path: root/60601-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 60601 ***
                         TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:


Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.

A number of words in this book have both hyphenated and non-hyphenated
variants. For the words with both variants present the one more used
has been kept.

Obvious punctuation and other printing errors have been corrected.

The book cover was modified by the Transcriber and has been put in the
public domain.

The Transcriber would like to point out to what are considered a couple
of translation inaccuracies from the original Italian language version.

In page 59 the text reads:

"I know of no marsh capable of provoking in human pulses a fever more
violent that that which at times steals up to us from the shadows of a
silent canal."

While in the Italian edition (Publisher: Milano Fratelli Treves; year:
1900), the text reads:

"Io non conosco palude capace di provocare in polsi umani una febbre
più violenta di quella che sentimmo talvolta venire verso di noi
all'improvviso dall'ombra di un canale taciturno."

The Transcriber thinks a more adequate translation would be:

"I know of no marsh capable of causing a fever in human pulses more
violent than the one we sometimes hear coming towards us suddenly from
the shadow of a taciturn channel."

In page 195 the text reads:

"He had astonished even himself by that sudden apparition, that
unexpected discovery which illumined the shadows of his mind, because
exterior reality, and almost tangible."

While in the Italian edition the text reads:

"Si stupiva egli medessimo di quell'apparizione subitanea, di quella
improvvisa scoperta che, illuminandosi nell buio del suo spirito si
esternava e quasi diveniva tangibile."

The Transcriber thinks a more adequate translation would be:

"He was surprised himself by that sudden appearance, of that sudden
discovery that, illuminating itself in the darkness of his spirit, it
became external and almost became tangible."


                      *       *       *       *       *


                            THE LITERATURE OF ITALY

                consists of sixteen volumes, of which
                this one forms a part. For full particulars
                of the edition see the Official
                Certificate bound in the volume entitled

                             "A HISTORY OF ITALIAN
                                 LITERATURE."


                            [Illustration]


                            [Illustration]

                Literature of Italy
                1265 1907.

                Edited by Rossiter Johnson and
                Dora Knowlton Ranous

                With a General Introduction by William
                Michael Rossetti and Special Introductions
                by James, Cardinal Gibbons,
                Charles Eliot Norton, S. G. W. Benjamin,
                William S, Walsh, Maurice
                Francis Egan, and others

                New translations, and former renderings
                compared and revised

                Translators: James C. Brogan, Lord Charlemont,
                Geoffrey Chaucer, Hartley Coleridge,
                Florence Kendrick Cooper, Lady Dacre,
                Theodore Dwight, Edward Fairfax, Ugo
                Foscolo, G. A. Greene, Sir Thomas Hoby,
                William Dean Howells, Luigi Monti, Evangeline
                M. O'Connor, Thomas Okey, Dora
                Knowlton Ranous, Thomas Roscoe, William
                Stewart Rose, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, William
                Michael Rossetti, John Addington
                Symonds, William S. Walsh, William
                Wordsworth, Sir Thomas Wyatt


                            [Illustration]




                               THE FLAME
                             (_IL FUOCO_)

                                  BY


                          GABRIELE D'ANNUNZIO

                  TRANSLATED BY DORA KNOWLTON RANOUS

                  .... _fa come natura face in foco_.

                                                 --_DANTE_


                          THE NATIONAL ALUMNI


                          COPYRIGHT, 1907, BY
                          THE NATIONAL ALUMNI




                                         CONTENTS


                                                                   PAGE

               INTRODUCTION                                         ix


                                         BOOK I

                               THE EPIPHANY OF THE FLAME.


               CHAPTER I--The Bells of San Marco                    1

               CHAPTER II--The Face of Truth                       30

               CHAPTER III--The Nuptials of Autumn and Venice      40

               CHAPTER IV--The Spirit of Melody                    67

               CHAPTER V--The Epiphany of the Flame                77

               CHAPTER VI--The Poet's Dream                        95

               CHAPTER VII--The Promise                           123

               CHAPTER VIII--"To Create with Joy!"                134


                                         BOOK II

                                 THE EMPIRE OF SILENCE.


               CHAPTER I--"In Time!"                              147

               CHAPTER II--After the Storm                        156

               CHAPTER III--A Fallen Giant                        173

               CHAPTER IV--The Master's Vision                    181

               CHAPTER V--Sofia                                   201

               CHAPTER VI--A Brother to Orpheus                   209

               CHAPTER VII--Only One Condition                    221

               CHAPTER VIII--Illusions                            231

               CHAPTER IX--The Labyrinth                          239

               CHAPTER X--The Power of the Flame                  262

               CHAPTER XI--Reminiscence                           270

               CHAPTER XII--Cassandra's Reincarnation             291

               CHAPTER XIII--The Story of the Archorgan           304

               CHAPTER XIV--The World's Bereavement               319

               CHAPTER XV--The Last Farewell                      333




                                ILLUSTRATIONS


                                                                PAGE

  "O espousals of Paris, fatal to the beloved!"--(Page 298) Frontispiece

  He gazed deep into her eyes, and saw that she was as pale
  as if her blood had been sapped to nourish the rich
  fruits of the garden                                          130

  He watched the woman turning and running like a mad
  creature along the dark, delusive paths                       259




                             INTRODUCTION

Gabriele D'Annunzio, poet, novelist, and dramatist, was born in 1864,
on the yacht _Irene_ near Pescara in the Abruzzi, his mother being the
Duchess Maria Galesse of Rome. His education was begun in the College
of Prato, in Tuscany, and finished in the University of Rome. His mind
early showed signs of extraordinary power and brilliant versatility;
he studied art and produced very creditable work while a mere lad,
and at the age of sixteen he published his first poem, _Primo Vere_,
which attracted flattering attention and caused him to be hailed as an
infant prodigy. In 1880 he went to Rome and became a contributor to
the _Cronaca Bizantina_, a magazine of art and literature. He remained
in Rome three years, producing in that time _Terra vergine_ ("Virgin
Soil"), _Canto novo_ ("New Song"), and _Intermezzo di rime_ ("Intervals
of Rhyme"), all of which were received with admiration and amazement,
and with not a little criticism for their unconventional boldness of
expression.

D'Annunzio left Rome in 1884 and returned to his native hills, where
he wrote _Il libro delle vergine_ ("The Book of the Virgins") in 1884;
_San Pantaleone_ (1886), and _Isottèo Guttadauro_. Then, abandoning
his revolutionary and realistic though splendid and intoxicating
poetry for prose, the young genius next surprised his public with a
novel, _Giovanni Episcopo_, followed by _Il Piacere_ ("The Child of
Pleasure"), in 1889. The former is a strong yet repelling story of
crude brutalism, told by a victim of relentless fate; the latter is a
kind of poem in prose, in which there is something above mere facility
of literary touch; he shows the power of the master poet or painter to
see the world at a glance, and with a dextrous hand to draw for eyes
less keen that world in all its changeful aspects.

His next important novel, _Il trionfo della morte_ ("The Triumph of
Death") was produced in 1896. This brought upon him a storm of mingled
applause and criticism--admiration for its marvelous beauty of literary
expression, condemnation of the realistic study of a degenerate whose
sins lead him to suicide. But, with a proud defiance of criticism, with
eyes fixed only on his art, he dared after this achievement to write
the self-revelatory novel that is known as his masterpiece--_Il fuoco_
("The Flame"). In this great novel, which may fairly be called unique,
we recognize the personification of a renascence of Latin genius. Under
the thinnest veil of disguise, the author presents his own figure and
that of one of the world's greatest tragic actresses, revealing the
most intimate details of their well known friendship. On this picture
of the most romantic of love-affairs, in Venice, the most romantic
of cities, he has lavished his finest strokes of genius, writing of
feminine nature with rare truth and skill, and an exquisite intuition
as to the workings of a woman's mind and the throbbings of her heart.

Besides his poems and novels, D'Annunzio has written several plays,
the best known being _La Gioconda_ ("Joy"), _La Gloria_ ("Glory"), _La
morta città_ ("The City of the Dead"), and _Francesca da Rimini_. He is
unquestionably the greatest Italian writer of to-day, and few works of
Italian fiction appear that do not show something of his influence. A
European critic of keen discernment says: "Read his works, all ye men
and women for whom life has no secrets and truth has no terror."

                                                     D. K. R.




                                BOOK I

                       THE EPIPHANY OF THE FLAME




                          TO TIME AND TO HOPE


    _Without hope, it is impossible to find the unhoped-for._

    --_HERACLITUS OF EPHESUS._


    _He who sings to the god a song of hope shall see his wish
    accomplished._

    --_ÆSCHYLUS OF ELEUSIS._


    _Time is the father of miracles._

    --_HARIRI DI BASRA._




                               CHAPTER I

                        THE BELLS OF SAN MARCO


"Stelio, does not your heart quail a little, for the first time?"
inquired La Foscarina, with a fleeting smile, as she touched the hand
of the taciturn friend seated beside her. "I see that you are pale and
thoughtful. Yet this is a beautiful evening for the triumph of a great
poet."

With an all-comprehensive glance, she looked around at all the beauty
of this last twilight of September. In the dark wells of her eyes were
reflected the circles of light made by the oar as it flashed in the
water, which was illuminated by the glittering angels that shone from
afar on the campaniles of San Marco and San Giorgio Maggiore.

"As always," she went on, in her sweetest tones, "as always, everything
is in your favor. On such an evening as this, what mortal could shut
out from his mind the dreams that you may choose to evoke by the magic
of your words? Do you not feel already that the multitude is well
disposed to receive your revelation?"

Thus, delicately, she flattered her friend; thus she pleased herself by
exalting him with continual praise.

"It is impossible to imagine a more magnificent and unique festival
than this, to persuade so disdainful a poet as you to come forth from
his ivory tower. For you was reserved this rare joy; to communicate
for the first time with the people in a sovereign place like the Hall
of the Greater Council, from the platform where once the Doge harangued
the assembled patricians, with the _Paradiso_ of Tintoretto for a
background, and overhead the _Gloria_ of Veronese."

Stelio Effrena looked long and searchingly into her eyes.

"Do you wish to intoxicate me?" he said, with a sudden laugh. "Your
words remind me of the soothing cup offered to a man on his way to the
scaffold. Ah, well, my friend, it is true: I own that my heart quails a
little."

The sound of applause rose from the Traghetto di San Gregorio,
echoed through the Grand Canal, reverberating among the porphyry and
serpentine discs ornamenting the ancient mansion of the Dario, which
now leaned over slightly, like a decrepit courtesan loaded with her
jewels.

The royal barge passed.

"There is the one person among your audience whom etiquette demands
that you shall crown with some of your flowers of oratory," pursued the
charming flatterer, alluding to the Queen. "I believe that, in one of
your earlier books, you own to a taste and respect for ceremonials. One
of your most extraordinary flights of fancy is that description of a
day of Charles the Second, King of Spain."

When the royal barge passed the gondola, the man and the woman saluted
it. The Queen, recognizing the poet, the author of _Persephone_,
and the distinguished tragic actress, turned to gaze at them with a
movement of instinctive curiosity. She was blonde and rosy, and her
face was lighted by her ever-ready smile, as she looked out from the
cloud of creamy Buranesi laces clinging around her shoulders. Beside
her sat Andriana Duodo, the patroness of Burano, where, on that
industrious little island, she cultivated flax, and raised the most
marvelous old-fashioned flowers.

"Does it not seem to you that the smiles of those two women are so
similar as to be twin-like?" said La Foscarina, gazing at the silvery
ripples in the wake of the barge, wherein the double light seemed to
prolong its self.

"The Countess has a magnificent and ingenuous soul--one of those
rare Venetian spirits that preserve their warmth, as their ancient
paintings retain their vivid color," said Stelio, earnestly, as if
in gratitude. "I have an absolute devotion for her sensitive hands.
They fairly quiver with pleasure when they touch rare lace or rich
velvet, lingering over the texture with a grace that seems almost shy
of betraying such voluptuous joy in mere touch. One day, when I had
accompanied her to the gallery of the Academia, she stopped before
the _Massacre des Innocents_ by the first Bonifazio. You recollect,
of course, the green robe of the prostrate woman that one of Herod's
soldiers is about to kill--a thing impossible to forget! She paused
long before it, seeming fairly to radiate from her own person the
perfect joy that filled her senses; then she said to me, 'Let us leave
this place now, Effrena! Take me away, but I must leave my eyes on
that robe--I cannot look at anything more!' Ah, do not smile at her,
dear friend! She was perfectly simple and sincere in saying that: she
really did leave her spiritual vision behind her on that bit of canvas
which Art, with a touch of color, has made the center of an infinitely
pleasurable mystery. Besides, it was really a blind woman that I
accompanied there, but I was suddenly seized with reverence for the
privileged soul for whom the magic of color had power to abolish for
the moment all memory of commonplace life, and to cut off all other
worldly communication. What should you call such a state of mind? A
filling of life's goblet to the brim, it seems to me. It is exactly
what I should like to do to-night, if I were not discouraged."

A new clamor, louder and more prolonged, rose between the two guardian
columns of granite, as the royal barge approached the bank of the
Piazzetta, now black with the waiting throng. During the slight pause
that followed, the movement of the crowd shifted, like the changing of
eddies in a current, and all the galleries of the Palace of the Doges
were filled with a confused buzzing, like the mysterious murmur within
a sea-shell. Suddenly the buzz rose to a shout, rending the clear air
and finally dying away in the gathering twilight. The multitude seemed
to realize the divinity of that poetic hour, amid those incomparable
surroundings; and perhaps, in its acclaim to youthful royalty and
beauty, it expressed a vague longing to forget its prosaic existence,
and to revel in the gift of eternal poetry with which its storied walls
and waters were endowed.

"Do you know, Perdita," Stelio suddenly exclaimed, "of any other place
in the world that possesses, like Venice, at certain times, the power
to stimulate all the forces of human life by the exaltation of all
desires to a feverish intensity? Do you know of any more irresistible
temptress?"

She whom he called Perdita did not reply; she bent her head as if from
desire to concentrate her thoughts; but through all her being she felt
the indefinable thrill always felt at the sound of the voice of her
friend when it revealed the vehemence and passionate soul toward which
this woman was drawn by a mingling of love and terror that had no limit.

"Peace! Oblivion! Do you find them down there, at the end of that
deserted canal, when you go home exhausted and fevered after inhaling
the commingled breath of the crowd that you are able to rouse to wild
enthusiasm by a single gesture? As for myself, when I float on these
dead waters, I feel my vital powers increase with bewildering rapidity;
at certain times my brain seems on fire, as if I were in delirium."

"The flame and the power are within yourself, Stelio," said La
Foscarina almost humbly, without raising her eyes.

He was silent, absorbed. Poetic imagery and impetuous music took form
within his brain, as if by virtue of some magic fecundation; and his
spirit reveled in the unexpected delight of that flood of inspiration.

It was still that hour which, in one of his books, he had called
"Titian's hour," because all things glowed with a rich golden light,
like the nude figures of that great painter, appearing almost to
illumine the sky rather than to receive light from it.

"Perdita," said the poet, who, at the sight of so many things
multiplying their beauties around him, was conscious of a kind of
intellectual ecstasy, "does it not seem to you that we are following
the funeral train of the dead Summer? There she lies in her funereal
barge, robed in golden draperies, like a Doge's wife, like a Loredana,
a Morosina, or a Soranza of the golden age; and her cortège conducts
her toward the Isle of Murano, where some lord of the flames will place
her in a coffin of opaline crystal, so that, submerged in the waters of
the lagoon, she can, at least, through her transparent eyelids, behold
the supple movement of the seaweed, and thus fancy herself enwrapped in
the undulating tresses of her own hair, while waiting for the sun of
resurrection to dawn."

A spontaneous smile spread over La Foscarina's face, born in her eyes,
which glowed as if they really had beheld the vision of the beautiful
dead.

"Do you know, Perdita," resumed Stelio, after a moment's pause, during
which both gazed at a file of small boats filled with fruit, floating
upon the water like great baskets, "do you know anything about a
particularly pretty detail in the chronicles of the Doges? The Doge's
wife, to meet the expenses of her robes of ceremony, enjoyed a certain
percentage of the tax on fruit. Does not this seem delightfully
appropriate? The fruits of these isles clothed her in gold and crowned
her with pearls! Pomona paying tribute to Arachne! an allegory that
Paolo Veronese might well have painted on the dome of the Vestiario.
When I conjure up the figure of the noble lady, tall and erect in her
high, jeweled buskins, it pleases me to think that something fresh
and rustic is connected with the rich folds of her heavy brocade:
the tribute of the fruits. What a savor this seems to add to her
magnificence! Only fancy, my friend, that these figs and grapes of the
new-come Autumn are the price of the golden robe that covers the dead
Summer."

"What delightful fancies, Stelio!" said La Foscarina, whose face
became young again when she smiled, as a child to whom one shows a
picture-book. "Who was it that once called you the Image-maker?"

"Ah--images!" said the poet, his fancy warming. "In Venice, just as one
feels everything to a musical rhythm, so he thinks of everything in
poetic imagery. They come to us from everywhere, innumerable, diverse,
more real and living to our minds than the persons we elbow in these
narrow streets. In studying them, we can lose ourselves in the depths
of their haunting eyes, and divine, by the curve of their lips, what
they would say to us. Some art tyrannical as imperious mistresses, and
hold us long beneath the yoke of their power. Others are enfolded in a
veil, like timid virgins, or are tightly swaddled, like infants; and
only he that knows how to rend their veils can lead them to the perfect
life. This morning, when I awakened, my soul was filled with images;
it was like a beautiful tree with its branches laden with chrysalides."

He paused, with a laugh.

"If they come forth from their prison to-night," he added, "I am saved;
if they do not, I am lost!"

"Lost?" said La Foscarina, gazing earnestly at him, with eyes so full
of confidence that his heart went out to her in gratitude. "No, Stelio,
you will not lose yourself. You are always sure of yourself; you
bear your own destiny in your hands. I think your mother never could
have felt any apprehension on your account, even in the most serious
circumstances. Is not that true? Pride is the only thing that makes
your heart falter."

"Ah, sweet friend, how I love you--how I thank you for saying that!"
said the poet frankly, taking her hand. "You continually foster my
pride and encourage me to believe that I have already acquired those
virtues to which I never cease to aspire. Sometimes you seem to have
the power of conferring I know not what divine quality on the things
that are born in my soul, and of making them appear adorable in my
own eyes. Sometimes, too, you fill me with the awe-struck wonder of
the sculptor who, having in the evening borne to the sacred temple
the marble gods still warm from his hands--I might say still clinging
to the fingers that moulded them--the next day beholds them standing
on their pedestals, surrounded by clouds of incense, and seeming to
exhale divinity from every pore of the insensate matter from which
he fashioned them with his perishable hands. And so, each time that
Fortune grants me the favor of being near you, I realize that you are
necessary to my life, although, during our long separations, I can
live without you, and you without me, despite the fact that both of
us well know what splendors would be born of the perfect union of our
lives. Thus, knowing the full value of that which you give me, and,
still more, of that which you could give me, I think of you as lost to
me; and, by that name which it pleases my fancy to call you, I try to
express at the same time this consciousness and this regret."

He interrupted himself, because he felt a quiver of the hand he clasped
in his own.

"When I call you 'Perdita,'" he resumed softly, after a pause, "I fancy
that you can see my desire approaching you, with a deadly blade deep in
its palpitating side. Even should it reach you, the chill of death has
already touched its audacious hand."

The woman experienced an oft-felt suffering as she listened to the
poetic words that flowed from her friend's lips with a spontaneity that
proved them sincere. Again she felt an agitation and a terror that she
knew not how to define. She felt that she was slipping out of her own
life, and was transported into a kind of fictitious life, intense and
hallucinating, where even to breathe was difficult. Drawn into that
atmosphere, as fiery as the glow surrounding a lighted forge, she felt
that she should be capable of passing through any transfigurations that
it might please the master of her spirit to work in her to satisfy his
continual craving for poetry and beauty. She comprehended that, in his
idealistic mind, her own image resembled that of the dead Summer,
wrapped in its opalescent cerements. She felt a childish desire to gaze
into the poet's eyes as in a mirror, to contemplate the likeness of her
real self.

That which rendered her melancholy most painful, was the recognition of
a vague resemblance between this agitation and the anxiety that always
possessed her when she sank her own personality in that of some sublime
creation of dramatic art. Was not this man drawing her, in fact, into
a similar region of higher but artificial life; and, that she might
figure there without remembrance of her everyday self, did he not seek
to cover her with a splendid disguise? But, while she was unable to
maintain so great a degree of intensity except by a painful effort, she
knew that he dwelt within that state of exaltation with perfect ease,
as if in his natural atmosphere, ceaselessly enjoying a marvelous world
of fancy, which he could renew or change at his own pleasure.

He had come to realize in himself the intimate union of art and
of life, thus finding, in the depths of his own soul, a source of
perpetual harmony. He had become able to maintain within himself,
without lapse, the mysterious psychological condition that engenders
works of beauty, and thus, at a single stroke, to crystallize into
ideal types the fleeting figures of his varied existence. It was to
celebrate this conquest over his own mental powers that he put the
following words into the mouth of one of his heroes: "I witnessed
within myself the continual genesis of a higher life, wherein all
appearances metamorphosed themselves as if reflected in a magic
mirror." Endowed with an extraordinary linguistic facility, he could
instantly translate into words the most complicated workings of his
mind, with a precision so exact and vivid that sometimes, as soon
as expressed, they seemed not to be his own, having been rendered
objective by the isolating power of style. His clear and penetrating
voice, which, so to speak, seemed to define each word as distinctly
as if it were a note of music, enhanced still more this peculiar
quality of his speech, so that those who heard him speak for the
first time experienced an ambiguous feeling--a mingling of admiration
and aversion, because he revealed his own personality in a manner so
strongly marked that it seemed to denote an intention to demonstrate
the existence of a profound and impassable difference between himself
and his listeners. But as his sensibility equaled his intelligence, it
was easy for those that knew him well and liked him to absorb, through
his crystalline speech, the glow of his vehement and passionate soul.
These knew how illimitable was his power to feel and to dream, and from
what fiery source sprang the beautiful images into which he converted
the substance of his inner life.

She whom he called Perdita knew it well; and, as a pious soul awaits
from God some supernatural help that shall work out its salvation, so
she seemed to be waiting for him to put her into the state of grace
necessary to enable her to elevate and maintain herself in those
fiery regions toward which a mad desire to be consumed impelled her,
despairing as she was at the thought of her vanished youth, and the
fear of finding herself left alone at last in a desert of ashes.

"It is you now, Stelio," she said, with the slight smile she used to
hide her sadness, "who wish to intoxicate me." She gently drew her hand
from his. Then, to break the spell, she pointed to a loaded barge that
was slowly approaching them, and said:

"Look! Look at your pomegranates!"

But her voice shook a little.

Then, in the dreamy twilight, on the water as silvery-green as the
leaves of the willow, they watched the passing boat overflowing with
that emblematic fruit which suggests things rich and hidden: caskets
of red leather, surmounted by the crown of a royal donor; some closed,
others half-open, revealing their close-packed gems.

In a low tone, the tragic actress repeated the words addressed by Hades
to Persephone in the sacred drama, at the moment when the daughter of
Demeter tastes the fatal pomegranate:

    _Quando tu coglierai il colchico in fiore su'l molle
    Prato terrestre, presso la madre dal cerulo peplo._

"Ah, Perdita! how well you know how to throw a shadow into your voice!"
interrupted the poet, feeling the harmony of the twilight that seemed
to throw a mystic vagueness over the syllables of his lines. "How well
you know how to become nocturnal, even before the evening is upon us!
Do you recall the scene where Persephone is on the point of throwing
herself into Erebus, to the wailing of the chorus of the Oceanides?
Her face is like yours when a shadow passes over it. Her crowned head
leans backward, as she stands rigidly erect in her saffron-colored
peplum; and the very spirit of the night seems flowing into her
bloodless flesh, deepening under her chin, in the hollows of her eyes
and around her nostrils, giving her face the look of a tragic mask.
It is your mask, Perdita! While I was composing my _Mystery_, the
remembrance of you aided me in evoking her divine person. That little
saffron-velvet ribbon you so often wear around your neck gave me the
note for Persephone's peplum. And one evening at your house, when I
was about to take leave of you at the threshold of a room where the
lamps were not yet lighted--an agitated evening of last autumn, you
remember?--you succeeded, with a single movement, in bringing to full
light in my being the creature that had lain long there undeveloped;
and then, without dreaming that you had brought about that sudden
birth, you shut yourself again within the solitary obscurity of your
own Erebus. Ah, I was certain that I could hear you sob, yet a torrent
of uncontrollable joy ran through my veins. I never have spoken to you
of this before, have I? I ought to have consecrated my work to you, as
to an ideal Lucina."

She shrank under the eyes of the master of her spirit; she suffered
because of that mask which he admired on her face, and because of that
strange joy that she was aware was continually up-springing within him,
like a perpetually playing fountain. She felt oppressed by her own
personality; troubled because of her too-expressive face, the muscles
of which possessed a strange power of mimicry; pained to think of
that involuntary art which governed the significance of her gestures,
and of that expressive shadow which sometimes on the stage, during a
moment of anxious silence, she knew how to throw over her face like a
veil of grief--that shadow which now threatened to remain among the
lines traced by time on the face that was no longer young. She suffered
cruelly by the hand she adored--that hand so delicate and noble which,
even with a gift or a caress, had power to hurt her.

"Do you not believe, Perdita," Stelio continued after another pause,
"in the occult beneficence of signs? I do not mean astral science or
horoscopic signs. I mean that, like those that believe themselves
under the influence of one planet or another, we can create an ideal
correspondence between our own soul and some terrestrial object, in
such a way that this object, becoming impregnated, little by little,
with the essence of ourselves, and being magnified by our illusion,
finally becomes for us the representative sign of our unknown destiny,
and takes on an aspect of mystery when it appears to us in certain
crises of our life. This is the secret whereby we may restore to our
withering hearts something of their pristine freshness. I know by
experience the beneficial effect we may derive from intense communion
with some earthly object. From time to time it is necessary for our
natures to become like a hamadryad, in order to feel within us the
circulation of new energy drawn from the source of life. Of course
you understand that I am thinking of your words just now, when the
boat passed. You expressed the same idea when you said 'Look at
your pomegranates!' For you, and for everyone that loves me, the
pomegranate never can be anything but _mine_. For you and for them,
the idea of my personality is indissolubly linked to that fruit which
I have chosen for an emblem, and which I have charged with significant
ideals, more numerous than its seeds. Had I lived in the times when
men excavated the Grecian marbles and found under the soil the still
damp roots of ancient fables, no painter could have represented me on
his canvas without putting in my hand the Punic apple. To sever from
my person that symbol would have seemed to the ingenuous artist like
the amputation of a living member, for, to his pagan imagination, the
fruit would have seemed to grow to my hand as to its natural branch.
In short, he would not have conceived me in any different way than he
thought of Hyacinthus or Narcissus or Ciparissus, all three of whom
would appear to him as youths symbolized by a plant. But, even in our
day, a few lively and warm imaginations exist that comprehend all the
meaning and enjoy all the savor of my invention.

"You, yourself, Perdita, do you not delight in cultivating in your
garden a pomegranate, the beautiful 'Effrenian' tree, that you may
every summer watch me blossom and bring forth fruit? In one of your
letters, flying to me like a winged messenger, you described to me
the graceful ceremony of decorating the tree with garlands the day
you received the first copy of _Persephone_. So, for you, and for
those that love me, I have in reality renewed an ancient myth when,
in fancy, I have assimilated myself with a form of eternal Nature.
And when I am dead (and may Nature grant that I am able to manifest
my whole self in my work before I die!), my disciples will honor me
under a symbol of that tree; and in the sharp outline of the leaf, in
the flame of the flower, and in the hidden treasure of the ripe fruit,
they will recognize certain qualities of my art. By that leaf, by that
flower and fruit, as if by a posthumous teaching of the master, their
minds will be formed to a similar sharpness, flame-like intensity, and
treasured richness.

"You will see now, Perdita, what is the real beneficence of symbols.
By affinity, I am led to develop myself in accord with the magnificent
genius of the plant which it pleases me to fancy as the symbol of my
aspirations toward a full, rich life. This arboreous image of myself
suffices to assure me that my powers should follow nature in order
to attain naturally the end for which they were created. 'Nature
has disposed me thus' is the epigraph of Leonardo da Vinci, which I
placed on the title-page of my first book; and the pomegranate, as it
continually blossoms and bears its fruit, repeats to me that simple
phrase over and over again. We obey only the laws written in our own
substance, and by reason of this we shall remain intact in the midst of
dissolution, in the unity and plenitude that make our joy. No discord
exists between my art and my life."

He spoke with perfect freedom, as if the mind of the listening woman
were a chalice into which he poured his thoughts till it was full to
the brim. An intellectual felicity filled him, blended with a vague
consciousness of the mysterious action whereby his mind was preparing
itself for the effort it was soon to make. From time to time, as if
by a lightning flash, his mental vision beheld, as he bent toward his
beloved friend and listened to the beat of the oar in the silence of
the great estuary, the crowd, with its thousand faces, gathering in the
vast hall; and he felt a rapid throbbing of his heart.

"It is a very singular thing, Perdita," said he, gazing at the pale
distance of the waters, "to observe how readily chance aids our
imagination in ascribing an element of mystery to the conjunction of
certain appearances with the aim we have fancied. I do not understand
the reason why the poets of to-day are so indignant at the vulgarity
of the present, and complain that they were born either too late
or too early. I am convinced that to-day, as always, every man of
intelligence has power to create for himself his own beautiful fable
of life. We should study the confused whirl of life with the same
lively imagination that Leonardo encouraged in his disciples when
he advised them to study the stains on the wall, the ashes on the
hearth, the clouds, even mud, and similar objects, in order to find
there 'wonderful inventions' and 'infinite things.' In the same way,
he declared, one can find in the sound of bells every name and every
word that can be imagined. That great master knew well that chance--as
the sponge of Apelles had already shown--is always the friend of the
ingenious artist. For example, I never cease to be astonished at the
ease and grace with which chance favors the harmonious development of
my inventions. Do you not believe that the dark god Hades forced his
bride to eat the seven seeds of the pomegranate in order to furnish me
with the subject of a masterpiece?"

He interrupted himself with one of the bursts of boyish laughter that
revealed so clearly the persistence of natural joyousness in the depths
of his heart.

"See, Perdita," he continued, still laughing, "whether I am not
right. Early in October last year I was invited to Burano by Donna
Andriana Duodo. We passed the morning in her flax-fields, and in the
afternoon we went to visit Torcello. At that time I was beginning to
saturate myself with the mythical story of Persephone, and already my
poem had begun to take shape in my brain, and it seemed to me that I
was floating on the waters of the Styx, and that I should arrive at
the abode of the Manes. Never had I experienced a purer and sweeter
understanding of death, and this feeling seemed to render me so
ethereal that I fancied I could tread the field of asphodel without
leaving there the least trace of my footsteps. The air was damp, warm,
the sky was gray; the canals wound between the banks covered with
half-faded verdure. (You know Torcello only by sunlight, perhaps.) But
all this time some one was talking, arguing, and declaiming in Charon's
boat. The sound of praise roused me from my reverie. Francesco di Lizo
was speaking of me, regretting that such an artist, so magnificently
sensual--I quote his own words--should be obliged to live apart from
the obtuse and hostile throng, and to celebrate the feast of sound,
color, and form in the solitary palace of his dream. He abandoned
himself to a lyric impulse, recalling the joyous and splendid life
of the Venetian painters, the popular favor that swept them, like a
whirlwind, up to the heights of the glory, beauty, strength and joy
which they multiplied around them in producing countless images on
walls and domes.

"Then Donna Andriana said: 'Well, I promise solemnly that Stelio
Effrena shall have his triumphal feast in Venice.' The Dogaressa had
spoken! At that moment I beheld, on the low, mossy bank, a pomegranate
laden with fruit, which, like the hallucination of a vision, broke
the infinite squalor of that place. Donna Orsetta Contarini, who was
sitting beside me, uttered a cry of delight, and held out her hands, as
impatient as her lips. Nothing pleases me so much as a frank, strong
expression of desire. 'I adore pomegranates!' she cried, and she seemed
fairly to be tasting its fine, sharp flavor. She was as childish as
her name is archaic. Her cry moved me; but Andrea Contarini appeared
severely to disapprove of his wife's vivacity. He seemed to me like a
Hades that has little faith in the mnemonic virtue of the seven seeds
as applied to legitimate marriage. But the boatmen, too, were stirred
with sympathy, and rowed toward the shore, approaching it so close that
I was able to jump out first, and I began at once to despoil the tree,
my brother. It was another case, albeit from the lips of a pagan of the
words of the Last Supper: 'Take, eat, this is my body, which is given
for you. Do this in remembrance of me.' How does this seem to you,
Perdita? Do not think that I am inventing this story. I assure you it
is true."

La Foscarina allowed herself to be fascinated by the free and elegant
fancy whereby he exercised the quickness of his wit and his facility
of expression. In his words was something intoxicating, variable, and
vigorous, which suggested to her mind the double and diverse image of
water and of fire.

"Now," he continued, "Donna Andriana has kept her promise. Guided by
that hereditary taste for magnificence which she shows so plainly,
she has prepared a truly ducal feast in the Palace of the Doges,
in imitation of those that were held there toward the end of the
sixteenth century. She conceived the idea of rescuing from oblivion
the _Ariadne_ of Benedetto Marcello, and of making her sigh in the
same place where Tintoretto painted the daughter of Minos receiving
the crown of stars from Aphrodite. Don't you recognize in the beauty
of this idea the woman who wished to leave her dear eyes behind her
on that ineffable green robe? Remember, too, that this _musicale_ in
the Hall of the Greater Council has a historic precedent. In fifteen
hundred seventy-three, in this same Hall, was performed a mythological
composition by Cornelio Frangipani, with music by Claudio Merulo, in
honor of his most Christian Majesty Henry Third. Own, Perdita, that my
erudition astonishes you. Ah, if you only knew all that I have learned
on that subject! I will read you my lecture on it, some day when you
deserve a severe punishment!"

"What! Are you not to read it to-night at the festival?" inquired La
Foscarina in surprise, fearing that, with his well known heedlessness
of engagements, Effrena had resolved to disappoint the expectant public.

He understood her anxiety, and chose to amuse himself with it.

"This evening," he replied, with tranquil assurance, "I shall take
a sherbet in your garden, and delight my eyes with the sight of the
pomegranate, with its jewels gleaming in the starlight."

"Ah, Stelio! What do you mean?" she cried, half rising.

In her words and movement was so keen a regret, and at the same time
so strange an evocation of the expectant gathering, that his mind was
troubled. The image of the formidable monster with innumerable human
faces amid the gold and somber purple of the vast hall reappeared
before his mental vision; in fancy he felt its fixed regard and hot
breath. He realized also the peril he had resolved to face in trusting
only to the inspiration of the moment, and felt a horror of a possible
sudden mental obscurity, an unexpected confusion of his thought.

"Reassure yourself," he said. "I was only jesting. I will go _ad
bestias_, and I will go unarmed. Did you not see the sign reappear just
now? Do you believe, after the miracle of Torcello, that it reappeared
in vain? It has come to warn me again that the only attitude that
suits me is the one to which Nature disposes me. Now, you well know, my
friend, that I do not know how to speak of anything but myself. And so,
from the throne of the Doges, I must speak to my listeners only of my
own soul, under the veil of some seductive allegory, with the charm of
flowing musical cadences. I purpose to do this extemporaneously, if the
fiery spirit of Tintoretto will only inspire me, from the heights of
his Paradise, with sufficient ardor and audacity. The risk tempts me.
But into what a strange error I was about to fall, Perdita! When the
Dogaressa announced the feast to me, and begged me to do the honors,
I undertook to compose a dignified discourse, a really ceremonious
effort in prose, ample and solemn as one of those great robes of state
behind glass in the Correr Museum; not without making in the exordium a
profound genuflexion to the Queen; nor omitting to weave an impressive
garland for the head of the most serene Andriana Duodo! And for
several days it has given me a curious pleasure to dwell in spiritual
communion with a Venetian patrician of the sixteenth century, a master
of letters like Cardinal Bembo, a member of the Academy Uracini or
Adorni, a frequent visitor to the gardens of Murano and the hills of
Asolo. Certain it is that I felt a marked resemblance between the turn
of my periods and the massive gold frames that surround the paintings
on the ceiling of the Hall of Council. But, alas! yesterday morning,
when I arrived here, and, in passing along the Grand Canal, when I
wished to steep my weariness in the damp, transparent shade where the
marble still exhales the spirit of the night, I had a sudden impression
that my papers were worth much less than the dead seaweed tossed by
the tide, and they seemed as strange to me as the _Trionfi_ of Celio
Magno and the _Favole Marittime_ of Anton Maria Consalvi, quoted and
commented on in them by me. What should I do, then?"

He threw around him an all-sweeping glance, as if exploring the waters
and the sky in search of an invisible presence, or a newly arrived
phantom. A yellowish light spread toward the solitary shores, which
stood out in sharp lines like the dark veins in agate. Behind him,
toward the Salute, the sky was scattered with light rosy and violet
ribbon-like clouds, giving it the appearance of a glaucous sea, peopled
with Medusas. From the gardens near the water descended the odor of
foliage saturated with light and heat--an odor so heavy one might
almost see it float on the waves like aromatic oil.

"Do you feel the Autumn, Perdita?" Stelio asked his dreamy friend, in a
penetrating voice.

Again she had a vision of the dead Summer, enclosed within opalescent
glass and sunk among the masses of seaweed.

"Yes, I feel it--within myself!" she replied, with a melancholy smile.

"Did you not see it last night, when it descended upon the city? Where
were you last night, at sunset?"

"In a garden of the Giudecca."

"I was here, on the Riva. When human eyes have contemplated such a
spectacle of joy and beauty, does it not seem to you that the eyelids
should close and seal themselves forever? I should like to speak
to-night, Perdita, of these hidden, secret matters. I should like to
celebrate within myself the nuptials of Venice and Autumn, in almost
the same tonality that Tintoretto used when he painted the nuptials of
Ariadne and Bacchus for the hall of the Anticollegio--azure, purple and
gold. Last night an old germ of poetry suddenly blossomed in my soul.
I recalled a fragment of a forgotten poem that I wrote when I began
to write in _nona rima_, one September in my early youth, when I had
come by sea to Venice for the first time. The title of the poem was
simply 'The Allegory of Autumn,' and the god was no longer represented
as crowned with vine-leaves, but with jewels, like one of Paolo
Veronese's princes, his being aglow with passion, about to approach
the Anadyomenean City, with her arms of marble and her thousand green
girdles. But the idea had not at that time reached the right degree
of intensity to be admitted to the realm of Art, and instinctively I
gave up the effort to manifest it in its entirety. But, in an active
mind, as in a fertile soil, no seed is lost; and now this idea returns
to me at an opportune moment and urgently demands expression. What a
just and mysterious fatality governs the mental world! It was necessary
that I should respect that first germ in order to feel its multiplied
virtues develop in me to-day. That Vinci, who looked deep into all
things profound, certainly meant something of this kind in his fable of
the grain of millet that says to the ant: 'If you will be kind enough
to let me satisfy my desire to be born again, I will render myself to
you again a hundredfold.' Admire the touch of grace in those fingers
capable of breaking iron! Ah, he is always the incomparable master! How
can I forget him for a time, that I may give myself to the Venetians?"

The playful irony with which he had been speaking was suddenly
extinguished in his last words, and again he seemed plunged in his own
thoughts.

"It is already late; the hour approaches; we must return," he said
presently, rousing himself as if from a troubled dream, for he had seen
reappear that formidable monster with the thousand human faces filling
the depth and width of the great hall. "I must go back to the hotel in
time to dress."

Then, with a return of his boyish vanity, he thought of the eyes of the
unknown women who would see him that evening for the first time.

"To the Hotel Danieli," La Foscarina said to the boatman.

While the dentellated iron of the prow swung around on the water, with
a slow, animal-like movement, each felt a sadness different but equally
painful at leaving behind them the infinite silence of the estuary,
already overcome by darkness and death, and being compelled to return
toward the magnificent and tempting city, whose canals, like the veins
of a full-blooded woman, began to burn with the fever of night.

They were quiet for some time, absorbed by their interior agitation,
which shook each heart to it depths. And all things around them exalted
the power of life in the man who wished to attract to himself the
universe in order not to die, and in the woman, who would have thrown
her oppressed soul to the flames in order to die pure.

Both started at the unexpected sound of the salute at the lowering of
the flag on board a man-of-war anchored before the gardens. At the
summit of the black mass they saw the tricolored flag slide down the
staff and fold itself up, like a heroic dream that suddenly vanishes.
For a moment the silence seemed deeper, and the gondola glided into
darker shadows, grazing the side of the armed colossus.

"Do you know that Donatella Arvale who is to sing in _Ariadne_?" said
Stelio suddenly.

"She is the daughter of the great sculptor, Lorenzo Arvale," La
Foscarina replied, after an instant of hesitation. "I have no dearer
friend than she--and in fact she is my guest at present. You will meet
her at my house this evening, after the festival."

"Donna Andriana spoke to me of her last night as a prodigy. She said
that the idea of resurrecting _Ariadne_ had come to her on hearing
Donatella Arvale sing divinely the air: _Come mai puoi--Vedermi
piangere?_ We shall have some divine music at your house, Perdita. Oh,
how I long to hear it! Below there, in my solitude, for months and
months, I hear only the music of the sea, which is too terrible, and my
own music, which is too tumultuous."

The bells of San Marco gave the signal for the Angelus, and their
powerful notes spread in great waves of sound over the water,
vibrating among the masts of the vessels, and creeping out upon the
infinite reach of the lagoon. From San Giorgio Maggiore, San Giorgio
dei Greci, San Giorgio degli Schiavoni, San Giovanni in Bragora,
and San Moisé, from the Salute, the Redentore, and beyond, over the
entire domain of the Evangelista, to the distant towers of the Madonna
dell' Orto, San Giobbe and Sant' Andrea, tongues of bronze responded,
mingling in one great chorus, seeming to extend over the silent stones
and waters a single immense and invisible dome of metal, the vibration
of which might almost reach the first sparkling stars. Those sacred
voices seemed to lend to the City of Silence an ideal and infinite
grandeur.

"Can you still pray?" said Stelio in a softened voice, looking at the
woman who, with eyes downcast, and hands clasped on her knees, seemed
absorbed in a silent orison.

She did not reply; she only pressed her lips together more closely.

The minds of both were confused by the strange, the new image, and the
new name, that had risen between them. Perturbation and passion seized
them again, drew them near each other with such force that they dared
not look into each other's eyes, for fear of what might be read there.

"Shall I see you again this evening, after the festival?" said La
Foscarina, with a slight unsteadiness in her voice. "Are you free?"

She was eager now to hold him, to make him her prisoner, as if she
feared he would escape her, as if she had hoped to find this night
some magic philter that would bind him to her forever. And, though
she comprehended now that the gift of all she had to give had become
necessary, she realized only too clearly, nevertheless, even through
the intoxication that bewildered her, the poverty of the gift so long
withheld. And a mournful modesty, a mingling of terror and pride,
contracted her slender frame.

"I am free--and I am yours!" the young man answered in a half whisper,
without raising his eyes to hers. "You know that nothing is worth to me
what you can give."

His heart, too, was stirred to its depths, with the two aims before his
ambition toward which, this night, all his energy bent, like a powerful
bow: the city and the woman, both tempting and mysterious, weary with
having lived too much, and oppressed with too many loves; both were too
much magnified by his imagination, and both were destined to disappoint
his hopes.

In the moment that followed, a violent wave of mingled regret and
desire swept over him. The pride and intoxication of his hard,
persistent labor; his boundless ambition, which had been curbed within
a sphere too narrow for it; his intolerance of mediocrity, his demand
for the privileges of princes; his superb and empurpled dreams; his
insatiable need of preëminence, glory, pleasure--surged in his soul
with a confusing tumult, dazzling and suffocating him. And the craving
of his sadness inclined him to win the final love of this solitary,
nomadic woman, the very folds of whose garments seemed to suggest
the frenzy of the far-off multitudes, whom she had so often thrilled
and shaken with her art, by a cry of passion, a sob of grief, or a
death-like silence. An irresistible impulse drew him toward this woman,
in whom he fancied he saw the traces of all emotions and experiences,
toward that being, no longer young, who had known so many caresses, yet
was unknown by him.

"Is it a promise?" he murmured, bowing his head lower to conceal his
agitation. "Ah! at last!"

She made no reply, but fixed on him a gaze of almost mad intensity,
which he did not see.

They relapsed into silence again, while the reverberation of the bells
passing overhead was so penetrating that they felt it in the roots of
the hair, as from a quiver of their own flesh.

"Good-by," said La Foscarina, as they were landing. "When we leave the
hall, let us meet in the courtyard, near the second well, the nearest
to the Molo."

"Good-by," he answered. "Take some place where I may see you, among the
crowd, when I speak my first word."

A confused clamor arose from San Marco, above the sound of the bells,
spread over the Piazzetta, and died away toward the Fortuna.

"May all light be on your brow, Stelio!" said La Foscarina, holding out
her burning hands to him passionately.




                              CHAPTER II

                           THE FACE OF TRUTH


When he entered the court by the south door, Stelio Effrena, seeing the
black and white throng that swarmed up the Giants' Stairway, in the
ruddy light of the torches fixed in the iron candelabra, felt a sudden
sensation of repugnance, and paused at the entrance. He noted the
contrast between this paltry crowd and the noble architecture which,
magnified by the unusual nocturnal illumination, expressed, by their
varied harmoniousness, the strength and the beauty of a day that was
past.

"Oh, how miserable!" he exclaimed, turning to the friends that
accompanied him. "In the Hall of the Greater Council, from the throne
of the Doges, how is it possible to find metaphors that will move a
thousand starched shirt-bosoms? Let us go back; let us inhale the odor
of the real crowd, the true crowd. The Queen has not yet left the royal
palace. We have time enough."

"Until the moment that I see you on the platform, I shall not feel sure
that you will really speak," said Francesco de Lizo, laughing.

"I believe that Stelio would prefer the balcony to the platform," said
Piero Martello, wishing to flatter the master's taste for sedition,
and his factious spirit, which he himself affected, in imitation.
"He would like to harangue, between the two red columns, the mutinous
people who threatened to set fire to the new _Procuratie_ and the old
_Libreria_."

"Yes, certainly," said Stelio, "if the harangue had power to prevent
or to precipitate an irreparable act. I hold that we use the written
word to create a pure form of beauty, which, even in an uncut book,
is enclosed and shut in, as in a tabernacle that may be entered only
by election, with the same premeditated will used in the breaking of
a seal. But the spoken word, it seems to me, when it is addressed
directly to a multitude, should have only action for its aim. On
this condition alone can a proud spirit, without lessening itself in
dignity, communicate with the masses by means of voice and gesture.
Otherwise, his effort becomes merely histrionic. And so I repent
bitterly of having accepted this function of an ornamental orator, who
must not speak unless he speaks agreeably. Consider, I ask you, how
humiliating for me is the honor that they think to do me, and consider
also the uselessness of my speech. All these people, strangers here,
have left their mediocre occupations, or their favorite amusements,
to come and listen to me with the same vain and stupid curiosity that
would lead them to listen to some new virtuoso. For the women that will
listen to me, the art with which I have tied my cravat will be much
more appreciated than the art with which I shall round my periods. And,
after all, the only effect of my speech will be a clapping of hands,
deadened by gloves, or a brief, discreet murmur, to which I shall
reply with a gracious inclination of the head. Does it seem to you that
I am about to attain the summit of my ambition?"

"You are wrong," said Francesco de Lizo. "You should congratulate
yourself for this happy occasion, which will allow you, for several
hours, to impress the rhythm of art on the life of a forgetful city,
and to make us dream of the splendors that might embellish our
existence by a renewed union of Art with Life. If the man that built
the Teatro di Festa were there, he would praise you for that harmony
which he predicted. But the most wonderful thing about this affair is
the fact that, notwithstanding your absence, and your ignorance of the
project, the festival seems to have been prepared under the direct
inspiration of your genius. This is the best proof that it is possible
to restore and diffuse taste, even in the midst of the barbaric
present. Your influence to-day is more powerful than you think. The
lady who has desired to honor you--she that you call the Dogeressa--at
every new idea that came to her, asked herself: 'Would it please
Effrena?' If you only knew how many young and eager spirits put to
themselves to-day the same question, when they consider the aspects of
their inner life!"

"And for whom should you speak, if not for them?" said Daniele Glauro,
the fervent and sterile ascetic of Beauty, with that melodious voice
which seemed to reflect the frank and inextinguishable ardor of the
soul beloved by the master as one of the most faithful. "If, when you
stand upon the platform, you will look about you, you will easily
recognize the expression in their eyes. There are many of them, and
some have come a long distance; they await your words with an eagerness
that you perhaps do not understand. They are those who have imbibed
the spirit of your poetry, who have breathed the fiery ether of your
dream, and felt the grip of your chimera; those to whom you have
announced the transfiguration of the world by the miracle of a new
art. The number that you have attracted as an apostle of hope and of
joy is very great. They have heard that you are to speak in Venice,
in the Ducal Palace--one of the most splendid and glorious places on
earth. They will be able to see you and listen to you for the first
time, surrounded by the magnificence that seems to them an appropriate
frame to your personality. The old Palace of the Doges, which has so
long been wrapped in nocturnal darkness, is suddenly illuminated and
aroused this night for you, and, to their minds, it is you alone that
have had the power to rekindle these long-extinguished torches. Do you
understand now the eagerness of their expectation? Does it not seem to
you that to them only you ought to speak? The condition you impose on
the man that harangues a multitude may be fulfilled. You can awaken an
emotion in their breasts that shall turn them forever toward the Ideal.
For how many of them, Stelio, you might make this Venetian night an
experience never to be forgotten!"

Stelio laid his hand on the prematurely bent shoulders of the mystic
doctor, and, smiling, repeated Petrarch's words: "_Non ego loquar
omnibus, sed tibi, sed mihi, et his_."

He saw within himself the radiant eyes of his unknown disciples, and
heard within his soul, in clear tones, the sound of his own exordium.

"Nevertheless," he replied gayly, addressing Piero Martello, "it would
be amusing to conjure up a tempest on this sea."

They were standing under the arch, near a column, in contact with the
noisy, unanimous crowd, which gathered in the Piazzetta, stretched out
toward the Zecca, was swallowed up near the _Procuratie_, barred the
Torre dell'Orologio, occupied every space like a wave without form, and
communicated its living warmth to the marble columns and the walls,
against which it surged in its violent movement. From time to time, a
louder cry arose from the distance, at the farther end of the Piazza,
swelling higher and stronger until it burst out near them like a clap
of thunder, then diminishing until it died away in a murmur.

"I should like to-night to find myself for the first time with a woman
I loved, on a floating couch, over there, beyond the gardens, toward
the Lido," said the romantic poet, Paris Eglano, a blond, beardless
youth, whose handsome mouth, with its full red lips, contrasted with
the almost angelic delicacy of his other features. "Within an hour,
Venice will present to some Nero-like lover, hidden in a gondola, the
spectacle of a city set on fire by its own delirium."

Stelio smiled, noting to what extent his intimates had become imbued
with his own spiritual essence, and how deep the seal of his own style
had stamped itself on their minds. Suddenly the image of La Foscarina
flashed across his mental vision: La Foscarina, poisoned by too much
art, remembering too many amatory experiences, with the stamp of
maturity and of corruption on her eloquent mouth, the aridity of the
vein fever that burned in those hands that pressed out the juices of
deceitful fruits, and the marks of a hundred masks on that face which
had simulated the fury of all mortal passions. Thus she appeared to his
ardent thought of her, and his heart throbbed faster as he pictured her
emerging soon from the multitude, as from some element that enslaved
her, and thought that from her glance he should draw the necessary
inspiration.

"Come, let us go," said he resolutely to his friends. "It is the hour."

