CHAPTER VII.

JEALOUSY.

Che dolce più, che più giocondo stato Saria di quel di un amoroso core? Che viver più felice, e più beato, Che ritrovarsi in servitù di Amore? Se non fosse l'uom' sempre stimolato Da quel sospetto rio, da quel timore, Da quel martir, da quella frenesia, Da quella rabbia detta gelosia.

* * * * *

Questa è la cruda, e avvelenata piaga A cuí non val liquor, non vale impiastro, Nè murmure, nè imagine di saga.

ARIOSTO, XXXI.

Man no state more blissful knows Than what Love on life bestows; Then our happiest hours we prove When we are the slaves of love. But alas! how brief our bliss! Still suspicion's serpents hiss Round our heart, and that curs'd fear-- Frenzy--martyrdom--is near,-- Rage--that fires the heart and eye, Called by mortals Jealousy.

* * * * *

This, that cruel, poisoned wound For whose cure no herb is found; If that fatal dart we feel, Art nor charm nor skill can heal.

"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven." These are the words of Christ, and although I do not doubt that they have been understood according to the deep wisdom with which they were uttered, yet I will discourse a little, not upon them, for they have no need of comment, but after their instruction. Man should avoid those studies which make him doubt. He should love himself first, but in a just manner, then his family, then his country. There have been, and perhaps there still are, men who love their country more than themselves; but an acute observer will easily understand that sacrificing one's life (compared to which, everything else seems but of little value) is generally induced by a great love of praise and an uncontrollable thirst for fame; and that in truth they love renown better than life. The soul should be neither a Menade nor a Bacchante through the fields of knowledge; science has its fatal orgies, more than dissipation; the waters do not always flow clear, fresh, and sweet from its urn; they are sometimes poisoned. The tree of knowledge is not only, not the tree of life, but the Lord said to man:--"But of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, thou shalt not eat of it: for in the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die." The man who has seen too much, like Delia contemplating the sun, has become blind with too much light; his heart has turned to ashes, he is not exalted by anything, has faith in nothing; virtue and crime, morality and vice, sound the same to him, they are like sweet fruits in one country, and poisonous ones in another, the fault of the earth or the climate: the soul is to him a breath which ceases with death, home the place where he shelters his head from the storm: God a name.

Man should be satisfied to stop short at the _quia_:[44] for if he trusts himself to travel thus at random through the regions of knowledge, the evils resulting from this restless wandering would be equal to those which are the consequence of continual travelling throughout the physical world. The latter takes away his family, friends, and home: the former his faith and affections. Job truly compares too much knowledge to a heap of ashes, for it is in truth the most unhappy remains of a fire which will never burn again. I have already said the Creator should have suspended truth as the only luminary from the firmament: for then no one could have doubted its beneficial light and heat, as perhaps some have done of the Sun: and I say _perhaps_, since there have been men who doubted whether the sun was a mass of fire, believing it to be rather a mass of ice causing a rotary motion in the molecules of the air:--which is a German idea. Ahasuerus, the wandering Jew, represents the symbol of this insatiable desire of knowledge: he travels and travels over desert shores, over burning sands, over snowy fields: he has seen the cupola of St. Peter's, the mosques of Constantinople, and the temples of Brahma and Buddha: he has seen dogs, oxen, crocodiles, and serpents worshipped: even onions raised to the dignity of Gods!

Porrum et cepe nefas violare, ac frangere morsu. O sanctas gentes, quibus haec nascuntur in hortis Numina!--JUVENAL, _Satire_ 15.

He has seen bloodless sacrifices, sacrifices of blood and human victims; he has seen everything: he has forgotten all he knew, and all that he has learned is not sufficient to appease the feverish craving of his intellect: all that he wishes to know in order to satisfy his burning thirst, is inclosed within the urn of destiny: he hates to return home, for no one expects him there: his relatives are dead, generations have forgotten his name: he loves no one, and no one loves him: he refuses friends, rejects affections, and avoids binding ties which he MUST unbind to-morrow. Perhaps in that great day when God will reveal his eternal face to the vast multitude of created things, his agony will be appeased, and God will give him rest, not for having loved much, but because he suffered much.[45]

[44] The wherefore.

[45] Ahasuerus is said to be a Jew, who, while Christ was ascending Golgotha, denied Him water to quench his thirst, and would not let him rest beneath the shadow of his house; he was therefore condemned to wander, for ever cursed and despised. This legend, very common in Germany, is only a fable, as any one may see. Edgar Quinet composed a drama on this subject, the personages represented being sphinxes, winds, trophies of arms, ruins, rivers, and even the ocean. It cannot be denied, however, that among so many and so strange fancies, this drama contains some noble passages of splendid poetry.

_Be contented, race of man, at the quia_:--

State contente umane genti al quia, Che se potuto aveste veder tutto, Mestier non era partorir Maria.--DANTE.

else you will feel the earth tremble beneath your feet, and the heavens fall upon your heads. You grow up educated in the supreme idea of a Being who animates with the breath of his immortal mouth all that has life in the universe; who breaks the oppressor like a fragile reed, and shelters the oppressed under his mighty wing; but in travelling you will find people who neither know God nor worship Him; but make to themselves a God of dogs, serpents, oxen, elephants, and onions, and often of a monster hideous to look upon, but much more hideous in his bloody rites. It is piety in you to watch over your old infirm father, to comfort him in his last moments with loving cares, and close his eyes in peace; and yet there were and still are people, who esteem it filial piety to drag their parents from their suffering beds, and hanging them to the branches of trees, light beneath them great fires, crying in their giddy dance around them:--"when the fruit is ripe, it must fall,"--until the body falls and is consumed in the fire. And you, fathers in our beloved country, what sufferings would you not undergo, in order not to see your beloved children torn from your arms, or murdered?

