square. There
he walks up and down with uncertain hesitating steps, his arms folded
and his eyes bent upon the ground; nor does he observe, or even have
any idea, that all the whispering and low coughing from various windows
and various richly draped balconies are love-signals which are meant
for him. Who would have easily recognised in this youth the same
Antonio who a few days before had lain on the marble pavement in front
of the Custom-house, poor, ragged, and miserable? "My dear boy! My dear
golden boy, Antonio, good day, good day!" Thus he was greeted by the
old beggar-woman, who sat on the steps leading to St. Mark's Church,
and whom he was going past without observing. Turning abruptly round,
he recognised the old woman, and, dipping his hand into his purse, took
out a handful of sequins with the intention of throwing them to her.
"Oh! keep your gold in your purse," chuckled and laughed the old woman;
"what should I do with your money? am I not rich enough? But if you
want to do me a kindness, get me a new hood made, for this which I am
now wearing is no longer any protection against wind and weather. Yes,
please get me one, my dear boy, my dear golden boy,--but keep away from
the Fontego,--keep away from the Fontego." Antonio stared into the old
woman's pale yellow face, the deep wrinkles in which twitched
convulsively in a strange awe-inspiring way. And when she clapped her
lean bony hands together so that the joints cracked, and continued her
disagreeable laugh, and went on repeating in a hoarse voice, "Keep away
from the Fontego," Antonio cried, "Can you not have done with that mad
insane nonsense, you old witch?"
As Antonio uttered this word, the old woman, as if struck by a
lightning-flash, came rolling down the high marble steps like a ball.
Antonio leapt forward and grasped her by both hands, and so prevented
her from falling heavily. "O my good lad, my good lad," said the old
crone in a low, querulous voice, "what a hideous word that was which
you uttered. Kill me rather than repeat that word to me again. Oh! you
don't know how deeply you have cut me to the heart, me--who have such a
true affection for you--no, you don't know"---- Abruptly breaking off,
she wrapped up her head in the dark brown cloth flaps which covered her
shoulders like a short mantle, and sighed and moaned as if suffering
unspeakable pain. Antonio felt his heart strangely moved; lifting up
the old woman, he carried her up into the vestibule of the church, and
set her down upon one of the marble benches which were there. "You have
been kind to me, old woman," he began, after he had liberated her head
from the ugly cloth flaps, "you have been kind to me, since it is to
you that I really owe all my prosperity; for if you had not stood by me
in the hour of need, I should long ere this have been at the bottom of
the sea, nor should I have rescued the old Doge, and received these
good sequins. But even if you had not shown that kindness to me, I yet
feel that I should have a special liking for you as long as I live, in
spite of the fact that your insane behaviour--chuckling and laughing so
horribly--strikes my heart with awe. To tell you the truth, old dame,
even when I had hard work to get a living by carrying merchandise and
rowing, I always felt as if I must work still harder that I might have
a few pence to give you." "O son of my heart, my golden Tonino," cried
the old woman, raising her shrivelled arms above her head, whilst her
staff fell rattling on the marble floor and rolled away from her, "O
Tonino mine, I know it; yes, I know it; you must cling to me with all
your soul, you may do as you will, for--but hush! hush! hush!" The old
woman stooped painfully down in order to reach her staff, but Antonio
picked it up and handed it to her.
Leaning her sharp chin on her staff, and riveting her eyes in a set
stare upon the ground, she began to speak in a reserved but hollow
voice, "Tell me, my child, have you no recollection at all of any
former time, of what you did or where you were before you found
yourself here, a poor wretch hardly able to keep body and soul
together?" With a deep sigh, Antonio took his seat beside the old crone
and then began, "Alas! mother, only too well do I know that I was born
of parents living in the most prosperous circumstances; but who they
were and how I came to leave them, of this I have not the slightest
notion, nor could I have. I remember very well a tall handsome man, who
often took me in his arms and smothered me with kisses and put sweets
in my mouth. And I can also in the same way call to mind a pleasant and
pretty lady, who used to dress and undress me and place me in a soft
little bed every night, and who in fact was very kind to me in every
way. They used to talk to me in a foreign, sonorous language, and I
also stammered several words of the same tongue after them. Whilst I
was an oarsman my jealous rivals used to say I must be of German
origin, from the colour of my hair and eyes, and from my general build.