The cannon announced that the Queen had left the royal palace. A
prolonged quiver ran through the living human mass, like that which
precedes a storm at sea. From the bank of San Giorgio Maggiore, a
rocket rushed up with a long hiss, rising in the air like a fiery
stem and bursting into a mass of pink splendor at the top; then it
curved, grew fainter, and dissolved in trembling sparks, extinguished
finally with a slight crackling in the water. And the joyous clamor
that greeted the beautiful Queen, repeating her name--the name of the
starry, white flower and of the pearl--evoked in Stelio's imagination
the pomp of the ancient Promissione, the triumphal procession of the
Arts escorting the new Dogaressa to the palace; the wave of joy on
which Morosina Grimani mounted to her throne, shimmering with gold,
while all the Arts bowed before her, laden with gifts as if they bore
horns of plenty.

"Certainly," said Francesco de Lizo, "if the Queen loves your books,
she will wear all her pearls this evening. You will have before you a
veritable labyrinth of jewels--all the hereditary gems of the Venetian
patricians."

"Look toward the foot of the stairway, Stelio," said Daniele Glauro. "A
group of devotees is waiting for you to pass that way."

Stelio stopped at the well indicated by La Foscarina. He leaned over
the bronze edge, his knees touching the little carved caryatides, and
saw in the dark water the reflection of the stars. For the moment his
soul isolated itself, shut out the surrounding sounds, and withdrew
into the shadowy disc, from which rose a slight dampness betokening
the presence of water. His excited desire felt a need to attain even
greater intoxication than this night promised him, and he felt that in
the farthest depths of his being lay a secret soul, which, like this
dark, watery mirror, remained immovable, strange, and intangible.

"What do you see there?" inquired Piero Martello, also leaning over the
rim, worn in places by the ropes of centuries.

"The face of Truth!" the master answered.

                   *       *       *       *       *

In the apartments contiguous to the Hall of the Greater Council, once
occupied by the Doge, but now by the pagan statues that were seized
as booty in ancient wars, Stelio awaited the summons from the master
of the ceremonies to mount to the platform. He was quite calm, and
smiled on the friends that spoke to him, but their words reached his
ear between pauses, like interrupted sounds borne from afar by the
wind. From time to time, with an abrupt, involuntary movement, he drew
near to one of the statues, and ran his hand nervously over it, as if
seeking some weak spot, that he might break it; or he bent curiously
over some rare medal, as if to read on it some indecipherable sign.
But his eyes saw nothing of all this; they were turned within, where
the multiplied power of his will evoked the silent forms that his
voice would presently transform into the perfection of verbal music.
His whole being contracted itself in an effort to raise to the highest
degree of intensity the representation of the extraordinary feelings
that possessed him. Since he could speak only of himself, and of his
own universe, at least he would unite in one ideal figure the sovereign
qualities of his art, and show to his disciples by his genius for
imagery what an invincible force hastened him through this life. Once
more he intended to show them that, in order to obtain the victory
over men and circumstances, there is no other way than to persevere in
exalting oneself and to magnify one's own dream of beauty or of power.

He bent over a medallion by Pisanello, feeling at his temples the
ardent, rapid pulsation of his thought.

"See, Stelio," said Daniele Glauro to him, with that pious reverence
which veiled his voice whenever he spoke of his religion, "see how the
mysterious affinities of Art work upon you, and how an infallible
instinct leads you, amid so many forms, and at the very moment when
your thought is about to reveal itself, toward the example of the most
perfect expression, the highest model of style. At the very instant
of coining your own idea, you are led to study one of Pisanello's
medallions; you are attracted by the impression of one of the greatest
stylists that ever have lived in the world, the most frankly Hellenic
soul of the whole Renaissance. And suddenly your forehead is illumined
by a ray of light."

The pure bronze bore the effigy of a young man with beautiful, waving
hair, an imperial profile and Apollo-like neck, and the head was so
perfect a type of elegance and vigor that the imagination could not
picture him in life except as free from all decadence and eternally
unchangeable, as the artist had presented him in this circle of
bronze.--_Dux equitum præstans Malatesta Novellus Cesenæ dominus.
Opus Pisani pictoris._--And beside it was another medallion by the
same artist, bearing the effigy of a virgin, with narrow chest, a
swan-like throat, and hair drawn back in the shape of a heavy bag; the
forehead, high and receding, seemed already to promise the aureole of
the blessed, and she was like a vase of purity sealed forever, hard,
precise, and limpid as a diamond, an adamantine pyx where the spirit,
consecrated like the Host, rested as a sacrifice.--_Cicilia Virgo,
filia Johannis Francesco primi Marchionis Mantuae._

"Here comes La Foscarina, with Donatella Arvale," announced Francesco
de Lizo, who had been watching the crowd that climbed the Censors'
Stairway and pressed into the vast hall.

Again Stelio Effrena felt a wave of agitation sweep over him. The
murmur of the throng seemed to come from afar and mingle in his ears
with the throbbing of his arteries, and in this murmur he fancied he
heard once more the last words of Perdita.




                              CHAPTER III

                   THE NUPTIALS OF AUTUMN AND VENICE


The murmur swelled louder, diminished, then ceased, as Stelio, with
firm, light movement, ascended the marble steps of the platform. As he
turned toward the audience, his dazzled eyes rested upon the formidable
monster with a thousand human faces, amid the gold and somber purple of
the immense hall.

A sudden thrill of pride gave him complete self-control. He bowed
to the Queen and to Donna Andriano Duodo, who smiled upon him with
the same twin smiles he had seen from the gliding gondola on the
Grand Canal. He threw a keen glance toward the scintillating first
rows, seeking La Foscarina, then looked toward the farther end of
the hall, where only a dark zone, dotted with white spots, could be
distinguished. The silent, attentive multitude seemed to him like an
enormous, many-eyed chimera, its breast covered with glittering scales,
extending its black bulk under the arches of the rich, heavy ceiling
that hung over it like a suspended treasure.

Dazzling was that chimeric breast, where sparkled necklaces that
must once have flashed their fires under the same ceiling on the
night of a coronation banquet. The tiara and the necklaces of the
Queen--the rows of pearls, like grains of light, somehow suggesting
the miraculous image of a smile just about to appear--the dark emeralds
of Andriano Duodo, taken long ago from the handle of a scimitar;
the rubies of Giustiniana Memo, set in the semblance of carnations
by the inimitable craftsmanship of Vettor Camelio; the sapphires of
Lucrezia Priuli, taken from the shoes in which the Most Serene Zilia
had walked to her throne on the day of her triumph; the beryls of
Orsetta Contarini, delicately set in dull gold by the art of Silvestro
Grifo; the turquoises of Zenobia Corner, bathed in a strange pallor
by the mysterious malady that, in a single night, changed them as
they lay on the warm breast of the Princess de Lusignan, among the
delights of Asolo--all the rich jewels that had illumined the nights
of the Anadyomenean city glowed with renewed fire on the breast of the
chimera, from which rose a moist odor of feminine breaths and many
perfumes. The rest of that strangely marked and shapeless body extended
to the rear of the hall, in a sort of long tail, passing between the
two gigantic spheres, which recalled to the memory of the "Image-maker"
the two bronze spheres that the monster with the bandaged eyes presses
with his paws in Giambellino's allegory. And this vast animal life,
devoid of all thought for the time before him who alone at that moment
must think, endowed with the inert fascination of enigmatic idols,
covered with its own silence as with a shield capable of receiving and
resisting any shock, awaited the first thrill of his dominating word.

Stelio Effrena measured this silence, upon which his first syllable
must fall. While his voice was rising to his lips, an effort of
will summoning it and fortifying it against instinctive hesitation,
he perceived La Foscarina standing near the railing that encircled
the celestial sphere. The pale face of the tragic actress rose from
her bare neck, and the purity of her white shoulders was just above
the orbit of the zodiacal figures. Stelio admired the art of this
apparition. With his own eyes fixed upon those distant, adoring ones,
he began to speak slowly, as if the rhythm of the oars still lingered
in his ears.

"One afternoon, not long ago, while I was returning from the gardens
along the warm bank of the Schiavoni, where the souls of poets
sometimes believe they see I know not what magic golden bridge spanning
a sea of light and silence toward a dream of infinite beauty, I
thought--or rather, I witnessed with my thoughts, as at some intimate
spectacle--of the nuptial alliance, under those skies, of Autumn and
Venice.

"Everywhere was disseminated a spirit of life, arising from passionate
expectation and restrained ardor, which made me marvel at its
vehemence, but which seemed not altogether new to me; I had already
seen it in some shadowy zones, under the almost death-like immobility
of Summer; and sometimes I had felt it vibrating, like a mysterious
pulse, in the strange feverish odor of the water. Thus, I thought, it
is true, then, that this pure city of Art aspires to a supreme state
of beauty which for her returns annually, as the flowers return to the
forest. She tends to reveal herself in full harmony, as if always
she bore within her bosom, powerful and conscious, the same desire of
perfection from which she sprang and was formed throughout the ages,
like some divine creature. Under the motionless fire of Summer, she
seemed to palpitate no more, to breathe no more, but to lie dead in her
green waters. My feeling did not deceive me, however, when I fancied I
saw her secretly inspired by a spirit of life sufficient to renew the
most sublime of the ancient miracles.

"That is what I thought, and what I saw. But how can I convey to
you that listen to me any idea of that vision of joy and beauty? No
sunrise, no sunset, could equal the glory of that hour of light on the
water and the marble. The unexpected apparition of the beloved woman
in a forest in springtime could not be as intoxicating as this sudden
revelation by daylight of the heroic and voluptuous city, which carries
in its marble embrace the richest dream of a Latin soul."

The voice of the orator, clear, penetrating, almost icy at the
beginning, was suddenly warmed by the invisible sparks kindled within
him by the effort of improvisation, yet governed by the extreme nicety
of his ear. While his words flowed without hesitation, and the rhythmic
line of his periods set forth their beauty with the clearness of a
figure drawn at one stroke by a bold hand, his auditors were conscious
of the excessive tension of his mind, and it captivated them as one of
those terrifying feats at the circus, where all the herculean energies
of the athlete show the test by his quivering tendons and swelling
arteries. They felt the reality, the living warmth of the thought
thus expressed, and their pleasure was the greater because unexpected,
for most of his auditors had anticipated from this indefatigable
searcher after perfection the studied reading of a laboriously composed
discourse. His devotees observed with emotion this audacious test, as
if they saw before them, unveiled, the secret labor that had brought
forth the forms that had given them so much joy. And this first wave of
emotion, spreading by contagion, indefinitely multiplied and becoming
unanimous, returned to him who caused it, and seemed almost to overcome
him.

This was the expected danger. Under the pressure of a wave so strong,
the speaker faltered. For a few seconds a thick cloud darkened his
brain; the light of his mind was extinguished, as a torch before an
irresistible wind; his eyes grew dim, as if he were about to faint. But
he felt how mortifying would be the shame of defeat if he yielded to
this seizure; and in that darkness, by a sort of effort of brute force,
or like the striking of steel on flint, his will rose in triumph over
the instinctive weakness. With glance and gesture, he directed the eyes
of the assemblage to the great masterpiece in the ceiling of that hall,
spreading there in a kind of sun-like radiance.

"I am certain," he exclaimed, "that Venice appeared thus to Paolo
Veronese, when he sought within himself for an image of the Queen
triumphant."

He explained the reason why the great master, after throwing upon his
canvas a profusion of gold, jewels, silks, purple, ermine, and all
imaginable richness, at last could represent the glorious face only in
the nimbus of a shadow.

"We ought to exalt Veronese for that shadowy veil alone! Representing
by a human face the Queen of Cities, he yet knew how to express its
essential spirit, whose symbol was an inextinguishable flame seen
through a watery veil. And one I know well, who, having plunged his
soul in this sublime element, has withdrawn it enriched with a new
power, and consequently has lived a fuller and more ardent spiritual
life."

This one he knew well--was it not himself? In the assertion of his own
personality he found again all his courage, and felt that henceforth
he was master of his thoughts and words, freed from danger, capable of
drawing within the charmed circle of his dream the enormous, many-eyed
chimera, with the glittering breast--the ephemeral and versatile
monster from whose side emerged its offspring, the Tragic Muse, her
head rising above the constellations.

Obedient to his movement, the innumerable faces turned toward the
Apotheosis, their awakened eyes contemplating with wonder this marvel,
as if they beheld it for the first time, or under a new aspect. The
naked back of the woman with the golden helmet shone under the cloud
with an effect of muscular life so perfect that it looked as attractive
as palpable flesh. And, from this nudity, more realistic than all the
rest, victorious over Time, which had darkened around it heroic images
of sieges and battles, seemed to emanate a powerful enchantment, the
sweetness of which was augmented by the breath of the autumn night
coming through the open windows; while, from above, the princesses of a
former day, leaning over the balustrades between two columns, inclined
their illumined faces and opulent breasts toward their worldly sisters
below.

Under the new spell of enchantment, the poet threw off his winged
words, harmonious as lyric strophes. He described the Queen City
palpitating with ardor within her thousand green girdles, extending her
marble arms toward the wild Autumn, whose humid breath reached her,
balmy with the delicious death of the fields and islands, making her
sigh like a bride awaiting her hour of joy. By the magic of his words,
Venice seemed to be possessed of marvelous hands, with which she wove
for herself the inimitable tissue of allegory that covered her.

"And since, in all the world, poetry alone is truth, he that knows how
to contemplate it, and to draw it into his own soul by the virtue of
his thought, will be very near to mastering the secret of victory over
life."

In pronouncing these last words, Stelio sought the eyes of Daniele
Glauro, and saw that they sparkled with happiness beneath that large,
meditative brow, which seemed swollen by the weight of an unborn world.
The mystic doctor was there, near the platform, with several of those
unknown disciples that he had described to the master as eager and
anxious, full of faith and expectation, impatient to break the chain
of their daily servitude, and to know the free intoxication of joy
and sadness. Stelio noted that they were grouped, like a nucleus of
compressed force, against the great red bookcases, wherein lay buried
innumerable volumes of useless and forgotten lore. He marked their
eager and attentive faces, their long hair, their lips, half parted
with child-like absorption, or closed tightly in a kind of violent
sensitiveness, their bright eyes, to which the breath of his words
carried lights and shadows, as a changeful breeze stirs a parterre of
delicate flowers. He felt that in his own hand he held all their souls
blended into one spirit, which he could at will agitate, crush, tear,
or burn, as if it were a filmy scarf.

While his mind expanded and relaxed, in its continued effort, he still
retained a strange power of exterior investigation, a faculty of
material observation which became the clearer and more penetrating with
the warmth and quickening of his eloquence.

Suddenly he saw with his mental vision the picture he wished to
present, and his verbal expression of it was after the manner of the
master painters that had reigned in that place, with the luxuriance of
Veronese, and the fire of Tintoretto.

"All the vitalities and all the transfigurations of the ancient stones,
where Time has accumulated so many mysteries, and where glory has set
her emblems; all the alternations of marvelously easy creations and
destructions were reflected in the water; the effulgence of a jubilant
light glittered between the crosses of cupolas inflated by prayer, and
the slender saline crystals hanging under the arch of the bridges. Like
a sentinel on a rampart uttering his shrill cry to him that listens
for the signal, so the golden angel from the summit of the highest
tower at last flashed out the announcement.

"And He appeared! The Bridegroom appeared, seated in his fiery chariot,
which he turned toward the Queen of Cities, and in his youthful,
superhuman countenance was a strange fascination springing from an
animal-like cruelty and delicacy contrasting with the deep eyes, full
of all knowledge. His blood rioted through his veins, from the tips of
his fingers to his nimble feet; mysterious, occult things veiled his
being, concealing joy as the grape in bloom conceals the vine; and all
the tawny gold and purple that surrounded him were like the vestment of
his senses.

"With what passion, throbbing under her thousand emerald girdles, and
the richness of her jewels, the Queen of Cities gave herself to the
magnificent god!"

Swept up in this rushing flight of words, the soul of the multitude
seemed to reach the sentiment of Beauty, as if it were a summit never
before attained. The pulse of the people and the voice of the poet
seemed to give back to those ancient walls their former life, and to
reawaken in that cold museum its original spirit: a flood of powerful
ideas, concrete, and organized in the most durable substance to attest
the nobility of a great race.

The splendor of divine youth descended upon the women, as it might
have descended in a sumptuous alcove, for each felt within herself the
breathlessness of expectation and the joy of yielding, like that of the
Queen of Cities. They smiled with vague languor as if wearied by the
strain upon their emotions; their cool, polished shoulders rose from
their corollas of jewels.

Stelio looked down upon the sparkling breast of the great, many-eyed
chimera, on which rose and fell many fluttering feather fans, like tiny
wings; and over his spirit passed an intoxicating glow that disquieted
him. The vibration of his nerves, acting upon those of his auditors
and thus reacting upon himself, unsettled him so much as almost to
unbalance him. For an instant he felt that he was oscillating above the
crowd, like a concave and sonorous body, the resonances of which were
engendered by an indistinct yet infallible will.

He was surprised at the unknown power that dwelt within him, abolishing
his own personal limits and conferring the fulness of a chorus on his
single voice.

This, then, was the mysterious truce which the revelation of Beauty
could grant to the daily existence of wearied man; this was the
mysterious will that could possess the poet at the moment when he
replied to the souls of his followers who questioned him as to the
value of life and tried to raise themselves, if only once, to the
height of the eternal Ideal. He was only the messenger through whom
Beauty offered to those men, assembled in this place consecrated by
centuries of human glory, the divine gift of oblivion. He was only the
translator into rhythmic speech of the visible language whereby, in
this same place, the noble craftsmen of a former day had expressed the
prayers and aspirations of the race. And for one hour, at least, those
men would contemplate the world with different eyes; they would think
and dream with different souls.

In fancy, he passed beyond the walls that enclosed the palpitating
throng in a kind of heroic cycle, a circle of red triremes, fortified
towers, and triumphal theories. The place now seemed too narrow for
the exaltation of his new feeling; and once more he was drawn toward
the real people, the immense, unanimous crowd he had seen outside the
palace, who had sent upward in the starry night a clamor that, like
blood or wine, intoxicated them as they uttered it.

And not alone to this multitude did his thoughts turn; his fancy beheld
an infinity of multitudes, massed together in theaters, dominated by an
idea of truth and of beauty, pale and intent before the great arch of
the stage, which should open before them some marvelous transfiguration
of life, or frenzied by the sudden splendor radiating from an immortal
phrase. And the dream of a higher Art, as it surged up again in his
thought showed him mankind once more reverencing poets, as those who
alone can interrupt at intervals its daily anguish, quench its thirst,
and dispense oblivion. He even judged too slight the test he was now
undergoing; he felt himself capable of creating gigantic fictions. The
still formless work that he nourished in his soul shook him with a
thrill of life as he looked again at the tragedienne, standing above
the sphere of constellations--the Muse with the transcendent voice, who
seemed to carry the frenzy of far-off throngs, now silenced, in the
classic folds of her robes.

Almost overcome by the incredible intensity of emotion that had
possessed him during the brief pause, he began to speak again in
a lower tone. He spoke of the growth of art between the youth of
Giorgione and the old age of Tintoretto, and described it as golden,
purple, rich and expressive as the pomp of the earth irradiated by the
glow of sunset.

"When I consider the impetuous creators of such marvelous beauty, my
mind recalls an image from a fragment of Pindar's: 'When the centaurs
became acquainted with the virtues of wine, sweet as honey and a
conqueror of men, they banished milk from their tables and hastened to
quaff their wine from silver horns.' No one in the world better knew
than they how to taste the wine of life. They drew from it a kind of
lucid intoxication that multiplied their powers and communicated to
their eloquence a fertilizing energy. And in their greatest creations,
the violent throbbing of their pulses seems to have persisted
throughout the ages, like the veritable rhythm of Venetian art.

"Ah, how pure and poetic is the slumber of the Virgin Ursula on her
immaculate bed! The most religious silence reigns in that chamber,
where the pious lips of the sleeper seem to form themselves into the
act of uttering prayer. Through the doors and the windows steals the
timid light of dawn, illumining the syllables inscribed on her pillow:
INFANTIA is the simple word that spreads around that virginal head,
like the fresh aurora of the morning: INFANTIA. She sleeps, the maiden
already betrothed to the pagan prince and destined to martyrdom. So
chaste, so ingenuous, so fervent, is she not the image of Art such as
the precursors saw it, with the sincerity of their child-like eyes?
INFANTIA! The word evokes around that couch all those forgotten ones:
Lorenzo Veneziano, Simone da Cusighe, Catarino, Jacobello, Maestro
Paolo, Giambono, Semitecolo, Antonio, Andrea, Quirizio da Murano, and
all the laborious family by whom color--which later was the rival of
fire--was prepared in the burning island of furnaces. But would not
they themselves have uttered a cry of admiration if they had seen the
drops of blood that sprang from the maiden's heart when it was pierced
by the arrow of the beautiful pagan archer? A current so red from a
virgin nourished on white milk! This victory was a sort of festival: to
it the archers brought their finest bows, their richest garments, their
most elegant air. The golden-haired barbarian, aiming his arrows at the
martyr, with a movement so proud and graceful, does he not resemble an
adolescent and wingless Eros? That gracious slayer of innocence (or
perhaps his brother), after laying aside his bow, will abandon himself
to the enchantment of music to dream a dream of infinite pleasure.

"It was indeed Giorgione that poured into him a new soul, and kindled
it with an implacable longing. The music that charms him is not the
melody that last night the lutes diffused among the curving arches,
over radiant thrones, or diminishing in the silence of distances in the
visions of the third Bellini. Under the touch of religious hands, it
still rises from the harpsichord; but the world it awakens is full of
a joy and a sadness wherein sin hides its head.

"He that has looked at the _Concerto_ with the eyes of wisdom has
comprehended an extraordinary and irrevocable moment of the Venetian
soul. By means of a harmony of color--whose power of expression is
as boundless as the mystery of sounds--the artist reveals the first
agitation of an eager spirit to whom life has suddenly appeared under
the aspect of a rich inheritance.

"The monk, seated at his harpsichord, and his older companion, do not
resemble those monks that Vettor Carpaccio represented as flying before
the wild beast tamed by Jerome, in San Giorgio degli Schiavoni. Their
essence is nobler and stronger; they breathe an atmosphere higher and
richer, propitious to the birth of a great joy, a great sadness, or
a superb dream. What notes do those beautiful, sensitive hands draw
from the keys on which they linger? Magic notes, no doubt, since they
have power to work in the musician a transfiguration so great. He is
half-way through his mortal existence, already far from his youth and
near his decline, yet only now life reveals itself to him, rich with
all good things, like a forest full of ripe, red fruit, the velvety
freshness of which his always busy hands never before have known. As
his senses still slumber, he has not yet fallen under the domination
of a single seductive image, but he suffers a sort of confused anguish
wherein regret overcomes desire, while in the web of harmonies that he
seeks, the vision of his past--but only as it might have been and was
not--weaves itself like the tissue of a chimera.

"His companion divines this inner agitation, for he is already at the
threshold of old age; calm, sweet, and serious, he touches the shoulder
of the passionate player with a pacifying movement. But there, emerging
from the warm shadows like the embodiment of youthful ardor itself,
is the young man with hat beplumed and flowing locks, the glowing
flower of adolescence which Giorgione created under the influence of
a reflection from that Hellenic myth whence arose the ideal form of
Hermaphrodite. He is there, present, yet a stranger, separated from the
others, like a being that cares only for his own welfare. The music
exalts his inexpressible dream, and seems to multiply indefinitely his
capacity to enjoy. He knows himself master of that life which escapes
the other two, and the harmonies sought by the musician seem to him
only the prelude to his own feast. His glance is sidewise and intent,
turned toward a certain point, as if he would attract to himself
something that charms him; his closed lips are ready with a kiss as yet
ungiven; his brow is so spacious that the thickest garland would not
encumber it; but if I think of his hands, I fancy them crushing the
laurel leaves to perfume his fingers."

The hands of the Inspirer illustrated the gesture of the covetous
youth, as if they were really pressing out the essence of the aromatic
leaf; and his voice lent to the image an illusion so strong that the
young men felt that here at last was one who could express their
cherished and secret thoughts and dreams, and give voice to their
unspeakable, continuous, and ceaseless longings. They occupied the free
space at the back of the seated audience, making a living border for
that compact mass; and, as the edges of a flag that waves in the breeze
have a stronger flutter, these youthful hearts beat faster than those
of older men at the warm breath of the poet's words.

Stelio recognized them, distinguishing them by their singularity of
attitude, the intensity of emotion revealed by their compressed lips
and the glow of ardor in their cheeks. On the face of one, turned
toward the open balcony, he read the enchantment of the autumn night,
and the delicious breeze coming from the lagoon. The glance of another
indicated, by a ray of love, some woman, seated near by, looking as if
she were lost in tender recollections, her face white, her red lips
slightly parted, like the entrance to a hive moist with honey.

His eyes continually returned to the promised woman, who looked as she
stood there like the living support of a starry sphere. He was grateful
to her for her choice of this manner of appearing to him when, for the
first time, he gave himself to the people. He no longer regarded her
as merely the passing fancy of a single night, a woman ripened by long
experience, but the marvelous instrument of a new art, the interpreter
of the greatest poetry, she that should incarnate in her changeful
personality his future fictions of beauty, she whose unforgettable
voice should carry to mankind the long-expected word. He now felt
attached to her, not by a promise of love, but by a promise of glory;
and the formless work that he still cherished in his breast again
leaped within him.

"You that listen to me," he continued, "do you not see some analogy
between these three symbols of Giorgione's and the three generations,
all living at the same time, that illumined the dawn of a new century?
Venice, the City Triumphant, reveals herself to their eyes like a
great, a superabundant banquet, where all the riches accumulated
throughout centuries of war and commerce are to be set out without
stint. What richer fountain of pleasure could there be to initiate life
in insatiable desire? It is a time of agitation, almost of distraction,
which, because of its fulness, is worth an hour of heroic violence.
Alluring voices and laughter seem to float from the hills of Asolo
where, surrounded by all delights, reigns the daughter of San Marco,
Domina Aceli, who found in a myrtle grove of Cyprus the cincture of
Aphrodite. Now approaches the youth with the white plumes; he comes to
the banquet, followed by his uncurbed escort, and all desires kindle
and burn like torches quickened by the wind. And this was the beginning
of that divine Autumn of Art toward which men will always turn with
deep emotion as long as the human soul strives to transcend the
narrowness of its common existence in order to live a life more fervent
or to die a nobler death.

"I see Giorgione imminent on the marvelous sphere, but I do not
recognize his mortal person; I seek him in the mystery of the fiery
cloud that envelops him. He appears to us more myth-like than human.
The destiny of no poet on earth is comparable to his. All concerning
his life is unknown; some even go so far as to deny his existence.
His name is inscribed on no work, and many refuse to attribute any
work to him with absolute certainty. But the whole of Venetian art was
illumined by his revelation; it was from him that the great Titian
received the secret of infusing glowing blood into the veins of the
beings he created. In fact, that which Giorgione represents in Art is
the Epiphany of the Flame. He deserves to be called 'the Flame-Bearer,'
like Prometheus.

"When I consider the rapidity with which this sacred gift has passed
from one artist to another, glowing with increasing splendor from color
to color, I think of one of those _lampadeforie_, or festivals, in
which the Greeks tried to perpetuate the memory of the Titan son of
Japetus. On the day of the festival, a group of young Athenian horsemen
would set off at a gallop, riding from Ceramicus to Colonos, their
chief waving a torch that had been lighted at the altar of a temple. If
the torch was extinguished by the swiftness of the course, the bearer
handed it to a companion, who re-lighted it as he rode; and this one
gave it to a third; the third to a fourth, and so on, always galloping,
until the last bearer laid it, still alight, on the altar of the Titan.
This image, with all it suggests of fiery vehemence, represents to my
fancy the feast of the master-colorists of Venice. Each of them, even
to the least illustrious, held in his hand the sacred gift, if only for
an instant. Some of them, like that first Bonifacio, whom we should
glorify, gathered with incombustible fingers the inmost flower of the
flame."

His fingers made a movement in the air as if to pluck the ideal flower.
His eyes turned again toward the celestial sphere, as if he wished to
offer the fiery gift to her who guarded the divine zodiacal beasts. "To
you, Perdita!" But the woman was smiling at some one at a distance.

Following the thread of her smile, Stelio's eyes were led to an unknown
woman, who suddenly seemed to stand out illumined against a shadowy
background.

Was not that the creature of music whose name had resounded against the
iron sides of the ship that evening, in the silence and the shadow?

She seemed to Stelio to be almost an interior image, suddenly
engendered in that part of his soul where the brief sensation he had
felt while passing through the shadow of the vessel had remained like
an isolated and indistinct point. For a second she was beautiful--as
beautiful as were his yet unexpressed thoughts.

"The city to which such creators have given a soul so powerful," he
continued, floating himself on the rising wave, "is considered to-day,
by the greater number, only as a vast inert reliquary, or as a refuge
of peace and oblivion.

"In truth, I know of no other place in the world--unless it be
Rome--where a bold and ambitious spirit can better foster the active
virtue of his intellect, and all the energies of his being toward
the supreme heights, than on these quiet waters. I know of no marsh
capable of provoking in human pulses a fever more violent that that
which at times steals up to us from the shadows of a silent canal. Nor
do those men who, at noontide in the midsummer heat, lie among the ripe
grain, feel in their veins a more fiery wave of blood than that which
suffuses our eyes when we lean too intently over these waters, to see
whether, perchance, we may descry in their depths some old sword or
ancient diadem.

"Do not all gracious spirits come hither, as to a place of sweet
refuge--those that hide some secret pain, those that have accomplished
some final renunciation, those that have become weak through some
morbid affection, and those that seek silence only to hear the soft
step of advancing Death? Perhaps in their fading eyes Venice appears
like a clement city of death, embraced by the waters of oblivion. But
their presence is no more important than the wandering weeds that float
at the foot of the steps of the marble palaces. They only increase the
odor of sickly things, that strange, feverish odor on which at times,
toward evening, after a laborious day, we nourish the fulness of our
own feelings.

"But the ambiguous city does not always indulge the illusions of those
that look to her as a giver of peace. I know one who, in the midst of
sweet repose on her breast, started up as terror-struck as if when
lying beside his loved one, with her hand resting on his weary eyelids,
he had heard serpents hissing in her hair!

"Ah, if I only knew how to tell you of that prodigious life which
palpitates beneath her great necklaces and her thousand green girdles!
Not a day passes that she does not absorb more and more of our souls:
sometimes she gives them back to us fresh and intact, restored to their
original newness, whereon to-morrow's events will be imprinted with
indelible clearness; again, she gives them back to us infinitely subtle
and voracious, like a flame that destroys all that it touches, so that,
at evening, among the cinders and the ashes, we may light upon some
wonderful sublimate. Each day she urges us to the act that is the very
genesis of our species: the unceasing effort to surpass ourselves. She
shows us the possibility of transforming pain into the most efficacious
stimulating energy; she teaches us that pleasure is the most certain
means of knowledge given to us by Nature, and that the man who has
suffered much is less wise than he that has enjoyed much."

At these audacious words, a slight murmur of disapproval passed over
the auditorium; the Queen shook her head ever so little, in token of
denial; several ladies, in a rapid exchange of glances, seemed to
signify to one another a sentiment of graceful horror. But these signs
were overbalanced by the acclamation of youthful approval that rose
from all sides toward him that taught with a boldness so frank the art
of rising to the superior forms of life by the virtue of joy.

Stelio smiled as he recognized his own, and so numerous; he smiled
to recognize the efficacy of his teaching, which already, in more
than one spirit, had dissipated the clouds of inert sadness, shown it
the cowardice of weak tears, and infused it with a lasting disdain
for feeble complaint and soft compassion. He rejoiced at having
been able to proclaim once more the principle of his doctrine,
emanating naturally from the soul of the art he glorified. And those
that had retired to a hermit's cell, there to adore a sad phantom
that lived only in the dim mirror of their own eyes; those that had
created themselves kings of palaces without windows, where, from time
immemorial, they had awaited a Visitation; those that had sought to
unearth among ruins the image of Beauty, but who had found only a
worn sphinx, which had tormented them with its endless enigmas; those
that stood every evening at their thresholds to greet the mysterious
Stranger bearing gifts under his mantle, and who, with pale cheeks,
laid their ears against the ground to catch the first sound of the
Stranger's approach; those whose souls were sterilized by resigned
mourning or devoured by desperate pride; those that were hardened
by useless obstinacy, or deprived of sleep by hope continually
disappointed--all these spirits he wished now to summon that they might
recognize their ailment under the splendor of that ancient yet ever-new
soul.

"In truth," said he, in a tone full of exultation, "if the whole
population, abandoning their homes, should emigrate, attracted to-day
toward other shores as formerly their heroic youth were tempted by the
arch of the Bosphorus, in the time of the Doge Pietro Ziani, and the
voice of prayer should no more strike against the sonorous gold of the
concave mosaics, nor the sound of the oar perpetuate with its rhythmic
stroke the meditation of the silent stones, Venice would still remain
a City of Life. The ideal creatures protected by its silence live
in the whole past and for the whole future. In them we shall always
discover new concordances with the edifice of the universe, unforeseen
meetings with the idea born only yesterday, clear announcements of that
which is with us only a presentiment as yet, open answers to that which
as yet we have not dared to ask.

"These ideal creatures are simple, but they are full of innumerable
meanings; they are ingenuous, yet are clothed in strange attire. Should
we contemplate them for an indefinite time, they never would cease to
pour dissimilar truths into our minds. Should we visit them every day,
every day they would appear to us under a new aspect, as do the sea,
the rivers, the fields, the woods, the rocks. At times the things they
say to us do not really reach our intellects, but reveal themselves to
us in a sort of confused happiness, which causes our own substance to
dilate and quiver to its inmost depths. Some bright day they will point
out to us the path to the distant forest, wherein Beauty has awaited us
from time immemorial, buried in her mystic hair.

"Whence came to them their immeasurable power?

"From the pure unconsciousness of the artificers that created them.

"Those profound men ignored the immensity of the things they wished
to express. Penetrating with a million roots into the soil of life,
not like single trees, but like vast forests, they absorbed infinite
elements, which they transfused and condensed into ideal species,
whose essences nevertheless remained unknown to them, as the flavor
of the apple is unknown to the branch that bears it. They were the
mysterious means chosen by Nature in her effort to represent in an
integral form those types in which she has not yet succeeded. Because
of this, continuing the work of the Divine Mother, their minds, as
Leonardo says, have become transformed into 'a likeness of the Divine
Mind.' And because creative force rushed to their fingers incessantly,
like sap to the buds of trees, they created with joy."

All the desire of the determined artist, panting and struggling to
obtain this Olympian gift, all his envy of those gigantic creators
of Beauty, all his insatiable thirst for happiness and glory, were
revealed in the tone in which he pronounced these last words. Once more
the soul of the multitude was under the magic of the poet's spell,
strained and vibrating like a single cord composed of a thousand
strands, the resonance of which could be incalculably prolonged. That
resonance awakened within the multitude the sense of a truth that had
lain dormant, but which the poet's words now revealed for the first
time.

In the sonority of the deep silence, the solitary voice reached its
climax.

"To create with joy! It is the attribute of Divinity! It is impossible
to imagine at the summit of the spirit an act more triumphal. Even the
words that signify it possess something of the splendor of sunrise.

"And these artists created by a medium that is in itself a joyous
mystery: by color, which is the ornament of the world; by color, which
seems the effort of matter to become light.

"And the newly awakened musical sense they had for color was such that
their creations transcend the narrow limits of figured symbols, and
assume the high revealing power of an infinite harmony.

"Never have the words of Vinci, on whom Truth flashed one day with her
thousand secrets, appeared so true as when we stand before the great
symphonic canvases of the masters: 'Music cannot be called anything but
the sister of Painting.' They are not alone silent poetry, but also
silent music. The most subtle seekers of rare symbols, and those most
desirous to impress the sign of an internal universe on the purity of
a meditative brow, seem to us almost sterile compared with these great
unconscious musicians.

"When we behold Bonifacio, in the parable of Dives, intoning with a
note of fire the most powerful harmony of color in which the essence
of a proud and voluptuous nature ever has revealed itself, we do not
ask questions about the blond youth, listening to the music and seated
between the two magnificent courtesans, whose faces glow like lamps
of purest amber; but, passing beneath the material symbol, we abandon
ourselves to the power of evocation of those chords, wherein our
spirits seem to-day to find a presentiment of I know not what evening,
heavy with beautiful destiny and autumnal gold, in a harbor as quiet
as a basin of perfumed oil where a galley palpitating with oriflammes
shall enter with a strange silence, like a butterfly of twilight
darting into the chalice of some great flower.

"Shall we not, with our mortal eyes, really see it, some glorious
evening, approaching the Palace of the Doges? Does it not appear to us
from a prophetic horizon in the Allegory of Autumn which Tintoretto
offers us, like a superior, concrete image of our dream of yesterday?

"Seated on the shore, like a deity, Venice receives the ring from the
young, vine-wreathed god who descends into the water, while Beauty
floats in the air with a starry diadem to crown the marvelous alliance!

"Behold yon distant ship! It seems to bring a message from the gods.
Behold the symbolic Woman! Her body is capable of bearing the germs of
a world!"

A whirlwind of applause broke out, dominated by the clamor of the young
men, who hailed him who had kindled before their anxious eyes a hope
so glowing, who had professed a faith so strong in the occult genius
of the race, in the lofty virtue of the ideals handed down by their
fathers, in the sovereign dignity of their spirit, the indestructible
power of beauty, in all the great things held as naught by modern
barbarity. The disciples extended their arms toward the master with
an effusion of gratitude, an impulse of love, for he had illumined
their souls as with a torch. In each lived again Giorgione's creation:
the youth with the beautiful white plumes, who advanced toward the
rich mass of spoils; and each fancied as multiplied to infinity his
own power to enjoy all things. Their cry expressed so plainly their
perturbation of spirit, that the master felt an inward tremor and the
inrush of a wave of sadness as he thought of the ashes of this sudden
fire, and of the cruel wakening of the morrow. Against what sharp
obstacles must be broken this terrible desire to live, this violent
will of each to shape the wings of Victory to his own destiny, and to
bend all the energies of his nature toward the sublime end!

But that night favored youthful delirium. All the dreams of domination,
of pleasure and of glory, that Venice has first cradled, then stifled,
in her marble arms, seemed to rise anew from the foundations of the
palace, to enter from the open balconies, palpitating like a people
revivified under the arch of that rich and heavy ceiling, which was
like a suspended treasure. The strength which, on the ceiling and the
walls, seemed to swell the muscles of the gods, the kings, and the
heroes, the beauty which, in the nudity of the goddesses, the queens,
and the courtesans, ran like visible music--all that human strength and
beauty, transfigured by centuries of art, harmonized itself in a single
figure, which these intoxicated ones fancied they beheld, real and
breathing, erected before them by the new poet.

They vented their intoxicated enthusiasm in that great cry which they
sent up to him who had offered to their thirsty lips a cup of his own
wine. Henceforth, all would be able to see the inextinguishable flame
through its watery veil. Some one among them already imagined himself
crumpling laurel leaves to perfume his hands; and another resolved to
seek at the bottom of a silent canal for the old sword and the ancient
diadem.




                              CHAPTER IV

                         THE SPIRIT OF MELODY


Alone with the statues in one of the rooms of the neighboring museum,
Stelio Effrena rested for a moment, shrinking from any other contact,
feeling the need of gathering his strength and quieting his nerves,
to free himself from the unusual vibration through which it seemed to
him all the essence of his spirit had been dissipated and scattered
over the composite soul of the throng. Of his recent words, no trace
remained in his memory, and of recent images he perceived no vestige.
The only phrase that lingered in his mind was that "inmost flower of
the flame," which he had conjured up in speaking of the glory of the
first Bonifacio, and which he had plucked with his own incombustible
fingers to offer to his promised love. He remembered how, at the
precise instant of this spontaneous offering, the woman had turned
away her head, and how, instead of a glance from her dreamy eyes, he
had encountered the indicating smile. Then the intoxicating cloud that
had been just on the point of melting away, seemed to condense itself
anew in his brain, in the vague form of the creature of music; and
he fancied that she held in her hand the flower of flame, as, in a
dominating attitude, she emerged above his inward agitation as from
the trembling waves of a summer sea.

As if to celebrate that image, from the Hall of the Greater Council
came the first notes of the symphony of Benedetto Marcello, the
fugue-like movement of which revealed at once its grand style. A
sonorous idea, clear and strong as a living person, developed itself in
the powerful measure; and in that melody Stelio recognized the virtue
of the same principle around which, as around a thyrsus, he had twined
the garlands of his poesy.

Then the name that had already resounded against the sides of the
vessel, in the silence and the shadow, that name which, in the great
wave of sound from the evening bells, had been lost like a sibylline
leaf, seemed to his fancy to propose its syllables to the orchestra
as a new theme to be interpreted by the musicians' bows. The violins,
viols, and violoncellos sang it in turn; the sudden blasts of the
heroic trumpets exalted it; and at last a whole quartette, in one
great, thrilling chord, flung it toward that heaven of joy where
later would sparkle the starry crown offered to Ariadne by the golden
Aphrodite.

In the pause that followed, Stelio experienced a singular agitation,
almost like a religious ecstasy, before that annunciation. He realized
what it was worth to him, in that inestimable lyric moment, to find
himself alone amid this group of white and motionless statues. A shred
of the same mystery which, under the quarter of the ship, had seemed
to float lightly across his senses like a misty veil, again waved
before his eyes in that deserted hall, which was so near to the human
throng. It was like the silence of the sea-shell, lying on the shore
beside the stormy ocean. He again felt a conviction, such as he had
already experienced in certain extraordinary hours of his journey, of
the presence of his fate, which was about to give to his spirit a new
impulse, perhaps to quicken within him a marvelous act of will. And,
as he remembered the thousands of obscure destinies hanging over the
heads of that crowd, which had been so stirred by his images of an
ideal life, he congratulated himself on being able to adore alone the
propitious demon that came to visit him secretly, to offer to him a
veiled gift, in the name of an unknown mistress.

He thrilled at the burst of human voices that saluted with triumphal
acclamation the unvanquished god.

    _Viva il forte, viva il grande!_

The vast hall resounded like a great timbrel, and the reverberation
penetrated through the Censors' Stairway, the Golden Stairway, the
corridors and the vestibules to the furthermost parts of the palace,
like a thunder of joy echoing in the serene night.

    _Viva il forte, viva il grande!
    Vincitor dell' Indie dome!_

It seemed indeed that the chorus was saluting the apparition of the
magnificent god invoked by the poet on the City Beautiful. It seemed
that in those vocal notes the folds of his purple draperies quivered
like flames in a crystal tube. The living image hung suspended over
the assemblage, which nourished it with its own dream.

    _Viva il forte, viva il grande!_

In the impetuous fugue movement, the bass, the contraltos, the sopranos
repeated the frenzied acclamation to the Immortal of the thousand names
and the thousand crowns, "born on an ineffable bed, like to a young man
in his first youth."

The old Dionysian intoxication seemed born again, diffusing itself
through that divine chorus. The fulness and freshness of life in the
smile of Zeus, who freed men's souls from sadness, expressed itself
in a luminous outburst of joy. The torches of the Bacchantes blazed
and crackled in the sound. As in an Orphic hymn, the brightness of
conflagration illumined that youthful brow, surmounted by azure hair.
"When the splendor of fire invaded the whole earth, he alone checked
the whirlwinds of flame." As in the Homeric hymn, there palpitated
the sterile bosom of the sea, expressing in regular cadences the
measured stroke of the oars that propelled the stout vessel toward
unknown lands. The Flower-bearer, the Fructifier, the visible Remedy
for mortal man, the sacred Flower, The Friend of Pleasure, Dionysius,
the liberator, suddenly appeared before mankind on the wings of song,
crowning for them that nocturnal hour with happiness, placing before
them once more the cup overflowing with all the good things of life.

The song increased in power; all the voices blended in the rush
of melody. The hymn celebrated the tamer of tigers, of panthers,
lions and lynxes. A cry seemed to rise from Mænads with heads turned
backward, flying locks and floating robes, who struck their cymbals and
shook their castanets: _Evoé!_

But now suddenly surged above these heroic measures a broad, pastoral
rhythm, invoking the Theban Bacchus, of the pure brow and gentle
thoughts:

    _Quel che all'olmo la vite in stretto nodo
    Pronuba accoppia, e i pampini feconda_ ...

Only two voices, in a succession of sixths, now sang the flowery
nuptials, the leafy marriage, the flexible bonds. Before the eyes of
the multitude again passed that image already created by the poet
of the barque laden with clusters, like a vat filled with grapes to
be made into wine. And again the song seemed to recall the miracle
witnessed by the prudent pilot Medeia: "And behold! a sweet and
fragrant wine ran over the swift, black boat.... And behold! a vine
climbed to the top of the sail, and from it hung innumerable clusters
of grapes. And a dark ivy twined about the mast, and it was covered
with flowers, and beautiful fruits amid their foliage grew thereon, and
garlands were wound about the rowlocks."

The spirit of the fugue then passed into the orchestra, and mounted in
exquisitely light roulades, while the voices struck on the orchestral
web with simultaneous percussion. And, like a thyrsus waving over the
Bacchic troop, a single voice floated out in the nuptial melody, with
the laughing joy and grace of the pastoral marriage:

    _Viva dell'olmo,
    E della vite
    L'almo fecondo
    Sostenitor!_

The voices seemed to evoke the image of erect and graceful Tiades,
gently waving their thyrsi in the mists of divine intoxication, dressed
in long saffron-hued robes, their faces lighted up, ardent as those
women of Veronese, who leaned over their aerial balconies to listen to
the song.

But the heroic acclamation once more sprang up with final vehemence.
The face of the conquering god reappeared amid torches frantically
waved aloft. Then, in unison, in a supreme burst of joy, voices and
orchestra thundered together at the many-eyed chimera under the
suspended treasure of that dome circled by red triremes, armed towers,
and triumphal bands:

    _Viva dell'Indie,
    Viva de' mari,
    Viva de' mostri
    Il domator._

Stelio Effrena had gone as far as the threshold; through the throng
that made way before him he penetrated into the hall and halted
near the platform occupied by the orchestra and the singers. His
restless eyes sought La Foscarina near the celestial sphere, but
did not find her. The head of the Tragic Muse no longer rose above
the constellations. Where was she? To what place has she withdrawn?
Could she see him, although he could not see her? A confused anxiety
agitated him, and the remembrance of the early evening on the water
returned to him indistinctly, accompanied by the words of her recent
promise. Glancing up at the open balconies, he thought that perhaps she
had stepped outside to breathe the fresh night air, and that, perhaps,
leaning against the balustrade she felt passing over her cool throat
the wave of music, which would seem as sweet to her as the delight of a
kiss from beloved lips.

But his impatience to hear the divine voice dominated all other
impatience, abolished all other desire. He observed that again a
profound silence reigned throughout the hall, as at the instant when he
had opened his lips to speak his first word. And, as at that instant,
the versatile and ephemeral monster, with a thousand human faces,
seemed to extend itself and yawn to receive a new soul.

Some one near Stelio whispered the name of Donatella Arvale. He turned
his eyes toward the platform, past the row of violoncellos, which
formed a brown hedge. The singer remained invisible, hidden in the
delicate, quivering forest of bows, whence would arise the mournful
harmony that must accompany the Lament of Ariadne.

Amid a sympathetic silence rose a prelude of violins. Then the
viols and violoncellos added a sigh more profound to that imploring
plaint. Was not this--after the Phrygian flute and the castanets,
after the instruments of orgies, which trouble the reason and provoke
delirium--was not this the august Doric lyre, grave and sweet, the
harmonious support of song? Thus was the Drama born from the boisterous
Dithyramb. The great metamorphosis of the Dionysian rite, the frenzy
of the sacred festival before the creative inspiration of the tragic
poet, were figured in that musical alternance. The fiery breath of the
Thracian god gave life to a sublime form of Art. The crown and the
tripod, the prize of the poet's victory, had displaced the lascivious
goat and the Attic basket of figs. Æschylus, keeper of a vineyard, had
been visited by the god, who had infused into him his spirit of flame.
On the bank of the Acropolis, near the sanctuary of Dionysius, a marble
theater had risen, capable of containing the chosen people.

Thus suddenly opened in the mind of the Master the pathways of
centuries, extending through the distance of primitive mysteries.
That form of Art, toward which now tended the effort of his genius,
attracted by the obscure aspirations of human multitudes, appeared to
him in the sanctity of its origins. The divine sadness of Ariadne,
up-springing like a melodious cry from the furious Thiaros, made leap
once more within him the work he nourished in his soul, unformed
yet alive. With a glance, again he sought the Muse of the revealing
voice against the sphere of constellations, but he did not see her,
and turned once more to the forest of instruments, whence rose the
imploring plaint.

Then, amid the slender bows, that rose and fell upon the strings
with alternating movement, appeared the singer, erect as a stem;
and, like a stem, she seemed to balance herself an instant on the
softened harmony. The youthfulness of her agile and robust body shone
resplendent through the texture of her robes, as a flame is seen
through the thinness of polished ivory. Rising and falling around
her white form, the bows seemed to draw their melody from the secret
music that dwelt within her. When her lips opened in an enchanting
curve, Stelio recognized the strength and purity of the voice before
the singer had uttered one modulation, as if she were a crystal statue
wherein he could behold the unspringing of a jet of living water.

    _Come mai puoi
    Vedermi piangere?_

The melody of a by-gone love and long-dead sorrow flowed from those
lips with an expression so pure and strong that suddenly, within the
soul of the multitude, it was changed into a mysterious happiness.
Was that strain indeed the divine plaint of the daughter of Minos, as
she held out her arms in vain to the fair Stranger on the deserted
shore of Naxos? The fable vanished; the illusion of the moment was
abolished. The eternal love and eternal sorrow of gods and of men were
exhaled in that perfect voice. The futile regret for each lost joy,
the recollection of each fugitive blessing, the supreme prayer flying
toward every sail on the sea, toward every sun hiding itself among
the mountains, the implacable desire and the promise of death--all
these things passed into the great, solitary song, transformed by
the power of Art into sublime essences which the soul could receive
without suffering. The words were dissolved in tone, losing their
significance, changed into notes of love and sadness, indefinitely
illuminating. Like a circle that is closed, and yet dilates continually
in accordance with the rhythm of universal life, the melody encircled
the composite soul which dilated with it in immeasurable joy. Through
the open balconies, in the perfect calm of the autumn night, the
enchantment spread over the peaceful waters and mounted to the watchful
stars, higher than the motionless masts of the ships, higher than the
sacred towers, inhabited by the now silent bronze bells. During the
interludes the singer drooped her youthful head and stood motionless
as a white statue among the forest of instruments, where the long bows
rose and fell in alternate movement, perhaps unconscious of that world
which in a few brief moments her song had transfigured.




                               CHAPTER V

                       THE EPIPHANY OF THE FLAME


Descending to the courtyard hastily, in order to escape importunate
curiosity, Stelio took refuge in a shadowy corner, to watch, among the
crowd coming down the Giants' Stairway, for the appearance of the two
women, the actress and the singer, who were to meet him near the well.

Every instant his expectation became more anxious, while around him
rose the tumultuous cry that extended to the outer walls of the
palace and lost itself among the clouds, now lighted with a glare as
of a conflagration. An almost terrible joy seemed to spread over the
Anadyomenean City, as if a vehement breath had suddenly dilated all
breasts, filling the veins of all men with a superabundance of life.
The repetition of the Bacchic Chorus celebrating the crown of stars,
placed by Aphrodite on the forgetful head of Ariadne, had drawn a cry
from the throng on the Molo beneath the open balconies. When, at the
final elevation, the word _Viva!_ rang out from the chorus of Mænads,
Satyrs, and Egipans, the chorus of the populace had responded to it
like a formidable echo from the harbor of San Marco. And in this moment
of Dionysian delirium it seemed as if the people remembered the forests
of old that were burned on sacred nights, and had given a signal for
the conflagration that must light up the beauty of Venice in final,
dazzling splendor.

