4 with teks rte Hattt aii Sri teeet are rhe eee tarts erect aoe et erste sisy ~< - Sh tate Ss whet att rag heey es 3-4 SS pebers < > = TSG oo ‘3 by wr ern 31 aMeqiys: tapers ete Siena ? from Paris — Life in Venice;” the original one reap- pearing only in January, 1853, when the chapter on Florence was published in /e Pays. ‘That chapter ends 6 abe robe ofa che obo che hs cbr cbecde ecko cde cbocde eee cde che chee ere we are Te re ere eve ore ENE ROD YT FON abruptly, before Gautier has fairly entered upon the study of the city, its monuments, and its art treasures. As for Rome and Naples, there is not a word about them. Venice swamped the rest of Italy, not only because, as he tells us, he had spent a much longer time there than he had planned to do, but because when he began to write of this city of his dreams he could not stay his pen; the theme was congenial and the words came of themselves; one scene called up another, one picture reminded him of another masterpiece not yet seen — and on, on he went, forgetful of all else in that fair land save of the fact that he was in Venice, that Venice was lovely, that he adored it, and that he must make every one of his readers adore it too. It should be added that Gautier, who quite recog- nised the fact that he had not done justice to Florence, and had not written a line about Rome, intended to continue his book until he had treated these two cities and Naples in the same way as Venice; but, alas! the project was never carried out, no more than many another which he caressed for a time, and when in 1875 the “Travels in Italy” appeared in book form with the sub-title “Italia,” that was the end of the attempt to complete the story of the trip. 7 LALALALLALEALALAL LALA LL LSA TRAW Es TUN I TVanom, Of course it would have been interesting to pussess all Gautier had to say about the Eternal City and the City of Flowers, but it may be affirmed that it would not have been as characteristic, as deeply marked with intense feeling, with warm, passionate love of the subject. To him Italy meant Venice, and Venice Italy. The other places were no doubt interesting and attrac- tive, and the painter-half of him could delight in the Tribuna and the Loggie, but the whole of him was wrapped up in San Marco and the Campanile, in San Giorgio Maggiore and the Dogana, in the Lido and the Grand Canal. He had given his readers the very cream of Italy at the outset; neither he nor they could care for aught else after that. Yet more. He had been essentially Romanticist ; he had carried out the ideas of the school and laid stress on the very points which constituted, for Hugo and his followers, the chief value of the new art, now, alas! no ionger new and already being replaced by a truer and more satisfactory form. Picturesqueness, colour, exoti- cism, quaintness, eccentricity, grotesqueness, splendour, abundance of poetical epithets, wealth of imagination, gorgeousness of description, stateliness and variety of scene — these were called for by all Romanticists, and 8 bhbbbeebeebedetbteteet tte FNIR RO DUCTION these he gave in abundance. There might be —there was another Venice besides the exquisite city he saw, with its “pirate basilica,” its gallery of palaces, its won- drous prospects, its squalid quarters —there was the Venice of history, the one Montesquieu and Saint Réal knew, the oligarchical republic so long the Mistress of the Seas; there was the Venice groaning under the yoke of the Austrian, that mourned while its masters feasted. Of this one he has given us a glimpse, but no more. Then the Venice of the Venetians themselves, with its own mode of life, its own peculiarities of thought, its own characteristic manners, —the actual living Venice; but that he speaks not of and thinks not of. The reason for this is not far to seek. The whole Romanticist school laid the greatest stress on externals, and cared little or nothing for deep and minute analysis of feeling or passion. It was impulsive, not logical ; emotional, not rational; passionate, but superficial. It was carried away by its feelings, by its nerves; it could not dwell long on any ‘one subject; assiduous, persevering, laborious, minute study was repugnant to its character. It loved to flit from one picturesque subject to another. It craved for whatever was novel ; 9 Seebcb chek bk ch cb cbdcbdecbab ecb ecb heck TRAVELS IN ITALY it revelled in the sensational. It was opposed to the psychology of the writers of the seventeenth century who saw in Man the one and only subject worthy of engrossing their attention ; it was hostile to the scep- ticism of the eighteenth century, that scorned tradition and turned legend into ridicule. The Romanticist school had little thought for man; the environment, the background, the stage-setting were more im- portant in its eyes. Accuracy in matters historical it flouted too readily; the important thing was that history should be attractive, brilliant, richly coloured, striking. And it is much in this way that Gautier understood Venice. It is the splendid scene, the long line of pal- aces, the flowing waters of the canals, the lofty cam- paniles bathed in rosy light, the glistering mosaics, the picturesque attitudes of the gondoliers that he repro- duces with unrivalled skill. It is a magnificent back- ground, a superb scene made ready for some great human drama, and in this respect his description is un- equalled and wholly satisfactory. He has done exactly what he started out to do. His programme is fulfilled to the letter, and his book is the work of an artist and a poet that sees marvellously well, and makes his reader | Ke) gebbhbhbSbteehttth dete tee INTRODUCTION see with him. Victor Hugo himself could not make the scenes more lifelike. The book is full of poetic feeling, of ardent love of beauty, of the deep sentiment of art. Bara weak point here and there, there are few finer bits than the account of the arrival in Venice, —a “© Rain, Steam and Speed” that recalls Turner; few more heartfelt and exquisite farewells than his adieu to Venice, which even Byron’s ‘Adieu to thee, fair Rhine!” or Walter Scott’s “¢ Harp of the North, fare- well! ”? do not surpass. There can, indeed, be no fare- well to the Venice Gautier saw and which he makes his readers see. It is the poetic image, the idealised vision which for ever remains in the memory. itae ‘ ip ny pay yi ‘ be Lea: foe Pavers LOMO. Se aI TITS BEELLALELELALLALALALALL LLL TRAVELS IN ITALY chet cde ohooh he heh ch abe che teccbechcbe cheb chabeck hoe We e7e eye ate wre eFe wre eee oro ome Lili Lcd Pee Ono MIA G GOR ie S soon as we had crossed the crest which separates Switzerland from Italy, I was struck by the extreme difference in the temperature. On the Swiss slope the weather had been delightful, — soft, balmy, and bright, — but on the Italian there blew an icy wind, and great, mist-like clouds swept constantly over us. The cold was the more bitter by contrast with the previous warmth. The rain accompanied us on our way until we reached Lago Maggiore. At early dawn the sky be- gan to clear, though vast banks of black and dark-gray clouds from which still fell occasional showers, rose behind the mountains on the other side of the lake. The road follows the shore past endless gardens and villas with white peristyles, roofs of curved tiles, and terraces covered with luxuriant vines upborne by gran- ite supports. On the terraces, which frequently rise 15 bebbebbbbtbtettttbttttted REV EAE IN ees one above another, and which are turned into carefully cultivated gardens, bloom all manner of flowers and shrubs. I noticed repeatedly and not without astonish- ment, for it was the first time that I had come across them, great clumps of gigantic blue hortensia. The three Borromean Islands, Isola Madre, Isola Bella, and Isola dei Pescatori, are situated in the north- © ern part of the lake, which forms a sort of an elbow, one end of which is turned towards Domo d’ Ossola. Originally these islands were barren rocks. Prince Vitaliano Borromeo had loam brought there and built gardens of European reputation. I purposely use the word ‘“built,”’ for masonry plays a great part in them, as it does indeed in nearly all Italian gardens, which are architectural works rather than gardens. Isola Madre consists, like Isola Bella, of a series of terraces rising one above another, and surmounted by a palace. Isola Bella, which is very plainly seen from the road, has a wealth of turrets, of slender spires, of statues, fountains, porticos, colonnades, vases, and of the rich- est architectural decoration. "There are even trees, — cypresses, orange trees, myrtles, lime trees, Canada pines; but plainly vegetation is a mere accessory. The very natural idea of putting verdure, flowers, and 16 chs abate obs oe abe abe oe oboe abe cdot obec boob ce feeb cde oe lobe LAGO MAGGIORE sward into a garden was an after-thought, like all nat- ural ideas. Some distance farther the arcaded houses of Isola dei Pescatori show their bases laved by the waters of the lake; their rustic aspect contrasting pleas- antly with the somewhat pretentious pomp of Isola Madre and Isola Bella. The islands, seen from the shore, do not justify the enthusiastic descriptions which have been written of them. The seven terraces of Isola Bella, ending in unicorns and Pegasi, have a theatrical aspect which scarcely fits in with the Borromean motto, *¢ Hlumilitas,” inscribed everywhere. Isola Madre, with its square terraces supporting a square mansion, is symmetrical and dull, and one cannot but wonder that these two islands should have been celebrated so enthusiastically. Both the lake and the road are very fullof life. On the lake are fishing-boats, ferry-boats and pyroscaphs which ply between Sesto Calende and Bellinzona; on the road ox-carts, carriages, and foot-passengers carry- ing the inevitable umbrella. The peasant women, sometimes pretty, are afflicted with goitre like the Valaisian women. ) On approaching Arona, a colossal statue of Saint Carlo Borromeo which overlooks the lake, is seen on 2 17 TRAVELS IN ITALY a hill to the right. It is, next to the Colossus of Rhodes and the Colossus of Nero at the Maison Dorée, the loftiest statue ever made. ‘The saint, in an attitude full of nobility and simplicity, holds a book in one hand and with the other appears to bestow his bless- ing on the land he protects and which lies outstretched at his feet. Arona has a thoroughly Spanish look. The houses have projecting roofs and balconies, the lower windows are grated, and on the walls are painted panels and madonnas. At the inn we came upon an inner court adorned with pillars and galleries just as in Andalusia. The lake ends at Sesto Calende, where the Ticino issues from Lago Maggiore. Sesto Calende is on the farther bank and the stream is crossed by a ferry, for the Milan road passes through that little town. I rather liked Sesto Calende. It was market day, a piece of luck for a traveller, for market day brings from the country districts numbers of typical peasants whom otherwise it would be very difficult to come across. Most of the women wore a striking and very effective head-dress. ‘Their hair, plaited and rolled carefully at the back of the head, was held in place by thirty or forty silver pins arranged in the form of an aureole, 18 kkekeebebretetteeteteetetes LAGO MAGGIORE that showed above the head like the dentellations of a comb; a larger pin adorned at each end with enormous metal olives passed through the chignon; the whole recalling the head-dress of the Valencian women. These pins, called spontonz, are rather costly, and yet I have seen them worn by poor women and young girls with frayed skirts and bare and dusty feet. No doubt they sacrificed to this piece of luxury other objects of prime necessity, — but is not the prime necessity for women to be beautiful, and are not silver pins prefer- able to shoes ? The Austrian dominions begin at Sesto Calende ; the other shore of the lake is Piedmontese. It is at Sesto Calende that for the first time one comes upon the tight-fitting blue trousers and the white tunics of the Austrians. I must not leave Sesto Calende without sketching the portrait of a young woman upon the threshold of a shop, the dark interior of which formed a warm, strong background, against which she stood out like a head by Giorgione. Her beauty was of the purest Southern type. Her black eyes shone like coals under her amber brow; her complexion was of that uniform tone, that faccia smorta which is in no wise sickly, 19 ALELLAEALLHELLALAALLLALL AALS ALLS TRAY EICS AN: Dae and which merely indicates that passion concentrates all the blood in the heart; her thick, close, shining hair, curling in short waves, swelled on her temples as if the wind had blown it out, and her neck and shoulders formed a clean and splendid line. She let me look at her quietly, without self-consciousness or coquetry, guessing that I was either a painter or a poet, perhaps both, and kindly let me enjoy one aspect of her beauty. The Austrian postilions wear a picturesque costume, consisting of a green jacket with yellow and black aiguillettes, jack-boots, a hat with a copper band, and on the hip the horn which recurs so often in Schubert’s melodies. It is notable that in every country the pos- tilion who drives civilisation by post, since civilisation and travelling are synonymous, is one of those who longest remain faithful to local colour. He is the Past driving the Future and cracking his whip. From Sesto Calende to Milan the road is bordered with vineyards and groves of trees, which grow most luxuriantly and vigorously. 'The foliage bounds the view on all hands, and you travel between two lines of verdure kept fresh by running brooks. A splendid avenue of trees indicates the approach to the city, 20 che te abe ole be abe ahs cbr cl abr obo ceed ob ab ole ale ole ob abo ole oleae Cie ee ee CTO oe CTO ae OF Ue OHO CPS awe UTS EAGO UMA G GIO R'E which has a very majestic appearance from this side. The Triumphal Arch, under which could easily be placed the Carrousel Arch and which almost rivals in size the Arc de l Etoile, gives to the entrance a monumental character borne out by the other build- ings. On the summit of the arch an allegorical figure of Peace drives a bronze car drawn by six horses. At the four angles of the entablature are equerries mounted on prancing brazen steeds and holding wreaths. “Two colossal figures of river-gods leaning upon urns are placed against the huge panel on which is inscribed the votive inscription; and four pairs of Corinthian columns mark the divisions of the monument, separate the cornice, and form three distinct arcades. The central one is astonishingly high. Having passed through this archway, one enters the Nuevo Parco, which appeared to me almost as large as the Champ de Mars in Paris. On the left rises a vast amphitheatre intended for manoeuvres and open- air performances; at the back rises the old castle; and beyond, against the blue sky, stands out like silver filigree the white silhouette of the Duomo, which has in no wise the form of a dome. Duomo in Italy is a generic term and does not imply a cupola. 21 ALEDE HAA ESA AAA ete tts TRAV IES AEN YA As soon as one enters the streets, the height of the buildings, the coming and going of the people, the gen- eral cleanliness and comfort make the tourist feel that he is in a living capital, quite a rare thing in Italy, where there are so many dead cities. Numberless carriages travel rapidly along the flagged tracks, some- what like stone rails, set in the pebbly pavement. The houses look like mansions, the mansions like hotels, the hotels like palaces, the palaces like temples. Everything is grand, regular, majestic, if somewhat pompous. On all sides are seen columns, architraves, and balconies of granite. Milan is somewhat like both Madrid and Versailles, with a spruceness which Madrid lacks. The resemblance to Spain which I have already spoken of strikes one at every step, and I cannot help noting it again, for I am not aware that it has been remarked upon previously. “The windows are hung with great white and yellow striped blinds, the shops have curtains of the same colour, which recall the Spanish tendidos; the women of the middle class and those who are not in full dress, wear the mezzaro, a sort of black veil which imitates the mantilla very closely. ‘The illusion would be almost complete, were it not destroyed by the presence of the Austrians. x 4 bbb bbb bb bbb bbb bbe LAGO MAGGIORE I had been told to go to the best hotel in Milan, the Hotel de la Ville, in the Corso Servi (now Corso Vit- torio Emanuele), which fully deserves its reputation. The facade is a very good piece of architecture, adorned with pilasters, brackets, and busts of celebrated Italians, orators, painters, poets, historians, and warriors. ‘The Staircase, worthy of a royal residence, is covered from top to bottom with remarkable stucco work and paint- ings of incredible richness and amazing workmanship. The ceiling is particularly remarkable. It represents various mythological subjects, with monochromes, bassi- relievi, pilasters, and flowers so brilliant and so admira- bly painted that Diaz would envy them. All the rooms are decorated with equal care and taste; the smallest hallways and corridors are splendid and inter- esting. As for the dining-room, the luxuriance of the ornamentation is overpowering. Eight colossal cary- atides, alternately male and female, watch the traveller at his meals and intimidate him with their fixed stony glance. These caryatides support a ceiling divided into compartments of unimaginable richness. Every- where festoons, carvings, pendentives, imitation gems and gilding more brilliant than reality can possibly be. This will suffice to give an idea of Milanese luxury. che beatae oe abe abe abe ofr abe ote to cte ce ale cleo obese abe RAIVIETES EN (DD Aa ee It is so much the habit of travellers to speak ill of hotels and hotel-keepers that I here do this superb establishment the justice it deserves. I shall have enough descriptions of an entirely different kind to contrast with this one. 24 HE Duomo naturally attracts every tourist in ) Milan at once; it dominates the city, of which it is the centre, the attraction, and the wonder. You proceed forthwith, even on a night when there is no moon, to note at least its general outline. The Piazza del Duomo is somewhat irregular in form. Its houses with their massive pillars and their saffron-coloured awnings, composed of buildings erected irregularly and varying in height, set off the cathedral admirably. Buildings often lose more than they gain by being cleared of their surroundings. This has been proved in the case of several Gothic monuments which were not, as had been supposed, spoiled by the stalls and hovels which had gradually grown up beside them. Besides, the Duomo is entirely isolated. But I think that nothing is better for a palace, a church, or any other regular edifice than to be surrounded by incoherent structures which bring out its noble proportions. 25 che cto ob oe oe he a oho he cba ce cbocbe ecb che ace chee cb oe bo abe Te OTe ye Ore ete OTe wre OTe OTe TRAV ESS. SIN ete ais The first effect produced upon the sight-seer who looks at the Duomo from the Square, is its dazzling appearance. [he whiteness of the marble contrastiny with the blue of the heavens is most striking; the church is like a vast lace of silver laid upon a back- ground of lapis-lazuli. That is the first impression, and it is also the last; when I think of the Duomo at Milan, it appears to me thus. The Duomo is one of the few Gothic churches in Italy, but the Gothic is very different from ours. It does not exhibit the simple faith; it has not the dread, mysterious, and darksome depth, the emaciated forms, the upspringing from earth to heaven, the austere character which sets aside beauty as too sen- sual, and uses matter only in so far as it enables it to rise towards God. The Italian Gothic is elegant, graceful, and brilliant, such as might be devised for fairy palaces and used for the construc- tion of Alcazars and mosques just as well as for a Catholic temple. Its delicacy allied to its whiteness gives it the appearance of a glacier with its innu- merable aiguilles, or of a gigantic concretion of stalactites. It is difficult to believe that it is the handi- work of man. 26 The facade is exceedingly simple. It consists of an acute angle like the gable of an ordinary house, bor- dered by marble lacework. ‘The wall, which has no projecting portion or order of architecture, is pierced by five doors and eight windows, and divided by six groups of fluted columns, or rather, of ribs ending in hollowed points surmounted by statues, with the inter- stices filled by brackets and niches which support and shelter figures of angels, saints, and patriarchs. Behind these spring up, like the pillars of a basilica, a crowded forest of finials, pinnacles, and minarets, of aiguilles of white marble, andthe central spire, which looks as if it had been crystallised in the air as it springs into the sky to a dizzying height, carrying close to the heavens the Virgin who stands upon its utmost point, one foot upon the crescent. On the centre of the facade are inscribed the words, * Marie nascenta,’ which form the dedication of the cathedral. Begun by Gian Galeazzo Visconti, and continued by Lodovico il Moro, the modern basilica was com- pleted by Napoleon [. It is the largest church next to Saint Peter’s at Rome and the Cathedral at Seville. The interior is majestic and noble in its simplicity. Rows of columns in pairs divide it into five naves. 2] teteeettttetetettttttttes RCA BAS aN TD eal These groups of columns, in spite of their real mass, appear light on account of the slender proportions of the shafts. Above their capitals rises a sort of open and richly sculptured gallery, in which are placed statues of saints; then the ribbing continues and meets at the summit of the vaulting, adorned with trefoils and Gothic interlacements painted with such wonderful perfection that the eye would be deceived if here and there the bare stone did not show through the broken plaster. In the centre of the transept cross an opening sur- rounded by a railing enables one to look into the chapel in the crypt where rests Saint Carlo Borromeo within a crystal bier covered with silver plates. Saint Carlo Borromeo is the most venerated saint in this part of the country ; his virtues and his behaviour at the time the plague raged in Milan made him popular and keep his memory green. At the entrance of the choir, on a bay adorned by a crucifix surrounded by adoring angels, hangs the fol- lowing inscription in a weoden frame: “ Attendite ad petram unde excisi estis.” On either side rise two magnificent pulpits of metal, supported by superb bronze figures and overlaid with 28 silver bassi-relievi, the workmanship of which is more valuable than the material even. The panels of the organ, placed not very far from the pulpit, were painted by Procacini, if I am not mistaken, and around the choir run the stations of the Cross, carved by Andrea Biff, and some other sculptures. The weeping angels who mark the stations have varied attitudes and are delightful, though somewhat effeminate. The general impression is of religious simplicity ; a soft light in- duces recollection; the great pillars spring to the vault- ing with a feeling of aspiring faith; no obtrusive detail destroys the majesty of the ensemble. The general plan of the building is grasped at a glance. The splen- did elegance of the exterior seems to be veiled in mys- tery and to become more humble. The exterior is perhaps pagan in its lightness and whiteness, but the interior is unquestionably Christian. The sacristy contains treasures which did not sur- prise me, for I had seen the wardrobe of Our Lady of Toledo, one single dress of which, covered with black and white pearls, is worth seven millions, but the sac- risty at Milan, none the less, contains incredible riches. I shall first mention, because art must always take precedence of gold and silver, a fine “ Flagellation of 29 Christ ” by Cristoforo Solari, called il Gobbo, a Milan- ese painter, and a painting by Daniele Crespi repre- senting a miracle of Saint Carlo Borromeo, a work of masterly power and great ferocity of inspiration; next, the silver busts of the bishops, of Saint Sebastian, and Saint Thekla, the patroness of the parish church, stud- ded with rubies and topazes; a golden cross starred with sapphires, garnets, smoky topazes, and rock crys- tals; a magnificent eleventh-century copy of the Gos- pels, presented by Bishop Ribertus, written in gold throughout and bearing upon its covers, which are chased in the Byzantine style, a Christ wearing a skirt and accompanied by the four symbolical figures, the lion, the ox, the eagle, and the angel; a pail for holy water made of ivory and provided with silver-gilt handles in the shape of chimeras ; a pyx by Benvenuto Cellini, which is a wonder of elegance and delicacy ; the feather mitre of Saint Carlo Borromeo ; and pic- tures in silk by Lodovico Pellegrini. In the corner of one of the naves, before ascending to the roof, I glanced at)a monument adorned with allegorical figures in bronze by Leone Leoni (Aretino) from the designs of Michael Angelo, in a superb, vio- lent style. The roof itself, bristling with finials and 30 supported with flying buttresses which form ‘corridors in perspective, is composed, like the rest of the build- ing, of great slabs of marble. It rises far above the highest buildings in the city. A bas-relief, admirably carved, is set within each flying buttress. Each turret bears twenty-five statues. I do not believe that any- where else are so many carved figures contained within a similar space; the statues of the Duomo, which number 6716, would people a town of fair size. I had read of the church in Morea, painted in the Byzan- tine style by the monks of Mount Athos, which con- tains no less than three thousand figures, large and small, but this is nothing by the side of the Duomo at Milan. Among the statues is one by Canova, a Saint Sebastian, and an Eve by Cristoforo Solari, charming in its sensual grace, which is somewhat surprising in such a place. From the roof one has a noble prospect of the Alps, the Apennines, and the plains of Lombardy. In the distance are seen the white and black courses of the church at Monza, where is preserved the famous iron crown which Napoleon placed on his own head when he was crowned King of Italy, saying at the same time: “God has given it to me. Woe to him who 31 bbb beh bebe bbebbeb bad DRAYV Bass tl ANY Lea Pe touches it The crown is of gold and precious stones like every other crown, and owes its name to a small iron band which encloses it, and which, it is claimed, is forged out of a nail of the true cross, so that it is at once a jewel anda relic. A special permit is needed to see it since it acquired additional value by being placed upon Napoleon’s august brow, but an accurate copy is exhibited. ‘The ascent of the open-worked spire is in no wise perilous, although it is likely to alarm people subject to vertigo. ‘The light stairs wind in the turrets and lead to a balcony above which there is only the pyra- midion of the spire and the statue which crowns the building. I shall not try to describe in greater detail this gigan- tic basilica ; it would take a whole volume; I shall be satisfied, as a mere artist, with its general aspect and a surprising impression. On returning to the street and walking around the church, one notices on the lateral facades and on the apse the same multitude of statues and bassi-relievi. It is like a mad orgy of sculpture, an incredible heaping up of wonders. Around the cathedral thrive all sorts of small trades, — second-hand book-stalls, open-air opticians, and even 22 Te Aree ing of nothing or of everything while looking at San- sovino’s Loggetta at the foot of the Campanile, or at the blue sea and the island of San Giorgio at the end of the facade. On the capitals of verd antique which support this arch crouch two apocalyptic monsters, strange shapes seen by Saint John in his hallucinations in the Isle of Patmos. The one, which has a hooked beak like an eagle, holds a small heifer with its legs drawn up under itself; the other, which is half lion and half griffin, has driven its claws into the body of a child thrown cross- wise; one of the claws seems to be putting out the victim’s eye. The angle is formed by a detached, squat pillar which bears a shaft of five smaller pillars on its broad capital. In the vaulting of this open . portal, covered with a veneer of various marbles, there is a mosaic representing an eagle holding a book in its talons. The second story shows on the gable arches two finely posed statues of the cardinal virtues: Strength caressing a tame lion, which’ fawns like a joyous dog, and Fortitude holding a sword with the air of a Brada- mante. ‘The sacristan has christened one of these Venice, and the other Queen of Sheba. 