Chapter 11

The Marchesa sat for a long time silent, and we watched the phantom life of the city around us. Presently she sighed deeply and said:

"Ah, me! it is the eve of the Purification. My son, seventy years ago to-day the woman was born whose connection with the house of Negropontini has shrouded it in gloom, like the portrait you have seen in the saloon. Seventy years ago to-day my father's neighbor, the Count Balbo, saw for the first time the face of the first daughter his wife had given him. The countess lay motionless--the flame of existence flickered between life and death.

"'Adorable Mother of God!' said the count, as he knelt by her bedside, 'if thou restorest my wife, my daughter shall be consecrated to thy service.'

"The slow hours dragged heavily by. The mother lived.

"My brother Camillo and I were but two and four years older than our little neighbor. We were children together, and each other's playmates. When the little neighbor, Sulpizia Balbo, was fourteen, Camillo was eighteen. My son, the sky of Venice never shone on a more beautiful girl, on a youth more grave and tender. He loved her with his whole soul. Gran' Dio! 'tis the old, old story!

"She was proud, wayward, passionate, with a splendor of wit and unusual intelligence. He was calm, sweet, wise; with a depthless tenderness of passion. But Sulpizia inherited her will from her father, and at fourteen she was sacrificed to the vow he had made. She was buried alive in the convent of our Lady of the Isle, and my brother's heart with her.

III.

"Sulpizia's powerful nature chafed in the narrow bounds of the convent discipline. But her religious education assured her that that discipline was so much the more necessary, and she struggled with the sirens of worldly desire. The other sisters were shocked and surprised, at one moment by her surpassing fervor, at another by her bold and startling protests against their miserable bondage.

"Often, at vespers, in the dim twilight of the chapel, she flung back her cape and hood, with the tears raining from her eyes and her voice gushing and throbbing with the melancholy music, while the nuns paused in their singing, appalled by the religious ecstasy of Sulpizia. She was so sweet and gentle in her daily intercourse that all of them loved her, bending to her caresses like grain to the breeze; but they trembled in the power of her denunciation, which shook their faith to the centre, for it seemed to be the voice of a faith so much profounder.

"While she was yet young she was elected abbess of the convent. It was a day of triumph for her powerful family. Perhaps the Count Balbo may have sometimes regretted that solemn vow, but he never betrayed repentance. Perhaps he would have been more secretly satisfied by the triumphant worldly career of a woman like his daughter, but he never said so.

"Sulpizia knew that my brother loved her. I think she loved him--at least I thought so.

"The nuns were not jealous of her rule, for the superior genius which commanded them also consoled and counselled; and her protests becoming less frequent, her persuasive affection won all their hearts. They saw that the first fire of youth slowly saddened in her eyes. Her mien became even more lofty; her voice less salient; and a shadow fell gently over her life. The sisters thought it was age; but Sulpizia was young. Others thought it was care; but her duties could not harass such a spirit. Others thought it was repentance; but natures like hers do not early repent.

"It was resolved that the portrait of the abbess should be painted, and the nuns applied to her parents to select the artist. They, in turn, consulted my brother Camillo, who was the friend of the family, and for whom the Count Balbo would, I believe, have willingly unvowed his vow. Camillo had left Venice as the great door of the convent closed behind his life and love. He fled over the globe. He lost himself in new scenes, in new employments. He took the wings of the morning, and flew to the uttermost parts of the earth,[A] and there he found--himself. So he returned an older and a colder man. His love, which had been a passion, seemed to settle into a principle. His life was consecrated to one remembrance. It did not dare to have a hope.

[Footnote A: I use, here, words corresponding to the Marchesa's.]

"He brought with him a friend whom he had met in the East. Together upon the summit of the great pyramid they had seen the day break over Cairo, and on the plain of Thebes had listened for Memnon to gush with music as the sun struck him with his rod of light. Together they had travelled over the sea-like desert, breaking the awful silence only with words that did not profane it. My brother conversing with wise sadness--his friend Luigi with hope and enthusiasm.