The dream of Paris Eglano--the spectacle of marvelous flames offered
to love on a floating couch--flashed before Stelio's vision. The
persistent image of Donatella Arvale lingered in his thought: a supple,
youthful figure, strong and shapely, rising erect amid the sonorous
forest of bows, which seemed to draw their notes from the hidden music
within herself. And, seized with a strange distress, through which
passed something like the shadow of horror, he saw the image of the
other woman: poisoned by art, worn with experience, with the taste of
maturity and worldly corruptness on those eloquent lips, a feverish
dryness in those hands, which had pressed the juice from deceitful
fruits, and with the marks of a thousand masks on the face that had
simulated the fury of all mortal passions. To-night, at last, after a
long period of waiting and of hope, he was to receive the gift of that
heart, no longer young, which had been claimed by others before him,
but which he never yet had called his own. How his heart had throbbed
in the early evening as he sat beside that silent woman, floating
toward the City Beautiful over the waters that seemed to bear them on
with the terrifying smoothness of mysterious machinery. Ah, why did
she come now to meet him in company with the other temptress? Why did
she place beside her despair and worldly wisdom the pure splendor of
innocent youth?

He started suddenly as he perceived in the throng at the top of the
marble staircase, by the light of the smoking torches, the form of La
Foscarina pressed so closely against that of Donatella Arvale that the
robes of both blended into one mass of whiteness. He followed them with
his eyes until they reached the lowest stair, anxious as if at each
step they had approached the edge of an abyss. The unknown during these
hours had already led in the heart of the poet a life so intense that
on seeing her approach him he experienced the emotion that would have
seized him before a breathing incarnation of one of the ideal creatures
born of his art.

She descended slowly on the human wave. Behind her, the Palace of the
Doges, filled with streams of lights and confused sounds, made one
think of those fairy-tale awakenings which suddenly, in the depths of
the forest, transfigure inaccessible castles where for centuries the
hair on royal heads had grown longer and longer during a protracted
sleep. The two guardian Giants shone red in the blaze of the torches;
the cuspid of the Golden Gate sparkled with tiny lights. And still
the clamor rose and swelled above the groups of marbles, loud as the
moaning of the stormy sea against the walls of Malamocco.

In this tumult, Effrena saw advancing toward him the two temptresses,
escaping from the crowd as if from the clasp of a monster. And his
fancy pictured extraordinary assimilations, which should be realized
with the ease of dreams and the solemnity of liturgic ceremonies. He
said to himself that Perdita was leading this magnificent prey to
him, that he might discover some rarely beautiful secret, that some
great work of love might be accomplished, in which she desired to be
his fellow artisan. He told himself that this very night she would
say to him most marvelous words. Across his spirit passed once again
the indefinable melancholy he had felt when he leaned over the bronze
rim to contemplate the reflection of the stars in that dark mirror;
he waited in expectation of some event that should stir that secret
soul in the furthermost depths of his being, where it lay motionless,
strange, intangible. By the whirling of his thoughts, he comprehended
that he was again plunged into that delirium which the glamor of the
lagoon had given him at twilight. Then, emerging from the shadowy
corner, he went forward to meet the two women with an intoxicating
presentiment.

"Oh, Effrena!" said La Foscarina, as she reached the well, "I had given
up all hope of finding you here. We are very late, are we not? But we
were caught in the crowd and could not escape."

Then, turning toward her companion with a smile, she said:

"Donatella, this is the Master of the Flame."

Without speaking, but with a slight smile, Donatella Arvale responded
to the low bow of the young man.

"We must find our gondola," said La Foscarina. "It is waiting for us at
the Ponte della Paglia. Will you come with us, Effrena? We must profit
by the opportunity. The crowd is rushing toward the Piazzetta. The
Queen will leave by the Porta della Carta."

A long, unanimous cry saluted the appearance of the fair Queen in her
pearls, as she stood at the head of the stairs, where long ago, in the
presence of the populace, the Doge received the ducal ensign. Again the
name of the white starry flower and the pearl arose from the crowd and
was echoed among the marbles. Flashes of joy sparkled against the dark
sky, a thousand fiery doves flew from the pinnacles of San Marco, like
messengers of Fire.

"The Epiphany of the Flame!" cried La Foscarina, as she reached the
Molo and gazed upon the marvelous spectacle.

Donatella Arvale and Stelio Effrena stood side by side, astonished;
then they looked into each other's eyes, bewildered. And their faces,
illumined by the reflections, shone as if they were leaning over a
furnace or a glowing crater.

All the innumerable appearances of the volatile and multi-colored Fire
spread over the firmament, crept over the waters, curled around the
masts of the ships, enwreathed the cupolas and the towers, adorned
the friezes, draped the statuary, bejeweled the capitals, enriched
every line and transfigured every aspect of the sacred and profane
architectures around that profound and mysterious watery mirror,
which multiplied these marvels. The astonished eye could no longer
distinguish between the contour and the quality of the elements, but
it was charmed by a moving vision wherein all forms lived a lucid,
fluid life, suspended in vibrating ether, so that the slender prows
curving over the waves and the myriad of golden doves against the dark
sky seemed to rival one another in the glory of swift motion, and
together to reach the summit of immaterial beauty. That which in the
twilight had seemed a silvery palace of Neptune, built in imitation
of a rare shell, at this hour had become a new temple, erected by the
nimble genii of the Fire. It seemed like one of those labyrinthian
constructions of our dreams, prodigiously enlarged, that rise on
andirons, at the hundred gates of which stand the two-faced augurs who
make ambiguous gestures to the watching maiden; or like one of those
fairy-like red palaces, at the thousand windows of which appear the
faces of salamander princesses, who smile amorously upon the dreaming
poet.

Rosy as a setting moon, the sphere of the Fortuna, borne on the
shoulders of the Atlantides, radiated on the triple loggia, its rays
engendering a cycle of satellites. From the Riva, from San Giorgio,
from the Giudecca, with a continual crackling, clusters of fiery stems
rose toward the clouds, and there blossomed into sparkling roses,
lilies, and palms, a flowery paradise, forming an aerial garden that
continually faded and bloomed again with yet stranger and richer
blossoms. It was like a rapid succession of springs and autumns in the
empyrean. An immense sparkling shower of leaves and petals fell from
the celestial dissolutions, enveloping all things in its golden shimmer.

From a distance, through gaps in the glittering rain, a flotilla gay
with flags could be seen approaching over the waters of the lagoon: a
fairy-like fleet such as might float through the dream of a sybarite
sleeping his last sleep on a bed steeped in deadly perfumes. Like
those, perhaps, their ropes were made from the twisted hair of slaves
captured in conquered cities, and still redolent of fragrant oils; like
those, perhaps, their hulls were laden with myrrh, spikenard, benzoin,
cinnamon, aromatic herbs; with sandal-wood, cedar, terebinth, and all
oderiferous woods in rich profusion. The indescribable colors of the
flags suggested perfumes and spices. Of blue-green peacock shades,
saffron, violet, and indistinct hues, those flaming flags seemed to
spring from some burning interior and to have been colored by some
unknown process.

"The Epiphany of the Flame!" repeated La Foscarina. "What an unforeseen
commentary on your poem, Effrena! The City of Life responds by a
miracle to your act of adoration. She burns, through her watery veil.
Are you not satisfied? Look! Millions of golden pomegranates are
hanging everywhere!"

The actress was smiling, her face illumined by the magic fire. She was
suddenly possessed by that singular gayety of hers which Stelio knew
well, and which, because of its effect of incongruity with her usual
pose, suggested to him the image of a dark, closed house where violent
hands had suddenly opened on rusty hinges all the doors and windows.

"We must praise Ariadne," he replied, "for having uttered, in all this
harmony, the most sublime note."

Stelio said those flattering words only to induce the fair singer to
speak, only through a desire to know the _timbre_ of that voice when
it descended from the heights of song. But his praise was lost in the
reiterated clamor of the crowd, which overflowed on the Molo, making a
longer stay impossible. From the bank, Stelio assisted the two friends
into their gondola; then he sat down on a stool at their knees, and the
long, dentellated prow sparkled, like all else, in the magic fire.

"To the Rio Marin, by the Grand Canal," La Foscarina ordered the
gondolier. "Do you know, Effrena, we are to have at supper some of your
best friends: Francesco de Lizo, Daniele Glauro, Prince Hoditz, Antimo
della Bella, Fabio Molza, Baldassare Stampa"--

"Then it will be a banquet?"

"But not, alas! like that of Cana."

"And will not Lady Myrta, with her Veronese greyhounds, be there?"

"Rest assured that we shall have Lady Myrta. Did you not see her in the
hall? She sat in the first row, lost in admiration of you."

Because they had looked into each other's eyes as they spoke, a sudden
emotion seized them. The remembrance of that full twilight hour on the
water that rippled beneath their oar filled their hearts with a wave of
troubled blood; and each was surprised by a swift return of the same
agitation felt when leaving the silent estuary already in the power
of shadow and death. Their lips refused to utter vain, light words;
their souls refused to make the effort to incline themselves through
prudence toward the passing trivialities of the superficial life, which
now seemed worthless to both; and their spirits became absorbed in
the contemplation of the strange fancies that rose from their inmost
thoughts in a garb of indescribable richness, like the heaped-up
treasures the streams of light seemed to reveal in the depths of the
nocturnal waters.

And, because of that very silence, they felt the presence of the singer
weigh heavily upon them, as in the moment when her name had first
been spoken between them; and little by little the oppression became
intolerable. Although Stelio was seated close to her, she appeared no
less distant than when she rose above the forest of instruments; she
was as absent and unconscious as she had been when her voice soared
high in song. She had not yet spoken.

Simply to hear her speak, and almost timidly, Stelio said:

"Shall you remain some time longer in Venice?"

He had pondered on the first words he should say to her, but was
dissatisfied with whatever rose to his lips, for all phrases seemed too
vivid, insidious, full of ambiguous significance, capable of infinite
changes and transformations, like the unknown seed from which may
spring a thousand roots. And it seemed to him that Perdita could not
hear one of those phrases without feeling that a shadow darkened her
love.

After he had spoken those simple, conventional words, he reflected that
even that question might suggest an infinity of hope and eagerness.

"I must leave Venice to-morrow," Donatella replied. "I ought not to be
here even now."

Her voice, so clear and powerful in the heights of song, was low and
sober, as if suffused with a slight opacity, suggesting the image
of the most precious metal wrapped in the most delicate velvet. Her
brief reply indicated that there was a place of suffering to which she
must return, where she must undergo some familiar torture. Like iron
tempered with tears, a strong though sorrowful will shone through the
veil of her youthful beauty.

"To-morrow!" Stelio exclaimed, not seeking to hide his sincere regret.
"Have you heard, Signora?"

"I know," the actress replied, gently taking Donatella's hand. "I am
filled with regret to see her go. But she cannot remain away longer
from her father. Perhaps you do not yet know"--

"What?" asked Stelio quickly. "Is he ill? Is it true, then, that
Lorenzo Arvale is ill?"

"No, he is only fatigued," said La Foscarina, touching her forehead
with a gesture perhaps involuntary but which revealed to Stelio the
horrible menace hanging over the genius of the artist who had seemed as
fertile and indefatigable as one of the old masters--a Della Robbia or
a Verrocchio.

"He is only fatigued," repeated La Foscarina. "He needs repose and
quiet. And his daughter's singing is very soothing to him. Do you not
believe, also, Effrena, in the healing power of music?"

"Certainly," Stelio replied, "Ariadne possesses a divine gift whereby
her power transcends all limits."

The name of Ariadne came spontaneously to his lips to indicate the
singer as she appeared to his fancy, for it seemed to him impossible
to pronounce the young girl's real name preceded by the ordinary
appellation imposed by social usage. In his eyes she was perfect
and singular, free from the little ties of custom, living her own
sequestered life, like a work of art on which style had set its
inviolable seal. He thought of her as isolated like those figures that
stand out with clear contour, far from common life, lost in mystic
reverie; and already, before that impenetrable character, he felt a
sort of passionate impatience, somewhat similar to that of a curious
man before something hermetically sealed that tempts him.

"Ariadne had for the soothing of her griefs the gift of forgetfulness,"
said Donatella, "and that I do not possess."

A bitterness perhaps involuntary infused these words, in which Stelio
fancied he detected the indication of an aspiration toward a life
less oppressed by useless suffering. He guessed at her revolt against
a certain form of domestic slavery, the horror of her self-imposed
sacrifice, her vehement desire to rise toward joy, and her inborn
aptitude for being drawn like a beautiful bow by a strong hand that
would know how to use it for some high conquest. He divined that she
had no longer any hope of her father's recovery, and that she was
saddened at the thought that henceforth she could only be the guardian
of a darkened hearth, of ashes without a spark. The image of the great
artist rose in his mind, not as he was, since Stelio never had known
him personally, but such as he had fancied the sculptor after studying
his ideas of beauty expressed in imperishable bronze and marble. His
mind fixed itself on that image with a sensation of terror more
icy than that which the most appalling aspects of death could have
inspired. And all his strength, all his pride and his ardor seemed to
resound within him like weapons shaken by a menacing hand, sending a
quiver through every fiber of his heart.

Presently La Foscarina lifted the funereal black curtain, which
suddenly, amid the splendors of the festival, had seemed to change the
gondola into a coffin.

"Look!" she said, pointing out to Stelio the balcony of Desdemona's
palace: "See the beautiful Nineta receiving the homage of the Serenade,
as she sits between her pet monkey and her little dog."

"Ah, the beautiful Nineta!" said Stelio, rousing himself from his
wild thoughts, and saluting the smiling occupant of the balcony, a
little woman who was listening to the music, her face illumined from
two silver candelabra, from the branches of which hung wreaths of the
last roses of the year. "I have not yet seen her this time. She is
the gentlest and most graceful animal I know. How fortunate was our
dear Howitz to discover her behind the lid of an old harpsichord when
he was rummaging in that curiosity shop at San Samuele! Two pieces
of good fortune in one day: the lovely Nineta and a harpsichord lid
painted by Pordenone. Since that day, the harmony of his life has
been complete. How I should like to have you penetrate to his nest!
You would find there a perfect example of that which I spoke of this
evening, at twilight. There is a man who, by obeying his native taste
for simplicity, has arranged for himself with minute art his own little
love-story, in which he lives as happily as did his Moravian ancestor
in the Arcady of Rosswald. Ah! I know a thousand exquisite things about
him!"

A large gondola, decorated with many-colored lanterns, and laden with
singers and musicians, had stopped beneath the balcony of Desdemona's
house. The old song of brief youth and fleeting beauty rose sweetly
toward the little woman who listened with her child-like smile, sitting
between the monkey and the lapdog, making a group like one of Pietro
Longhi's prints.

    _Do beni vu gharè
    Beleza e zoventù;
    Co i va no i torna più,
    Nina mia cara...._

"Does it not seem to you, Effrena, that these surroundings express the
true soul of Venice, and that the other picture, which you presented
to the multitude, is only your own fancy?" said La Foscarina, nodding
her head slightly in time with the rhythm of the sweet song that spread
through the Grand Canal and was reechoed from afar by singers in other
gondolas.

"No," Stelio replied, "this does not at all represent the true soul of
Venice. In each one of us, fluttering like a butterfly over the surface
of our deeper nature, is a lighter soul, an _animula_, a little playful
sprite that often dominates us for the moment, and leads us toward
simple and mediocre pleasures, toward puerile pastimes and frivolous
music. This _animula vagula_ exists even in the gravest and most
violent natures, like the clown attached to the person of Othello; and
sometimes it misleads our better judgment. That which you hear now, in
the songs and the melodies of the guitars, is the _animula_, or lighter
spirit, of Venice; but her real soul is discovered only in silence,
and most terribly, be assured, in full summer, at noonday, like the
soul of the great god Pan. Out in the harbor of San Marco, I thought
that you felt its mystic vibration during those moments of the great
conflagration. You are forgetting Giorgione for Rosalba!"

Around the large gondola beneath the balcony had gathered other
gondolas bearing languid women who leaned out to listen to the music in
attitudes of graceful _abandon_, as if in fancy they felt themselves
sinking into invisible arms. And around this romantic group the
reflections of the lanterns in the water quivered like a flowering of
rare and luminous water-lilies.

      _Se lassarè passar
    La bela e fresca età,
    Un zorno i ve dirà
      Vechia maura,
    E bramarè, ma invan,
    Quel che ghavevi in man
    Co avè lassà scampar
      La congiontura._

It was, in truth, the song of the last roses that entwined the
candelabra. It called up in Perdita's mind the funeral cortège of the
dead Summer, the opalescent veil in which Stelio had wrapped the sweet
body in its golden robe. Through the glass, sealed by the Master of
Fire, she could see her own image at the bottom of the lagoon, lying on
a field of seaweed. A sudden chill stole over her; once more she felt
horror and disgust of her own body, no longer young. And, remembering
her recent promise, thinking that perhaps this very night the beloved
one would claim its fulfilment, she shuddered with a sort of sorrowful
modesty, a mingling of fear and pride. Her experience and despairing
eyes ran over the young girl beside her, studying her, penetrating her,
realizing her occult but certain power, her intact freshness, pure
health, and that indefinable virtue of love that emanates like an aroma
from chaste maidens when they have arrived at the perfection of their
bloom. She felt that some secret current of affinity existed between
this fair creature and the poet; she could almost divine the words he
addressed to her in the silence of his heart. A bitter pang seized her,
so intolerable that, with an involuntary movement, her fingers clutched
convulsively the black rope of the arm-rest beside her, so that the
little metal griffin that held it creaked audibly.

This movement did not escape Stelio's anxious vigilance. He understood
her agitation, and for a moment he experienced the same pang, but it
was mingled with impatience and almost with anger, for her anguish,
like a cry of destruction, interrupted the fiction of transcendent life
that he had been constructing within himself in order to conciliate the
contrast, to conquer this new force that offered itself to him like a
bow to be drawn, yet at the same time not to lose the savor of that
ripe maturity which life had impregnated with all its essences, and the
benefit of that devotion and that passionate faith which sharpened his
intelligence and fed his pride.

"Ah, Perdita!" he said to himself, "From the ferment of your human
loves, why has not a love more than human sprung. Ah, why have I
finally vanquished you by my pleading, although I know it is too late?
and why do you allow me to read in your eyes the certainty of your
yielding, amid a flood of doubts which, nevertheless, never again
will have power to reëstablish the abolished interdiction. Each of us
knows full well that that interdiction conferred the highest dignity
upon our long communion, yet we have not known how to preserve its
rule, and at the last hour we yield blindly to an imperious internal
call. Yet, a short time ago, when your noble head dominated the belt
of constellations, I no longer saw in you an earthly love, but the
illuminating, revelatory Muse of my poetry; and all my heart went out
to you in gratitude, not for the promise of a fleeting happiness, but
for the promise of glory. Do you not understand--you, who understand
everything? By a marvelous inspiration, such as always comes to you,
have you not turned my inclination, by the ray of your smile, toward
a resplendent youthfulness which you have chosen and reserved for me?
When you descended the stairway together, and approached me, had you
not the appearance of one that bears a gift or an unexpected message?
Not wholly unexpected, perhaps, Perdita! For I have anticipated from
your infinite wisdom some extraordinary action toward me."

"How happy the beautiful Nineta is, with her monkey and her little
dog!" sighed the actress, looking back at the light songsters and the
smiling woman on the balcony.

    _La zoventù xe un fior
    Che apena nato el mor,
    E un zorno gnanca mi
    No sarò quela._

Donatella Arvale and Stelio also looked back, while the light barque,
without sinking, bore over the water and past the music the three faces
of a heavy destiny.

    _E vegna quel che vol,
    Lassè che voga!_

Suddenly, in front of the red palace of the Foscari, at the curve of
the canal, they saw the state vessel of the Doge of Venice so brightly
illumined that it looked like a burning tower. New streaks of fire
flashed against the sky. Other flaming doves flew up from the deck,
rose above the terraces, sank among the statues, hissed as they fell
into the water, multiplied themselves in thousands of sparks, and
floated along in smoke. Along the parapets, from the decks, the poop,
the prow, in a simultaneous explosion, a thousand fountains of fire
opened, dilated, blended, illuminating with an intense, fiery radiance
each side of the canal as far as San Vitale and the Rialto. Then the
vessel of the Doge glided out of sight, transformed into a purple
thunder-cloud.

"Go through San Polo!" called La Foscarina to the gondolier, bending
her head as under a storm, and shutting out the roar with her palms
over her ears.

Again Donatella Arvale and Stelio Effreno looked at each other with
dazzled eyes. Again their faces, lighted by the glare, glowed as if
they were leaning over a furnace or a burning crater.

The gondola turned into the canal of San Polo, gliding along through
the darkness. A cold shadow seemed suddenly to fall over the spirits of
the three silent occupants. Under the arch of the bridge, the hollow
echo of the dipping oar struck upon their souls, and the hilarity of
the festival sounded infinitely far-away. All the houses were dark;
the campanile rose silent and solitary toward the stars; the Campiello
del Remer and the Campiello del Pistor were deserted, and the grass
breathed there in untrodden peace; the trees, bending over the low
walls of the little gardens, seemed to feel their leaves dying on the
branches pointing to the serene sky.




                              CHAPTER VI

                           THE POET'S DREAM


"So, for a few hours at least, the rhythm of Art and the pulse of Life
have again throbbed in unison in Venice," said Daniele Glauro, raising
from the table an exquisite chalice, to which only the Sacred Host was
wanting. "Allow me to express, for myself and also for the many that
are absent, the gratitude and fervor that blend in one single image of
beauty the three persons to whom we owe this miracle: the mistress of
the feast, the daughter of Lorenzo Arvale, and the poet of Persephone."

"And why the mistress of the feast, Glauro?" asked La Foscarina,
smiling in graceful surprise. "I, like you, have not given joy, but
have received it. Donatella and the Master of the Flame: they alone
merit the crown; and to them alone the glory must be given."

"But, a short time ago, in the Hall of the Greater Council," said the
mystic doctor, "your silent presence beside the celestial sphere was
not less eloquent than the words of Stelio, nor less musical than the
song of Ariadne. Once again you have divinely carved your own statue in
silence, and it will live in our memories blended with the music and
the words."

Stelio shuddered as he recalled to mind the ephemeral flexible monster
from the side of which had emerged the Tragic Muse above the sphere of
constellations.

"That is true, very true," said Francesco de Lizo. "I, too, had the
same thought. As we looked at you, we all realized that you were the
soul of that ideal world which each of us forms for himself, according
to his own aspirations and thoughts when listening to the mystic word,
the song, the symphony."

"And each of us," said Fabio Molza, "felt that in your presence,
dominating the throng, before the poet, dwelt a great and rare
significance."

"One might almost have said that you alone were about to assist at the
mysterious birth of a new idea," said Antimo della Bella. "Everything
around us seemed awakening itself to produce it--that idea which must
soon be revealed to us, as a reward for the profound faith with which
we have awaited it."

The Animator, with another trembling of the heart, felt the work that
he cherished within him leap once more, formless yet, but already
living; and his whole soul, as if impelled by a lyric breath, suddenly
felt drawn toward the fertile and enlightening power that emanated
from the Dionysian woman to whom these fervent spirits addressed their
praise.

Suddenly she had become very beautiful: a nocturnal creature, fashioned
by dreams and passion on a golden anvil, living embodiment of immortal
fate and eternal enigmas. She might remain motionless and silent, but
her famous accents and her memorable gestures seemed to live around
her, vibrating indefinitely, as melodies seem to hover over the cords
accustomed to sound them, as rhymes seem to breathe from the poet's
closed book, wherein love and sorrow seek comfort and intoxication.
The heroic fidelity of Antigone, the oracular fury of Cassandra, the
devouring fever of Phædre, the cruelty of Medea, the sacrifice of
Iphigenia, Myrrha before her father, Polyxenes and Alceste before the
face of death, Cleopatra, fitful as the wind and the fires of the
world, Lady Macbeth, the dreamy murderess with the little hands; and
those great, fair lilies empearled with dew and tears--Imogen, Juliet,
Miranda, Rosalind, Jessica, and Perdita--the tenderest, most terrible,
and most magnificent souls dwelt within her, inhabited her body, shone
from her eyes, breathed through her lips, which knew both honey and
poison, the jeweled chalice and the cup of wormwood. Thus, through
unlimited space, and endless, the outlines of human life and substance
appeared to perpetuate themselves; and from the simple movement of a
muscle, a sign, a start, a quiver of the eyelids, a slight change of
color, an almost imperceptible inclination of the head, a fugitive play
of light and shade, a lightning-like virtue of expression radiating
from that frail and slender body, infinite worlds of imperishable
beauty were continually generated.

The genii of the places consecrated by poetry hovered around her,
and encircled her with changing visions: the dusty plain of Thebes,
the arid Argolide, the parched myrtles of Trezene, the sacred olives
of Colonus, the triumphant Cydnus, the pale country of Dunsinane,
Prospero's cavern, the Forest of Arden, land dampened with blood,
toiled upon with pain, transfigured by a dream or illumined by an
inextinguishable smile, seemed to appear, to recede, then to vanish
behind her head. And a vision of countries still more remote--regions
of mists, northern lands, and, far across the ocean, the immense
continent where she had appeared like an unknown force amid astonished
multitudes, bearer of the mystic word and the flame of genius--vanished
behind her head: the throngs, the mountains, rivers and gulfs, the
impure cities, the ancient, enfeebled, savage race, the strong people
aspiring to dominate the world, the new nation that wrests from Nature
her most secret energies to make them serve an all-powerful work in
erecting edifices of iron and of crystal; the bastard colonies that
ferment and grow corrupt on virgin soil; all the barbarous crowds
she had visited as the messenger of Latin genius; all the ignorant
masses to whom she had spoken the sublime language of Dante; all the
human herds from which had mounted toward her, on a wave of confused
anxieties and desires, the aspiration to Beauty.

She stood there, a creature of perishable flesh, subject to the sad
laws of time, but an illimitable mass of reality and poetry weighed
upon her, surged around her, palpitated with the rhythm of her breath.
And not upon the stage alone had she uttered her cries and suppressed
her sobs: this had entered into her daily life. She had loved, fought
and suffered violently, in her soul and in her body. What loves? What
combats? What pangs? From what abysses of melancholy had she drawn the
exaltations of her tragic force? At what springs of bitterness had
she watered her free genius? She had certainly witnessed the crudest
misery, the darkest ruin; she had known heroic effort, pity, horror,
and the threshold of death. All her thirst had burned in the delirium
of Phædre, and in the submissiveness of Imogen had trembled all her
tenderness. Thus Life and Art, the irrevocable Past and the eternal
Present, had made her profound, many-souled, and mysterious, had
magnified her ambiguous destiny beyond human limits, and rendered her
equal to great temples and natural forests.

Nevertheless, she stood there, a living, breathing woman, under the
gaze of the poets, each of whom saw her, and yet in her many others.

"Ah! I will embrace you as in some mad revelry; I will clasp you,
shake you; from your ripe experience, I will draw all the divine and
abnormal secrets that weigh upon you--the things you have already done,
and those on which you still meditate in the mysterious depths of your
soul," sang the lyric demon in the ear of the poet, who recognized
in the mystery of this woman the surviving power of primitive myth,
the renewed initiation of the god that had concentrated in one single
ferment all the energies of Nature, and, by a variety of rhythms, had
raised, in an enthusiastic worship of himself, the senses and the
spirit of man to the highest summits of joy and of pain.

"I have done well, I have done wisely, to wait!" said Stelio to
himself. "The passing of years, the tumult of dreams, the agitation of
struggle and the swiftness of triumph, the experience of many loves,
the enchantment of poets, the acclamations of the people; the marvels
of earth, the patience and the fury, the steps in the mud, the blind
flight, all evil, all good, that which I know and do not know, that
which you know, as well as that which you are ignorant of--all this had
to be to prepare the fulness of this night, which belongs to me!"

He felt himself suffocate and turn pale. A wild impulse seized him by
the throat, and would not relax its hold. His heart swelled with the
same keen emotion that had possessed both in the twilight, as they
floated over the water.

And, as the exaggerated radiance of the city and the event had suddenly
disappeared, the glory of this woman of the night reappeared to
his mind still more closely blended with the city of the wonderful
necklaces and the thousand emerald girdles. In the city and in the
woman, the poet now saw a power of expression that he never had seen
before: each glowed in the Autumn night; the same feverish fire that
coursed through the canals ran also in her veins.

The stars sparkled, the trees waved their branches behind Perdita's
head, back of which were the shadows of a garden. Through the open
balconies the sweet air of heaven entered the room; shook the flames of
the candelabra and the chalices of flowers; swept through the doorways,
making the draperies wave to and fro, animating that old house of the
Capello, wherein the last great daughter of San Marco whom the people
had covered with gold and glory had gathered relics of republican
magnificence. Galleon lamps, Turkish targets, bronze helmets, leathern
quivers, and velvet scabbards ornamented the apartments inhabited by
the last descendant of that marvelous Cesare Darbes who maintained the
Art of Comedy against the Goldonian reform, and changed the agony of
the Most Serene Republic into a burst of laughter.

"I only ask that I may be the humble servitor of that idea," was La
Foscarina's reply to Antimo della Bella's words. Her voice trembled a
little, her eyes had met Stelio's gaze.

"You alone could make it triumphant," said Francesco de Lizo. "The soul
of the people is yours forever."

"The drama can only be a rite or a message," declared Glauro
sententiously. "Acting should again become as solemn as a religious
ceremony, since it embraces the two constituent elements of all
worship: the living person, in whom, on the stage as before an altar,
the word of the revealer is made incarnate, before a multitude as
silent as if in a temple"--

"Bayreuth!" interrupted Prince Hoditz.

"No; the Janiculum!" exclaimed Stelio, suddenly breaking his silence of
blissful dizziness. "A Roman hill. We do not need the wood and brick of
Upper Franconia; we will have a marble theater on a Roman hill."

The sudden opposition of his words seemed to spring from a light,
good-natured disdain.

"Do you not admire the work of Richard Wagner?" Donatella Arvale
inquired, with a slight frown that for a moment made her Hermes-like
face look almost hard.

Stelio looked deep into her eyes; he felt that there was something
obscurely hostile in the young girl's manner, and also that he himself
experienced against her an indistinct suggestion of enmity. At this
moment he again saw her living her own isolated life, fixed in some
deep, secret thought, strange and inviolable.

"The work of Richard Wagner," he replied, "is founded in the German
spirit, and its essence is purely northern. His reform is not without
analogy with that attempted by Luther; his drama is the supreme flower
of the genius of a race, the extraordinarily powerful summary of
the aspirations that have stirred the souls of the symphonists and
national poets, from Bach to Beethoven, from Wieland to Goethe. If
you could imagine his work on the Mediterranean shores, amid our pale
olive-trees, our slender laurels, under the glorious light of the Latin
sky, you would see it grow pale and dissolve. Since, according to his
own words, it is given to the artist to behold a world as yet unformed
resplendent in its future perfection, and to enjoy it prophetically
through desire and through hope, I announce to you the coming of a new,
or rather a renewed, art which, by the strong, sincere simplicity of
its lines, by its vigorous grace, by its ardor of inspiration, by the
pure power of its harmonies, will continue and crown the immense ideal
edifice of our elect race. I glory in being Latin, and--will you pardon
me, most exquisite Lady Myrta, and you, my delicate Hoditz?--in every
man of different blood I see a barbarian."

"But Wagner, too," said, Baldassare Stampa, who, having just returned
from Bayreuth, was still full of ecstasy, "when he first unwound the
thread of his theories, departed from the Greeks."

"It was an uneven and a tangled thread," the poet replied. "Nothing
is further from the Orestiades than the tetralogy of the Ring. The
Florentines of the Casa Bardi have penetrated much deeper into the true
meaning of Greek tragedy. All honor to the Camerata of the Conte di
Vernio!"

"I have always thought that the Camerata was only an idle reunion of
scholars and rhetoricians," said Baldassare Stampa.

"Did you hear that, Daniele?" exclaimed Stelio, addressing the mystic
doctor. "When was there in the world a more fervid intelligence? They
sought the spirit of life in Grecian antiquity; they tried to develop
harmoniously all human energies, to manifest man in his integrity
by every method of art. Giulio Caccini taught that that, which
contributed to the excellence of the musician is not only the study
of particular things, but of everything in general; the tawny hair of
Jacopo Peri and of Zazzerino flamed in their song like that of Apollo.
In the discourse that serves as a preface to the _Rappresentazione
di Anima et di Corpo_, Emilio del Cavaliere presents the same ideas
on the organization of the new theater that have since been realized
at Bayreuth, comprising the rules of perfect silence, an invisible
orchestra, and appropriate darkness. Marco da Gagliano, in celebrating
a festal performance, eulogizes all the arts that contributed to it 'in
such a way that through the intellect all the noblest sentiments are
flattered at the same time by the most delightful art that the human
mind has discovered.' That is sufficient, I think."

"Bermino," resumed Francesco de Lizo, "presented an opera in Rome, for
which he himself built the theater, painted the decorations, carved the
ornamental statues, invented the machinery, wrote the words, composed
the music, arranged the dances, rehearsed the actors, and in which he,
too, danced, sang, and acted."

"Enough! Enough!" cried Prince Hoditz, laughing. "The barbarian is
vanquished."

"No, that is not yet enough," said Antimo della Bella; "it remains
to us to glorify the greatest of all these innovators; him that was
consecrated a Venetian by his passion and death, him whose tomb is in
the Church of the Frari, and is worthy of a pilgrimage--the divine
Claudio Monteverde."

"There was a heroic soul, of pure Italian essence," warmly acceded
Daniele Glauro.

"He accomplished his work in the tempest, loving, suffering,
struggling, alone with his faith, his passion, and his genius," said La
Foscarina slowly, as if absorbed in a vision of that sad and courageous
life that had nourished the creations of its art with its warmest
blood. "Tell us about him, Effrena."

Stelio thrilled as if she had suddenly touched him. Again her
expressive mouth called up an ideal figure, which rose as if from a
sepulcher before the eyes of the poets, with the color and the breath
of life. The ancient viola-player, bereaved, ardent, and sorrowful,
like the Orpheus of his own fable, seemed to appear before them.

It was a fiery apparition, more fervid and dazzling than that which had
glowed in the harbor of San Marco; a flaming force of life, expelled
from the deepest recesses of Nature toward the expectant multitude;
a vehement zone of light, flashing out from an interior sky to
illumine the most secret depths of human will and desire; an unheard
word emerging from original silence to say that which is eternal and
eternally ineffable in the heart of the world.

"Who could speak of him, even if he himself should speak to us?" said
the Inspirer, agitated, unable to conceal the wave of emotion surging
in his soul like the troubled waters of a stormy sea.

He looked at the singer, and beheld her as she had appeared during
the pauses, when she stood amid the forest of instruments, white and
inanimate as a statue.

But the spirit of Beauty they had called up was to manifest itself
through her.

"Ariadne!" Stelio murmured, as if to awaken her from a dream.

She arose without speaking, reached the door, and entered the adjoining
room. The light sweep of her skirts and her soft footfall were audible;
then they heard the sound of the piano being opened. All were silent
and expectant. A musical silence filled the vacant place in the
supper-room. A sudden gust of wind shook the flames of the candles
and swayed the flowers. Then all became motionless in the anxiety of
anticipation.

    _Lasciatemi morire!_

Suddenly their souls were ravished by a power comparable to the
strength of the eagle which, in Dante's dream, bore the poet to the
region of flame. They burned together in eternal truth; they heard the
melody of the world pass through their luminous ecstasy:

    _Lasciatemi morire!_

Was it Ariadne, still Ariadne, weeping in some new grief, still rising
to higher martyrdom?

    _E che volete
    Che mi conforte
    In cosa dure sorte,
    In cosi gran martire?
    Lasciatemi morire!_

The voice ceased; the singer did not reappear. The aria of Claudio
Monteverde composed itself in the auditors' memories like an immutable
lineament.

"Is there any Greek marble that has a perfection of style more sure
and simple?" said Daniele Glauro softly, as if he feared to break the
musical silence.

"But what sorrow on earth ever has wept like that?" stammered Lady
Myrta, her eyes full of tears, that ran down her poor, pale cheeks,
which she wiped with her trembling hands, misshaped by gout.

The austere intellect of the ascetic and the sweet, sensitive soul shut
within the old, infirm body bore witness to the same power. In the same
way, nearly three centuries before, at Mantua, in the famous theater,
six thousand spectators had been unable to repress their sobs; and the
poets had believed in the living presence of Apollo on the new stage.

"See, Baldassare," said Stelio, "here is an artist of our own race
who by the simplest means succeeded in attaining the highest degree
of that beauty which the German but rarely approached in his confused
aspirations toward the land of Sophocles."

"Do you know the lament of the ailing king?" asked the young man with
the sunny locks, which he wore long as a heritage from the Venetian
Sappho, the "high Gaspara," unfortunate friend of Collalto.

"All the agony of Amfortas is contained in a _mottetto_ that I know:
_Peccantem me quotidie_, but with what lyric impetus, what powerful
simplicity! All the forces of tragedy are there, sublimated, so to
speak, like the instincts of a multitude in a heroic heart. The
language of Palestrina, much more ancient, appears to me still purer
and more virile.

"But the contrast between Kundry and Parsifal, in the second act, the
Herzeleide _motif_, the impetuous figure, that figure of pain drawn
from the word of the sacred feast, the _motif_ of Kundry's aspiration,
the prophetic theme of the promise, the kiss on the lips of the 'pure
fool,' all that rending and intoxicating contrast of desire and
horror.... 'The wound, the wound! Now it burns, now it bleeds within
me!' And above the despairing frenzy of the temptress, the melody of
submission: 'Let me weep on thy breast! Let me unite myself with thee
for one hour; then, even if God repel me, through thee I shall be
redeemed and saved.' And Parsifal's response, in which the _motif_
of the 'pure fool,' now transfigured into the promised Hero, returns
with lofty solemnity: 'Hell would be our fate for all eternity if for
one single hour I should permit thee to clasp me in thy arms.' Then
the wild ecstasy of Kundry: 'Since my kiss has made thee a prophet,
embrace me wholly, and my love will render thee divine! One hour, one
single hour with thee, and I shall be saved!' And the last effort of
her demoniac will, the last gesture of enticement, the entreaty and the
furious words: 'Only thy love can save me! Oh, let me love thee! Mine
for a single hour! Thine for a single hour!'"

Perdita and Stelio, entranced, gazed into each other's eyes; for an
instant their spirits rushed together and mingled, in all the joy of an
actual embrace.

La Marangona, the largest bell of San Marco, sounded midnight, and,
as at the eventide, the two enamored ones felt the reverberation of
the bronze bell in the roots of their hair, almost like a quiver of
their own flesh. Once more they felt, hovering over them, the whirlwind
of sound, in the midst of which, in the twilight, they had suddenly
become aware of the rising apparition of consoling Beauty, evoked
by unanimous prayer. All the beauty of the waters, the timidity of
concealed longing, the anxiety, the promise, the parting, the festival,
the formidable, many-headed monster, the great, starry sphere, the
clamor, the music, the song, and the wonders of the miraculous Flame,
the return through the echoing canal, the song of brief youth, the
mental struggle and silent agitation in the gondola, the sudden shadow
over their three destinies, the banquet illumined by beautiful thought,
the presentiments, hopes, pride, all the strongest pulsations of life
were renewed between those two, quickened, became a thousand, and again
one. They felt that in that one moment they had lived beyond all human
limits, and that before them was opening a vast unknown, which they
might absorb as the ocean absorbs, for, though they had lived so much,
they felt their hearts were empty; though they had drunk so deep, they
were still athirst. An overmastering illusion seized upon these rich
natures, and each seemed to grow immeasurably more desirable in the
other's eyes. The young girl had disappeared. The expression of the
despairing, nomadic actress seemed to repeat: "Embrace me wholly, and
my love will render thee divine! One hour, one single hour with thee,
and I shall be saved! Mine for a single hour! Thine for a single hour!"

The eloquent commentary of the enthusiast still dwelt upon the sacred
tragedy. Kundry, the mad temptress, the slave of desire, the Rose of
Hell, the original perdition, the accursed, now reappeared in the
spring dawn; she reappeared humble and pale in her messenger's attire,
her head bent, her eyes cast down; and her harsh, broken voice spoke
only the single phrase: "Let me serve! Let me serve!"

The melodies of solitude, of submission, of purification prepared
around her humility the enchantment of Good Friday. And behold
Parsifal, in black armor and closed helmet, his spear lowered, lost
in an infinite dream: "I have come by perilous paths, but perhaps
this day I shall be saved, since I hear the murmur of the sacred
forest." ... Hope, pain, remorse, memory, the promise, faith panting
for the soul's health, and the sacred, mysterious melodies wove the
ideal mantle that should cover the Simple One, the Pure, the promised
Hero sent to heal the incurable wound. "Wilt thou take me to Amfortas
to-day?" He languished and fainted in the old man's arms. "Let me
serve! Let me serve!" The melody of submission rose again from the
orchestra, drowning the original impetuous _motif_. "Let me serve!" The
faithful woman brings water, kneels humbly and eagerly, and washes the
feet of her beloved. The faithful one drew from her bosom a vase of
balm, anointed the beloved feet, and wiped them with her flowing hair.
"Let me serve!" The Pure One bent over the sinner, sprinkling water on
her wild head: "Thus I accomplish my first office; receive this baptism
and believe in the Redeemer!" Kundry burst into tears, and knelt with
her brow in the dust, freed from impurity, freed from the curse. And
then, from the profound final harmonies of the prayer to the Redeemer,
rose and spread with superhuman sweetness the melody of the flowery
fields: "How beautiful to-day is the meadow! Once I was entwined with
marvelous flowers; but never before were the grass and wild blossoms so
fragrant!" In ecstasy, Parsifal contemplated the fields and forests,
dewy and smiling in the light of morn.

"Ah! who could forget that sublime moment?" cried the fair-haired
enthusiast, whose thin face seemed to reflect the light of that joy.
"All, in the darkness of the theater, remained motionless, like one
solid, compact mass. One would have said that, in order to listen to
that marvelous music, the blood had ceased to flow in our veins. From
the Mystic Gulf, the symphony rose like a shaft of light, the notes
transformed into rays of sunshine, born with the same joy as the blade
of grass that pierces the earth, the opening flower, the budding
branch, the insect unfolding its wings. And all the innocence of
new-born things entered into us, and our souls lived over again I know
not what dream of our far-away childhood.... INFANTIA, the device of
Carpaccio! Ah, Stelio! how well you brought it back to our riper age!
How well you knew how to inspire us with regret for all that we have
lost, and with hope of recovering it by means of an art that shall be
indissolubly reunited to life!"

Stelio Effrena was silent, oppressed by the thought of the gigantic
work accomplished by the barbaric creator, which the enthusiasm of
Baldassare Stampa had evoked as a contrast to the fervid poet of
_Orpheus_ and of _Ariadne_. A kind of instinctive rancor, an obscure
hostility that did not spring from the intellect, sustained him against
the tenacious German who had succeeded, by his own unaided effort,
in inflaming the world. To achieve his victory over men and things,
he, too, had exalted his own image and magnified his own dreams of
dominating beauty. He, too, had approached the multitude as if it were
his chosen prey; he, too, had imposed upon himself, as if it were a
discipline, an unceasing effort to surpass himself. And now he had the
temple of his creed on the Bavarian hill.

"Art alone can lead men back to unity," said Daniele Glauro. "Let us
honor the nobler master that has proclaimed this dogma for all time.
His Festival Theater, though built of bricks and wood, though narrow
and imperfect, has none the less a sublime significance, for within it
Art appears as a religion in a living form; the drama there becomes a
rite."

"Yes, let us honor Richard Wagner," said Antimo della Bella, "but, if
this hour is to be memorable by an announcement and a promise from
him who this night has shown the mysterious ship to the people, let
us invoke once more the heroic soul that has spoken to us through
the voice of Donatella Arvale. In laying the corner-stone of his
Festival Theater, the poet of _Siegfried_ consecrated it to the hopes
and victories of Germany. The Apollo Theater, which is now rising
rapidly on the Janiculum, where eagles once descended, bearing their
prophecies, must be the monumental revelation of the idea toward which
our race is led by its genius. Let us reaffirm the privilege with which
nature has ennobled our Latin blood."

Still Stelio remained silent, deeply stirred by turbulent forces that
worked within his soul with a sort of blind fury, like the subterranean
energies that swell, rend, and transform volcanic regions for the
creation of new mountains and new chasms. All the elements of his inner
life, assailed by this violence, seemed to dissolve and multiply at
the same time. Images of grandeur and of terror passed through this
tumult, accompanied by strange harmonies. Swift concentrations and
dispersions of thought succeeded one another, like electric flashes
in a tempest. At certain moments, it seemed to him that he could hear
songs and wild clamors through a doorway that was opened and closed
incessantly; sounds as if a tempestuous wind bore to his ears the
alternate cries of a massacre and an apotheosis.

Suddenly, with the intensity of a feverish vision, he saw the scorched
and fatal spot of earth whereon he wished to create the souls of his
great tragedy; he felt all its parching thirst within himself. He saw
the mythical fountain which alone could quench the burning aridity; and
in the bubbling of its springs the purity of the maiden that must die
there. He saw on Perdita's face the mask of the heroine, quiescent in
the beauty of an extraordinarily calm sorrow. Then the ancient dryness
of the plain of Argos converted itself into flames; the fountain of
Perseia flowed with the swiftness of a stream. The fire and the water,
the two primitive elements, rushed over all things, effaced all other
traces, spread and wandered, struggled, triumphed, acquired a word,
a language wherewith to unveil their inner essence and to reveal the
innumerable myths born of their eternity. The symphony expressed the
drama of the two elementary Souls on the stage of the Universe, the
pathetic struggle of two great living and moving Beings, two cosmic
Wills, such as the shepherd Arya fancied it when he contemplated the
spectacle from the high plateau with his pure eyes. And, of a sudden,
from the very center of the musical mystery, from the depths of
the symphonic Ocean, arose the Ode, brought by the human voice, and
attaining the loftiest heights.

The miracle of Beethoven renewed itself. The winged Ode, the Hymn,
sprang from the midst of the orchestra to proclaim, in phrases absolute
and imperious, the joy and the sorrow of Man. It was not the Chorus,
as in the Ninth Symphony, but the Voice, alone and dominating, the
interpreter, the messenger to the multitude. "Her voice! her voice!
She has disappeared. Her song seemed to move the heart of the world,
and she was beyond the veil," said the Animator, who in mental vision
saw again the crystal statue within which he had watched the mounting
wave of melody. "I will seek thee, I shall find thee again; I will
possess myself of thy secret. Thou shalt sing my hymns, towering at
the summit of my music!" Freed now from all earthly desire, he thought
of that maiden form as the receptacle of a divine gift. He heard the
disembodied voice surge from the depths of the orchestra to reveal the
part of eternal truth that exists in ephemeral fact. The Ode crowned
the episode with light. Then, as if to lead back to the play of
imagery his ravished spirit from "beyond the veil," a dancing figure
stood out against the rhythm of the dying Ode. Between the lines of a
parallelogram drawn beneath the arch of the stage, as within the limits
of a strophe, the mute dancer, with her body seemingly free for a
moment from the sad laws of gravity, imitated the fire, the whirlwind,
the revolutions of the stars. "La Tanagra, flower of Syracuse, made
of wings, as a flower is made of petals!" Thus he invoked the image
of the already famous Sicilian who had re-discovered the ancient
orchestic art as it had been in the days when Phrynichus boasted that
he had within himself as many figures of the dance as there were
waves on the ocean on a stormy winter night. The actress, the singer,
the dancer--the three Dionysian women--appeared to him like perfect
and almost divine instruments of his creations. With an incredible
rapidity, in word, song, gesture and symphony, his work should
crystallize itself and live an all-powerful life before the conquered
multitude.

He was still silent, lost in an ideal world, waiting to measure the
effort necessary to manifest it. The voices surrounding him seemed to
come from a long distance.

"Wagner declares that the only creator of a work of art is the people,"
said Baldassare Stampa, "and that the sole function of the artist is to
gather and express the creation of the unconscious multitude."

The extraordinary emotion that had stirred Stelio when, from the throne
of the Doges, he had spoken to the throng seized on him once more. In
that communion between his soul and the soul of the people an almost
divine mystery had existed; something greater and more exalted was
added to the habitual feeling he had for his own person; he had felt
that an unknown power converged within him, abolishing the limits of
his earthly being and conferring upon his solitary voice the full
harmony of a chorus.

There was, then, in the multitude a secret beauty, in which only the
poet and the hero could kindle a spark. Whenever that beauty revealed
itself by the sudden outburst from a theater, a public square, or
an entrenchment, a torrent of joy must swell the heart of him who
had known how to inspire it by his verse, his harangue, or a signal
from his sword. Thus, the word of the poet, when communicated to the
people, was an act comparable to the deed of a hero--an act that
brought to birth in the great composite soul of the multitude a sudden
comprehension of beauty, as a master sculptor, from the mere touch of
his plastic thumb upon a mass of clay, creates a divine statue. Then
the silence that had spread like a sacred veil over the completed poem
would cease. The material part of life would no longer be typified by
immaterial symbols: life itself would be manifested in its perfection
by the poet; the word would become flesh, rhythm would quicken in
breathing, palpitating form, the idea would be embodied with all the
fulness of its force and freedom.

"But," said Fabio Molza, "Richard Wagner believes that the real heart
of the people is composed only of those that experience grief in
common--you understand, grief in common."

"Toward Joy--still toward eternal Joy," Stelio reflected. "The real
heart of the people is composed of those that feel vaguely the
necessity of raising themselves, by means of Fiction, Poetry, the
Ideal, out of the daily prison in which they serve and suffer."

In his waking dream he beheld the disappearance of the small theaters
of the city, where, amid suffocating air heavy with impurities, before
a crowd of rakes and courtesans, the actors make public prostitution
of their talents. And then, on the steps of the new theater, his mental
vision beheld the true people, the great, unanimous multitude, whose
human odor he had inhaled, whose clamor he had listened to in the great
marble shell, under the stars. By the mysterious power of rhythm, his
art, imperfectly understood though it was, had stirred the rude and
ignorant ones with a profound emotion, penetrating as that felt by a
prisoner about to be released from his chains. Little by little, the
sensation of joy at their deliverance had crept over the most abject;
the deep-lined brows cleared; lips accustomed to brutal vociferation
had parted in amazement; and, above all, the hands--the rough hands
enslaved by instruments of toil--had stretched out in one unanimous
gesture of adoration toward the heroine who in their presence had
wafted toward the stars the spirit of immortal sorrow.

"In the life of a people like ours," said Daniele Glauro, "a great
manifestation of art has much more weight than a treaty of alliance
or a tributary law. That which never dies is more prized than that
which is ephemeral. The astuteness and audacity of a Malatesta are
crystallized for all time in a medal of Pisanello's. Of Machiavelli's
politics nothing survives but the power of his prose."

"That is true, most true!" thought Stelio; "the fortunes of Italy are
inseparable from the fate of the Beauty of which she is the Mother."
This sovereign truth now appeared to him the rising sun of that divine,
ideal land through which wandered the great Dante. "Italy! Italy!"
Throughout his being, like a call to arms, seemed to thrill that name,
that name which intoxicates the world. From its ruins, bathed in so
much heroic blood, should not the new art, robust in root and branch,
arise and flourish? Should it not become a determining and constructive
force in the third Rome, reawakening all the latent power possessed by
the hereditary substance of the nation, indicating to her statesmen
the primitive truths that are the necessary bases of new institutions?
Faithful to the oldest instincts of his race, Richard Wagner had
foreseen, and had fostered by his own efforts, the aspiration of the
German States to the heroic grandeur of the Empire. He had evoked the
noble figure of Henry the Fowler, standing erect beneath the ancient
oak: "Let warriors arise from every German land!" And at Sadowa and
at Sedan these warriors had won. With the same impulse, the same
tenacity, people and artist had achieved their glorious aim. The same
degree of victory had crowned the work of the sword and the work of
melody. Like the hero, the poet had accomplished an act of deliverance.
Like the will of the Iron Chancelor, like the blood of his soldiers,
the Master's musical numbers had contributed toward the exalting and
perpetuating of the soul of his race.