In China, they offer children as food to dogs, or throw them into the river. In Africa they sell them; and Clapperton tells of a negro woman, who offered her children for sale to him, and because he would not buy them, cursed and beat them because they did not please the white man. We deem it sacred to bury our beloved dead within splendid monuments or tombs; elsewhere it is sacred to feed on their limbs. Remorse and public hate await him who can and does not save a drowning man: in China remorse and reproach are his reward who saves the shipwrecked sailor. We have laws and sentences against robbery, and the more skill and cunning do the thieves show, the more are they punished. The Spartans rewarded thieves, and the more skill they displayed the greater was the reward.

Nor is it to be supposed that the people among whom such horrible customs are practised cannot give a reason, good or bad, for it. They do not believe in God, because they do not understand Him; they are not able to conceive other ideas save those that present themselves to their senses, hence they refuse them. Foolish men! They presume that God should be demonstrated like a problem of Euclid upon a slate: for religion they want algebra, for an altar arithmetic, for a votive offering a well summed up account, for a minister an accountant. Others deem it a pity to cut short a life which has now become an irremediable grief; others deem their own bosoms a more suitable grave than earth or marble; others that it is a bold attempt to oppose the designs of nature; others that citizens early accustomed to subtle cunning are useful to the Republic. Travel and learn; and while you are urged by a strong desire to gather flowers from all the universe and rejoice in their delightful fragrance, behold the evil worm of doubt creeps insidiously into your heart and gnaws it. The sceptical heart is dead, but as the mind lives, we seem like people who have outlived ourselves: keepers almost of our own tombs.

Verily I advise you to be satisfied at the _quia_. Love much, read little, and let that be poetry, the purest wine of the soul, a precious ambrosia gushing from celestial fountains. And mark, I speak of lofty poetry, the offspring of the mind inflamed by the heart, for that poetry which comes from the intellect only, engenders doubt. Who would have been more fortunate than Byron? Did Nature ever create more powerful wings to soar to an immeasurable height? Who had a better heart, a clearer mind? But he wished to see and know too much, to scrutinize too minutely the genesis of the affections: a new Acteon, he received the penalty of his bold investigations: his own faithful hounds pursued him and tore him in pieces. As if for sport he wished to add the chord of doubt to his lyre; he thought it would increase the number of its varied sounds, but he deceived himself: this chord cut his fingers worse than a dagger's edge. The advice of Ephorus was most wise; he broke with an axe the new chord added to the Argive lyre. The lyres of Olympus and Terpander, when they accompanied the songs of gods and men, had but three chords: twelve were those of the lyre of Timotheus when he sang at the banquet of Alexander and Thais (from whence he who had acquired the name of Great derived his infamy), and at the burning of the ancient Persepolis: and three should be the chords of any lyre, that intends to lead mankind through all that is honorable and great upon the earth, to the eternal home of heaven; and these chords should be, _Love_, _Faith_, and _Hope_.

But what has all this to do with my story? You will see that it has a great deal to do with it, for, continuing, it will be shown how poor people, with the fear of God, and firm in the precepts of Christian charity, can give examples of virtue which might be sought in vain among men gifted with greater talents and more liberal instruction.

Duke Bracciano, in company with Cecchino and Titta, turned with slow steps towards the Casino St. Marco. The two servants now thought they might refresh themselves with food and drink, and give some repose to their wearied limbs: but they were deceived. The Duke, as soon as he entered, fell upon the first seat he saw, and remained there some time with his eyes closed: he lifted his hand to his head, and pressing it as if afraid it might burst, said: "Here everything poisons me! Here I breathe an atmosphere of crime! They have poured a hell into my soul! Arouse, Titta and Cecchino; you must now show your fidelity, courage, and discretion. Go to my palace, present yourselves to my Lady the Duchess: warn her ... but no ... wait. Bring me writing materials."

The landlord of the Casino brought promptly what he desired. The Duke tried to write, but his trembling hand denied its office: he could not hasten, but was obliged to wait. At last more calm, he wrote a short note, which he sealed, and gave to Titta, and then continued his interrupted orders:

"Do not warn her of anything: but give her this letter, and say you precede me by one or two days. _Remember I am not in Florence._ Observe attentively every act, note every word, and when it is spoken, or if she say anything, although it may seem of little importance, come cautiously and tell me. I shall not leave here.--Go, be faithful, do not fail in your duty to your master: you may shortly know ... know what you never should have known ... and what ... indeed! What I never should have told you."

And he dismissed them with a motion of his hand. The servants bowed obsequiously and left.

After walking about a dozen steps, Titta began thus: "I hope Fortune will, in the end, give us leave to sup; we have suffered more ill-luck in our supper than ever befell the Emperor Charles in his kingdom."

"I have been thinking, and have just decided, to leave the service of the Duke, and go to my own house near by."

"God help you, have you lost your wits? It sometimes happens when we travel in this season of the year beneath a hot sun."

"I have not lost my wits, Titta; no, I have not lost them. You see, when I engaged myself as man-at-arms for my Lord Duke, it was for a reason which I will tell you. My father lived in the time of the Republic, and gave me a bad inheritance, for instead of educating me to the times, he was always talking to me of Signor Giovanni of the black bands, of Giacomino, Ferruccio, and other like men, so that a fever took hold of me to follow in their footsteps, for I felt as if nature had endowed me with something: but I did not see in what way I could follow this inclination: the war with Siena was over, and yet I would have cut my hand off before I would have leagued with the assassins of those noble citizens. I married in order to quiet this wild disposition: it was all nonsense. I did not know how to settle myself to a mechanic's trade; thanks to Lady Isabella, who was foster-sister to my wife, I took service with my Lord Duke, trusting that he being made General by the Pope or Venetians, I might at least bear arms against the enemies of Christ, those ugly Turkish dogs whom God confound. But I have wasted the best years of my life in Rome without drawing even a spider from his hole, and my sword has rusted in its scabbard."