And this I believe myself, for the language which that man spoke (he
must have been my father) was German. But the most vivid recollection
which I have of that time is that of one terrible night, when I was
awakened out of deep sleep by a fearful scream of distress. People were
running about the house; doors were being opened and banged to; I grew
terribly frightened, and began to cry loudly. Then the lady who used to
dress me and take care of me burst into the room, snatched me out of
bed, stopped my mouth, enveloped me in shawls, and ran off with me.
From that moment I can remember nothing more, until I found myself
again in a splendid house, situated in a most charming district. Then
there rises up the image of a man whom I called 'father,' a majestic
man of noble but benevolent appearance. Like all the rest in the house,
he spoke Italian.
"For several weeks I had not seen my father, when one day several ugly-
looking strangers came and kicked up a great deal of noise in the
house, rummaging about and turning out everything. When they saw me
they asked who I was, and what I was doing there? 'Don't you know I'm
Antonio, and belong to the house?' I replied; but they laughed in my
face and tore off all my fine clothes and turned me out of doors,
threatening to have me whipped if I dared to show myself again. I ran
away screaming and crying. I had not gone a hundred yards from the
house when I met an old man, whom I recognised as being one of my
foster-father's servants. 'Come along, Antonio,' he said, taking hold
of my hand, 'come along, my poor boy, that house is now closed to us
both for ever. We must both look out and see how we can earn a crust of
bread.'
"The old man brought me along with him here. He was not so poor as he
seemed to be from his mean clothing. Directly we arrived I saw him rip
up his jerkin and produce a bag of sequins; and he spent the whole day
running about on the Rialto, now acting as broker, now dealing on his
own account. I had always to be close at his heels; and whenever he had
made a bargain he had a habit of begging a trifle for the _figliuolo_
(little boy). Every one whom I looked boldly in the face was glad to
pull out a few pence, which the old man pocketed with infinite
satisfaction, affirming, as he stroked my cheeks, that he was saving it
up to buy me a new jerkin. I was very comfortable with the old man,
whom the people called Old Father Bluenose, though for what reason I
don't know. But this life did not last long. You will remember that
terrible time, old woman, when one day the earth began to tremble, and
towers and palaces were shaken to their very foundations and began to
reel and totter, and the bells to ring as if tolled by the arms of
invisible giants. Hardly seven years have passed since that day.
Fortunately I escaped along with my old man out of the house before it
fell in with a crash behind us. There was no business doing; everybody
on the Rialto seemed stunned, and everything lifeless. But this
dreadful event was only the precursor of another approaching monster,
which soon breathed out its poisonous breath over the town and the
surrounding country. It was known that the pestilence, which had first
made its way from the Levant into Sicily, was committing havoc in
Tuscany.20 As yet Venice had been spared. One day Old Father Bluenose
was dealing with an Armenian on the Rialto; they were agreed over their
bargain, and warmly shook hands. Father Bluenose had sold the Armenian
certain good wares at a very low price, and now asked for the usual
trifle for the _figliuolo_. The stranger, a big stalwart man with a
thick curly beard (I can see him now), bent a kind look upon me, and
then kissed me, pressing a few sequins into my hand, which I hastily
pocketed. We took a gondola to St. Mark's. On the way the old man asked
me for the sequins, but for some reason or other, I don't know what
induced me to do it, I maintained that I must keep them myself, since
the Armenian had wished me to do so. The old man got angry; but whilst
he was quarrelling with me I noticed a disagreeable dirty yellow colour
spreading over his face, and that he was mixing up all sorts of
incoherent nonsense in his talk. When we reached the Square he reeled
about like a drunken man, until he fell to the ground in front of the
Ducal Palace--dead. With a loud wail I threw myself upon the corpse.
The people came running round us, but as soon as the dreaded cry 'The
pestilence! the pestilence!' was heard, they scattered and flew apart
in terror. At the same moment I was seized by a dull numbing pain, and
my senses left me.
"When I awoke I found I was in a spacious room, lying on a plain
mattress, and covered with a blanket. Round about me there were fully
twenty or thirty other pale ghastly forms lying on similar mattresses.