"He has been here only a few days, at the Palazzo Vendramin-Calergi,"
said Prince Hoditz.

And suddenly the image of the barbaric creator seemed to Stelio to
approach him; the lines of his face became visible, the blue eyes
gleamed under the wide brow, the lips closed tight above the powerful
chin, armed with sensuousness, pride, and disdain. The slight body,
bent with the weight of age and glory, straightened itself, appeared
almost as gigantic as his work, took on the aspect of a god. The blood
coursed like a swift mountain torrent, its breath sighed like a forest
breeze. Suddenly the youth of Siegfried filled the figure and permeated
it, radiant as the dawn shining through a cloud. "To follow the impulse
of my heart, to obey my instinct, to listen to the voice of Nature
within myself--that is my supreme law!" The heroic, resounding words,
springing from the depths, expressed the young and healthy will that
had triumphed over all obstacles and all evil, always in accord with
the law of the Universe. And the flames, called forth from the rock by
the wand of Wotan, arose in the magic circle: "On the flaming sea a way
has opened! To plunge into that fire, oh, ineffable joy! To find my
bride within that flaming circle!" All the phantoms of the myth seemed
to blaze anew and then vanish.

Then the winged helmet of Brunehilde gleamed in the sunlight: "Glory
to the sun! Glory to the light! Glory to the radiant day! My sleep
was long. Who has awakened me?" The phantoms fled in tumult, and
dispersed. Then arose from the dark shadows the maiden of the song,
Donatella Arvale, as she had appeared to him amid the purple and gold
of the immense hall in a commanding attitude and holding a fiery
flower in her hand: "Dost thou not see me, then? Do not my burning
gaze and ardent blood make thee tremble. Dost thou not feel this wild
ardor?" Though she was absent, she seemed to resume her power over his
dream. Infinite music seemed to rise from the silent, empty place in
the supper-room. Her Hermes-like face seemed to retain an inviolable
secret: "Do not touch me; do not trouble my repose, and I will reflect
forever thy luminous image. Love only thyself and renounce all thought
of me!" And again, as on the feverish water, a passionate impatience
tortured the Animator, and again he fancied the absent one like a
beautiful bow to be drawn by a strong hand that would know how to use
it as an instrument to achieve some great conquest: "Awake, virgin,
awake! Live and laugh! Be mine!"

Stelio's spirit was drawn violently into the orbit of the magic world
created by the German god; its visions and harmonies overwhelmed him;
the figures of the Northern myth towered above those of his own art
and passion, obscuring them. His own desire and his own hope spoke the
language of the barbarian: "I must love thee, blindly, and laughing:
and, laughing, we must unite and lose ourselves, each in the other. O
radiant Love! O smiling Death!" The joyousness of the warrior-virgin
on the flame-circled summit reached the loftiest height; her cry of
love and liberty mounted to the heart of the sun. Ah, what heights and
what depths had he not touched, that formidable Master of human souls!
What effort could ever equal his? What eagle could ever hope to soar
higher? His gigantic work was there, finished, amidst men. Throughout
the world swelled the last mighty chorus of the Grail, the canticle of
thanksgiving: "Glory to the Miracle! Redemption to the Redeemer!"

"He is tired," said Prince Hoditz, "very tired and feeble. That is
the reason why we did not see him at the Doge's Palace. His heart is
affected." ...

Once more the giant became a man: the slight body, bent with age and
glory, consumed by passion, slowly dying. And Stelio heard again in
his heart Perdita's words, which had called up the image of another
stricken artist--the father of Donatella Arvale. "The name of the bow
is BIOS ("life"), and its work is death!"

The young man saw his pathway blazed before him by victory--the long
art, the short life. "Forward, still forward! Higher, ever higher!"
Every hour, every second, he must strive, struggle, fortify himself
against destruction, diminution, oppression, contagion. Every hour,
every second, his eye must be fixed on his aim, concentrating and
directing all his energies, without truce, without relaxation. He felt
that victory was as necessary to his soul as air to his lungs. At the
contact with the German barbarian, a furious thirst for conflict awoke
in his Latin blood. "To you now belongs the will to do!" Wagner had
declared, on the day of the opening of the new theater: "In the work
of art of the future, the source of invention will never run dry." Art
was infinite, like the beauty of the world. There are no limits to
courage or to power. Man must seek and find, further and still further.
"Forward, still forward!"

Then a single wave, vast and shapeless, embodying all the aspirations
and all the agitations of that delirium, whirling itself into a
maelstrom, seemed to take on the qualities of plastic matter, obeying
the same inexhaustible energy that forms all animals and all things
under the sun. An extraordinary image, beautiful and pure, was born
of this travail, lived and glowed with unbearable intensity. The poet
saw it, absorbed it with a pure gaze, felt that it took root in the
very depths of his being. "Ah, to express it, to manifest it to the
world, to fix it in perfection for all eternity!" Sublime moment that
never would return! All visions vanished. Around him flowed the current
of daily life; fleeting words sounded; expectation palpitated, desire
still lived.

He looked at the woman. The stars sparkled; the trees waved, and the
dark garden spread out behind Perdita, and her eyes still said: "Let me
serve! Let me serve!"




                              CHAPTER VII

                              THE PROMISE


Descending the terrace to the garden, the guests had dispersed among
the shady paths and under the vine-covered trellises. The night breeze
was damp and warm, touching the long lashes on delicate eyelids like
lips brushing them in a caress. The invisible stars of the jasmine
perfumed the darkness; the rich fragrance of fruit, too, was even
stronger than in the island gardens. A vivid power of fertility
emanated from this narrow trace of cultivated earth, which appeared
like a place of exile, surrounded by a girdle of water, and, like an
exiled soul, all the more intense.

"Do you wish me to remain here? Shall I return after the others have
gone? Say quickly! It is late!"

"No, no, Stelio, I beg of you! It is late--it is too late! You yourself
say it is."

La Fosacarina's voice was full of mortal terror. Her white arms and
shoulders trembled in the shadows. She wished at once to refuse and to
yield; she wished to die, yet she wished to feel his strong embrace.
She trembled more and more; her teeth chattered slightly, for a glacial
stream seemed to submerge her, chilling her from head to foot. The
strange emotion caused a fancy that her very limbs were ready to break,
and she was conscious that the stiffness of her set features had even
changed the sound of her voice. And still she longed at once to die
and to be loved; still, over her terror, her chill, her body no longer
young, hung the terrible sentence the beloved had pronounced, which she
herself had repeated: "It is late--it is too late!"

"Your promise, your promise, Perdita! I will not be put off!"

The tide, swelling like a full, fair throat, the estuary, lost in
darkness and death, the City, when illumined by the twilight fire, the
water flowing in the invisible clepsydra, the bronze bells with their
vibrations reaching to the sky, the eager wish, the contracted lips,
lowered eyelids, feverish hands, all recurred with the memory of the
silent promise. With wild ardor he longed to clasp that being, whose
knowledge of all things was immeasurably deep and rich.

"No, I will not be put off!"

His ardor had come to him from far-distant ages, from the most ancient
origins, the primitive simplicity of sudden unions, the antique mystery
of sacred furies. Like the horde that was possessed by the enchantment
of the gods, and descended the mountain side, tearing up trees, rushing
on with blind fury, momentarily increasing, its numbers swelled by
other madmen, spreading madness in its way, and finally becoming one
vast bestial yet human multitude, impelled by a monstrous will, so the
crudest of instincts urged him on, confusing all his ideas in a dizzy
whirl. And what most attracted him in that wandering and despairing
woman, whose knowledge was deep and rich, was the consciousness that
she was a being oppressed by the eternal servitude of her nature,
destined to succumb to the sudden convulsions of her sex; a being who
soothed the fever of stage life in sensuous repose, the fiery actress,
who passed from the frenzied plaudits of the multitude to the embrace
of a lover; the Dionysian creature who chose to crown her mysterious
rites as they were crowned in the ancient orgies.

His amorous madness was now immeasurable, and was a mingling of
cruelty, jealousy, poetry and pride. He regretted that he never had
sought her after some dramatic triumph, warm from the breath of the
people, breathless and disheveled, showing the traces of the tragic
soul that had wept and cried in her, with the tears of that alien
spirit still damp on her agitated face. As by a flash of light, he had
a sudden vision of her reclining, at rest, yet full of the power that
had drawn forth a howl from the monster, panting like a Mænad after the
dance, athirst and weary.

"Ah, do not be cruel!" entreated the woman, who felt in the voice of
the beloved, and read in his eyes, the madness that possessed him. From
the burning gaze of the young man she shrank with pathetic modesty. His
insistence hurt the sensitive delicacy of her spirit. She recognized
in it all that there was of mere selfish impulse; she well knew that
he thought of her as something poisonous and corrupt, with memories of
many loves, a wandering, implacable temptress. She divined the sudden
grudgingness, jealousy and feverish resentment that had blazed up in
the long-beloved friend, to whom she had consecrated all of herself
that was most precious and most sincere, preserving the perfection of
that sentiment by her steadfast refusal to break down all barriers.
Now, all was lost; all was suddenly devastated, like a fair domain
at the mercy of rebellious and vindictive slaves. Then, almost as if
she were passing through the last agonies of death, her whole bitter
and stormy past rose before her: that life of struggle and pain,
bewilderment, effort, passion, and triumph. She felt all its heavy
burden weighing on her, and recalled the ineffable joy, the feeling
of mingled terror and freedom, with which, in her far-distant youth,
she had given her first, fresh love to the man who had deceived her.
And through her mind passed the image of herself, that maiden who had
disappeared, who perhaps was still dreaming in some solitary place,
or weeping, or promising herself future happiness. "Too late--it is
too late!" The irrevocable word rang continually in her ears like the
reverberation of the bronze bells.

"Do not be cruel, Stelio!" she repeated, white and delicate as the
swansdown that encircled her shoulders. She seemed suddenly to have
shorn herself of her power, to have become slight and weak, to have
assumed a secret, tender personality, easy to kill, to destroy, to
immolate as a bloodless sacrifice.

"No, Perdita, I will not be cruel," he stammered, suddenly discomposed
by her face and voice, his heart stirred with human pity, arising from
the same depths that had harbored his wilder instincts. "Pardon me!
Forgive!"

He would have liked to take her in his arms that moment, to nurse her,
console her, let her weep on his breast, and to dry her tears. He felt
that he no longer recognized her, that some unknown creature stood
before him, infinitely humble and sad, deprived of all strength. His
pity and remorse were like the emotion we feel if we unwillingly hurt
or offend an invalid or a child--some lonely and inoffensive little
being.

"Pardon me!"

He would have liked to kneel, to kiss her feet in the grass, to murmur
little fond phrases in her ear. He bent toward her and touched her
hand. She started violently, opened wide her large eyes upon him; then
lowered her eyelids and stood motionless. Shadows seemed to gather
under her arched brows, throwing into relief the curve of her cheeks.
Again the glacial wave submerged her.

Voices arose from the guests dispersed about the garden, then a long
silence followed.

Presently a crunching of gravel, as if trodden by a heavy foot, was
heard, followed by another long silence. Soon a confused clamor was
heard coming from the canals; the jasmine's fragrance was heavier than
before, as a heart in suspense quickens in movement. The night seemed
fraught with miracles, and eternal forces worked harmoniously between
the earth and the stars.

"Pardon me! If my love oppresses you, I will continue to stifle it; I
will even renounce it forever, and obey you. Perdita! Perdita! I will
forget all that your eyes said to me a little while ago, in the midst
of the idle talk. What embrace, what caress could more wholly unite our
souls? All the passion of the night threw us together. I received your
soul like a wave. And now it seems that never again can I separate my
heart from yours, nor can you separate yours from mine. Together we
must go forward to meet I know not what mysterious dawn...."

He spoke in a low tone, with absolute abandon, having become for the
moment a vibrating substance that responded to every change in the
nocturnal spirit that bewitched him. That which he saw before him was
no longer a corporeal form, an impenetrable prison of flesh; it was a
soul unveiled by a succession of appearances not less expressive than
melody itself, an infinite sensibility, delicate and powerful, which,
in that slight frame, created in turn the fragility of the flower, the
vigor of marble, the flash of the flame, all shadows and all light.

"Stelio!"

She hardly breathed that name aloud; yet in the sigh that died on her
soft lips was as thrilling a note of wonder and exultation as would
have been revealed in the most piercing cry. In the accent of the
man she had recognized love: love, real love! She, who had so often
listened to beautiful and perfect words pronounced by that clear voice,
and who had suffered under them as from a torture or a heartless jest,
now saw her own life and all the world suddenly transformed at this
new accent. Her very soul seemed changed; that which had encumbered
it fell away into dim, far-off obscurity, while to the surface rose
something free and immaculate, that dilated and curved over her like
the sky; and, as the wave of light mounts from the horizon to the
zenith with mute harmony, the illusion of happiness mounted to her
lips. A smile softly spread over her lips, which quivered like leaves
in the breeze, showing a glimpse as pearly as the jasmine's starry
flowers.

"All is abolished--all is vanished. I never have lived, I never have
loved, I never have suffered. I am renewed. I never have known any love
but this. My heart is pure. I should wish to die in the joy of your
love. Years and experience have passed over me without reaching that
part of my soul which I have kept for you, that secret heaven which has
suddenly opened to the unforeseen, has triumphed over all my sadness,
and has remained alone to cherish the strength and the sweetness of
your name. Your love will save me; the fulness of my love will render
you divine!"

Words of wildest transport sprang from her liberated heart, though
her lips dared not speak them. But she smiled--smiled her infinite,
mysterious, silent smile!

"Is it not true? Speak--answer me, Perdita! Do you not feel too our
need of each other--all the stronger from our long renunciation, from
the patience with which we have awaited this hour? Ah, it seems to me
that all my presentiments and all my hopes would count as nothing, if
it were fated that this hour should not come to pass. Say that without
me you could not have waited, after life's darkness, for the glorious
dawn, as I could not wait without you!"

"Yes, yes!"

In that stifled syllable, she was lost irrevocably. The smile faded,
the lines of the mouth became heavy, causing it to appear in sharply
drawn relief against the pallor of her face; the lips seemed athirst,
strong to attract, to cling, insatiable. And her whole body, which just
before had seemed to shrink in sensitiveness and apprehension, now drew
itself up again, as if formed anew, recovering all its physical power,
and inundated by an impetuous wave of emotion.

"Let us have no more uncertainty. It is late."

He could not disguise his impatience of the social restraints that must
be observed on account of the other guests.

"Yes!" La Foscarina repeated, but in a new accent, her eyes dwelling
upon his, commanding, imperious, as if she felt certain now of
possessing a philter that should bind him to her forever.

Stelio felt his heart-throbs quicken still more at the thought of the
love this mysterious being must be able to give. He gazed deep into her
eyes, and saw that she was as pale as if all her blood had been sapped
by the earth to nourish the rich fruits of the garden; and it seemed to
him that the present was part of a dream-life, wherein he and she lived
alone in all the world.

  [Illustration: _HE GAZED DEEP INTO HER EYES AND SAW THAT SHE WAS AS
PALE AS IF HER BLOOD HAD BEEN SAPPED TO NOURISH THE RICH FRUITS OF THE
                                GARDEN_]

             _From an Original Drawing by Arthur H. Ewer_


La Foscarina was standing under a shrub laden with fruit. The sudden
beauty that had illumined her in the supper-room, made up of a thousand
ideal forces, reappeared in her face with still greater intensity,
kindled now from the flame that never dies, the fervor that never
languishes. The magnificent fruits hung over her head, bearing the
crown of a royal donor. The myth of the pomegranate was revivified in
the mystery of midnight, as it had been at the passing of the boat in
the mystic twilight. Who was this woman? Was she Persephone herself,
Queen of Shades? Had she dwelt in that unknown region where all human
agitations seem as trifling as idle winds on a dusty, interminable
road? Had she contemplated the springs of the world, sunk deep in the
earth? Had she counted the roots of the flowers, immobile as the veins
in a petrified body? Was she weary or intoxicated with human tears,
laughter, and sensuousness, and with having touched, one after another,
all things mortal, to make them bloom only to see them perish? Who was
she? Had she struck upon cities like a scourge, silenced forever with
her kiss all lips that sang, stopped the pulsation of tyrannous hearts?
Who was she--who? What secret past made her so pale, so passionate,
so perilous? Had she already divulged all her secrets and given all
her gifts, or could she still, by new arts, enchant her new lover, for
whom life, love, and victory were one and the same thing? All this,
and more, was suggested to him by the little veins in her temples, the
curve of her cheeks, the lithe strength of her body.

"All evil, all good, that which I know and do not know, that which you
know, as well as that which you are ignorant of--all this had to be, to
prepare the fulness of this night." Life and the dream had become one.
Thought and sense were as wines poured into the same cup. Even their
garments, their faces, their hopes, their glances, were like the plants
of the garden, like the air, the stars, the silence.

Sublime moment, never to return! Before he realized it, his hands
involuntarily reached out to draw her to himself. The woman's head
fell backward, as if she were about to faint; between her half-closed
eyelids and her parted lips her eyes and her teeth gleamed as things
gleam for the last time. Then swiftly she raised her head again and
recovered herself; her lips sought the lips that sought hers.

After a moment they saw each other again in a lucid way. The voices of
the guests in the garden were wafted to their ears, and an indistinct
clamor from the far-off canal rose from time to time.

"Well?" demanded the young man feverishly, after that burning kiss of
body and soul.

The lady bent to lift a fallen pomegranate from the grass. The fruit
was ripe; it had burst open in its fall and now poured out its blood
from the wound it had received. With the vision of the fruit-laden
boat, the pale islet, and the field of asphodels, to the impassioned
woman's mind returned the words of the Inspirer: "This is my body....
Take, eat!"

"Well?"

"Yes!"

With a mechanical movement she crushed the fruit in her hand, as if she
wished to expel all its juice, which trickled in a stream over her
wrist. She trembled, as the glacial wave rushed over her anew.

"Go away when the others go, but then--return! I will wait for you at
the gate of the Gradenigo garden."

She trembled still, partly from terror, a prey to an invincible power.
As by a flash of light, again he saw her reclining, at rest, panting
like a Mænad after the dance. They gazed at each other, but could not
bear the fierce light of each other's eyes. They parted.

She went in the direction of the voices of the poets who had exalted
her ideal power.




                             CHAPTER VIII

                         "TO CREATE WITH JOY!"


Lost! Lost! Now she was lost! She still lived--vanquished, humiliated,
as if some one had trampled pitilessly upon her; she still lived, and
dawn was breaking, the days were beginning again, the fresh tide was
flowing once more into the City Beautiful, and Donatella was still
sleeping upon her pure pillow. Into an infinite distance had faded the
hour, in reality so short a time before, when she had waited at the
gate for her beloved, recognized his step in the funereal silence of
the deserted path, and felt her knees weaken as if from a blow, while
a strange reverberation rang in her ears. How far-away now seemed that
hour! yet the little incidents of her vigil returned to her mind with
intensity: the cold iron rail against which she had leaned her head,
the sharp, acrid odor that rose from the grass as from a retting-vat,
the moist tongue of Lady Myrta's greyhounds that came noiselessly and
licked her hands.

"Good-by! Good-by!"

She was lost! He had left her as he would have left some light love,
almost with the manner of a stranger, almost impatient even, drawn by
the freshness of the dawn, by the freedom of the morning.

"Good-by!"

From her window she perceived Stelio on the bank of the canal; he was
inhaling deep breaths of the fresh morning air; then in the perfect
calm that reigned over all things, she heard his clear, confident voice
calling the gondolier:

"Zorzi!"

The man was asleep in the bottom of his gondola, and his human slumber
resembled that of the curved boat that obeyed his movements. Stelio
touched him lightly with his foot, and instantly he sprang up, jumped
to his place and seized the oar. Man and boat awoke at the same time,
as if they had but one body, ready to glide over the water.

"Your servant, Signor!" said Zorzi with a smile, glancing up at the
brightening sky. "Sit down, Signor, and I will row."

Opposite the palace, the door of a large workshop was thrown open. It
was a stonecutter's shop, where steps were fashioned from the stone of
Val-di-Sole.

"To ascend!" thought Stelio, and his superstitious soul rejoiced at
the good omen. On the sign, the name of the quarry seemed radiant with
promise--the Valley of the Sun. He had already seen, a short time
before, the image of a stairway, on a coat-of-arms in the Gradenigo
garden--a symbol of his own ascension. "Higher, always higher!" Joy
came bubbling up from the depths of his being. The morning awakened all
manly energies.

"And Perdita? And Ariadne?" He saw them again, as they descended the
marble stairway, in the light of the smoking torches. "And La Tanagra?"
The Syracusan appeared to his vision, with her long, goat-like eyes,
reposing gracefully upon her mother earth, motionless as a bas-relief
on the marble in which it is carved. "The Dionysian Trinity!" He
fancied them as exempt from all passion, immune from all evil, like
creations of art. The surface of his soul seemed covered with swift and
splendid images, like sails scattered over a swelling sea. His heart
beat calmly, and with the approaching sunrise he felt a renewal of his
life-forces, as if he were born anew with the morning.

"We do not need this light any longer," murmured the gondolier slyly,
extinguishing the lantern of the gondola.

"To the Grand Canal, by San Giovanni Decollato!" cried Stelio, seating
himself.

As the dentellated prow swung into the Canal of San Giacomo dall'Orio,
he turned to look once more at the palace, of a leaden hue in the early
dawn. One lighted window grew dark at that moment, like an eye suddenly
blinded. "Good-by! Good-by!" The woman no longer young was up there
alone, sad with the sadness of death; the Song-Maiden was preparing to
return to the place of her long sacrifice. He knew not how to pity,
he could only promise. From the abundance of his strength, he drew an
illusion that he might change those two destinies for his own joy.

"Stop before the Palazzo Vendramin-Calergi!" he ordered the gondolier.

The canal, ancient stream of silence and of poetry, was deserted. The
pale green sky was reflected in it with its last fading stars. At
first glance, the palace had an aerial appearance, like an artificial
cloud hung over the water. The shadows in which it was still wrapped
suggested the quality of velvet, the beauty of something soft and
magnificent. And, just as in studying a deep-piled velvet, the pattern
gradually becomes discernible, the architectural lines revealed
themselves in the three Corinthian columns that rose with rhythmic
grace and strength to the point where the emblems of nobility, the
eagles, the horses, and the amphora, were mingled with the roses of
Loredan. NON NOBIS, DOMINE, NON NOBIS.

Within that palace throbbed the great ailing heart. Stelio saw again
the image of the barbaric creator: the blue eyes gleaming under the
broad brow, the lips compressed above the powerful chin, armed with
sensuousness, pride, and disdain. Was he sleeping? Could he sleep,
or was he lying sleepless with his glory? The young man recalled
strange things that were told of Wagner. Was it true that he could
not sleep unless his head rested on his wife's bosom, and that,
despite advancing years, he clung to her as a lover to his mistress?
He remembered a story told him by Lady Myrta, who, while she was in
Palermo, had visited the Villa d'Angri, where the very closets in the
room occupied by the master had remained impregnated with an essence
of rose so strong that it made her ill. He fancied that slight, tired
body, wrapped in sumptuous draperies, ornamented with jewels, perfumed
like a corpse ready for the pyre. Was it not Venice that had given
him, as long ago it had given Albert Dürer, a taste for luxury and
magnificence? Yes, and it was in the silence of her canals that he
had heard the passing of the most ardent breath of all his music--the
deadly passion of Tristan and Isolde.

And now, within that palace throbbed the great ailing heart, and there
its formidable impetuosity was flagging. The patrician palace, with
its eagles, its horses, amphora, and roses, was as tightly closed and
silent as a great tomb. Above its marble towers the sunrise turned the
pale green sky to rosy pink.

"Hail to the Victorious One!" Stelio stood up and cast his flowers at
the threshold of the palace door.

"On! On!" he cried.

Urged by this sudden impatience, the gondolier bent to his oar, and
the light craft threaded its way along the stream. A brown sail
passed silently. The sea, the rippling waves, the laughing cry of the
sea-gulls, the sweeping breeze arose before his desire.

"Row, Zorzi, row! To the Veneta Marina, by the Canal dall'Olio!" the
young man cried.

The canal seemed too narrow for the expanse of his soul. Victory was
now as necessary to his spirit as air to his lungs. After the delirium
of the night, he wished to prove the perfection of his physical nature
by the light of day and in the sharp breeze of the sea. He did not wish
to sleep. He felt a circle of freshness around his eyes, as if he had
bathed them with dew. He had no desire for repose, and the thought of
his bed in the hotel filled him with disgust. "The deck of a ship, the
odor of pitch and of salt, the flutter of a red sail.... Row, Zorzi!"

The gondolier redoubled his efforts. The Fondaco dei Turchi disappeared
from their view, a vision of marvelously yellow old ivory, like the
only remaining portico of some ruined mosque. They passed the Palazzo
of the Cornaro and the Palazzo of the Pesaro, those two giants
blackened by time as by smoke from a fire; they passed the Ca' d'Oro, a
divine marvel of air and stone; and suddenly the Rialto bridge showed
its ample back, laden with shops, already bustling with life, sending
forth the odor of vegetables and fish, like a great horn of plenty
pouring out upon the shores the fruits of earth and sea to feed the
Queen of Cities.

"I am hungry, Zorzi, I am very hungry!" said Stelio, laughing.

"A good sign when a wakeful night makes one hungry; it makes only the
old feel sleepy," said Zorzi.

"Row to shore!"

He bought at a stall some grapes of the Vignole and some figs from
Malamocco, laid on a plate of vine-leaves.

"Row, Zorzi!"

The gondola turned, then sped under the Fondaco dei Tedeschi, making
its way toward the Rio de Palazzo. The bells were now ringing joyously
in the full daylight, drowning the noises of the market-place with
their brazen tongues.

"To the Ponte della Paglia!"

A thought, spontaneous as an instinct, led him back to the glorious
spot where it seemed some trace must remain of his lyric inspiration
and of the great Dionysian chorus: _Viva il forte!_ The gondola
grazed the side of the Palace of the Doge, massive as a monolith cut
by chisels not less apt in finding melodies than the bows of the
musicians. With all his new-born soul he embraced the mass; he heard
once more the sound of his own voice and the bursts of applause. He
said again to himself: "To create with joy! That is an attribute of
Divinity! Impossible to imagine, in the highest flight of the spirit,
a more triumphal act. Even the phrase itself has something of the
splendor of the dawn."

Again and again he repeated to the air, the waters, the stones, to the
ancient city, to the young dawn: "To create with joy! To create with
joy!"

When the prow passed under the bridge and entered the mirror of light,
a freer breath gave him fresh realization, with his hope and his
courage, of the beauty and strength of the life of the past.

"Find me a boat, Zorzi--a boat that will go out to sea."

He longed for still wider space in which to breathe; he longed to feel
a strong wind, salt air and dashing spray; to see the sails swell, and
the bowsprit pointed toward a boundless horizon.

"To the Veneta Marina! Find me a fishing-boat, a _bragozzo_ from
Chioggia."

He perceived a large red and black sail, just hoisted, and now flapping
in the breeze, superb as an ancient banner of the Republic, with the
device of the Lion and the Book.

"That one there--that will do. Let us catch it, Zorzi."

In his impatience he waved his hand, to sign to the boat to stop.

"Call out to them to wait for me, Zorzi!"

The gondolier, heated and dripping, cried out to the man at the sail.
The gondola flew like a canoe in a regatta.

"Bravo, Zorzi!"

But Stelio was panting, too, as if he were in pursuit of fortune, some
happy aim, or the certainty of a kingdom.

"We have won the flag!" laughed the gondolier, rubbing his burning
palms. "What foolishness!"

The movement, the tone, the good-humor, the astonished faces of the
fishermen leaning over the rail, the reflection of the red sail in the
water, the cordial odor of fresh bread from a neighboring bake-shop,
the smell of boiling pitch from a dock-yard, the voices of workmen
entering the arsenal, the strong emanations from the quays, impregnated
with the odor of the old rotten vessels of the Serene Republic, the
resounding blows of the hammer on the vessels of the new Italy--all
these rude and healthful things aroused a wonderful joyousness in the
heart of the young man, who laughed aloud for very gladness.

"What do you wish?" demanded the older of the fishermen, bending toward
the ringing laughter his bearded bronzed face. "What can I do for you,
Signor?"

The mast creaked as if it were alive, swaying from top to bottom.

"You can come on board, if you like," he said. "Is that all you want?"

He brought a ladder and attached it to the stern. It was a simple
affair of ropes and pegs, but to Stelio it seemed, like all else in the
rough craft, to have a life of its own. As he stepped upon it he felt
almost ashamed of his light, glossy shoes. The heavy, calloused hand of
the sailor, covered with blue tattoo-marks, helped him to climb up and
pulled him on board with a jerk.

"The grapes and the figs, Zorzi!"

From the gondola, Zorzi handed him the vine-leaf plate.

"May it make new blood for you, Signor!"

"And the bread?"

"We have some warm bread," said one of the sailors, "just out of the
oven."

Hunger would certainly give that bread a delicious flavor, finding
therein all the nourishment of the grain.

"Your servant, Signor, and a fair wind to you!" said the gondolier,
taking leave.

"Starboard!"

The lateen sail, with the Lion and the Book, swelled crimson. The craft
turned toward the open sea, directing its course toward San Servolo.
The shore seemed to assume a sharp curve, as if to repel it.

"To the right!"

The boat veered with great force. A miracle met it: the first rays of
the sun pierced the fluttering sail and illumined the angels on the
campaniles of San Marco and San Giorgio Maggiore, setting on fire the
globe of the Fortuna and crowning the five miters of the Basilica with
a diadem of light. Venice Anadyomene reigned over the waters, and from
her beauty all her veils were ravished.

"Glory to the Miracle!" An almost superhuman feeling of power and of
freedom swelled the young man's heart as the wind had swollen the sail
transfigured for him. In its crimson splendor, he saw himself as in the
splendor of his own blood. It seemed to him that all the mystery of
this beauty demanded of him a triumphal act. He felt confident that he
was able to accomplish it. "To create with joy!"

And the world was his!




                                BOOK II

                         THE EMPIRE OF SILENCE




                               CHAPTER I

                              "IN TIME!"


"In time!" In a room of the Academy, La Foscarina had stopped before
_La Vecchia_, by Francesco Torbido--that wrinkled, toothless, flaccid,
yellow old woman, who could no longer either smile or weep, that human
ruin worse than decay, that species of earthly Parca, who, instead of
spindle, thread, or scissors, held in her hand a card bearing that
significant warning.

"In time!" she said again, when she and her companion were once more in
the open air. She said it to break the pensive silence, during which
she had felt her heart sink, like a stone cast into dark waters. She
spoke again suddenly:

"Stelio, do you know that closed house in the Calle Gambara?"

"No--which house?"

"The house of the Countess of Glanegg."

"No, I don't know it."

"Do you not know the story of the beautiful Austrian?"

"No, Fosca. Tell it to me."

"Will you go with me as far as the Calle Gambara; it is only a short
distance?"

"Yes, I will go."

They walked along, side by side, toward the closed mansion. Stelio
fell back a step, that he might observe the actress, that he might
behold her grace as she walked in that warm, dead air. With his ardent
gaze he seemed to embrace her whole person: the line of her shoulders
sloping with noble grace, the free and pliant waist on the strong
hips, the knees that moved lightly among the folds of her robe, and
that pale, passionate face, those eloquent lips, that brow, lofty
and beautiful as that of a man, the fringe of dark lashes over the
elongated eyes, that sometimes were clouded over, as if tears rose to
them and remained unshed--the whole passionate face full of lights and
shadows, love and sadness, feverish force and quivering life.

"I love you! I love you! You alone please me! Everything about you
pleases me!" he said to her suddenly, whispering the words close to
her cheek. He was now walking so close as almost to press against her,
as he accommodated his step to hers, his arm passed under her arm. He
could not bear to know that she was seized with startled anguish at
those terrible warning words.

She trembled, stopped; her eyelids drooped, her cheeks turned pale.

"My friend!" she said, in a tone so faint that the two words seemed
modulated less by her lips than by the rare smile of her spirit.

Her sudden sadness melted away, changed into a wave of tenderness that
poured in a lavish flood over her friend. Her unbounded gratitude
inspired her with an eager desire to find some great gift for him.

"Tell me, Stelio, what can I do for thee?"

She imagined some marvelous test, some unheard-of proof of love. "Let
me serve! Let me serve!" cried her heart. She yearned to own the whole
earth, that she might offer it to him.

"What dost thou wish? Tell me--what can I do for thee?"

"Love me--only love me!"

"Poor friend, my love is sad."

"It is perfect; it crowns my life."

"But you are young."

"I love you!"

"You should possess one with strength equal to your own."

"But it is you, and only you, that each day increases my strength and
exalts my hope. My blood runs quicker when I am near you in your mystic
silence. At those times things are born in my brain that in time you
will marvel to see. You are necessary to me."

"Do not say that!"

"Each day you confirm me in the assurance that all promises made to me
will be kept."

"Yes, you will have your own beautiful destiny. For you I have no fear;
you are sure of yourself. No peril can surprise you, no obstacle can
impede your progress. Oh, to be able to love without fear! One always
fears when one loves. It is not for you that I fear. You seem to me
invincible. I thank you for that also."

She showed him her faith, deep as her passion, lucid and unlimited. For
a long time, even in the heat of her own struggles and the vicissitudes
of her wandering life, she had kept her eyes fixed on this young,
victorious existence, as on an ideal form born of the purification of
her own desire. More than once, in the sadness of vain loves and the
nobility of the prohibition imposed between them, she had thought: "Ah,
if, some day, from all my courage, hardened in many storms, from all
the strong, clear things that grief and revolt have revealed in the
depths of my soul, from the best of myself, I could fashion for thee
the wings that shall bear thee upward in thy last supreme flight!" More
than once, her melancholy had been dissipated in a heroic presentiment.
And then she had subjected her soul to restraint, had raised it to the
highest plane of moral beauty that she could, had guided it in paths of
purity, solely to merit that for which she hoped and feared at once--to
be worthy of offering her servitude to him who was so impatient to
conquer the world.

And now a sudden violent shock of Fate had thrown her before him in
the guise of a mere weak woman, overcome by earthly passion. She had
united herself to him by the closest tie; she had watched him at dawn,
sleeping; she had had sudden awakenings, alarmed by cruel fear, and had
found it impossible to close her tired eyes again, lest he should gaze
on her while she slept, and see in her face the lines of care and years.

"Nothing is worth the inspiration you give me," said Stelio, pressing
her arm close and seeking her soft wrist under her glove, urged by a
longing to feel the pulsation of that devoted life. "Nothing is worth
the assurance that nevermore until death shall I be alone."

"Ah, you too feel that, do you--that it is forever?" she cried in a
transport of joy at seeing the triumph of her love. "Yes, forever,
Stelio--whatever happens, wherever your destiny may lead you, in
whatever way you wish me to serve you, either near you or afar...."

In the misty air rose a confused and monotonous sound, which La
Foscarina recognized as the chorus of sparrows gathered among the dying
trees in the garden of the Countess of Glanegg. The words died on her
lips; she made an instinctive movement as if to turn back and to draw
her companion with her.

"Where are we going?" Stelio asked, surprised at her sudden movement,
and at the unforeseen interruption, that came like a burst of magic
music.

She stopped, smiling her faint smile that showed her heart was aching.
("IN TIME!")

"I wished to escape," she replied, "but I cannot."

She looked like a pale flame, as she stood there.

"I had forgotten, Stelio, that I was to take you to the closed house."

Like one lost in a desert, she stood there, helpless, under the gray
sky.

"It seemed to me that we were to go somewhere else. But we are already
here. 'In time'!"

She appeared to him now as she had in that memorable night, when she
had said "Do not be cruel, Stelio!" Clothed in her sweet, tender
soul she stood there, so easy to kill, to destroy, to immolate in a
bloodless sacrifice.

"Come away--let us go," he said, trying to lead her with him. "Let us
go somewhere else."

"I cannot."

"Let us go home--let us go to your house; we will light a fire, the
first fire of October. Let me pass this evening with you, Foscarina. It
will rain soon. It would be so sweet to sit in your room and talk, or
be silent, hand-in-hand. Come! Let us go."

He would have liked to take her in his arms, to nurse her, soothe
her, charm away her sadness. The sweetness of his own words augmented
his tenderness. Of all her lovable person, he loved most fondly the
delicate little lines that radiated from the corners of her eyes to
her temples, the little purple veins that made her eyelids look like
violets, the curve of her cheeks, the pointed chin, and all that seemed
touched by the finger of Autumn, every shadow that overspread that
passionate face.

"Foscarina! Foscarina!"

Whenever he called her by her real name, his heart beat faster, as if
something more deeply human had entered into his love, as if suddenly
her whole past had seized once more the figure he was pleased to
isolate in his dream, and as if innumerable threads formed a bond
uniting it more closely than ever to implacable life.

"Come! Let us go!"

She smiled pensively.

"But why? The house is very near. Let us pass it by the Calle Gambara.
Do you not wish to know the story of the Countess of Glanegg? Look! One
would think it a convent."

The street was deserted as the path leading to a hermitage; it was
gray, damp, strewn with dead leaves. The east wind had brought a light,
warm mist that softened all sounds.

"Behind those walls, a desolate soul survives the beauty of its body,"
said La Foscarina softly. "Look! The windows are closed, the blinds
are nailed, the doors are sealed. Only one door is still open for the
servants, and through it they carry the dead woman her nourishment,
though she is walled up as if in an Egyptian tomb. The servants feed a
body that no longer has the spirit of life."

The naked trees, which rose to the top of the cloister-like enclosure,
looked almost smoky in the mist; the sparrows, more numerous than the
leaves, twittered incessantly.

"Guess the Countess's name, Stelio. It is beautiful and rare--as
beautiful as if you had originated it."

"I do not know."

"Radiana! The prisoner is called Radiana."

"But whose prisoner is she?"

"The prisoner of Time, Stelio. Time stands on guard at her door, with
his scythe and hour-glass, as she is shown in old prints."

"Are you trying to describe an allegory?"

A boy passed, whistling. When he saw the two strangers looking at
the closed windows, he stopped to gaze too, his large eyes full of
curiosity and astonishment. They were silent. Presently the little boy
grew tired of staring; nothing interesting could be seen; the windows
were not opened; everything was motionless, so he ran away. They heard
the flight of his little bare feet on the wet stones and rotting leaves.

"Well," said Stelio, "and what did Radiana do? You have not yet told
me who is this woman, nor the reason why she is a recluse. Tell me her
story. I have already been thinking of Soranza Soranzo."

"The Countess Glanegg is one of the greatest ladies of the aristocratic
Viennese world, and perhaps the most beautiful I ever have seen.
Franz Lenbach has painted her in the armor of the Valkyries, with the
four-winged helmet. Have you ever visited his red studio in the Palazzo
Borghese?"

"No, never."

"Go there some day, and ask him to show you that portrait. You will
see it unchanged, as I see it now through all those walls. She has
wished to remain like that in the memory of those that saw her in the
splendor of her beauty. One day, when the sun shone too bright, she saw
that the time had come for that beauty to fade, and she resolved to
take leave of the world in such a way that men should not be witnesses
of the decay and destruction of her famous beauty. Perhaps it was her
sympathy with things that disintegrate and fall in ruins that has kept
her in Venice. She gave a magnificent farewell banquet, where she
appeared, still sovereignly beautiful; then she withdrew forever from
the world to this house that you see, in this walled garden, where,
alone with her servants, she awaits the end. She has become a legendary
figure. They say that there are no mirrors in her house, and that she
has forgotten her own face. She has forbidden even her most devoted
friends and her nearest relatives to visit her. How does she live? What
are her thoughts? By what means does she wile away the time of waiting?
Is her soul in a state of grace?"

Every pause in that veiled voice questioning the mystery was filled
with deepest melancholy.

"Does she pray? Does she contemplate? Does she weep? Or, perhaps, has
she become inert, and suffers no more than a withered apple in the back
of some old closet."

"What if she should suddenly show herself at that window?" said Stelio,
feeling something like a real sensation, as he fancied he heard a
creaking hinge.

Both looked closely at the nailed blinds.

"Perhaps she is sitting behind them, looking at us," he added, in a
half whisper.

This thought made them both shudder.

They were leaning against a wall facing the house, and did not wish to
move a step. The encircling inertia affected them, the smoke-like mist
enveloped them more and more thickly; the chatter of the birds lulled
their senses as a drug given to feverish patients. The siren whistles
pierced the air from afar. The brown leaves dropped from the trees. How
long it took for a floating leaf to reach the earth! All around them
was mist, heaviness, slow consumption, ashes.




                              CHAPTER II

                            AFTER THE STORM


"I must die, my dear--I must die!" said La Foscarina, in a
heart-rending voice, after a long silence, raising her face from the
cushions where she had buried it, after a stormy scene of passion, in
which the ardent words of her beloved had given her as much pain as
pleasure.

She looked at Stelio, who had thrown himself, half reclining, on a
divan near the balcony, and now lay silent, his eyes half-closed, his
disordered hair touched with a ray of gold from the setting sun. She
realized that she was possessed by an incurable madness, spreading
throughout her declining body. Lost! Lost! She was irrevocably lost!

"Die?" said her beloved, in a dreamy voice, without moving or opening
his eyes, as if he were wrapped in a melancholy trance.

"Yes--die--before you hate me!"

Stelio opened his eyes quickly, raised himself erect and held up one
hand, as if to prevent her from saying more.

"Ah, why do you torment yourself in this way?" he said.

He saw that she was ivory pale; her hair fell in wandering wavy locks
over her cheeks; she seemed consumed by some corrosive poison; her
face was full of terror and misery.

"What are you doing with me? What are we both doing?" she exclaimed in
anguish.

"I love you!"

"Not as I wish, not as I have dreamed; I do not wish to be loved thus."

"But you set my heart on fire, and then madness seizes me."

"It is like the madness of hatred."

"No, no; do not say that!"

"Your fierceness makes me feel that you hate me--that you even wish to
kill me."

"But you make me blind, I tell you, and then I know not what I say or
do."

"What is it that maddens you so? What do you see in me?"

"Ah, I know not--I cannot tell!"

"But I know very well what it is!"

"Why do you torment yourself, I say? I love you! This is the love...."

"That condemns me! I must die of it! Call me once more by the name you
gave me long ago."

"You are mine! You belong to me, and I will not lose you."

"Yes, you will lose me."

"But why? I do not understand. What wild fancy is this of yours? Does
my love offend you? Do you not love me in the same way?"

His irritation and misunderstanding only aggravated her suffering. She
covered her face with her hands. Her heart throbbed with hammer-like
beating in her rigid breast, seeming to echo in her brain.

Presently she raised her head and looked at him with painful effort.

"I have a heart, Stelio," she said, with trembling lips, as if she were
struggling with a sort of fierce timidity in order to force herself
to speak those words. "I suffer from a heart, too keenly alive--oh,
Stelio, alive and eager and anguished as you never will know...."

She smiled the sweet, faint smile with which she sought to disguise her
suffering; hesitated a moment, then reached toward a bunch of violets,
which she took and pressed close to her lips. Her eyelids drooped,
her classic brow, between her dark hair and the flowers, showed its
ivory-like beauty.

"You wound my heart sometimes, Stelio," she said softly, her lips still
caressing the violets. "Sometimes you are cruel to it."

It seemed as if those fragrant, humble blossoms helped her to confess
her sadness, to veil still more the timid reproach she had made to her
beloved. She was silent; Stelio bowed his head. The logs on the hearth
crackled; the autumn rain fell monotonously in the fading garden.

"I long for kindness, with a thirst that you never will understand. For
that deep, true kindness, dear friend, which does not speak but which
comprehends, which knows how to give all in a single look or a single
movement; which is strong, sure, always armed against the evil impulse
that tempts us. Do you know the sort of kindness I mean?"

Her voice, alternately strong and wavering, was so warm with inner
light, was so full of revelation of a soul, that it passed through the
young man's blood more like a spiritual essence than a sound.

"In you, yes, Foscarina, I know it."

He took in his own hands the slender hands that lay filled with
violets on her lap; he bowed his head low over them and kissed them
submissively. Then he knelt at her feet, in the same submission. The
delicate perfume seemed to arouse his tenderness. During the long pause
the fire and the rain continued their murmured speech.

Suddenly she asked in a clear voice:

"Do you think that I believe myself sure of you?"

"Have you not watched over my slumbers?" he replied, but in an altered
tone, for he was suddenly seized by a new emotion: with her query he
had seen rise before him her naked soul; and he felt that that soul had
penetrated his own, and recognized his secret yearning for the belief
and confidence of others in himself.

"Yes, but what does that prove?" was her reply. "Youth sleeps quietly
on any pillow. You are young"--

"I love you and I have faith in you! I give myself entirely to you. You
are my life's companion, and your hand is strong."

He saw the well known sadness in the lines of that loved face, and his
voice trembled with tenderness.

"Kindness!" said she, caressing with light touch the hair on his
temples. "You know how to be kind--you even feel a need to comfort at
times. But a fault has been committed, and it calls for expiation.
Once it seemed to me that for you I could do the humblest as well as
the highest things; but now I feel that I can do only one thing--to go
away, disappear, and leave you free with your destiny."

He interrupted her by springing to his feet and taking the loved face
between his hands.

"I can do this, which love alone could not do," she said softly,
turning pale, and looking at him with an expression he never had seen
before.

Stelio felt that he held her soul in his hands--a living spring,
infinitely beautiful and precious.

"Foscarina, Foscarina! my soul, my life! Yes, you can give me more than
love--I know it well, and nothing is worth to me that which you give
me; no other offer could console me for not having you beside me on my
way. Believe me, believe! I have said this to you so often--don't you
remember?--even before you became all my own, when the compact still
held between us"--

Still holding her face between his palms, he leaned over and kissed her
passionately on her lips.

This time she shivered; the glacial flood she felt at times seemed
passing over her.

"No! no!" she pleaded, turning away from the young man. Dreamily she
bent to gather up the scattered violets.

"The compact!" she said, after an interval of silence. "Why have we
violated it?"

Stelio's eyes were fixed on the changeful splendor of the fire on the
hearth, but in his open hands lingered the strange sensation, the trace
of a miracle--that human face over which, through its sad pallor, had
passed a wave of sublime beauty.

"Why?" the woman repeated sadly. "Ah, confess--confess that you, too,
before we were seized with the blind madness of that night, felt that
the higher life was about to be devastated and lost; that we must not
yield if we wished to save the good that remained in us--that powerful,
intoxicating thing which seemed to be the only treasure left in my
life. Confess, Stelio! speak the truth! I can almost name the exact
moment when the better voice spoke to you in warning. Was it not on the
water, on the way home, when we had with us--Donatella?"

Before pronouncing that name she had hesitated a second, then she felt
an almost physical bitterness--a bitterness that descended from her
lips to the depths of her soul, as if the syllables held poison for
her. She awaited his reply with suffering. "I do not know how to think
about the past, Fosca," the young man replied; "moreover, I do not
wish to think about it. I have lost no good attribute that belonged to
me. It pleases me that your soul springs to your ripe lips, heavy with
sweetness, and that your fair cheek pales when I embrace you."

"Hush, hush!" she begged. "Do not speak like that! Do not prevent me
from saying what it is that troubles me! Why do you not help me?"

She shrank back among the cushions, and looked fixedly at the fire, to
avoid meeting the eyes of her beloved.

"More than once I have seen a look in your eyes that has filled me with
horror," she said at last, with a touch of hoarseness in her effort to
speak.

Stelio started, but dared not contradict her.

"Yes, with horror," she repeated, in a clearer tone, implacable against
herself, having already triumphed over her fear and regained her
courage.

Both were now face to face with the truth.

She continued without faltering.

"The first time I saw it was out there in the garden--that night--you
know! I understood then what it was you saw in me; all the mire over
which I have walked, all the infamy that clung to my feet, all the
impurity for which I have so much disgust! Ah, you could not have
acknowledged the visions that kindled your thoughts that night! Your
eyes were cruel and your mouth was convulsed. When you felt that you
wounded my sensitiveness, you took pity on me. But then--but since
then"--

Her face was covered with blushes; her voice had grown impetuous, and
her eyes were brilliant.

"To have nourished for years, with all the best that was in me, a
sentiment of devotion and unbounded admiration, near you or from afar,
in joy and in sadness; to have accepted in the purest spirit all the
consolation offered by you to mankind through your poetry, and to have
awaited eagerly other gifts, even higher and more consoling; to have
believed in the great force of your genius since its dawn, and never
to have relaxed my watch over your ascent, and to have accompanied
it with a wish that has been my morning and evening prayer all these
years; to have continued, with silent fervor, the effort to give some
beauty and harmony to my own spirit, that it might be more worthy to
approach yours; so many times, on the stage, before an ardent audience,
to have pronounced with a thrill some immortal phrase, thinking of
those which perhaps one day you would communicate to mankind through
my lips; to have worked without respite, to have tried always to rise
to a higher and simpler form in my art, to have aspired unceasingly to
perfection, fearing that nothing less would please you, that otherwise
I should seem inferior to your dream; to have loved my fleeting glory
only because some day it might serve yours; to have hastened, with the
fervent confidence of faith, the latest of your revelations, that I
might offer myself to you as the instrument of your victory before my
own decay; against all and everything, to have defended this secret
ideal in my soul, against all and against myself as much as against
others; to have made of you my melancholy, my steadfast hope, my heroic
test, the symbol of all things good, strong, and free--ah, Stelio!
Stelio!"--

She paused an instant, overcome by that memory as by a new shame.

"And then to have reached that dawn--to have seen you leaving my house
in that way on that horrible morning--Do you remember?"

"I was happy--happy!" cried the young man, in a stifled voice, pale and
agitated.

"No, no! Do you remember? You left me as you would have left some light
love, some passing fancy, after a few hours of idle pastime."

"You deceive yourself!"

"Confess! Come, speak the truth. Only through truth can we now hope to
save ourselves."

"I was happy, I tell you; my whole heart expanded with joy; I dreamed,
I hoped, I felt as if I were born anew."

"Yes, yes!--happy to breathe freely, to feel your youth in the breeze
and the fresh air. What did you see in her who in her renunciation had
so many times suffered keenly--yes, you know it well!--rather than
break the vow that she had taken and borne with her in her wanderings
over the earth? Tell me! what did you see in me, if you did not believe
me a corrupt creature, the heroine of chance amours, the vagabond
actress who in her own life, as on the stage, may belong to any man and
every man?"

"Foscarina! Foscarina!"

Stelio leaned over her and closed her lips with a trembling hand.

"No, no, do not say that! You are mad! Hush! hush!"

"It is horrible!" murmured the woman, sinking back on the cushions,
unnerved by her agitation, submerged in the bitter wave that had
flooded her heart.

But her eyes remained wide open, fixed as two crystal orbs, hard as
if they had no lashes, fastened on Stelio. They prevented him from
speaking, from denying or softening the truth they had discovered. In a
moment or two he found that gaze intolerable, and gently pressed the
lids down with the tips of his fingers, as one closes the eyes of the
dead. She noted the movement, which was full of infinite melancholy;
she felt that only tender love and pity were in that touch. Her
bitterness passed away, her eyes grew moist. She extended her arms,
clasped them around his neck, and raised herself a little. She seemed
to be shutting her soul within herself, and became once more gentle and
weak, full of silent pleading.

"And so I must go," she sighed at last. "Is there no help for it? Is
there no pardon?"

"I love you!" her lover repeated.

She disengaged one arm, and held her open hand toward the fire, as
if to conjure fate. Then once more she clasped her lover in a close
embrace.

"Yes, still a little while! Let me remain with you a little longer.
Then I will go away; I will go somewhere, far-away, and die on a stone
under a tree. But let me stay with you a little longer."

"I love you!"