"Ah, yes! Death is so slow that it is really worth while to go and meet it. Is it not so much life found? Have you not got your wages? What can you do in this world better than to eat and sleep?"

"Why so? Were not the men whose fame sounds upon the lips of the people flesh and blood like us? Did they not bask in the same rays of light? Did not winter chill them, and summer warm them? Did they not weep and laugh? Were they not mortals like us?"

"Hear me, Cecchino; there are men who grow up like pines, others like grass: the latter is born every year, and every year is cut down with the scythe; it is left to dry upon the fields, and then is given to cattle. We are of the second species. The hay might say: I wish to be a pine! Just so one of us might presume to become duke, prince, or I know not what. When you shall have left one eye in Africa, one arm in America, one leg in Hungary, to the remaining trunk of your body, within which your immortal soul is sheltered like a garrison in the fortress of a castle, they will give the title of sergeant, and a couple of ducats for pay. Once, in republics, we had a chance to come out something: but nowadays glory is for great lords: it is our duty to be killed; so the best thing is to draw our pay, and preserve our health as well as we can. If life is an evil, death is a worse one. We call this world a valley of tears; but it would seem as if men liked to weep, for no one would ever leave it unless expelled from it."

"And supposing you are right, I never will eat bread gained through baseness and crime; it would break out my teeth, and turn to poison in my stomach. I wish to live in peace with myself."

"God help you! What do you want your master to do with your virtue? You remind me of Diogenes, who cried when brought to the market-place to be sold: 'Who wants to buy a master?' Virtue is a sail with which we make but little progress over the sea of life; in these times virtue is as useful as a warming-pan in August. Watchfulness over our master's safety, obedience to his commands, a German patience to wait in a corner, promptness to give a stab in the dark that despatches without giving time for a Jesu Maria, and a mystery in not having it discovered, will procure us all the fame that is granted us to acquire, and bread for ourselves and families...."

"No, never will I do this; no, by St. John the Baptist my protector; I pray him to give me an evil death first. Go, spy and tell. I would rather bite my tongue out than play the spy. Titta, do you not smell blood here? One of these days we must give an account of this bloodshed. And what pretext, what excuse can we give for it? Can we say: 'ask the account of our master?'"

"Indeed, you make me have some scruple; not for the blood, for this is part of our trade. They have really bought us soul and dagger, and to use it in a different way certainly than the Emperor Domitian; but the name of spy sticks in my throat ... besides, the Duke debases us without necessity. What need is there (for I see plain enough that here is the knot) for spies to know if a wife is unfaithful? Do you not think so, Cecchino? Would he be the first husband to find out that all is not gold that glitters? As it has been said: women are all of the same stamp!..."

"That is not true; I would swear now, you are saying what you do not believe, Was not your mother a woman?"

"Ah, yes! my mother was a woman; but I was not speaking, nor thinking of her just then; I said it of the others...."

"And do you not believe a woman can love?" ...

"I believe it, although it sometimes seems the contrary. Place yourself at the mouth of a cave, and utter a cry within it; the echo will repeat it six or seven times. But is the cry yours, or the cave's? Yours. It seems as if other voices replied to you, but you are deceived, for all these voices are one and the same thing as your own voice. So when you say to a woman:--I love you,--she will reply:--I love you, love you, love you;--but woe to you if you believe she said it by herself; it was the echo of your own voice, and woe to you if you fall in love with your own voice as Narcissus did with his own face...."

"Listen, Titta, I am young and of little experience; but I can see that your heart bleeds, perhaps from some deserved wound: you have not been loved, or have been betrayed; but have you ever loved?"

"I speak philosophically, without reference to myself. What I tell you is natural, and cannot be otherwise. Inconstancy is a fruit of youth like the fragrant red strawberry of spring; constancy is a fruit of mature age like the medlar of autumn;--therefore in woman virtue may be called the medlar of life! All beautiful things seem splendid in variety. Look at the rainbow, look at the dove's neck in the sunlight, look at the peacock's tail. Why do bees make sweet honey and wax? Because they fly from flower to flower. Women are moved by the same impulse as the bees. We are stupid creatures, to think of taking a soul and shutting it up in a cage like a bird, or nailing it down as a money changer does a ducat on his counter; even more cruel than stupid, after we are dead, we thrust a bony arm from the grave and presume to hold a poor woman by the hair. If she will keep herself a good widow,--the will says,--she shall have so much; if not, nothing;--very bad ideas in bad words; because we are dead, shall not others enjoy life?"

"All this would be very well, if life was a book, that we close on coming to the conclusion, and put away to see no more; but as we must think to meet again in the valley of Jehosaphat, if one's wife has had another husband, or even two, which will she have? With which shall she live to all eternity?"

"With the one she likes best; and there is no use to fret about that, since all shall have their turn; all shall be satisfied, if you only think of the length of eternity in women, which I have been assured by people worthy of belief, lasts all one week and sometimes a little over the next Monday."

"Go, go, you will die despairing, since you deny love.--Love, the sweetest union of spirits, two souls joined in one, redoubling strength and help, nourished by mutual sacrifices like the violet on dew."