84. cde oso ob doe deo aedec eco oe che check kok SAN MARCO Incrustations in malachite, various enamels, and two small angels in mosaic.holding out the cloth which preserved the impression of the Divine Face; a great, barbaric Madonna presenting her Son to be worshipped by the faithful, flanked by two lamps which are lighted every evening; a bas-relief of peacocks displaying their tails, which comes perhaps from some old temple of Juno; a Saint Christopher bearing his burden ; capitals of basket-work most charmingly capricious, — these are the riches which this side of the Basilica offers to the stroller on the Piazetta. The other lateral facade looks upon a small square which is the continuation of the Piazza. At the en- trance crouch two lions in red marble, cousins-german to those in the Alhambra by the quaint fancifulness of their shapes and the grotesque ferocity of their faces and their manes. They are polished to a wonderful degree, for from time immemorial the little ragamuffins of Venice have spent their days in climbing on top of them and using them as vaulting horses. At the back rises the palace of the Patriarch of Venice, of modern construction, which would bea pretty dull building were it not thrown into the shadow by San Marco; and on the side, the old facade of the church of San Basso. 85 TORVA VARNEeS* AN “FMA be che obs obs of abs obs abe os ole cb cb ele ole abs ols ol obs obs che ofr ofp oh ok This facade is somewhat less ornamented than the other. It is overlaid with discs, mosaics, enamels, ornaments, arabesques, of all times and of all countries, birds, peacocks, curiously shaped eagles like the alerions and martlets of heraldry. ‘The lion of Saint Mark also plays its part in the symbolical menagerie. The tym- pana of the porches are filled either with small windows surrounded by palms and arabesques, or with incrus~ tations of antique or Byzantine fragments. In the medallions are carved men and animals fighting. A closer examination would no doubt reveal the bull of Mithra struck in the neck by the priest, and thus no religion would be wanting in this artlessly pantheistic temple. Surely this must be Ceres seeking her daughter, a branch of burning pitch pine in each hand by way of a torch, and riding on a car drawn by two bronze dragons. It might be a Hindoo idol, so archaic is the style and so much does it recall the carvings of Per- sepolis. It is a curious pendant to a Sacrifice of Abraham in bas-relief which must be ascribed to the earliest period of Christian art. Another bas-relief composed of two lines of sheep, six on either hand, looking at a throne and separated by two palm branches, interested me greatly, for I should 86 have liked to know its meaning. In vain I endeav- oured to make out the inscription in Gothic or abbre- viated Greek letters which no doubt states the subject. It may be that the sheep are meant for cows; in that case the bas-relief would represent Pharaoh’s dream. An antique fragment set in the wall somewhat farther away represents an adept being initiated into the Eleu-~ sinian mysteries, and placing a crown upon a mystic palm. This does not prevent Saint George from showing on the archivolt on a throne in the Greek style, and the four Evangelists, Saint Mark, Saint John, Saint Luke, and Saint Matthew, marching along the tympanum, the gables, and the vaulting, either alone or accompanied by their symbolical animals. The portal which opens into that arm of the cross formed by the Basilica, is surrounded by a broad, double moulding, carved and open-worked, presenting a de- lightful bloom of scrolls and foliage and angels. A lovely Virgin forms the keystone. Above the door rises a horseshoe arch like those of the Mosque at Cordova, an Arab fancy seasonably corrected by a very Christian and pretty Nativity, most devotional in feel- ing. Beyond that I need mention only a Saint Chris- topher, apostles, and saints in checkered frames of 87 theeteeetebetebbbeebe dst TRAVBHS WN AMRAILY white and red marble, and a pretty Virgin, seen full face, her hands bent as if in blessing, placed between two angels kneeling in worship. I have spoken of a porphyry head placed on the bal- ustrade above the short shaft on which bankrupts were exposed. According to a popular tale, the accuracy of which I do not warrant, Count Carmagnola, after great services done to the Republic, having sought to seize the power for himself, the Council of Ten, conciliating justice and gratitude, had him beheaded, and then erected to his memory a monument which consists of this pedestal and porphyry head, a strange statue from which the body is wanting, and the head of which on the balustrade seems to be exposed as a leader of male- factors is exposed in a cage; but the pillory is San Marco, the sacred place, the Capitol and palladium of Venice. When the hero was tortured to compel him to make the confession needed, according to the ideas of the time, to insure his condemnation, his arms, which had valiantly fought for the state, were spared, and his feet were placed in the fire; a strange mingling of deference and cruelty which is well in harmony with the legend. The basilica of San Marco is entered, like a temple of antiquity, by an atrium, which anywhere else would 88 tetbetettttdtetttbtttectttts SAN MARCO be a church. The three red marble slabs in the pave- ment mark the spot where the Emperor Frederick Bar- -barossa knelt to the proud Pope Alexander III, saying, “© Non tibi, sed Petro,’ to which the Pope replied, “Et Petro et mihi.’ How many feet, since the twenty-third day of July, 1177, have worn away the imprint of the knees of the great Emperor, who now rests within the cavern of Kaiserslautern waiting until the crows cease to fly over the mountain. Three bronze doors, in- crusted, inlaid, and enamelled with silver, covered with figures and ornaments, and opening into the nave, come, it is said, from Saint Sophia’s at Constantinople. One of them is signed Leon de Molina. At the end of the vestibule on the right is seen through a grating the Zeno Chapel with its bronze retable and tomb. The statue of the Virgin, placed between Saint John the Baptist and Saint Peter, is called the Madonna della Scarpe (the Madonna of the Shoe), from the golden shoe on her foot worn away by the kisses of the faithful. This metallic decoration has a curiously severe aspect. The vaulting of the atrium represents, in mosaic, Old Testament subjects: first, for all religious history begins with a cosmogony, the Seven Days of the Creation as told in Genesis, placed in concentric com- 89 thbbbteedbbthbbbbtdbb tt DRAW EIS ML NG Arey partments. The archaic barbarity of the style has a wild and primitive mysteriousness which suits the sacred subjects. The stiff drawing is as absolute as dogma, and appears to be rather the hieroglyph of a mystery than a reproduction of nature. ‘This is what gives to these rough Gothic images a power and a commanding look which more perfect works _ lack. The blue, starry globes, the blue and silver discs which represent the firmament, the sun, and the moon, the many lines which figure the separation between water and land, and that curious personage with impossible gestures, whose right hand creates animals and trees of impossible shape and who bends like a mesmeriser over the first man asleep, the min- gling of angular lines and of brilliant tones strike the eye and the mind like an inextricable arabesque and a deep symbolism. The verses of Scripture traced in antique characters, complicated by abbreviations and double letters, add tothe hieroglyph a genetic aspect. It is, indeed, a world arising out of chaos. The Tree of the knowledge of good and evil, the Temptation, the Fall, the Expulsion from Paradise, complete the cosmogonic and primitive cycle, the quasi divine period of humanity. go tettteeteetetteteteotttttttes SA Ne A.R.C:O Farther on, Cain slays Abel after having seen his own sacrifice rejected by the Lord; Adam and Eve cultivate the ground by the sweat of their brow; the bP) legend “Increase and multiply” is artlessly translated by a pair of lovers. “The four columns engaged against the wall above these mosaics are merely ornamental, for they sustain nothing, and are of Oriental white and black marble, exceedingly rare. They were brought from Jerusalem, and tradition holds that they formed part of Solomon’s Temple. Assuredly Hiram, the architect, would not think them out of place in San Marco. In the next arch Noah, in accordance with the com- mandment of the Lord and in anticipation of the flood, is seen building the Ark, into which are entering two by two all the animals in creation,—an admirable subject for a simple-minded mosaic worker of the fifteenth century. Most curious it is to see outspread upon the golden background the fantastic zodlogy which smacks of heraldry, arabesques, and the signs of travelling menageries. The Flood is most formi- dable and sombre indeed; it is entirely different from the much bepraised taste of Poussin. “The foam of the waves mingles quaintly with the fast falling rain; the raven and the dove coming forth from the Ark, the GI ALALHEALLELELPAELALL LL LAL ELSA TRAY Bae 5 il NIG aom sacrifice of thanksgiving, — nothing is wanting. That closes the antediluvian cycle. Verses of Scripture which wind in and out everywhere like the inscriptions in the Alhambra and which form part of the orna- mentation, explain each phase of the vanished world. The idea is ever side by side with the image; the Word soars everywhere over its plastic representation. The story, interrupted by the entrance porch, which is adorned with mosaics, the Virgin with archangels and prophets, is continued under the other arches. Noah plants the vine and gets drunk; Japhet, Shem, and Ham, blackened by the paternal curse, go forth, each to found a race of humankind; the Tower of Babel raises to the heavens the artless anachronism of its Byzantine architecture, and calls down on itself the attention of God, annoyed at being so closely ap- proached; the confusion of tongues compels the work- men to give up their work; the human race, which until then was single and spoke the same language, is now about to begin its long pilgrimage through the unknown world in order to recover its title deeds and to reconstitute itself. The next arches, placed, the first in the vestibule, the others in the gallery opposite the Hall of Lions, Qg2 ttpttbttetttttetettttttte SAN MARCO contain the story of the Patriarch Abraham in detail, that of Joseph and Moses, with a company of prophets, priests, evangelists, — Isaiah, Jeremiah, Elias, Samuel, Habbakuk, Saint Alipius, Saint Simeon, and innumer- able others who are in groups or lines in the arches, in the pendentives, in the keystones, wherever can be placed a figure which cares neither for comfort nor anatomy, and does not mind breaking its arm or leg in order to adorn an out-of-the-way angle. All these biblical legends, full of artless details of curious Oriental fashions, produce a superb and strange effect on the golden background, the brilliancy of which darkens them and brings them out. ‘These old mosaics, probably the work of Greek artists brought from Con- stantinople, are much more agreeable to me than more modern mosaics which attempt to be pictures; for in- stance, the one which covers the gallery wall on the San Basso side, below the story of Abraham, and which represents the Judgment of Solomon from cartoons by Salviati. Mosaic, like painting on glass, should not seek to imitate nature. Cleanly drawn, typical forms, plain colours, broad local tones, golden backgrounds, entirely removed from the idea of a painting, — these are suitable to it. A mosaic is opaque stained glass, 93 bhbbbbbbebetbebbbbad bet TRA'VAVES ST NOOR EAE Y just as stained glass is transparent mosaic. ‘The palette of the master mosaic-worker is composed of stones, that of the stained-glass painter of gems; neither the one nor the other should seek absolute truth. At the end of a gallery, in the tympanum of a door, I greatly admired a Madonna seated on a throne be- tween Saint Peter and Saint John, presenting the Child Jesus to the faithful. It is one of the finest in San Marco. The head, with its great fixed eyes which pene- trate you without looking at you, is imperial and impe- rious in its gentleness. One could swear that Helena or Irene embroidered in Byzantium the cushion on which she rests. The Mother of God, as the Greek mono- gram calls her, and the Queen of Heaven could not be represented in more majestic fashion. Certain crudities of drawing, which might be considered hieratic, impart to this figure the look of an idol, or an ezkon, to make use of the expression of the Greek Christians, which seems to me indispensable for devotional subjects. Under the gallery there are three tombs, one of which, noticeable for its antiquity, represents Jesus Christ and the Twelve Apostles ranged in a row above a line of thuriferz. To close the description of the interior of Saint Mark, let us enter the Baptistery, which communicates 94 SA NeUM A.R.C © with the cathedral by a door. ‘The altar is formed of a stone brought from Mount Tabor in 1126 by Doge Domenico Michiele. What the Spaniards call the retable, the Italians /a pala, and the French the altar- piece, is here a Baptism of Jesus Christ by Saint John, placed between two angels carved in bas-relief. Saint Theodore and Saint George on horseback are placed on either side, and above there is a great mosaic of the Crucifixion, with the Holy Women, against a background of gold of architectural design. The mo- saic in the vaulting represents Jesus Christ in glory, surrounded by a great circle of heads and wings ar- ranged concentrically. It gleams, sparkles, shimmers, flames with a strange impression of whirling ; arch- angels, thrones, powers, virtues, principalities, cherubs, and seraphs mingle their oval faces and cross their purple wings so as to form an immense rose, like a Turkish carpet. At the feet of the Almighty writhes Satan in chains, and conquered Death grovels before the triumphant Christ. The next arch, most singular in aspect, exhibits the Twelve Apostles each baptising Gentiles of a different country. The catechumens are, according to the ancient custom, plunged in a basin up to the armpits, 95 bebbbbbbebetoetototbtdtdd TR AWE SEeS fe N Vela Ast ey and the lack of perspective gives them constrained atti- tudes and piteous looks which make the baptism re- semble a torture. The apostles, with exaggerated eyes and harsh, fierce features, look like executioners and torturers. Four Fathers of the Church, Saint Jerome, Saint Gregory, Saint Augustine, and Saint Ambrose, are placed in the pendentives. The black crosses with which their dalmatics are covered, have a sinister and funereal look. This is, indeed, the general character of the baptistery. The mosaics are of the greatest antiquity. “They are the oldest in the church, are fero- ciously barbarous, and tell of an implacable and savage Christianity. In the arch of the vaulting there is a great medallion representing Christ in a most terrible aspect ; no longer the well-known, gentle, fair-haired Christ, the young, blue-eyed Nazarene, but a severe and dread Christ, with a long, gray, wavy beard like that of God the Father, for the Father and the Son are coeternal. Eternal wrinkles mark His brow, and His mouth is contracted, ready to launch anathemas., He seems to despair of the salvation of the world He has saved, or to repent of His sacrifice. Siva, the god of destruction, could not have a more sombre and threatening look in the g6 kkebebtbbteeettetttdsettttes SAAT ING Ay RCo © subterranean pagoda at Ellora. Around this avenging Christ are grouped the prophets who foretold His coming. On the walls is told the story of Saint John the Baptist : the angel announcing to Zacharias the birth of the Precursor; his life in the desert, clad in the rough skins of beasts; the baptism of Christ in the Jordan, a mosaic more Hindoo than Byzantine, and more Caribbean than Hindoo in character, so eccentric is the appearance of the thin body and the waters figured by blue and white stripes; Herodias dancing before Herod; the Beheading of the Baptist and the bringing in of the head upon a silver dish, which was a favorite subject of Juan Valdes. In these latter mosa- ics Herodias, wearing a long dalmatic edged with vair, recalls the dissolute empresses of Constantinople, the great courtesans of the Lower Empire, — Theodora, for instance, luxurious, lascivious, and cruel. A singu- lar symmetry marks the banquet scene. While Hero- dias brings in the head on one side, a servant man on the other brings in a pheasant on a dish. Food and murder thus mingled have an artlessly horrible effect. The baptismal font is formed of a basin of marble with a bronze cover, the dasst-relievi on which, modelled in 7 97 che obs abe abs oe obs able obs ole abs be brcle bess abe obs be cba crab abe abe of TLR AV ETE SS) SUN, ST eee 1545. by Desiderio of Florence and Tiziano of Padua, both pupils of Sansovino, recall the motive of the story of Saint John. ‘The statue of the saint, also in bronze, is by Francesco Segala, and forms an admirable crown to the work. Against the wall is the tomb of Doge Andrea Dandolo. Let us now enter the Basilica. Above the door is a Saint Mark in Pontifical vestments, from a cartoon of Titian’s by the Zuccatto brothers, which suggested to George Sand the subject of a charming novel, ‘The Master Mosaic Workers.” The brilliancy of the mosaic explains why jealous rivals accused the clever artists of having employed paint instead of making use of ordinary means. On the inner impost stands Christ between His Mother and Saint John the Bap- tist; this mosaic is in good Lower Empire style, imposing and severe. Nothing can be compared to San Marco in Venice, neither Cologne nor Seville, nor even Cordova with its mosque. ‘The effect is surprising and magical. ‘The first impression one has is of entering a golden cavern studded with gems, splendid and sombre, sparkling and mysterious ; one wonders whether it is within a build- ing or an immense jewelled casket that one stands, for 98 Skebeteeetetestette tet tee Cre ore ee WTO fe OFS CTO SAN MARCO all ideas of architecture are upset. he cupolas, the vaulting, the architraves, the walls, are covered with small tubes of gilded crystal of unchanging brilliancy, made at Murano, on which the light gleams as on the scales of a fish, and which form a background for the inexhaustible fancy of the mosaic workers. Where the golden background stops at the top of the pillars, begins a plating of the most precious and varied marbles. From the vaulting hangs a great lamp in the shape of a four-armed cross with ffeurs de lys suspended from a golden ball of filigree work, of marvellous effect when the lights are lighted. Six pillars of wavy alabaster, with gilded bronze capitals in the most fantastic Corin- thian style, support elegant arches above which a gallery runs almost entirely around the church. The cupola forms, with the Paraclete as an axle, with palms for. spokes, and the Twelve Apostles for the circumference, a vast wheel of mosaics. In the pendentives tall, serious-looking, black-winged angels stand out against a background illumined by gleams of tawny light. The central dome, which rises at the intersection of the arms of the Greek cross which forms the plan of the Basilica, presents within its vast cupola Jesus Christ seated upon a rain- ye ALALEALLLALLAALALE LALA L LAS TR AYV ES 0 Nae a ee bow in the centre of a starry circle supported by two pairs of seraphim. Below him the Divine Mother, standing between two angels, worships her Son in glory; and the Apostles, each supported by a quaint tree, which represents the Garden of Olives, form the celestial court of their Master. The theological and cardinal Virtues are between the columns of the win- dows of the smaller dome which lights the vaulting. The Four Evangelists, seated under canopies in the shape of castles, are writing their precious books at the base of the pendentives, the extreme point of which is filled with emblematic figures pouring from urns in- clined upon their shoulders the four rivers of Paradise, — Pison, Gihon, Tigris, and Euphrates. In the next cupola, the centre of which has in a medallion the Mother of God, the four symbolical ani- mals of the Evangelists, in chimerical and astounding attitudes, free for once from the guardianship of their masters, guard the sacred manuscripts with a wealth of teeth, claws, and big eyes which would shame the drag- ons of the Hesperides. At the end of the apse, which shows dimly behind the high altar, is seen the Re- deemer, of gigantic and disproportionate size, made so intentionally, according to the Byzantine custom, to IO0O BLEDEL ALLELLEALAALLL ALLELE ALS SAN MARCO mark the distance between the Divine Person and the weak creature. If that Christ were to rise, he would, like the Olympian Jupiter, break through the roof of the temple. The atrium of the Basilica tells the Old Testament story ; the interior tells that of the New Testament in full, with the Apocalypse by way of epilogue. The Basilica of San Marco is a great golden Bible, illus- trated, illuminated, adorned, a missal of the Middle Ages on a great scale. For eight centuries past the city has been reading that monument as if it were a book of pictures, and has never wearied of its pious adoration. By the image runs the text. Everywhere ascend, descend, and meander legends in Greek, in Latin, Leonine verse, sentences, names, maxims, specimens of the caligraphy of every country and every age. Everywhere the black letter marks the golden page amid the variety of the mosaics. It is even more the Temple of the Word than the church of Saint Mark; an intellectual temple which, careless of all the orders of architecture, was built with verses of the old and the new faith, and ornamented by the exposition of the doctrine. I wish I could convey the dazzling and bewildering impression caused by that world of IOI ch oe eo ae be be eae cbe cece cee baobab abc cl of ce ome wre eTe ww qe re OFS ome CES GO em TRAV GES. TN wie Am angels, apostles, evangelists, prophets, doctors, figures of all kinds, which people the cupolas, the vaulting, the pediments, the arches, the pillars, the pendentives, — every little bit of wall. Here the genealogical tree of the Virgin spreads out its thick branches which have for fruits kings and holy personages, filling a vast panel with its curious bloom; there shines a Paradise, with its glory, its legions of angels and of the blessed. ‘This chapel contains the story of the Virgin; that vaulting contains the drama of the Passion, from the kiss of Judas to the appearance of the Holy Women, not for- getting the Agony in the Garden of Olives and Cal- vary. All those who have testified to Jesus, either by prophecy, preaching, or martyrdom, have been admitted to this great Christian Pantheon. Here is Saint Peter crucified head down, Saint Paul beheaded, Saint Thomas in the presence of the Indian king Gondoforo, Saint Andrew suffering martyrdom; not a single servant of Christ is forgotten, not even Saint Bacchus. Greek saints whom we Latins know but little of swell this great multitude: Saints Phocas, Dimitri, Procopius, Hermagoras, Euphemia, ‘Dorothea, Erasma, Thekla, all the lovely exotic flowers of the Greek calendar, which may well be painted in accordance with the LO? SAN MARCO 9? recipes of the “ Manual of Painting ”’ of the monk of Aghia-Labre, bloom on trees of gold and branches of gems. At certain hours of the day, when the darkness deepens and the sun sheds but a faint light under the vaulting, the poet and the seer behold strange effects. Tawny gleams suddenly flash from the golden back- ground, the small crystal tubes sparkle in spots like the sea in the sunshine, the contours of the figures tremble in the glimmering network, the silhouettes, clearly marked just now, become fainter, and the stiff folds of the dalmatics seem to soften and wave; a mysterious life revives the motionless figures; the staring eyes live, the arms, with their Egyptian gestures, move; the frozen feet begin to walk; the cherubs display their eight wings ; the angels exhibit their long azure and purple plumes nailed to the wall by the implacable mosaic worker; the genealogical tree shakes its leaves of green marble; the lion of Saint Mark stretches itself, yawns, and licks its armed paws; the eagle sharpens its beak and ruffles its feathers; the ox turns on its litter and chews the cud; the martyrs rise from their gridirons or descend from their crosses; the prophets converse with the Evangelists, the doctors talk to the young 103 tittretebbebeetttttetttttott tes WRAY Tee Ss) SN ae Sie saints, who smile with porphyry lips ; the characters in the mosaics become processions of phantoms which ascend and descend along the walls, move along the galleries, and pass before you in the waving gold of their glory. You are dazzled, bewildered; you are under the spell of a hallucination. The real meaning of the cathedral, its deep, mysterious, solemn meaning seems then to become plain. It appears to be the temple of a Christianity anterior to Christ, a church built before religion was. The centuries are lost in infinite perspective. Is not the Trinity a trimourta ? Is it Horus or Krishna whom the Virgin holds in her lap? Is it Isis or Parvati? Does that figure on the cross suffer the passion of Jesus or the trials of Vishnu? Are we in Egypt or in India? — in a temple of Karnak or ina pagoda of Juggernath? Are these figures in constrained attitudes very different from the processions of coloured hieroglyphs which twist and turn around the pylons and sink in the passages? When the eye descends from the vaulting to the ground, it sees on the left a small chapel dedicated to a miraculous Christ, which, having been struck by a profane hand, shed blood. ‘The dome, supported by columns of excessive rarity, all of which are of black 1O4 bebbbbtt td teeetttttttttts SeNeN AR OC @ and white porphyry, is closed by a ball formed of the largest agate in the world. At the back extends the choir with its balustrade, its porphyry columns, its row of statues carved by the Massegne brothers, and its great metal cross by Jacopo Benato. It has two pulpits in coloured marble, and an altar which shows under a dais between four columns of green marble carved like Chinese ivory by patient hands, which have inscribed upon it the whole story of the Old Testament in small figures a few inches in height. ‘The altar-piece, called the pala d’oro, is placed within a case, painted in compartments in the style of the Lower Empire. The pala itself is a daz- zling mass of enamels, cameos, niello, pearls, garnets, sapphires, gold and silver work, and painting in gems, representing scenes of the life of Saint Mark, sur- rounded by angels, apostles, and prophets. The pala was made in Constantinople in 976 (1105) and re- arranged in 1342 by Giambi Bonsegna. The second or cryptic altar behind the high altar is remarkable only for its four columns of alabaster, two of which are extraordinarily transparent. Near the altar is a won- derful bronze door in which Sansovino set by the side of his own the portraits of his great friends, Titian, 105 BEALE ALE ALLS AALALALS ewe OTe oye oT eee we ROA Vil Gh AN ‘Valerie Palma, and Aretino. ‘The door leads to a sacristy on the vaulting of which blazes a wondrous mosaic in arabesques, executed by Marco Rizzo and Francesco Zaccato from drawings by Titian. Nothing richer, more elegant, or more beautiful can be imagined. It would take more space than | have at my disposal to describe in detail the chapels of Saint Clement, of the Madonna dei Mascoli, in which there is a magnifi- cent retable by Nicolo Pisano, and the treasures of art met with at every step: now an alabaster Madonna with her bambino, exquisitely suave, now a bas-relief charmingly wrought, in which the peacocks’ tails form a halo, or a Turkish arch embroidered with Arab lace- work and checker-work of enamelled arabesques; then a pair of bronze candelabra, chased in a way to dis- courage Benvenuto Cellini, — some object of art either curious or venerable. The mosaic pavement, which waves like the sea in consequence of the age and the settling of the piles, presents the most astounding medley of arabesques, scrolls, fleurons, lozenges, and interlacing checker-work, storks, griffins, open-mouthed, winged, and taloned chimeras, ramping and climbing like the monsters of heraldry. One is fairly terrified and confounded by 106 dasha bt LELDLAEAL SL ALALALE LLY SAN MARCO the creative power displayed by men in this ornamental fancifulness; it is a world as varied, as numerous, as swarming as the other, but which draws its forms from itself alone. How much time, care, patience, and genius, how much cost must have been involved for eight centuries in consummating this immense mass of riches and masterpieces! How many golden sequins have been melted into the glass of the mosaics! How many antique temples and mosques have yielded up their pillars to support these capitals! How many quarries have been exhausted to provide the slabs for the pil- lars and the overlayings of Verona brocatelle, of portor, of lumachella, of red alabaster, of cyphisus, of veined granite, of mosaic granite, of verd antique, of red porphyry, of black and white porphyry, of serpentine of jasper! What armies of artists, following each other from generation to generation, have drawn, chased, and carved in this cathedral! Even leaving out the unknown, the humble workmen of the Middle Ages, lost in the night of time, who buried themselves in their work, what a long line of names might be drawn up worthy of being inscribed on the golden book of art! Among the painters who furnished cartoons 107 BEDE A ALA LS ASA Se eee teeter TRAWE Gs (iN Wide for the mosaics, — for there is not a single painting in the sanctuary, are numbered ‘Titian, Tintoretto, Palma, Padovanino, Salviatino, Aliense, Pilotti, Sebas- tian Rizzi, Tizianello; among the master mosaic- workers, at the head of whom must be placed old Petrus (author of the colossal Christ at the back of the church), are the brothers Zuccati, Bozza, Vincenzo Bianchini, Luigi Gaetano, Michele Zambono, Giacomo Passerini; among the sculptors, all men of prodigious talent, whom one is surprised to find are not better known, Pietro Lombardi, Campanetti, Zuanne Alber- ghetti, Paolo Savi, the brothers della Massegne, Jacopo Benato, Sansovino, Pietro Zuana, delle Campania, Lorenzo Breghno, and many others, any one of whom would suffice to make an epoch illustrious. In front of the church rise the three standards, sup- ported by the bronze pedestals of Alessandro Leopardi which represent marine deities, and chimeras exquisite in workmanship and polish. The three standards were formerly those of Cyprus, Candia, and Moro, the three maritime possessions of Venice; now on Sundays the black and yellow banner of Austria alone waves in the breeze which comes from Greece and the Orient. 