The blind and indomitable forces of life were whirling over them in
that embrace. And because they realized this with terror their clasp
grew closer; and from that embrace sprang an impulse, both good and
evil, that stirred them to the soul. In the silent room, the voices
of the elements spoke their obscure language, which was like an
uncomprehended reply to their mute questioning. The fire, near them,
and the rain, from without, discoursed, replied, narrated. Little by
little, these voices reached the spirit of the Animator, enticed it,
charmed it, drew it into the world of innumerable myths, born of their
eternity. His keener spiritual senses heard the deep resonance of the
two melodies expressing the intimate essence of the two elementary
wills--the two marvelous melodies that he had found, to weave them
into the symphonic web of the new tragedy. Of a sudden, all sadness
and anxiety left him as in a happy truce, an interval of enchantment.
And the woman's clasp relaxed, as if in obedience to some command of
liberation.

"There is no help for it!" she repeated to herself, seeming to repeat
a formula of condemnation heard by her in the same mysterious way that
Stelio had heard the wonderful melodies.

She leaned forward, resting her chin in her hand and her elbow on her
knee; and in this attitude she gazed a long time into the fire, with a
slight frown on her brow.

As Stelio looked at her, his soul was troubled. He yearned to find some
way of breaking the iron band that oppressed her, of dissipating that
mist of sadness, of leading his beloved back to joy.

The fire in its sudden burst of flame illumined her face and hair; her
forehead was as beautiful as a noble manly brow; something natural and
untamed was suggested in the rippling waves and changeful hue of her
thick hair.

"What are you looking at so intently?" she said at last, feeling his
fixed gaze. "Have you found a gray hair?"

He knelt before his love again, flexible and tender.

"I see only your beauty. In you I always find something that delights
me. I was looking then at the strange wave of your hair here--a wave
not made by the comb, but by the storm!"

He slipped his fingers through the thick tresses. She closed her eyes,
feeling again the spell of his terrible power over her.

"I see only your beauty. When you close your eyes thus, I feel that you
are mine to the depth of your heart--lost in me, as the soul is one
with the body: a single life, mine and thine."

She listened in the half light, and his voice seemed to come from a
long distance, and to be speaking not to her but to another woman;
she felt as if she were overhearing a lover's protestations to his
mistress, and suddenly fancied herself mad with jealousy, possessed
by a desire to kill, filled with a spirit of revenge; but that body
must remain motionless, her hands hanging at her sides, nerveless and
powerless.

"You are my delight and my inspiration. You have a stimulating power
of which you are unconscious. Your simplest act suffices to reveal to
me some truth of which I was ignorant. And love is like the intellect:
it shines in the measure of the truth it discovers. Why, why do you
grieve yourself? Nothing is destroyed, nothing is lost. It was intended
that we should be united, so that together we might rise to joy and
triumph. It was necessary that I should be free and happy in your
true and perfect love in order to create the work of beauty that so
many men expect of me. I need your faith; I need to pass through joy
and to create. Your presence alone suffices to inspire my mind with
incalculable fruitfulness. Just now, when your arms held me close, I
heard a sudden torrent of music, a flood of melody, passing through the
silence."

To whom was he speaking? Whom did he ask for joy? Was not his imperious
demand for music a yearning toward her that sang, transfiguring the
universe with her song? Of whom, if not of fresh youth and maidenhood,
could he ask joy and creation? While she had held him in her embrace,
it was the other woman who had sung and spoken within him! And now,
now--to whom was he speaking, if not to that other woman? She alone
could give him what was necessary for his art and his life. The
maiden was a new force, a closed beauty, an unused weapon, keen and
magnificent for the intoxication of war. Malediction! Malediction!

Mingled sorrow and anger stirred her heart, in that vibrating darkness
which she dared not leave. She suffered the torments of a nightmare; as
if she were rolling toward a precipice with the indestructible burden
of her vanished years--years of misery and of triumph--her fading
face with its thousand masks, her despairing soul, and the thousand
other souls that had inhabited her mortal body. This grand passion of
her life, which was to have saved her, seemed now to be pushing her
relentlessly toward ruin and death. In order to reach her, and through
her to attain to his highest joy, the passion of her beloved was
compelled to make its way through what he believed to be a multitude
of unknown loves; it would contaminate, corrupt and embitter itself,
perhaps even change by slow degrees to disgust. Always that shadowy
multitude must keep alive in him that instinct of brutal ferocity which
lurked in his strong nature. Ah, what had she done? She herself had
armed a furious devastator, and had put him between her friend and
herself. No escape was possible. She herself, on that night of the
flame, had led before him the fresh and beautiful prey, of whom he had
taken possession by one of those looks that are a choice and a promise.
To whom was he speaking now, if not to that other woman. Of whom did he
ask joy?

"Do not be sad! do not be sad!"

But now she heard his words only confusedly, more faint than before, as
if her soul had sunk into a chasm; but she felt his impatient hands as
they touched her caressingly. And, in that red darkness, wherein, as it
seemed to her, all madnesses and folly were born, she felt a surging
revolt in her veins.

"Do you wish me to take you to her? Do you wish me to call her to you?"
cried the unhappy woman, suddenly opening her eyes with an expression
that astonished Stelio; she seized his wrists and shook him with a
grasp so tight that he felt her nails in his flesh. "Go! go! She awaits
you! Why do you remain here? Go, run! She awaits you!"

She sprang up, raising him at the same time, and tried to push him
toward the door. She was no longer recognizable, transfigured by fury
into a dangerous, threatening creature. The strength of her hands was
incredible, like the energy of evil intent in her whole being.

"Who awaits me? What did you say? What is the matter with you? Come
back to your senses, Foscarina!"

He stammered his appeal, he trembled, fancying he saw madness in that
distorted face. But she was like one distraught and heard him not.

"Foscarina!" He called her with all his soul, white with terror, as if
to stop with his cry her escaping reason.

She gave a great start, opened her hands, and gazed around as if just
roused from a long sleep, of which she remembered nothing.

"Come, sit down."

He led her back to the cushions, and gently made her settle herself
among them. She allowed herself to be soothed by his solicitous
tenderness. Presently she moaned:

"Who has beaten me?"

She felt of her bruised arms, and touched her face lightly, trembling
as if she were cold.

"Come; lie down! Put your head here."

He made her lie on the couch; disposed her head comfortably, put a
light cushion over her feet, softly and carefully, leaning over her as
over a dear invalid, giving up to her all his heart still throbbing
with fear.

"Yes, yes," she repeated, in a voice no louder than a sigh, at each
movement he made, as if she would prolong the sweetness of these cares.

"Are you cold?"

"Yes."

"Shall I cover you with something?" Stelio inquired.

"Yes."

He sought for some wrap, and found on a table a piece of antique
velvet, which he spread over her. She smiled faintly.

"Are you comfortable like that?"

She made an affirmative sign by simply closing her eyelids.

Stelio gathered up the violets, now warm and languid, and laid them on
the pillow near her head.

"So?"

Her eyelids drooped even more slightly than before. He kissed her
forehead, amid the perfume of the violets; then he turned to stir the
fire, putting on more wood and raising a fine blaze.

"Do you feel the heat? Are you getting warm?" he asked softly.

He approached and bent over the poor soul. She slept; the contraction
of her face had relaxed, and the lines of her mouth were composed in
the equal rhythm of sleep; a calm like that of death spread over her
pale face. "Sleep! Sleep!" He was so moved by love and pity that he
would have liked to transfuse into that slumber an infinite virtue of
consolation and forgetfulness.

He remained standing on the rug, watching her, counting her
respirations. Those lips had said: "I can do one thing that love alone
cannot do." Those lips had said: "Do you wish me to take you to her? Do
you wish me to call her to you?" He neither judged nor resolved, but
let his thoughts scatter. Once again he felt the blind, indomitable
forces of life whirling over his head, over that sleeping form, and
also his terrible desire to cling to life. "The bow is named BIOS, and
its work is death."

In the silence, the fire and the rain continued to talk. The voice
of the elements, the woman sleeping in her sadness, the imminence of
fate, the immensity of the future, remembrance and presentiment, all
these things created in his mind a state of musical mystery wherein
the yet unwritten work surged anew and illumined his thought. He
listened to his melodies developing themselves indefinitely, and heard
a personage in the drama say: "This alone quenches our thirst, and all
the thirst in us turns eagerly toward this freshness. If it did not
exist, none could live here; we should all die of thirst." He saw a
country furrowed by the dry, white bed of an ancient river, dotted with
bonfires which lighted up the extraordinarily calm, pure evening. He
saw a funereal gleam of gold, a tomb filled with corpses all covered
with gold, and the crowned corpse of Cassandra among the sepulchral
urns. A voice said: "How soft her ashes are! They run between the
fingers like the sands of the sea." Another voice said: "She speaks of
a shadow that passes over things, and of a damp sponge that effaces
all traces." Then night fell; stars sparkled, the myrtles breathed
perfume, and a voice said: "Ah! Behold the statue of Niobe! Before
dying, Antigone sees a stone statue whence gushes an eternal fountain
of tears." The error of the age had passed away; the remoteness of
centuries was abolished.




                              CHAPTER III

                            A FALLEN GIANT


One afternoon in November, Stelio returned on the steamer from the
Lido, accompanied by Daniele Glauro. They had left behind them the
thunder of the greenish waves of the Adriatic, the trees of San Niccolò
despoiled by a predaceous wind, whirlwinds of dead leaves, heroic
phantoms of departures and arrivals, the memory of the archers playing
to win the scarlet ensign, and the mad rides of Lord Byron, devoured by
the desire to surpass his own destiny.

"I too, to-day, would have given a kingdom for a horse," said Effrena,
in self-ridicule, irritated by the mediocrity of life. "Not a cross-bow
nor a horse in San Niccolò, not even the courage of an oarsman! _Perge
andacter!_ So here we are, on this ignoble gray carcass that smokes and
seethes like a kettle. Look at Venice, dancing down there!"

The anger of the waves was extending to the lagoon. The waters were
agitated by a violent wind, and the agitation seemed to reach to the
foundations of the city, and the palaces, cupolas, and campaniles
appeared to heave like vessels on the water. Clusters of floating
seaweed showed their white roots; and flocks of sea-gulls circled in
the wind, their strange, wild laughter echoing above the crested waves.

"Wagner!" Daniele Glauro said suddenly, in a low tone, touched with
emotion, as he pointed at an old man leaning against the railing of a
prow. "There he is, with Franz Liszt and Donna Cosima. Do you see him?"

Stelio's heart beat quicker; for him too all other surrounding figures
disappeared; his bitter sense of ennui and inertia disappeared; and
he felt remaining only the suggestion of superhuman power evoked by
that name, and realized that the only reality hovering over all those
indistinct phantoms was the ideal world conjured up by that name around
the little old man leaning over the troubled waters.

Victorious genius, fidelity of love, unchangeable friendship, the
supreme apparitions of heroic nature, were reassembled in silent union
beneath the tempestuous sky. The same dazzling whiteness crowned
the three heads, whose hair had become blanched through sadness. A
troubled sorrow was revealed in their faces and attitudes, as if the
same undefined presentiment oppressed their blended spirits. The
white face of the woman had a beautiful, strong mouth, with clear-cut
lines, revealing a tenacious soul; and her light, steel-like eyes were
fixed continually on him who had chosen her for the companion of his
noble warfare, watching over him who, having vanquished all hostile
forces, would be powerless to vanquish Death, whose menace perpetually
pursued him. That feminine vigil, full of fear, opposed itself to the
invisible gaze of the other Woman, and threw around the old man a
vague, funereal shadow.

"He seems to be suffering," said Daniele Glauro. "Do you not see? He
seems almost on the point of swooning. Shall we go to them?"

Effrena looked with inexpressible emotion at those white locks blown
about by the sharp wind on the aged neck under the broad brim of the
felt hat, and at the almost livid ear, with its swollen lobe. That
body, which had withstood the keenest warfare by the proud instinct of
its own domination, now looked as limp as some rag which the wind could
bear away and destroy.

"Ah, Daniele! what can we do for him?" said Stelio, yielding to an
almost religious impulse to manifest in some way his reverence and pity
for that great oppressed heart.

"What can we do?" repeated Glauro, to whom that ardent desire to
offer something of himself to the hero now suffering the human fate
had immediately communicated itself. Their souls were blended in that
impulse of fervor and gratitude, that sudden exaltation of their innate
nobility; but they could give nothing more than that. Nothing could
check the secret ravages of the fatal malady; and both were filled with
profound sorrow as they saw the snowy hair tossed about on the old
man's neck by the wind coming from afar, and bringing to the quivering
lagoon the murmur and the foam of the open sea.

"Ah, glorious sea, thou shalt hear me still! Never shall I find on the
earth the health I seek. To thee, therefore, will I remain faithful,
O waves of the boundless sea!" The impetuous harmonies of _The Flying
Dutchman_ returned to Effrena's memory, with the despairing call that
pierces through them from time to time; he fancied that in the rushing
wind he could hear again the wild chant of the crew on the ship with
the blood-red sails: _"Iohohé! Iohohé!_ come ashore, black Captain!
Seven years have passed!" Again his imagination conjured up the figure
of Richard Wagner in youth; he saw once more the lonely one wandering
in the living horror of Paris, poor yet undaunted, devoured by the
fever of genius, his eyes fixed on his star, and his mind resolved to
force the world to recognize it. In the myth of the shadowy captain,
the exiled one had seen the image of his own breathless race, his
furious struggle, his supreme hope. "But some day the pale hero may be
delivered, should he meet on earth a woman that will be faithful to him
until death."

The woman was there, beside the hero, an ever vigilant guardian. She
too, like Senta, knew the sovereign law of fidelity; and death was soon
to dissolve the sacred vow.

"Do you think that, steeped as he is in poetic myths, he has dreamed of
some extraordinary manner of dying, and that he now prays every day to
Nature to conform his end to his dream?" said Glauro, thinking of the
mysterious will that induced the eagle to mistake for a rock the brow
of Æschylus, and led Petrarch to die alone over the pages of a book.
"What would be an end worthy of him?"

"A new melody of unheard-of power, which in his youth had been to him
indistinct and impossible to fix, should suddenly rend his soul like a
terrible sword."

"True!" said Glauro.

The wind-driven clouds were battling in phalanxes through space; the
towers and cupolas seemed swaying in the background; the shadows
of city and sky, equally vast and mobile on the troubled waters,
alternately changed and blended, as if they had been produced by things
equally near dissolution.

"Look at the Magyar, Daniele; there is a generous soul! He has served
the hero with boundless faith and devotion; and by this service, more
than by his art, he has won glory. But see how this very feeling, so
strong and so sincere, inspires him with almost theatrical affectation,
because of his continual wish to impose upon his spectators a
magnificent image of himself, which shall delude them."

The Abbé Liszt straightened his thin and bony frame, which seemed
encased by a coat of mail, and drawing himself to his full height
he bared his head to pray, addressing a mute prayer to the God of
Tempests. The wind stirred his thick white hair, that leonine mane that
at times seemed to emit electric currents which affected his listeners,
and many women. His magnetic eyes were raised to heaven, while the
words of his inaudible prayer moved his thin lips, lending a mystic air
to that face so deeply furrowed with wrinkles.

"What matters it?" said Glauro. "He possesses the divine faculty of
fervor and a taste for all-powerful strength and dominating passion.
Does not his art aspire toward Prometheus, Orpheus, Dante, Tasso? He
was attracted by Richard Wagner as by some great force of nature;
perhaps he heard in him the theme he has attempted to express in his
symphonic poem: 'That which is heard on the Mountain'."

"That may be," said Effrena.

But both started on seeing the old man turn suddenly, with the gesture
of one groping in darkness, and clutch convulsively at his companion,
who uttered a cry. They ran toward the group. Everyone on the boat
crowded around them, struck by that cry of anguish. A look from the
woman prevented the curious from venturing too close to the apparently
lifeless body. She herself supported him, laid him on a bench, felt
his pulse, and bent over to listen to his heart-beats. Her love and
her grief traced an inviolable circle around the stricken one. The
bystanders stepped back and waited in silence, anxiously looking on
that livid face for signs of either life or death.

The face was still and pale, as it lay on the woman's knees. Two
deep furrows descended along the cheeks toward the half-open mouth,
deepening near the imperious nose. Puffs of wind ruffled the thin,
fine hair on the full forehead, and the white collar of beard below
the square chin where the vigor of the jawbone was visible through the
wrinkled skin. The temples were covered with perspiration, and one of
the feet twitched slightly. The smallest detail of that fallen figure
impressed itself forever on the minds of the two young men.

How long did his suffering endure? The shadows continued to float over
the dark water, broken at intervals by long shafts of sun-rays that
appeared to pierce the air and bury themselves like arrows in the dark
waves. The regular cadence of the engine beat upon the air; and now
arose the wild laughter of the sea-gulls, and a sort of dull, prolonged
moan from the tempest-stricken city.

"We must carry him," said Stelio in his friend's ear; he was
intoxicated by the sadness of the situation and by the solemnity of his
own visions.

The motionless face gave a slight sign of returning life.

"Yes, let us offer our services," said Glauro, whose face was pale.

They looked at the woman with the snow-white cheeks; then they advanced
and offered their arms.

How long did that terrible removal last? The distance from the boat to
the shore was not great, but those few steps seemed a long journey. The
waves dashed against the posts of the pier; the distant moan came to
them from the Grand Canal as if from the winding paths of a cavern; the
bells of San Marco rang for vespers; but this confusion of sounds had
lost all immediate reality, and seemed infinitely profound and distant,
like a lament of the ocean itself.

In their arms they bore the Hero's body--the unconscious form of
him who had inundated the world with the flood of melody from his
oceanic soul, the mortal being of the Revealer who had translated into
infinite song the essence of the Universe for man's adoration. With an
ineffable thrill of terror and joy, such as would stir a man who should
see a mighty river dashing itself over vast rocks, a volcano bursting
into flame, a conflagration devouring a forest, a dazzling meteor
obscuring the light of the stars, Effrena felt beneath the hand that
he had slipped under the shoulder to sustain the body--and he paused
an instant to gather his strength, which was failing him, and gazed at
that white head against his breast--he felt the renewed beating of that
sacred heart.




                              CHAPTER IV

                          THE MASTER'S VISION


"You were strong, Daniele--you who can hardly break a twig! And he was
heavy, that old barbarian; his body seemed built over a framework of
bronze: well constructed, firm, able to stand on a deck that might rise
and fall--the body of a man that nature destined for the sea. Whence
came your strength, Daniele? I almost feared for you, but you did not
even stagger. Do you realize that we have borne a hero in our arms?
This is a day we ought to distinguish and celebrate in some way. His
eyes opened again and looked into mine; his pulse revived under my
hand. We were worthy to carry him, Daniele, because of our fervor."

"You are worthy not only to carry him, but of gathering and preserving
some of the most beautiful promises offered by his art to men who still
have hope."

"Ah, if only I am not overwhelmed by my own abundance, and if I can
master the anxiety that suffocates me, Daniele!"

The two friends walked on and on, side by side, in exalted and
confident mood, as if their friendship had taken on an added nobility.

"It seems as if the Adriatic had overthrown the Murazzi, in this
tempest," said Daniele, pausing to look at the waves that had mounted
even to the Piazza. "We must return."

"No, let us cross the ferry. Here is a boat. Look at the reflection of
San Marco on the water!"

The boatman rowed them to the Torre dell' Orologio. The rising
tide soon overflowed the Piazza, looking like a lake surrounded by
porticoes, reflecting the greenish-yellow twilight sky.

"EN VERUS FORTIS QUI FREGIT VINCULA MORTIS," read Stelio on the curve
of an arch, below a mosaic of the Resurrection. "Did you know that
Richard Wagner held his first colloquy with Death in Venice, exactly
twenty years ago, at the time he produced Tristan? Consumed by a
hopeless passion, he came here to die in silence, and here he composed
that wild second act, which is a hymn to eternal night. And now fate
has led him back to the lagoons. Fate, it seems, has decreed that here
he shall breathe his last, like Claudio Monteverde. Is not Venice full
of musical desire, immense and indefinable? Every sound transforms
itself into an expressive voice. Listen!"

The city of stone and water seemed indeed to have become as sonorous as
a great organ. The hissing and moaning had changed to a sort of choral
supplication, rising and falling in regular rhythm.

"Do you not hear the theme of a melody in that chorus of moans? Listen!"

They had debarked from the little boat, and had resumed their walk
through the narrow streets.

"Listen!" Stelio repeated. "I can detect a melodic theme, which swells
and decreases without power to develop itself. Do you hear it?"

"It is not given to me to hear what you hear," replied the sterile
ascetic to the genius. "I will await the time when you can repeat to me
the word that Nature speaks to you."

"Ah!" Stelio resumed, "to be able to restore to melody its natural
simplicity, its ingenuous perfection, its divine innocence; to draw
it, living, from its eternal source, from the true mystery of nature,
the inmost soul of the Universe! Have you ever reflected upon the myth
connected with the infancy of Cassandra? She had been left one night
in the temple of Apollo; and in the morning she was found lying on the
marble floor, wrapped in the coils of a serpent that licked her ears.
And from that day she understood all the voices of Nature in the air,
all the melodies of the world. The power of the great seeress was only
a high musical power; and a part of that Apollonian virtue entered
the souls of the poets that coöperated in the creation of the tragic
Chorus. One of those poets boasted of understanding the voices of
all birds; another was able to hold converse with the winds; another
comprehended perfectly the language of the sea. More than once I have
dreamed that I too was lying on the marble floor, folded in the coils
of that serpent. The magic of that old myth must be renewed, Daniele,
in order that we may create the new art.

"Have you ever thought what might be the music of that species of
pastoral ode sung by the Chorus in _Œdipus Tyrannus_, Œwhen Jocasta
flees, horror-struck, and the son of Laïus still cherishes the illusion
of a last hope? Do you recall it? Try to imagine the strophes as if
they were a frame, within which an expressive dance-figure is animated
by the perfect life of melody. The spirit of Earth would rise before
you: the consoling apparition of the great common Mother at the
unhappiness of her stricken, trembling children--a celebration, as it
were, of all that is divine and eternal above Man, who is dragged to
madness and death by blind and cruel Destiny. Try now to conceive how
this song has helped me in the writing of my great tragedy to find the
means of the highest and at the same time the simplest expression."

"Do you purpose, then, to reëstablish the ancient Chorus on the stage?"

"Oh, no! I shall not revive any ancient form; I intend to create a
new form, obeying only my instinct and the genius of my own race, as
did the Greeks when they created that marvelous structure of beauty,
forever inimitable--the Greek drama. For a very long time, the three
practicable arts of music, poetry, and dancing have been separated; the
first two have developed toward a superior form of expression, but the
third is in its decadence, and I think that now it is impossible to
combine them in a single rhythmical structure without taking from one
or another its own dominant character, which has already been acquired.
If they are to blend in one common effect, each must renounce its own
particular effect--in other words, become diminished. Among the things
most susceptible of rhythm, Language is the foundation of every art
that aspires to perfection. Do you think that language is given its
full value in the Wagnerian drama? Do you not think that the musical
conception itself often loses some of its primitive purity by being
made to depend on matters outside the realm of music? Wagner himself
certainly realizes this weakness, and shows it when he approaches
a friend in Bayreuth, covering his eyes with his hand, that he may
abandon his sense of hearing entirely to the virtue of the pure sound
of the voice."

"This is all new to me," said Glauro, "yet it rejoices and intoxicates
me as we rejoice when we hear something that has been long foreseen and
felt by presentiment. Then, as I understand, you will not superpose
the three rhythmic arts, but will present them each in its single
manifestation, yet all linked by a sovereign idea, and raised to the
supreme degree by their own significant energy?"

"Ah, Daniele! how can I give you any idea of the work that lives within
me?" Stelio exclaimed. "The words you use in trying to formulate my
meaning are hard and mechanical."

They stood at the foot of the Rialto steps. The gale swept over them;
the Grand Canal, dark in the shadow of the palaces, seemed to bend like
a river hastening to a cataract.

"We cannot remain here," said Glauro, leaning against a door; "the wind
will blow us down."

"Go on; I will overtake you. Only a moment," cried the master,
covering his eyes with his hand, and concentrating his soul upon sound
alone.

Formidable was the voice of the tempest, in the midst of the immobility
of centuries, turned to stone. Its unaccompanied song, its hopeless,
wailing lamentation, was raised in memory of the multitudes that
had become ashes, the scattered pageants, the fallen grandeur, the
innumerable days of birth and of death--things of an age without name
or form. All the melancholy of the world rushed in the wind over that
eager, listening soul.

"Ah! I have seized you!" Stelio cried suddenly, with triumphant joy.

The complete and perfect line of the melody had been revealed to him,
now belonged to him, and would become immortal in his spirit and in the
world.

"Daniele! I have found it!"

He raised his eyes, and saw the first stars in the adamantine sky.
He feared to lose the precious treasure he had found. Near, a column
he now saw a man with a flickering light at the end of a long pole,
and heard the slight sound of the lighting of a lantern. Swiftly and
eagerly he jotted down in his notebook, under the lamplight, the notes
of the melodic theme, compressing into five lines the message of the
elements.

"O day of marvels!" said Daniele Glauro, on seeing Stelio on the
steps, as light and agile as if he had robbed the air of some of its
elasticity. "May Nature cherish you forever, my brother!"

"Come, come!" said Stelio, taking him by the arm and urging him on with
boyish gayety. "I must run!"

He drew him through the narrow streets leading to San Giovanni
Elemosinario.

"What you told me one day, Daniele, is quite true. I mean that the
voice of things is essentially different from their sound," said
Stelio. "The sound of the wind may represent the moans of a frightened
throng, the howling of wild animals, the falling of cataracts, the
rustle of waving banners, or mockery, threats, and despair. But the
voice of the wind is the synthesis of all these sounds: that is the
voice which sings and tells of the terrible travail of time, the
cruelty of human destiny, the eternal warfare for an illusion eternally
born anew."

"And have you never thought that the essence of music does not lie in
the sounds alone?" asked the mystic doctor. "It often dwells in the
silence that precedes and follows sound. Rhythm makes itself felt in
these intervals of silence. Rhythm is the very heart of music, but its
pulsation is inaudible except during the intervals between sounds."

This metaphysical law confirmed Stelio in his belief of the justness of
his own intuition.

"Imagine," said he, "an interval between two scenic symphonies wherein
all the _motifs_ concur in expressing the inmost essence of the
characters that are struggling in the drama as well as in revealing
the inmost depths of the action, as, for instance, in Beethoven's
great prelude in _Leonora_, or the prelude to _Coriolanus_. That
musical silence, pulsating with rhythm, is like the mysterious living
atmosphere where alone can appear words of pure poetry. Thus the
personages seem to emerge from the symphonic sea as if from the
hidden truth that works within them; their spoken words will possess
an extraordinary resonance in that rhythmic silence, will reach the
farthest limit of verbal power, because it will be animated by a
continuous aspiration to song that cannot be appeased except by the
melody which must rise again from the orchestra, at the close of the
tragic episode. Do you understand me?"

"Then you place the episode between two symphonies, which prepare it
and also terminate it, because music is the beginning and the end of
human utterance."

"Thus I bring nearer to the spectator the personages of the drama.
Do you recall the figure employed by Schiller in the ode he wrote in
honor of Goethe's translation of _Mahomet_, to signify that, on the
stage, only the ideal world seems real. The chariot of Thespis, like
the barque of Acheron, is so slight that it can carry only shadows or
the images of human beings. On the stage commonly known, these images
are so unreal that any contact with them seems as impossible as would
be contact with mental forms. They are distant and strange, but in
making them appear in the rhythmic silence, accompanied by music to
the threshold of the visible world, I shall be able to bring them
marvelously close, because I shall illumine the most secret depths
of the will that produces them. I shall reveal, in short, the images
painted on the veil and that which happens beyond the veil. Do you
understand?"

They were now entering the Campo di San Cassiano lonely and deserted
on the banks of the gray stream; their voices and their footsteps
echoed there as if in an amphitheater of stone, distinct above the
sound of the Grand Canal, which made a rushing noise like that of
a river. A purple mist rose from the fever-laden waters, spreading
like a poisonous breath. Death seemed to have reigned there a long
time. The shutter of a high window beat in the wind against the wall,
grinding on its hinges, a sign of abandonment and ruin. But, in the
mind of the Inspirer, all these appearances produced extraordinary
transfigurations. He saw again the wild and solitary spot near the
tomb of Mycenæ. Myrtles flourished between the rugged rocks and the
cyclopic ruins. Beside a rock lay the rigid, pure body of the Victim.
In the death-like silence he could hear the murmuring water and the
intermittent breath of the breeze among the myrtles.

"It was in an august place," said he, "that I had the first vision of
my new work--at Mycenæ, under the gateway of the Lions, while I was
re-reading _Orestes_. Land of fire, country of thirst and delirium,
birthplace of Clytemnestra and of the Hydra, earth forever sterile by
the horror of the most tragic destiny that ever has overtaken a human
race. Have you ever thought about that barbarian explorer who, after
passing the greater part of his existence among his drugs behind a
counter, undertook to find the tombs of the Atridæ among the ruins
of Mycenæ, and who one day (the sixth anniversary of the event is of
recent date) beheld the greatest and strangest vision ever offered to
mortal eyes? Have you ever pictured to yourself that fat Schliemann at
the moment when he discovered the most dazzling treasure ever held by
Death in the dark obscurity of the earth for centuries--for thousands
of years? Have you ever fancied that this superhuman and terrible
spectacle might have been revealed to some one else--to a youthful and
fervent spirit, to a poet, a life-giver, to you, to me, perhaps? Then
the fever, the frenzy, the madness--Imagine!"

He was on fire and vibrating, suddenly swept away by his own fancy as
by a whirlwind. His seer's eyes sparkled with the gleam of the buried
treasure. Creative force flowed to his brain as blood to his heart.
He was an actor in his own drama, with accent and movement expressing
transcendent beauty and passion, surpassing the power of the spoken
word, the limit of the letter. And his brother spirit hung upon his
speech, trembling before the sudden splendor that proved to him the
truth of his own divinations.

"Imagine! Imagine that the earth in which you explore is baleful--it
must still exhale the miasma of monstrous wickedness. The curse upon
the Atridæ was so terrific that some vestige of it must still have
remained to be feared in the dust that they once trod upon. You are
bewitched: the dead you seek and cannot find are reincarnated in you,
and breathe in your body with the terrible breath with which Æschylus
infused them, huge and sanguinary as they appear in the _Orestes_,
pierced perpetually with the darts and flames of their destiny.
Hereafter, all the ideal life with which you have nourished yourself
must assume the form and impress of reality. And still you go on in
this land of thirst, at the foot of the bare mountain, enclosed within
the fascination of the dead city, always delving in the earth, with
those terrifying phantoms ever before your eyes in the burning dust. At
each thrust of the spade you tremble to the very marrow, eager to see
the face of one of the Atridæ, still perfect, but with the signs still
visible of the violence he suffered, the inhuman carnage. And behold
it! the gold, the gold, the bodies, piles of gold, bodies covered with
gold"--

The Atridæ princes seemed to be lying there on the stones, a miracle
evoked in the obscurity of the pathway. And the one who had evoked
these images, as well as his listener, shuddered at the same instant.

"A succession of tombs: fifteen bodies, intact, one lying beside
another, on a golden bed, with masks of gold on their faces, their
brows crowned with gold and breasts bound with gold; and covering
them, on their forms, at their sides, at their feet, everywhere, a
prodigality of golden things, countless as the leaves falling in a
fairy forest. Do you see? Do you see?"

"Yes, yes, I see! I see!"

"For a second, that man's soul has traversed hundreds and thousands of
years, has breathed the terrible legend, has palpitated in the horror
of the ancient carnage. For a second, his soul has lived that antique
life of violence. The slain ones were all there: Agamemnon, Eurymedon,
Cassandra, and the royal escort, and for a moment they lay under
his eyes, motionless. Then--they vanished into nothingness--do you
see?--like a vapor exhaled, like scattered foam, like flying dust, like
I know not what frail and fleeting thing--engulfed in the same fatal
silence that surrounded their radiant immobility. And there was only
a handful of dust and a mass of gold!" Daniele Glauro, deeply moved,
seized his friend's hand; and the Inspirer read in his faithful eyes
the mute flame of enthusiasm consecrated to the great work.

They stopped near a door in the dark wall. A mysterious sense of
distance possessed the mind of each, as if their souls were lost in the
mists of time; and they fancied that behind that door an ancient people
lived enthralled by a changeless Destiny. The sound of a rocking cradle
came from the house, and the croon of a soft lullaby to a wailing
child. The stars glowed in the narrow glimpse of sky; against the walls
the sea was moaning. And in another spot a hero's heart suffered while
waiting for death.

"Life!" said Stelio, resuming his walk, and drawing Daniele with him.
"Here, at this moment, all that trembles, weeps, hopes, breathes, and
raves in the immensity of life, gathers itself in your mind, condensing
itself there with a sublimation so rapid that you believe yourself able
to express it all in a single word. But what word? What word? Do you
know it? Who will ever know it well enough to speak it?"

Again he was distressed at his inability to embrace all and express all.

"Have you ever seen, at certain times, the whole universe standing
before you, as distinct as a human head? I have, a thousand times. Ah,
to cut it off, like him that cut off Medusa's head, at one stroke, and
hold it up before the multitude so that it never should be forgotten!
Have you ever thought that a great tragedy might resemble the attitude
of Perseus? I tell you this: I should like to take the bronze of
Benvenuto Cellini from the Loggia of Orcagna and place it in the
_foyer_ of the new theater as an admonition. But who will give to a
poet the sword of Hermes and the mirror of Athena?

"Perseus!" continued the Inspirer. "In the ravine, below the citadel
of Mycenæ, is a fountain called Perseia, and it is the only living
thing in that place where all is parched and dead. Men are attracted
toward it as to a spring of life in that region where the melancholy
whiteness of the dried river-beds is visible late in the twilight. All
human thirst ardently approaches that freshness. And throughout my
work the music of that stream shall be heard--the water, the melody
of the water. I have found it! In that, the pure element, shall be
accomplished the pure Act which is the aim of the new tragedy. On its
clear, cold waters shall sleep the virgin destined to die 'deprived
of nuptials,' like Antigone. Do you understand? The pure Act marks
the defeat of antique Destiny. The new soul suddenly breaks the iron
band that held it, with a determination born of madness, of a lucid
delirium that resembles ecstasy, or a deeper, clearer vision of Nature.
In the orchestra, the final ode is of the salvation and liberation of
man, obtained through pain and sacrifice. The monstrous Fate is there,
vanquished, near the tombs of the Atridæ, before the very corpses of
the victims. Do you understand? He that frees himself by means of the
pure Act, the brother that kills his sister to save her soul from the
horror that was about to seize her, has himself in reality seen the
face of Agamemnon!"

The fascination of the funereal gold had taken fresh hold upon his
fancy; the evidence of his internal vision gave him a look as of one
under a spell of hallucination.

"One of the corpses surpasses all the others in height and in majesty:
his brow is crowned with a golden diadem, and he wears a cuirass,
shoulder-plates, and a girdle of gold, surrounded with swords, lances,
daggers, cups, and countless golden discs scattered like petals over
his body, more venerable than a demigod. The man bends over this body,
while it is vanishing in the light before his very eyes, and lifts
the heavy mask. Ah, does he not then see the face of Agamemnon? Is
not this corpse perhaps the King of kings? The mouth and the eyes
are open. Do you remember that passage of Homer's? 'As I lay dying,
I raised my hands to my sword; but the woman with dog-like eyes went
away, and would not close my eyes and my mouth, at the moment when I
was about to descend to the abode of Hades.' Do you remember? Well,
the mouth of this corpse is open, and its eyes are open. He has a high
brow, ornamented with a single large golden leaf; the nose is long and
straight, the chin oval"--

The magician paused an instant, his eyes fixed and dilated. He was a
seer. All about him disappeared, and his fiction remained the only
reality. Daniele trembled, for he too was able to see through the eyes
of the other.

"Ah, the white spot on the shoulder, too! He has raised the armor. The
spot, the spot! the hereditary mark of the race of Pelops 'of the ivory
shoulder'! Is he not indeed the King of kings?"

The rapid, half-broken utterances of the seer were like a succession of
flashes whereby he himself was dazzled. He had astonished even himself
by that sudden apparition, that unexpected discovery which illumined
the shadows of his mind, because exterior reality, and almost tangible.
How had he been able to discover that spot on Agamemnon's shoulder?
From what abyss of his memory had suddenly surged up that detail so
strange, yet precise and decisive as a mark that affords recognition of
a body dead since the preceding day?

"You were there!" exclaimed Daniele, intoxicated. "It was you yourself
that lifted that armor and that mask! If you have really seen what you
have just described, you are no longer a man!"

"I have seen! I have seen!"

Again he became an actor in his own drama, and it was with a violent
palpitation that he heard, from the lips of a living person, the words
of the drama--the very words that were to be spoken in the episode
itself: "If you have really seen what you have described, you are no
longer a man." From that instant, the explorer of sepulchers took on
the aspect of a noble hero fighting against the ancient destiny that
had risen from the ashes of the Atridæ to contaminate and overthrow him.

"Not with impunity," he continued, "does a man open tombs and gaze
upon the faces of the dead--and what dead! He lives alone with his
sister, the sweetest creature that ever has breathed the air of
earth--alone with her, in the dwelling full of light and silence, as in
a prayer, a consecration. Now, imagine one that unconsciously drinks
poison, a philter, I know not what impure thing, which poisons his
blood and corrupts his thoughts--suddenly, while his soul is at peace.
Imagine this terrible evil, this vengeance of the dead! He is suddenly
seized by an unholy passion; he becomes the miserable, trembling prey
of a monster; he fights a desperate, secret fight, without truce,
without mercy, day and night, every hour, every moment--all the more
atrocious the more the innocent pity of the poor creature inclines
toward his evil. How can this man be freed? From the very beginning
of the tragedy, as soon as the innocent one begins to speak, it is
evident that she is destined to die. And all that is said and done in
the episodes, all that is expressed by the music, and by the songs and
dances of the interludes, serves to lead her slowly but inexorably
toward death. She is the equal of Antigone. In her brief, tragic
hour, she passes accompanied by the light of hope and the shadow of
presentiment; she passes accompanied by songs and tears, by the noble
love that offers joy, by the mad love that engenders mourning; and
she never pauses except to fall asleep on the cold, clear waters of
the fountain that called to her from the solitudes with its continual
murmur. Hardly has her brother killed her when he receives from her,
through death, the gift of his redemption. 'All stain,' he cries,
'is effaced from my soul! I have become wholly pure! All the sanctity
of my former love has reëntered my soul like a torrent of light. Were
she here now, all my thoughts of her would be pure as lilies. Were she
to rise again, she could walk over my heart as over immaculate snow.
Now she is perfect; now she can be adored as a divinity. I will lay
her in the deepest of my sepulchers, and around her I will lay all my
treasures.' Thus, the act of death, into which he has been drawn by
his lucid madness, becomes an act of purification and of liberation,
marking the defeat of ancient Destiny. Emerging from the symphonic
ocean, the ode shall sing of the victory of man, shall illumine the
darkness of the catastrophe with an unknown light, and shall elevate to
the summit of music the first word of the Drama renewed."

"The gesture of Perseus!" exclaimed Daniele, still under the spell of
exaltation. "At the end of the tragedy you cut off the head of the
Moira, and show it to the multitude, ever young and ever-new, which
shall bring the spectacle to a close amid great cries of enthusiasm."

Both saw, as in a dream, the marble theater on the Janiculum, the
multitude swayed by the idea of truth and of beauty, the illimitable
starry Roman sky; they saw the frenzied multitude descending the slope
of the hill, bearing in their rude hearts the confused revelation of
poetry; they heard the clamor prolonging itself in the darkness of the
immortal city.

"And now good-by, Daniele," said the master, reminded of his need to
hasten, as if some one waited for him or called him.

The eyes of the Tragic Muse remained immovable in the depths of his
dream, sightless, petrified in the divine blindness of statues.

"Where are you going?"

"To the Palazzo Capello."

"Does La Foscarina know the thread of your work?"

"Vaguely."

"And what figure shall you give to her?"

"She shall be blind, having already passed into another world, and gone
beyond the life of this. She shall see that which others do not see.
Her feet shall be in the shadows, but her head in the light of eternal
truth. The contrasts of the tragic hour shall reverberate in the
darkness of her soul, multiplying themselves there like thunder among
the deep circles of solitary rocks. Like Tiresias, she shall comprehend
everything, permitted or forbidden, celestial and terrestrial, and she
shall know 'how hard it is to know when knowing is useless.' Ah, I
shall put marvelous words into her mouth, and silences that shall give
birth to infinite beauties."

"On the stage," said Glauro, "whether she speaks or is silent, her
power is almost more than human. She reveals to us the existence in
our own hearts of the most secret evil and the most hidden hopes;
by her enchantment, our past becomes present; and, by the virtue of
her aspect, we recognize ourselves in the trials suffered by others
throughout time, as if the soul she reveals to us were our own."

They stopped on the Ponte Savio. Stelio was silent, under a flood of
love and melancholy, which had suddenly come upon him.

"I wish I had not to leave you to-night, Stelio," confessed the
faithful brother, who was also invaded by a peculiar melancholy. "When
I am with you, I breathe more freely, and live a swifter life."

Stelio was silent. The wind had abated somewhat. The brown church and
the square tower of naked brick seemed to be praying silently to the
stars.

"Do you know the green column that stands in San Giacomo dall' Orio?"
Daniele resumed, intending to hold his friend a little longer, because
he dreaded to say farewell. "What sublimity! It is like the fossilized
condensation of an immense green forest. In following its innumerable
veins, the eye travels in a dream through sylvan mysteries. When I look
at it I fancy myself visiting Sila and Ercinna."

Stelio knew the column. One day Perdita had leaned long against the
precious shaft, contemplating the magic frieze of gold that curves
above the canvas of Bassano, obscuring it.

"To dream--always to dream," he sighed, with a return of that bitter
impatience which had suggested sneering words to him when he had come
on the boat from the Lido. "To live on relics! Think of Dandolo, who
overthrew the column and an empire at the same time, and who preferred
to remain doge when he might have become emperor. Perhaps he lived more
than you, who wander in fancy through forests when you examine the
marble he pillaged. Good-by, Daniele."

"I shall stop at the Palazzo Vendramin for news," said the faithful
brother.

These words recalled afresh the thought of the great ailing heart, the
weight of the hero in their arms, the terrible removal.

"He has conquered--he can die," said Stelio.




                               CHAPTER V

                                 SOFIA


Stelio entered La Foscarina's house like a spirit. His mental
exaltation changed the aspect of things. The hall, lighted by a galley
lamp, appeared immense to him. The detached cabin of a gondola standing
on the pavement near the door, startled him as if he had suddenly seen
a coffin.

"Ah, Stelio!" exclaimed the actress, rising with a start and hastening
toward him impetuously, with all the spring of her eagerness that had
been repressed by expectation. "At last!"

She stopped before him suddenly, without touching him. The swift
impulse vibrated in her visibly. She was like a wind when it falls.
"Who has detained you from me?" was her thought, while her heart was
filled with doubt; for in one instant she had discerned something about
the beloved one that rendered him intangible to her--something strange
and far-away in his eyes.

But he had found her most beautiful at the very moment when she
sprang from the shadows, animated by a violence like that of the
tempest sweeping the lagoons. The cry, the gesture, the sudden halt,
the vibration of her body, the light in her countenance suddenly
extinguished like a fire fallen to ashes, the intensity of her gaze,
like the glow of battle, the breath that parted her lips as heat
breaks open the lips of the earth--all these aspects of her real self
showed a capability of pathos comparable only to the effervescence of
natural energies, the power of cosmic force. The artist recognized in
her the Dionysian creature, the living material, apt for receiving the
rhythms of art, to be modeled according to poetic forms. And, because
he saw her character as varying as the waves of the sea, he found
inert the blind mask he thought to put on her face; the tragic fable
through which she was to pass in sadness seemed narrow, and too limited
was the order of sentiment whence she should draw her expressions,
almost subterranean the soul she must reveal. His mental images were
seized with a sort of panic, a fleeting terror. What could be that
single work in the immensity of life? Æschylus composed more than a
hundred tragedies, Sophocles still more. They had constructed a world
with gigantic fragments lifted by their titanic arms. Their labor was
as vast as a cosmogony. The Æschylian figures seemed still warm with
ethereal life, shining with sidereal light, humid from the fertilizing
cloud. The spirit of the Earth worked in the creators.

"Hide me, hide me! Do not ask me anything, and let me be silent!"
he implored, incapable of concealing his perturbation, powerless to
control the tumult of his disordered thoughts.

The woman's heart beat fast in the ignorance of fear.

"Why? What have you done?"

"I suffer."

"From what?"

"Anxiety, anxiety--from that trouble of mine which you know well."

She clasped him in her arms. He felt that she was trembling in doubt.

"Are you mine--are you still mine?" she asked, in a stifled voice, her
lips pressed to his shoulder.

"Yes--always yours."

This woman always suffered a horrible fear every time she saw him
depart from her, every time she saw him return. When he went, was it
not toward the unknown betrothed? When he returned, was it not to bid
her a last farewell?

She clasped him in her arms with the fondness of a lover, a sister, a
mother--with all human love.

"What can I do for you? Tell me!"

A continual need tormented her to offer, to serve, to obey a command
that urged her toward peril, toward a struggle to seize some good that
she might bring to him.

"What can I give you?"

He smiled wearily, overcome by sudden languor.

"What do you wish? Ah, I know!"

He smiled again, allowing himself to be caressed by that voice, by
those adoring hands.

"You wish for everything, do you not? You desire everything?"

Still he smiled sadly, like an ailing child listening to descriptions
of delightful games.

"Ah, if I only could! But no one in the world can give you anything of
any value, dearest friend. Your poetry and your music--they alone can
demand everything. I remember that ode of yours beginning 'I was Pan.'"

He leaned against the faithful heart his head now filled with the light
of beautiful thoughts.

"'I was Pan.'"

Through his spirit passed the splendor of that lyrical moment, the
delirium of that ode.

"Have you seen your sea to-day? Did you see the storm?"

He shook his head, without speaking.

"Was it a great storm? One day you told me that you have many mariners
among your forefathers. Have you been thinking to-day of your home on
the dunes? Are you homesick for the sand? Do you wish to go back there?
You have worked a great deal there, and have done great work. It is a
consecrated house. Your mother was with you while you worked. You could
hear her stepping softly in the next room. Sometimes she stopped to
listen, did she not?"

He embraced her silently. That voice penetrated his very soul, and
refreshed it.

"And your sister was with you, too? You told me her name once, and I
have not forgotten it. She is called Sofia. I know that she is like
you. I should like to hear her speak once, or to watch her walking
along the road. Once you praised her hands. They are beautiful, are
they not? You told me one day that when she is sad her hands hurt her,
as if they were the roots of her soul. That is what you said--'the
roots of her soul.'"

He listened, almost happy. How had she discovered the secret of
soothing him, the balm for his soul? From what hidden spring did she
draw the fluid melody of those memories?

"Sofia never will know the good she has done to the poor traveler. I
know little of Sofia herself, but I know that she resembles you, and I
have often pictured her to myself. I can see her at this moment. When
I have been in distant countries, far-away among strangers, feeling
almost lost, she has appeared to me often, and borne me company. She
has appeared to me suddenly, when I had neither called nor expected
her. Once I saw her at Mürren, where I had arrived after a long, weary
journey, made in order to see a poor friend who was at the point of
death. Day was breaking; the mountains had that cold, delicate color
of beryl that is seen only among glaciers. Why did she come? We
waited, together. The sun touched the summits of the mountains. Then a
brilliant rainbow crowned them for a moment, then vanished. And Sofia
vanished with the rainbow, with the miracle."

He listened, almost happy. Were not all the beauty and all the truth
that he himself would like to express contained in a stone, or in a
flower of those mountains? The most tragic struggle of human passions
was not worth the apparition of that mystic light upon the eternal
snows.

"And another time?" he asked softly, for the pause was long, and he
feared that she would not continue. She smiled, then looked sad.

"Another time I was at Alexandria in Egypt, in a time of confused
horror, as if after a shipwreck. The city had an aspect of
putrefaction, like a city in decay. I remember: a street full of
muddy water; a white horse, thin as a skeleton, that splashed in the
water, its mane and tail of an ochre color; the turrets of an Arabian
cemetery, the far-away gleam of the marsh of Mareotis. What misery!
What disgust!"

"Oh, dear soul, never, never again shall you be left alone and
despairing," said Stelio in his heart, now filled with fraternal
tenderness for the nomad woman who recalled the sadness of her
continual wanderings.

"And another time?" he said aloud.

"Another time it was in Vienna, in a museum. There was a great, empty
hall, the rain whipped against the windows; innumerable precious relics
were there in crystal cases; the signs of death were everywhere, exiled
things no longer prayed to or adored. Together Sofia and I leaned over
a case containing a collection of holy arms, with their metal hands
fixed in an immovable gesture. There were martyr's hands sown with
agates, amethysts, topaz, garnets, and pale turquoises. Through certain
openings, splinters of bone were visible. One hand held a golden lily,
another a miniature city, another clasped a column. One was smaller
than the others; it had a ring on every finger, and held a vase full of
ointment: the relics of Mary Magdalene. Exiled things, become profane,
no longer prayed to or adored. Is Sofia devout? Has she the habit of
prayer?"

He did not reply. He felt that he should not speak, nor give any
visible sign of his own life in the enchantment of that distant life.

"Sometimes your sister used to enter your room while you were at work,
and lay a blade of grass on the page newly begun."

The enchantress trembled; a veiled image seemed to be suddenly
revealing itself.--Do you know that I began to love her--the girl that
sings, the girl whom you cannot have forgotten--because I thought of
your sister? Yes--in order to pour into a pure soul the tenderness my
soul wished to offer to your sister, from whom so many cruel things
separated me! Do you know that?--

Those words quivered with life, but they were not spoken; yet the voice
trembled at their mute presence.

"Then you would grant yourself a few moments of rest. You went to the
window with her, and both gazed out upon the sea. A plowman drove his
young oxen over the sand to teach them a straight furrow. When they
were finally taught, they no longer plowed the sand, but went up on the
hill. Who has told me these things?"

He himself had told her once, almost in the same words, but now these
memories came back like unexpected visions.

"Then flocks of sheep passed along the shore; they came from the
mountains, and were on the way to the plains of the Puglia. All was
still; a golden silence covered the shore. Later, you went with
your sister, and followed the tracks left by the sheep along the wet
sand.... Who has told me all these things?"

Stelio's fevered mind was calmed. A slow peace, like slumber, descended
upon him.

"Then sudden storms sprang up; the sea sometimes overflowed the dunes
and the land, leaving foam on juniper and tamarisk trees, on myrtle and
rosemary. Heaps of seaweed and jetsam would be thrown on the beach. A
boat had been wrecked somewhere. The sea brought firewood to the poor,
and mourning to heaven knows whom! The beach would be thronged with
people, each trying to collect the largest bundle of wood. Then your
sister would bring other aid--bread, wine, vegetables, linen. Blessings
would rise louder than the noise of the waves. You looked out of the
window, and thought that none of your beautiful images was worth the
odor of warm bread. You left the half-finished page, and hurried to
help Sofia, speaking to the women, the children and the old men.... Who
has told me all these things?"




                              CHAPTER VI

                         A BROTHER TO ORPHEUS


From that first evening, Stelio had preferred to go to the house of
his beloved through the gate of the Gradenigo garden, making his way
through trees and shrubs that had become wild again. The actress had
received permission to open a communication between her own garden
and that of the long-abandoned palace by means of an opening in the
dividing wall. But soon afterward, the Lady Myrta had come to live in
the great silent rooms wherein the last guest had been the son of the
Empress Josephine, the Viceroy of Italy. The apartments were ornamented
with old, stringless musical instruments, and the garden was peopled by
graceful hounds, that lacked any prey.