"Nonsense, my boy, nonsense; love is an instinct of rapine, the agony of power, and the tenacity of possession. The love for a woman is like the love of property. Time was, but a time very, very distant, according to all accounts even before Adam, in which _mine_ and _thine_ meant nothing on the tongues of men; a traveller seeing a ripe fruit hanging from a tree, plucked and ate it. But one night certain envious men met together, and digging a pit around some land more fertile than the rest, said in the morning: no one shall pass beyond this pit, for the land here is our property.--People did not care though, and did the same as before. Then these envious men planted a stone on the limits, and threatened evil to whomsoever should dare to pass it. 'Twas of no more use than before; the excluded men looked upon it as a joke. Finally they put an axe upon the stone, and said: Whosoever passes beyond now, shall die.--But the excluded men laughed still more at this buffoonery and passed over; the others, however, lay in ambush, took them, and murdered them. Then the women wept, children cried, and property entered into the minds of men because they had cut off the heads of others."

"Pardon me, but where did you find all this nonsense? However bad it may be, it is not flour from your bag."

"Indeed it is not: if you could only have been so fortunate as to have heard it as I did from the lips of that great philosopher, that divine...."

"What divine?"

"Pietro Aretino."

"Ah! I do not want to hear any more. All have called him, and still do call him divine; which title, if it does not give testimony of his divinity, certainly bears witness to the extreme cowardice of the men who conferred it on him, or consented to it."

"You slander him; he was firm in his friendship, and had great affection for Sir Giovanni dei Medici of the black band, and followed him through hardship and danger in his most daring exploits...."

"This friendship spoils the fame of that renowned man. I know very well that while Sir Giovanni was fighting, he was dallying with the women of the camp...."

"That is not true, for he received some wounds."

"What of that? When did the receiving of a wound ever signify prowess? Even Achille della Volta stabbed him, and he received the wounds weeping and begging for life? And what reply did he make to Tintoretto when he measured him with a cutlass? He was smooth as oil. And when Piero Strozzi threatened to kill him in his bed, did he not shut himself up in his house, nailing doors and windows for fear of air?"[46]

[46] Achille della Volta stabbed severely the satirical poet Pietro Aretino in Rome, and on this account his arm was lame daring his lifetime. Tintoretto, the painter, hearing that Aretino spoke very badly of him, meeting him one day near his studio, invited him very courteously to walk in, and look at his pictures. Aretino went, and Tintoretto, after bolting the door, without saying a word went to a closet and took out a cutlass, and advanced with threatening aspect towards Aretino. "Alas! Tonio," exclaimed Pietro, trembling, "what do you mean to do? Do not allow yourself to be tempted by the devil! Would you kill me without sacrament, like a dog?" Tintoretto quietly approached him, who was trembling from head to foot, and measured him with the cutlass, and seeing he was almost ready to die with fright, said: "Fear not, Sir Pietro; for taking a fancy to paint your portrait, I wanted to measure you: you can go now; you are exactly three cutlasses and a half high!" and opening the door he dismissed him. Aretino always spoke well of Tintoretto after that. Aretino having been very intimate with John dei Medici of the black-bands, continued his attachment to the Grand Duke Cosimo his son, from whom he received many presents, as shown by his letters; therefore, adverse to Piero Strozzi at the time of the war with Siena, he wrote a humorous sonnet upon him, which began thus:

E, Piero Strozzi arma virumque cano, etc.

Piero, after that, warned him to carry the extreme unction in his pocket, for he would cause him to be murdered even were he in his own bed. Aretino, frightened, dared not go out of his house for a year or more. I cannot conclude this note without recording the epitaphs or _epigrams_, in the true meaning of the word (since the ancients meant by epigrams those funeral inscriptions, full of contumelies, written for men yet living), which Paolo Giovio and Pietro Aretino exchanged.

Giovio said:

Qui giace l'Aretin, poeta Tosco: Di tutti disse mal, fuorchè di Cristo, Scusandosi col dir: non lo conosco.

Here Aretino lies, in many a poem Who railed at all mankind save Jesus Christ, And this was his excuse: I do not know him.

And Aretino replied with this:

Qui giace il Giovio, storicone altissimo, Di tutti disse mal, fuorchè dell' asino, Scusandosi col dur, egli è mio prossimo.

Here Giovio lies, historian widely known, All he defamed, except the Ass alone; And when his friends, astonished, asked him why? He is my next of kin, was his reply.

"What can one do against people who take one unarmed and unawares? And if Piero made Duke Cosimo fear him, what wonder if the divine tried to guard himself from him? But what devotion he showed towards his children Austria and Adria? You should have seen how much he thought of them, and how careful he was to assure them a dowry in the hands of the Duke of Urbino, and how he recommended them to all his friends!"

"He loved them to sell them----"

"_Per Dio!_ Do not say so----!"

"Do not say so? I will say so while I have breath enough. What, do you think the shameful rumor of the death of this bad, villanous dog, never reached me? Did he not die with bursting into infamous laughter on hearing of some disgraceful stories of his sisters in Venice? Go, you are corrupt to the very bone. Go, eat the bread of blood: I swear to die of hunger first: go, keep your faith, and I mine. When your last hour comes you will see at your pillow the devil, who will erase the baptismal mark from your brow: I hope to see my virtuous and beloved wife, my good children, and the peace of angels. Let us part; you go alone to the Orsini palace."

"You see, I should get into a passion with you, and let you know that Titta never suffers an insult; but I also learnt this from the Divine, fortunate are they who proclaim the truth, if they do not get stoned. I will say at the palace, you are ill, or something else; I will frame an excuse to leave you time to give rest to your brain, and return to-morrow to your usual post."