"Luigi was a poor man, and an artist. My brother was proud, but real grief prunes the foolish side of pride, while it fosters the nobler. It was a rare and noble friendship. Rare, because pride often interferes with friendships among men, where all conditions are not equal. Noble, because the two men were so, although only one had the name and the means of a nobleman. But he shared these with his friend, as naturally as his friend shared his thoughts with him. Neither spoke much of the past. My brother had rolled a stone over the mouth of that tomb, and his friend was occupied with the suggestions and the richness of the life around him. If some stray leaf or blossom fell forward upon their path from the past, it served to Luigi only as a stimulating mystery.

"'This is my memory,' he would say, touching his portfolio, which was full of eastern sketches. 'These are the hieroglyphics Egypt has herself written, and we can decipher them at leisure upon your languid lagunes.'

"It was not difficult for my brother to persuade Luigi to return with him to Venice. I shall not forget the night they came, as long as I remember anything."

The Marchesa paused a moment, dreamily.

"It was the eve of the Purification," she said, at length, pausing again. After a little, she resumed:

"We were ignorant of the probable time of Camillo's return; and about sunset my mother, my younger sister Fiora, and I, were rowing along the Guidecca, when I saw a gondola approaching, containing two persons only beside the rowers, followed by another with trunks and servants. I have always watched curiously new arrivals in Venice, for no other city in the world can be entered with such peculiar emotion. I had scarcely looked at the new comers before I recognized my brother, and was fascinated by the appearance of his companion, who lay in a trance of delight with the beauty of the place and the hour.

"His long hair flowed from under his slouched hat, hanging about a face that I cannot describe; and his negligent travelling dress did not conceal the springing grace of his figure. But to me, educated in Venice, associated only with its silent, stately nobles; a child, early solemnized by the society of decay and of elders whose hearts were never young, to me the magnetic charm of the young man was his youth, and I gazed at him with the same admiring earnestness with which he looked at the city and the scene.

"The gondolas constantly approached. My brother lay lost in thoughts which were visible in the shadow they cast upon his features. His head rested upon his hand, and he looked fixedly toward the island on which the convent stands. A light summer cloak was drawn around him, and hid his figure entirely, except his arm and hand. His cap was drawn down over his eyes. He was not conscious of any being in the world but Sulpizia.

"Suddenly from the convent tower the sound of the vesper bell trembled in throbbing music over the water. It seemed to ring every soul to prayer. My brother did not move. He still gazed intently at the island, and the tears stole from his eyes. Luigi crossed himself. We did the same, and murmured an Ave Maria.

"'Heavens! Camillo!' cried my mother, suddenly. He started, and was so near that there was a mutual recognition. In a moment the gondolas were side by side, and the greetings of a brother and sisters and mother long parted, followed. Meanwhile, Camillo's companion remained silent, having respectfully removed his hat, and looking as if he felt his presence to be profane at such a moment. But my brother turned, and taking him by the hand, said:

"'Dear mother, I might well have stayed away from you twice as long, could I have hoped to find a friend like this.'

"His companion smiled at the generosity of his introduction. He greeted us all cordially and cheerfully, and the light fading rapidly, we rowed on in the early starlight. The gondolas slid side by side, and there was a constant hum of talk.

"I alone was silent. I felt a sympathy with Camillo which I had never known before. The tears came into my eyes as I watched him gently conversing with my mother, turning now and then in some conversation with Luigi and my younger sister. How I watched Luigi! How I caught the words that were not addressed to me! How my heart throbbed at his sweet, humorous laugh, in which my sister joined, while his eyes wandered wonderingly toward mine, as if to ask why I was so silent. I tried to see that they fastened upon me with special interest. I could not do it. Gracious and gentle to all, I could not perceive that his manner toward me was different, and I felt a new sorrow.

