Chapter 36

"'There arose, one day, before this picture, a somewhat idle discussion as to whether, in painting it, the painter's intention had been merely to portray a momentary situation (adequately represented by the picture) of an old man, incapable, notwithstanding all his magnificence and splendour, of satisfying the longings of a young and loving heart, or to record an actual historical event. Weary of this discussion the members of the group dispersed, till at length only two staunch lovers of the noble painter's craft were left.

"'"I do not know," the one of them began, "why it is that people spoil all their own enjoyment by these perpetual childish explainings and explainings. Not only do I consider that I see perfectly well what the painter meant by his doge and dogaressa--the idea which he intended them to express--but I am struck, and impressed, in a quite unusual degree, by the shimmer of richness and power which is spread over the whole of this work. Look at that flag with the winged lion, how it seems to control the world as it flutters in the breeze. Oh! glorious Venice!"

"'And he began to repeat Truandot's riddle concerning the Lion of the Adriatic.

"'"Dimmi qual sei quella terribil fera," &c., &c.

"'Scarcely had he finished doing this, when a sonorous male voice broke in with Calaf's answer to the said riddle:

"'"Tu, quadrupede fera," &c.

"'Unnoticed by the friends, a man had taken up his position behind them; a man of very distinguished appearance, having a grey cloak cast, artist-like, over his shoulders, who was contemplating the picture with sparkling eyes. A conversation commenced between them, and the stranger said, in a tone which was almost solemn:

"'"It is a strange mystery that, often, a picture dawns in a painter's mind, of which the characters--previously mere irrecognizable, bodiless mist, driving about in the atmosphere--seem, for the first time, to assume form in his brain, and to find their home there, and, of a sudden, the picture binds itself up with the past, or perhaps with the future, and represents something which has happened, or is to happen hereafter. Kolbe may not be aware himself, as yet, that in that picture of his he has painted none other than the Doge Marino Falieri and his wife, Annunziata."

"'The stranger paused; but the two friends begged him to solve this riddle for them as he had done that of the Lion of the Adriatic."

"'So he said, "If you have the necessary patience, gentlemen, I will at once give you the solution of the riddle, in the shape of the story of Falieri. The question is, _have_ you the necessary patience? For I mean to be exceedingly circumstantial; because, were I not to be so, I should much prefer not to speak of these matters at all--though they are as vividly present to my eyes as if I had actually witnessed them. There is nothing strange in this; for every historian (and _I_ am a historian) is a species of ghost, telling of things bygone."

"'The friends accompanied the stranger to a room at some little distance; where, without further prelude, he went on, as follows:--

"'"A long, long time ago--if I mistake not, it was in the month of August of the year 1354--the great Genoese General Paganino Doria had utterly routed the Venetians, and taken their town of Parenzo by storm. In the gulf, close before Venice, his well-manned galleys were cruizing up and down, like hungry beasts of prey running backwards and forwards, watching how best to grasp their quarry. Deadly terror took possession of the Signoria and populace. Everybody who could carry arms took to their weapons or to their oars. They collected their forces and treasure at the harbour of San Nicolo. Ships and trees were sunk, and chains fastened together, to block the passage against the enemy. Whilst the weapons and the armour clanged and clattered, and the heavy masses went thundering down into the sea, agents of the Signoria were to be seen on the Rialto wiping the perspiration from their pale foreheads, and offering, in hoarse accents and with distracted faces, cent, per cent. for ready cash; for even of that the troubled republic was in urgent need. But it was decreed in the mysterious councils of Eternal Providence that just at this season of the extremest trouble and necessity the faithful shepherd of this distracted flock should be taken away from them. The Doge, Andrea Dandulo, whom his people styled 'The dear little Count' (_Il caro Contino_)--because he was always kind and good, and never crossed the square of San Marco without being prepared with money or good advice for all who needed either--died, worn out by fatigue and anxiety. And as those who are disheartened by misfortune feel doubly every blow, which at another time they would scarcely notice, the people were overwhelmed with sorrow when they heard the bells of San Marco announcing in hollow tones of sadness the death of their ruler. Their hope and stay was gone; they cried aloud that they would have to bow their necks to the yoke of Genoa; although, as concerned the warlike operations, the death of Dandulo did not seem such a great disaster. For the little Count liked to live in peace and comfort; he was fonder of watching the mysterious courses of the stars than of studying the enigmatic turnings and windings of statecraft; he knew better how to duly order an Easter procession than how to lead an army to battle. The desideratum now was the choice of a Doge who should possess both the generalship and the diplomatic skill necessary to rescue Venice from the clutches of her enemy, more daring every day and hour. The Senators met; but nothing was seen save troubled faces, eyes fixed on the ground, and heads leaned on the hand. Where should a man be found capable of grasping the helm with vigorous, strenuous hand, and steering the vessel of the State safe through the storm?