"Thanks; I do not mean to return, and shall not. Titta! come here. Look, that is my house: I was born and brought up in it. Titta! do you not see a light in the window? Tell me; my eyes are full of tears, and do not see clearly. Holy Virgin! Is there not a woman in the balcony? Do I see right or wrong, Titta?"

"You see right; there certainly is a woman there."

"Oh, it is my Mary! Poor woman, she is waiting for me! Who knows how many nights she has passed at that window! Oh, what joy to see my dear kind Mary again!"

Thus exclaiming, he set out at such a rate that a wild goat could not have kept pace with him. Titta tried to recall him in vain, crying, "Cecchino, stop; Cecchino, hear!"

But he ran faster than ever. Weary and hot, Cecchino reached the door of his house, and scarcely had he called in a breathless voice, Mary!--before the woman replied,--Cecchino!--and with a cry of joy disappeared from the balcony and descended the stairs. In a few moments the street door opened, and these two beings rushed into each other's arms, mingling tears, kisses, and sobs, with such unrestrained passion, as to have caused deep emotion to any spectator.

Titta came up soon after, but found the door shut and bolted; he thought he would knock, but refrained, saying:

"I might as well knock at the door of a churchyard, and wait until our first father, Adam, came to open to me. _Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine._ Cecchino has certainly shown himself a fool. There is no use in getting anything out of him. God knows if I've not tried to do the best I could for him, as if he were my own son, and even tried to make a scholar of him. See now how a woman has upset the whole. It is useless! until the women are taken out of it, and men are not grafted like plum trees, the world will go on from bad to worse. But he is young; and young blood must have its way; to-morrow he will come back, a little cast down perhaps, but he will soon come back. Now, I must see to everything alone; but I will eat first, and then go to bed, and sleep as long as I please. And will my Lord Paolo Giordano wait? Certainly he must wait! I have no need of him: these masters expect us to be good and bad; amiable and quarrelsome; faithful and traitors; stupid and wise; angels and devils; then, never to eat, never to dress, and never to ask questions: in short, if a servant possessed half the qualities a master asks in him, there never would be so poor a one that did not deserve to have for servant a Marquis at least. Besides, what use is it to watch? Julia must be in the house. In less than five minutes I shall know more than I can remember or repeat; and even without so much loss of breath, if I choose to play the lover to her, who will dispute it? Certainly not she; our bond is lasting and strong; not limited, nor barren; we, instead of the individual, love the whole race: she, all the men; I, all the women; in this way there is no distance, no absence for us; we are always present, always in love; we are like pearls of the same necklace; we make a garland of every flower and crown our life with it. One flower does not make Spring; love is not comprised in one single affection." With these ideas revolving in his mind, Titta turned from Cecchino's house, delaying no longer his arrival at the palace.

I return more willingly now to Cecchino and Mary. Embracing each other and happy, they mounted, or rather flew, up the staircase, resembling two doves, hastening with outspread wings to their sweet nest. On reaching the room above they renewed their tender greetings: one questioned the other, and the other in reply questioned in turn; and not waiting for replies they poured forth a torrent of words burning with curiosity and passion. But this singular colloquy at last ceased, and laughing heartily, they exchanged kisses again. Mary, with sparkling eyes and blushing cheeks, first spoke: "Come, you are covered with dust and perspiration; let me bring water to wash your hands and face."

And she brought a basin of water; singing as happily as if it were a sunny noon, and not midnight; she then opened a chest-of-drawers, bringing out a towel of cleanest linen, fragrant with cassia flowers, assisting him in drying his face and hands upon it. Nor did her attention stop here, for a good wife is the dearest joy of a man's heart; but she sat down, and taking Cecchino's head in her lap, combed his hair nicely, freeing it of the dust, and arranging it smoothly around his neck. Then raising his head with both hands, looked smilingly in his face, exulting as a good and virtuous wife should, in a valiant, handsome husband, saying truly from her heart, as she kissed his brow:

"You look to me like an angel." ...

"But this angel," replied Cecchino, "not being as yet divested of its earthly clothing, is as hungry as one of Adam's children even can be."

"Indeed? I did not know you wanted anything. Why did you not say so before? Do not think you take me unprovided. You may find but little in your house, but enough to satisfy your wants."

"What could I do? We have travelled more than fifty miles without stopping. We arrived to-night, and never until we got here did we stop long enough to wet our lips."

"But did you not come with the Duke?"

"Yes, but it is not to be known. He did not stop at the palace. But more of this by-and-by."

"Yes, my dear, by-and-by."

She then set the table in the twinkling of an eye, not on account of the few dishes and little food she put upon it, but because of the great haste she made. The Florentines then had the reputation of being beyond measure frugal and parsimonious, well becoming all those who live honestly; and they still have it. Certainly they once were so; but it is not to be believed they suffered from it; and even by the laws called financial, often renewed, and strenuously enforced, we learn that civil parsimony did not spring up spontaneously, but in consequence of continual laws: we learn also that the statute allowed for dinner two viands alone, the roast and boiled, but the Florentines eluded it very easily by using various kinds of boiled and roasted meats, for the only boiled and roasted one prescribed by the statute. As to dress, Franco Sacchetti has recorded in his very pleasing novel, the great cunning shown by the ladies, by which the judges could never catch them transgressing, or even succeed in applying the laws to them. And when persons of high rank came to Florence, the citizens who entertained them paid the fine and displayed royal magnificence. The records of that time describe the manner Lorenzo the Magnificent entertained Franceschetto Cibo and his Court, when he came to marry his daughter; and this description serves to show how old is the fashion in all those who attempt to destroy the liberty of their country, in studiously observing appearances, in order to sharpen the axe to cut the substance. But then the chests were full of golden florins, the commerce great, industry wonderful, enterprises prodigious; and in those times designs were conceived and executed, that nowadays astonish us only to look at. Unjust then is the reputation that now exists of Florentine avarice; a recent testimony to it, we find in the satires of D'Elci, where he says:

----a te torno, o mia frugal Firenze, Dove avarizia ha splendide apparenze.