"So we glided over the Lagune into the canal, and beneath the balconied palaces, until we reached our own. The gondolas stopped. Luigi leaped out instantly upon the broad marble pavement, and assisted my mother to alight, then my sister. Then I placed my hand in his, and my heart stood still. It was a moment, but it was also an age. The next instant I stood free upon the step. Free--but bound forever.

"We were passing up the staircase into the palace, Luigi plucked an orange bud and handed it to me. I was infinitely happy!

"A few steps further, and he broke an acacia for my sister: ah! I was miserable!

"We ascended into the great saloon, and a cheerful evening followed. Fascinated by these first impressions of Venice, Luigi abandoned himself to his abundant genius, and left us at midnight, mutually enchanted. Youth and sympathy had overcome all other considerations. We had planned endless days of enjoyment. He had promised to show us his sketches. It was not until our mother asked of my brother who he was, that all the human facts appeared.

"'Heavens!' shouted my younger sister, Fiora, laughing with delight, 'think of the _noble_ Marchese Cicada, who simpers, _per Bacco_, that the day is warm, and, _per dieci_, that I am lovelier than ever. Viva Luigi! Viva O il pittore.'

"'My daughter,' said my grave, cautious mother, 'you are very young yet--you do not understand these things. Good night, my child!'

"Fiora kissed her on the brow, and darted out of the room as if she were really alive.

"When she had gone, Camillo smiled in his cold, calm way, and turning to me, asked how I liked Luigi. I answered calmly, for I was of the same blood as my brother. I did not disguise how much superior I thought him to the youth I knew. I was very glad he had found such a friend, and hoped the young man would come often to see us, and be very successful in his profession.

"Then I was silent. I did not say that I had never lived until that evening. I did not say how my heart was chilled, because, in leaving the room, Luigi's last glance had not been for me, but for Fiora.

"Camillo did not praise him much. It was not his way; but I felt how deeply he honored and loved him, and was rejoiced to think that necessity would often bring us together; only my mother seemed serious, and I knew what her gravity meant.

"'Do not be alarmed, dear mother,' I said to her, as I was leaving the room.

"'My daughter,' she answered, with infinite pride, 'it is not possible. I do not understand you. And you, my daughter, you do not understand yourself nor the world."

"She was mistaken. Myself I did understand; the world I did not."

Again the Marchesa was silent and tears stood in her eyes. She was seventy years old. Yes, but in love's calendar there is no December.

"The days passed, and we saw Luigi constantly. He was very busy, but found plenty of time to be with us. His paintings were full of the same kind of power I felt in his character. He never wearied of the gorgeous atmospheric effects of which Titian and Paul, Giorgione and Tintoretto were the old worshippers. They touched him sometimes with a voluptuous melancholy in which he found a deeper inspiration.

"Every day I loved him more and more, and nobody suspected it. He did not, because he was only glad to be in my society when he wanted criticism. He liked me as an intelligent woman. He loved Fiora as a bewitching child.

"My mother watched us all, and soon saw there was nothing to fear. I sought to be lively--to frequent society; for I knew if my health failed I should be sent away from Venice and Luigi. He had given me a drawing--a scene composed from our first meeting upon the Lagune. The very soul of evening repose brooded upon the picture. It had even an indefinable tone of sadness, as if he had incorporated into it the sound of the vesper bell. It had been simply a melancholy sound to him. To the rest of us, who loved Camillo, it was something more than that. In his heart the mere remembrance of the island rang melancholy vespers forever.

"This drawing I kept in a private drawer. At night, when I went to my chamber, I opened the drawer and looked at it. It lay so that I did not need to touch it; and as I gazed at it, I saw all his own character, and all that I had felt and lived since that evening.

"At length the day came, on which the parents of Sulpizia came to my brother to speak of her portrait. Camillo listened to them quietly, and mentioned his friend Luigi as a man who could understand Sulpizia, and therefore paint her portrait. The parents were satisfied. It was an unusual thing; but at that time, as at all times, a great many unusual things could be done in convents, especially if one had a brother, who was Cardinal Balbo.