"'At length the oldest of the senators, Marino Bodoeri, began to speak.

"'"Here," he said, "around us or about us, he is not to be found. But turn your eyes to Avignon, to Marino Falieri, whom we sent to congratulate Pope Innocent on his election. He might be better employed now. If we make him Doge he will weather this storm. You will say he is well on to his eightieth year, with his hair and his beard turned to silver; that his vigorous aspect, his gleaming eyes, and the rosy tint of his nose and cheeks are due (as evil tongues choose to say) more to good Cyprus wine than to toughness of constitution. What matter! Remember the brilliant courage he displayed when he was Proveditor of the Black Sea Fleet. Think of the deserts which moved the procurators of San Marco to reward him with the rich Countship of Valdemarino."

"'Thus did Bodoeri paint Falieri's merits in the most brilliant colours, and refute, in advance, all objections to him, till every vote was at length given in his favour. It is true many had a good deal to say of his violent temper, his lust for power, and his self-will. But on the other hand it was urged, "It is because all _that_ has, in his old age, passed away from him that we choose the aged--not the youthful--Falieri." Hostile voices such us these fell silent as soon as the populace, on hearing of his election, broke forth into boundless rejoicing. In time of danger, disquiet, and anxiety, any decision, so long as it is a decision, is looked upon as a divine inspiration.

"'So the "dear little Count," with all his gentleness and kindliness, was clean forgotten, and everybody cried:

"'"By Saint Mark, this Marino ought to have been our Doge long ago; and then we should not have had this presumptuous Doria upon our shoulders." And maimed soldiers held up their arms, and cried:

"'"This is that Falieri who vanquished Morbassan; this is the valiant leader whose victorious banners waved in the breezes of the Black Sea." Wherever the populace were collected some one would tell of old Falieri's heroic deeds; the sky rang with wild shouts of joy, as if Doria were beaten already. Moreover, Nicolo Pisani (who--heaven only knew why--had sailed quietly off to Sardinia, instead of going with his fleet to encounter Doria) came back at last. Doria withdrew from the gulf; and what the return of Pisani's fleet had effected was unanimously ascribed to the terrible name "Falieri." The populace and the Signoria were seized by a sort of fanatical ecstasy at the fortunate selection; and it was determined that the new Doge should be welcomed on his arrival as if he were some messenger of heaven bringing with him honour, wealth, and victory. The Signoria sent twelve nobles, each escorted by a numerous and brilliant retinue, to Verona, where the envoys of the Republic were to announce to Falieri, on his arrival, his elevation to the leadership of the State. Fifteen richly decorated galleys, prepared for the occasion by the Podesta of Chioggia, and under command of his son, Taddeo Giustiniani, received the Doge and his following at Chiozzo. He thence proceeded to St. Clemens (where the Bucentoro was waiting for him) in a triumphal procession like those of the mightiest and most victorious monarchs.