108 bhbebetbebbehebbbbke bed EEA le L Ny LL ALY Poebetbtttetbtttebbttttt bet ere wre vFe eee On ht RY IDOGES |e AHE Palace of the Doges, in its present form, dates from the time of Marino Faliero, and has replaced an older building founded about 814 under Angelo Participazio and continued by different doges. Marino Faliero it was who caused to be built in 1355 the existing facades on the Molo and the Piazzetta. The building proved unlucky to both the Doge and the architect: the former was be- headed, the latter hanged. The strange edifice, which was at once a palace, a Senate house, a Court house, and a prison under the government of the Republic, is entered by an exquisite door on the San Marco corner between the pillars of Saint Jean d’Acre and the enormous squat column which bears up the whole weight of the mighty white and rose marble wall that imparts such striking origi- nality to the Palace of the Doges. This door, called della Carta, is ina charming architectural style, orna- mented with slender pillars, trefoils, and statues, and, 109 de ded obs b deck bob chard edeck oh hoch Ce CTO WHO Oe wie Ue ey TRAVELS UN irae of course, the inevitable winged lion and Saint Mark. It leads through a vaulted passage into the great inner court. This peculiar placing of the entrance, outside, as it were, the building to which it leads, has the advantage of not interfering in any way with the unity of the facade, which is broken by no projection save that of the monumental windows. Above the huge, heavy column of which I have spoken there is a fierce looking bas-relief representing the Judgment of Solomon. ‘The medizval costumes and a certain savageness in the execution make it diffi- cult to recognise the subject. On the other side, towards the sea, are the figures of Adam and Eve, and on the angle cut by the Ponte della Paglia, the Sin of Noah. The old man’s arm, carved with fine Gothic dryness, shows every muscle and every vein. On the Piazzetta, on the second story, two columns of red marble mark the place where were proclaimed sentences of death, a custom which still persists. “The thirteenth capital of the lower gallery, counting from Saint Mark, is also highly praised. It contains in eight compartments as many ages,of human life very cleverly rendered. For the matter of that, all the capitals are _in exquisite taste and wonderfully varied; there are no IIO THE PALACE OF a Boots two alike. They contain monsters, angels, children, fantastic animals, biblical or historical subjects, mingled with scrolls, acanthus leaves, fruits, and flowers. Sev- eral bear half-effaced inscriptions in Gothic characters. There are seventeen arches on the Molo and eighteen on the Piazzetta. | The Porta della Carta leads to the Giants’ Staircase, which is in no wise gigantic in itself its name being due to two colossi some twelve feet in height, by Sansovino, representing Neptune and Mars, placed on pedestals at the top of the stairs. It leads from the court to the second gallery, which runs within as well as without the palace, and it was built under the rule of Doge Agostino Barberigo by Antonio Rizzi. It is in white marble, and decorated by Domenico and Ber- nardino of Mantua with arabesques and trophies in .very low relief, but so perfect as to drive to despair all decorators, jewellers, and niello workers in the world. It ceases to be architecture; it is goldsmith’s work such as Benvenuto Cellini and Vechte alone could pro- duce. Every bit of the open-worked balustrade is a marvel of invention; the arms and the helmets of each bas-relief, all dissimilar, exhibit the rarest fancifulness and are in the purest style; the very steps themselves IIIf LLELAAALELLALAALALALAALALAL TR ANE LScil NIA are inlaid with exquisite ornaments. And yet who knows about Domenico and Bernardino of Mantua? Human memory, already overladen with hundreds of illustrious names, refuses to remember more, and con- signs to oblivion some which deserve to be glorious. At the foot of the stairs are placed, where is usually found the railhead, two baskets of fruit worn by the hands of people who ascend. ‘The statues of Neptune and Mars, in spite of their great size and the exagger- ated prominence of the muscles, are somewhat weak, considered zsthetically, but set off by the architecture, they have a proud and majestic look. On the plinth is the artist’s name, who, I consider, did far better work in his statuettes of the Apostles and in the door of the sacristy of San Marco. On turning around at the top of the stairs, one sees the inner side of Bartolommeo’s facade covered with volutes, slender columns, and statues, with vestiges of blue colouring starred with gold in the pediments of the arches. Among these statues, one especially is ex- ceedingly remarkable. It represents Eve, and is the work of Antonio Rizzi of Verona in 1471. Its charming form exhibits a certain Gothic timidity of style, and its ingenuous pose recalls with adorable Li2 $tttttt¢¢et¢¢teetttteeetee DURE BR AoA Ge On ITE oD OGES awkwardness the attitude of the Venus of Medici, the pagan Eve. ‘The other facade, which looks upon the Cisterns, was built in 1607 in the Renaissance style, with pillars and niches holding antique statues brought from Greece, representing warriors, orators, gods, and goddesses. A clock and a statue of Doge Urbino, the work of Gio Bandini of Florence, complete the severe and classical facade. On looking at the centre of the court are seen what appear to be magnificent bronze altars. They are the openings of the cisterns, by Nicolo de Conti and Francesco Alberghetti. Ihe one is of 1556, the other of 1559, and both are masterpieces. ‘They represent, besides the usual griffins, sirens, and chimeras, various aquatic subjects drawn from Scripture. It is impossible to imagine the richness, the invention, the exquisite taste, the perfection of carving, the finish of the work of these well margins, which are improved by the polish and the patina of time. Even the interior of the cistern mouth, overlaid by bronze plates, is enriched by a damasked design in arabesques. The two cisterns are said to hold the best water in Venice, therefore they are greatly frequented, and the ropes by which the pails are pulled 8 EE Stitceedeeeettetetesetetet TRAN EUS 31 NT aes up have worn in the bronze edges grooves two or three inches deep. Nowhere else in Venice is there a better place to study the interesting class of women water-carriers, whose beauty is somewhat gratuitously famous, in my opinion, for if I did see a few pretty ones, I saw very many more ugly and old. ‘Their costume is rather striking. ‘They wear tall men’s-hats of black felt and a long black skirt which comes up under their arms like an Empire gown; their feet are bare, as well as their legs, although they sometimes wear on the latter a sort of knemis or footless stocking, like the peasants of the Valencian Huerta. ‘Their chemise, of coarse linen, plaited on the bosom and with short sleeves, completes their dress. “They carry the water on their shoulders in two pails of red copper which balance. Most of these women are Tyrolese. At the very moment when I stopped at the head of the staircase, there was bending over the brazen margin of Nicolo de Conti’s cistern one of these young Tyrolese, who was pulling up with difficulty, —— for she was short and delicate, —a full pail of water. Her neck showed, under the masculine head- 114 —EEEEEE alle 28> abs oe obs obs alle atte obo abe abe aboche ole ofr obs eb ofp obe abe ofr alle ofp obs THEYPVUAICH IOP THE YVDOGES dress, her pretty, fair hair and the upper part of her white shoulders, on which the hot sun had not yet tanned the snows of the mountain. A painter would have found in this a subject for a pretty picture. Personally I greatly prefer to the habit of walking between two pails the Spanish and African manner of carrying the water on the head in an amphora held in equilibrium. Women thus gain an astonishing nobility of port. By the way they stand and walk, one would think they were antique statues. But I have talked enough about water-carriers. Near the Giants’ Staircase is seen an inscription framed in with ornaments and figures by Alessandro Vittoria, recalling the passage of Henry III through Venice, and farther along, in the gallery at the en- trance to the Golden Staircase, two statues by An- tonio Aspetti, — Hercules, and Atlas bending under the starry firmament, the weight of which the robust hero is about to take on his bull neck. This ex- ceedingly magnificent staircase, ornamented with stucco work by Vittoria and paintings by Gianbattista was built by Sansovino, and leads to the Library which now occupies several rooms in the Palace of the Doges. 115 ttebeebetetttttettttbtk bh: PRIA VEL So TN “lal Ary The former assembly hall of the Great Council (Sala del Maggior Conseglio) is one of the largest in existence. The Court of the Lions at the Al- hambra could easily be put within it. One is struck with astonishment on entering, for, thanks to an effect frequent in architecture, the hall appears to be very much larger than the building which contains it. Sombre and severe wainscoting, in which bookcases have taken the place of the stalls of the former senators, serves as a plinth to immense paintings which run around the wall, broken only by the win- dows, under a line of portraits of the doges, and a colossal ceiling gilded all over, incredibly rich and exuberant in ornamentation, with vast compartments, square, octagonal, oval, with branches, volutes and rocaille, in a style not very appropriate to the style of the palace, but so grandiose and magnificent that it fairly dazzles one. One of the sides of the hall — that in which is the entrance door — is filled com- pletely by a gigantic “ Paradise”? by Tintoretto, which contains a whole world of figures. The sketch of a similar subject in the Louvre may give an idea of this composition, of a kind which suited the fiery and disorderly genius of that virile artist who so 116 tebbbtbeettttttettttttttee THE PALAGE OF THE DOGES thoroughly bore out the meaning of his name, Jacopo Robusto; for it is a robust painting, and it is a pity that time has darkened it so much. The murkiness which covers it would suit a picture of Hell equally as well as a picture of Paradise. Behind this canvas there exists, it is said, an old painting of Paradise done on the wall in green camaieu by Guariento of Padua in the year 1365. It would be interesting to compare the green paradise with the black. It takes Venice to have one painting upon another. The hall is a sort of Versailles Museum of Vene- tian history, with the difference that although the exploits represented are less, the painting is far supe- rior. No more marvellous prospect can be imagined than this vast hall covered all over with these pompous paintings in which the Venetian genius excelled, most skilful as it was in the arrangement of great works. On al] sides there is the shimmer of velvet, the sheen of silk, the sparkle of taffeta, the brilliancy of gold brocade, the bossing of gems, the heavy folds of stiff dalmatics, the fantastic chasing of cuirasses and morions, damascened with light and shade and re- flecting gleams like mirrors. The sky fills in with the blue peculiar to Venice the interstices of the white 117 chy ofa abe oe oe ake oh abe abe che beads cece che che ch chee oh ook ahs atte one aR AY Virb. NY a eee pillars, and on the steps of the marble staircases stand splendid groups of senators, of warriors, of patricians and pages, which form the usual population of a Venetian painting. The battles exhibit an indescrib- able chaos of galleys with three-storied castles, tops, look-outs, triple banks of oars, towers, war machines, overthrown ladders bringing down clusters of men; an amazing mingling of galley drivers, of galley slaves, of sailors, of men-at-arms, killing each other with maces, cutlasses, and barbarous engines; some bare to the belt, others dressed in singular harness or in Oriental costumes in capricious and eccentric taste, like those of Rembrandt’s Turks; all swarming and fighting, against a background of smoke and fire, or on waves which throw up between the galleys their long, green crests ending in flakes of foam. It is regrettable that in many of these paintings time has added its smoke to that of battle, but imagination profits by the loss to the eye. Time gives more than it takes from the pictures it works over. Many masterpieces owe a portion of their merit to the patina with which the ages have gilded them. Above these great historical paintings runs a series of portraits of Doges by Tintoretto, Bassano, and 118 i ee thee de ote he che cdo te he che obec obec abe che che chee che chock THE PAL A@ HOLD inne DOGES other painters. Generally they have dark and repellent faces, although they are beardless, contrary to the generally accepted opinion. In one corner the eye stops at an empty black frame which marks a break as sombre as a tomb in the chronological gallery. It is the place which should have been filled by the portrait of Marino Faliero, as is told in the inscription: Locus Marini Phaletri, decapitati pro cri- minibus. Every efigy of Marino Faliero was also de- stroyed, so that his portrait is not to be found. It is said, however, that there is one in the possession of a Verona amateur. Let me add concerning Marino Faliero that he was not beheaded at the top of the Giants’ Staircase, because that staircase was not built until one hun- dred and fifty years later, but at the opposite angle at the other end of the gallery on the landing of a stair since destroyed. I shall name, without pretending to describe them in detail, the most celebrated halls in the palace: the Sala dei Scarlatti, the mantelpiece of which is cov- ered with marble reliefs of the most delicate work- manship. ‘There is also placed over it a very curious marble bas-relief representing Doge Loredano kneel- 11g LELLAEALLDLALLALLALLALLL ELS TRAVELS! i NY Pe Ae ing before the Virgin and Child accompanied by several saints. It is a capital work by an unknown artist. [he Sala dello Scudo, where were placed the arms of the living Doge; the Sala dei Filosofi, in which there is a very beautiful chimney-piece by Pietro Lombardi; the Stanze dei Stucchi, thus named on account of its ornamentation. It contains paint- ings by Salviati, Pordenone, and Bassano, —a Ma- donna, a “ Descent from the Cross,” and a “ Nativity.” The Banquet hall, where the Doge gave state dinners, —diplomatic dinners, as one would say to-day. It has a portrait of Henry III by Tintoretto, strongly painted and very handsome, and opposite the door a warmly painted ‘ Adoration of the Magi,” by Boni- fazzio. ‘The Sala delle Quattro Porte, preceded by a square hall the ceiling of which, painted by Tin- toretto, represents ‘ Justice handing the sword and the scales to the Doge Priuli.” The four doors are decorated by statues of fine port by Giulio del Moro, Francesco Caselli, Girolamo Campagna, Alessandro Vittoria; and masterpieces of painting, among others one representing the “ Doge Marino Grimani kneeling before the Virgin, with Saint Mark and other saints,” by Contarini; and another of Doge Antonio, also 120 beobbbbbbbeettdbbettdktectes eras Camon ) Cres DOGES kneeling before Faith, by Titian, a splendid, golden painting in which simplicity is in no wise diminished by the ceremonious style. [he compartments of the ceiling were designed by Palladio, the stucco work is by Vittoria and Bombarda, from the designs of Sansovino. A “Venice” by Tintoretto, led by Jupi- ter over the Adriatic in the centre of a court of deities, fills the central compartment. Let us pass next from this hall into the Ante Col- legio, the waiting-room of the ambassadors, designed by Scamozzi. The envoys of the various powers who came to present their letters of credit to the Most Serene Republic, cannot have felt in a hurry to be introduced; the masterpieces accumulated in this splendid antechamber would enable one to wait patiently. The four paintings placed near the door are by Tinto- retto, and are among his best. I know of none to equal them save the “ Adam and Eve,” and the “ Abel and Cain” in the Academy of Fine Arts. The subjects are: ‘ Mercury and the Graces,” “The Forge of Vulcan,” ‘¢ Pallas, accompanied by Joy and Abundance, driving away Mars,” “ Ariadne consoled by Bacchus.” The marvel of this sanctuary of art is the “ Rape of Europa”? by Paolo Veronese. The lovely maid is I21 bebbbt be tttetcette td tcettctdt TRAV ETS! TN PIC eae seated as upon a silver throne upon the back of the divine bull, whose snow-white chest breaks into the blue sea, which seeks to reach with its amorous ripples the feet of Europa, which she draws up with a childish dread of wetting them,— an ingenious de- tail in the “* Metamorphoses ” which the painter was careful not to forget. Europa’s companions, not knowing that the god has taken the noble form of that handsome animal so gentle and so familiar, crowd upon the bank and cast garlands of flowers at it, un~ aware that Europa, thus carried away, is going to give her name to a continent and to become the mistress of Zeus with the black eyebrows and the ambrosial hair. How beautiful show the white shoul- ders, the fair neck with the tressed hair, and the lovely, round arms! Over the whole of that mar- vellous painting, in which Paolo Veronese seems to have reached the highest point of perfection, there is a glow of eternal youth. The sky, the clouds, the trees, the flowers, the ground, the sea, the carna- tion, the draperies, all seem flushed with the light of an unknown Elysium. All is warm and fresh like youth, seductive like voluptuousness, calm and pure like strength. There is no mannerism in the care- I22 EL EB oAd ean aks OF THE ‘DOGES fulness, no unhealthiness in the radiant joy. In the presence of that canvas,—this is high praise for Watteau,— I thought of the “* Departure for Cythera;”’ only, you must substitute for the lamps of the Opera the splendid daylight of the East, for the dainty dolls of the Regency in their dresses of ruffled taffeta, su- perb bodies in which Greek beauty assumes a softer erace under the touch of Venetian voluptuousness, and which yielding and living draperies caress. If I had to choose a unique work in all Veronese’s, this is the painting I should prefer. It is the finest gem in his rich casket of jewels. On the ceiling the great artist has placed his dear Venice upon a golden throne with the rich breadth and the abundant grace of which he knows the secret. When he paints his Assumption, in which Venice takes the place of the Virgin, he always manages to find new azure and new beams. The magnificent mantelpiece by Aspetti, the stucco cornice by Vittoria and Bombarda, the blue camaieus by Sebastian Rizzi, the pillars of verd antique and cipolin framing in the door complete this wondrous decoration, which is marked by the most beautiful of all luxury, the luxury of genius. 422 LLELEALALALLALAAAALALL LA AOR A VIRSLS “IN Slee The reception-room or Collegio comes next. Here we find again Tintoretto and Paolo Veronese, the one tawny and violent, the other azure and calm, the former best on great walls, the second on vast ceilings. Tintoretto has painted in this hall *¢ Doge Andrea pray- ing to the Virgin and Child,” the “ Marriage of Saint Catherine,” the “* Doge Dona,” the “ Virgin under at baldacchino,” and the ‘Christ adored by the Doge Luigi Mocenigo.” On the other wall Paolo Veronese has represented Christ enthroned, with the personifica- tion of Venice by his side; Faith and Angels who hold out palms to Sebastian Venier, who became Doge afterward and won the famous victory over the Turks at Cursolari on Saint Justina’s day, — the latter saint figures in the painting, the famous proveditore Agostino Barberigo, who was. slain in that battle, and the two figures, on either side, of Saint Sebastian and Saint Justina in grisaille, the one in allusion to the victor’s name, the other to the date of the victory. A magnificent ceiling contains in its compartments the complete deification of Venice by Paolo Veronese, who was particularly fond of this subject. As if this apotheosis did not suffice, Venice again figures above 124 decked dade och ch obec check oh check REE VPAMSAGHAIOE OE (DOGES the window with crown and sceptre in a painting by Carletto Cagliari. I feel that in spite of myself, the nomenclature grows apace, but at every step I am stayed by a masterpiece. How can I help it? I shall be unable to tell you everything,—let your own imagination work. There are also in the Palace of the Doges three wondrous rooms which I[ have not even named: The Hall of the Council of Ten, of the Senate, of the Inquisitors of State, and many more. Place the ‘“¢ Apotheosis of Venice” cheek by jowl with the “ As- ? sumption of the Virgin ” on the ceilings and the walls ; make the Doges kneel before the one or the other of these Madonnas, with mythological heroes and gods of fable; place the lion of Saint Mark near the eagle of Jupiter, the Emperor Frederick Barbarossa near Neptune, Pope Alexander III near a short-skirted Allegory ; mingle with stories drawn from the Bible and Virgins under baldacchinos, captures of Zara full of remarkable episodes out of a canto in Ariosto, the surprise of Candia, and massacres of Turks; carve the jambs and the lintels of the doors, load the cor- nices with stucco-work and mouldings, set up statues in every corner, gild everything which has not been 125 TR A VETS “T Noelia painted by the brush of a great artist; say to yourself: «¢ All those who worked here, even the unknown, had twenty times the talent of the celebrities of our day, and the greatest masters wore their lives out in this place’’;——and then you may have a faint idea of splendours which beggar description. Near the door of one of these halls is still to be seen, though its prestige of terror is lost now that it is reduced to the condition of an unused letter-box, the old Lion’s Mouth into which informers cast their de- nunciations. All that is left is the hole in the wall; the mouth itself has been pulled away. A sombre corridor leads from the Hall of the Inquisitors of State to the Leads and the Wells, which have given rise to so many sentimental declamations. Undoubtedly there can be no fine prisons, but the truth is that the Leads were large rooms covered over with lead, the material generally used in Venice for roofing, and which does not involve any particular cruelty; also, the Wells were in no wise below the level of the Lagoon. I visited two or three of these dungeons. I expected architectural phantasmagoria in the taste of Piranesi, — arches and squat pillars, winding stairs, complex gratings, enormous rings made fast in mon- 126 tetebtettttttttettttteetes Tee Pp A eer PD O.GES strous blocks, narrow slits letting fall a greenish light upon the damp pavement, —and to be admitted by a jailer wearing a foxskin cap with the tail hanging down, and bunches of keys clanking at his girdle. As a matter of fact it was a venerable guide, looking like a Paris janitor, who preceded me, candle in hand, through narrow, dark passageways. ‘Ihe wainscoted cells had a low door and a small opening opposite the lamp hanging from the ceiling of the passageway. A wooden camp bed was in one corner. It was close and dark, but in no wise melodramatic; a_philan- thropist designing a cell could not have done worse. On the walls are to be read some of the inscriptions which weary prisoners engrave with a nail on the walls of their tomb: signatures, dates, short sentences drawn from the Bible, philosophical thoughts suitable to the place, a timid aspiration for liberty ; sometimes the cause of the imprisonment, as in the inscription which relates that a captive was imprisoned for sacri- lege, having given food to a dead man. At the en- trance to the corridor I was shown a stone bench on which were seated those who were secretly put to death in the prison. A fine cord passed around the neck and twisted garote fashion strangled them after Lay kettbettttttttttttttt tts TRAV EC'S) DN aoe the Turkish mode. These clandestine executions occurred only in the case of prisoners of state con- victed of political crimes. The deed done, the body was put into a gondola through a door which opens on the Canal della Paglia, and it was thrown overboard with a cannon-ball or a stone tied to the feet in the Orfanello Canal, which was very deep and where fishermen were forbidden to cast their nets. Ordinary assassins were executed between the two pillars at the entrance to the Piazzetta. The Bridge of Sighs, which as seen from the Ponte della Paglia looks like a cenotaph suspended over the water, is nowise remarkable internally. It is a covered double corridor, separated by a wall, which leads from the Ducal Palace to the prison, a severe, solid piece of work by Antonio da Ponte situated on the other side of the Canal and which looks upon the side facade of the palace supposed to have been built from the de- signs of Antonio Ricci. “The name of Bridge of Sighs given to this tomb which connects two prisons prob- ably arose from the plaints of the unfortunates as they proceeded from their cells to the tribunal or from the tribunal to their cells, broken by torture or driven des- perate by condemnation. At night the canal, closed in 128 ne bbtetebetettttetbttttt tee PHeEGe AL AGHEOH THE DOGES by the high walls of the two sombre edifices lighted only by occasional lights, looks most sombre and mys- terious, and the gondolas which glide along bearing a couple of lovers, seem to be bound, with a burden, for the Orfanello Canal. I also visited the former apartments of the Doge, which have lost all their primitive magnificence save an exceedingly ornamental ceiling divided into hex- agonal compartments gilded and painted. Within these compartments, concealed by the foliage and the roses, was cut an invisible hole, through which the Inquisitors of State and the members of the Council of Ten could spy at any hour of the day and night what the Doge was doing. ‘The walls, not satisfied with listening through an ear, as in the prison of Dionysius, looked through an open eye, and the Doge, victorious at Zara and Candia, heard, like Angelo, steps in the wall and felt himself mysteriously and jealously watched. 