IV.

"It was a bright morning that Camillo carried Luigi in his gondola to the convent. He had merely said to him that there was a beautiful abbess to paint, an old friend of his; and Luigi replied that he would always willingly desert beautiful waters and skies for beautiful eyes. They reached the island"--

The Marchesa beat the floor slowly with her foot, and controlled herself, as if a spasm of mortal agony had seized her.

"They reached the island, and stepped ashore into the convent garden. They went into the little parlor, and presently the abbess entered veiled. My brother, who had not seen her since she was his playmate, could not pierce the veil; and as calmly as ever told her briefly the name of his friend, said a few generous words of him, and, rising, promised to call at sunset for Luigi, and departed."

The Marchesa now spoke very rapidly.

"I do not well know--nobody knows--but Sulpizia raised her veil, and Luigi adjusted his easel. He painted--they conversed--the day fled away. Sunset came. Camillo arrived in his gondola, and Luigi came out without smiling. The gondoliers pulled toward the city.

"'Is she beautiful?' asked Camillo.

"'Wonderful,' responded his friend, and said no more. He trailed his hands in the water, and then wiped them across his brow. He took off his hat and faced the evening breeze from the sea. He cried to the gondoliers that they were lazy--that the gondola did not move. It was darting like a wind over the water.

"The next day they returned to the island--and the next. But at sunset, Luigi did not come to the gondola. Camillo waited, and sat until it was quite dark. Then he went through the garden of the convent, and inquired for the painter. They sought him in the parlor. He was not there. The abbess was not there. Upon the easel stood her portrait partly finished--strangely beautiful. Camillo had followed into the room, and stood suddenly before the picture. He had not seen Sulpizia since she was a child. Even his fancy had scarcely dreamed of a face so beautiful. His knees trembled as he stood, and he fell before it in the attitude of prayer. The last red flash of daylight fell upon the picture. The eyes smiled--the lips were slightly parted--a glow of awakening life trembled all through the features.

"The strong man's heart was melted, and the nuns beheld him kneeling and weeping before the portrait of their abbess.

"But where was she?

"Nobody knew. There was no clue--except that the gondola of the convent was gone.

"Camillo took the portrait and stepped into his gondola. He returned to the city, to the palace of Sulpizia's parents. Slowly he went up the great staircase, dark and silent, up which his eager steps had followed the flying feet of Sulpizia. He entered the saloon slowly, like a man who carries a heavy burden--but rather in his heart than in his hands.

"'It is all that remains to you of your daughter,' said he in a low voice, throwing back his cloak, and revealing the marvellous beauty of their child's portrait to the amazed parents. Then came the agony--a child lost--a friend false.

"Camillo returned to us and told the tale. I felt my heart wither and grow old. My mother was grieved in her heart for her son's sorrow--in her pride for its kind and method. Fiora did not smile any more. Her step was no longer bounding upon the floor and the stairs, and the year afterward she married the Marchese Cicada.

"The next day, Camillo returned to the island. The abbess had not returned, nor had any tidings been received. Only the gondola had been found in the morning in its usual place. The days passed. A new abbess was chosen. The church did not dare to curse the fugitive, for there was no proof that she had willingly gone away. It might be supposed--it could not be proved. Camillo hung in his chamber the unfinished portrait, and a black veil shrouded it from chance and curious eyes. He did not seem altered. He was still calm and grave--still cold and sweet in his general intercourse.

"My friendship with him became more intimate. He saw that I was much changed--for although pride can do much, the heart is stronger than the head. But he had no suspicion of the truth. People who suffer intensely often forget that there are other sufferers in the world, you know. Camillo was very tender toward me, for he thought that I was paying the penalty of too warm a sympathy with him, and often begged me not to wear away my health and youth in commiseration for what was past and hopeless. I cultivated my consciousness of his suffering as a defence against my own. We never mentioned the names of either of those of whom we were always thinking; but once in many months he would call me into his chamber and remove the veil from the portrait, while we stood before it as silent as devotees in a church before the picture of the Madonna. Camillo pursued his affairs--the cares of his estate--the duties of society. He assembled all the strangers of distinction at his table. Yes, it was a rare and great triumph.