"Just at this time, namely, when Marino Falieri was about to step on board the Bucentoro (and this was on the evening of the third of October, as the sun was beginning to set), a poor unfortunate fellow was lying stretched out upon the marble pavement under the pillars of the Palace. A few rags of striped canvas, whose colour had ceased to be distinguishable, and which seemed to have belonged to a costume such as the commonest sort of boatmen and porters wear, hung about his attenuated limbs. Nothing in the nature of a shirt was visible save the poor fellow's own skin, which peeped out everywhere, but was so fine and white and delicate that the very noblest in the land might have displayed it without shyness or shame. Also the very leanness of his limbs set off the pureness of their symmetry. And when one saw the bright chestnut locks, all wild and dishevelled, which shaded the beautiful forehead; the blue eyes, darkened only by comfortless poverty; the aquiline nose; the delicately formed mouth, of this unfortunate, it was clear that it must have been some most adverse fate which had sent this well-born stranger crashing down in amongst the lower classes of the people.

"'As we have said, this poor youth was lying in front of the pillars of the Palace, with his head resting on his right arm, gazing motionless far out to seaward with a fixed gaze, from which thought was absent. One would have thought that life had left him, and that the death-agony had turned him into a stone image, had he not sighed deeply now and then, as in the most unutterable sorrow. This was probably from the pain in his left arm, which he had stretched out on the pavement, and, being wrapped in blood-stained rags, seemed to be badly hurt.

"'All labour was at rest, the noise of business was silent; all Venice was afloat in boats and gondolas, going to meet and welcome the much-prized Falieri. Thus the unfortunate youth in question was sighing forth his sufferings in uncomforted helplessness. But even as his weary head sank back on the pavement, and he seemed near to fainting, a hoarse, grating voice called, several times:

"'"Antonio! my dear Antonio!"

"At length he raised himself into a half-sitting position, and, turning his head towards the pillars of the Palace, from behind which the voice seemed to proceed, he said, in a faint, weary voice, scarcely audible:

"'"Who is it who calls me? Who has come to cast my body into the sea? For it will soon be all over with me."

"Then an old, old woman, coughing and wheezing, and leaning on a stick, came hobbling up to him, and, as she leant over him, broke out into a repulsive, unpleasant kickering and laughing.

"'"Silly boy!" she whispered; "going to die here, just when golden good-fortune is dawning upon you? Look before you; look before you there! That is all I ask of you! Look at those flames that light up the evening sky. They are _zecchini_ for you. But you must eat, dear Antonio; you must eat and drink. It is nothing but hunger--fasting--that has brought you so low, and laid you down here on the cold stones. Your arm is better now; better again now."

"Antonio recognised in this old woman the strange beggar wife, who was always sitting on the steps of the Franciscan Church, asking alms of the pious, always chuckling and laughing as she did so; and to whom he had often, from a strange indescribable inward inclination, thrown a hard-earned _quattrino_: he had not a great many to spare.

"'"Leave me in peace, crack-brained creature!" he said. "I suppose it is fasting, more than the hurt, which makes me weak and miserable. I haven't earned a single _quattrino_ for the last three days. I wanted to go over to the monastery, to see if I could get a spoonful or two of soup; but the comrades are all away. Not a soul would take me into his boat for compassion. So I have fallen down here; very likely I shall never get up again."

"'"He-he-he-he!" snickered the old woman: "why despair at once and lose heart? You are hungry and thirsty. There's help at hand for that. Here's some nice dried fish, bought this morning at the Zecca. Here's lemon-juice, and a nice white loaf. Eat, my son; eat and drink, my son! and then we'll have a look at the wounded arm."

"'She had taken the fish, the bread, and the lemon-juice out of the sort of bag which she wore at her back, sticking up over her head something like a cowl. As soon as Antonio had moistened his lips with the lemon-juice his hunger awoke with redoubled might, and he eagerly devoured the fish and the bread. The old woman meanwhile was busily removing the bandages from his arm, when it was evident that, though the hurt had been severe, it was healing now, fast. As she rubbed it with a salve which she took out of a little box, warming it with her breath, she said:

"'"Who was it who gave you the blow, poor little son?"

"'Antonio, refreshed, and aglow with new fire of life, had risen upright. Raising his clenched right hand, he cried, with gleaming eyes:

"'"That scoundrel Nicolo wanted to kill me, because he grudges and envies me every _quattrino_ which any benevolent hand gives me. You know that I used to gain a hard-earned livelihood by carrying cargo from the ships and boats to the German's warehouse, the Fontego, as they call it; you know the building, of course?"