9 129 P “HE Grand Canal is to Venice what the Strand is to Londonythe Rue Saint-Honoré to Paris, the Calle d’Alcala to Madrid, — the chief artery of the city. It is in the shape of a reversed S, the centre of which cuts into the city in the direction of San Marco, while the upper point ends by the island of Santa Chiara and the lower by the Dogana near the Giudecca Canal. It is cut about the centre by the Rialto. The Grand Canal at Venice is the most wonderful thing in the world; no other city affords so fair, so strange, so fairylike a prospect. Equally remarkable specimens of architecture may be met with elsewhere, but none under such picturesque conditions. Every palace has a mirror in which it can gaze upon its own beauty ; the splendid reality is duplicated by a lovely reflection ; the water lovingly laves the feet of these beautiful facades bathed in a golden light and cradles them in a double heaven. ‘The smaller vessels and 130 tettde dete td tttttttbttotttts PHE EG RAN DD’ CANAL the larger boats which can ascend the canal seem moored on purpose to fill up the foreground for the greater advantage of scene painters and water-colour painters. | Every wall tells a story, every house is a palace, every palace a masterpiece and a legend. With every stroke of the oar, the gondolier calls out a name which was as well known in crusading days as to-day, and this goes on for more than half a league. ‘The list of pal- aces would fill up five or six pages. Pietro Lombardi, Vittoria, Sansovino, Sammichelli, the great Veronese architect, Domenico Rossi, Visentini designed and superintended the building of these princely dwellings ; to say nothing of the marvellous anonymous artists of ‘the Middle Ages who erected the most picturesque and the most romantic, those which give to Venice its peculiar stamp and individuality. On both banks follow uninterruptedly facades equally charming and diversely beautiful. Next to a Renais- sance building with its superimposed pillars and orders, stands a medieval palace in the Gothic and Arab style of which the Palace of the Doges is the prototype, with traceried balconies, arches, trefoils, and dentellated acroter; then a facade overlaid with coloured marbles 131 Shhh t beds tte hth tt Etettee TRAVELS vING hiya and adorned with medallions and brackets; then a great rose-coloured wall with a vast pillared window. You meet with every possible variety, — Byzantine, Saracen, Lombard, Gothic, Romanesque, Greek, and even rococo architecture; pillars and columns, Gothic and Roman arches, fantastic capitals full of birds and flowers brought from Acre or Jaffa, or Greek capitals found among Athenian ruins, mosaics and bassi-relievi, classic severity ana the elegant fancifulness of the Re- naissance. It is an immense open-air gallery, in which one can study from a gondola the progress of art dur- ing seven or eight centuries. How much genius, talent, and money have been expended in a space trav- ersed in less than an hour! What prodigious artists, and what intelligent and splendid lords! What a pity that the patricians who caused such beautiful palaces to be built should now exist only in the paintings of Titian, Tintoretto, and Moro! Even before reaching the Rialto there rises on the left as you ascend the canal, the Palazzo Dario in the Lombard-Gothic style of the fifteenth century; the Palazzo Venier, the corner of which shows, with its ornaments, its precious marbles, and its medallions, also in the Lombard style; the Academy of the Fine 132 LLALAADE ESE AA HSA A ELLA SEL THE GRAND CANAL Arts, the old Scuola di Santa Maria della Carita, with its classical facade surmounted by a Minerva with a lion; the Palazzo Contarini degli Scrigni, the work of Scamozzi; the Palazzo Rezzonico with its three superimposed orders; the two Palazzi Schiavoni, where lives Natale Schiavoni, a descendant of the famous painter of that name, who has a gallery of paintings and a beautiful daughter, the living repro- duction of a canvas painted by her ancestor; the Palazzo Foscari, easily known by its low door with its two stories of slender pillars supporting Gothic arches and trefoils, where formerly lodged the sover- eigns who visited Venice, and now deserted; the Palazzo Balbi, on the balcony of which princes leaned to watch the regattas which took place on the Grand Canal with so much brilliancy and magnificence in the heyday of the Republic; the Palazzo Pisani, in the German pointed style of the fourteenth century ; and the Palazzo Tiepolo, very stylish and comparatively modern, with its two elegant pyramidions. On the right, close to the Hotel de |’Europe rises between two tall buildings a lovely palazzino which consists of a window and a balcony,— but what a window, and what a balcony! A lace-work of stone scrolls and nae. BLEDEL ALA APA SSS eetteeteeet TRA YE LS “UN oe eae tracery! Farther on, the Palazzo Corner della Ca Grande, built in 1532, one of the best works of San- sovino; the Palazzo Grazzi, now the Hotel de ’Em- pereur, the marble staircase of which is adorned with beautiful orange trees in pots; the Palazzo. Corner Spinelli ; the Palazzo Grimani, a powerful piece of work by Sammichelli, the lower marble course of which is adorned by a double fret of striking effect, — it is now the postoffice; the Palazzo Farsetti, with a pillared peristyle and a long gallery of slender col- umns running along the whole facade, now occupied by the municipal offices. I might say, as does Don Ruy Gomez de Silva to Charles V in “ Hernani,” when showing his ancestors’ portraits, “I pass many, and of the best.” I shall, nevertheless, mention the Palazzo Loredan and the ancient dwelling of Enrico Dandolo, the victor of Constantinople. Between the valaces there are houses equally good, whose chimneys, ending in turrets, turbans, and flower vases, diversify very agreeably the great architectural lines. Sometimes a traghetto (landing) or a piazzetta like the Campo San Vitale, for instance, which lies oppo- site the Academy, makes a pleasant break in this long line of monuments. “The Campo, bordered by houses 134 oe abe ahs abe abe obs ob alle obs ole alle alls olls obo ob ole ole obs ole offs offs ofp telnet — Silt — elit — Sadi — Salli —4 ay THE GRAND AR coloured with a bright, cheerful red, contrasts most happily with the vine leaves of a tavern arbour; that red dash in that line of facades, more or less darkened by time, pleases and rests the eye. You can always find a painter there, palette in hand and paint-box on his knees; and the gondoliers and the handsome girls, whom these rascals always attract, pose naturally, and from being admirers are turned - into models. The Rialto, which is the handsomest bridge in Venice, has a very grand, monumental look. It spans the canal with a single bold, elegant arch. It was built in 1588-1592, when Pasquale Cicogna was Doge, by Antonio da Ponte. It replaced the old wooden drawbridge. Two rows of shops separated in the centre by an arcaded portico and giving a glimpse of the sky, line the sides of the bridge, which may be crossed by any one of three ways, —the roadway in the centre, and the two outer pavements with their marble balustrades. In the immediate neighbourhood of the Rialto, which is one of the most picturesque points on the Grand Canal, are crowded together the oldest houses in Ven- ice with their flat roofs, on which are planted posts for 455 LLALD ALE EA bed ehh ttete bese TRAVELS LANE DE Asie awnings, with tall chimneys, portly balconies, stairs with disjointed steps, and great patches of red wash, the broken plaster in which shows the dark walls and the foundations turned green by contact with the water. ‘There is always near the Rialto a mob of boats and gondolas, and stagnant islets of crafts moored and drying their brown sails which are sometimes adorned with a great cross. Shylock, the Jew who hungered for Christian flesh, had his shop on the Rialto, which is honoured by having furnished the setting of a scene to Shakespeare. On either side of the Rialto are grouped on both banks the Fondaco dei Tedeschi, whose walls, coloured with doubtful tints, suggest frescoes by Titian and Tintoretto like vanishing dreams; the Fish Market, the Grass Market; the Fabbriche Vecchie, erected by Scarpagnino, in 1520, and the Fabbriche Nuove erected by Sansovino in 1535, in a ruinous condition, and in which are installed different government offices. These ruinous Fabbriche, with their red tones and their wondrous shades due to age and neglect, must drive the municipality to despair and cause the deepest joy to painters. Under the arcades swarms a busy, noisy population which ascends and descends, goes and 136 she he oe bebe obo che oh abe te beck bebe coche echo ch oho che THE GRAND CANAL comes, buys and sells, laughs and shouts. ‘There fresh-caught tunny is sold in red slices, and mussels, oysters, crabs, and prawns are carried away in basket- fuls; while under the arch of the bridge, where is con- stantly heard a sonorous echo, sleep the gondoliers in the shade, awaiting customers. Still proceeding up the canal, there is seen on the left the Palazzo Corner della Regina, so named from Queen Cornaro. The building, which is by Dome- nico Rossi, is exceedingly elegant. “The sumptuous palace is now the Monte di Pieta, or pawn office. The Armenian College, which is not far off, is an admirable building by Baldassare de Longhena, of a rich, solid, and imposing architecture. It was formerly the Palazzo Pesaro. On the right rises the Palazzo della Ca d’Oro, one of the loveliest on the Grand Canal. It belongs to Mlle. Taglioni, who has had it restored most intelligently. It is embroidered, dentel- lated, traceried all over in a Greek, Gothic, barbaric taste, so contrasting, so light, so aerial that it seems to have been made on purpose for the home of a sylph. Mlle. Taglioni has taken pity on these poor, abandoned palaces. She pensions a number of them, which she keeps up out of sheer pity for their beauty. Three or 37 BEEALAADLLALAAAL ALLA AAADAL ALLS TRA WE ISS NY er ae four were pointed out to me which she has charitably restored. Now look at these mooring posts painted blue and white with golden fleurs de lys. “They mean that the former Palazzo Vendramin Calergi has become a semi- royal dwelling. It is the home of Her Highness the Duchess of Berry, and she is certainly better lodged there than in the Marsan Pavilion; for this palace, one of the finest in Venice, is a masterpiece of architec- ture, and the sculpture is wonderfully fine. There is nothing prettier than the groups of children holding the shields on the arches of the windows. The interior is full of precious marbles. Two porphyry columns, of such wondrous beauty that they alone are worth the cost of the palace, are much admired. I have not yet spoken of the Palazzo Moncenigo, where dwelt Byron, yet my gondola skirted the marble steps where, her hair blowing wild, her feet in the water, in rain and in storm, the girl of the people, the nobleman’s mistress, welcomed him on his return with these tender words: “ You great dog of the Madonna! Is this the kind of weather to go to the Lido in?” The Palazzo Barberigo also deserves 138 ALDDAALDLAE SSAA ALeSAt tte Ae ieher Ghee DCA N AT mention. I did not see its twenty-two ‘Titians which the Russian consul has under seal, having purchased them for his master, but it still contains some very fine paintings, and the carved and gilded cradle intended for the heir of the noble family, — a cradle which might be turned into a tomb, for the Barberigos, like most of the old Venetian families, are extinct. Of nine hundred patrician families inscribed on the Golden Book, there are scarcely fifty left to-day. The old Fondaco de’ Turchi, so much frequented in the days when Venice held the trade of the East and of India, has two stories of Moorish arches which have fallen in or which are filled up by hovels that have grown there like poisonous mushrooms. At about the point where opens the Cannaregio are seen traces of the siege and of the Austrian bombard- ment. Some of the shells fell on the Palazzo Labbia, which was burned, and have marked the unfinished facade of San Geremia. As one draws away from the centre of the city, life diminishes, many windows are closed or boarded over, but that very sadness has a beauty of its own. It is more easily felt by the soul than by the eyes, which are treated constantly to the Be, A basses IN ITALY most unexpected effects of light and shade of varied fabbriche, which are the more picturesque for their ruined condition, to the perpetual movement of the waters and the blue and rose tint which forms the atmosphere of Venice. 140 i ie ie i> he ie i i ie tttitetttebtettht DivAigioeaylN jl LAL Y, che che hecho be abe che tre che che cece be oe obec CFO. OTe OFS ETS 25 OTS CTO BHO OTE CFE ie ie tie i iene NY VEIN Te S I intended to make a prolonged stay in A Venice, I took up my abode at the corner of the Campo San Moisé, whence I looked out both on the Square and the Canal. At the back of the Square stood the church of San Moisé, with its flashy and eccentric rococo facade, with its violent and almost savage exaggeration; not the tasteless, soft, old- fashioned rococo that we are accustomed to in France, but a robust, strong, exuberant, inventive, capricious bad taste. The volutes twist like stone flourishes, the brackets jut out unexpectedly, the architraves are broken by deep cuts, carved allegories lean on the pediments of the arches in Michael-Angelesque pos- tures ; the statues, with their swollen contours and their manifold draperies, pose in their niches like Hectors or dancing masters; the founder’s bust on top of its pedestal is so formidable, with its great moustaches, that it seems to be the very likeness of Don Spavento. Nevertheless, the foliage, close set like the leaves of a che choo bso oh oh oe oh te chee decde eee abe cde ce oe choc TRAV ETS * DINO I hae cabbage, the hollowed rock-work, the napkin-like car- touches, the columns with bracelets, the carelessly carved figures, the overlay of extravagant ornamenta- tion, produce a rich and grandiose effect, in spite of good taste offended by every detail, but offended by a vigorous imagination. This truculent facade is connected by a flying bridge with its tower, a diminutive of the Campanile on the Piazza San Marco. In Italy architects have always been bothered by the bells; they either do not wish to or do not know how to connect them with the main building. “They seem to have been influenced in spite of themselves by the pagan temples, and to have looked upon the Gothic steeple as a deformed superfluity, a barbarous excrescence. They have turned it into an isolated tower, a sort of belfry, and apparently ignore the splendid effects of ecclesiastical architecture in the North. This by the way. I shall have more than once to repeat this remark. The entrance to San Moisé is covered by a heavy portiere of piqué leather, which, when it is raised, allows a glimpse from the Square of gleams of gilding, of starry tapers in a transparent shadow, and gives passage to warm puffs of incense which mingle with the sounds 142 ae oe abs obs ols ob che oe ole be che brads ofa als ale abe abs on obs ole alle abate ore CFO HO GO VFO VFO VIG VTS Sie Vie ape die ele wie wie ER EgaN VENICE of the organ and of the prayers. ‘The campanile has no sinecure. It clangs and chimes the livelong day ; in the morning it is the Angelus, then Mass, then vespers, then the evening prayer. Its iron tongue is scarcely ever silent; nothing tires out its bronze lungs. Close by, separated by a lane as narrow as the nar- rowest callejon in Granada or Constantinople, which leads to the traghetto on the Grand Canal, rises in the shadow of the church the presbytery, a sombre facade washed with a faded red tint, pierced with gloomy windows heavily grated, which would strike a dissonant note in this bright Venetian picture did not quantities of wall plants, falling in wild disorder, brighten it up somewhat with their tender green, and a charming Madonna, above a poor-box, smile between two lamps. The three or four houses opposite contain a baker’s shop, a flower shop — the window of which, filled with small pots, shows tulips in bloom and rare plants sup- ported by sticks and provided with scientific labels, — and a general dealer’s shop on the corner on the canal side, — all of them whitewashed, diapered with green shutters, rayed with balconies, and surmounted by those turban-topped chimneys which give to Venetian roofs the aspect of a Turkish cemetery. 143 ed teeetttetetttettttetttte WOR A VES: JIN As On one of these balconies appeared very often a signora who, so far as the distance allowed me to judge, was pretty. She was almost always dressed in black and handled her fan with Spanish dexterity. It, struck me | had already seen her somewhere. On thinking the matter over, I recollected that it was in Charles Gozzi’s “ Memoirs.” On the open face of the Square towards the landing- place there is a single-arched marble bridge which spans the canal and connects the Campo with the lane on the opposite bank leading to the Campo San Maurizio. ‘The canal finishes at one end with one of those perspectives with which the views of Venice have made every one familiar: tall houses, rosy above, green below, their tops in the sunshine and their bases in the water, arched windows by the side of modern square windows, chimneys swelling out into the shape of flower pots, long, striped awnings hanging over the balconies, golden or brown tiles, house tops crowned with statues standing white against the sky, landing- posts painted in bright colours, water gleaming in the shade, boats moored, or skimming -with their black sides past the marble staircases, producing unexpected effects of light and shadow. This water-colour, life size, 144 debcbobk eek ch babbbdchcb cheb chad choo LIFE IN VENICE was hung up outside my window on the other side of the canal. At the other end, the canal, again spanned by a bridge, opened out into the Canalezzo and showed a glimpse of the entrance wall of the Dogana di Mare and the bronze Fortune turning in the wind on its golden ball, as well as the rigging of vessels too large to enter the narrow waterways. Seated under my balcony and pufing Levantine tobacco, I shall now make a sketch of Venetian life. It is morning. ‘The white smoke of the cannon-shot from the frigate which denotes the opening of the port, rises from the lagoon, the angelic salutation clangs from the numerous campaniles inthe city. Patrician and middle-class Venice is still sound asleep, but the poor devils who spend the night on staircases, on the steps of palaces, or on the bases of columns, have already left their beds and shaken the night dew from their damp rags. The boatmen at the traghetti are washing their gondolas, brushing the cloth and the /¢/z:, polishing the iron of their prows, shaking the black leather cushions and the Persian carpet which lies on the floor of their craft, and getting their boats in order, ready for customers. The heavy craft which bring provisions to the town begin to arrive from Mestre, Fusino, Zuecca, —a sort } Xe) 145 bbbbbebetbetbebbbbdbb bebe eve CTO CFO oe oe DRAWS DN aa of maritime suburb, bordered with buildings on one side and gardens on the other, — from Chioggia, Tor- cello, and other points on the mainland or the islands. These boats, heaped up with fresh vegetables, grapes, and peaches, leave behind them a delightful odour of greenness which contrasts with the briny smell of the boats laden with tunny, mullets, poulps, oysters, pidocchi (mussels), crabs, shell-fish, and other fruits of the sea, as the picturesque Venetian expression has it. Others, bringing wood and coal, stop at the water-gates to deliver their goods, and then resume their peaceful course. Wine is brought, not in barrels as with us, nor in goat-skins as in Spain, but in great open tubs which it dyes with its purple darker than blackberry- juice. ‘The epithet “ black,’ which Homer never fails to add to the word wine, is admirably suited to the wines of Friuli and Istria. The water which is to fill the cisterns is brought in the same way, for Venice, in spite of its aquatic situa- tion, would die of thirst like Tantalus, for it has not a single spring. Formerly the water was fetched from the Brenta Canal at Fusino; now artesian wells supply most of the cisterns. There is scarcely a campo with- out one. The mouths of these reservoirs, surrounded 146 bebebbbertttetdttttttetest LAME NV ENC E by a wall like that of a well, have provided Venetian architects and sculptors with the most delightful motives. Sometimes they turn them into Corinthian capitals open in the centre; sometimes into mouths of mon- sters, or again, they wind around the tambour of bronze, marble, or stone, bacchanals of children, garlands of flowers and fruit, unfortunately worn away too often by the rubbing of the ropes and the copper pails. These cisterns, filled with sand in which the water remains cool, imparta peculiar appearance to the squares. [hey are open at certain times, and women come to draw water from them as did the Greek slaves from the fountains of antiquity. There! two gondolas have run foul of each other. As you see their halberd irons striking, they look like two angry swans picking at each other’s feathers. One of the gondoliers did not hear, or heard too late the warning cry, a sort of yell in an unknown jargon. The dispute grows warmer, and the two champions blackguard each other like Homeric heroes before a battle. Standing on the poop, they are brandishing their sweeps. You fancy they are going to brain each other. Chere is no fear of that; it is much ado about nothing. The “corpo di Baccho” and other oaths fly 147 SLAALAKALALALLLAEEKAAE ALE LALL LAA RA ViEOES TN Ay, from one boat to the other; but soon mythological oaths are insufficient. Insult and blasphemy are ex- changed with increasing intensity. Calling heaven into their quarrel, they blackguard their respective saints, and it is noticeable that the vituperation becomes more outrageous as the craft get further apart. Soon nothing is heard but hoarse croaks which are lost in the distance. Now passes an official gondola with the Austrian ensign in the stern, bearing a stiff, cold functionary, his breast covered with decorations, on his way to some inspection; another is carrying around phleg- matic English tourists; a third, slender as a skate, flies mysteriously and discreetly towards the open sea. The hangings of the fée/ze pulled down and the blinds drawn up shelter two lovers who are going to lunch together at the Punta di Quintavalle. Another, heavier and broader, bears under its white and blue awning a worthy family going to bathe at the Lido, on the shore whose fine sand still preserves the hoof- prints of Byron’s horses. Now the church opens, and there emerges a red procession bearing a red bier, which is placed in a red gondola, for the mourning colour here is red. ‘The dead is being shipped off to the cemetery situated on an 148 — tebbrttbetdbtthbbbdddbb ttt LIFE IN VENICE island on the way to Murano. The priests, the bearers, the candlesticks, and the church ornaments are placed in another gondola, which goes first. Go and sleep, poor dead man, under the salt sand, under the shadow of an iron cross by which the gulls will sweep For a Venetian’s bones the mainland would be too heavy a covering. When any one dies in Venice, there is posted up on his house and upon the neighbouring houses, by way of information, a printed placard giving the name, the age, the birthplace, the cause of death, and a certificate that the dead received the Sacraments, that he died like a good Christian; and asking the faithful to pray for him. But away with these melancholy thoughts! The wake of the red boat has disappeared. Let us forget it as the wave does, which preserves no marks. It is of life, and not of death that we must think. On the bridge are coming and going young girls, working girls, shop girls, servants, with a chemise and a skirt under their long shawl. On their necks are rolled up long plaits of the reddish hair so dear to the Venetian painter. I salute from my window these models of Paolo Veronese, who pass by without remem- os 149 LELeELEELSSSSeettttetttes TARA V HLS .) TN) CT Ay bering that they posed three hundred years ago for the “© Wedding at Cana.” Old women, hooded with the national badte, hasten on to get to Mass in time, for the last stroke is sounding from San Moise. Austrian soldiers in blue trousers, black boots, and gray tunics walk across the bridge, which sounds under their heavy, regular steps, as they carry to some barracks the wood for the kitchen or the victuals for breakfast. Ilustrissimi, old ruined nobles, who yet have the grand air, with their clean, worn clothes, are going to Florian’s, the meeting-place of the aristocracy, to drink the excellent coffee, the recipe for which was trans- mitted to Venice by Constantinople, and which is not equalled anywhere else. Elsewhere, perhaps, these ghosts of the past would call forth a smile, but the Venetian people love their nobility, which was always kindly and familiar. Nothing is done in the ordinary way in this quaint city. The street musical instruments, instead of being carted on the backs of the players, are carried along by water; the grinding organs travel in gondolas. ‘There is one passing now under my balcony, one of those big organs made in Cremona, the home of good violins. Nothing could be more unlike those boxes which make 150 ase chee oe ah oe he che ae te ctecde tech check chee ob cet LW Bea eV ENGL Es: dogs howl with anguish at the corners of our squares. Drums, triangles, and tambourines transform these into a complete orchestra, to the strains of which dance a number of marionettes contained within the frame. It is like an opera overture wandering around. More than one gondola turns out of its way to enjoy the music longer, and the harmonious craft proceeds, followed by a little dilettante flotilla which traverses the canal in its wake. Now let us look towards the Square; the picture is no less animated there. The open-air kitchen is working, the stoves are blazing, sending up a smell of smoke and the somewhat disagreeable perfume of hot oil. Stews have an important place in Italian life. Sobriety is a Southern virtue which is usually backed by idleness, and there is very little cooking done in the houses. People buy from these open-air kitchens pastes, cakes, bits of poulp, or fried fish ; and many, who do not stand on ceremony, eat their purchases on the spot. The cook himself is a tall, stout, jolly fellow, a sort of obese Hercules or Palforio, with bright red cheeks, hooked nose, rings in his ears, shining black hair curled in small curls like Astrakhan lamb’s wool. He turns around like a king on his throne, having about 151 tebtbhtbrbbetttbettbbttb tds TRAVELS. TN Ue aes him three or four rows of shining stamped copper dishes like antique bucklers hanging from the rails of triremes. The dealer in pumpkins, a vegetable which Vene- tians are very fond of, also exhibits his wares in quan- tities which look like cakes of yellow wax, and which he sells in slices. A young maiden from her window signs to the dealer and drops at the end of a string a basket, in which she hauls up a piece of pumpkin pro- portionate to the amount of money she sent down. This convenient fashion of marketing is entirely in accord with Venetian laziness. A group has collected in the centre of the Campo, to which are speedily added all the passers-by and all the idlers who have come from the bridge, and who are proceeding by the lane at the side of the church to the Frezzaria or to the Piazza San Marco, the two most frequented places in Venice. A space left clear in the centre of the group is occupied by a poor wretched beggar wearing a mournful hat, dressed in a lamentable coat and ragyed trousers. By his side is a hideous old woman, a sort of witch, as wretchedly clothed as the man. A covered basket is placed on the ground before them. A rough-haired dog, sordid, thin, but with the 2 keeedbbtberteetetetttetttt tts An eee LE NCE intelligent look of an academic animal trained to all sorts of exercises, gazes at the old couple with that human look which a dog has with its master; it seems to be awaiting a sign or an order. The old man gives a command; the dog dashes to the basket and raises one of the sides of the cover with its teeth. It remains in it for a few seconds, then pushing the other side of the cover with its nose, it comes out triumphantly, holding in its mouth a small piece of folded paper which it places at the feet of the woman. {t does this several times, and the spectators snatch from each other the papers thus brought from the basket. The dog is drawing numbers for the lottery. Those which it brings out at certain times are bound to win. The gamblers of both sexes, who are very numerous in Venice as in all wretched countries, in which the hope of sudden fortunes won without work acts powerfully upon the imagination, place the greatest trust in the numbers thus fished out by the dog. As I beheld the deep wretchedness and the hungry look of the couple, and the thin flanks of the dog whose num- bers were to win so many crowns, I asked myself why these poor devils did not turn to better advantage the means of wealth which they distributed so generously has khEbEALE eS eeetettttttetet DPRAWE LS DN: die to others for a few sous. ‘That very natural reflection did not occur to any one. Perhaps the guessers of lottery numbers are like witches, who cannot foretell their own future; clairvoyant for others, they are blind where they themselves are concerned. If it were not so, these two poor wretches would have been greatly to blame for not being millionaires at least. Venice is full of lottery offices. ‘The winning num- bers written upon placards framed in flowers and rib- bons in fantastic blue, red, and gold figures, excite the cupidity of the passers-by. At night they are brilliantly lighted with lamps and tapers. “The favourite num- bers, the numbers which must infallibly win in accord- ance with the calculations dear to lottery players, are also exhibited with much pomp... Certain gamblers who obstinately stick to these imaginary systems buy them at any cost, and stake, in spite of numerous disappointments, their amounts, which they double or treble in accordance with mathematical progression. I took a turn in the Public Gardens, a great place planted with trees and making a sort of obtuse angle in the scene, the point ending in a hillock on which is a café frequented by travelling musicians. Children aul dedeckobde deck bch bbc bebe hbk deh ore ro =e am de ELE VN VENICE and young girls amuse themselves rolling down the gentle slope covered with fine grass. The sight ranges over the lagoon. One sees Murano, the island of glass-makers; San Servolo with its lunatic hospital, and the low line of the Lido with its sand-hills, its taverns, and its polled trees. Rows of posts indicating the depth of the water, form lanes in this shallow sea on which float masses of seaweed. The prospect is enlivened by the continual coming and going of sails and boats. The Public Gardens on féte days contain the love- liest collection of Venetian beauties. It is there that one can study the Venetian type which Gozzi describes as biondo, bianco e grassoto. Necessarily the presence of the Austrians must have’ modified the Venetian type, although marriages are rare on account of national antipathy ; but one still meets with the models of Giovanni Bellini, Giorgione, ‘Titian, and Veronese. The young girls walk about in groups of two or three, almost all bareheaded, wearing with much taste their splendid fair or brown hair. The dark meri- dional type is rather rare among women in Venice, although frequent among men. I had already noticed 155 tebekebeebeetetetetttttettttst TRAVELS UN IS Ane that fact in Spain at Valencia, where the men have black hair, olive complexions, with the tanned, wan look of a tribe of African Bedouins, while the women are as fair, fresh, and rosy as Lancashire farmer girls. I saw a great many lovely faces, but though I re- member them very well, it would be difficult to repro- duce them without a pencil. I shall merely try to suggest the general features. The lines of the face, without being as perfect as those of the Greeks, which are of almost architectural regularity and which are the very type of beauty, have nevertheless a rhythm lack- ing in Northern faces, which are more worn by thought and the numberless troubles of civilisation. The nose is neater and cleaner in form than Northern noses, which are always marked by something unex- pected and capricious. ‘The eyes, too, have that shin- ing placidity which is unknown with us and which recalls the clear, quiet glance of an animal. They are very often black in spite of the fair colour of the hair. On the lips is seen that smorfia, a sort of disdainful smile very provoking and charming, which imparts so much character to the heads of the Italian masters. The Venetians have most lovely necks and shoul- ders. Nothing can be imagined more beautiful or 156 bebe h hsb ss tehetetteet tts PE et VCE INOUE, more finely rounded. The necks partake at once of the swan and the dove as they bend and swell; and all sorts of wild hair in rebellious curls escaped from the comb, play on them with changes of light, flashes of sunshine, effects of shadow which would delight a painter. After taking a walk in the Public Gardens one is no longer surprised at the golden splendour of the Venetian school. What had been taken for a dream of art is often but the imperfect reproduction of reality. 