To Stelio, nothing seemed sweeter or more sad than that walk toward
the woman that waited for him while counting the hours--so slow, yet
so swift in their flight. In the afternoon, the path of San Simeone
Piccolo turned a pale golden hue, like a bank of the finest alabaster.
The reflected rays of sunlight danced on the iron prows that stood in
a row by the pier. A few decaying gondola cabins lay in the shadow of
the pavements, with their curtains and cushions stained and spoiled by
rain, as if they were catafalques worn out by continual use in funeral
ceremonies, grown old on the way to the churchyard. The garden gate
opened at the end of the Campiello della Comare, green and mossy like a
country cemetery; it spread out between two columns, topped by broken
statues, on the limbs of which the dry branches of ivy were outlined
like veins.

"Helion! Sirius! Altair! Donovan! Ali-Nour! Nerissa! Piuchebella!"

Seated on a bench near a rose-covered wall, Lady Myrta was calling
her dogs. La Foscarina stood near her, in a fawn-colored costume, the
material of which resembled that superb textile called _rovana_, used
in ancient times in Venice. The sunlight bathed the women and the roses
in the same soft warmth.

"You are dressed like Donovan to-day," said Lady Myrta to the actress,
with a smile. "Did you know that Stelio prefers Donovan to all the
others?"

A slight blush rose to La Foscarina's cheeks; she looked at the
fawn-colored greyhound.

"He is the strongest and the most beautiful," she replied.

"I believe that Stelio would like to have him," added the old lady,
with a sweet, indulgent smile.

"What is there that he would not like to have?"

Lady Myrta noted the tinge of melancholy in the tone of the woman in
love. She remained silent.

The dogs lay near them, serious and sad, sleepy and dreamy, far from
plains, steppes, and deserts, stretched out in the clover, where also
grew the gourds, with their greenish-yellow fruit.

"Does your lover grieve you?" the elder woman would have liked to ask
of the woman in love, for the silence weighed on her, and she felt her
own heart revivified by the fire within that sorrowful soul. But she
dared not. She only sighed. Her heart, ever young, still throbbed at
the sight of despairing passion and beauty menaced.

"Ah, you are still beautiful, and your lips still attract kisses, and
the man that loves you can still be intoxicated with your sweet pallor
and your eyes," she thought, as she looked at the pensive actress,
toward whom the November roses leaned. "But I am a specter."

She lowered her eyes, gazed upon her own deformed hands lying on her
lap, and wondered that those hands were hers, they were so dead and
distorted, lamentable monsters that could no longer touch anyone
without exciting disgust, that had nothing to caress any more except
the dogs. She felt the wrinkles in her face, the false teeth against
her gums, the false hair on her head, all the ruin of her poor body,
which once was obedient to the graceful will of her delicate spirit;
and she wondered at her own persistence in struggling against the
outrages of Time, in deceiving herself, in recomposing every morning
that ridiculous illusion with essences, oils, unguents, rouge and
powder. But, in the perpetual springtime of her dreams, was she not
ever youthful? Was it not yesterday, only yesterday, that she had
caressed a loved face with her perfect fingers, hunted the fox and the
deer in the northern counties, danced with her betrothed in the park
to an air of John Dowland's?--There are no mirrors in the house of the
Countess Glanegg; there are too many in Lady Myrta's house--was La
Foscarina's thought.--One has hidden her decline from herself and from
everyone else; the other sees herself growing older day by day. She
counts her wrinkles one by one, gathers up her dead hair in her comb,
feels her teeth rattling against her pale gums, and tries to repair
the damage by artificial devices. Poor tender soul, who wishes still
to be smiling and charming! But we must die, disappear, descend into
the earth!--She observed the little cluster of violets that Lady Myrta
had pinned to her skirt. In all seasons fresh flowers were fastened
there, barely visible, hidden among the folds, a sign of her daily
illusion of springtime, of the ever-new enchantment she wove about
herself by the aid of memory, music, poetry, and all the arts of dreams
against old age, infirmity, and solitude.--We should live one supreme,
flaming hour, then disappear forever in the earth before all charm has
vanished, before all grace is dead!--

She felt the beauty of her own eyes, the careless strength of her
hair, blown back by the wind, all the power of rhythm and transport
that slumbered in her muscles and her bones. She heard again in fancy
the words of her lover, saw him again in his tender transport of love,
in the sweetness of languor, the moments of profound oblivion.--Still
a little while, still a few days longer I shall please him, and
seem beautiful to him, and put fire in his blood. A little while
longer!--With her feet in the deep grass, her brow raised to the
sunlight, amid the fragrance of fading roses, in the fawn-colored robe
that made her seem like the magnificent beast of prey, she glowed with
passionate joy of life and hope, a sudden quickening of the blood, as
if that future which she had renounced by her resolution to die were
flowing back into the present.--Come! come!--Within herself she called
to her beloved with a sort of intoxication, sure that he would come,
because she already felt that he would, and never had she been deceived
by her presentiment.

"Ah, here is Stelio!" said Lady Myrta at that instant, seeing the young
man advancing among the laurels.

La Foscarina turned swiftly, with a blush. The greyhounds rose,
pricking up their slender ears. The meeting glance of those lovers
had something in it like an electric flash. Again, as always, in the
presence of that wonderful creature, her lover had the divine sensation
of suddenly being enfolded in a cloud of flaming ether, in a vibrant
wave that seemed to isolate him from ordinary atmosphere and almost to
ravish his senses.

"You were awaited here by all that dwell in this seclusion," said Lady
Myrta, with a smile that hid the emotion that stirred the youthful
heart in the infirm and aged body at the sight of love and longing. "In
coming here, you have responded to a call."

"That is true," said the young man, holding the collar of Donovan,
which, remembering his caresses, had run to meet him. "The fact is, I
have come a long distance. Guess from where?"

"From the country of Giorgione!"

"No, from the cloister of Santa Apollonia. Do you know that place?"

"Is that one of your inventions to-day?"

"Invention? It is a cloister of stone, a real cloister, with a well and
with little columns."

"It may be so, but everything that you have once looked at, Stelio,
becomes your invention."

"Ah, Lady Myrta, I should like to offer you that gem of a cloister. I
wish I might move it here, into your garden. Imagine a small, secret
cloister, opening on a sequence of slender columns, set in pairs like
nuns when they walk, fasting, in the sun; very delicate, neither white,
gray nor black, but that most mysterious tint ever given to stone by
the great master colorist--Time. In the midst of these is a well,
and on the curb, which is worn by the rope, hangs a pail without a
bottom. The nuns have disappeared, but I believe that the shades of the
Danaïdes frequent the place."

He stopped speaking suddenly, seeing himself surrounded by the
greyhounds, and began to imitate the guttural sounds the kennel-men
make to gather the dogs. The animals became excited; their wistful eyes
brightened.

"Ali-Nour! Crissa! Nerissa! Clarissa! Altair! Helion! Hardicanute!
Veronese! Hierro!"

He knew them all by name, and when he called them they seemed to
recognize him for their master. There was the Scottish hound, native of
the highlands, with thick, rough coat; the Irish wolf-hound, ruddy and
strong, with brown irises showing clearly in their whites; the Tartary
hound, spotted with black and yellow, a native of vast Asiatic steppes,
where at night he had guarded a tent against hyenas and leopards;
the Persian dog, light-colored and small, with ears covered with long
silky hair, a fluffy tail, of lighter tint on the sides and legs, more
graceful than the antelopes he had killed; there was also the Spanish
_galgo_ that had migrated with the Moors, that magnificent animal held
in leash by a pompous dwarf in the painting by Velásquez, instructed
to course and to force on the naked plains of the Mancha; the Arabian
_sloughi_, illustrious depredator of the desert, with black tongue and
palate, a noble animal, all pride, courage, and elegance, accustomed
to sleep on rich rugs and to lap pure milk from a pure vase. Assembled
in a pack, they quivered around him who knew how to reawaken in their
torpid blood their primitive instincts of pursuit and carnage.

"Which among you was Gog's best friend?" he asked, looking from one to
another of the pairs of beautiful, eager eyes fixed upon him. "You,
Hierro? You, Altair?"

His peculiar accent animated the sensitive creatures, which listened
with suppressed and intermittent growls.

"Well, I must tell you all something that I have kept secret till
to-day. Gog--do you hear?--who could crush a hare with one snap of his
jaws--Gog is crippled."

"Oh, indeed!" exclaimed Lady Myrta, concerned. "Is it possible, Stelio?
And Magog--how is he?"

"Magog is safe and well."

These were the names of a pair of greyhounds that Lady Myrta had given
to the young man.

"How did it happen?"

"Alas, poor Gog! He had already killed thirty-seven hares. He
possessed all the virtues of his fine breed: swiftness, resistance,
incredible rapidity in turning, and the constant desire to kill his
prey, besides the classical manner of running straight and seizing his
prey from behind almost at the same instant. Have you ever watched a
greyhound in coursing, Foscarina?"

"Never."

"Then you never have seen one of the rarest spectacles of daring,
vehemence, and grace in the world. Look!"

He drew Donovan toward him, knelt beside him, and began feeling the
animal with his expert hands.

"No machine in nature exists that is more exactly and powerfully
adapted to its purpose. The muzzle is sharp in order to penetrate the
air; it is long, so that the jaws can crush the prey at the first snap.
The skull is wide between the ears in order to contain the greatest
courage and skill. The jowls are dry and muscular, and the lips so
short they hardly cover the teeth."

With sure and easy touch, he opened the mouth of the dog, which offered
no resistance.

"Look at those white teeth! See how long the eyeteeth are, with a
little curve at the top, the better to hold his prey. No other species
of dog has a mouth so well constructed for biting."

His hands lingered over the examination, and his admiration for the
superb specimen was unbounded. He was kneeling in the clover, and
received in his face the breath of the dog, which quietly permitted
him to examine it, as if it comprehended and enjoyed the praise of the
connoisseur.

"See what elegance in his ribs, arranged with the symmetry of a fine
keel, and in that line curved inward toward the abdomen, which is
hidden. All point to one aim. The tail, thick at the root and slender
at the tip--look! almost like that of a rat--serves as a sort of
rudder, necessary to enable him to turn swiftly when the hare doubles.
Let us see, Donovan, whether you are perfect also in this respect."

He took the tip of the tail, passed it under the leg, and drew it
toward the haunch-bone, where it exactly touched the projecting part.

"Yes, perfect! Once I saw an Arab of the tribe of Arbâa measuring his
_sloughi_ in that way. Ali-Nour, did you tremble when you discovered
the herd of gazelles? Imagine, Foscarina--the _sloughi_ trembles when
he discovers his prey, quivers like a willow, and turns his soft,
pleading eyes toward his master, begging to be released. I do not know
the reason why this pleases me and stirs me so much. His desire to kill
is terrible; his whole body is ready to stretch itself like a bow,
yet he trembles! Not with fear, nor with uncertainty, but with sheer
desire. Ah, Foscarina! if you could see a _sloughi_ at that moment, you
would not fail to learn from him his manner of quivering, and you would
render the manner human by the power of your tragic art, and would
give mankind a new sensation. Up, Ali-Nour! swift desert arrow! Do you
remember? But now you tremble only when you are cold."

Blithe and graceful, he had let Donovan go, and had taken between his
hands the serpentine head of the slayer of gazelles; he gazed into
those deep eyes, wherein lurked nostalgia for the silent, tropical
land; for tents unfolded after a march toward some deceiving mirage;
for fires kindled for the evening meal under stars that seemed to throb
in the waves of the wind just above the summits of the palm-trees.

La Foscarina had entered into that physical enchantment of love whereby
the limits of one's being seem to dilate and be fused in the air, so
that every word and movement of the beloved object brings a feeling
of happiness sweeter than any caress. Her lover had taken between his
hands the head of Ali-Nour, but she felt the touch of those hands upon
her own brow. He was gazing into Ali-Nour's eyes, but she could feel
that gaze deep in her own soul.

Had he not touched the obscurest mystery of her being? Did he not
compel her to feel within herself the animal depths whence had sprung
the unexpected revelation of her tragic genius, moving and maddening
the multitude as would a splendid spectacle of sea and sky, a gorgeous
sunrise, a tremendous tempest. When he had spoken of the trembling
_sloughi_, had he not divined the natural analogies whence she drew the
power of expression that amazed peoples and poets? It was because she
had re-discovered the Dionysian sense of Nature as a naturalizer, the
antique fervor of instinctive and creative energies, the enthusiasm of
the multiform god emerging from the fermentation of all sap, that she
appeared so new and so great on the stage. Sometimes she felt within
herself something like an immanence of the miracle which in the mystic
past swelled with divine milk the breasts of the Mænads at the approach
of the hungry young panthers.

Stelio began again to imitate the guttural call of the kennel-keeper.
The dogs grew more excited; their eyes brightened again; the tense
muscles swelled under the coats--tawny, black, white, gray, spotted;
the long haunches were curved like bows ready to hurl into space those
bodies dry and slender, like a quiver-full of arrows.

"There, Donovan, there!"

Stelio pointed to a reddish-gray object in the grass at the end of
the garden; it looked somewhat like a crouching hare with flattened
ears. The imperious voice deceived the hesitating hounds, and it was
beautiful to see the slender, vigorous bodies quivering in the sunlight.

"There, Donovan!"

The great tawny dog looked him deep in the eyes, gave a formidable
bound toward the imaginary prey, with all the vehemence of his
reawakened instinct. He reached the spot in an instant, then stopped,
disappointed, followed by the whole pack.

"A gourd! a gourd!" cried the deceiver, with shouts of laughter. "Not
even a rabbit. Poor Donovan! He bit only a gourd! Poor Donovan! what
humiliation! Take care, Lady Myrta, lest he drown himself in the canal
for very shame!"

From the contagion of her lover's gayety, La Foscarina laughed too. Her
fawn-tinted gown and the tan coats of the hounds shone in the sunlight
against the green clover. Her white teeth, revealed by rippling
laughter, graced her mouth with a renewal of youth.

"Would you like to own Donovan?" said Lady Myrta, with a touch of
graceful, malicious significance. "I know your arts!"

Stelio ceased laughing, and blushed like a boy.

A wave of tenderness filled La Foscarina's heart as she saw the boyish
blush. She fairly sparkled with love; she felt a wild wish to clasp him
in her arms at that very moment.

Before thanking Lady Myrta, Stelio looked again at the dog, admiring
him as he was, strong, splendid, perfect, with the mark of style on his
limbs as if Pisanello had drawn him for the reverse of a medal. Then he
looked at La Foscarina, who had turned to the group of animals, moving
over the grass with a swift undulation, like the movement called the
greyhound step by the ancient Venetians. She advanced, with Donovan,
holding him by the collar. The chill of evening began to be felt, the
shadow of the bronze cupola grew longer on the grass; a purple mist, in
which the last flecks of golden sunlight swam, began to spread over the
branches that swayed in the breeze.

--See, we are yours!--the woman seemed to be saying mutely, while the
animal, beginning to shiver, pressed close against her.--We are yours
forever. We are here to serve you!




                              CHAPTER VII

                          ONLY ONE CONDITION


Heartrending was the sweetness of that November, smiling like a sick
person who fancies himself to have reached a state of convalescence and
feels an unusual sense of relief and well-being, knowing not that his
hour of agony draws near.

"What is the matter with you to-day, Fosca? What has happened to you?
Why are you so distant to me? Speak! Tell me!"

Stelio had entered San Marco by chance, and had seen her there, leaning
against the chapel-door that leads to the baptistry. She was alone,
motionless, her face devoured by fever and by shadows, with terrified
eyes fixed on the fearful figures of the mosaics that flamed in a
yellow fire.

"Leave me here alone, I entreat you--I beg of you! I must be alone! I
implore you!"

She turned as if to flee, but he detained her.

"But tell me! Speak at least one word that I may understand."

Still she sought to escape, and her movement expressed unspeakable
anguish.

"I implore you! If you pity me, the only thing you can do for me now is
to let me go."

"But one word--at least one word, so that I shall understand."

A flash of fury passed over the agitated face.

"No! I wish to be alone!"

Her voice was as hard as her glance. She turned, taking a step or two
like a person overcome by dizziness seeking some support.

"Foscarina!"

But he dared not detain her longer. He saw the despairing one walk
through the zone of sunlight that invaded the basilica like a rushing
torrent entering through a door opened by an unknown hand. Behind her
the deep golden cavern, with its apostles, martyrs, and sacred beasts,
glittered as if the thousand torches of the daylight were pouring in on
it.

"I am lost in the depths of sadness.... This violent impulse to revolt
against fate, to rush away in search of adventure--to seek.--Who will
save my hope? Whence will come a ray of light?... To sing, to sing! But
I would sing a song of life at last.... Can you tell me where the Lord
of the Flame is at present?"

These words, in a letter from Donatella Arvale, were branded on her
eyes and on her soul, with all the characteristics of handwriting, as
much alive as the hand that traced them, as throbbing as that impatient
pulse. She saw them graved on the stones, outlined on the clouds,
reflected in the water, indelible and inevitable as the decrees of Fate.

--Where shall I go? Where shall I go?--Through all her agitation and
despair, she had still a sense of the sweetness of things, the warmth
of the gilded marbles, the perfume of the quiet air, the languor of
human leisure.

She turned with a start, fearing yet hoping to be followed by her
lover. She could not see him. She would have fled had she seen him,
but her heart ached as if he had sent her to death without a word of
recall.--All is over!--

She entered the Porta della Carta, having crossed the threshold. The
intoxication of her sorrow led her to the spot where, on a night of
glory, the three destinies had come together. She went to the well,
the point of that rendezvous. Around that bronze curb the whole life
of those few seconds rose again with the distinct outline of reality.
There she had said, addressing her companion with a smile: "Donatella,
this is the Lord of the Flame!" Then the immense cry of the multitude
had drowned her voice, and above their head rose a flight of fiery
pigeons against the dark sky.

She approached the well, and gazed into it. She leaned over the curb,
saw her own face in the deep mirror, saw in it terror and perdition,
saw the motionless Medusa she carried in the depth of her soul. Without
realizing it, she repeated the action of him she loved. She saw his
face, too, and Donatella's, as she had seen them illumined for an
instant that night, close together, lighted by the radiance in the sky.

--Love, love each other! I will go away, I shall disappear! Good-by!--

She closed her eyes at the thought of death, and in that darkness
she saw the kind, strong eyes of her mother, infinite as a horizon of
peace.--You are at peace, and you await me--you whose life and death
were of passion.--

She stood erect, then departed by the Molo, stepped into a gondola, and
ordered it to be rowed to the Giudecca. The buildings and the water
formed a miracle of gold and opal. The image of dead Summer flashed
across her memory--dead Summer dressed in gold and shut in a coffin
of opalescent glass. She imagined herself submerged in the lagoon,
sleeping on a bed of seaweed; but the memory of the promise made on
that water, and kept in the delirium of that night, pierced her heart
like a knife, and threw her into a convulsion.

--Never more, then? Never more!--

She reached the Rio della Croce. The gondola stopped before a closed
door. She landed, took out a small key, opened the door, and entered
the garden.

This was her refuge, the secret place for her solitude, defended by the
fidelity of her melancholy as by silent guardians.

"Never more?" She walked under the trellises, approached the water,
stopped a moment, felt weary, and at last sat down on a stone, held her
temples between her hands, and made an effort to concentrate her mind,
to recover her self-possession. "He is still here, near me. I can see
him again. Perhaps I shall find him standing on the steps of my house.
He will take me in his arms, kiss my lips and eyes, tell me again
that he loves me, that everything about me pleases him. He does not
know--he does not understand. Nothing irreparable has happened. What is
it, then, that has so upset and disturbed me? I have received a letter
written by a girl who is far-away, imprisoned in a lonely villa near
her demented father, who complains of her lot and seeks to change it.
That is all. There is no more to say. And here is the letter."

Her fingers trembled, and she fancied she could detect Donatella's
favorite perfume, as if the young girl were sitting beside her.

--Is she beautiful? Really beautiful? How does she look?--

The lines of the image were indistinct at first. She tried to seize
them, but they eluded her. One particular above all others fixed itself
in her mind--the large, massive hand.--Did he see her hand that night?
He is very susceptible to the beauty of hands. When he meets a woman,
he always looks at her hands. And he adores Sofia's hands.--She allowed
herself to dwell on these childish considerations, then she smiled
bitterly. And suddenly the image became perfect, lived, glowing with
youth and power, overwhelmed and dazzled her.--Yes, she is beautiful!
And hers is the beauty he desires.--

She kept her eyes fixed on the silent splendor of the waters, with
the letter on her lap; she was nailed there by the inflexible truth.
And involuntary thoughts of destruction flashed upon her inert
discouragement; the face of Donatella burned by fire, her body crippled
by a fall, her voice ruined by an illness! Then she had a horror of
herself, followed by pity for herself and the other woman.--Has she
not too the right to live? Let her live, let her love, let her have
her joy.--She imagined for the young girl some magnificent adventure,
a happy love, an adorable betrothed, prosperity, luxury, pleasure.--Is
there only one man on this earth, then, that she can love? Is it
impossible that to-morrow she might meet some one who would win her
heart? Is it impossible that her fate should suddenly turn her in
another direction, take her far from here, lead her through unknown
paths, separate her from us forever? Is it necessary that she should be
loved by the man I love? Perhaps they never will meet again.--She tried
thus to escape her presentiment. But a contrary thought whispered:
"They have met once; they will seek each other, they will meet again.
Her soul is not obscure--not one that can be lost in the multitude. She
possesses a gift that shines like a star, and it will always be easily
recognizable even from afar--her song. The marvel of her voice will
serve her as a signal. She will surely avail herself of this power; she
too will pass among mankind leaving a wake of admiration behind her.
She will have glory as she has beauty--two attributes that will easily
attract Stelio. They have met once; they will meet again."

The sorrowing woman bent as if under a yoke. A clear, pearly light
bathed the lagoon in radiance. The islands of La Follia, San Clemente,
and San Servilio were enveloped in a light mist. From a distance came
at intervals a faint cry, as of shipwrecked sailors becalmed, answered
by the harsh voice of a siren whistle or by the raucous call of the
sea-gulls. At first the silence seemed terrible, then it grew sweet.

The woman, little by little, recovered her deep goodness of heart,
felt again her old tenderness for the beautiful creature in whose
personality she had once deceived her desire to love the good sister,
Sofia. She thought again of the hours passed in the lonely villa on
that hill of Settignano, where Lorenzo Arvale created his statues in
the fulness of his strength and fervor, ignorant of the blow that was
about to fall. She lived again in those days, saw again those places;
she sat once more in memory for the famous sculptor who modeled her
in clay, while Donatella sang some quaint old song; and the spirit of
melody animated at once the model and the effigy, and her thoughts and
that pure voice and the mystery of Art composed an appearance of a life
almost divine in that great studio open on all sides to the light of
heaven, whence Florence and its river was visible in the springtime
valley.

In addition to fancying the girl a reflection of Sofia, had she not
been attracted otherwise to her--the sweet Donatella, who never had
known a mother's caress since her birth? She saw her again, grave and
calm beside her father, the comfort for his hard work, guardian of the
sacred flame, and also of a resolve of her own--a secret resolve, which
preserved itself as bright and keen as a sword in its sheath.

--She is sure of herself; she is mistress of her own power. When at
last she knows she is free, she will reveal herself as one made to
rule. Yes, she is made to subjugate men, to excite their curiosity and
their dreams. Even now, her instinct, bold and prudent as experience
itself, directs her.--La Foscarina remembered Donatella's attitude
toward Stelio on that night; her almost disdainful silence, her brief,
dry words, her manner of leaving the table, her disappearance, leaving
the image of herself framed within the circle of an unforgettable
melody. Ah, she knows the art of stirring the soul of a dreamer.
Certainly he cannot have forgotten her. And just as certainly he
awaits the hour when it shall be given him to meet her again--not less
impatiently than she, who asks me where he is.--

Again she lifted the letter and ran her eyes over it, but her memory
traveled faster than her eyes. The enigmatic query was at the foot
of the page, like a half-veiled postscript. Looking at the written
words, she felt again the same sharp pang as when she read them the
first time, and once more her heart was shaken as if the danger were
imminent, as if her passion and her hope were already lost beyond
recall.--What is she about to do? Of what is she thinking? Did she
expect him to search for her without delay, and, disappointed in that,
does she now wish to tempt him? What does she intend to do?--She
struggled against that uncertainty as against an iron door which
she must force in order to find again behind it the light of her
life.--Shall I answer her? Suppose I reply in such a way as to make
her understand the truth, would my love necessarily be a prohibition
of hers?--But here her soul rose with a mingled feeling of repugnance,
modesty, and pride.--No, never! Never shall she learn of my wound from
me--never, not even should she question me!--And she realized all the
horror of an open rivalry between a woman no longer young and a girl
strong in her maiden youth. She felt the humiliation and cruelty of
such an unequal struggle. "But if not Donatella, would it not be some
one else," again whispered the contrary spirit "Do you believe you can
bind a man of his nature to your melancholy passion? The only condition
under which you should have allowed yourself to love him, and to offer
him a love faithful unto death, was in keeping the compact that you
have broken."

"True, true!" she murmured, as if answering a distinct voice, in formal
judgment, pronounced in the silence by invisible Fate.

"The only condition on which he can now accept your love, and recognize
it, demands that you leave him free, that you give up all claim on him,
that you renounce all, forever, and ask for nothing--the condition of
being heroic. Do you understand?"

"True, true!" she repeated aloud, raising her head.

But the poison bit her. She remembered all the sweetness of
caresses--the lips, the eyes, the strength and ardor of the lover had
re-animated all her being.

A far-away monotonous sound of song floated in the air--a song of
women's voices, that seemed to rise from bosoms oppressed, from throats
as slender as reeds, like the sound evoked from the broken wires of
old spinets at a touch on the worn keys; a shrill, unequal tone, in
a lively and vulgar rhythm, which sounded sadder in that light and
silence than the saddest things of life.

"Who is singing?"

With obscure emotion she arose, approached the shore, and listened.

"The madwomen of San Clemente!"

From the isle of La Follia, from the barred windows of the light,
lonely hospital, came the lively yet melancholy chorus. It trembled,
hesitated in the immensity of space, grew fainter and almost died away,
then rose again and swelled to a piercing shriek, diminished once more,
and finally sank to silence.




                             CHAPTER VIII

                               ILLUSIONS


Yes, heart-rending was the sweetness of that November, smiling like
a sick person who has become free from suffering, knowing it is the
last, and tasting again the sweetness of life, which reveals to him new
charms when just about to leave him.

"Look at the Euganean hills below us, Foscarina; if the wind should
come they will rise and float in the air like gauzy veils, and pass
over our heads. I never have seen them so transparent. Some day I
should like to go with you to Arquà; the villages there are as pink as
the shells we find in myriads in the earth. When we arrive there, the
first drops of a sudden shower will be robbing the peach-blossoms of
their petals. We will wait under one of the arches of the Palladio to
avoid getting wet. Then, without inquiring the way of anyone, we will
look for the fountain of Petrarch. We will carry with us his poems in
the small edition of Misserini's, that little book you keep beside your
bed and cannot close any more because it is so full of pressed leaves
and grasses. Would you like to go to Arquà some spring day?"

She did not reply, but gazed silently at the lips that said these
graceful things; and, without hope, she simply took a fugitive
pleasure in their movement and accent. For her there was in his image
of the Spring the same enchantment as in a stanza of Petrarch's; but
she could lay a bookmark in the one and find it again, while the poetic
fancies must be lost with the passing hour.

She wished to say: "I will not drink at that fountain," but kept
silence, that she might still enjoy the caress.--Oh, yes, intoxicate me
with illusions! Play your own game; do with me as you will.--

"Here we are at San Giorgio in Alga. We shall reach Fusina in a few
minutes."

The little walled islet passed before them, with its marble Madonna,
perpetually admiring her reflection in the water, like a nymph.

"Why are you so sweet, my beloved? I never have seen you like this
before. I know not where I am with you to-day. I cannot find words to
tell you with what a sense of melody your presence inspires me. You
are here beside me, I can hold your hand, yet you are diffused in the
horizon, you yourself are the horizon, blended with the waters, with
the islands, with the hills. When I was speaking just now, it seemed
that each syllable created in you infinitely dilating circles, like
those round that leaf just fallen from the gold-leaved tree. Is it
true? Tell me that it is. Oh, look at me!"

He felt himself enveloped in this woman's love as by the air and the
light; he breathed in that soul as in a distinct element, receiving
from it an ineffable fulness of life as if a stream of mysterious
things were flowing from her and from the glory of the daylight at the
same time, and pouring itself into his heart. The desire to make some
return for the happiness she gave him lifted him to an almost religious
height of gratitude, and suggested to him words of thanks and of praise
which he would have spoken had he been kneeling before her in the
shadows. But the splendor of sky and sea around them was so great that
he could only be as silent as she. And for both this was a moment of
marvelous communion in the light; it was a journey brief yet immense,
in which both traversed the dizzy distances they had within themselves.

The boat reached the shore of Fusina. They roused themselves, and gazed
at each other with dazzled eyes.

--Does he love me, then?--

Hope and pain revived in the woman's heart. She did not doubt the
sincerity of her beloved, nor that his words expressed the ardor of
his heart. She knew how absolutely he abandoned himself to every wave
of emotion, how incapable he was of deception or of falsehood. More
than once she had heard him utter cruel truths with the same feline,
flexible grace that some men adopt when they wish to appear charming.
She knew well the direct, limpid gaze which sometimes became hard and
icy, but which never was otherwise than straight; but she knew also the
rapidity and marvelous diversity of emotion and thought that rendered
his spirit unseizable. There was always in him something flexible and
vigorous that suggested to the actress the double and diverse image
of flame and of water. And it was this man she wished to fix, to
captivate, to possess! There was always in him an unlimited ardor of
life, a sense of _euphoria_, or joy in existence, as if every second
were the supreme instant, and he were about to tear himself from the
pleasure and pain of living, as from the tears and embraces of a last
farewell. And it was for this insatiable avidity that she wished to
remain the only nourishment!

What was she to him, if not an aspect of that "life of the thousand
and thousand faces," toward which the poet's desire, according to one
of his own images, continually shook all its thyrsi? For him she was
a theme for visions and inventions, like the hills, the woods, the
storms. He absorbed mystery and beauty from her as from all forms of
the universe. Even now he had withdrawn his thoughts from her, and was
occupied with a new quest; his changeful, ingenuous eyes sought for
some miracle to marvel at and adore.

She looked at him, but he did not turn his face toward her; he was
studying the damp, foggy region through which they were driving slowly.
She sat beside him, feeling herself deprived of her strength, no longer
capable of living in and for herself, of breathing with her own breath,
of following a thought that was unknown to her beloved, hesitating even
in her enjoyment of natural objects that he had not pointed out.

Her life seemed to be alternately dissolving and condensing itself. An
instant of intensity would pass, and then she waited for the next, and
between them she was conscious of nothing save that time was flying,
the lamp was flickering, the body was fading, and that all things were
perishing, dying.

"My dear, my friend," said Stelio, suddenly turning and taking her
hand, impelled by an emotion that had overcome him, "why did we come to
these places? They seem very sweet, but they are full of terror."

He looked at her keenly.

"You suffer," he said, with a depth of pity in his tone that made the
woman turn pale. "Do you too feel this terror?"

She looked around with the anxiety of one pursued, and fancied she saw
a thousand ominous phantoms rising from the earth.

"Those statues!" said Stelio, in a tone that changed them in her eyes
into witnesses of her own wasting life.

The country around them was as deserted and silent as if its former
inhabitants had been gone for centuries, or were sleeping in graves
new-made the day before.

"Do you wish to return? The boat is still there."

She seemed not to hear.

"Speak, Foscarina!"

"Let us go--let us go on," she replied. "Wherever we may go our fate
will not change."

Her body swayed to the slow, lulling roll of the wheels, and she
feared to interrupt it; she shrank from the least effort, the smallest
fatigue, overcome by heavy inertia. Her face was like the delicate veil
of ash that covers a live coal, hiding its consumption.

"Dear, dear soul!" said Stelio, leaning toward her and lightly
touching the pale cheek with his lips. "Lean on me; give yourself
entirely to me; have confidence in me. Never will I fail you, never
will you fail me. We shall find it--we shall find the true secret on
which our love can rest forever, immovable. Do not be reserved with me.
Do not suffer alone, nor hide your sorrows from me. When your heart
swells with grief, speak to me. Let me believe that I can comfort you.
Let us not hide anything from each other. I shall venture to recall to
you a condition that you yourself made. Speak to me, and I will always
answer you truthfully. Let me help you--me, who have received from you
so much of good. Tell me that you do not fear to suffer. I believe your
soul capable of supporting all the sadness of the world. Do not let me
lose faith in that force of passion, whereby more than once you have
seemed to me divine. Tell me you do not fear suffering.... I don't
know.... I may be mistaken. But I have felt a shadow around you, like
a desperate wish to withdraw yourself, to leave me, to find some end.
Why? Why? And, just now, looking at all this terrible desolation that
smiles at us, a great fear suddenly filled my heart--I thought that
perhaps even your love might change like all things, and pass away into
nothingness. 'You will lose me.' Ah, those words were yours, Foscarina!
They fell from your own lips."

She did not answer. For the first time since she had loved him, his
words seemed vain, useless sounds, moving powerless through the air.
For the first time, he seemed to her a weak and anxious creature, bound
by inexorable laws. She pitied him as well as herself. He asked her to
be heroic, a compact of grief and of violence. At the moment when he
attempted to console and comfort her, he predicted a difficult test,
prepared her for torture. But what was courage worth, of what use was
any effort? What were all miserable human agitations worth, and why
think of the future, even of the uncertain morrow?

The Past reigned supreme around them, and they themselves were nothing,
and everything was nothing.--We are dying; both of us are dying. We
dream, and then we die.--

"Hush! Hush!" was all she said, softly, as if they were in a cemetery.
A slight smile touched her lips, and rested there as fixedly as the
smile on the lips of a portrait.

The wheels rolled on over the white road, along the shores of the
Brenta. The stream, sung and praised in the sonnets of the gallant
abbés in the days when gondolas laden with music and pleasure had
glided down its current, had now the humble aspect of a canal, where
the iris-necked ducks splashed in flocks. On the damp, low plain the
fields smoked, the bare trees showed plainly, their leaves rotting on
the damp earth. A slow, golden mist floated above an immense vegetable
decay that seemed to encroach even upon the walls, the stones, the
houses, seeking to destroy them like the leaves. The patrician
villas--where a pale life, delicately poisoned by cosmetics and
perfumes, had burned itself out in languid pastimes--were now in ruins,
silent and abandoned. Some had an aspect like a human ruin, with
empty spaces that suggested hollow orbits and toothless mouths; others
were crumbling, and looked as if ready to fall in powder, like a dead
woman's hair when her tomb is opened; and here, there, everywhere, rose
the still surviving statues. They seemed innumerable, like a scattered
people. Some were still white, others were gray or yellow with lichens,
or green and spotted with moss. They stood in all sorts of attitudes:
goddesses, heroes, nymphs, seasons, hours, with their bows and arrows,
their wreaths, cornucopias, and torches, with all the emblems of power,
riches and pleasure, exiled now from fountains, grottoes, labyrinths,
arbors, and porticoes: friends of the greenwood and the myrtle,
protectors of fleeting loves, witnesses of eternal vows, figures of a
dream far more ancient than the hands that had carved them, and the
eyes that had contemplated them in the ruined gardens. And, in the
sweet sunlight of the dying season, their shadows were like the shadows
of the irrevocable Past--all, all that loves no longer, laughs and
weeps no more, never will live, never will return. And the unspoken
word on their marble lips was the same that was expressed in the fixed
smile on the lips of the world-weary woman--NOTHING!




                              CHAPTER IX

                             THE LABYRINTH


But that day they were to pass through other shadows, to know other
fears.

Henceforth the tragic meaning of life filled both their minds, and
they tried in vain to banish the physical sadness which from moment to
moment made their spirits more clear yet more disturbed. They clasped
each other's hand, as if they were groping in dark, dangerous places.
They spoke little, but often they gazed into each other's eyes, and
the look of the one poured into that of the other a wave of confused
emotion, the mingling of their love and horror. But it did not calm
their hearts.

"Shall we go farther?"

"Yes, let us go on."

Still they clasped each other's hand closely, as if they were about to
go through some strange test, and were resolved to experiment as to
what depths could be reached by the combined force of their melancholy.
At the Dolo, the wheels made the chestnut-leaves rustle and crackle
beneath them, and the tall changing trees flamed over their heads like
crimson draperies on fire. At a distance was the Villa Barbariga,
silent, deserted, of a reddish hue in its denuded garden, showing
vestiges of old paintings in the cracks of its façade, like streaks of
rouge on the wrinkled cheeks of an old woman. And, at every glance, the
distances of the landscape seemed fainter and bluer, like things slowly
submerged.

"Here is Strà."

They alighted before the Villa Pisani, and, accompanied by its
guardian, they visited the deserted apartments. They heard the sound
of their own footsteps on the marble that reflected them, the echoes
in the historic arches, the creaking of the doors, the tiresome voice
of the keeper awakening the memories of the place. The rooms were
vast, hung with faded draperies and furnished in the style of the
Empire, with Napoleonic emblems. The walls of one room were covered
with portraits of the Pisani, procurators of San Marco; of another,
with marble medallions of all the Doges; of a third, with a series of
flowers painted in water-colors and mounted in delicate frames, pale as
the dry flowers that are laid under glass, in memory of love or death.

As La Foscarina entered one room, she said:

"_In time!_ Here, too!"

There, on a bracket, stood a transformation into marble of _La Vecchia_
by Francesco Torbido, made even more repulsive by the relief, by the
subtle skill of the sculptor, to bring out with his chisel each tendon,
wrinkle, and hollow place in the old woman's face. And at the doors of
this room seemed to appear the ghosts of the crowned women that had
hidden their unhappiness and their decay in that vast dwelling, at once
like a palace and a monastery.

"Maria Luisa di Parma, in eighteen hundred and seventeen," continued
the monotonous voice.

"Ah, the Queen of Spain, wife of Charles the Fourth, and mistress of
Manuel Godoï," said Stelio. "She attracts me more than all the others.
She came here when they were in exile. Do you know whether she stayed
here with the King and the favorite!"

But the guardian knew only that name and the date.

"Why does she attract you?" La Foscarina asked. "I know nothing of her
history."

"Her end, the last years of her life of exile, after so much struggle
and passion, are extraordinarily full of poetry."

And he described that violent and tenacious character, the weak,
credulous King, the handsome adventurer who had enjoyed the smiles of
the Queen, and had been dragged through the streets by the infuriated
mob; the agitations of the three lives bound together by Fate, and
swept before Napoleon's will like leaves in a whirlwind; the tumult at
Aranjuez, the abdication, the exile.

"And Godoï--the Prince of Peace, as the King called him--faithfully
followed the sovereigns into exile; he remained faithful to his royal
mistress, and she to him. They all lived together under the same roof
thenceforth, and Charles never doubted the virtue of Maria Luisa.
Even to the day of his death, he lavished all manner of kindness on
the two lovers. Imagine their life in this place; imagine here such a
love coming safely through a storm so terrible. All was broken down,
overthrown, reduced to powder by the destroyer. Bonaparte had passed
that way, but had not smothered that love, already old, beneath the
ruins. The faithfulness of those two violent natures moves my heart not
less than the credulity of the kindly King. Thus they grew old. Imagine
it! The Queen died first, then the King; and the favorite, who was
younger than they, lived a wandering life a few years more."

"This is the Emperor's room," said the guardian solemnly, flinging open
a door.

The great shade seemed omnipresent in the villa of the Doge Alvise. The
imperial eagle, symbol of his power, dominated all the faded relics.
But in the yellow room, the shade seemed to occupy the vast bed, to
rest under the canopy, surrounded by the four bedposts ornamented at
the top with golden flames. The formidable sigla inscribed within the
laurel crown shone upon the polished side of the bed. And this species
of funereal couch seemed to be prolonged in the dim mirror hanging
between the two figures of Victory that supported the candelabra.

"Did the Emperor sleep in this bed?" inquired the young man of the
custodian, who pointed out to him on the wall the portrait of the great
_condottiere_ mantled in ermine, wearing a crown of laurel and holding
a scepter, as he appeared at the coronation blessed by Pius VII. "Is it
certain?"

He was surprised at himself at not feeling the emotion experienced by
ambitious spirits at the sight of the traces of heroes--that strong
throb he knew so well.

He lifted the edge of the yellow counterpane, and let it fall as
suddenly as if the pillow under it had been full of vermin.

"Let us go away from this place; let us go!" said La Foscarina, who had
been looking through the windows at the park, where the golden bars of
the setting sun alternated with bluish-green zones of shade. "We cannot
breathe here," she added.

The air, in truth, was like that of a vault.

"Now we pass into the room of Maximilian of Austria," said the droning
voice, "he took the dressing-room of Amélie de Beauharnais for his
bedroom."

They crossed this apartment in a flood of crimson light. The sunlight
struck on a crimson couch, flashed rainbows from a frail chandelier
with crystal drops that hung from the ceiling and kindled perpendicular
red lines on the wall. Stelio stopped on the threshold, evoking in his
fancy as he did so, the pensive figure of the young Archduke, with blue
eyes, that fair flower of Hapsburg fallen in a barbaric land one summer
morning!

"Let us go!" begged La Foscarina again, seeing him still delay.

She hastened through the immense salon, painted in fresco by Tiepolo;
the Corinthian bronze gate closing behind her gave forth a clang as
resonant as the stroke of a bell, sending prolonged vibrations through
space. She flew along, terrified, as if the whole palace were about
to crumble and fall, and the light to fail, and she dreaded lest she
should find herself alone among the shadows with these phantoms of
unhappiness and death. As Stelio followed, through the space wherein
the air was moved by her flight, between those walls enclosing
relics, behind the famous actress who had simulated the fury of deadly
passions, the desperate efforts of will and of desire, and the violent
conflict of splendid destines on the stage of all lands, the warm blood
in his veins grew chill, as if he were passing through a freezing
atmosphere; he felt his heart grow cold, his courage flag; his reason
for being lost its hold on his mind, and the magnificent illusions
with which he had fed his soul, that it might surpass itself and his
destiny, wavered and were dispersed.

"Are we still living?" he asked, when they found themselves in the air
without, in the park, far from the unwholesome odor.

He took La Foscarina's hand, shook her gently, gazed into her eyes and
tried to smile; then he drew her into the sunlight in the middle of the
green meadow.

"What heat! Do you feel it? How sweet the grass is!"

He half-closed his eyes, that he might feel the sun's rays on his
eyelids, and was once more filled with the joy of living. The woman
imitated him, calmed by the pleasure her beloved showed; and she looked
from under her half-closed eyelids at his fresh, sensuous mouth. They
sat thus for some time, hand-in-hand, their feet resting on the warm
grass. Her thoughts turned back to the Eugenean hills, which he had
described, to the villages pink as the buried shells, to the first
drops of rain on the tender leaves, Petrarch's fountain, to all things
fair and pleasant.

"Life might still be sweet!" she sighed, in a voice wherein was the
miracle of hope born anew.

The heart of her beloved became like a fruit suddenly ripened by a
miraculous ray. Joy, delight, and tenderness spread through his whole
being. Once more he reveled in the joy of the moment, as if it were the
last of life. Love was exalted above Destiny.

"Do you love me? Tell me?"

She made no answer, but she opened wide her eyes, and the vastness of
the universe was within the circle of those pupils. Never was boundless
love more powerfully signified by mortal woman.

"Ah, life with thee is sweet, sweet--yesterday as well as to-morrow!"

He seemed intoxicated with her, with the sunlight, the grass, the
divine sky, as with something never before seen or possessed. The
prisoner leaving his stifling cell, the convalescent who beholds the
sea after looking death in the face, are not more intoxicated.

"Would you like to go now? Shall we leave our melancholy behind us?
Would you like to go to a country where there is no autumn?"

--The autumn is in myself, and I carry it everywhere--she thought; but
she smiled the slight smile with which she veiled her sadness.--It is
I--it is I that must go away alone; I will disappear; I will go
far-away and die, my love, O my love!--

During this moment of respite, she had not succeeded either in
conquering her sadness or reviving her hope; but her anguish was
softened, and she had lost all bitterness and rancor.

"Do you wish to go away?"

--To go away, always to be going away, to wander throughout the world,
to go long distances!--thought the nomad woman.--Never to stop, never
to rest! The anxiety of the journey is not over yet, but already the
truce has expired. You wish to comfort me, my friend, and, to console
me, you propose that I should go far-away once more, although I
returned to my home, as it were, but yesterday.--

Suddenly her eyes looked like two sparkling springs.

"Leave me in my home a little while longer. And remain here, too, if
that is possible. Later, you will be free, you will be happy. You
have so long a time before you! You are young. You will win what you
deserve. They will not lose you, even if they must wait for you."

Her eyes had two crystal masks before them; they glittered in the
sunshine, and seemed almost fixed in her fevered face.

"Ah, always the same shadow!" Stelio exclaimed, with an impatience he
could not conceal. "But what are you thinking of? What do you fear? Why
not tell me what it is that troubles you? Explain yourself. Who is it
that must wait for me?"

She trembled with terror at that question, which seemed new and
unexpected, although he only repeated her own last words. She trembled
to find herself so near danger, as if, in walking across this fair
meadow, a precipice had suddenly opened under her feet.

And suddenly, in that unfamiliar place, on that beautiful grass, at the
end of the day, after all those specters, sanguinary or bloodless, rose
a living image of will and desire, which filled her with far greater
terror. Suddenly, above all the figures of the Past, arose the figure
of the Future, and again the aspect of her life was changed; and the
sweetness of the respite was already lost, and the fair meadow with its
sweet grass was worth nothing.

"Yes, let us talk, if you wish."

But she was obliged to lift her face a little to keep her tears from
falling.

"Do not be sad!" pleaded the young man, whose soul was suspended on
those eyelids, whence the tears would not fall. "You hold my heart
in your hand. I never will fail you. Then why torment yourself? I am
wholly yours."

For him, too, the image of Donatella was there, with her rounded
figure, her body as robust and agile as a wingless Victory, armed with
the glory of maidenhood, attractive yet hostile, ready to struggle, and
then to yield. But his soul was suspended from the eyelids of the other
woman, like the tears that veiled the eyes in which he had seen the
vastness of the universe, the infinity of love.

"Foscarina!"

At last the warm tears fell, but she did not let them course down
her cheeks. With one of those movements that sometimes sprang from
her sadness with the swift grace of a freed wing, she checked them,
moistened her finger-tips with them, and touched her temples without
drying them. And, while she still kept her tears upon herself, she
tried to smile.

"Forgive me, Stelio. I am so weak!"

"Ah, dear fingers--beautiful as Sofia's! Let me kiss them as they are,
still wet."

Within his caressing arm, he drew her across the field to a zone of
golden green. Lightly, with his arm supporting hers, he kissed her
finger-tips, one after another, more delicate than the buds of the
tuberose. She startled, and he felt her tremble at each touch of his
lips.

"They are salt!"

"Take care, Stelio! Some one may see us."

"No one is here."

"Perhaps down there, in the hothouses."

"There is not a sound. Hark!"

"What a strange silence! It is ecstasy."

"We might hear the falling of a leaf."

"And the keeper?"

"He has gone to meet some other visitor."

"Does anyone ever come here?"

"The other day Richard Wagner came here with Daniela von Bülow."

"Ah, yes, the niece of the Countess Agoult, of 'Daniel Stern.'"

"And, among all those phantoms, with which did that great stricken
heart converse?"

"Who can tell?"

"Only with himself, perhaps."

"Perhaps."

"Look at the glass windows and walls of the conservatories--how they
sparkle! They appear iridescent. Rain, sunshine and time have painted
it in that way. Does it not seem to reflect a distant twilight? Perhaps
you have sometimes stopped on the Pesaro quay, to look at the beautiful
pentafore window of the Evangelists. If you raised your eyes, you could
see the windows of the palace marvelously painted by the changes of
weather."

"You know all the secrets of Venice!"

"Not all yet."

"How warm it is here! See how tall those cedars are. There is a
swallow's nest hanging on that limb."

"The swallows went away very late this year."

"Will you really take me to the Euganean hills in the spring?"

"Yes, Foscarina, I should like to do so."

"Spring is so far-away!"

"Life can still be sweet."

"We are living in a dream."

"Look at Orpheus with his lyre, all dressed in lichens."

"Ah, what a land of dreams! No one comes here any more. Grass, grass
everywhere! There is not a single human footstep."

"Deucalion with his stones, Ganymede with his eagle, Diana with her
stag--all the gods of mythology."

"How many statues! But these, at least, are not in exile. The ancient
hornbeams still protect them."

"Here strolled Maria Luisa di Parma, between the King and the favorite.
From time to time she would pause to listen to the click of the
blades that cut the hornbeams to form arches. She would let fall her
handkerchief, perfumed with jessamine, and Don Manuel Godoï would pick
it up with a graceful gesture, hiding the pain he suffered when he
stooped--a souvenir of the outrages he had endured at the hands of the
mob in the streets of Aranjuez. How warm the sun was, and how excellent
the snuff in its enameled box, when the King said with a smile:
'Certainly, our dear Bonaparte is not so well off at Saint Helena as
we are here.' But the demon of power, of struggle, and of passion was
still alive in the Queen's heart. Look at those red roses!"

"They fairly burn. One would think each had a live coal at its heart.
Yes, they seem actually to burn."

"The sun is growing red. This is the hour for the Chioggia sails on the
lagoon."

"Gather a rose for me."

"Here is one."

"Oh, but its leaves are falling."

"Well, here is another."

"These leaves are falling too."

"They are all at the point of death. Perhaps this one is not."

"Do not break it off."

"Look! These seem to be redder still. Bonifazio's velvet--do you
remember it? It has the same strength."

"'The inmost flower of the flame.'"

"What a memory!"

"Listen! They are closing the doors of the conservatories."

"It is time to go," said Stelio, abruptly yet gently.

"The air is beginning to be cooler."

"Do you feel cold?"

"No, not yet."

"Did you leave your cloak in the carriage?"

"Yes."

"We will wait at Dolo for the train, and return to Venice by the
railway."

"Yes."

"We still have time to spare."

"What is this? Look!"

"I don't know."

"What a bitter odor! It is a sort of shrubbery of box and hornbeams."

"Ah, it is the labyrinth!"

A rusty iron gate barred the entrance to the labyrinth between two
columns that bore two Cupids riding on stone dolphins. Nothing was to
be seen on the other side of the gate, except the beginning of the
path, and a kind of solidly built and intricate thicket, dark and
mysterious. In the center of the maze rose a tower, at the summit of
which stood the statue of a warrior, as if reconnoitering from that
point.

"Have you ever been in a labyrinth?" Stelio inquired.

"No, never," she replied.

They lingered to examine the entrance to the deceptive playground,
composed by an ingenious gardener for the amusement of ladies and
their cavaliers in the days of hoops and flowered waistcoats. But age
and neglect had rendered it mournful and wild, had deprived it of
all appearance of grace and regularity, and had changed it into thick
yellowish-brown woodland, full of inextricable turns through which the
slanting rays of the setting sun shone so red that some of the shrubs
looked like smokeless fire.

"It is open," said Stelio, feeling the gate yield as he leaned on it.
"Do you see?"

He pushed back the rusty iron gate, took a step forward, and crossed
the threshold.

"Where are you going?" asked his companion, with instinctive fear,
putting out a hand to detain him.

"Do you not wish to go in?"

She was perplexed. But the labyrinth attracted them with its mystery,
illumined by deep flames.

"Suppose we should lose ourselves?"

"You can see for yourself that it is very small. We can easily find the
gate again."

"And suppose we don't find it?"

He laughed at this childish fear.

"We might remain in there through all eternity!" he said.

"No, no! No one is anywhere near. Let us go away."

She tried to draw him back, but he defended himself, stepping backward
toward the path. Suddenly he disappeared, laughing.

"Stelio! Stelio!"

She could see him no longer, but she heard his ringing laughter in the
midst of the wild thicket.

"Come back! come back!"

"No, no! Come in and find me."

"Stelio, come back! You will be lost," she called.

"I shall find Ariadne."

At that name, she felt her heart throb suddenly, then contract, then
palpitate confusedly. Was not that the name he had called Donatella,
that first night? Had he not called her Ariadne down there, in the
gondola, while seated at the young girl's feet? She even remembered his
words: "Ariadne possesses a divine gift, whereby her power transcends
all limits." She recalled his accent, his attitude, his look.