Many confirm this, but, as is often the case, rather upon the assertion of others than from real observation. The demon of luxury and idleness rules the Florentines at the present time: like all the other nations of Europe, I will not say that they do not believe, but they trust little to a celestial Paradise; they have built a new terrestrial one without the tree of knowledge. It matters little, if they pluck flowers of a day and let them wither; as long as they are renewed, it is enough; whatever endures, wearies; to live and enjoy comprises the extreme limit of their wishes. Once the age doubted between good and evil; and this was surely a great labor for both heart and brain, yet the labor itself gave a proof of life: now the age believes, yes, believes, but its belief is not in the good. We all live as if the physician had given us over; and it would seem as if we feared that to-morrow the heavens might not cover the earth: no more pyramids, no more obelisks; the longest work we dare to undertake is making a garland of flowers: the spider's web seems too secular a thing, we form ourselves into a number of beings born to devour the wheat. Let us then adorn the brows of our heroes with poppies, let sleep be the Epic of our age, yawning its history. Greater life awaits us in the grave than on this earth, at least during the period of putrefaction. No one can give us reasonable reproof: we are for the age, the age for us: the niche and the saint harmonize wonderfully. Why wear ourselves out in procuring a fame we hate? Why attend to studies which make us doubt an existence, which we with all kinds of violence try to steep in oblivion? Our children will grow up worse or better than ourselves: if worse, every argument will be in vain; if better they will be ashamed of our miseries. Better then to sleep, be silent, enjoy, and die. This is truly the triumph of death!

Two plates were placed opposite each other upon the table. All was ready, and yet Cecchino seemed to have no desire to taste the food he had craved; he kept his face turned towards the head of the table, and all at once a tear trickled down his cheek, and he gave vent to a deep sigh.

His wife, seeing this sudden despondency, said anxiously:

"Holy Virgin! What is the matter? What troubles you, my dear? Tell me quickly, do not keep anything from your poor wife...."

"Ah! Mary, do you not remember when last seated at this table we were three?"

A long silence succeeded these words; Mary was the first to break it:

"Mother Laudomia has certainly gone to heaven. With how much joy did she see her last hour approach? How she talked with saints, who seemed near her, to assist in her soul's transition. This life had become a burden to her; the sweet light of day no longer cheered her loving eyes; and your mother, Cecchino, would never have seen your face again. She died as a bride going to her nuptials, and happy in knowing you so well trained in the way of the Lord, that nothing would ever cause you to forsake it. Her last thought was God's, her last but one yours. Tell him--she enjoined upon me in her last words--tell him I bless him, tell him his children shall honor him, because he was kind to his mother; and at last, when weary of life, his mother shall await him in heaven. Therefore be comforted, and do not give way to sorrow...."

"Certainly the good woman was old, and is now a dweller in a heavenly home; but it would have been a great comfort to me if I could have seen her again...."

"And how do we know but while we are talking she is near us? If, as we believe, we are soul and body, and that the soul feels love, may not God grant it to return and visit persons and places that were dear to it in this world? Console yourself, Cecchino; for time passes, and it is not always the worst thing to die, sometimes it is to live...."

Cecchino at last began to eat, but the desire for food had passed, so that the repast was soon finished; perhaps he drank, however, more than he meant. His wife, partly through curiosity, and partly to distract his sad thoughts, turned the conversation upon the Duke.

"The Duke has arrived, then?"

"He has; but I must look out for employment elsewhere?"

"Why; has he sent you away?"

"No, I left on my own account.... But you shall hear: although I know it is best not to trust secrets to women's ears, yet having always found you faithful and discreet, I will hide nothing from you. The Duke has come, and, as I believe, with bad intentions. We entered Florence mysteriously, and silently, by night; he talked a long time with his brother-in-law, and went cautiously afterwards to some rooms in the Casino of St. Marco; he remained there alone, sending me with another follower to tell Lady Isabella that to-morrow, or the day after, he would arrive: meanwhile we were to watch every word and deed, then come and report it carefully to him...."

"For what reason?"

"The reason is plain enough," replied Cecchino, lowering his voice; "the rumor of Lady Isabella's way of life has reached as far as Rome; I firmly believe that he has come to avenge his honor in the blood of his wife; and I would not give a ducat for the Duchess's life from this time."

"But is there no way of saving this unfortunate lady?"

"None; for it seems her brothers want to punish her more than her husband; besides, she should receive the penalty due to her crime; and if I, instead of going to spy her actions, thus becoming a participator in her death, staining my hands with her blood, have chosen to take voluntary leave of the Duke, I do not for that feel disposed to run any danger for one who does not deserve it."

"Oh, how can you talk so? Then the fair name of a noble lady may be in the power of the first low fellow who chooses to contaminate it? Do you think that merely the slanderous charge of so grievous a crime must be revenged by so cruel a punishment?"

"Conviction has no need of witnesses or instruments: and when the people speak, God has spoken: if it is not a wolf, it is the shadow of one."