"'When Antonio pronounced the word "Fontego," the old woman began to kicker and laugh in a horrible manner, and went on repeating the word "Fontego, Fontego, Fontego," in a chattering, senseless way.

"'"Silence that nonsensical laughter of yours, old lady, if I am to go on with my story," Antonio cried. She was silent at once, and he continued.

"'"Well, I had earned a _quattrino_ or two, bought a new jacket, and came among the gondoliers as one of themselves. And, because I was always in good spirits, worked hard, and knew plenty of nice songs, I earned many a _quattrino_ more than the others. And this awakened their envy; they slandered me to my master, and he turned me away. Wherever I went they cried "German dog! damned heretic!" after me; and three days ago, when I was helping to haul a boat on shore near San Sebastiano, they set upon me with stones and sticks. I defended myself like a man, but that brute of a Nicolo hit at me with an oar, grazing my head, and struck me so hard on the arm that he knocked me down. But now you have filled me with a good meal, old lady; and there can be no doubt that I feel your salve has done my arm good. See how I can move it; I shall be able to row as well as ever almost directly."

"'He had risen from the ground, and was swinging his hurt arm backwards and forwards vigorously. But the old woman cackled and laughed loud again, and cried, tripping and dancing about in narrow circles, in a strange way:

"'"Row! row! my little son! Row, like a man! It is coming! it is coming!--the bright gold, glowing in grand flames! Row! row! like a man!--just _once_ more, and then, never again."

"'Antonio was paying no further attention to the old woman's proceedings, for a splendid spectacle had now begun to be visible to his eyes. Up from San Clemens the Bucentoro was advancing with resounding stroke of oars, and the Lion of the Adriatic on her fluttering standard; like some golden swan of powerful pinions, surrounded by thousands of boats and gondolas, she seemed, as she lifted her proud, royal head on high, to lord it over a jubilant multitude which had arisen, with glittering heads, from the deep abysses of the ocean. The evening sun was casting glowing rays over the sea, and over Venice, so that everything lay steeped in naming fire. But as Antonio, in utter forgetfulness of his troubles, was gazing at this sight, the glow grew bloodier and bloodier. A sullen hum came through the air, given back like some fearful echo by the deeps of the sea. A storm came sweeping up on black clouds, shrouding everything in thick darkness; the waves rose higher and higher, like hissing, foaming monsters, threatening to overwhelm everything. The boats and the gondolas were driven in all directions, like feathers before a gale. The Bucentoro, unfit, from her build, to weather the squall, drove hither and thither. Instead of the glad festive tones of the trumpets and cornets, rose cries of terror from those in danger on board of her.

"'Antonio looked before him in amazement. Close to him he heard a clanking of chains. He looked down, and saw that there was a little skiff made fast to the quay, bounding up and down on the surges. Like a lightning-flash a thought struck his mind. He jumped into the skiff; cast it adrift; took hold of the oars, and stood bravely out to sea, making straight for the Bucentoro. The nearer he got to it, the more distinctly he heard the cries for help of those on board--

"'"Save the Doge!--Save the Doge!"

"'It is well known that, in squalls of this description, small boats such as the one he was in are much more sea-worthy, and easier to handle, than such large craft as the Bucentoro; and consequently many of them came hurrying up from every direction to save the beloved Marino Falieri. But it is the case, in this life, that the Eternal Power always vouchsafes the success of a brave action to one alone, so that others cumber themselves about it in vain. On this occasion the rescue of the new Doge was allotted to Antonio, and therefore he, and nobody else, succeeded in making his way, in his little fishing-boat, to the Bucentoro. Old Falieri, well accustomed to dangers of this kind, stepped with much coolness out of the magnificent but dangerous Bucentoro into Antonio's boat, which bore him, lightly as a dolphin, over the breaking waves, and landed him in a few minutes safe and sound on the Piazza di San Marco. With dripping clothes, and great salt-drops in his grey beard, the old man was taken into the church, where the nobles, pale with alarm, concluded the ceremony of his triumphal entry. The populace, as well as the Signoria, were wholly upset by this unfortunate break-down of the triumphal entry. And, in addition to this, the Doge, in his hurry and confusion, was led through between the two columns where malefactors were usually put to death. In consequence, Signoria and populace grew silent in the midst of their rejoicing. The day, which had begun in such festivity, ended in sadness and gloom.