Tumultuous anguish seized upon her, obscured her reason, prevented
her from realizing the spontaneity of the happening, and the simple
careless jest in her friend's speech. The terror that lay hidden in
the depths of her love rose in rebellion, mastered her, blinded her
with misery. The trifling little accident assumed an appearance of
cruelty and derision. She could still hear that laugh ringing from the
melancholy maze.

"Stelio!"

In her frantic hallucination, she cried out as if she had seen him
embraced by the other woman, torn from her arms forever.

"Stelio!"

"Come and find me!" he answered laughing, still invisible.

She rushed into the labyrinth to find him, and advanced straight toward
the voice and the laugh, guided by her impulse. But the path turned;
a wall of bushes rose before her, impenetrable, and stopped her.
She followed the winding, deceiving path; but one turning followed
another, and all looked alike, and the circle seemed to have no end.

"Look for me!" cried the voice from a distance, through the living
hedges.

"Where are you? Where are you? Can you see me?"

She looked about for some opening in the hedge through which she might
see. But all she saw was thick, interlacing branches, and the redness
of the setting sun which lighted them on one side, while shadows
darkened them on the other. The box-bushes and the hornbeams were so
closely mingled that they increased momentarily the bewilderment of the
breathless woman.

"I am losing myself! Come and meet me!"

Again that boyish laugh came from the maze.

"Ariadne, Ariadne! the thread!"

Now the words came from the opposite side, striking her heart as if
with a blow.

"Ariadne!"

She turned back, ran, turned again, tried to break through the hedge,
to see through the undergrowth, to break the branches. She saw nothing
but the maze, always the same in every direction. At last she heard a
step, so close that she thought it must be just behind her, and she
started. But she was deceived. Again she explored her green prison; she
listened, waited; she could hear no sound but her own breathing and the
beating of her heart. The silence had become absolute. She gazed at
the clear sky, curving in its immensity over the two green walls that
held her prisoner. She felt that that immensity and narrowness were
the only things in the world. And she could not succeed in separating
in her thoughts the reality of that place from the image of her mental
torture, the natural aspect of things from that kind of living allegory
created by her own anguish.

"Stelio, where are you?"

No reply. She listened and waited in vain. The seconds seemed like
hours.

"Where are you? I am afraid!"

No reply. But where was he, then? Had he found the way out? Had he left
her there all alone? Would he continue to play this cruel game?

A mad desire to scream, to sob, to throw herself on the ground, to hurt
herself, to make herself ill, to die, assailed the distracted woman.
Again she raised her eyes to the silent sky. The tops of the tall
hornbeams were reddened, like logs when they have ceased to blaze and
are about to fall in ashes.

"I can see you!" suddenly said a laughing voice, in the deep shadows,
very near her.

"Where are you?"

He laughed among the leaves, but without revealing himself, like a
faun in hiding. This game excited him; his body grew warm and supple
by this exercise of his agility; and the wild mystery, the contact
with the earth, the odor of autumn, the strangeness of this unexpected
adventure, the woman's bewilderment, even the presence of the marble
deities mingled with his physical pleasure an illusion of antique
poetry and grace.

"Where are you? Oh, do not play any more! Do not laugh in that way!
Enough!"

He had crept, bareheaded, into the bushes on his hands and knees. He
felt the dead leaves, the soft moss. And as he breathed among the
branches, and felt his heart throb with the strange delight of the
situation, with the communion between his own life and the vegetable
life around him, the spell of his fancy renewed among those winding
ways the industry of the first maker of wings, the myth of the monster
that was born of Pasiphaë and the Bull, the Attic legend of Theseus
in Crete. All that ancient world became real to him. In that glowing
autumn evening, he was transfigured, according to the instincts of his
blood and the recollections of his mind, into one of those ambiguous
forms, half animal and half divine, one of those glittering genii whose
throats were swollen with the same gland that hangs from the neck of
the goat. A joyous voluptuousness suggested strange surprises to him,
suggested the swiftness of pursuit, of flight, capture, and a fleeting
embrace in the shadows of the wood. Then he desired some one like
himself, fresh youthfulness that could share his laughter, two light
feet to fly before him, two arms to resist him, a prize to capture at
last. Donatella with her curved figure recurred to his mental vision.

"Enough, Stelio! I cannot run any more. I shall fall."

La Foscarina uttered a scream on feeling her skirt pulled by a hand
that had reached through the shrubbery. She bent down, and saw in the
shadows the face of a laughing faun. The laughter struck her ear
without calming her distress, without breaking the sense of suffering
that overpowered her. As she looked at his boyish face, she saw at
the same instant the face of the singer, who seemed to be stooping
with her, imitating her movement as if she were a shadow. Her mind
became more confused, and she could not distinguish between illusion
and reality. The other woman seemed to overthrow her, oppress her,
suffocate her.

"Leave me! Leave me! It is not I whom you seek!"

Her voice was so changed that Stelio broke off his laughter and his
sport, withdrew his arm, and rose to his feet. She could not see him;
the leafy, impenetrable wall was between them again.

"Take me away from this place. I cannot bear any more. My strength is
gone. I suffer."

He could find no words to comfort her. The simultaneous coincidence
of his recent thought of Donatella, and her sudden divination of it,
impressed him deeply.

"Wait a little! I will try to find the way out. I will call some one."

"Are you going away?"

"Don't be afraid! There is no danger."

But while he spoke thus to reassure her, he felt the inaneness of his
words--the incongruity between that laughable adventure and the obscure
emotion born of a far different cause. And now he too felt the strange
ambiguity whereby the trifling event appeared in two confusing aspects:
a suppressed desire to laugh persisted under his concern for her, so
that his perturbation was new to him, like wild agitations born of
extravagant dreams.

"Do not go away!" she implored, a prey to her hallucinations. "Perhaps
we can meet there at the next turning. Let us try. Take my hands."

Through an opening, he took her hands; he started on touching them;
they were icy cold.

"Foscarina, what is the matter? Are you really ill? Wait! I will try to
break through."

He attempted to break down the hedge, and snapped off a few twigs, but
its thickness resisted him, and he scratched his hands uselessly.

"No, it is impossible."

"Cry out! Call some one."

He cried aloud in the silence.

The top of the hedge had lost its deep color, but a red light now
spread over the sky above them. A triangle of wild ducks passed in
sweeping flight.

"Let me go, Foscarina. I shall find the tower easily, and will call
from there. Some one will be sure to hear me."

"No! No!"

But she heard him move away, followed the sound of his steps, and
was once more bewildered by the maze, once more alone and lost. She
stopped, waited, listened, and looked at the sky. She lost all sense of
time; the seconds seemed hours.

"Stelio! Stelio!"

She was no longer capable of an effort to control her disordered and
exasperated mind. She felt the approach of a crisis of mad fear,
as one feels the approach of a whirlwind.

  [Illustration: _HE WATCHED THE WOMAN TURNING AND RUNNING LIKE A MAD
               CREATURE ALONG THE DARK, DELUSIVE PATHS_]

             _From an Original Drawing by Arthur H. Ewer_


"Stelio!"

He heard that cry full of anguish, and hastened his search along the
winding paths that first seemed to lead him toward the tower and then
away from it. The laughter had frozen in his heart. His whole soul
shook to its foundation every time his name reached him, uttered by
that invisible agony. And the gradual lessening of the light brought up
an image of blood that is flowing away, of slowly fading life.

"I am here! I am here!"

One of the paths brought him at last to the open space where the tower
stood. He ran furiously up the winding stairs, felt dizzy when he
reached the top, closed his eyes while grasping the railing, opened
them again, and saw a long zone of fire on the horizon, the disk
of the rayless moon, the gray plain, and the labyrinth below him,
black and spotted with box-bush and horn-beam, narrow in its endless
convolutions, looking like a dismantled edifice covered with wild vines.

"Stop! Stop! Do not run like that! Some one has heard me. A man is
coming. I can see him coming. Wait! Stop!"

He watched the woman turning and running like a mad creature along the
dark, delusive paths, like something condemned to vain torture, to some
useless but eternal fatigue, like a sister of the fabulous martyrs.

"Stop!"

It seemed that she did not hear him, or that she could not control
her fatal agitation, and that he could not rescue her, but must always
remain there, a witness of that terrible chastisement.

"Here he is!"

One of the keepers had heard their cries, had approached them, and
now entered by the gateway. Stelio met him at the foot of the tower,
and together they hastened to find the lost woman. The man knew the
secret of the labyrinth, and Stelio prevented any chatter and jests by
surprising him with his generosity.

"Has she lost consciousness--has she fallen?" The darkness and the
silence were sinister, and he felt alarmed. She did not answer when
he called her, and he could not hear her footsteps. Night had already
fallen on the place, and a damp veil was descending from the purple sky.

"Shall I find her in a swoon upon the ground," he thought.

He started at seeing a mysterious figure appear at a turning, with a
pale face that attracted all the last rays of daylight, white as a
pearl, with large, fixed eyes, and lips closely compressed.

They turned back toward the Dolo, taking the same route beside the
Brenta. She never spoke, never opened her lips, never answered, as if
she could not unclose her teeth. She lay in the bottom of the carriage,
wrapped in her cloak, and now and then she shook with a deep shudder,
as one attacked by malarial fever. Her friend tried to take her hands
in his to warm them, but in vain--they were inert and lifeless. And as
they drove along, the statues passed and passed beside them.

The river flowed black between its banks, under the purple and silver
sky; the moon was rising. A black boat came down the stream, towed by
two gray horses with heavy hoofs, led by a man who whistled cheerfully,
and the funnel smoked on the deck like a chimney on a hut. The yellow
light of a lantern flashed, and the odor of supper floated on the air;
and here and there, as they drove along, the statues passed and passed
beside them.

It was like a Stygian landscape, like a vision of Hades, a region of
shadows, mist, and water. Everything grew misty and vanished like
spirits. The moon enchanted and attracted the plain, as it enchants
and attracts the water, absorbing the vapors of earth with insatiable,
silent thirst. Solitary pools shone everywhere; small, silvery canals
were visible, glittering at uncertain distances. Earth seemed to be
gradually losing its solidity, and the sky seemed to regard its own
melancholy reflected in innumerable placid mirrors.

And here and there, along the banks of the stream, like the ghosts of a
people disappeared, the statues passed and passed!




                               CHAPTER X

                        THE POWER OF THE FLAME


"Do you think often of Donatella, Stelio?" La Foscarina inquired
suddenly, after a long silence, during which neither had heard anything
but the sound of their own footsteps along the canal path of the
Vetrai, illumined by the multi-colored lights from the fragile objects
that filled the windows of the neighboring shops.

Her voice sounded harsh and strained. Stelio stopped suddenly, as one
who finds himself confronted by an unexpected difficulty. His spirit
had been roaming over the red and green isle of Murano, begemmed
with flowers in her present desolate poverty, which seemed to blot
out the memory of the joyous time when poets had sung her praises
as "a sojourn for nymphs and demigods." He had been thinking of the
famous gardens where Andrea Navagero, Cardinal Bembo, Aretino, Aldo,
and their learned followers, rivaled one another in the elegance of
their Platonic dialogues, _lauri sub umbra_. He had been thinking of
convents, luxurious as boudoirs, inhabited by little nuns dressed
in white camelot and laces, with curls on their temples, and necks
uncovered, after the fashion of the ancient honored courtesans, given
to secret loves, much sought after by wealthy patricians, with such
euphonious names as Ancilla Soranzo, Cipriana Morosini, Zanetta Balbi,
Beatrice Falier, Eugenia Muschiera, pious instructors in the ways of
love. His changeful dreams were accompanied by a plaintive little air,
a forgotten dance measure, in which the faint soul of Murano tinkled
and whispered.

At this abrupt question, the air fled from his memory, all imaginings
were dispersed, the enchantment of the old life vanished. His wandering
mind was called back, and came with reluctance. He felt beside him the
throbbing of a living heart, which he must inevitably wound. He looked
at his friend.

She was walking beside the canal, calm, with no sign of agitation,
between the green water and the iridescence of the rows of delicate
vases. Only her slender chin trembled slightly, between her short veil
and fur collar.

"Yes, sometimes," he replied, after an instant of hesitation, recoiling
from falsehood, and feeling the necessity to elevate their love above
ordinary deceptions and pretensions, so that it should remain for him a
cause of strength, not of weakness, a free agreement, not a heavy chain.

She pursued her way without wavering, but she had lost all
consciousness of movement in the terrible throbbing of her heart, which
shook her from head to foot. She saw nothing more: all she was aware of
was the nearness of the fascinating water.

"Her voice is unforgettable," Stelio went on, after a pause, having
found his courage. "Its power is amazing. From that first evening,
I have thought that that singer might be the marvelous instrument
for my great work. I wish she would consent to sing the lyric parts
of my tragedy, the odes that arise from the symphonies and resolve
themselves into figures of the dance at the end, between episodes. La
Tanagra has consented to dance. I have confidence in your good offices,
dear friend, to obtain also the consent of Donatella Arvale. Thus the
Dionysiac trinity would be reëstablished in a perfect manner on the new
stage, for the joy of mankind."

Even while he spoke he realized that his words had a false ring, that
his unconscious air contrasted too crudely with the dark shadow on
the woman's face. In spite of himself, he had exaggerated his frank
tone in speaking of Donatella merely as an instrument of art, a purely
ideal force to be drawn into the circle of his magnificent enterprise.
In spite of himself, disturbed by the anxiety in that soul so near
his own, he had leaned slightly toward deception. Certainly what he
had said was the exact truth, but his friend had demanded from him
another truth. He broke off suddenly, unable to endure the sound of
his own words. He felt that at that hour, between the actress and
himself, art had no meaning, no vital value. Another force dominated
them, more imperious, more disquieting. The world created by intellect
seemed inert as the ancient stones on which they trod. The only real
and formidable power was the poison running in their human blood. The
will of the one said: "It is my will that you shall love and serve me,
wholly, mine alone, body and soul." The will of the other said: "It is
my will that you shall love and serve me, but while I live I shall
renounce nothing that may appeal to my wish and fancy." The struggle
was bitter and unequal.

As she remained silent, unconsciously hastening her steps, he prepared
himself to face the other truth.

"I understand, of course, that that was not what you wished to know."

"You are right: it was not that. Well?"

She turned to him with a sort of convulsive violence that reminded him
of her fury one far-off evening, when she had cried madly: "Go! Run!
She awaits you!"

At this moment a workman met them, and offered to show them over the
neighboring glass factory.

"Yes, let us go in there," said La Foscarina, hurriedly following the
workman. Presently they reached the furnace room, and were enveloped in
its fiery breath, as they gazed at an incandescent altar, the glow from
which dazzled their eyes with a painful glare.

--To disappear, to be swallowed up, to leave no sign!--cried the
woman's heart, intoxicated with the thought of destruction.--In
one second that fire could devour me like a dry stick, a bundle of
straw.--And she went nearer to the open mouths in which she could see
the molten flame, more resplendent than a midsummer sun, rolling around
the earthen pots in which the shapeless mass was melting; the workmen,
standing around, awaited the right moment to approach with iron tubes
to shape that mass with the breath from their lips and the instruments
of their art.

--O virtue of Fire!--thought the Inspirer, turned from his anxiety
by the miraculous beauty of the element that had become to him as
familiar as a brother, since the day he had found the revealing
melody.--Ah, that I might give to the life of the creatures that love
me the perfection of the forms to which I aspire! That I might fuse
all their weaknesses in some white heat, and make of the product
obedient matter in which to impress the commandments of my heroic will
and the images of my pure poetry! Why, my friend, why will you not be
the divine living statue molded by my spirit, the work of faith and
sorrow whereby our lives might surpass even our art? Why are we so near
resembling ordinary lovers, who lament and curse? When I heard from
your lips those admirable words: 'I can do one thing that love alone
cannot do,' I believed indeed that you could give me more than love.
You must be able always to do those things that love can do, besides
those it cannot do, in order to meet my insatiable nature.--

Meanwhile, work was going on about the furnace. At the end of the
blow pipes the molten glass swelled, twisted, became silvery as a
little cloud, shone like the moon, cracked, divided into a thousand
infinitesimal fragments, glittering and thin as the threads we see at
daybreak stretching from tree to tree. The glass-blowers were making
harmonious vases. The apprentices placed a small, pear-shaped mass
of burning paste on the spot chosen by the master-workmen; and the
pear lengthened, twisted, transformed itself into a handle, a rim, a
spout, a foot, or a stem. The glowing heat slowly died out under the
instruments, and the half-formed cup was again exposed to the heat,
then drawn from it docile, ductile, sensitive to the lightest touches
that ornamented and refined it, conforming it to the model handed down
by their ancestors, or to the free invention of a new creator.

Extraordinarily light and agile were the human gestures that produced
these elegant creatures of the fire, of breath and iron; they were like
the movements of a silent dance. The figure of La Tanagra appeared
to the Inspirer among the perpetual undulations of the flame, like a
salamander. Donatella's voice seemed to sing to him the powerful melody.

--To-day, again, I myself have given you the thought of her for a
companion--thought La Foscarina--I myself have called her up between
us, and evoked her shadow when perhaps your thoughts were elsewhere; I
have suddenly led her to you, as on that night of delirium.--

It was true, it was true! From the instant when the singer's name had
been spoken on the water by Foscarina, she herself had unconsciously
exalted the new image in the poet's mind, had nourished it with her
jealousy and fear, had strengthened and increased it day by day,
and had at last illumined it with certainty. More than once she had
said to the young man, who perhaps had forgotten: "She awaits you!"
More than once she had presented to his imagination that distant,
mysterious figure of expectancy. As on that Dionysian night, when the
conflagration of Venice had lighted up the two youthful faces with the
same reflection, it was now her own passion that illumined them, and
they glowed only because she herself had made them.--Certainly, he now
possesses that image, and it possesses him. My anguish only augments
his ardor. It is a joy to him to love her before my despairing eyes!--

"As soon as the vase is shaped, we put it in the furnace room to be
tempered," replied one of the men to a query from Stelio. "If it were
exposed to the air immediately it would crack in a thousand pieces."

They could see the radiant vases, still slaves of the fire, still under
its empire, gathered in a receptacle joined to the furnace in which
they had been fused.

"They have been there ten hours," said the workman, pointing to
his graceful family. "Is this our great Foscarina?" he added in an
undertone to Stelio. He had recognized her when she had lifted her
veil, suffocating with the heat.

Revealing ingenuous emotion, the master workman took a step toward her
and bowed respectfully.

"One evening, my lady, you made me tremble and weep like a child. Will
you allow me, in memory of that evening, which I never shall forget, to
offer you a little work from the hands of the poor Seguso?"

"A Seguso, are you?" said the poet, leaning toward the little man, to
look at him closer; "are you of the great family of glass-blowers, one
of the genuine race?"

"At your service, master."

"A prince, then."

"Yes, a harlequin playing the prince."

"You know all the secrets of the art, eh?"

The Muranese made a mysterious gesture which seemed to call up all the
deep ancestral knowledge of which he affirmed himself the last heir.

"Then, mistress, will you deign to accept it?"

La Foscarina had not spoken, fearing to trust her voice, but now all
her affable grace rose above her sadness and accepted the gift while
compensating the giver.

The vase held by the little bent man that had created it was like
a miraculous flower blooming on a twisted shrub. It was a thing of
beauty, mysterious as natural things are mysterious; it held the life
of a human breath in its hollow; its transparence equaled that of sky
and water; its purple rim was like a floating seaweed; no one could
have told the reason why it was so beautiful; and its value was either
slight or beyond price, according to the eyes that looked at it.

La Foscarina chose to take it with her, without having it packed, as
one carries a flower.




                              CHAPTER XI

                             REMINISCENCE


They left the factory, and walked along a road that was enclosed
between the walls of silent gardens. The bronze-like laurels were
touched with gold at the tops by the setting sun. The air was filled
with sparkling gold-dust.

"How sweet and terrible was the fate of Gaspara Stampa," said Stelio.
"Do you know her _Sonnets_? Yes, I saw them one day on your table. She
was a strange mingling of ice and fire. Sometimes her mortal passion,
above the Petrarchism of Aretino, lifted a glorious cry. I remember a
magnificent verse of hers:

    _Vivere ardendo e non sentire il male!_"

"Do you remember, Stelio," said La Foscarina, with that peculiar slight
smile of hers which gave her face the look of one walking in her sleep,
"do you remember the sonnet that begins:

    _Signore, io so che in me non son più viva,
    E veggo omai ch'ancor in voi son morta?_"

"I don't remember, Fosca."

"Do you remember your beautiful fancy about the dead Summer? Summer
was lying on a funeral barge, dressed in gold like a dogaressa, and
the procession was bearing her toward the Island of Murano, where a
master of the flame was to enclose her in a shroud of opalescent glass,
so that when she should be submerged in the depths of the lagoon, she
could at least watch the waving seaweed. Do you remember?"

"It was an evening in September."

"The last night of September, the night of the Allegory. There was a
great light on the water. You were in an exalted mood, and talked and
talked. What things you said! You had come from solitude, and your
overcharged soul broke forth. You poured a sparkling wave of poetry
over your companion. A bark passed, laden with pomegranates. I called
myself Perdita. Do you remember?"

As she walked she felt the extreme lightness of her step and felt that
something in her was vanishing, as if her body were on the point of
being changed to an empty chrysalis.

"My name was still Perdita. Stelio, do you recall another sonnet of
Gaspara's beginning:

    _Io vorrei pur che Amor dicesse come
    Debbo seguirlo...._

And the madrigal beginning:

    _Se tu credi piacere al mio signore?_"

"I did not know you were so familiar with the unhappy Anasilla, my
dear."

"Ah, I will tell you. I was hardly fourteen years old when I played in
an old romantic tragedy called _Gaspara Stampa_. I played the leading
part. It was at Dolo, where we passed the other day on our way to
Strà. We played in a small rustic theater--a kind of tent. It was the
year before my mother died. I remember it very well. I can remember
the sound of my own voice, which was weak then, when I forced it in
the tirades because some one in the wings kept whispering to me to
speak louder, louder!... Well, Gaspara was despairing; she wept and
raved for her cruel Count. There were many things about it all that my
small, profaned soul did not know or understand, and I know not what
instinct and comprehension of sorrow led me to find the accent and
the cries that could stir the miserable crowd from which we expected
to gain our daily bread. Ten hungry persons used me as a breadwinner;
brutal necessity cut and tore away from me all the dream-flowers
born of my trembling precocity. Oh, it was a time of weeping and
suffocation, of terror, of unthinking weariness, of mute horror. Those
that martyrized me knew not what they were doing, poor creatures, made
stupid by poverty and work. God pardon them and give them peace! Only
my mother--she, too, who 'for having loved too well and been too little
loved, unhappy lived and died'--only my mother had pity on my pain, and
knew how to take me in her arms, how to calm my horrible trembling, to
weep when I wept, to console me. My blessed mother!"

Her voice changed. Her mother's eyes once again looked upon her, kind
and firm and infinite as a peaceful horizon.--Tell me, tell me what I
must do! Guide me, teach me, you who know!--Her heart felt again the
clasp of those arms, and from the distance of years the old pain came
back, but not harshly; it was almost sweet. The memory of her struggles
and her sufferings seemed to bathe her soul in a warm wave, to sustain
and comfort it. The test had been hard and the victory difficult,
obtained at the price of persistent labor, against brutal and hostile
forces. She had witnessed the deepest misery and ruin, she had known
heroic efforts, pity, horror, and the face of Death.

"I know what hunger is, Stelio, and what the approach of night seems
like when a place of rest is uncertain," she said softly.

She stopped between the high walls, and lifted her little veil, looking
deep into her friend's eyes. He grew pale under that look, so sudden
was his emotion and surprise at her words. He felt confused, as if in
the incoherence of a dream, incapable of applying the true significance
of those words to the woman who was smiling at him, holding the
delicate glass in her ungloved hand. Yet he had heard what she said,
and she stood there before him in her rich fur cape, looking at him
with beautiful soft eyes, misty with unshed tears.

"And I have known other things."

It relieved her heart to speak like this; his humility gave her
strength, as if she had accomplished some proud and daring deed. She
never had felt conscious of her power and worldly glory in the presence
of her beloved, but now the memory of her obscure martyrdom, her
poverty and hunger, created in her heart a feeling of real superiority
over him she believed invincible.

"But I have no fear of suffering," she said, remembering the words he
had spoken once: "Tell me you do not fear to suffer.... I believe your
soul capable of bearing all the sorrow of the world." And her hand
stole up to his cheek and caressed it, and he understood that she had
answered those words spoken long ago.

He was silent, as intoxicated as if she had presented to his lips the
very essence of her heart pressed out into that crystal cup like the
blood of the grape. He waited for her to go on.

They reached a crossroads where stood a miserable hut, falling into
ruin. La Foscarina stopped to look at it. The rude, unhinged windows
were held open by a stick laid across them. The low sun struck the
smoked walls within, and revealed the furniture--a table, a bench, a
cradle.

"Do you remember, Stelio," said La Foscarina, "that inn at Dolo where
we waited for the train. Vampa's inn, I mean. A great fire burned
on the hearth, the dishes glittered on the shelves, and slices of
_polenta_ were toasting on the gridiron. Twenty years ago everything
was exactly the same--the same fire, the same dishes, the same
_polenta_. My mother and I used to go in there after the performance,
and sit on the bench before a table. I had wept, cried, raved, and
had died of poison or by the sword, on the stage. I still heard in
my ears the resonance of the verses I had uttered, in a voice that
was not my own, and a strange will still possessed my soul, and I
could not shake it off--it was as if another person, struggling with
my inertness, persisted in performing over again those movements and
actions. The simulation of an outside life remained in the muscles of
my face, and some evenings I could not calm them. Already, even then,
the mask, the sensation of the living mask, was beginning to grow. My
eyes would remain fixed, and a chill crept at the roots of my hair.
I had difficulty in recovering full consciousness of myself and my
surroundings.

"The odors from the kitchen sickened me; the food on our plates seemed
too coarse, heavy as a stone, impossible to swallow. My disgust at
everything sprang from something indescribably delicate and precious,
of which I was conscious under all my weariness--a vague feeling
of nobility beneath my humiliation. I hardly know how to express
it. Perhaps it was the obscure presence of that power which later
developed in me, of that election, of that difference wherewith Nature
has marked me. Sometimes the consciousness of that difference from
others became so strong that it almost raised a barrier between my
mother and myself--God forgive me!--almost separated me from her. A
great loneliness possessed me; nothing around me had power to touch
me any more. I was alone with my destiny. My mother, even though she
was with me, gradually receded into an infinite distance. Ah, she was
to die soon, and was already preparing to leave me, and perhaps this
withdrawal was the forerunner. She used to urge me to eat, with the
words only she knew how to say. I answered: 'Wait! Wait!' I could only
drink; I had a great craving for cold water. At times, when I was more
tired and trembling than usual, I smiled a long-continued smile. And
even that dear woman herself, with her deep heart, could not understand
whence came my smile!

"Incomparable hours, wherein it seemed that the bodily prison was being
broken through by the soul that wandered to the extremest limits of
life! What must your youth have been, Stelio! Who can imagine it? We
have all felt the weight of sleep that descends upon us after fatigue
or intoxication, heavy and sudden as a stroke from a hammer, and it
seems to annihilate us. But the power of dreams sometimes seizes upon
us in waking hours with the same force; it holds us and we cannot
resist it, though the whole thread of our existence seems on the point
of being destroyed. Ah, some of the beautiful things you said that
night in Venice come back to my mind, when you spoke of her marvelous
hands weaving her own lights and shadows in a continuous work of
beauty. You alone know how to describe the indescribable.

"Well, ... on that bench, in front of that rustic table, in Vampa's
inn at Dolo, where destiny led me again with you, I had the most
extraordinary visions that dreams ever have called up in my brain.
I saw that which is unforgettable; I saw the real forms around me
obliterated by the dream-figures born of my instinct and my thoughts.
Under my fixed eyes, dazzled and scorched by the smoky petroleum lamps
of the improvised stage, the world of my expression began to throb
with life. The first lines of my art were developed in that state of
anguish, of weariness, fever, disgust, in which my sensibility became,
so to speak, plastic, after the manner of the incandescent material we
saw the workmen holding at the end of the tube. In it was a natural
aspiration to be modeled, to receive breath, to fill a mold. On certain
evenings, in that wall covered with copper utensils, I could see myself
reflected as in a mirror, in attitudes of grief or rage; with an
unrecognizable face; and, in order to escape from this hallucination,
to break the fixity of my gaze, I opened and shut my eyes rapidly. My
mother would say, over and over: 'Eat, my daughter, at least eat this.'
But what were bread, wine, meat, fruits, all those heavy things, in
comparison with what I had within me? I said to her: 'Wait!' and when
we rose to go, I used to take only a large piece of bread with me.
I liked to eat it in the country the next morning, under a tree, or
sitting on the bank of the Brenta.... Oh, those statues! They did not
recognize me the other day, Stelio, but I recognized them!

"It was in the month of March, I remember. I went out into the country
very early with my bread. I walked at random, though I meant to go to
the statues. I went from one to another, and stopped before every one,
as if I were paying a visit. Some appeared very beautiful to me, and I
tried to imitate their poses. But I remained longer with the mutilated
ones, as if to console them. In the evening, on the stage, I remembered
some of them while I was acting, and with so deep a feeling of their
distance and their solitude that I felt as if I could not speak any
more. The audience would grow impatient at these pauses too prolonged.
At times, when I had to wait for my companion in the scene to finish
his tirade, I used to stand in the attitude of one of those statues,
and remain as motionless as if I had been made of stone. I was already
beginning to carve my own destiny.

"I loved one of them tenderly; it had lost its arms, which once
balanced a basket of fruit on its head. But the hands still remained
attached to the basket, and the sight of them always aroused my pity.
This statue stood on its pedestal in a flax-field; a little canal of
stagnant water was near it, in which the reflected sky repeated the
tender blue of the flowers. And always, since that time, in my most
glowing moments on the stage, visions of some landscape rise in my
memory, particularly when by the mere force of silence I succeed in
producing a thrill in the listening throng."

Her cheeks had flushed a little, and as the sun wrapped her in a
radiant garment, drawing sparkles from her furs and from the crystal
cup, her animation seemed like an increase of light.

"What a spring that was! In one of my wandering journeys I saw a
great river for the first time. It appeared to me suddenly, swollen,
and flowing rapidly between two wild banks. I felt then how much of
divinity there is in a great stream running through the earth. It was
the Adige, flowing down from Verona, from the city of Juliet."

An ambiguous emotion filled her heart while she recalled the poverty
and poetry of her youth. She was impelled to continue, though she
did not know how she had arrived at these confidences, when she had
intended to speak to her friend of another young life, not belonging
to the past, but to the present. By what surprise of love had she been
turned from an effort of her will, from her firm decision to face the
painful truth, from the concentration of her slumbering energy to
linger in the memory of the past, and to cover with the image of her
own lost virgin self that other image which was so different?

"We reached Verona one evening in May. I was devoured by anxiety. I
clasped close to my heart the book in which I had copied the lines
of Juliet, and continually repeated to myself the words of my first
entrance: 'How now? Who calls? I am here. What is your will?' My
imagination was excited by a strange coincidence: on that very day I
was fourteen years old--the age of Juliet. The Nurse's gossip sounded
in my ears; and, little by little, my own destiny seemed mingled with
that of the Veronese. At the corner of every street I thought I could
see a throng approaching me, accompanying a coffin covered with white
roses. When I saw the Arche degli Scaligeri behind its iron bars, I
cried to my mother, 'Here is Juliet's tomb!' And I burst into sobs,
and had a desperate desire to love and to die. 'O thou too early seen
unknown, and known too late!'"

Her voice, repeating the immortal words, penetrated the heart of her
lover like a heart-rending melody. She paused a moment, then repeated:

"Too late!"

They were the ominous words spoken by her lover, which she herself had
repeated in the garden, when both were on the brink of being swept
away on the flood of their passion: "It is late; too late!" The woman
that was no longer young now faced the former image of herself, in her
maidenhood, throbbing in the form of Juliet before her first dream of
love. Having reached the limit of experience, had she not at the same
time preserved the dream intact--but to what purpose? If to-day she
looked at the image of her far-distant youth, it was only to trample
upon it in leading her beloved to the other woman, to her who lived and
waited.

With her smile of inimitable sadness, she said:

"I _was_ Juliet! One Sunday in May, in the immense arena in the
amphitheater under the open sky, before an audience that had breathed
in the legend of love and death, I was Juliet herself. No thrill from
the most responsive audience, no applause, no triumph, ever has had
from me the fulness and intoxication of that unique hour. Actually,
when I heard Romeo say: 'O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright,'
my whole being kindled. With great economy, I had managed to buy a
large bunch of roses, and these were my only ornament. I mingled the
roses with my words, my gestures, with every attitude. I dropped one
at Romeo's feet when we first met; I strewed the petals of another on
his head, as I stood on the balcony; and I covered his body with them
as he lay in the tomb. The words came with the strangest ease, almost
involuntarily, as in delirium, and I could feel the throbbing in my
veins accompanying them.

"I could see the great amphitheater, half in sunlight, half in
shadow, and in the lighter part a sparkling from thousands of eyes.
The day was as calm as this. Not a breath of air disturbed the folds
of my robes, or the hair that floated on my uncovered neck. I felt
my strength and animation momentarily increasing. How I spoke of the
lark and the nightingale! I had heard them both a thousand times in
the country. I knew all their songs of the woods, the meadows, and
the sky. Every word, as it left my lips, seemed to have been steeped
in the warmth of my blood. There was no fiber in me that did not give
forth harmonious sound. Ah, the grace, the state of grace! Every time
it is given to me to rise to the highest summit of my art I live again
in that indescribable _abandon_. Yes, I was Juliet! I cried out in
terror at the approach of dawn. The breeze stirred my hair. I could
feel the extraordinary silence on which my lamentation fell. The
multitude seemed to have sunk into the ground. I spoke of the terror
of the coming day, but already I felt in reality 'the mask of night
upon my face.' Romeo had descended. We were already dead; already
both had entered the vale of shadows. Do you remember? My eyes sought
the fading light of the sky. The people were noisy in the arena; they
were impatient for the death scene; they would listen no more to
the mother, the nurse, or the friar. The quiver of that impatience
quickened my throbbing heart. The tragedy swept on. I recall the odor
of the pitch from the funeral torches, and of the roses that covered
me, and I remember the sound of far-off bells, and of the sky that was
losing its light, little by little, as Juliet was losing her life, and
a star, the first star, that swam in my eyes with my tears. When I
fell dead on Romeo's body, the cry of the multitude in the shadows was
so violent that I was frightened. Some one lifted me and dragged me
toward that cry. Some one held the torch close to my tear-stained face,
which must have been the color of death.... And thus, Stelio, one night
in May, Juliet came to life again, and appeared before the people of
Verona."

Again she paused, and closed her eyes as if she were dizzy, but her
sorrowful lips still smiled at her friend.

"And then? Then came the need to move, to go no matter where, to
traverse space, to breathe in the wind. My mother followed me in
silence. We crossed a bridge, walked beside the Adige, and went on and
on. My mother asked at times where we were going. I wished to find the
Franciscan convent where Juliet's tomb was hidden, since, to my great
regret, she was not buried in one of those beautiful tombs behind the
great iron gates. But I did not wish to say so, and I could not speak.
My voice seemed to have been lost with the last word of the dying
Juliet. 'Where are we going?' again asked that indefatigable kindness.
Ah, then the last word of Juliet came to me in reply. We were again
near the Adige, beside a bridge. I think I began to run, because soon
afterward I felt myself seized by my mother's arms, and I stood leaning
against the parapet, choking with sobs. 'There let me die!' I wished
to say, but could not. The river carried with it the night and all its
stars. I felt that the desire to die was not mine alone. Ah, blessed
mother!"

She became very pale; her whole heart felt once more the embrace of
those arms, the kiss of those lips, those tender tears, the depth of
that suffering.

With a mingled feeling of surprise and alarm, Stelio watched the great
waves of life that passed over her, the extraordinary expressions,
the alternating lights and shadows; but he dared not speak, dared not
break in upon the occult workings of that great, unhappy soul. He could
only feel confusedly in her words the beauty and sadness of things
unexpressed.

"Speak to me still," he said. "Draw nearer to me, sweet soul! No moment
since I first loved you has been worth the steps that we have taken
together to-day."

Again her first sudden question returned to her mind: "Do you think
often of Donatella?"

A short path led to the Fondamenta degli Angeli, whence the lagoon
could be seen, smooth and luminous.

"How beautiful that light is!" she said. "It is like that night when my
name was still Perdita, Stelio."

She now touched a note that she had touched in an interrupted prelude.

"The last night of September," she added. "Do you remember?"

Her heart was filled with exaltation to such a degree that she almost
feared it would fail her. But she resolved that her voice should utter
firmly the name that must break the silence between her friend and
herself.

"Do you remember the ship anchored before the gardens? A salute greeted
the flag as it slid down the mast. Our gondola touched the ship as we
passed under its shadow."

A moment's pause. Her pallor was animated by a wonderful vitality.

"Then, in that shadow, you first spoke Donatella's name."

She made a new effort, as a swimmer, submerged by a wave, rises again
and shakes his head free of the foam.

"She began then to be yours!"

She felt as if she were growing rigid from head to foot. Her eyes
stared fixedly at the glittering water.

"She must be yours," she said at last, with the sternness of necessity
in her voice, as if to repel with a second shock the terrible things
that were ready to surge up from her fiery heart.

Seized by sudden anguish, incapable of interrupting by a word the
lightning-like apparitions of her tragic soul, Stelio halted, and laid
his hand on his companion's arm to make her stop also.

"Is it not true?" she asked with a sweetness almost calm, as if her
tension had suddenly relaxed, and her passion had quietly accepted the
yoke laid upon it by her will. "Speak! I do not fear to suffer. Let us
sit down here. I am a little tired."

They sat down on a low wall, facing the water.

"What can I say to you?" said the young man in a stifled voice, after
a pause, unable to overcome the agitation arising from the certainty
of his present love and the consciousness of his desires, inexorable
as fate. "Perhaps what you have imagined is true; perhaps it is only
a fancy of your own mind. I am certain to-day of only one thing, and
that is that I love you and recognize in you all that is noble. I know
one other thing that is noble--that I have a work to do and a life to
live according to the dictates of Nature. You, too, must remember. On
that September evening I spoke to you a long time of my life and of the
genii that are leading it to its final destiny. You know that I can
renounce nothing."

He trembled as if he held in his hand a sharp weapon, with which, as he
was compelled to move it, he could not avoid wounding the defenseless
woman.

"No, nothing; and especially your love, which ceaselessly exalts my
strength and my hope. But did you not promise me more than love? Can
you not do for me things that love alone cannot do? Do you not desire
to be the constant inspiration of my life and my work?"

She listened motionless, with fixed eyes.

"It is true," he continued, after an anxious pause, recovering his
courage, and feeling that on the sincerity of this moment depended
the fate of that free alliance whereby he had hoped to be broadened,
not confined. "It is true; that evening, when I saw you descend the
stairs in the midst of the throng in company with her who had sung, I
believed that a secret thought guided you from the moment that you did
not come alone to meet me."

The woman felt a chill run through the roots of her hair. Her fingers
trembled round the crystal cup, wherein the colors of sky and water
were blended.

"I believed that you yourself had chosen her. Your look was that of one
who knows and foresees. I was struck by it."

By her keen torture, the woman realized how sweet a falsehood would
have been. She wished that he would either lie or be silent. She
measured the distance that lay between her and the canal--the water
that swallows and lulls to sleep.

"There was something about her that was hostile to me. She remained
to me obscure, incomprehensible. Do you remember the way she
disappeared? Her image faded, and only the desire of her song remained.
You yourself, who led her to me, have more than once revived the
remembrance of her. You have seen her shadow even where she was not."

She saw Death itself. No other wound had gone deeper, had hurt her
so cruelly.--I alone! I alone have brought it on myself!--And she
remembered the cry that had brought this misery: "Go! She awaits you!"
Suddenly the internal tempest seemed to become a mere hallucination.
She thought herself non-existent, and wondered to see the glass shining
in her hand; she lost all corporeal sense. All that had happened was
only a trick of the imagination. Her name was Perdita. The dead Summer
was lying in the depths of the lagoon. Words were words, that was all.

"Could I love her? Were I to see her again, should I desire to turn her
destiny toward mine? Perhaps. But of what use would that be? And of
what use would all the vicissitudes and necessities of life be against
the faith that links us? Could you and I resemble commonplace lovers
who pass their days in quarreling, weeping, and cursing?"

The woman gnashed her teeth. She had a wild instinct to defend herself,
and to hurt him as in a hopeless struggle. A murderous desire flashed
across her maddened brain.

--No, you shall not have her!--And the brutality of her tyrant seemed
monstrous to her. Under the measured and repeated blows, she felt that
she was like a man she had once seen on the dusty road of a mining
town, prostrated by repeated blows on his head from a mallet in his
enemy's hand. That hideous memory mingled with her mental torture. She
sprang up, impelled by the savage force that filled her being. The
glass broke in her convulsed hand, cut her, fell in a sparkling shower
at her feet.

Stelio startled. The woman's motionless silence had deceived him, but
now he looked at her and saw her at last; and once more he saw, as on
that night in her room when the logs had crackled on the hearth, the
expression of madness on her agitated face. He stammered some words of
regret, but impatience boiled under his concern.

"Ah," said La Foscarina, mastering her agony with a bitterness that
convulsed her mouth, "how strong I am! Another time have a care that
your wounds are not made so slowly, since my resistance is so slight,
my friend."

She saw that blood was dripping from her fingers; she wrapped them in
her handkerchief. She looked at the sparkling fragments on the grass.

"The cup is broken! You had praised it too highly. Shall we raise a
mausoleum for it here?"

She was very bitter, almost mocking, her lips opening slightly to utter
a mirthless laugh. Stelio stood silent, chagrined, his heart full of
rancor at beholding the destruction of so beautiful an effort as that
perfect cup.

"Let us imitate Nero, since we have already imitated Xerxes!"

She felt even more keenly than he the harshness of her sarcasm, the
insincerity of her voice, the malignity of the laugh that was like a
muscular spasm. But she was unable to conquer her soul at that moment.
She felt a bitter, irresistible necessity to scorn, to devastate,
to trample under foot, invaded by a sort of perfidious demon. Every
vestige of tenderness and benevolence had vanished, every hope, every
illusion. The bitter hatred that lurks under the love of ardent natures
was dominant. On the man's face she could discern the same shadow that
darkened her own.

"Do I irritate you? Do you wish to return to Venice alone? Would you
like to leave the dying season behind you? The tide is falling, but
there is always enough water for one who has no intention of returning.
Would it suit you to have me try it? Am I not as docile as you could
wish?"

She said these insensate things in a hissing tone, and became almost
livid, as if suddenly burned by some corroding poison. And Stelio
remembered having seen the same mask on her face on a distant day of
love, madness and sadness. His heart contracted, then softened.

"Ah, if I have hurt you, I ask for pardon," he said, trying to take her
hand and soothe her by a gentle act. "But did we not begin together to
approach this matter? Was it not you that"--

She interrupted him, exasperated by his gentleness.

"Hurt me? And what does that matter? Have no pity, no pity! Do not weep
over the beautiful eyes of the wounded hare!"

The words broke between her teeth. Her contracted lips opened in a
convulsion of wild laughter that was like heart-rending sobs. Her
companion shuddered, spoke to her in a low tone, aware of the curious
eyes of the women who sat at the thresholds of their cabins.

"Calm yourself! Calm yourself! Oh, Foscarina, I beg of you! Do not act
so, I entreat! We shall soon be at the quay, and then we shall go home.
I will tell you--You will understand me then. Come, now we are in the
street. Do you hear me?"

He feared she would fall in her hysterical convulsion, and stood ready
to support her. But she only walked faster, unable to speak, smothering
that wild laughter with her bandaged hand.

"What ails you? What do you see?" Stelio inquired anxiously.

Never could he forget the change in those eyes. They were dull,
staring, sightless, yet they seemed to see something that was not
there; they were filled with an unknown vision, occupied by some
monstrous image which without doubt had generated that mad and
anguished laughter.

"Shall we stop here a little while? Would you like some water?"

They found themselves now on the Fondamenta dei Vetrai. How long was it
since they had walked beside the stagnant canal? How much of their life
had vanished in the interval? What profound shadow were they leaving
behind them?

Having descended into the gondola, and wrapped herself in her cloak,
La Foscarina tried to control her hysteria, holding her face with both
hands, but from time to time the terrible laugh would escape; then
she pressed her hands closer to her mouth, as if she were trying to
suffocate herself.

The lagoon and the deep twilight obliterated all forms and colors; only
the rows of posts, like a file of monks on a path of ashes, showed
against the dark background. When the bells began their clamor, her
soul remembered, her tears gushed forth; the horror was vanquished.

She took her hands from her face, leaned toward her friend's shoulder,
and found again her voice in saying:

"Forgive me!"




                              CHAPTER XII

                       CASSANDRA'S REINCARNATION


She humbled herself with shame. From that day every action of her
silently begged for pardon and oblivion.

A new grace seemed born within her. She became more cheerful, spoke
more gently, walked softly about the house dressed in quiet colors,
veiling her beautiful eyes with the deep shadow of her lashes,
because she dared not look at her friend. The fear of tiring him, of
displeasing or boring him, gave her the wings of divination. Her ever
watchful sensibility listened at the inaccessible door of his dreams.

Her spirit, determined to create a new feeling capable of conquering
the violence of instinct, revealed in her face with marvelous signs
the difficulty of her task. Never before had her supreme art found
expressions so singular. Looking at her one day, Stelio spoke to her of
the infinite power concentrated in the shadow produced by the helmet on
the face of _Il Pensieroso_.

"Michelangelo," he said, "has, in a small cavity in the marble,
concentrated all the effort of human meditation. Just as the stream
fills a hollowed palm, so the eternal mystery that surrounds us fills
the small space made by the Titan's chisel in the material from the
mountains; and there it has remained, growing denser through all the
centuries. I know only the mobile shadow of your face, Fosca, that
equals that shadow in intensity, and sometimes even surpasses it."

Eager for poetry and knowledge, she yearned for the Inspirer's
presence. She became for him the ideal figure of one that listens and
understands. The strange, unique arrangement of her hair suggested
fluttering, impatient wings round her pure forehead.

She read aloud to him pages from the sovereign poets. The august form
of the Book seemed magnified by the attitude she assumed in holding it,
by her way of turning the pages, by her religious gravity of attention,
and the harmony of the voice that changed the printed symbols into
vocal cadences. While reading Dante, she was as severe and noble as the
sibyls in the dome of the Sistine Chapel, sustaining the weight of the
sacred volumes with all the heroism of their bodies moved by the breath
of prophecy.

When the last syllable had been spoken, she saw Stelio rise
impetuously, feverishly, and roam about the rooms, stirred by the dart
of the god, panting in the excitement roused by the confused tumult
of his own creative force. Sometimes he approached her with glowing
eyes transfigured by a sudden beatitude, kindled by an inner flame,
as if an immortal truth had just been revealed. With a shudder that
drove away from her heart the memory of every caress, she saw him lay
his head upon her knees, overwhelmed by the tremendous struggle he
carried on within himself, by the shock that accompanied some hidden
metamorphosis. She suffered, yet she was happy, though she knew not
whether he too suffered or was happy; her heart was filled with pity,
fear, and reverence to feel that vigorous form laboring thus in the
genesis of the idea. She kept silence; she waited, adoring that head
that lay upon her knees, filled with thoughts unrevealed.

But she comprehended his great emotion better when one day, after she
had been reading to him, he spoke of the exile of Dante.

"Imagine, Fosca, if you can without bewilderment, the transport and
ardor of that great soul, when uniting itself with elementary energies
in order to conceive his words! Imagine Alighieri, his mind already
filled with his incomparable vision, on the way to exile, an implacable
pilgrim, driven by his passion and his poverty from country to country,
from refuge to refuge, across plains, over mountains, beside rivers and
seas, in all seasons, suffocated by the sweetness of spring, shivering
under the harshness of winter, always alert, attentive, with wide,
voracious eyes, anxious with the inner travail whereby his gigantic
work was formed. Imagine the fulness of that soul in the contrast
between common necessities and the flaming apparitions that rose
suddenly before him at a turn in the road, on the bank of a stream,
from a hollow in the rocks, on the slope of a hill, in the depths of
the forest, or in a meadow where the larks were singing. By means
of his senses, life multiform and multiplex poured into his spirit,
transfiguring into living images the abstract ideas that filled his
brain. The sound, the appearance, and the essence of the very elements
themselves entered into his occult labor, developing it with voices,
lines, color, movement, and with innumerable mysteries. Fire, air,
earth, and water worked in collaboration at the sacred poem, penetrated
the sum of its doctrine, warmed it, aërated it, watered it, covered it
with leaves and flowers. Open this Christian book, and imagine at the
same time the face of a Greek god. Do you not see, springing from both,
shadows and light, the flashes or the wind from the heavens?"

She began to feel that her own life was becoming one with the
all-absorbing work, that her own personal self was entering, drop by
drop, into the personage of the drama, that her look, her poses, her
gestures and voice were going to the composing of the figure of the
heroine "living beyond life." She fancied that she was dissolving into
her elements in the fire of that other intellect, only to be re-formed
by the necessity of a heroism that should dominate Fate.

Sometimes it seemed to her that she was losing her human sincerity,
and that she would always remain in the state of fictitious excitement
into which she threw herself while studying a tragic rôle she was to
create. Thus she experienced a new torment. She tried to shut and
contract her soul under his keen glance, as if to prevent his intellect
from penetrating her mind and robbing her of her secret life. She grew
afraid of the seer.--He will read in my soul the silent words that he
will put in the mouth of his creation, and I shall only speak them on
the stage, under my mask.--Sometimes she felt a sudden need to break
the spell, to withdraw from the image that was to be like her, to spoil
those lines of beauty, which forced her to a determined sacrifice. Was
there not also in the tragedy a maiden thirsting for love and eager for
joy, a maiden in whom a great mind recognized the living incarnation
of his most exquisite dream, the Victory that was to crown his life?
And was there not also an impassioned woman no longer young, who had
one foot already in the dark shadow, and who had but a few steps more
to take in order to disappear? More than once she was tempted to
contradict her seeming resignation by some violent act. Then, like a
penitent, she redoubled her fervor to ward off the peril, hardened
herself to discipline, sharpened her vigilance, repeating with a sort
of intoxication the act of supreme renunciation that had risen from the
depths of her sadness at the aspect of the purifying flame.--You must
have all; I shall be content with seeing you live, seeing your joy. And
do with me as you will!--

Then Stelio loved her for the unexpected visions she brought him. He
trembled and turned pale one day when she entered the room with her
soft step, her face fixed in calm sorrow, as if she were emerging from
depths of wisdom whence all human agitations seem but a puff of wind on
a dusty road.

"Ah, at last! I have created you! I have created you!" he cried,
thinking he saw his heroine herself standing on a threshold of the
distant chamber filled with treasure taken from the tombs of the
Atrides. "Stand still a moment! Do not move your eyelids--keep your
eyes motionless, as if they were petrified! Now you are blind. But
you can see things that others do not see, and nothing can be hidden
from you. Here in this place the man you love has declared his love
to another, who trembles at the revelation. They are still here, they
have just let go each other's hands, and their love quivers in the air.
The room is full of funeral treasure, and on two tables are laid out
the riches that covered the bodies of Agamemnon and Cassandra. There
are the coffers filled with necklaces, and there are the urns full
of ashes. The balcony looks out upon the plain of Argos and on the
distant mountains. It is twilight, and all that terrible gold glitters
in the creeping shadows. Do you understand? And you are there, on the
threshold, led by the nurse. You are blind, yet nothing is hidden from
you. Stop a moment!"

He spoke in the sudden fever of invention. The scene appeared before
him, then disappeared, submerged in a flood of poetry.