157 N my way back to the Piazzetta I saw some () young gentlemen as fond of aquatic prowess as our Parisian club men, driving their gon- dolas at full speed against the quay wall. When they were within a few inches of the stone revetment, they stopped their craft short by a sudden stroke of the oar. This sport is graceful and exciting. When you see the gondola flying so fast, you are sure that it will be smashed to pieces, but that never occurs, and the fun begins all over again. It is in the same way that Turkish and Arab riders send their horses at full gallop against a wall and pull them up on all fours, making the immobility of repose follow upon the rush of speed. The ancient Venetians may have seen these equestrian fantasias in the Atmeidan at Constantinople and adopted them for use in their own country, where the horse is, so to speak, a chimerical creature. More than one young patrician even now puts on the tradi- tional jacket, cap, and sash, and drives his own gon- 158 abe obs ob ole obs abe ole cle obbe obs cdo cle che obo obs ols obs ob abe be of ofp che Me oe whe ore ere ete wre one OTe OTe HO WTS obs che obs obs obo SOND ORER RSa AND SUNSETS dola himself with great skill. Strangers also are fond of doing so, especially the English, who are a nautical people. There are lovely sunsets in Paris. When you leave the Tuileries by the Place de la Concorde, as you turn towards the Champs-Elysées, it is difficult not to be dazzled by the magnificent spectacle: the masses of trees, and the Egyptian obelisk, the wonderful prospect of the great avenue, the magnificent arch which opens on space, form a splendid setting for the orb which expires in splendour more brilliant to our eyes than that of day. But there is something finer still, and that is a sunset at Venice when you are coming from the Lido, Quintavalle, or the Public Gardens. The lines of houses of the Giudecca, broken by the dome of San Redentore; the point of the Dogana di Mare with its square tower; the two domes of Santa Maria della Salute, form a marvellous sky line which stands out boldly as the background of the picture. The island of San Giorgio Maggiore, nearer us, sets it off with its church, its dome and brick campanile, — a diminutive of the. greater Campanile which is seen on the right, above the old Library and the Palace of the Doges. All these buildings bathed in shadow, for the 159 LELLELLELELELALELL ASE L ES TRAV BLS’ ING PEA DT light is behind them, are of azure, lilac, and violet tones, on which stands out black the rigging of the ves- sels at anchor. Above them is a conflagration of splendour, an outburst of beams. The sun sinks in masses of topaz, rubies, amethysts, which the wind changes incessantly as it alters the forms of the clouds. Brilliant rays spring between the two cupolas of the Salute. Sometimes, according to the point of view, Palladio’s belfry cuts in two the orb of the sun. This is all very beautiful, but the wondrous spectacle is made finer by being repeated in the water. The sunset has the Lagoon for a mirror. All the light, all the rays, all the fire, all the phosphorescence, ripple over the waves in sparks, spangles, prisms, and trails of flame, shining, scintillating, flaming, swarming lumi- nously. “The tower of San Giorgio Maggiore, with its opaque shadow stretching afar, shows black against the conflagration, which increases its height in the strangest fashion and makes it seem as if its base were within an abyss. ‘The outlines of buildings appear to float between two heavens or between two seas. Is it the water which reflects the sky, or the sky which reflects the water? The eye hesitates, and all is confounded in one vast dazzling splendour. 160 tkbbbhbeobbbeeebtbeebe bed GONDOLIERS AND SUNSETS I was landed at the traghetto della Piazzetta in the midst of a rout of gondolas, and I went on to the Piazza through the arcades of the Old Library of San- sovino, now the Viceroy’s palace. It is on the Piazza at about eight in the evening that life in Venice reaches its maximum of intensity. It is impossible to see anything more cheerful, lively, and amusing. The setting sun lights up with the most brilliant rosy red the facade of San Marco, which seems to blush with pleasure and to sparkle radiantly under the dying beams. A few late pigeons fly back to the cornices or the gables, where they will sleep until morn- ing, their heads under their wings. The Piazza is lined with cafés, like the Palais Royal in Paris, which it resembles in more than one respect. These cafés are in no wise remarkable from the point of view of their decoration, especially if they are com- pared with the splendid establishments of the kind which Paris possesses. [hey consist simply of very plain rooms, rather low-ceiled, in which no one ever sits except in the worst winter days. Coffee, which is ex- cellent in Venice, is served on copper trays, with a glass of water which the Venetians spend hours in drinking. Ices and iced drinks are noticeable only for II 161 abe cbr obs os obs obs obo ob che ole abe bn ebe obe ole ofr obv ole abe obs obs ole elle ole OTs oe ote OTe obs Cre are eTe OF Cle aye OW WO wTe vee owe TRAV EDS DN BASE their low price, and are far from equalling the exquisite, refined Spanish iced drinks. ‘The only special thing I found was a grape sherbet, very cool and tasty. The customers sit under the arcades or on the Piaz- zetta itself, on which are placed before each café wooden benches and tables. Formerly tents and striped awnings were raised in thecentre of the Square; that picturesque custom has vanished. Striped blinds are also becoming rare. “They are too often replaced by hideous strips of blue cloth very much like cooks’ aprons. Civilised people say they are less showy and in better taste. Very trig and free and easy looking flower-girls swarm on the Square and amuse passers-by and cus- tomers with their pretty requests. When you refuse to buy, they laughingly give you a small bunch and run away. It is not customary to pay them at once, it would be rude, but from time to time you give them a small coin by way of a gift. The flower- girls are followed by vendors of iced fruits who shout, “Caramel! caramel!” in deafening fashion. Their stock consists of candied grapes, figs, pears,. and prunes, which they carry in_ baskets. Venetian women of the upper class are most de- 162 Bete tt th. cde obs obs obs obs obs obs cboobs abe abe chs chsths she chs che shoe We Oe aie C60 one C1o wie OFF wie ee Ve Re eae ese iv die eiw dee ai Vie caw GONDOLIERS AND SeWAN SHES lightfully indolent and lazy. “They have forgotten how to walk, through using the gondola. Even in this fine climate, it takes an uncommon combination of circum- stances to induce them to venture forth. The sirocco, sunshine, a threatening shower, or a too fresh sea-breeze are sufficient to make them stay at home. ‘The great- est exercise they take is going from their sofa to the balcony to breathe the perfume of the great flowers which bloom so splendidly in the moist, warm air of Venice. Their idle and confined life gives them an indescribably delicate, mat, white complexion. If by chance the weather is exceptionally fine, a few of them may walk two or three times around the Piazza San Marco, when the band is playing in the evening, and they rest long in front of the Café Florian in company with their husbands, brothers, or cavaliere servente. Formerly Levantines were very numerous in Ven- ice. Their pelisses, their dolmans, their full coats of bright colours showed picturesquely among the crowd which they traversed impassible and grave. They are not so frequently met with now that com- merce has been largely transferred to Trieste, but Greeks are often met, with their caps the blue silk 163 che che oe oe oe os oe oe oh abe oe cece oe obe che oooh cbr oh ob check EPFRAVELS. IN: DT ADDY tassel of which falls upon the shoulders, their temples shaved, their hair falling behind, their characteristic features and their handsome national dress, which con- trasts strikingly with the hideous modern costume. These Greeks, who, most of them, are only merchants, or skippers of Zante, Corfu, Cyprus, or Syra vessels, have a remarkably majestic port, and the nobility of their antique race is imprinted on their features as on a golden book. ‘They repair in groups of three or four to the corner of the Piazza, to the Costanza Café, which enjoys the monopoly of supplying the children of the Levant with coffee and pipes. Around the cafés wander street musicians, who perform operatic selections, and tenors singing Lucia or some other air of Donizetti with the rich voices and the admirable, instinctive Italian facility which so closely imitates talent that one may be deceived by it. Chinese marionettes, which differ from ours in that the background of the picture is black and the figures are white, show swiftly one after an- other under the canvas awning. A group forms in the centre of the square. The tenor is but little listened to, the Chinese marionettes are deserted by the spectators, the caramel sellers cease their monot- 164 bebeetteetetettetecetcetee OR Ner Orbs homer NDF oUIN SETS onous cry, chairs are turned half around, everybody is silent. “The desks have been arranged, the music distributed, the military band arrives, the prelude is heard, and they begin. It is the overture to “ William Tell.’ The overture over, the crowd withdraws. Soon there are only a few people walking about, and birrichini, a sort of ruffans whose most honest busi- ness is selling smuggled cigars. Though you may still read in the accounts of modern travellers that night is turned into day in Venice, it is none the less true that by midnight the Piazza is deserted, but this will not prevent tourists, on the faith of old accounts which refer to customs fallen into desuetude since the fall of the Republic, from repeating for the next fifty years that the Piazza San Marco swarms with people until daylight. ‘That was true enough when the apartments above the arcades of the Pro- curatie Vecchie and Nuove were occupied by gam- blers and casinos, in which crowded all night a company of nobles, adventurers, and courtesans, —a_ perpetual carnival in which nothing was lacking, not even the mask, and of which Casanova de Seingalt has given such interesting descriptions in his ** Memoirs.” The offices of the brokers, the shops in which are 165 ttetbretbetettttdbbbtbtdbtts AR AoVe EY LS.) Il Netgear sold the Murano glass-ware, shell and coral necklaces, and models of gondolas, those which sell views, maps, and engravings of Venice, had closed one after an- other. The only places left open were the cafés and the tobacco shops. It was time to get back to my gondola, which was waiting for me at the Piazzetta landing. ‘The moon had arisen, and nothing is more delightful than an excursion by moonlight along the Grand Canal or the Giudecca. It is a romantic situation which an enthusiastic traveller cannot omit on a beautiful, bright August night. I had another reason for wan- dering on the lagoon at a time when it would have been wiser to vanish within my mosquito net. Who has not heard of the gondoliers singing the ottavi of ‘Tasso, and barcarolles in the Venetian dialect, so lisping and broken that it resembles a child’s first attempts? The gondoliers have long since ceased to sing, and yet the tradition is not quite lost; the older men do preserve within their memories some episodes of “ Jerusalem Delivered,’ which they are willing enough to recollect in return for a heavy tip and a few jars of Cyprus wine. Like the maidens of Ischia who put on their beautiful Greek costumes for Eng- 166 INGO oleae No CUIN SB ES lishmen alone, the gondoliers will sing their melodies only when well paid for doing so. | When we had got some distance out in the great Canal of the Giudecca, which is almost an arm of the sea, about opposite the Jesuit church, the white facade of which was silvered by the moon, my gon- dolier, after having wetted his whistle, sang in a guttural, deep, somewhat hoarse voice, but which was heard a long way over the water, with prolonged cadences, “ La Biondina in Gondoletta,” ‘ Pronta la Gondoletta,” Shepherds.” I had committed the mistake of bringing my singer and the episode of “ Erminia among the with me instead of putting him in a boat at a dis- tance and listening to him from the shore, for the music is pleasanter farther away than near, but be- ing more of a poet than a musician, I wanted to hear the lines. 167 decked teak beck ohe check echo ech echo oh eh TRAVELS IN Tie tettetbtttbtbetts re a 2. = ie tie + ih ts ib THE ARSENAL—FUSINE T was fine, and the’fancy took me, on seeing the | beautiful sky, to go to breakfast at Franco Porto on the Island of San Giorgio Maggiore ; turning the opportunity to account to visit Palladio’s beautiful church, the red belfry of which shows to such advantage against the lagoon. The facade has been somewhat retouched by Scamozzi. The interior contains, besides the inevitable huge paintings by Tin- toretto, — the robust artist who painted acres of master- pieces, —columns of Greek marble, gilded altars, stone and bronze statues, an admirable choir in carved wood- work representing different scenes in the life of Saint Benedict, which recalled to me the wonderful wood carvings by Berruguete in the Spanish cathedrals. A pretty bronze statuette, placed on the choir rail on the right as you enter, represents Saint George, and is remarkable as being the most admirable likeness ever made of Lord Byron. ‘This anticipated, and as it were, prophetical portrait struck me greatly. The 168 HLEAAALAAAAAADAAALLAAL ELSA THE ARSENAL—FUSINE head of the Greek saint is the most elegant, disdainful, aristocratic, thoroughly English that it is possible to conceive; even the lips are contracted by the sneer of the author of “Don Juan.” I do not know whether the noble lord, who lived in Venice for a long time and who must have visited the church of San Giorgio Maggiore, noticed as I did that unique resemblance, which must certainly have flattered him. Behind the church, which is built on the point of the island looking towards the Piazzetta and where the Austrians have established a battery of guns, stretch the warehouses and basins of the Franco Porto. You traverse, after having passed through a gate guarded by custom-house inspectors, great courts surrounded by high arcades, and reach a sort of tavern and osteria, the rendez-vous of sailors and gondoliers, who there enjoy the pleasure of drinking wine duty free, very much as our Paris workmen go and get drunk outside the city. The place is always filled with people, and the cus- tomers overflow outside on benches around wooden tables shaded by the church. Porters pushing hand- carts loaded with bales move in and out among the drinkers, whom they look at enviously, and by whom they will come and sit down when they have earned 169 need deseo soe oe oe os oe ob eck decbeceecke de cdech check TRAVELS IN ITALY the few sous needed for their frugal orgies. Opposite the tavern a great empty warehouse looking like a casemate, whitewashed, with grated windows looking out upon a deserted lane, serves as a refuge to people who are troubled by the somewhat noisy gaiety out- side, and lovers who seek solitude. There you are served with Adriatic ¢rig/i (mullets) so appetising, so golden red, so bright, so brilliant in tone that you would eat them simply on account of their colour, even were they not the very best fish in the world. Peaches, grapes, a jar of Cyprus wine, and coffee compose a breakfast exquisite in its simplic- ity, and if by chance you have a good Havana cigar which you can smoke in your gondola as you return towards the Riva degli Schiavoni, I do not quite see what more you want in order to be happy, especially if the night before you have received satisfactory letters from home. It is early, and before going to Fusine I shall have time to visit the Arsenal; not the interior, for that is now forbidden, but I am more interested in admiring the Lions of the Piraeus, trophies won by Morosini during the Peloponnesian War, than vessels in process of building and endless rows of guns. 170 IN, _ a che be cheb oe che abe oh ae cba heeds cheba oe chee abe che eae abel we ere a Ow we ate wie ene THE ARSENAL—FUSINE The two colossi in Pentelic marble lack the zodlogi- cal truthfulness which Barye would undoubtedly have imparted to them, but there is something so proud, so grandiose, so divine,—if one may say so of animals, — about them that they produce a striking impression. Their golden whiteness stands out admirably against the red facade of the Arsenal, which is composed of a portico covered with meritorious statues which the nearness of the splendid lions causes to look like dolls, and of two crenellated towers of red brick with bands of stone like the houses of the Place Royale in Paris. Though they are trophies of a defeat, they still pre- serve their haughty, superb, proud look, and these lions seem to’ remember in the City of Saint Mark the antique Minerva. The gloomy loneliness of the Arsenal, with its vast basins, its covered building-sheds, in which it is said a galley could be built, rigged, equipped, and launched in one day, recalled to me the Arsenal at Cartagena in Spain, which was so active in the days of the invincible Armada. It was from this Venetian Arsenal that started the fleets that went to conquer Corfu, Zante, Cyprus, Athens, and all the rich, fair islands of the Archipelago; but Venice was Venice then, and the 171 tebbbteobtettttdbbbbtddt dds TR AW) Has oN ot Aa Lion of Saint Mark, now gloomy and defamed, had teeth and claws like the fiercest of heraldic monsters. We passed between San Giorgio and the Giudecca Point, skirting closely its gardens and enclosures full of vines and fruit trees, and entered the lagoon properly so-called. The sky was absolutely clear, and the light was so brilliant that the water shone like a sea of silver and the sky line was absolutely invisible. The islands showed like little brown spots, and distant craft seemed to sail in mid-heaven. ‘The railway bridge, a gigantic work which links Venice with the mainland and which I saw far off on the right, offered a singular effect of mirage. Its numerous arches, repeated in the still, blue water, formed perfect circles and resembled those strange, round Chinese doors which are seen upon screens; so that the architectural fancy of Pekin seemed to have built this quaint avenue for the city of the Doges, the sky line of which, broken by numerous belfries and topped by the Campanile surmounted with its golden angel, showed in the most picturesque and unexpected fashion. After having passed a fortified island, bearing on its summit a charming statue of the Madonna and a very 172 che robe ofr oe oe oe che chs abe obese fecha cde alec sob ce oe oale wre oTe e7e ofS wTO TEEPE SAGRiS pera 1 —— BES TNE: ugly Austrian sentry, I followed one of the canals in the lagoon buoyed by a double row of poles which mark the places where the water is sufficiently deep; for the lagoon is a sort of salt marsh which the ebb and flow of the tide prevent from stagnating, but which is never more than three or four feet deep except along certain lines deepened by nature or by man. Some of the piles have at the top little miniature diptychs made by pious sailors, which contain images and statues of the Madonna. The gracious protectress, who is called in the litanies Stella Maris, Star of the Sea, is there in her element. ‘These Madonnas in the water are touching. Undoubtedly the Deity is present every- where, and His protection falls from heaven as quickly as it rises from the sea, but the pious belief in a more immediate succour, the protectress being transported into the very midst of the peril, has something child- ishly charming and poetic about it. I am very fond of these Venetian Madonnas, washed by the salt mists and struck by the wing of the passing gull, and I willingly say, as I pass them, “‘ 4ve, Maria, gratia piena!” The blue line of the Euganean Mountains showed faintly ahead against the tender blue of the sky, rather as a vein of deeper azure than a terrestrial reality. rae oh fe ob ahs oe oh oh ok oh abe dh checke decked obec dhe cheek ATR ACViEGIS® 4. UN; Dighgaviegy The trees and houses on the shore, which I could already perceive, seemed on account of the curve of the sea to plunge half-way into the water, and the red campaniles on the islands appeared to spring from the wave like great branches of coral. A low shore covered with varied vegetation lay before me. I sprang out of the gondola; I had reached Fusine. The ravages of the war had not been repaired at Fusine. Some of the houses, half ruined by cannon- balls, smashed by shells, spoiled, with their broken white walls, amid the luxuriant vegetation, looked like bones forgotten on a battlefield. AQ little rustic chapel is intact, either because it was respected during the fight, or because the dwelling of God was restored before that of men. ‘The rich, damp soil, impregnated with marine salts, enriched with vegetable detritus, heated by the vivifying sunshine, has given birth in loneliness and solitude to a whole wild flora of those lovely plants which are called weeds because they are free. It is a virgin forest on a small scale. Wild oats wave on the edge of the ditches, the hemlock expands its umbellz of greenish white, the wild mallow spreads its curled leaves and its pale-rose flowers, the wild convolvulus clings with its silver bells to the branches of brambles ; 174 Shboh bee bbbebbbbhtbbb bbe eTe e7e efe ore eTe eve ore wre THE ARSENAL—FUSINE the grass, which comes up to your knees, is diapered with innumerable unnamed flowers, little spangles of gold, azure, or purple cast here and there by the great colourist to break the uniform green tint. By the banks of the canals the water-lily displays its great viscous, heart-shaped leaves and its yellow flowers, the spear-head of the sagittaria trembles in the breeze, the loosestrife, with its willow-like leaf, bends under the weight of its purple spikes, the iris sends up its dagger- like leaf; the ribboned reeds, the flowering rushes, are mingled in the wildest and most picturesque dis- order. Elders, hazels, shrubs, and trees which no one trims, cast a shadow flecked with sunshine over this rich mass. Quick, swift lizards with quivering tails traverse like arrows the narrow path where the tree-frog conceals itself in the rut full of rain water. Bands of frogs dive under the grasses of the Brenta as you pass by. A beautiful water-snake fearlessly indulges in the most graceful convolutions. Weirs and locks, forming breaks in the scene, retain the water here and there; light brick arches, which serve the double purpose of counterforts and of bridges, frequently span the canal; but all is half ruinous, and AS) tebbbtbbedeeteeehe tt ddd dds WeR AV Ess) TN Gael Aves invaded by the vegetation which slips into the place of the bricks or the stone. This neglect is regrettable from the point of view of the engineer, but from that of the painter it is quite otherwise. If moss cover the revetments, if wall plants disjoin the stones, if the reeds end by filling up the canals, it all looks well in the landscape. On returning, the gondolier took me through water- Janes with which I was not previously acquainted. Decaying cities are like dying bodies; life, confined to the heart, little by little deserts the extremities. Streets become depopulated, old quarters become soli- tary, the blood lacks the strength to flow through the veins. ‘The entrance to Venice, coming from Fusine, is mournful. Only a few boats bringing goods from the mainland glide slowly over the sleeping waters by the side of the deserted houses. Palaces of exqui- site architecture are windowless; the openings are closed by rough boards. The whitewash on the aban- doned houses chips away, the moss spreads its green carpet over the substructures, shells and seaweed cling to the water-steps which crabs alone now ascend. At the windows of the few inhabited houses are rags hung out to dry, sole indication of the life of the wretched 176 $ttetetetetttett tt etttes THE ARSENAL—FUSINE households which have taken refuge there. Occasion- ally a magnificently wrought iron grating, a balcony with complicated ornamentation, a broken coat of arms, slender marble columns, a mask, a sculptured cornice on a wall cracked, blackened, and guttered by the rain, degraded by carelessness, betoken former splendour and mark the palace of a patrician family which has died out or sunk into poverty. As one proceeds the painful impression is gradually removed, life is renewed, and it is with pleasure that one enters again upon the animated Grand Canal or the Piazza San Marco. Time had seemed short to me at Fusine; it was already the dinner hour. The crabs which swarm in the canals were beginning to show their ugly bodies and their crooked claws above the line traced by the water at the foot of the houses; a performance which they go through every evening at six o’clock as punc- tually as if regulated by a chronometer. I dined that day at the Campo San Gallo, a square behind the Piazza in a German gasthoff, where I enjoyed the change from the vini nostrani to a glass of Minich beer. I dined there in the open air under an awning striped saffron and white, side by side with 1002 177 French painters, German artists, and Austrian officers ; the latter short, fair, slender young fellows in close-fit- ting, elegant uniforms, very polite, very well-bred, with | Werther-like faces and quite free from soldierly man- ners. ‘The conversation was usually zsthetic, broken here and there by a complicated, laborious joke, a remembrance of Jena, Bonn, or Heidelberg. In the centre of the Campo rose the margin of a well where the women of the neighbourhood and the Styrian water-carriers came to draw water at certain hours. At the back was a little church bearing the arms of the Patriarch of Venice, the door of which, closed by a curtain, sent out a faint perfume of incense to mingle with the smells from the gasthoff kitchen, and from which the sound of prayer and of organ notes mingled with discussions on art and philosophy. From time to time some bat-like old women, their heads concealed within black hoods, vanished within after raising the portiére. Young girls, bareheaded and draped in_ brilliant shawls, passed by, fan in hand, smile on lip, brushing gently aside with their feet the festooned flounces of their skirts, and instead of entering the church, went into a narrow lane which leads from the Campo San 178 soe abe oe be oboe oe oe cba de cede de oe oe obec coche abe lob mo ae ore we wie ene Aki by OAKS bawene is — BUS TNE Gallo to the Piazza. There passed by also stout priests with honest, jolly faces, going to some evening service. ‘They wore purple stockings like bishops, and red shoes like cardinals, which, it is said, is a privilege of the Quarter San Marco, the patriarchal metropolis. On a modest-looking house opposite the gasthoff was a slab in marble bearing a Latin inscription. It was there that Canova died. I cannot resist the pleasure of copying the beautiful and touching inscription, which may be translated thus for the benefit of ladies who do not know Latin, and of men who have for- gotten it: “ This house of the Francesconi, which he had preferred to more sumptuous hospitality because of the candour of a former friendship, Canova, easily prince of sculptors, consecrated with his last breath.”’ After I had despatched my modest repast, seeing nothing interesting on the theatre posters which covered the arcades of the Procuratie, I traversed the streets aimlessly, which is the best way to become acquainted with the familiar life of a people; for books speak scarcely of anything but monuments and remark- able things, leaving out all the characteristic details and the innumerable, almost imperceptible differences which remind you constantly that you are in a foreign land. BA9 b iP doe oe abe oe oh eae oe abe dee cece cb che che doce oe doce LABAV ELS IN: el ee & ch coal ce be ees ie i> it i i} {ie it iP i> T the entrance to the Grand Canal, by the yA side of the white church della Salute and opposite the red houses of the Campo di San Vitale — a point of view made illustrious by Can- aletto’s masterpiece —rises the Academia di Belle Arti, where, thanks to the late Count Leopoldo Cicog- nara, have been collected a large number of the treas- ures of the Venetian School. ‘The arcaded facade is from the design of Giorgio Massari, and the sculptor Giacarelli is the author of the “ Minerva seated upon a Lion,” which decorates the attic. When the Venetian School is spoken of three names at once recur to the mind: Titian, Paolo Veronese, and Tintoretto. “They seem to have been born spontane- ously, like flowers, of the azure of the sea under a warm beam of sunshine. By the side of them one puts Giovanni Bellini and Giorgione, and that is all. I am speaking of the public and of ordinary amateurs who have not seen Italy, and who have not made a 180 KLEAAKKALEALEPSELAA ALAA ALA OEE ean 10-1: WIRY: special study of Venetian painting. Yet there exists a whole series of artists, almost unknown, but admirable, who preceded the great men whom [| have mentioned, as dawn precedes day, less brilliant, but. more tender and fresher. ‘I"hese older Venetians join to all the art- less delicacy, all the unction, all the suavity of Giotto, Perugino, and Hemling, an elegance, a beauty, and a richness of colouring which these never attained. It is remarkable that the paintings of the school of colourists have almost all turned black; the harmony of the tints has disappeared under smoky varnish, the g/acis is faded, the first sketch shows through the overlaying; while the works of the school of line painters, with their timid and minute methods, their lack of thick colouring, ‘their very simple local tone, preserve incomparable brilliancy and youth. ‘These panels and canvases, an- terior often by as much as a hundred years to the famous paintings, seem, but for the style which indi- cates the date, to have been painted yesterday. ‘They still possess the bloom of novelty ; the ages have passed over them without leaving any trace. ‘There is no re- touching, no re-painting about them. Is it because the colours used by these men were purer, chemistry not being then sufficiently developed to adulterate them 181 We ee wTe OTe ore OFS ame OFS ewe Gre OF are wre ove TROAW Beat S:. IN Cae abe abe obs ols obs obs oll ols obs ob alle ofle ole of ole abr abe ols os che ab obs obey ols or to invent other colours of uncertain effect and doubt- ful permanence? Or is it that the tones, left almost pure, as in illuminations, have preserved the same value as on the palette. I will not attempt to decide the question, but the fact, more marked here, is true of -all schools which preceded what is called the Renaissance of art. “The older a painting is, the better it is pre- served. A Van Eyck is fresher than a Van Dyck, an Andrea Mantegna than a Raphael, and an Antonio de Murano than a Tintoretto. Frescoes exhibit the same difference ; the most modern are the most damaged. I was prepared, in a way, by the masterpieces scat- tered through the galleries of France, Spain, England, Belgium, and Holland, for the marvels of Titian, Paolo Veronese, and ‘Tintoretto, nor did these great men dis- appoint me. ‘They faithfully kept all the promise of their genius, —but I expected that. On the other hand I experienced a delightful surprise on beholding the works, little known outside of Venice, of Giovanni and Gentile Bellini, Basaiti, Marco Roccone, Mansueti, Carpaccio, and others whose names would make a cata- logue were I to give them. It was like a new world. To find Venetian brilliancy in Gothic simplicity, the beauty of the South allied to the somewhat stiff forms 182 cob oe abe oe oh che oe ch be che cbecbectecte cleo cfc cb of ae ce i eae Los IVEY: of the North, Holbeins as richly coloured as if painted by Giorgione, paintings by Lucas Cranach as elegant as those of Raphael, was a wondrous piece of good fortune, and I felt it perhaps more than was proper ; for in my first burst of enthusiasm I was not far from considering the illustrious masters, the eternal glories of the Venetian School, as corrupters of taste and great men of the decadence, — somewhat like those Neo- Christian Germans, who drive Raphael from the para- dise of Catholic painters because, in their opinion, he is too sensual and too pagan. If I were writing a history of Venetian painting and not an account of a trip, I should begin by Nicolo Semiticolo, the oldest in the series, who goes back to 1370, and I should come down chronologically to Francesco Zuccarelli, the last of them, who died in 1790; but the gallery is not so arranged, and this sys- tem, which should be followed everywhere, would not agree with the real places occupied by the pictures, which are hung up simply in accordance with their size. The Academy of the Fine Arts, as is well known, occupies the old Scuola di Santa Maria della Carita. Of the original decoration there remains a very hand- 183 Sktbeeteeteetttetttt ttt tts TRAWEAIS. IN dag some ceiling in the first hall, which is the Salon Carre, the Tribuna of the Academy of Fine Arts. It is a cas- ket in which the finest gems are placed in the most favourable light ; the Koh-i-noors, the Grand Moguls, the Regents, and the Sancys of this rich Venetian mine, the veins of which have furnished such precious, pictur- esque gems. Each great master of Venice is represented here by an eminent example of his talent, the masterpiece of his masterpieces, —one of those supreme paintings in which genius and talent, inspiration and skill are mingled in proportions not easy to recover, a rare conjunction even in the life of sovereign artists. On that day the hand could do whatever the mind willed, as in that place of which Dante speaks, “‘ where one can what one wills.” Basaiti’s “ Calling of the Sons of Zebedee ” has many of the characteristics of the German School in the artlessness of the details, in the somewhat gray softness of tone, and in a certain melancholy unusual in the Italian School. The Nuremberg master would not disavow the landscape, at once fantastic and real, the Gothic castles with their pepper-pot turrets, their drawbridges and barbicans on the banks of the Lake 184 shook oh ok ok oh deh oh che chee cbechecbecbecb hecho che ack TE PRG Buoys of Tiberias, and a Chioggia or Murazzi fisherman would have no fault to find with the Péote and the nets rendered so simply and faithfully. The Christ is earnest and suave; the faces of the two apostles who are going to give up the catching of fish for the catch- ing of men breathe the liveliest faith. A stop must be made also before the “ Saint Francis receiving the Stigmata,” by Francesco Beccarucci di Conegliano, which is very fine. The painting is divided into two parts. In the upper is seen the saint holding out his hands for the divine imprints, a glorious resemblance with the Saviour which he has earned through his devotion. In the lower part is a crowd of saints and blessed, for the most part belonging to the order of Saint Francis, and rejoicing in the miracle. It contains beautiful ascetic heads; it is filled with deep religious feeling, and is perfect though somewhat dry in execution. When these old paintings, apparently cold and constrained, are looked at attentively, they become animated little by little, and finally exhibit ex- traordinary vivacity; yet they are marked neither by much knowledge of anatomy nor by much muscular or fleshy development. ‘The figures, embarrassed, look like timid people who wish to speak to you and dare 185 TRAVELS TN St pA Lay. not, and are turning over the best way to express what they feel. Their gestures are often awkward, but their faces are so kindly, so sweet, so childishly sincere, that you understand their half-spoken words, and they remain forever in your memory. It is because, under their awkward appearance, they possess a small thing which is lacking in masterpieces of technical skill, —a soul. I own frankly that I have a horror of the Bas- sanos. heir everlasting paintings of animals turned out from their factory and scattered throughout Europe, wretched shoddy work reproduced mechanically, more than justify my aversion; but I am bound to confess that the ‘ Resurrection of Lazarus” by Leandro Bassano is worth a good deal more than the en- trances and exits from the Ark, the pastorals and the rustic parks with cattle and sheep and a bending woman in a red skirt, which drive to despair every visitor to picture galleries. Let me mention also the “ Wedding of Cana” by Padovanino, a large, fine composition, broad and cor- rect in execution, a painting praiseworthy in every respect, and which anywhere else would be accounted a masterpiece; and let me come to a curious paint- ing by Paris Bordone, which represents a gondolier 186 debe bbb bob bbc beh bdo oh beet Te ove CFO UFO OFS CTS Sie aie we whe TEL Be ae A Tb Es Miecy restoring the ring of Saint Mark to the Doge. The moment chosen is that at which the gondolier is kneeling before the Doge. The composition is very picturesque. There is a great line, in perspective, of heads of senators, dark or bearded, most lordly in character; spectators are crowding on the steps in skilfully contrasted groups, while the beautiful Vene- tian costume is seen in all its splendour. As _ in nearly all the paintings of this school, architécture has a large place in the picture. Beautiful porticos in the style of Palladio, filled with people coming and going, form the background. This painting has the peculiarity, rather infrequent in the Italian school, — which is mostly occupied in reproducing religious or mythological subjects, of representing a popular legend, a scene of manners, a romantic subject, in a word, such as Delacroix or Louis Boulanger might have chosen and treated in accordance with their talent. This gives it a characteristic appearance and a per- sonal attractiveness. The pearl of the Museum at Madrid is a Raphael ; the gem of the Museum at Venice is a Titian, a mar- vellous painting, long forgotten and then recovered, for Venice possessed this masterpiece unawares for 187 Sebbbttttttttetttt ett tte BRAS R TS SO. IN aan many a year. Relegated to an old and little fre- quented church, it had disappeared under the slow accumulation of dust and cobwebs; the subject it- self could scarcely be made out. One day an ex- pert connoisseur, Count Cicognara, was struck with the appearance of the darkened figures, and suspect- ing the hand of the master under the marks of neglect and wretchedness, rubbed a corner of the canvas. The noble painting, preserved intact under the layer of dust like Pompeii under its mantle of ashes, ap- peared so youthful and so fresh that the Count was certain that he had come across a work by a great master, — an unknown masterpiece. He managed to master his feelings and proposed to the priest to ex- change that huge, uncared-for painting for a fine, brand-new, clean, shining picture handsomely framed, which would do honour to the church and please the faithful. The priest joyfully accepted, smiling to himself at the eccentricity of the Count, who was giving a new picture for an old one and did not ask something into the bargain. Cleansed from the filth which soiled it, Titian’s « Assumption ” appeared radiant. It is one of the largest paintings by the master, and the one in which 188 theo heh che he che dh ch ch cbecbe beaded abe dheche ech oh do TEE eae pelo TOMY, he has reached the highest point. “The composition is balanced and distributed with infinite art. The upper portion, which is arched, represents Paradise, —the Glory, to use the ascetic Spanish expression. Groups of angels confounded and disappearing in a flood of light to incalculable depths, like sparkling stars against flame, brilliant gleams of eternal light, form a halo around God the Father, who issues from the depths of the Infinite with the motion of a soar- ing eagle, accompanied by an archangel and a seraph upholding the crown and the nimbus. This figure of Jehovah, seen head and body strongly foreshortened horizontally, like a divine bird, with a mass of flying drapery outspread like wings, amazes by its sublime boldness. If it be possible for a human brush to clothe the Deity in a human figure, un- doubtedly ‘Titian has succeeded in doing so. Almighty power, eternal youth shine on the white-bearded face. Since the Olympic Jupiter of Phidias, never has the Lord of Heaven and Earth been more worthily represented. The centre of the picture is occupied by the Vir- gin Mary, who is raised, or rather surrounded, by a band of angels and of souls of the blessed. She needs no help to ascend to heaven. She rises through the 189 LEDELALDLAALALLALALALL ELS gabe Jib LN eee upspringing of her robust faith, the purity of her soul, lighter than the most luminous ether. ‘There is posi- tively in that figure an incredible power of ascen- sion; and yet to attain that effect, Titian did not have recourse to slender form, to clinging draperies, to transparent colour. His Madonna is a very real, a very living woman, of a beauty as solid as that of the Venus of Milo or the Venus of the Tribuna at Florence; full, rich draperies with numerous folds float around her; and yet nothing is more celestially beautiful than that tall, strong figure with its rose- coloured tunic and its azure mantle. In spite of the mighty voluptuousness of the body, the glance shines with the purest virginity. In the lower part of the painting the Apostles are grouped in various skilfully contrasted attitudes of ecstasy and surprise. [wo or three small angels, who connect them with the middle portion of the composition, seem to be explaining the miracle. The heads of the Apostles, of various ages and characters, are painted with surprising vigour and lifelike reality. The draperies have the breadth and fulness character- istic of Titian, who was at once the richest and the simplest of painters. 190 he abe obs ahs ale obs ole obs obs abe cle che obs abe ole os obs ells os ole eb obs of ob Gla Bae oe) Td Vie As I looked at that Virgin and compared it in my mind with other Virgins by different masters, I re- flected how marvellous, how ever new a thing is art. The number of variations which Catholic painters have made upon this theme of the Madonna, without ever exhausting it, astounds and confounds the im- agination ; but when one reflects upon it, one under- stands that under the conventional type each painter has reproduced at one and the same time his dream of love and the incarnation of his own talent. Thanks to the dusty layer which covered it for so many years, the “ Assumption”’ shines with youthful brilliancy. The centuries stayed their steps for it, and we enjoy the supreme delight of seeing a paint- ing by Titian as it came from his palette. Opposite Titian’s “ Assumption” has been placed Tintoretto’s “ Saint Mark delivering a Slave,” as the most robust picture and the one best fitted to form a pendant to so splendid a masterpiece. Tintoretto is the king of violent painters. He has incredible fury in composition, vigour in execution, and boldness in foreshortening, and the “Saint Mark” may pass for one of his fiercest and most audacious paintings. The subject is the patron saint of Venice coming to the IgI beteettttteetettttttttes TeRAWE DES TN. i TAS aid of a poor slave, whom a barbarous master tor- ments and tortures because of the obstinate devotion of the poor fellow to the saint. ‘The slave is stretched on the ground on a cross, surrounded by busy tor- turers who are making a vain effort to fasten him to the infamous tree. The nails turn back, the mallets break, the axes fly in pieces. More merciful than men, the instruments of torture are blunted in the hands of the torturers;. the spectators look at each other and whisper in astonishment, the judge bends over the tribunal to see why his orders are not exe- cuted; while Saint Mark, in one of the most violent foreshortenings a painter ever risked, dives from heaven to earth, without clouds, wings, cherubs, with- out any of the aerostatic means usually employed in sacred pictures, as he comes to deliver the man who believes in him. This vigorous figure, with the muscles of an athlete and the proportions of a colos- sus, flying through the air like a rock hurled by a catapult, produces the strangest effect. The draw- ing is so marvellous that the massive saint sustains himself and does not fall. It is a downright tour de Jorce. If to this be added that the picture is so _ strong in tone, so appropriate in its contrasts of light 1g2 — — Se trtrtrtoebbbbttebtettes TLE Been DE My: and shadow, so vigorous in detail, so harsh and violent in touch that the most intense Caravaggios and Spagnolettis, if placed by the side of it would look like rosewater, some idea may be had of a painting which, in spite of some barbarisms, still pre- serves in its accessories the architectural, abundant and sumptuous aspect peculiar to the Venetian school. There are also in the same room an ‘ Adam and Eve” and an “ Abel and Cain” by the same painter ; two magnificent paintings worked out like studies, which are perhaps the most perfect piece of work, so far as execution goes, produced by him. Against a background of soft, mysterious green, the distant foli- age of Eden,— or rather, the wall of the studio, — stand out two superb bodies, of a brilliantly warm white, of living carnation, powerfully real. It is prob- able that Eve holds out to Adam the fatal apple, which justifies the placing of two nude personages in the open air; but no matter, for never did two more beau- tiful bodies, never did whiter and softer flesh come to life under the brush of a colourist. Tintoretto, who had written on the wall, “The drawing of Michael Angelo and the colouring of Titian,” has in this paint- ing carried out at least one half of his programme. 13 193 The companion painting of “ Abel and Cain” breathes all the savage fury that one expects from such a subject and such a painter. Death, the consequence of the fall of our first parents, enters on the young earth in a formidable shadow, wherein are rolling the murderer and his victim. In one corner of the paint- ing is a horrible detail: the head of a sheep cut off and bleeding. Is it the victim offered up by Abel, or a symbol that innocent animals are also to bear the penalty of Eve’s curiosity ? Bonifazzio is an admirable artist. His ‘ Wicked Rich Man” is a thoroughly Venetian painting. It lacks neither the handsome women with their hair rolled up in tresses, with strings of pearls, dresses of velvet and brocade, nor the splendid lords in gallant and courteous attitudes, the musicians, pages, negroes, nor the damask tablecloth richly covered with plate of gold and silver, the dogs playing on the mosaic pavement, and this time smelling at the rags of Lazarus with the mis- trust of well-bred animals, nor the terraces with balus- trades on which the wine is cooling in antique craters, nor the white columns between which the sky shines out deeply blue; only, Paolo Veronese’s silvery gray here has an amber tint; the silver is gilded. Bonifaz- 194 te abe ol abe ab cls ele als ebro aby cb cdo abe abe cb abe abo che ef abe ee abe eho ole THE Pre 1) Ee VIEY: zio, who painted portraits, gave to his heads something more intimate than did the author of the four great feasts and of the ceilings of the Palace of the Doges, accustomed as he was to look at subjects from the decorative point of view. The faces in Bonifazzio’s painting, studied and individually characteristic, posi- tively recall the patrician types of Venice, which so often posed to the artist. The anachronism of the costumes shows that Lazarus is but a mere pretext, and that the real subject of the painting is a banquet of lords with courtesans, their mistresses, in one of those beautiful palaces which plunge their marble feet into the waters of the Grand Canal. Let us not pass too quickly before these ‘* Apostles,” of such fine port, so rich in colour, and so religiously grave, as is not always the case in the Venetian school, especially in the second half of the sixteenth century, when the pagan ideas of the Renaissance made their way into art and developed the sensualist tendencies of these splendid masters. The Academy of the Fine Arts possesses a great number of Bonifazzio’s works. In this room alone, besides the “« Wicked Rich Man ” and the “ Apostles,” there is an “¢ Adoration of the Magi,” “Christ and the Woman Taken in Adultery,” “Saint 195 ~ RAVELS “IN See Jerome and Saint Catharine,” “ Saint Mark,” ‘ Jesus Enthroned surrounded by Saints,’’ —all of them paint- ings of the highest merit, which stand being placed in company with those of ‘Titian, Tintoretto, and Paolo Veronese. A great painter, little known in France, is Rocco Marconi, an artist whose style is pure and whose feel- ing is deep. He is a sort of Italian Albert Direr, less fantastic and chimerical than the German, but with a sort of archaic calm in his manner which makes him appear older than his contemporaries, as does Ingres among Delacroix, Decamps, Couture, Muller, and Diaz. The heads in his “ Christ between Saint John and Saint Paul”? have much character and nobility, the folds of the draperies are very tasteful, and the group in its firm colour stands out well against the sky dappled with clouds. Here on the wall is a whole line of the old Vene- tians that I spoke of as we entered the Academy of the Fine Arts, suave, pure, ingenuous, gentle, and charm- ing. Giovanni Bellini, Cima da Conegliano, and Vit- torio Carpaccio each offer us the same subject, one which was sufficient for the whole of the Middle Ages and gave birth to thousands of masterpieces, — the 196 tebebbbetteeeebeteedttes THE ACADEMY Madonna and Child Enthroned, surrounded by saints, usually the patrons of the giver; a custom which makes pedants complain of anachronism under the pretext that it is not natural that Saint Francis of Assisi, Saint Sebastian, and Saint Catharine, or any other saint, should happen to be in the same frame as the Blessed Virgin, and that the costumes of the Middle Ages should be mingled with the draperies of antiquity. These critics have failed to understand that to a living faith there is no such thing as time or place, and that nothing is more touching than the bringing together of the idol and the devotee; a genuine bringing together, for the Madonna was then a living, contemporary, actual being, she entered into every one’s life, she was the ideal of all timid lovers, the mother of all those who sorrowed; she was not relegated to the very con- fines of heaven, as incredulous ages, under pretext of respect, do with their gods. Men lived on a familiar footing with her, confided their griefs and their hopes to her, and no one would have been surprised to see her appear in the street in company with a monk, a cardinal, a nun, or any other holy personage. The more readily, therefore, did one allow in a painting a combination which shocks purists, but which is really deeply Catholic. ew checbe cade oh oe bb ote ce ctecte cde ache ce bee ah ook WO OFS are OFS OFS WO WTO OT ee es TOR AWN TSIIS:. TN. Ae ba) 4 ae For my part I am very fond of these thrones and baldacchinos so preciously and delicately ornamented, of these Madonnas holding their Child upon their laps, with their simple golden nimbus, as if colour were not brilliant enough for them, of these little angels playing on the viol, the rebec, or the angelica. Yes, in spite of my love for pagan art, I love also these artless Gothic painters; these Fathers of the Church carrying great missals under their arms, wearing the cardinal’s beretta, Saint George in his knightly armour, Saint Sebastian chastely nude, a sort of Christian Apollo, who, instead of shooting arrows, is pierced by them; the priests, the saints, and the monks in beautiful figured dalmatics and white or black gowns with many small folds; these young virgins leaning on a wheel and holding a palm, maids of honour of the Celestial Queen; all the loving and devout suite which humbly groups itself at the foot of the representation of the. apotheosis,of the Virgin Mother. It seems to me that this somewhat hieratic arrangement better fulfils the requirements of the church painting properly under- stood than compositions worked out from the realistic point of view. ‘There is in this sort of composition a sacred rhythm which must strike the eye of the faithful. 198 whe oso obs ols abl abe abe obs oe be cree ob strobe ofa ob cle abe of abe ol ore one =< oS owe Fe WTO VFO OTe TO Beye A DE MEY The aspect of the image itself, so necessary in devo- tional subjects, in my opinion, is preserved, and art is in no wise the loser, for if individuality is bounded on the one hand, it is entirely free on the other. Each artist marks his individuality in the execution of the work, and these paintings, formed of the same ele- ments, are perhaps the most personal of all. The feathered musicians of Carpaccio are unlike those of Giovanni Bellini, although they are tuning their guitars at the feet of the Virgin on the steps of an almost identical baldacchino. The winged virtuosi of Car- paccio are more elegant, have a more youthful grace; they look like pages of a noble house. ‘Those of Giovanni Bellini are more artless, childish, babyish ; they perform their music with the zeal of country choristers watched by their priest. All of them are charming, but their gracefulness is different and marked by the character of the painter. The “ Holy Family ” of Paolo Veronese is composed in the rich and bountiful taste so familiar to that painter. Ofcourse the amateurs of absolute truth will not find here the humble interior of the poor carpenter. The column of rose Verona brocatella, the splendid figured curtain, the skilfully broken folds of which 199 teebbettetettttttttceddde DRAW BS) OUN ePAL AY form the background of the painting, betoken a princely home, but the “ Holy Family” is rather an apotheosis than a realistic representation of Joseph’s humble household. ‘The presence of Saint Francis offering a palm, of the priest in his cloak, of the saint with her golden hair tressed on the back of her head, the regal seat on which is enthroned the divine Mother presenting her Child to worship, suffice to prove this. In the second room there is an immense painting, “The Feast at the House of Levi,” one of the four great banquet-pieces by Paolo Veronese. “The Louvre bP] possesses two of them, the “‘ Wedding at Cana,” and the “Supper at the House of the Magdalen.” They are of the same size as the one at Venice. All have the same broad, rich, easy composition, the same silvery brilliancy, the same air of festivity and joy; in all are seen those dark-complexioned men with their rich dal- matics of brocade, the fair women covered with pearls, the negro slaves offering dishes and ewers, the children playing on the steps of balustraded stairs with great white greyhounds; the columns, the marble statues ; the beautiful, bright turquoise-blue sky which fairly ‘deceives when, on drawing back, one looks at it 200 she ob of che che che ek bh hob bebe cbc ecb ob bot THE ACADEMY framed in by the door of the next room like a view in a panorama. Paolo Veronese is perhaps, without ex- cepting Titian, Rubens, and Rembrandt, the greatest master of colour that ever lived. He has not the yellow tone of Titian nor the red tone of Rubens, nor the dark tone of Rembrandt. He paints luminously, with amazing accuracy; no one understood better than he did the relation of tones and their relative values. He obtains by juxtaposition tints of exquisite freshness which apart would seem gray and earthy. No one possesses to the same degree the bloom and flower of light. The composition of the ‘“ Annunciation” by the same painter is curious. The Virgin Mary, kneeling at one end of a long canvas, the central part of which -is filled in by elegant architecture, awaits modestly the arrival of the Angel, relegated to the other end of the painting and which seems to be wafted towards her on its open wings with its angelic salutation. ‘This arrangement, contrary to the rule which places in the centre of a canvas the group upon which attention is directed, is a brilliant caprice which would have failed had it been attempted by any other than Paolo Veronese. 