"And supposing I allow, although against my will, that she is guilty, tell me, who has given the Duke a right upon the life of his wife? Has this judge a clear conscience? Is the accuser himself innocent? Has this priest pure hands? And if he is not innocent, why dares he to judge and condemn in others the guilt he has himself committed?"

"Oh! it is a far different thing in a man than in a woman. She brings children into the family that should never be there, divides property among persons with whom it should never be shared: the suspected illegitimate child is shunned by all; they scorn him, and he hates them; and we have too often seen that these bad buds bring forth in families bloody fruits."

"That is not so; for do you ever see a man who bringing forth children out of a house, abandons them? And if he does, the world blames him, and his conscience reproves him for it; and if he provides for them, does he not unjustly diminish the property of his legitimate children? No; equal are the duties, equal is the crime, and equal should be the pardon or the punishment."

"Yet it is not so, and I do not believe as you say. There must be a reason for it, although I do not know one...."

"Listen, you cannot find one, because there is none; if there was, it would come into your mind spontaneously. Thinking within myself I have seen that the world rests upon certain principles, called truths: some of them you can see and touch; and great scholars as well as fools agree to them, and say--it is right;--others, though, are not understood, they seem like alchemy, and we must distil our brains over them to make them comprehensible. The first seem to me lawful money, the second spurious; the first comes from nature, the second from artifice."

"Ah! good women should not reason so skilfully, but obey the laws men make for them...."

"A violent law, an unjust judge, a wicked punishment."

"In God's truth, you have become such a reasoner, that I am afraid. Who put such immodest words into your mouth?"

"Reason...."

"Or perhaps the necessity of defending your own evil deeds?" And maddened by anger, Cecchino took a knife from the table, and passing it through the tablecloth, stuck it nearly an inch into the table. Poor Mary, excited in favor of her mistress, took no notice of this; but with obstinate petulance continued:--"What deeds are you imagining? I tell you there should not be two weights and two measures, and there are not...."

"It is well. Although I have no other proof of your own baseness, and the Duchess's also, than your present boldness, it would be enough for me, perhaps too much. Were these the joys, these the greetings and the kisses, I looked for? Alas, miserable man!..."

Mary, struck by the changed aspect of her husband, asked what sudden thought had troubled him; but he paid not attention to her, and, like a man bewildered, he murmured threateningly:

"Ah! Titta, your words were true as gospel.--And I was going with so much joy to meet a beloved wife! Better for me if I had broken my legs; were husbands watch-dogs they never could be able to guard their wives:--the thieves would enter by the roof. I will kill myself: everything in the world is over for me. But you need not rejoice in my death, Mary;--No, I vow to God my curse shall cleave to you like marrow in the bone. You have betrayed me, you shall be betrayed; unhappy days, a dark life and bitter death await you...."

In the midst of these laments, which passion drew from him, the noise of a child crying was heard in the next room, and an infantile voice called:--

"Mama!--Mama!"

Cecchino's hair stood upright on his head like the quills of a porcupine, his face was pale as a sheet, and then turned as red as fire; his lips trembled convulsively, his eyes gleamed with evil passion, and overcome by a brutal rage he seized Mary by the arm, and dragged her into the next room. Scarcely had they passed the threshold than a little child on the bed sat up, and stretching its little hands joyfully towards Mary, cried again:

"Mama!--Mama!"

Cecchino, pale with rage, pushed Mary with so much force from him that she fell against the bed, and upon the child.

Overcome by surprise, anger, fear, and by the turn of affairs, she could not utter a word: but her anger soon gave place to pity. Her heart was almost broken by so many conflicting emotions: she glided from the bed, and knelt down, crossing her hands humbly, before her angry husband. But he, becoming more enraged at this act, muttered:

"No ... you must die ... we must all die ... there is no pity ... I want none for myself ... think then if you deserve it ... or this viper...."

Mary sobbed:

"Cecchino!... Cecchino!... hear me,"--but could say no more.

"Prepare to die ... you have one hour ... half an hour; ... no, ... only five minutes of life...."

"Hear me, ... let me speak...."

"Make your peace with God; ... but it is useless; traitors cannot enter heaven...."

"I cannot...."

"Have you finished?"

Mary, in agony, unable to utter a single word, made a sign of denial with her hand; and its expression was indescribable. Ineffable sorrow oppressed her to think that a few words might calm this tempest, soothe the anger, save so many dear lives, and yet she could not utter a word. Cecchino, as if possessed with a devil, impatient of delay, his passions becoming more cruel in the thought of bloodshed, could hardly wait, so anxious was he to stain his hands with her blood. Poor woman!

"If you are not anxious to end this, know that I am eager to begin...."

Unsheathing his dagger, he stretched out his hand to grasp her. Mary, uttering a cry, fell senseless to the ground. Cecchino, his heart closed to pity, did not wait; he bent down to plunge his dagger in her bosom, and tearing her clothes aside, saw with wonder a letter drop from them: fancying it might be from the hated betrayer of his happiness, he was glad to think that now his revenge might reach even him. Taking up the letter and drawing nearer to the light, he read on the outside:

"To Her most Christian Majesty, Catherine, Queen of France."