"What shall you do? What shall you say?"

The actress felt a chill at the roots of her hair. Her very soul
vibrated. She became blind and prophetic. The cloud of Tragedy
descended and hung over her head.

"What shall you say? You will call them. You will call both of them by
name in that silence where the great royal spoils repose."

The actress felt the coursing of her blood; her voice was to resound
through the silence of thousands of years, to revive the ancient
suffering of men and heroes.

"You will take their hands; you will feel their two lives stretching
toward each other."

The blindness of the immortal statues was in her eyes. She could see
herself sculptured in the great silence, and feel the thrill of the
mute throng, seized with awe at the sublime power of her attitude.

"And then? And then?"

The Inspirer rushed impetuously toward the actress, as if he wished to
strike her in order to draw sparks from her.

"You must awake Cassandra from her sleep; you must feel her ashes
revive in your hands; she must be present in your mental vision. Will
you? Do you understand? Your living soul must touch her ancient soul,
and blend into one soul and one grief, so that the flight of time
seems annihilated. Cassandra is in you, and you are in her. Have you
not loved her, and do you not love Priam's daughter also? Who that
once shall hear it can ever forget, who can ever forget the deep notes
of your voice and the convulsion of your lips at the first cry of
fatalistic fury: 'O Earth! O Apollo!' I see you once more, deaf and
dumb, on your chariot with the look of a wild beast just captured. But
among so many terrible cries, some were infinitely sweet and sad. The
old men compared you to the nightingale. What were the words you used
when you spoke of your beautiful river? And when the old men questioned
you about the love of the god--do you remember your answer?"

The Tragic Muse palpitated as if the breath of the god again invaded
her. She had become ardent, ductile material, subject to all the
inspirations of the poet.

"Do you remember your answer?"

"O espousals, espousals of Paris, fatal to the beloved! O you, paternal
waters of the Scamandros! Once, on your shores, my youth was nourished
by you!"

"Ah, divine woman, your melody does not make one regret the syllables
of Æschylus! I remember. The soul of the multitude, seized by the
lamentation 'of discordant sounds,' relaxed and was soothed by that
melodious sigh, and each of us received the vision of years long past
and our innocent happiness. You can say: 'I was Cassandra.' In speaking
of her, you will remember a former life. Her mask of gold will be in
your hands."

He seized both her hands; both were intent on the flashes generated by
their blended forces; the same electric spark ran through their nerves.

"You are there, near the spoil of the slave-princess, and you feel the
mask. What shall you say?"

In the pause that followed, both seemed to be waiting for a flash.
The actress's eyes again became fixed and blind, her face became like
marble. The Inspirer let go her hands, and they made the gesture
of feeling the sepulchral golden mask. In a voice that created the
tangible form, she said:

"How large her mouth is!"

"You see her, then?"

"Yes, I too can see her. The mouth is large; the terrible effort of
prophecy dilated it; she cried aloud, cursed, and lamented without
ceasing. Can you imagine her mouth in silence?"

Still in the same attitude, as if in ecstasy, she said slowly:

"What profundity in her wonderful silence!"

She seemed to be repeating words suggested to her by mysterious genii,
and, while the poet listened to her, he fancied that he himself had
been about to speak them. A profound tremor shook him, as if he were
witnessing a miracle.

"And her eyes?" he demanded, agitated. "Of what color were her eyes?"

She made no reply.

The marble lines of her face changed slightly, as if under a wave of
suffering. A furrow appeared between her eyes.

"Her eyes," continued the revealer, "were as sweet and sad as two
violets."

She paused again, panting, as one who suffers in a dream. Her lips were
dry, her temples moist.

"Thus they were before they closed forever!"

                   *       *       *       *       *

Sometimes Stelio came to his friend's house breathless and excited, as
if pursued by an Erinni. La Foscarina never questioned him, but her
personality soothed that restless spirit.

"Sometimes I am afraid of the vastness of my conceptions," he said.
"I am afraid of being suffocated by them. You believe me to be a
little mad, do you not? Do you remember that stormy evening when I
returned from the Lido? How sweet you were that evening! A short time
before that, standing on the Bridge of the Rialto, I found a Motive.
I had translated the words of the Elements into notes. Do you know
what a Motive is? It is a small spring, from which may be born many
other springs, a tiny seed that may give birth to a crown of forests;
a little spark that may kindle an endless chain of conflagration--a
nucleus that produces infinite force. A few days ago I began to develop
the Motive of that stormy evening, which I shall call the Pipes of
Æolus. Listen to it."

He went to the piano, and struck a few notes with one hand.

"It contains no more than that, but you cannot imagine the generating
force of those few notes. A tempest, a whirlwind of music has been
born of them, but I have not yet been able to master it. I am almost
vanquished, suffocated, constrained to fly."

He laughed a little; but his soul was swaying like the sea.

"The Pipes of Prince Æolus, opened by the companions of Ulysses. Do you
remember it? The imprisoned winds arise and push back their vessel, and
the men tremble with terror."

His spirit could not rest long, and nothing could divert him from his
mental work. He kissed his friend's hand, paced to and fro, stopping
before the piano that Donatella had played when she sang Claudio's
melody. He wandered to the window, and gazed upon the leafless garden.
His aspiration reached out toward the musical creature, toward her that
must chant his hymns at the summit of his tragic symphonies.

In a low, clear voice the woman said:

"If Donatella were here with us!"

He turned, approached her, and gazed at her fixedly, silently. She
smiled her slight, mask-like smile at seeing him so near her, yet so
far removed. She felt that he loved no one at that moment--not herself,
not Donatella, but that he regarded both simply as instruments of
his art, forces to employ, bows to bend. He was on fire with poetry,
and she, with her poor wounded heart, her secret torture, her mute
plea--she was there, intent on nothing but her sacrifice, ready to pass
beyond love and life, as the heroine of the future drama. Meanwhile,
each day must make its mark on her face, discolor her lips, fade her
hair; each day, in the service of old age, would hasten the work of
destruction in her miserable flesh. And then?

She recognized that it was love, after all, unquenchable passion, that
created all the illusions and all the hopes which seemed to aid her in
accomplishing "what love alone cannot do."

She realized that the torturing restraint of those days had not
succeeded in creating in her even a symptom of the new feeling whereby
love was to be made sublime. Her secret task, therefore, meant simply
continual dissimulation. Was it worth while to live for this?

If once the young man's madness and ardor had caused her to suffer, she
now suffered far more in seeing that that ardor had grown calm, and
that a sort of reserve had taken its place--a reserve that sometimes
repelled the gentlest caress. She felt shame at her regret, knowing
that he was possessed by his great idea, and was concentrating all his
energies upon it. But a dark rancor often mastered her in the evening,
after he had departed, and blind suspicions nightly tortured her
sleepless soul.

--To go away!--The necessity to do this came suddenly, urgently. She
had said to her beloved once, on a memorable day: "There is only one
thing I can do--go away, and leave you free with your fate. This thing
I can do, which love alone could not do." Henceforth, delay was no
longer possible; she must break off with all hesitation, and emerge
finally from that kind of fatal suspension of movement, in which she
had lived so long in agitation.

Since that October dawn, their outward life had been unchanged.
Nevertheless, she felt that it was impossible for her to continue to
live in that way any longer. She felt a consciousness of something
fully accomplished, as in the tree that has yielded all its fruit, as
in the river that has reached the sea.

Her courage revived; her soul grew stronger, her energies awoke once
more, and the virile qualities of the leader again came to life. In
a few days she had arranged her professional route, reassembled her
dramatic company, and fixed the date of departure.--You must go and
work over there among the barbarians across the ocean. You must wander
still from town to town, from hotel to hotel, from theater to theater,
and every night you will draw howls from the crowd that pays you. You
will gain much money; you will return laden with gold and with wisdom,
unless it happens that you are crushed by a wheel some misty day on a
crowded street. Who knows? From whom have you received the order to
depart? From some one within yourself--deep, deep within you--who sees
that which you cannot see, like the blind woman in the tragedy. Who
knows whether over there, on one of those wide, peaceful rivers, your
soul will not find its harmony and your lips will not learn that smile
they have attempted so many times in vain! Perhaps you will discover a
few white hairs and that smile in your mirror at the same time!--

And she went on preparing for her journey.




                             CHAPTER XIII

                      THE STORY OF THE ARCHORGAN


From time to time a breath of Spring passed across the February sky.

"Do you feel the Spring?" said Stelio to his friend, inhaling deep
breaths of the new air.

La Foscarina fell behind him a step or two, because her resolute heart
was weakening; she lifted her face to the sky, now flecked with white
clouds like floating plumes. The raucous shriek of a siren whistle
prolonged itself in the estuary, becoming fainter by degrees until
the sound was as soft as the note of a flute. It seemed to the woman
that something rose from the depths of her heart and escaped with that
prolonged note, as a poignant grief gradually changes into a tender
memory.

"Yes, Spring has already arrived at the Tre Porti."

Once more they floated aimlessly along the lagoon, that water as
familiar to their thoughts as is the web to the weaver.

"Did you say at the Tre Porti?" the young man cried, enthusiastically,
as if his soul were reawakened. "It is there, near the lower bank, at
the setting of the moon, that the sailors take the Wind prisoner, and
bring it, chained, to Dardi Seguso. Some day I will tell you the story
of the Archorgan."

His air of mystery in describing the action of the sailors made La
Foscarina smile.

"What story?" she asked, enticed by his significant tone. "And what
does Seguso do here? Has the story anything to do with the master
glassblower?"

"Yes, but a master of a former day, who knew Latin and Greek, music and
architecture, who was admitted to the Academy of the Pellegrini, whose
gardens are at Murano; he was often invited to sup with Titian in his
house in the Contrada dei Biri; was a friend of Bernardo Cappello, of
Jacopo Zane, and other ancient Petrarchists. At Caterino Zeno's house
he saw the famous organ built for Matthias Corvinus, King of Hungary,
and his magnificent idea came to him in the course of a discussion
with that Agostino Amadi who succeeded in adding to his collection of
instruments a true Grecian lyre, a great Lesbian heptachord, rich with
gold and ivory. Ah, imagine it, that relic of the school of Mitylene,
brought to Venice by a galley which, in passing through the waters of
Santa Maura, caught and dragged the body of Sappho as far as Malamocco,
like an armful of dead grass! But that, too, is another tale."

Again the nomad woman recovered her youthful spirits enough to smile,
pleased as a child to whom one shows a picture-book. How many marvelous
stories, how many delightful fancies had not the Visionary conjured
up for her on those waters, during the long hours of the afternoon?
How many enchantments had he not known how to weave for her, to the
rhythm of the oar, in words that made all things seem reality? How
many times, seated beside her beloved in the light boat, had she not
enjoyed that sort of waking dream in which all cares were banished,
carried away on waves of poetry?

"Tell it to me," she begged.

She wished to add:--This story will be the last.--But she restrained
herself, because up to this time she had not spoken to him of her fixed
resolution.

He laughed.

"You are as eager for stories as Sofia."

At that name, as when she heard the name of Spring, she felt her
resolution weaken; the cruelty of her fate pierced her heart, and her
whole being turned with yearning toward her escaping happiness.

"Look!" he said, pointing to the mirror-like lagoon, rippled here and
there by a light breeze. "Do not those infinite lines of silence aspire
to become music?"

Silvery-white in the calm afternoon, the estuary seemed to bear the
islets on its breast as lightly as the softest clouds hung from the sky.

"Well, the master glassblower heard at Zeno's house praises of the
famous organ of the King of Hungary, and cried: '_Corpo di Bacco!_
You shall see what an organ I will build, with my stick, _liquida
musa canente!_ I will make the god of organs! _Dant sonitum glaucæ
per stagna loquacia cannæ._ The waters of the lagoon shall give it
its tone, and in it the stones, the buoys, and the fish also shall
sing. _Multisonum silentium._ You shall see, by the body of Diana!'
All his hearers laughed, save Giulia da Ponte--because she had black
teeth! And the Sansovino gave a dissertation on hydraulic organs.
But the boaster, before taking his leave, invited the company to
hear his new music on the day of the Sensa, and promised that the
Doge on his Bucentaur should halt in the middle of the lagoon to
listen. That evening the news that Dardi Seguso had lost his senses
spread to Venice, and the Council, which had a tender regard for its
famous workmen, sent a messenger to Murano to learn the truth about
the report. The messenger found the artisan with his sweetheart,
Perdilanza, who was very loving to him because she was anxious,
and feared that Dardi was insane. The master, after looking at the
messenger with fiery eyes, burst into a hearty laugh, which reassured
her as to his state of mind; then, quite calm again, Seguso ordered
the messenger to report to the Council that, on the day of the Sensa,
Venice, San Marco, the Grand Canal, and the Palace of the Doges
should possess yet another miracle. On the following day, he made a
formal request for the possession of one of the five little islets
that circled Murano like the satellites of a planet, but have now
disappeared, or have dwindled to mere sandbanks. After exploring the
waters around Temòdia, Trencòre, Galbaia, Mortesina, and La Folèga, he
chose Temòdia as one chooses a bride, and Perdilanza entered the shadow
of affliction. Look, Fosca; perhaps even now we are passing over the
memory of Temòdia. The organ-pipes are sunk deep in the mud, but they
never will decay. There are seven thousand of them. We are passing over
the ruins of a forest of melodious glass. How delicate the seaweed is
here!"

"Tell me the reason why Perdilanza entered the shadow of affliction,"
said La Foscarina, as both leaned over and looked deep into the
beautiful clear waters.

"Because her name had been driven from the lips and the heart of her
lover by the name of Temòdia, which he constantly uttered with vehement
ardor, and because the island was the only place to which she might
not follow him. There he had constructed his new work-rooms, and there
he stayed the greater part of the day, and almost all night, assisted
by his workmen, whom he had bound to silence by a solemn oath before
the altar. The Council, in ordering that the master should be provided
with everything necessary for his tremendous task, had decreed that he
should lose his head should his work prove inferior to his proud boast.
Then Dardi tied a scarlet thread around his bare neck."

La Foscarina felt as if she were in a dream. Stelio seemed to have been
speaking of himself in those strange figures of speech, as on that last
night of September when he had explained the myth of the pomegranate,
and the name of the imaginary woman began with the first two syllables
of the name he had given her in those days! Was any personal
significance veiled behind this story? Why had he, deliberately, in
the vicinity of the place where she had been seized with that terrible
laughter, called up, by that fanciful tale, the memory of the broken
vase? In trying to understand, she made for herself an instrument
of torture, with the dream-fancies of Stelio's brain. She did not
remember that as yet he was ignorant of her approaching departure.
Instinctively she said within herself:--I am going far-away; do not
wound me.--

She wished to hear the remainder of the story, however, for she longed
to understand him fully.

"Well, what happened then to the man with the scarlet thread?" she
inquired.

"More than once he felt his head was insecure on his shoulders," Stelio
replied laughingly. "He had to blow pipes as large as the trunk of a
tree, and he had to do it with his own mouth, unaided by bellows. He
blew and blew with all his might, without ceasing. Fancy it! The lungs
of a Cyclops would hardly be strong enough for that. Ah, some day I
shall describe the fever of that existence hanging between the ax and
the production of a miracle, in colloquy with the elements. He had
Fire, Water, and Earth, but lacked Air--the movement of the Air. But
every day the Council of Ten sent to him a red-haired man to wish him
good morning--you know, that red-haired man, with a cap over his eyes,
who embraces the column in the _Adoration of the Magi_ of the second
Bonifazio. After colossal labors, Seguso had a brilliant idea. He found
a magician, who was said to have power over the Wind in favor of long
navigations. He said to the wizard: 'I need a little wind, not too
light nor too strong, but steady and gentle, which I could manage as I
wish: only a little breeze with which to blow some glass that I have in
my head. _Lenius aspirans aura secunda venit._ Do you understand, old
man?'"

The story-teller burst into a ringing laugh, for he could fancy the
scene with all its details in a house on the Calle della Testa, at San
Zanepolo, where the Schiavone lived with his daughter.

La Foscarina tried to join in his gayety; but his boyish laughter
pained her as it had once before when she was lost in the labyrinth.

"It is a long story," Stelio went on. "Some day I shall use it, but
I am keeping it for a time when I have more leisure. Now fancy! The
magician works the spell. Every night Dardi sent his sailors to the Tre
Porti to spread a snare for the little Wind. At last, one night, or
rather just before dawn, when the moon was about to set, they caught it
asleep on a sandy bank in the midst of a flock of tired swallows it had
borne thither.

"There it lay, on its back, breathing as lightly as a child in the
salty aroma of the waters, almost covered by innumerable little
forked tails. The rising tide rocked it in its slumber, and the
black-and-white travelers fluttered about it, weary with their long
flight."

"What a charming fancy!" exclaimed La Foscarina at this fresh picture.
"Where have you seen that?"

"Here begins the real charm of the story," he answered. "They seize the
sleeping Wind, bind it with osier withes, carry it aboard their boat,
and set sail for Temòdia. The bark is invaded by the flock of swallows,
which will not abandon the leader of their flight."

Stelio paused, because the details of the fantasy crowded his
imagination to such a degree that he knew not which to choose to
relate.

"And then?" urged his companion, with interest.

"I can tell no more now, Fosca. I know too many things.... Well,
imagine that Dardi falls in love with his prisoner. It is called
Ornitio, because it leads flights of migrating birds. A continual
twittering of swallows surrounds Temòdia; nests hang from the posts and
the scaffolding that surround the great structure; wings are singed
in the flames of the furnace, when Ornitio blows through the tube to
create a light and luminous column with that ball of burning paste. But
before he had tamed it and taught it what to do, he had much trouble
with it. The Master of the Flame began by speaking Latin to it, and
reciting lines of Virgil to it, believing it would understand. But the
azure-haired Ornitio spoke Greek, naturally, with a slightly sibilant
accent. It knew Sappho's odes by heart, and while it breathed through
the unequal tubes, it remembered the pipes of Pan."

"And what did it eat?"

"Pollen and salt."

"Who gave it the food?"

"No one. It was sufficient to inhale the pollen and salt scattered on
the breeze."

"And did it never try to escape?"

"Always. But Seguso took infinite precautions, like the lover he was."

"And did Ornitio return his love?"

"Yes, it began to love him after a time, particularly because of the
scarlet thread that the master wore continually around his bare neck."

"And Perdilanza?"

"She was left alone, and languished in her grief. I will tell you more
of her some day. Some day I shall go to the seashore of Palestrina, and
I will write this fable for you in the golden sand."

"But how does the story end?"

"The miracle is accomplished. The Archorgan is raised at Temòdia with
its seven thousand glass pipes, resembling one of those frozen forests
which Ornitio--who was a little inclined to boast of the wonders it had
met in its travels--declared it had seen in the land of the Iporborrei.
At last comes the day of the Sensa. The _Serenissimo_, between the
Patriarch and the Archbishop of Spalatro, goes out of the harbor of San
Marco on the _Bucentaur_. So great is the pomp that Ornitio believes
it must be the triumphal return of the son of Chronos. The fountains
are set playing all around Temòdia; and animated by the eternal silence
of the lagoon, the gigantic organ peals forth, under the magic fingers
of the new musicians, a wave of harmony so vast that it reaches as
far as the mainland and even to the Adriatic. The _Bucentaur_ stops,
because its forty oars have suddenly fallen at its sides, abandoned
by the astonished crew. But suddenly the wave of harmony breaks into
discordant sounds, and at last it dies away in a faint murmur. Dardi
feels the instrument becoming dumb under his fingers, as if his own
soul had failed. What has happened? The master hears only great shouts
of jeers and scorn that come to him through the silent pipes--the sound
of firing and the uproar of the populace. A group embarks from the
_Bucentaur_, bringing the red-haired man, who bears a block and an ax.
The blow is aimed exactly at the scarlet thread; the head falls, and is
thrown into the water, where it floats like the head of Orpheus."

"But what had happened?"

"Perdilanza had thrown herself into the cataract! The water dragged her
into the machinery of the organ. Her body, with its famous hair, lay
across the great delicate instrument, and silenced its musical heart."

"But Ornitio?"

"Ornitio rescued the head from the water and flew away with it toward
the sea. The swallows heard of its flight and followed it, and very
soon a cloud of black wings and white surrounds the fugitive. All the
nests in Venice remain empty after this sudden flight."

"And Dardi's head?"

"Where it is, no one knows," concluded the story-teller, laughing.

The woman bent her head in thoughtful silence.

"Perhaps there is a hidden meaning in your tale," she said, after a
pause. "Perhaps I have understood."

"Alas, yes! if there were any resemblance between my audacity and that
of the master workman. Perhaps I too should wear a scarlet thread
around my neck, as a sort of warning."

"You will have your great destiny. I have no fear for you."

He ceased to laugh.

"Yes, my friend, I must conquer. And you shall help me. Every morning
I too receive my menacing visitor--the expectation of those that love
me and those that hate me. Expectation should wear the dress of the
executioner, for nothing on earth is so pitiless."

"But it is the measure of your power."

He felt the vulture's beak in his breast. Instinctively he straightened
himself up, seized with an impatience of even their slow idling on the
water. Why did he live in such idleness? Every hour and every minute he
ought to be trying, struggling, fortifying himself against destruction,
diminution, violation, contagion. Every hour and every minute his eyes
should be fixed on his aim, and all his energies should be concentrated
upon it.

"Do you know this saying of the great Herodotus: 'The name of the bow
is Bios, and its work is death'? This saying is one that excites our
spirits even before communicating to it its exact meaning. I heard
it continually within myself, that evening last autumn, when I was
sitting at your table--the night of the Epiphany of the Flame. That
night I had an hour of true Dionysian life, an hour of secret though
terrible delight, as if I held in my breast the burning mountain where
the Tiades howl and shriek. Sometimes I could really hear songs and
clamor, and the cries of distant battle. It astonished me that I could
remain motionless, and the sense of my bodily immobility increased my
mental frenzy. I could see only your face, which suddenly appeared
extraordinarily beautiful, revealing all the strength of your soul;
and behind it I could see other countries and other peoples. If I
could only tell you how I saw you! In the tumult, at the passage of
marvelous images, accompanied by floods of music, I called to you as
in the thick of battle; I made appeals which perhaps you heard--not
for love alone, but for glory; not for one thirst, but for two, and
I know not which was the more ardent. And the face of my great work
appeared to me then the same as your face. I saw it, I tell you! And
with incredible rapidity my work took form in words, song, movement,
and symphony, and was so real that if I succeed in infusing a part of
it into that which I wish to express, I shall surely inflame the world.

"To express oneself! That is the necessity. The greatest vision has
no value if it is not manifested and condensed in vital forms. And
I have everything to create. I am not pouring my substance into
hereditary molds. My work is entirely my own invention. I must not,
and I will not, obey anything but my instinct and the genius of my
race. Nevertheless, like Dardi, who saw the famous organ at the house
of Caterino Zeno, I too have another work before my mind--a work
accomplished by a formidable creator, a gigantic work in the eyes of
man."

The image of the barbaric creator reappeared to him: the blue eyes
gleamed under the vast forehead, and he saw once more the white
hair tossed by the wind about that aged neck. He remembered his own
indescribable thrill of joy and fear when he had so unexpectedly felt
beneath his hand the throbbing of that sacred heart.

"I should say not before but around my spirit. Sometimes it is like
a stormy sea trying to draw me down and swallow me. My Temòdia is a
granite rock in the open sea, and I am like an artisan trying to erect
upon it a pure Doric temple. Compelled to defend the order of his
columns from the violence of the waves, his spirit is always strained
in order never to cease to hear, in the midst of the clamor, the secret
rhythm which alone must regulate the intervals between lines and
spaces. And in this sense too my tragedy is a battle."

He took one of his friend's hands.

"Do you hear the song?" he asked.

"Where is it?" she said, raising her face to the sky. "Is it in heaven
or on the earth?"

An infinite melody seemed to be flowing through the peaceful, silvery
atmosphere.

She felt Stelio's hand quiver.

"When Alessandro enters the illuminated chamber where the virgin has
been reading the lament of Antigone," he said, "he tells how he has
come on horseback across the plain of Argos, where the song of the
larks fills the sky. He says that one lark fell at his horse's feet,
like a stone, and lay there silent, overcome by its own frenzy of joy
in its song. He picked it up. 'Here it is.' Then you hold your hand
toward him, you take the bird, and murmur: 'Ah, it is still warm!' And
while you speak the virgin trembles. You can feel her quivering."

The actress felt the mystic chill steal over her once more, as if the
soul of the blind woman reëntered her own soul.

"At the end of the Prelude, the impetuosity of the chromatic
progressions expresses this growing joy, this fever of delight....
Listen, listen!... Ah, what a miracle! This morning, Fosca, this
morning I was at work upon my melody, and now it is developing itself
in the air! Are we not in a state of grace?"

A spirit of life seemed indeed running throughout the solitude; a
vehement inspiration filled the silence with emotion. La Foscarina gave
up her whole soul to it, as a leaf yields itself to the whirlwind,
ravished to the very summit of love and faith.

But a feverish impatience to act, to work, to accomplish seized the
young man. His capacity for work seemed multiplied. He thought of the
plenitude of the hours to come; he saw his work in concrete form--the
pages, the scores, the variety of needs, the richness of material
adaptable to rhythm.

"In a week, Fosca, if grace assists me, my Prelude will be finished,
and I should like to try it immediately with an orchestra. Perhaps I
shall go to Rome to do this. Antimo della Bella is even more impatient
than I; I receive a letter from him almost every day. I believe that
my presence in Rome is necessary for a few days in order to prevent
certain errors that may arise in the building of the theater. Antimo
writes about the possibility of tearing down the old stone stairs
leading from the Corsini Garden to the Janiculum. The street that will
lead to the theater, after one passes the Arch of Septimius, will
continue beside the Palazzo Corsini, cross the garden, and extend
to the foot of the hill. The hill is green and mossy, covered with
cypress, laurel, and flags. The Paulina fountain rises at the left.
A flight of stone steps leads to a terrace from which open two paths
bordered by Apollo-like laurels, and worthy of leading the people
toward Poetry. Can anyone imagine a nobler entrance? Centuries have
wrapped it in mystery; no sound is heard but the song of birds, the
tinkling of fountains, the whisper of the forest. And I believe
that poets and innocents can even hear there the fluttering of the
Hamadryads and the breath of Pan!"

The ugly shores, crumbling stones, decaying roots, traces of ruined
buildings, the odor of dissolution, the funereal cypresses, the black
crosses, in vain recalled to him the words the statues beside the
Brenta had spoken with their marble lips. Only the great song of
victory and liberty, stronger than all other signs, now touched the
heart of him who was to create with joy. "On! on! Higher! ever higher!"

And the heart of Perdita, purified from all cowardice, ready for any
test, betrothed itself once more to Life! As in that distant hour of
the delirious night, she repeated: "Let me serve! Let me serve!"




                              CHAPTER XIV

                        THE WORLD'S BEREAVEMENT


The gondola entered a canal enclosed between two green shores, which
reached the line of vision so precisely that the numerous reeds were
perceptible, the newer ones discernible by their paler tint.

From the fulness of her soul, and the abundance of her nature, La
Foscarina sought everywhere for living things to love; her glance
became child-like once more, and all things were reflected in it as in
the peaceful water, and some seemed to reappear from the distant past,
like apparitions.

When the gondola touched the shore, she was surprised at having arrived.

"Do you wish to land, or do you prefer to go back?" asked Stelio,
coming out of his reverie.

For a moment she hesitated, because her hand lay in his, and to move
would have meant a lessening of sweetness.

"Yes," at last she said, with a smile. "Let us walk on this grass a
little while."

They landed on the Island of San Francesco. A few slender young cypress
shrubs greeted them timidly. Not a human face was to be seen. The
invisible myriad filled the desert with their canticle of praise. The
mists rose in clouds near the sunset hour.

"How many times we have walked together on the grass, have we not,
Stelio?"

"But now comes the steep rock," he replied.

"Let the rock come, no matter how steep and rough it may be," said La
Foscarina.

Stelio was surprised at the unusual gayety in his companion's voice. He
looked at her, and saw a sort of intoxicated joy deep in her beautiful
eyes.

"Why do we feel so joyous and free on this lonely island?"

"And do you know the reason why?"

"To others, this is a melancholy pilgrimage. Most persons, when they
come to this place, leave it with the taste of death on their lips."

"But we are in a state of grace," said La Foscarina.

"The more we hope, the more we live," was the reply.

"And the more we love, the more we hope."

The rhythm of the aerial song continued, drawing from them their ideal
essences.

"How beautiful you are!" said Stelio.

A sudden flush flowed over that impassioned face. She was silent, but
her breath came quick, and she half-closed her eyes.

"A warm current of air is passing," she said in a half whisper. "Did
you not feel on the water an occasional breath of warmer air?"

She drew deep breaths.

"There is an odor like that of new-mown hay. Don't you detect it?"

"That is the odor that comes from the banks of seaweed that are
beginning to be uncovered."

"See how beautiful the country is!"

"That is Le Vignole. Down there is the Lido. And over there is the
Island of Sant' Erasmo."

The sun had now thrown aside its veil and was showering gold upon the
estuary. The damp banks emerging from the fog suggested the opening of
flowers. The shadows of the slender cypresses began to grow longer and
of a deeper blue.

"I am certain," said La Foscarina, "that almond trees are in blossom
somewhere near. Let us go on the dyke."

She shook her head, tossing back her hair with one of those instinctive
movements that seemed to break a bond or to free her of some fetter.

"Wait!"

And quickly withdrawing from her hat two large pins that held it in
place, she uncovered her head. She turned back to the landing and
tossed the sparkling hat into the gondola; then she rejoined her
friend, running her fingers lightly through the waves of her hair,
through which the air passed, while the sun shone on it warmly. She
seemed to feel relieved, as if she breathed more freely.

"Did the wings hurt?" Stelio asked with a laugh.

And he regarded the ripples, roughened not by the comb but by the wind.

"Yes, the least weight annoys me. If I should not appear eccentric,
I should always go without a hat. But when I see the trees I cannot
resist my impulses. My hair remembers that it was born wild and free,
and it wishes to breathe in its natural way--in the desert, at least."

Frank and gay in her manner, she glided over the grass with her
graceful, swaying movement. And Stelio recalled the day when, in the
Gradenigo garden, she had appeared to his eyes like the beautiful tawny
greyhound.

"Oh, here comes a Capuchin!"

The friar-guardian approached them, and greeted them with affability.
He offered to conduct Stelio within the walls of the monastery, but
said that the rules forbade the admission of his companion.

"Shall I go in?" said Stelio, with a look at La Foscarina, who was
smiling.

"Yes, go."

"But you will be all alone."

"Never mind; I will stay here alone."

"I will bring you a bit from the sacred pine."

He followed the friar under the portico with a raftered roof, whence
hung the empty swallows' nests. Before he crossed the threshold, he
turned once more to wave his hand at his friend. Then the door closed
after him.

    O BEATA SOLITUDO!
    O SOLA BEATITUDO!

Then, as a change in the stops of an organ changes its whole tone, the
woman's thoughts were suddenly transfigured. The horror of absence,
to her the worst of all evils, bore down upon her loving soul. Her
beloved was no longer there; she no longer heard his voice, felt his
breath, touched his firm and gentle hand. She no longer saw him live;
she could no longer realize that the air, the lights and shadows, all
the life of the world, harmonized itself with his life!--Suppose that
door never should open again--that he never should return to me!--No,
that could not be. He would surely cross that threshold again in a few
minutes, and once more she would receive him into her eyes and into her
very soul. But alas! in a few days, would he not thus disappear again,
as he had disappeared now? And first the field, then the mountain,
then other fields and mountains and rivers, then the strait and the
ocean, the infinite space that neither tears nor cries can cross, would
they not come between her and that brow, those eyes, those lips? The
image of the far-off brutal city black with coal and bristling with
arms, filled the peaceful island; the crash of hammers, the grinding
of wheels, the puffing of engines, the immense groaning of iron,
drowned the melody of the springtime. And with each of these simple
things--with the grass, the sands, the brooks, the seaweed, that soft
feather floating downward, perhaps from the breast of a songbird--was
contrasted the vision of streets overflowing with the human torrent,
houses with thousands of deformed eyes, full of fevers that are enemies
to sleep, theaters filled with the restlessness or the stupor of men
who yield one hour to relaxation from the ferocious battle for lucre.
And still, as in a vision, she saw again her own face and her name
on walls contaminated by the leprosy of posters, on boards carried
by stupid bearers, on gigantic bridges of factories, on the doors of
public vehicles, here, there, and everywhere.

"Look! Look at this! A branch of flowering almond! There is an almond
tree in bloom in the monastery garden, in the second cloister, near the
sacred pine! And you could detect the odor!"

Stelio ran toward her, joyous as a child, followed by the Capuchin, who
bore a bouquet of fragrant thyme.

"Look! Take it. See what a wonderful thing it is!"

She took the branch, trembling, and her eyes were bright with tears.

"And you knew it was blooming!" said Stelio.

He perceived the glittering silvery drops in her eyes, which made them
look like the petals of a flower. And at that instant, of all her
adored person, he loved most blindly the delicate lines that went from
the corners of her eyes to her temples, the tiny veins that made her
eyelids look like violets, the sweet curve of her cheek, the tapering
chin, and all that never would bloom again, all the shadows of that
impassioned face.

"Ah, Father," said she, with a bright glance, repressing her sadness,
"will not Christ's Poor Man weep again in heaven for this broken
branch?"

The friar smiled with playful indulgence.

"When this good gentleman saw our tree," he replied, "he gave me no
time to speak, but had the branch in his hand in a moment, and I could
only say Amen. But the almond tree is rich."

He was placid and affable, with a crown of hair still nearly black,
with a refined, olive-skinned face, and great tawny eyes, as clear as a
topaz.

"Here is some savory thyme," he added, offering the herbs to La
Foscarina.

They could hear a choir of youthful voices singing a Response.

"Those are our novices; we have fifteen with us."

He accompanied the visitors to the meadow behind the convent. Standing
on a bank, at the foot of a blasted cypress, the good monk pointed to
the fertile isles, praised their abundance, mentioned their varieties
of fruit, lauded the more delightful according to the seasons, and
directed their attention toward the boats sailing toward the Rialto
with their new harvest.

"Praise to Thee, O Lord, for our Mother Earth!" said the woman with the
flowering branch.

The Franciscan was susceptible to the beauty of that feminine voice,
and was silent.

Lofty cypresses encircled the pious field; four of them showed the
marks of lightning strokes. Their tops were motionless, and were the
only sharp outlines in the level of the meadows, and waters that
blended with the horizon. Not the slightest breeze now stirred the
infinite mirror. A profound enchantment like an ecstasy filled the
lovely place with rapture. The melody of the winged creatures still
continued to float from invisible regions, but it, too, seemed to begin
to flag and soften in this silent sanctuary.

"At this hour, on the hills of Umbria," said he that had despoiled the
flowering almond of the cloister, "every olive-tree has at its base,
like a covering that is shed, a heap of its cut branches; and the tree
seems more beautiful because the heap of branches hides its rugged
roots. Saint Francis passes in the air, and with his finger he heals
the pain of the wounds made by the pruning-knife."

The Capuchin made the sign of the cross, and took his leave.

"Praise be to Jesus Christ!"

The visitors watched him as he moved away under the deep shadows cast
by the cypresses.

"He has found peace," said La Foscarina. "Does it not seem so to you,
Stelio? There is great peace in his face and his voice. Look at his
gait, too."

Alternately a ray of light and a bar of shadow fell across his tonsure
and his tunic.

"He gave me a piece of the sacred pine," said Stelio. "I will send it
to Sofia, who is devoted to the seraphic saint. Here it is. It has no
resinous odor now. Smell it!"

For Sofia's sake she kissed the relic. The lips of the good sister
would touch the spot where she had pressed her own.

"Yes--send it."

Silently they strolled along, their heads bent, in the footsteps of the
man of peace, approaching the landing between the rows of cypress trees.

"Do you not sometimes wish to see her again?" asked La Foscarina, with
a touch of shyness.

"Yes, very much," was Stelio's soft-spoken answer.

"And your mother?"

"Yes, my heart yearns for her--for that mother who looks for me each
day."

"And would you not like to go back there?"

"Yes, I shall return, perhaps."

"When?"

"I do not know yet. But I do wish to see once more my mother and Sofia.
I long to see them very much, Foscarina."

"And why do you not go to them, then? What holds you here?"

He took the hand that hung idly at her side, and they continued to walk
thus. As the oblique rays of the sun lighted the right cheek of each,
they saw their united shadows preceding them on the grass.

"When you were speaking of the hills of Umbria just now," said La
Foscarina, "perhaps you were thinking of the hills of your own part of
the country. That figure of the pruned olive tree was not new to me.
I remember you speaking to me once before of the pruning of trees. In
no other form of his labor can the farmer gain a deeper sense of the
mute life that is in a tree. When he stands before a pear, an apple,
or a peach tree with the pruning-knife and shears that may increase
their fertility and strength, but which could nevertheless as easily
cause their death, the spirit of divination surges within him, from
the wisdom he has acquired from his long communings with the earth and
the sky. The tree is at its most delicate moment, when its senses are
awakened, and the sap is flowing to the buds that swell and swell, and
are just ready to open. And man, with his pitiless knife, must regulate
the mysterious movement of the sap. The tree is there intact, ignorant
of Hesiod and of Virgil, in labor with its flowering and its fruit; and
every branch in the air is as full of life as is the arm of the man
that wields the knife. Which is the branch that must be cut off? Will
the sap heal the cut? You told me about your orchard once--I remember
it. You said that all the cuts should be turned toward the north, so
then the sun should not see them."

She spoke as she had spoken in that far-off evening in November, when
the young man had arrived at her house, breathless from the tempest of
wind, after he had borne the hero in his arms.

He smiled, and let himself be led by that dear hand. He inhaled
the fragrance of that flowery branch in which was a suggestion of
bitterness.

"It is true," he said. "And Laimo would prepare the ointment of Saint
Fiacre in the mortar, and Sofia would bring him the strong linen to
bandage the larger wounds, after they had been cleansed."

In fancy he could see the kneeling peasant, pounding cow-dung, clay,
and barley-husks in a stone mortar, according to an ancient recipe.

"In ten days," he continued, "the whole hill, seen from the seas, will
be like a great pink cloud. Sofia wrote to remind me of it. Has she
ever reappeared to you?"

"She is with us now."

"She is now standing at the window, looking out at the purpling sea;
and our mother, leaning on the window-ledge with her, says to her: 'Who
knows whether Stelio may not be on that sail boat which I see waiting
at the mouth of the river for the wind? He promised me he would return
unexpectedly by sea, in a small boat.'--And then her heart aches."

"Ah, why do you disappoint her?"

"Yes, Fosca, you are right. But I can live far-away from her for months
and months, yet feel that my life is full. Then--an hour comes when
nothing in the world appears to me so sweet as her dear eyes and there
is a part of myself that remains inconsolable. I have heard the sailors
of the Tyrrhenean Sea call the Adriatic the Gulf of Venice. To-night
I remember that my house is on the Gulf, and that seems to bring it
nearer to me."

They had reached the gondola once more, but turned to look back at the
isle of prayer, where grew the tall cypresses with their imploring arms.

"Over yonder is the canal of the Tre Porti that leads to the open sea,"
said the homesick one, fancying that he could see himself standing on
the deck of the little brig, in sight of his tamarisks and myrtles.

They reëmbarked, and floated away, silent for a long time. The aerial
melody still fell softly on the archipelago.

"Now that the plan of your work is finished," said La Foscarina,
beginning again her gentle persuasion, though her heart trembled in her
breast, "you will need peace and quiet for your labor upon it. Have
you not always worked best at your home? In no other place will you be
able to soothe the restless anxiety that possesses you. I know it well."

"That is true," he replied. "When the yearning for glory seizes us,
we believe that the conquest of art must be like the siege of a
fortification, and that trumpets and shouts accompany the courageous
assault; while in reality the only work that is of real value is that
which has been developed in austere silence--work performed with slow,
indomitable perseverance, in hard, pure solitude. Nothing is of any
value save the complete abandonment of soul and body to the Idea which
we desire to establish among men as a permanent and dominating force."

"Ah, you know it, too!"

The woman's eyes were filled with tears again, at the sound of those
inexorable words, in which was expressed the depth of virile passion,
the heroic necessity of mental domination, the firm determination to
surpass himself and to force his destiny without flinching.

"Yes, you know it well!"

And she was thrilled, as one that beholds a noble spectacle; and,
contemplating that embodied force of will, all else appeared vain to
her. The tears she had felt in her eyes when he had brought her the
flowering branch now seemed mean and weakly effeminate in comparison
with those that in this moment welled up and were alone worthy to be
kissed away by her friend.

"Ah, well, then--go back to your sea, to your own countryside, to your
own home. Light your lamp once more with the oil of your own olives."

Stelio's lips were closely compressed, and a deep frown wrinkled his
brow.

"The dear sister will come to your side again to lay a blade of grass
on the difficult page."

He bent his brow, which was clouded with a thought.

"You will rest in talking with Sofia by the window; and perhaps you
will see again the flocks of sheep on their way from the plain to the
mountains."

The sunlight was approaching the gigantic acropolis of the Dolomites.
The phalanx of clouds was disordered as if in battle, pierced by
innumerable darts of light, and steeped in a marvelous blood-like
crimson.

Slowly, after a long silence, Stelio spoke:

"And if she should ask me about the fate of the virgin who reads the
lament of Antigone?"

La Foscarina started.

"And suppose she asks me about the love of the brother who searches
through the tombs?"

The woman felt a dread of this phantom.

"And suppose the page on which she lays the blade of grass were the
page wherein that trembling soul tells of its secret and terrible
battle against the horrible evil?"

In her sudden terror, the woman could find no words. Both relapsed into
silence, looking long at the sharp peaks of the distant mountains,
which glowed as if just emerging from primordial fire. The spectacle
of this eternally desolate grandeur awakened in them a sense of
mysterious fatality and a certain confused terror which they could
neither conquer nor comprehend.

"And you?" said Stelio suddenly, after a long silence.

La Foscarina made no reply.

The bells of San Marco sounded the signal for the Angelus, and their
tremendous clamor swelled in ever-widening waves over the still crimson
lagoon which they were leaving to the memories of shadows and death.
From San Giorgio Maggiore and San Giorgio dei Greci, from San Giorgio
degli Schiavoni and San Giovanni in Bragora, from San Moisé, from the
Salute, the Redentore, and, from one place to another, throughout the
whole domain of the Evangelists, even to the distant towers of the
Madonna dell' Orto, of San Giobbe and Sant' Andrea, the bronze voices
answered, mingling in one great chorus floating over the silent stones
and waters, a veritable dome of sound, invisible, yet the vibrations of
which seemed to communicate with the scintillation of the first stars.
And the reverberation above the heads of the two in the gondola was so
great that they seemed to feel it in the roots of their hair and in the
cool shiver of their flesh.

"Oh, is that you, Daniele?"

Stelio had recognized at the door of his own house, on the Fondamenta
Samedo, the figure of Daniele Glauro.

"Ah, Stelio, I have been waiting for you!" cried Daniele breathlessly,
striving to make himself heard above the pealing of bells. "Richard
Wagner is dead!"




                              CHAPTER XV

                           THE LAST FAREWELL


All the world seemed to have diminished in value.

The nomad woman had armed herself anew with courage, and planned the
route of her next professional tour. From the thought of the hero
lying in his coffin, a lofty inspiration came to all noble hearts. La
Foscarina knew how to receive it and to convert it to the thoughts and
actions of daily life.

It happened that her beloved surprised her at the time she was packing
her familiar books, the little cherished treasures from which she never
parted--things that for her possessed the power of imparting dreams or
consolation.

"What are you doing?" Stelio asked.

"I am making ready to leave the country."

She saw a change pass over his face, but she did not waver.

"And where are you going?"

"A long distance from here--I shall cross the Atlantic."

Stelio became slightly paler. But suddenly he was seized with doubt; he
thought she was not speaking the truth; that she wished only to prove
him; that her decision was not absolutely fixed, and that she expected
to be persuaded to remain. The unlooked-for disillusion on the banks of
Murano had left its mark on his heart.

"Have you really decided on this, then, so suddenly?"

She was simple, sure of herself, and prompt in her reply.

"My decision is not exactly sudden. My idleness has lasted too long,
and I have the responsibility of all my company on my shoulders. While
I am waiting for the Theater of Apollo to be opened, and for _The
Victory of Man_ to be finished, I shall go once more to bid farewell
to the Barbarians. I must work for your beautiful enterprise. We
shall need a great deal of gold to restore the treasures of Mycenæ.
And all that is connected with your work must appear with unrivaled
magnificence. I do not wish Cassandra's mask to be of some base metal.
But, above all, I wish to satisfy your desire that for the first three
days the populace shall have free admission to the theater, and after
that on one day of every week. My faith aids me to leave you. Time
flies. It is necessary that each person should be in his own place,
ready and full of strength, when the great day comes. I shall not fail
you. I hope that you will be satisfied with your friend. I am going
away to work, and certainly the task will be more difficult than I ever
have found it before. But you, my poor boy, what a burden you have to
bear! What an effort we demand from you! What great things we expect
from you! Ah, you know it!"

She had begun courageously, in a tone that was almost blithe, trying
to seem what above all she must be--a good and faithful instrument at
the service of a powerful genius, a strong and willing companion. But
a wave of repressed emotion would rise in her throat and stop her
speech. Her pauses grew longer, and her hand wandered uncertainly among
her books and treasures.

"May everything be ever propitious to your work! That is the only thing
that really matters--all else is nothing. Let us lift our hearts!"

She shook her head, with its two wild wings, and held out both hands
to her beloved. He, pale and grave, clasped them close. In her dear
eyes, that were like sparkling springs of water, he saw a flash of the
same beauty that had dazzled him one evening in the room where the fire
had roared, and he had listened to the development of the two great
melodies.

"I love you and I have faith in you," he said; "I will not fail you and
you will not fail me. Something springs from us that shall be stronger
than life itself."

"A great melancholy," she answered.

Before her, on a table, lay the familiar book, with pages turned
down and margins full of scribbled notes; here and there a petal, a
flower, a blade of grass lay between the leaves--signs of the sorrow
that had asked and obtained from them the consolation of relief or of
forgetfulness. Before her were strewn all the little cherished objects
dear to her, strange, varied; nearly all were things of no value: a
doll's foot, a silver heart, an ivory compass, a watch without a dial,
a small iron lantern, a single earring, a flint, a key, a seal, and
other trifles; but all were consecrated by some memory, animated by
some superstitious belief, touched by the finger of love or of death,
relics that could speak only to one of war and of truce, of hope
and of sadness. Among these objects were figures to which artists
had entrusted their secret confession, signs and enigmas, profound
allegories, hiding truths that, like the sun, could not be gazed at by
mortal eyes.

The young man put his arm around his friend's waist, and silently
they went to the window. They saw the far-distant sky, the trees, the
towers, the end of the lagoon over which Twilight was bending her face,
while the Euganean hills were as quiet and blue as if they were the
wings of earth folded in the peacefulness of eventide.

They turned toward each other, looking into the depths of each other's
eyes. Then they embraced, as if to seal a silent compact.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Yes, all the world seemed to have diminished in value.

Stelio Effrena had asked of the widow of Richard Wagner that the two
young Italian men that had carried the unconscious hero from the vessel
to the shore that night in November, with four of their friends,
might have granted to them the honor of bearing the coffin from the
death-chamber to the boat and from the boat to the hearse. This request
was granted.

It was the sixteenth of February, at one o'clock in the afternoon.
Stelio Effrena, Daniele Glauro, Francesco de Lizo, Baldassare Stampa,
Fabio Molza, and Antimo della Bella waited in the hall of the palace.
The latter had come from Rome, bringing with him the artisans engaged
in the building of the Theater of Apollo, that they might bear at the
funeral ceremony bunches of laurel gathered on the Janiculum.

They waited in silence, without even looking at one another, each
overcome by the throbbing of his own heart. Nothing was heard save a
faint dropping of water on the steps before the great door, where, on
the candelabra at the doorposts appeared the two words: DOMUS PACIS.

The boatman, who had been dear to the hero, came to call them. In that
rough yet faithful face, the eyes showed that the lids were burned by
weeping.

Stelio Effrena advanced first, followed by his companions. After
ascending the stairs, they entered a low-studded, darkened room, filled
with the melancholy odor of flowers and fluids. They paused there a few
minutes. A door opened. They passed through the doorway one by one into
the next room. Each turned pale as he entered.

The body was there, enclosed in its crystal coffin, and beside it stood
the woman with the face of snowy pallor. The second coffin, of polished
metal, stood shining on the floor.

The six bearers ranged themselves about the coffin, awaiting a sign.
The silence was profound, and no one moved; but an impetuous sadness
shook each soul like a tempest of wind.

Each gazed on the elect of Life and of Death. An infinite smile
illumined the face of the hero lying there--infinite and distant as the
glint of a glacier, as the sparkle of the sea, as the halo of the star.
Their eyes could not bear to look long at it, but their hearts, with
an awe-struck fear that made them religious, felt as if they had the
revelation of a divine secret.

The woman with the snow-white face made a slight movement, yet
preserved the same attitude, rigid as a statue.

Then the six friends approached the body, extended their arms, summoned
up their strength. Stelio Effrena took his place at the head and
Daniele Glauro took his at the feet, as on that day in November. The
young men lifted their burden with one movement, at a low-spoken word
from the leader. The eyes of each were dazzled, as if a sudden ray of
sunlight had pierced the crystal. Baldassare Stampa broke into sobs.
The same knot was in each throat. The coffin swayed, then it was
lowered into its metal covering, which enveloped it like a suit of
armor.

The six friends remained overcome with grief. They hesitated to put the
cover in its place, fascinated by that infinite smile. Stelio Effrena
heard a light rustling, and looked up. He saw the white face bending
over the body, a superhuman apparition of love and grief. That instant
was like eternity. The woman disappeared.

When the coffin was closed, they lifted their burden a second
time--heavier now. Out of the room and down the stairs they bore
it slowly. Rapt in a kind of sublime anguish, they could see their
fraternal faces reflected in the polished metal.

The funeral barge awaited them at the entrance. The pall was laid
over the coffin. The six friends waited, with heads uncovered, for the
family to descend. They came, all together. The widow passed them,
veiled. But the splendor of her face would remain in their memories
forever.

The procession was short; the funeral barge went first, followed by the
widow with her relatives; then came the young men. The sky was cloudy
above the broad road of stone and water. The deep silence was worthy of
Him who transformed the forces of the universe for man's worship into
infinite song.

A flock of doves, flying from the marbles of the Scalsi, winged their
way with a flash of plumage above the bier and across the canal,
circling the cupola of San Simeone.

At the quay a silent gathering of faithful friends was waiting. The
large wreaths perfumed the air. The water rippled softly under the
prows of the boats. The six companions lifted the coffin from the boat
and bore it on their shoulders to the railway and placed it in the
proper compartment. No one spoke.

Then the two artisans from Rome came forward, with the clusters of
laurel gathered on the Janiculum. They were tall, powerful men,
chosen among the strongest and finest, and seemed cast in the mold
of the ancient Roman race. They were calm and serious, with all the
wild freedom of the Agro in their eyes. Their bold outlines, narrow
foreheads, short curling hair, solid jaws and bull-necks, recalled
the profiles of ancient consuls. Their bearing, free from any servile
obsequiousness, showed them to be worthy of their function.

The six young men, rendered equal in their fervor, took the branches of
laurel and strewed them over the hero's coffin.

Noble were those Latin laurels, cut on the hill where, in a time long
past, the eagles descended bearing prophecies; where, in more recent
though still fabulous times, a river of blood has been shed for the
beauty of Italy by the legions of the Liberator. The branches were
straight, dark, and strong; the leaves were firm, deeply veined, with
sharp edges, green as the bronze of fountains, rich with triumphal
aroma.

And they journeyed toward the Bavarian hill still sleeping beneath its
frost and ice, while their trunks were already budding anew in the
light of Rome, to the murmur of invisible waters.

    _Settignano di Desiderio:
        February 13, 1900._

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 60601 ***