201 The Academy possesses an inestimable treasure, the last painting done by Titian, that patriarch of his art, who lived through the century and whom the plague surprised still at work at the age of ninety-nine. ‘The painting, of a grave and melancholy aspect, the funeral subject of which seems to be a presentiment, represents a “Deposition from the Cross.” The sky is dark, a livid light illuminates the body piously upborne by Joseph of Arimathea and Mary Magdalen. They are both sad and downcast, and seem by their hopeless attitudes to despair of the resurrection of the Master. They are evidently wondering with secret anxiety whether that body anointed with spices and ointments which they are going to place within the sepulchre will ever emerge from it. And indeed, never did Titian paint so thoroughly dead a body. ‘There is not a drop of blood left under the greenish skin and in the bluish veins; life has withdrawn from them forever. The ‘‘Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane” in Saint Paul’s, the ‘“ Pieta”’ in Saint Denis-du-Saint-Sacra- ment, by Eugéne Delacroix, alone can give an idea of the sinister and painful picture in which for the first time the great Venetian lost his unchanging serenity. The shadow of approaching death seems to combat the 202 she chs abe a fe oh ch oe oh abe oe cdecbe cbr cbe adeeb cde oe che be obec hhh Evrae AD E Miy light of the painter who always had sunshine on his palette, and casts a twilight chill over the painting. The hand of the artist stopped in death before he had finished his task, as is testified by the inscription in black letters in the corner of the canvas: ‘The work which Titian left unfinished, Palma respectfully completed and offered to God.” This noble, touching, and religious inscription turns the painting into a monument. Certainly Palma, himself a great painter, must have approached tremblingly the master’s work, and his brush, clever as it was, must doubtless have hesitated and wavered many a time as it was laid on the touch of Titian. If the Academy possesses the Omega of the painter’s life, the Alpha is also found there in the shape of a great picture, the subject of which is the ‘ Presen- tation of Mary in the Temple.” ‘This work was painted by Titian when almost a child; tradition says at the age of fourteen, which seems to me rather pre- cocious in view of the beauty of the work. Bringing the matter down to likelihood, “ The Presentation of Mary ” assuredly goes back to the painter’s extreme youth, All the qualities of the artist are seen in this juvenile work; they were developed more fully later, 203 abe obs ol ole obs abe os alls abe alle ole abn cbs ofle ols obe ole obs ole cbr cbr ole ce oe THR AWEFRLISS DN. AIC Aa but they exist already very visibly. “Ihe splendour of the architecture, the grand port of the old men, the abundant and fine drawing of the draperies, the great effects of tone, the manly simplicity of execu- tion, —all these things reveal the master in the child. The luminous and bright colour, which the sunshine of mature age will gild with warmer reflec- tions, possesses already the virile solidity, the robust consistency which are the distinctive characteristics of ‘Titian. He is, in my opinion, the only wholly healthy artist who has appeared since the days of antiquity. He has the mighty and strong serenity of Phidias; there is nothing feverish, troubled, restless in him; the modern malady has not laid its hands upon him. He is beauti- ful, robust, and tranquil like a pagan artist of the finest epoch. His superb nature unfolds itself complacently in a warm azure, under a warm sun, and his colour recalls the beautiful antique marbles gilded by the brilliant light of Greece. There is no groping, no effort, no violence; he attains the ideal at the first attempt, without a thought. A calm, vivacious joy lights up his whole work. Only he does not seem to suspect the existence of death, save perhaps in his last 204 whe obs abe abs os obs als oe obs abs obs cbr clle obs ono ob ob ob ale ce obs oe alle wre ore ere ae ome wee ode PH Eee A DE MY painting. Without sensual ardour, without voluptuous intoxication, he exhibits to the gaze amid purple and gold, the beauty and the youth, all the amorous poetry of the feminine body, with the impassibility of a God exhibiting Eve to Adam. He sanctifies nudity by an expression of supreme repose, of ever fixed beauty, of the realisation of the absolute which makes the freest of the antique works so chaste. He alone has painted a woman who might, without appear ing poor and mean, lie down by the side of the resting woman on the Parthenon. Giorgione has painted an episode of the fisherman bringing to the Doge the ring of St. Mark. It is the battle between Saint George and Saint Theodore and the fiends. However much [ admire the warm, living, rich colour of Giorgione in his “ Pastoral Concert,” I confess I care very little for the painting in the Acad- emy of the Fine Arts at Venice. Rocco Marconi’s ** Descent from the Cross ”’ has all the serious qualities, all the unction of the Gothic masters, their tranquil symmetry, and a richness of tone and a bloom of colour which the great paintings in its vicinity do not diminish. ‘The dead Christ, recalling by His bloodless flesh the mat pallor of 205 cheb he ho he he cheb dochecbe shee cde oh cde ID RAG aE S) LIN ila AS Lae the Host, is sleeping softly on the Virgin’s breast supported by a Magdalen of tender and delicate beauty, whose splendid fair hair falls in a golden cascade down a magnificent dress of figured: damask of a rich, sombre purple like the ruby. Is it in the blood of the beloved heart that your dress has been dipped, O Magdalen, or in the drops falling from your own? Padovanino has a “ Virgin in Glory ” after the Span- ish manner, but I am not very much struck, in spite of the great talent displayed in it, by the vast, apoca- lyptic painting by Palma the younger, “The Tri- umph of Death.” Saint John, seated upon the rock at Patmos, gazes with upraised pen, ready to fix it on his parchment, at the formidable vision which is un- rolled before him: Justice and War ride upon sombre steeds, and Death, upon his great pale horse, cuts in the human harvest ears which fall in sheaves of bodies along the edges of the road. Except Tintoretto, who with his tawny colour and violent touch can represent terror and tragedy, these gloomy subjects are generally ill-suited to Venetian painters, whose happy tem- perament delights in the azure of the sea and of the sky, in the whiteness of marble and of flesh, in the 206 ob otek cbe oh oh hohe be be dec cece ch heed ede ob dock REA AY 1D) EB May gold of hair and brocade, and the brilliant patterns of flowers and stuffs. A very curious painting by Gentile Bellini is “ The Procession on the Piazza San Marco of the Relics pre- served by the Brotherhood of Saint John,” at the time when Jacopo Salis is making his vow to the Cross. No more complete collection of the costumes of the day can be imagined; the patient and minute touch of the artist has allowed no detail to escape him; nothing is sacrificed, everything is rendered with Gothic consci- entiousness. Every head must certainly be a portrait, and a portrait as accurate as a photograph, with the colouring in addition. ‘The appearance of the Piazza San Marco, such as it was then, is as true as an archi- tectural drawing. ‘The old Byzantine mosaics, which were restored later, adorn the portals of the old basilica, and —a point to be noted —the belfries are gilded all over, which was never really the case. But the bel- fries were to have been gilded, as a matter of fact. The Doge Loredan needed, to carry on the war, the sequins intended to pay for the gilding, and the plan was not carried out. There is no trace of it left save in the painting of Gentile Bellini, who had provision- ally gilded his Saint Mark. 207 Lekkehbekbbeheba bbb ett 5 IN ITALY A certain miracle of a cross fallen into the water from the top of a bridge in Venice, the bridge of Saint Leon and Saint Laurent, greatly interested the painters of that day. The Academy contains no less than three important paintings of this curious subject, one by Lazzaro Sebastiano, one by Gentile Bellini, and a third by Giovanni Mansueti. ‘These paintings are most interesting, forming exceptions to the customary types of Italian painting, which turns in the narrow circle of devotional and mythological subjects and rarely touches the familiar scenes of real life. ‘The monks of various orders, the patricians, the common people who are jumping into the water, swimming and diving in order to find the holy crucifix fallen within the canal, exhibit the strangest appearance. On the banks is the crowd in prayer, watching the result of the search. ‘There is especially a line of ladies kneel- ing with clasped hands, covered with gems and pearls, in short-waisted dresses as in the time of the Empire, which exhibits a number of profiles set off one by the other with Gothic artlessness, and of extraordinary finish, beauty, elegance, and purity. In these paintings the old houses of Venice are seen, with their red walls, their windows with Lombard trefoils, their terraces 208 tebbbebbbbbbbbbbbbbb td DHE VAC AUD: FE MAY surmounted by posts, their wide-topped chimneys, the old bridges spanned by chains, and the gondolas of other days, which are not. the shape of modern ones. There is no /e/ze, but an awning stretched upon hoops, nor does any one of them have the sort of fiddle-head in polished iron which serves as a counterpoise to the rower placed at the poop. ‘They are also much less slender. Most elegant, most graceful, most juvenile is the series of paintings in which Vittorio Carpaccio has de- picted the life of Saint Ursula. Carpaccio possesses the ideal charm, the youthful grace which Raphael ex- > hibits in the “ Marriage of the Virgin,” one of the first and perhaps the most charming of his pictures. It is ~ impossible to fancy more artless turns of the head, more angelically coquettish attitudes. ‘There is espe- cially a young man with long hair, seen from behind, whose cape with a velvet collar is half slipping from his shoulder, who is so proudly, so youthfully, and so seductively beautiful that he looks like Praxiteles’ Cupid wearing a mediaeval costume, or, rather, like an angel to whom it has occurred to dress himself up as a Vene- tian magnifico. I am surprised that the name of Car- paccio is not better known. He possesses all the 14 209 tHhebbbtbbetetetdt dtd dteetese TO RAW HEMICS (ATEN ei A oa youthful purity and all the graceful charm of the first manner of the painter of Urbino, and in addition the wondrous Venetian colour, which no other school was able to equal. The Pinacoteca Contarini, the bequest of that lordly amateur of the arts who gave to the Museum his col- lection of arms, statues, vases, carved furniture, and other precious things, contains choice specimens of the Venetian and other schools. I will mention the “ Pil- grims of Emmats,’’ by Marco Marzali, painted with almost German dry minuteness; Andrea Cardegli’s “Child Jesus, Saint John, and Saint Catharine,” whose fair heads stand out against the green landscape back- ground seen through a window; a “ Virgin and Child with the Young Saint John,” by Giovanni Battista Cima, somewhat dry and cutting too harshly against a background of blue mountains ; a “ Marriage of Saint Catharine,” and a “ Madonna and Child” by Francesco da Fiesolo, very sweet, pretty, and fresh, charming in its morbidezza. The triptych of “ Fortune,” by Giovanni Bellini is remarkable for its allegorical inventions. In the centre panel a nude woman stands upon an altar, accompanied by angels or Cupids playing on the drum ; on the side panels a nude youth, crowned, a cloak on 210 cede be che oh ob che che hehe ce cbecbobedbcbe obeche oe cbe ok ob det THE ACADEMY his shoulder, offers presents to a warrior who avoids him ; a woman holding a ball, her hair tressed into the shape of a helmet, stands in a boat, while Cupids play amid the waves like Tritons. Callot’s etchings please me much more than his paintings, the authenticity of which is more or less doubtful. There is in the Pinacoteca Contarini a “Fair”? by the Nancy engraver, swarming with Bohe- mians, charlatans, beggars, lansknechts, stealing, play- ing tricks, begging, drinking, gambling, —a view of that picaresque world which he knew so well; but the artist is not as skilful with the brush as with the graver. Let me close with the gem, the pearl, the star of this museum, — a “ Madonna and the Child Jesus” by Giovanni Bellini. ‘The subject is worn out, has been treated a thousand times, and yet it blooms with eternal youth under the brush of the old master. What does it consist of ? A woman with a child on her knees, — but what a woman! Her face pursues you like a dream, and once you have seen it you never forget it. It is of impossible beauty, and yet strangely true; it is of immaculate virginity and penetrating voluptuousness ; supreme disdain in infinite sweetness. I seemed, as I 211 chee ob che ek che cde de cbecbe becdech ch che dheobe ch chee TR AVCR RAS” PNY VV RATE beheld that painting, to be looking at the incarnation of my secret dreams surprised in my soul by the artist. Every day I spent an hour in mute worship at the feet of the celestial ideal, and never could I have left Venice, if a young French painter, taking pity on me, had not made me a copy of that beloved head. 22 debbobck bbb cb babes cheb oh cet Ue eee IN’ AT Y LLEAAEEAL EASELS LLtt che steale abe ob ib THE STREETS—THE EMPEROR’S FETE DAY HE streets of Venice are rarely mentioned, although they exist in great numbers, and writers describe the quaintness of the canals and gondolas alone. The absence of horses and car- riages gives to Venetian streets a peculiar appearance. By their narrowness they resemble the streets of Orien- tal cities. As the area of the islands is limited, and the houses generally very high, the narrow lanes which separate them look like saw-cuts in enormous blocks of stone. Certain ca//es in Granada and certain London alleys very closely approximate them. The Frezzaria is one of the most animated streets of the city. Jt is quite six to eight feet wide, and is therefore analogous to the Rue de la Paix in Paris. It is in this street chiefly that are to be found the gold- smiths who manufacture those delicate little golden chains as tenuous as hairs, which are called jaserons, and which are one of the characteristic curiosities of 213 RAEDLAELLELLLAELALA LL ALLL SASL RUA VEE) LNG tee J Venice. With the exception of these chains and a few rough gems set in silver for sale to country people, which an artist may think picturesque, these shops have nothing remarkable. ‘The fruiterers’ shops have splen- did stalls. “Ihe heaps of blooming peaches, the quan- tities of golden, amber-coloured, transparent grapes coloured with the richest tints, shining like gems, and the grains of which, strung in the form of necklaces and bracelets, would admirably adorn the neck and arms of some antique Mznad, are beautifully fresh and admirably grouped. “The tomatoes mingle their brilliant scarlet with the golden tints and the watermelon shows its rosy pulp through the cleft in its green skin. Al! these lovely fruits, brightly lighted by gas-jets, show rarely well against the vine leaves upon which they are laid. It is impossible to regale one’s eyes more agree- ably, and often, without being hungry, I purchased peaches and grapes through sheer love of colour. I recall also certain fishmongers’ stalls covered with little fishes so white, so silvery, so pearly, that I felt like swallowing them raw, after the manner of the ichthy- ophagists of the Southern seas, for fear of spoiling their tints. I could understand, on seeing them, the barbar- ous custom of ancient banquets, which consisted in 214 abe obs ols ols obs abe obs obs abe abe oe obo cbe che obs che ohn of che ole obs of oboe THE EMPEROR’S FETE DAY watching the death of murenas in crystal vases in order to enjoy the opal tints which they assumed in their death throes. In the evening these streets are extremely animated and brilliant. The stalls are illuminated @ giorno, and the narrowness of the street prevents the light being scattered. “Ihe cook shops and the pastry shops, the osteria, the taverns, the numerous, cafés, bloom and blaze; there is a constant going and coming of people. Every shop, without a single exception, has its minia- ture chapel adorned with a Madonna, in front of which are placed lighted lamps or tapers and pots of artificial or natural flowers. Sometimes it is a statuette in col- oured plaster, sometimes a smoky painting, sometimes a Greek image with a Byzantine gold background, or a simple modern engraving. “The Madonna replaces in devout Italy the Lares of antiquity. ‘This form of the worship of the Virgin, so touching and poetic, has but few, if any, dissenters in Venice, and the followers of Voltaire would, so far, be ill-satisfied with the progress of enlightenment in the ancient city of the Doges. At nearly every street-corner, at nearly every descent of a bridge, there is in a niche, behind a grating or a glass pane, a Madonna on an altar adorned with wreaths of 215 bbobbbbbebttbebbbtbte tee TaR AWE TSS (PNA elder pith, necklaces of glass beads, paper flowers, dresses of silver lace, and all the pious rags with which the artless Southern faith overloads with childish coquetry the objects of its adoration. Candles and lamps continually burn before these altars covered with ex-votos, silver hearts, wax legs, women’s breasts, paintings of shipwrecks seamed by lightnings, of burned houses, and other catastrophes, in which the wonder-working Virgin invariably turns up at the right moment. Near these chapels there is always some old woman praying, some young girl on her knees, some sailor making a vow or fulfilling it, and also at times people whose dress indicates that they belong to a class which with us does not possess so much faith, and leaves the religion of Christ to the common people and to servants. Contrary to preconceived ideas, I found Italy more devout than Spain. One of these chapels, near the Ponte della Paglia on the Riva degli Schiavoni, has always a large number of worshippers, either because it happens to be upon a frequented street, or because it possesses some peculiar privilege or immunity. ‘There are also every here and there alms-boxes for the benefit of souls in Purgatory. 216 abe che abs obo obs of abe obs abe abe cle cba che obs of obs obs ofp oe ole ce of ofp of ite BMP RORY S UP EADE DAY The small coins dropped into them pay for masses for the poor forgotten dead. Next to the Frezzaria, the street which leads from the Campo San Moisé to the Campo de Santa Maria Zobenigo is one of those which offer to a stranger the greatest number of points worthy of observation. Many lanes open into it as into an artery, for it con- nects the banks of the Grand Canal with the Piazza San Marco. The shops remain open longer than else- where, and as it is nearly straight, forestier7 traverse it without being afraid of losing their way; avery easy thing to do in Venice, the maze of streets, complicated by canals and blind alleys, being so perplexing that it has been found necessary to mark by a succession of stones, on which are cut arrows indicating the way, the road from the Piazza to the railway station, situated at the other end of the city, near the Church degli Scalzi. How often have I enjoyed losing myself at night in that labyrinth out of which a Venetian alone can find his way! After having followed a score of streets, traversed some thirty lanes, crossed ten canals, ascended and de- scended as many bridges, plunged at hazard into sotto- portict, I have found myself just where I started from. These walks, for which I chose moonlight nights, en- 217 Pa abate ab boobs abe abo abe arable abe cece ook cl babe oe oe oo ob Cre ae ote OF vie ore owe TORAW EES 2 DINGS as ie abled me to see Venice in its secret aspect, and from numerous picturesque and unexpected points of view. Sometimes I came upon a great palace half in ruins, faintly showing in the shadows, thanks to a silvery beam; the panes left in its broken windows gleaming suddenly like scales or mirrors; now a bridge tracing its black arch against a stretch of bluish water over which floated a light mist; farther on a trail of red fire, falling from a lighted house upon the oily darkness of a sleeping canal; at other times a deserted square on which stood out quaintly the top of a church covered with statues which in the obscurity looked like spectres ; or else a tavern where were gesticulating like demons gondoliers and facchini, their shadows projected upon the window; or else a half-opened water-gate through which a mysterious figure sprang into a gondola. Once I thus reached a really sinister lane behind the Grand Canal. The high houses, originally covered with the red tint which is usually found upon old Venetian buildings, had a fierce and truculent aspect. Rain, damp, neglect, and the absence of light at the bottom of this narrow cut had little by little killed the colour of the facades and made the wash run. A faint reddish tint still marked the walls and looked like 218 the fe che che che he he be oh abe cece ecto cheb che oe elece ol oboe wre TO CS IS WHE WTS OTD THE EMPEROR’S FETE DAY blood insufficiently cleansed off after the commission of acrime. Oppression, chilliness, terror, stole out from these sanguinolent walls; a sickly odour of saltpetre and well water, a mouldy smell reminiscent of prisons, cloisters, and cellars, seized me as [ entered it. At the blind windows there was no gleam of light, no appearance of life. The low doors, studded with rusty nails, their iron knockers worn by time, seemed inca- pable of ever opening. Nettles and wall plants grew on the thresholds and seemed not to have been trodden for a long time back by any human foot. A lean, black dog which sprang suddenly out of the shadow like a jack-in-the-box, began to bark furiously and plaintively at the sight of me, as if it were unaccus- tomed to meet men. It followed me for a short time, tracing around me windings after the fashion of the poodle that accompanied Faust and Wagner on their walk; but looking at it fixedly, I said to it in Goethe’s words: “ Unclean animal, in vain you bark and ope your mouth. You shall never swallow my monad.” These words seemed to astonish it, and seeing itself discovered, it disappeared, uttering a lamentable howl. Was it a dog ora larva? This is a point which I pru- dently prefer to leave undecided. 210 check eae be che oh be che gh ected che cece ache echoed ob chat wre ee OF ote PSR AMEE S27) DN Da I greatly regret that I do not possess Hoffmann’s talent to turn that sinister street into the scene of a terrifying and strange tale, such as “ The Deserted House,” or “The Eve of Saint Sylvester,” in which alchemists fight over a manikin, and hurl their micro- scopes at each other in a whirlwind of monstrous visions. ‘Ihe dark windows were meant to frame in the bald, wrinkled, grimacing heads, decomposed by a continuous metamorphosis, of Master Tabracchio, Spal- lanzani, Leuwenhoeck, Swammerdam, of Counsellor Tusman and Recorder Lindhorst. If (Gozzi, the author of the “ Contratempi,” who believed himself the victim of the hatred of wizards and hobgoblins whose tricks he had discovered and whose secrets he had told in his fairy pieces, ever traversed this solitary lane, he must have met with some of the amazing misadven- tures reserved, apparently, for the poet of “ Turandot,” “The Love of the Three Orange Trees,” and the “ Blue Monster.” But Gozzi, who felt the invisible world, must certainly have always avoided Barristers’ Street at the hour of twilight. On returning from one of these fantastic trips, during which the city had struck me as being more deserted than usual, I went to bed feeling rather mel- 220 FRO OFS CHS OFS Oe C80 che OTe VN ote je woe ee THE "EMPEROR? 5 oh ft LEAS ancholy, after having sustained against a monstrous mosquito — buzzing like a wasp, waving his an- tennz, and twisting his proboscis like the god Ganesa, and making his saws screak with the most audacious ferocity —a terrible combat in which I was defeated and whence I issued full of many poisoned wounds. I was beginning to sink into the black ocean of sleep, so like death that the ancients called it its sister, when, through my dense somnolence I heard low rumours, distant thunder, and the sound of terrifying voices. Was it a tempest, a battle, a cataclysm of nature, a combat between demons? Such was the question which occurred to me as I woke. Soon a deafening clamour tore through my last vestige of sleep as forked lightning through a black cloud. ‘The copper discs of the cym- bals sounded like the clash of armour, gongs vibrated with hollow roar, the big drum boomed like a Malay or a hundred bulls, the ophicleides and trumpets let loose metallic hurricanes, the cornets a piston shrieked rag- ingly, the little flute made desperate efforts to rise above the noise and overtop it. All the instruments rivalled each other in riot and hurly-burly. It sounded like a Festival by Hector Berlioz going adrift at night on the waters. When this musical whirlwind passed O21 LLELLELLALLLEALALALLAL LLL ELLA aR AM EIS OTN Te Ania under my balcony, I seemed to hear at one and the same time the trumpets of Jericho and the clarions of the Last Judgment. A tempest of bells, ringing full swing, formed the accompaniment. The tumult proceeded towards the Grand Canal amid the red glare of many torches. It struck me that the serenade was somewhat uproarious, and I pitied with all my heart the fair for whom this mon- strous nocturnal racket, this colossal hubbub, was bP intended. ‘Her lover is not very discreet,” thought I to myself, “and he is not afraid to compromise his beauty. A guitar, a violin, a theorbo would, in my opinion, have been sufficient.” I was just falling asleep as the noise died away, when a white blinding flash struck on my closed eyes like the livid lightnings illuminating the darkness of the deepest night, and a frightful explosion which made the panes rattle and the house tremble from top to bottom, broke the silence. I leaped three feet into the air, wondering whether it was a thunderbolt falling into the room, or the siege of Venice resumed without notice and a shell bursting through the ceiling and plumping down on me in the midst of my sleep. Similar deafening detonations were repeated every fifteen minutes until morning, to the D272 she ob obs aby abs aby ale abe che oly abe coals abe ele cb obs ofr abe er abl abe abe alle pi CPO TO CFS SIS SIH VIS wEN TH hiv esROIReS FEE DAY serious damage of my windows and my nerves. ‘They seemed to come from a very near point, and every time a livid flash foretold them. Between the discharges deep silence, the silence of death; none of the noctur- nal sounds which are like the breathing of sleeping cities. In the midst of the uproar Venice, mute, seemed to have sunk and lost itself in the lagoons. Every window was dark; not a single gondola lantern starred the profound darkness. The next morning the riddle was read to me: it was the féte day of the Emperor of Austria; all this excitement was in honour of the German Casar. The batteries of the Giudecca and of San Giorgio Maggiore fired right opposite me, and many window-panes in the neighbourhood had been smashed. With dawn the row recommenced worse than ever. The frigates fired alternately with the batteries; the bells clanged in the innumerable belfries of the city; file firing and volley firing rattled over all at regular intervals. “The burnt powder, rising everywhere in thick clouds was the incense destined to tickle the nostrils of the mas- ter, if from the height of his throne in Vienna he hap- pened to turn his head towards the Adriatic. It seemed to me that in all these homages to the Emperor there 223 LELALALALALLALALAL“LAL?’