He thought he dreamed: he looked again; it was the same as before. He then opened the letter, and read:

"Most Honored as a Mother:--Considering the heinousness of my sins, and the punishment that may befall me on this earth, striving to obtain through God's infinite mercy that pardon which I humbly beg with all my mind, I have decided not to avoid the fate, whatever it may be, which Providence prepares for me. But in following this decision, which my guardian angel seems to have awakened within me, I cannot, nor ought I to include in my ruin an innocent being, and one most worthy of commiseration. I therefore confide this child of my sorrow to your pity: remember that its cradle is girded by serpents, and its life is like the life of a wild beast of the woods, which every man thinks he has a right and a reason to pursue. No less than the prudence and authority of a wise and powerful Queen like yourself is necessary to save this miserable being: except that I have good cause to hope in the woman to whom I trust this child: she leaves country, home, and kindred, to console me with brief comfort, in order to consign him to your Royal Highness's care, as his surest haven of safety. This woman is my foster sister: born and educated in the way of the Lord, I cast her off in my hour of sin, and she returns voluntarily to me in that of misfortune. The urgency of the case not admitting of delay, she sets out alone by my eager request; but I will strive to have her dear husband join her shortly. Both young and faithful, deserving of the kindness of your Royal Highness, I pray you to give them the greatest favors which your royal heart is so ready to bestow on all, and especially to those who in the service of your kindred and royal family assume a responsibility in manifest danger of their own property and lives. I have no more to say, except to beg your Highness, for the love of Jesus Christ our Saviour, to take under your protection this miserable being. God will give you that reward which I cannot. Look upon these words, your Majesty, as on the dying ones of a relative;--this is my testament;--and with this faith to die resigned and contrite, who would else have ended her life despairing and blaspheming. When your Highness shall have received the news of my death, which I foresee is inevitable, be pleased to remember me in your prayers, and aid my soul. I wish you in this world all that happiness which your glorious mind and magnanimous heart knows so well how to create; and kissing your hands I sign myself a most unworthy, but yet affectionate child of your Majesty,

"ISABELLA, DUCHESS OF BRACCIANO."

Cecchino perceived his error before coming to the end of this epistle, his anger departed, and his heart, having experienced so many passions, gave way in a burst of tears. He put the letter aside; he had already thrown his dagger away, and turning with tearful eyes towards Mary, raised her head, calling her by a thousand endearing names. But the poor woman gave no sign of life, and in her fall had struck so heavily that she had bruised the skin behind her ear, causing it to bleed. It seemed for a moment as if Cecchino was about to faint: but the thought of providing for his wife's safety sustained him: he carefully bound up the wound, placed her upon the bed, and tried to restore her with water, vinegar, burnt feathers, and all such means; but she did not revive. He then broke forth in laments; sighed and raised his eyes beseechingly towards heaven. Desperate at last he lay down by her side, embracing her, and bathing her with tears, covering her face with kisses, and exclaiming between his sobs:

"Oh, God, let me die by her side!"

But God intended him no such misfortune, and scarcely had he proffered these words, before Mary, uttering a deep sigh, opened her eyes, forgetful of what had occurred. Cecchino knelt before her, not daring to open his mouth; and Mary, by degrees, began to recollect past events, sat up, and seeing the letter, guarded so jealously by her, open, turned towards Cecchino, and, smiling languidly, said:

"Of little faith, why did you doubt?"

Then looking towards the window, and seeing the stars, added:

"Cecchino, we have no time to lose. They will come for us in a few moments. While I dress the child you must pack your own clothes, and sew the gold and jewels of the Duchess among them: all the rest is provided."

Cecchino, having no will of his own, passively obeyed her orders: so many, so various, and so deep had been the passions he had experienced in such a short time, that he felt almost annihilated; but whatever faculty of thinking and wishing still remained to him, would not have been opposed to the desires of his wife, who, animated by the spirit of charity, sacrifice, and love, appeared to him a being more akin to angels than mortals. He loved and worshipped her as something holy. Of such, and so sudden transitions is the mind capable in this world! Miserable intellects in the power of passion, like a fragile skiff agitated by the tempestuous ocean, we weep, we laugh, and, but this is more important, we pass on to deeds, which as they take from us the dignity of men, and peace of mind, also render us in this life deserving of the scorn of men, and in the next of God's disdain.

Mary was not deceived; for a short time had scarcely elapsed before two men appeared at the house door, knocking cautiously, and saying in a low voice to Cecchino, who opened the window, to come down, for all was ready. Mary went first with the child; Cecchino followed with a chest containing a few clothes. Taking the first step out of the door he turned back, sighing:

"I leave you, never to see you again!"

When they had all descended, Mary, wondering not to see Cecchino by her side, called him, and was about to go back, when he came hastily, and said in a low tone:

"I remembered my mother's rosary at the head of the bed, and went back for it. If it had belonged to your mother you would not have forgotten it."

Mary pressed his hand, for she knew she had no defence, but the accusation pleased her.

They walked some distance in silence, and found a carriage waiting for them near the corner of the Giglio, behind St. Lorenzo; they entered it, and drove towards the gate San Frediano. As they drew near it, one of the men descended, and calling the gatekeeper, exchanged a few words with him, whereupon he opened the gate. Then, turning back, told his companion to descend, adding:

"You can go on now--pleasant journey--God be with you."

Mary had already guessed, and the dawn which began to appear confirmed her supposition, this man was the Knight Lionardo Salviati; she, therefore, took courage to call to him, saying:

"Do me the favor of listening one moment, Sir?"

And the Knight stopped to listen.

"Sir Lionardo," she murmured in his ear, "when you see her, assure her that the child is safe: tell her also my husband is with me, and she need trouble herself no more about it. Save her, if you can, for her death without your aid is certain. The property I have left behind me, please tell your friend Don Silvano to sell, and use it all in masses for the dead and ... for the dead, according to my desire."

"It shall be done."

Sir Lionardo then closing the door, ordered the driver to proceed. Mary, in speaking of the dead, meant Isabella! But there still remaining to her a very faint ray of hope, she did not wish to destroy it with this sad commission: but she believed in her heart that having given it for her beloved dead, she included among them the soul of poor Isabella.