"For myself, I was mistress of my secret, and I reveal it to you for the first time. Why not? I am seventy years old. You know none of the persons--you hear it as you would read a romance. My heart was broken--my faith was lost--and I have never met since any one who could restore it. I distrust the sweetest smile if it move me deeply, and although men may sometimes be sincere, yet sorrow is so sure that we must steer by memory, not by hope. In this world we must not play that we are happy. That play has a frightful forfeit. Society is wise. It eats its own children, whose consolation is that after this world there is another--and a better, say the priests. Of course--for it could not be a worse.

V.

"Suddenly Sulpizia returned. My brother was in his library when a messenger came for him from her parents. He ran breathless and pale to his gondola. The man was conquered in that moment and the wild passion of the boy flamed up again. When he reached the Balbo palace he paused a moment, despite himself, upon the stairs, and the calmness of the man returned to him. Nature is kind in that to her noble children. Their regrets, their despairs, their lightning flashes of hope, she does not reveal to those who cause them. Every man is weak, but the weakness of the strong man is hidden. He entered the saloon. There stood Sulpizia with her parents.

"Death and victory were in her eyes. They were fearfully hollow; and the strongly-carved features, from which the flesh had fallen during the long struggles of the soul, were pure and pale as marble. It seemed as if she must fall from weakness, but not a muscle moved.

"Nothing was said. Camillo stood before the woman who had always ruled his soul, to whom it was still loyal. The parents stood appalled behind their daughter. It was a wintry noon in Venice--cold and still.

"'Camillo,' said Sulpizia at length, in a tone not to be described, but seemingly destitute of emotion--as the ocean might seem when a gale calmed it--'he has left me.'

"Child, I have not fathomed the human heart; but after a long, long silence my brother answered only, I know not from what feeling of duty and of sacrifice:

"'Sulpizia, will you marry me?'

* * * * *

"Cardinal Balbo arranged the matter at Rome, and after a short time they were married. I was the only one present with the parents of Sulpizia, who were glad enough so to cover what they called their daughter's shame. My mother would not come, but left Venice that very day and died abroad. The circumstances of the marriage were not comprehended; but the old friends of the family came occasionally to make solemn, stately visits, which my brother scrupulously returned.

"You may believe that we enjoyed a kind of mournful peace after the dark days of the last few years. I loved Sulpizia, but her cheerfulness without smiling was the awful serenity of wintry sunlight. She faded day by day. It was clear to us that the end was not far away.

"Two years after the marriage, Sulpizia was lying upon a couch in the room behind us, where you have seen the veiled portrait which hung in my brother's chamber. All the long windows and doors were open and we sat by her side, talking gently in whispers. I knew that death was at hand, but I rejoiced to think that much as he had suffered, there was one bitter drop that had been spared him.

"Sulpizia's voice was scarcely audible, and the deadly pallor deepened every moment upon her face. Camillo bent over her without speaking, and bowed his head. I stood apart. In a little while she seemed to be unconscious of our presence. Her eyes were open and her glance was toward the window, but her few words showed her mind to be wandering. Still a few moments, and her lips moved inaudibly, she lifted her hands to Camillo's face and drew it toward her own with infinite tenderness. His listening soul heard one word only--the glimmering phantom of sound--it was 'Luigi.'

"His head bowed more profoundly. Sulpizia's eyes were closed. I crossed her hands upon her breast. I touched my brother--he started a moment--looked at me, at his wife, and sunk slowly, senseless by the couch."

VI.

Think of it! The birds sing--the sun shines--the leaves rustle--the flowers bud and bloom--children shout--young hearts are happy--the world wheels on--and such tragedies are, and always have been!