As I learned later, certain compassionate monks, who happened to be
just coming out of St. Mark's, had, on finding signs of life in me, put
me in a gondola and got me taken over to Giudecca into the monastery of
San Giorgio Maggiore, where the Benedictines had established a
hospital. How can I describe to you, old woman, this moment of re-
awakening? The violence of the plague had completely robbed me of all
recollections of the past. Just as if the spark of life had been
suddenly dropped into a lifeless statue, I had but a momentary kind of
existence, so to speak, linked on to nothing. You may imagine what
trouble, what distress this life occasioned me in which my
consciousness seemed to swim in empty space without an anchorage. All
that the monks could tell me was that I had been found beside Father
Bluenose, whose son I was generally accounted to be. Gradually and
slowly I gathered my thoughts together, and tried to reflect upon my
previous life, but what I have told you, old dame, is all that I can
remember of it, and that consists only of certain individual
disconnected pictures. Oh! this miserable being-alone-in-the-world! I
can't be gay and happy, no matter what may happen!" "Tonino, my dear
Tonino," said the old woman, "be contented with what the present moment
gives you."
"Say no more, old woman, say no more," interrupted Antonio; "there is
still something else which embitters my life, following me about
incessantly everywhere; I know it will be the utter ruin of me in the
end. An unspeakable longing,--a consuming aspiration for something,--I
can neither say nor even conceive what it is--has taken complete
possession of my heart and mind since I awoke to renewed life in the
hospital. Whilst I was still poor and wretched, and threw myself down
at night on my hard couch, weary and worn out by the hard heavy labour
of the day, a dream used to come to me, and, fanning my hot brow with
balmy rustling breezes, shed about my heart all the inexpressible bliss
of some single happy moment, in which the Eternal Power had been
pleased to grant me in thought a glimpse of the delights of heaven, and
the memory of which was treasured up in the recesses of my soul I now
rest on soft cushions, and no labour consumes my strength: but if I
awaken out of a dream, or if in my waking hours the recollection of
that great moment returns to my mind, I feel that the lonely wretched
existence I lead is just as much an oppressive burden now as it was
then, and that it is vain for me to try and shake it off. All my
thinking and all my inquiries are fruitless; I cannot fathom what this
glorious thing is which formerly happened in my life. Its mysterious
and alas! to me, unintelligible echo, as it were, fills me with such
great happiness; but will not this happiness pass over into the most
agonising pain, and torture me to death, when I am obliged to
acknowledge that all my hope of ever finding that unknown Eden again,
nay, that even the courage to search for it, is lost? Can there indeed
remain traces of that which has vanished without leaving any sign
behind it?" Antonio ceased speaking, and a deep and painful sigh
escaped his breast.
During his narrative the old crone had behaved like one who sympathised
fully with his trouble, and felt all that he felt, and like a mirror
reflected every movement and gesture which the pain wrung from him.
"Tonino," she now began in a tearful voice, "my dear Tonino, do you
mean to tell me that you let your courage sink because the remembrance
of some glorious moment in your life has perished out of your mind? You
foolish child! You foolish child! Listen to--hi! hi! hi!" The old woman
began to chuckle and laugh in her usual disagreeable way, and to hop
about on the marble floor. Some people came; she cowered down in her
accustomed posture; they threw her alms. "Antonio--lead me away,
Antonio--away to the sea," she croaked Almost involuntarily--he could
not explain how it came about--he took her by the arm and led her
slowly across St. Mark's Square. On the way the old woman muttered
softly and solemnly, "Antonio, do you see these dark stains of blood
here on the ground? Yes, blood--much blood--much blood everywhere! But,
hi! hi! hi! Roses will spring up out of the blood--beautiful red roses
for a wreath for you--for your sweetheart. O good Lord of all, what
lovely angel of light is this, who is coming to meet you with such
grace and such a bright starry smile? Her lily-white arms are stretched
out to embrace you. O Antonio, you lucky, lucky lad! bear yourself
bravely! bear yourself bravely! And at the sweet hour of sunset you may
pluck myrtle-leaves--myrtle-leaves for the bride--for the
maiden-widow--hi! hi! hi! Myrtle-leaves plucked at the hour of sunset,
but these will not be blossoms until midnight! Do you hear the
whisperings of the night-winds? the longing moaning swell of the sea?
Row away bravely, my bold oarsman, row away bravely!" Antonio's heart
was deeply thrilled with awe as he listened to the old crone's
wonderful words, which she mumbled to herself in a very peculiar and
extraordinary way, mingled with an incessant chuckling.