"'On the Doge's preserver nobody seemed to bestow a thought. Antonio himself was not thinking about the matter; he was lying in the entrance of the ducal palace, tired to death, half fainting from pain. It was all the more marvellous to him when, as it was almost dark night, a ducal halberdier took hold of him by the shoulder, and, with the words "Come along, good friend," pushed him into the palace, and to the Doge's chamber. The old man came up to him in a friendly manner, and, pointing to several well-filled purses which were on the table, said:

"'"You have behaved like a man, my good son. Here, take these three thousand _zecchini_. If you want more, say so. But do me the favour never to let me see your face again."

"'As he spoke those latter words, sparks blazed from the old man's eyes, and the point of his nose grew even redder than it was before. Antonio did not see the old man's drift, but he did not let that circumstance much trouble him; so he took up, with some difficulty, the purses, thinking he had earned them very fairly.

"'Shining in all the radiance of his newly-attained dignity, old Falieri looked down next morning upon the populace, from one of the windows of his palace, as they were crowding and thronging about, practising warlike exercises and the carriage of weapons. Soon Bodoeri who had been his most intimate friend from his earliest days--arrived; and as Falieri was so absorbed in himself and in his grandeur that he did not seem to notice him, he clapped his hands crying:

"'"Hey, hey, Falieri! what are the sublime ideas brooding in that head of yours, now that it wears the Doge's cap?"

"'As if awakening from a dream, Falieri came to meet Bodoeri, constraining himself to an appearance of friendliness. He felt that it was to Bodoeri that he owed the cap in question, and his words had the effect of being a slight reminder of that circumstance. But every obligation pressed like an intolerable burden on his proud, overbearing spirit, and as he could not turn upon the senior member of the Council, and his own oldest friend, in the way in which he had sent Antonio about his business, he constrained himself to a word or two of thanks, and at once began to talk of the measures to be adopted against the overweening enemy.

"'Bodoeri gave a significant smile. "That," he said, "and the other matters demanded of you by the State, we will maturely consider and discuss, in full Council, an hour or two hence. I have not come here, at this early hour of the day, to discover, with you, the measures necessary for the checking of the presumptuous Doria, or for the bringing to reason of Ludwig the Hungarian, whose chops are watering for our Dalmatian sea-ports again. No, Falieri; I have been thinking of yourself only--and, in fact, of what perhaps you would not imagine I had been thinking of--of your marriage."

"'"How could you think of such a thing?" said the Doge, in anger; and, turning his back to Bodoeri, he looked out of the window. "It is a long time to Ascension Day. By that time, I trust--the enemy being conquered--victory, honour, new wealth, and brighter power will have fallen to the share of the sea-born Lion of the Adriatic. My chaste bride should find her bridegroom worthy of her."

"'"Ah!" said Bodoeri; "you are speaking of the grand Feast of Ascension, when you have to cast the golden ring from the Bucentoro into the waves, and consider that you wed yourself to the Adriatic Sea. But, Marino, you, who are the sea's kinsman, can you think of no other bride than that cold, treacherous element, which you fancy you command, but which rebelled against you in such a threatening manner only yesterday? What pleasure can you imagine there should be found in the arms of such a bride--a foolish, self-willed thing who, as soon as you, gliding along in the Bucentoro, did but gently caress her chill, blue cheek, rose up in storm and wrath? No, no, Marino; _my_ notion is that you should marry the loveliest daughter of earth that can be discovered."

"'"My old friend," said Falieri, in a murmur, "this is a mere senile dream of yours." As he spoke, he still looked out of the window. "An old man of eighty, bent and worn with labour and anxiety, who has never been married, can hardly be capable of love."