? LLL ALS TRAE GS SENSE TARE was a certain ostentation of artillery, a certain double meaning in the musketry firing. These festival com- pliments in the form of cannon-shots had a second purpose, and one did not need to be clever to under- stand it. I hastened to the Piazza. A Te Deum was being sung in the Basilica. The garrison in full dress was drawn up in a square on the Piazza, kneeling and ris- ing at a sign from the officers, as the service proceeded. A brilliant staff, covered with gold lace, was in the centre, sparkling brightly in the sunshine. Then at certain intervals the muskets were raised together, and admirably sustained file firing sent flying into the skies great white clouds of terrified doves. The poor pigeons of San Marco, terrified by the tumult and believing that, in violation of their immunities, they were to form the materials for an immense stew, did not know which way to turn. Crazed with terror they collided with each other in mid-air, struck against cornices, and flew off at top speed between domes and chimneys. Then, when silence came again, they returned to peck seed familiarly at their usual place at the very feet of the soldiers, so strong is the force of habit. 224 dhdbecheledh ch ecb de obec cba abdbeche eb cbebheh hed THE EMPEROR’S FETE DAY All this was going on in the midst of complete soli- tude. The Piazza, always swarming with people, was deserted; a few strangers only were moving about in small, isolated groups under the arcades of the Pro- curatie; the infrequent spectators who were not foreigners betrayed their German origin by their fair hair and their square faces. There was not a sing.e woman’s face at any window, and yet the sight of handsome uniforms worn by good-looking officers is appreciated in every country in the world by the more graceful half of humankind. Venice, suddenly de- populated, looked like one of those Oriental cities in Arab tales, which have been laid waste by an angry enchanter. ‘This uproar in deep silence, this excitement in emptiness, this vast display of force in isolation, had something strange, painful, alarming, supernatural about it. I felt a deep and singular impression in the pres- ence of a people apparently dead, while its oppressors exulted in their joy, of a city which suppressed itself in order not to be present at the triumph... The zon est raised to the state of manifestation, muteness that is a threat, absence that means revolt are the resources of the despair to which despotism drives the slave. As- suredly a universal howl, a general curse hurled against 15 225 che oe beck be be abe oe oe oe fected dele cbc cece school we wT TR AVE IGS “Ne ae the Emperor of Austria could not have been more forcible. As Venice could not protest otherwise, it had surrounded the féte with void. The discharges of artillery continued the whole day, and the regiments manceuvred on the Piazza and the Piazzetta, with myself as their only spectator. Weary of this monotonous diversion, I went for my favourite walk on the Riva degli Schiavoni, on which strolled a few Greeks and Armenians. There my ears were again torn by the guns of the frigate anchored in the port. At every discharge a poor little dog, tied by a rope to the mast of a Zante or Corfu vessel, sprang forward mad with terror and circled as far off as his leash allowed him, protesting as best he could against that stupid noise and yelping as if the sound hurt him. [ was quite of the dog’s opinion, and as I was not tied by a cord, I sailed off to Quintavalle, where I dined under the arbour at a sufficient distance from that hate- ful military uproar. That evening there was no one at the Café Florian. Those who have lived in Venice can alone conceive the deep meaning of the fact. The flower girls, the caramel vendors, the exhibitors of Chinese shadows, and even the ruffians had disappeared. Chairs, benches, 226 che bectecle be dec hhc ech chee oh chk THEVEMPEROR?CS FRETE DAY and galleries were deserted alike; there was not a soul even in the church, as if it were useless to pray toa God who left the people in slavery. I do not know whether, that evening, the little tapers before the Madonnas at the street corners were lighted. The band at the retreat played, im deserto, a magnificent overture, German music too, — an overture by Weber, if I remember it rightly. Not knowing what to do with myself at the close of this lugubrious evening, I entered the Apollo Theatre. The auditorium looked like the interior of a colum- barium; the empty and sombre boxes, like niches from which the coffins had been removed. A few squads of Austrian soldiery were scattered upon the empty benches ; some dozen German functionaries, with their wives and children, tried to look as if they were many, and to simulate the public which had abstained from coming. But apart from the soldiers, the huge place did not hold more than fifty spectators. A wretched com- pany played sadly and discontentedly behind smoking footlights a poor translation of a French play. A cold sadness, a deadly weariness fell from the ceiling like a wet, icy mantle. The dark theatre wore mourning for the liberty of Venice in the very face of the Austrians. 227 all obs obs obs ob aby obs ole obs alle ole be ole oben clle obs oll obs obe obs ole oe obs ele Jee ems OTe Cee CFO OF CFO we ove ave TeRIA VEE ESS); TING eae a The next day the sea-breeze had carried away the smell of the powder, and the doves, reassured, swept down like snowflakes upon the Piazza San Marco, while all Venice was ostentatiously stuffing itself with ices at the Café Florian. 228 tttebeottettetttbtdttbits Wings N LPALY AN BIAGGIO—THE CAPUCHIN CONVENT VERY one, at least once in his life, has been unable to get rid of a musical phrase, a line of poetry, an expression dropped in conver- op) sation, heard by chance, and which pursues him every- where with the invincible obstinacy of a spectre. A monotonous voice murmurs in your ear the ac- cursed theme, a dumb orchestra plays it within your brain, your pillow repeats it, and your dreams whisper it; an invisible power forces you to mutter it stupidly from morning to night, as a devotee repeats his somnolent litany. For a week past a song of Alfred de Musset’s, an imitation, no doubt, of some old popular Venetian poetry, had fluttered about my lips, twittering like a bird, without my being able to drive it away. In spite of myself, I hummed in the most incongruous situations : «© At San Biaggio, on the Zuecca, you were very, very happy, at San Biaggio. At San Biaggio, on the Zuecca, we were happy indeed. 229 << But to remember it, will you take the trouble? But to remember it, and to return to it? << At San Biaggio, on the Zuecca, in the flowery meads yervain to pick; at San Biaggio on the Zuecca, there to live and die.’’ The Zuecca —short for the Giudecca — was be- fore me, separated only by the breadth of the canal, and nothing was easier than to go to that San Biaggio which the song describes as a sort of Cytherea, a languorous El Dorado, the earthly Paradise of love, where it would be sweet to live and die. A few strokes of the oars would have taken me to it; but knowing that one should never land upon fairy shores lest the mirage should vanish into haze, I continued to be unbearable with my refrain, “* At San Biaggio on > the Zuecca,” which was turning into what is called in painters’ studios a bore. So my travelling companion, who for a week had borne with that cantilena as unen- durable as the humming of a mosquito, unable to put up with it any longer, said sharply one morning to our young gondolier as he stepped into the craft, “ To San Biaggio on the Zuecca.” In order to break me of it, he was going to take me into my dream and my refrain, which is an excellent homceopathic remedy. 230 be oh ob of one abe obs obs obs ob obs obo ele obs ob of See ete obo ele obs abe obo ols SAN BIAGGIO—CAPUCHIN CONVENT Never a flowery mead did I come across at San Biaggio, and to my great regret, no vervain could [| pluck. Around the church stretch market gardens in which vegetables take the place of flowers. Dis- appointed though I was, I could not help admiring the very fine grapes and splendid pumpkins. It is probable that when the song was written the point of the island was waste ground, the fresh grass of which was diapered with flowers in the springtime, and lovers walked hand in hand, looking at the moon. An old Venetian guidebook describes the Zuecca as a place full of gardens, orchards, and delightful spots. Poetic enthusiasm is killed when one finds instead of a dainty flower with tender colours and penetrat- ing perfume, blooming on the green sward, big pump- kins turning yellow under broad leaves, and from that moment I ceased to sing, “* At San Biaggio on the Zuecca.” In order to turn my trip to account, I proceeded along the island to the church del Redentore, situated near the Capuchin convent. ‘The church possesses a fine Greek facade, elegant in style and harmonious in proportion, such as Palladio knew how to design. It is a kind of architecture which satisfies people of 231 betkbeebeeeeeeeeedt ddd ter PRVAWREAES. \D INS eee taste by its sobriety, its purity, and its true classicism. At the risk of being charged with being a barbarian, I confess that these facades give me very slight pleas- ure. In the case of Catholic churches, I believe only in the Byzantine, Romanesque, or Gothic styles. Greek art was so appropriate to polytheism that it is very difficult for it to express any other thought ; hence churches built in accordance with its princi- ples lack wholly the religious impress, in the sense which we attach to that word. The luminous se- renity of antiquity, with its perfect rhythm and its logical forms, cannot render the vague, infinite, and mysterious meaning of Christianity; the unchange- able happiness of paganism does not understand the incurable Christian melancholy, and Greek architec- ture produces, as far as temples go, only palaces, exchanges, ball-rooms, and museums, more or less ornamented, in which Jupiter would be very com- fortable, but in which Christ finds it difficult to dwell, But once the style of architecture is accepted, it must be admitted that the church del Redentore shows well on the banks of the canal in which it is reflected, with its great monumental staircase of seventeen 232 aoe eo oe be ae oe ok be cece cece cde ecto oat SAN BIAGGIO—CAPUCHIN CONVENT marble steps, its triangular gable, its Corinthian col- umns, its bronze doors and statues, its two pyramid- ions, and its white dome which is so effective at sunset when you are travelling in a gondola between the Public Gardens and San Giorgio Maggiore. The church was built in fulfilment of the vow of the Senate at the time of the plague of 1576, which caused frightful mortality in the city, and killed, among other illustrious personages, Titian, the patriarch of painting, laden with years and glory. The interior is very simple, and even somewhat bare. Whether the funds gave out or for some other reason, the statues which appear to fill the niches along the nave are mere shams, skilfully done in grisaille by the Cap- uchin Father Piazza. The niches themselves are real, but the statues, painted upon wooden boards cut out to shape, betray the sham by the lack of thickness when looked at in profile; if looked at from the front, the illusion is perfect. As regards the paintings, it is the old story: Tin- toretto, Bassano, Paolo Veronese. There are such numbers of excellent paintings in Venice that one almost gets tired of them, and ends by believing that in those days it was no more difficult to paint a #33 aoe chee fe he chao oe he cect ceed ce ec ree oh tec Sed we oe LURAY eats ©. ING eek splendid Venetian picture than it is to-day to scrib- ble an article currente calamo; yet I advise the tourist to look at a Giovanni Bellini, of the greatest beauty, which adorns the sacristy. The subject is the Blessed Virgin and the Child Jesus between Saint Jerome and Saint Francis. The divine Mother contemplates with profound adoration the Child sleeping in her lap. Little smiling angels playing the guitar, flutter on an ultramarine background. Every one knows with what delicacy, with what refinement of senti- ment, with what purity Giovanni Bellini paints scenes to which his brush is accustomed; but in this one, besides the artless charm of the composition, the Gothic fidelity of drawing, and the somewhat dry carefulness of the modelling, there is a brilliancy of colour, a golden warmth of tone which presages Giorgione ; consequently some connoisseurs attribute this painting to Palma Vecchio. I believe it is by Giovanni Bellini. The unusual brilliancy of the col- ouring is due simply to the more perfect preservation of the painting. Venice is so naturally the place for colour that gray is impossible, even for line painters, and the most severely Gothic enrich their asceticism with Giorgione’s amber. 234 choke as oboe ob abe ob oe abe ce aoade che ce feeb ce abo bale abs shee ate wie ae SAN BIAGGIO—CAPUCHIN CONVENT Two or three Capuchins engaged in prayer would have given to this church, had the light been less bril- liant, the look of one of those paintings by Granet which were so much admired a score of years ago. The good fathers were perfectly posed; all they needed was the dab of brilliant red on the ear. Another was humbly sweeping the choir, and I asked him whether we might visit the monastery. He very politely granted our request, and made us enter by a small side door leading from the church into the cloister. I had long felt a desire to see the interior of an in- habited monastery. In Spain I had been unable to satisfy this religious and picturesque desire. The monks had just been secularised, and the monasteries, as was the case in France after the Revolution, had become national property. I had walked in melan- choly fashion through the Carthusian Convent at Miraflores near Burgos, where I met only a poor old man dressed in a dark costume, something between a peasant’s and a priest’s dress, smoking his cigarette near a brazero, who guided me along the deserted pas- sages and the abandoned cloisters on which opened the empty cells. At Toledo the Monastery of San Juan de los Reyes, a splendid ruined building, held only a5) TRAV ELS! 9EN) ARE a few timid lizards and stray snakes which, at the sound of our steps, disappeared under the nettles and débris. The refectory was almost entire, and above the door a frightful painting exhibited a rotting body. The object was to kill the sensuality of the meals, which were, nevertheless, served with hermit-like aus- terity. “The Carthusian Convent at Granada held only turtles, which dived heavily into the water from the edge of the fish-pond at the approach of visitors; and the magnificent convent of San Domingo, on the slope of Antequerula, listened in deep solitude to the murmur of its fountains and of its laurel woods. The Capuchin convent on the Zuecca was quite unlike these wonderful edifices with their long white marble cloisters, their elegantly carved arcades, marvels of the Middle Ages or of the Renaissance, their courts planted with jessamine, myrtles, and rose laurels, their upspringing fountains, their cells through the windows of which one could see the soft, silvery blue of the Sierra Nevada. It was not one of those magnificent refuges in which austerity is but an additional delight to the soul, and in which a philosopher would be as happy as a Christian. “The cloister was bare of architectural ornaments: low arcades, short pillars, a 236 dedechdbd kdb ch ch ch bobchehbb beh cheb he 58 wie we SAN BIAGGIO—CAPUCHIN CONVENT prison yard rather than a promenade for reverie. An ugly roof of staring red tiles covered the whole build- ing; there was not even the severe and sad bareness, the gray, cold tones, the dimness of light which are favourable to thought; a harsh, brilliant light crudely lighted up the wretched details and brought out their commonplace meanness. In the garden, of which one caught a glimpse, there were rows of cabbages and vegetables of the harshest green, — not a shrub, not a flower, everything was sacrificed to strict usefulness. I next entered the interior of the convent, which is cut by long passages at right angles to each other. At the end of the passages there were chapels made in the wall and coloured with coarse frescoes in honour of the Madonna or some saint of the order. The windows, with their panes set in lead, admitted light, but did not produce those effects of light and shade which painters know so well how to turn to account. It seemed as though everything had been calculated in that building to produce the greatest possible amount of ugliness in the smallest possible space. Here and there were hung engravings pasted on canvas representing in innumerable small medallions all the saints, cardinals, prelates, and illustrious personages of the order, —a 231 DRA VBA OSS LIND ul eye eae whe of obs ole oe ol elle abe abe ole abe obo abs ober obey obs ole obe of ole obs ols ofe of sort of genealogical tree of this impersonal and ever renewed family. Low doors marked at regular inter- vals the long white lines of the walls. On each was inscribed a religious reflection, a prayer, or one of those brief Latin maxims so full of thought. An image of the Virgin or a portrait of a saint, the object of special devotion on the part of the inhabitant of the cell, was added to the inscription. A great tiled roof covered, without touching them, the cells of these monastic bees, like a cover placed upon rows of boxes. A bell sounded, calling either to a repast, to prayer, or some other ascetic exercise. “The doors of the cells opened, and the passages, but now deserted, were filled with a troop of monks, who walked on two by two with bowed heads, their great beards spread over their breasts, their hands crossed within their sleeves, as they moved towards the part of the convent to which the bell was calling them. When they raised their feet, the sandals, as they dropped from their heels, tapped on the floor in a very monastic and lugubrious fashion and gloomily timed their spectral march. Some forty of them passed before us, and I saw nothing but heavy, dull, brutish faces without any character, in spite of 238 oho abe obs obs ob obs obs obs of abe ofp abo ells oho ole obs obs obs ots obo gio vin obs abe Cpe GO CHO CFO CFO OTO OHO O48 Vie Vie SY ae SAN BIAGGIO—CAPUCHIN CONVENT their beards and their shaven polls. How different they were from the monk of San Servolo, consumed by fervour, calcined by faith, worn by macerations, and whose feverish eye shone with the light of the future life, an ecstasy betraying delirium, — Daniel among the lions. Certainly I had entered the convent with respectful, if not pious intentions. If I do not myself possess faith, | admire it in others, and if I cannot be a be- liever, at least I can understand others being so. I was therefore prepared to feel all the austere ardour of the cloister, and I was rather cruelly disappointed. The convent produced on me the effect of a lazaretto, of a lunatic asylum, or a barracks. The repulsive odour of a human menagerie rose to my nostrils and sickened me. It has been said of some holy person- ages that they were filled with the madness of the cross, stultitiam crucis; it seemed to me that these monks had the idiocy of the cross, and in spite of my- self my mind rebelled and I blushed at such a degrada- tion of creatures made in God’s image. I was ashamed that a hundred men should collect in such a hole to be dirty and stink in obedience to certain rules in honour of Him who has created eighty thousand different kinds 239 she ob abe oy abe ae obo be cbr cbr clrcle cheba bral free ceo abe oe ere ere ove we wie wie vie (aRCAW TLS ON +e Ate of flowers. The loathsome incense revolted me, and I felt towards these poor Capuchin fathers involuntary secret horror. When I left the convent two of the fathers who had business in Venice, asked us to take them in our gon- dola across the Giudecca. Through humility they would not accept the place of honour in the /é/ze which we offered them, and they remained standing by the prow. ‘They looked rather well thus. Their gowns of brown stuff fell in two or three heavy folds which Fra Bartolommeo would not have disdained when painting the gown of Saint Francis of Assisi ; their bare, sandalled feet were very handsome, the great toe separated and the other toes long, like those of antique statues. I gave them a few pence to say some Masses on my behalf. The sceptical ideas which had worried me during the whole of my visit justified such Christian submission on my part, and if it was the devil who had suggested them to me, he must have been badly tricked and bitten his tail like an angry monkey. The good priests took the money, slipped it into the fold of their sleeve, and seeing that I was such a good Catholic, they gave me a few copper-plate engravings, which I have carefully preserved: Saint Moses the 240 EOS eh oh ode she che oho he he che che che che obo oh cha che she che ode ohe CFO OFS oFe wTe UFO one vie vie te we SAN BIAGGIO—CAPUCHIN CONVENT prophet, Saint Francis, a few other bearded saints, and a certain Veronica Giuliana, a Capuchin abbess (abba- dessa cappuccina), with her head thrown back and her eyes filled with ecstasy, like those of Saint Teresa of Spain, who pitied the devil because he could not love. We landed the good fathers at the Traghetto di Moise, and soon they disappeared in the narrow lanes. My day had not been very favourable to my illusions. At San Biaggio on the Zuecca, pumpkins had taken the place of vervain, and where [ had expected to find a sombre cloister with livid monks after the fashion of Zurbaran, I had found an ignoble home of Capuchins, with monks like those in Schlesinger’s coloured litho- graphs. The latter disappointment was peculiarly pain- ful to me, for I had long caressed the dream of ending my days under a monk’s cowl in some handsome Italian or Portuguese convent, at Monte Casino or Maftra, — and now I did not feel at all like doing so. 16 241 eke oe ok oe be oe oe ah ete cece abe cb cde oe ec LRAY ELS JN [va che che obs obo abe che abe be oho abe abe abe cde che obo abe she cde che obo be fe obec whe ae oF OFS OOS CARDURA HB SiACN DS Guat Ges I'TH the exception of San Marco, a marvel \) \) which has no parallel save the mosque at Constantinople and that at Cordova, the Venetian churches are not remarkable for their archi- tecture, or at least do not astonish a tourist who has visited the cathedrals of France, Spain, and Belgium. Save a few of the older and more interesting ones, they are all of the time of the Renaissance, and in the rococo style which very quickly followed in Italy the return to classical traditions. The former are in the style of Palladio; the latter in a particular style which I shall call the Jesuit. Nearly all the old churches in the city have unfortunately been restored in one or the other of these styles. Certainly Palladio, as is proved by so many noble buildings, is an architect of great merit, but he had not the least Catholic feeling, and he was better fitted to rebuild the temple of Diana at Ephesus and of Zeus Olympius than to construct a basilica for the Nazarene or any one of the martyrs of the Golden 242 che cbe oe ate abe che chao oe a cece chert cbc cde ae ote ee = = = . Peruse PiowaeN DD) Se VoL E Legend. He sucked like a bee the honey of Hymettus, and flew by the passion-flowers. As for the Jesuit taste, with its gibbous domes, its swelling pillars, its pot-bellied balustrades, its volutes like flourishes, its puffy cherubs, its wretched angels, its napkin-like cartouches, its chicories the size of cab- bages, its unhealthy affectations, and its extravagant or- namentation which looks like excrescences on diseased stone, I confess that it inspires me with insurmount- able repugnance. It is more than unpleasant, — to me it is disgusting. Nothing, in my opinion, is more contrary to the Christian idea than that loathsome heaping up of devout knick-knacks, that ugly, ungra- cious luxury, overdone, heavy, like the luxury of a new-made rich man, which causes the chapel of the Most Blessed Virgin to resemble the boudoir of an Opera chorus-girl. The Church degli Scalzi is in this style, and is a model of extravagant richness. The walls, overlaid with coloured marbles, represent vast hangings of silk damask with white and green borders; the frescoed ceil- ings by Tiepoletto and Lazzarini, bright, light, clear in tone, with rose and azure as the keynote of the colour- ing, would be admirably suited to a ball-room or a 243 oe eo fe be oe ce oh de che tech cde cde cde eae ab oboe oho TRAV BILS? TN SAS theatre. The place must have looked lovely when it was filled with powdered abbés and fine ladies in the days of Cazenova and Cardinal de Bernis, while a musical Mass by Porpora was being performed by the violins and the chorus of the Fenice. Indeed, it would be the most natural thing in the world in such a place to worship the Eternal to a gavotte tune. How greatly I prefer the low Romanesque arches, the squat porphyry pillars, the antique capitals, the barbaric images standing out against a golden background in Byzantine mosaics, or the slender vaulting, the light columns, and the trefoil tracery of Gothic cathedrals. These architectural defects, — to which one has to be resigned in Italy, for all the churches are built more or less in that taste, are compensated for by the number and beauty of the objects of art contained in the buildings. Even if one does not admire the cas- ket, the jewels it holds compel admiration. Every- where one comes upon Titian, Paolo Veronese, Tintoretto, Palma Vecchia, and Palma the younger, Giovanni Bellini, Padovanino, Bonifazzio, and other great masters. Every chapel has its own museum, of which a king would be proud. This very Church degli Scalzi, once you put up with the bad taste of it, 24.4 che che ae obo ohe ohe ofa abe abe e cece oe ca bao ce ba oe bese O70 OTe UFO OF CFE CTD ain SIO Prete Lh ho eAIN DIS COOL E contains some remarkable details. Its broad staircase of Verona brocatella, its handsome twisted pillars of red French marble, its giant prophets, its touchstone balus- trades, its mosaic gates have a certain style about them and do not lack for grandeur. It contains a very fine painting by Giovanni Bellini, a “ Virgin and Child,” a magnificent bronze bas-relief by Sansovino repre- senting scenes from the life of Saint Sebastian, and a group less severely artistic, but charming, by Toretti, Canova’s master, —a Holy Family, Saint Joseph, the Virgin, and the Child Jesus. The Virgin has a deli- cate, plump face, the head is coquettishly posed, and her hands and feet are aristocratically small. She looks like a duchess of the court of Louis XV, and might very well represent Madame de Pompadour. Angels like ballet dancers accompany this pretty, worldly group. Assuredly it is not religious, but this man- nered and clever grace has a charm of its own, and the decadent sculptor is still a great artist. The Church of San Sebastiano, built by San Serlio, is in some sort the Pinacothek and the Pantheon of Paolo Veronese. He worked in it for years, and rests there forever in the blaze of his masterpieces. His tombstone is surmounted by his bust, and bears his 24.5 whee abe ote che heck he abe ch bec echoed teclec chabeh TRAVELS 21 N Olel Ape coat of arms, three trefoils on a field which I could not make out. We may admire this “Saint Sebas- tian” by Titian, with its fine old-man’s head, its superb and magisterial port, and the pretty, artless movement of the child who holds the holy bishop’s mitre. But I shall hasten on to the lord of the place, Paolo Caliari. The “Three Marys at the Foot of the Cross” are noticeable by the splendid composition and the richness of breadth characteristic of this painter, whom no one equalled in the art of filling spaces in great paintings. Brocade and damask are broken into rich folds, swell in splendid patterns, and the Christ from his cross of sorrows cannot help a faint half- smile, for the joy of being so admirably painted soothes his sufferings. “The Magdalen is adorably beautiful; her great eyes are filled with light and tears, a tear trembles on her purple lips like a raindrop on a rose. The landscape background is unfortunately painted somewhat too much like a stage-setting, and its ill-con- nected distances are plainly weak to the eye. “The Presentation of Christ in the Temple” is also a very remarkable painting, in spite of the exaggeration of the figures placed in the foreground; but the head of Saint Simeon is full of divine feeling, and is marvel- 246 lously painted, while the Child Jesus is foreshortened in the most amazing manner. In a corner of the painting a dog, with its nose turned up sadly, seems to bay at the moon. Nothing explains the presence of this isolated animal, but Paolo Veronese’s fondness for dogs, especially for greyhounds, is well known. He has put dogs in all his paintings, and the church of San Sebastiano happens to possess the one and only picture in which he did not put any, so that it is pointed out as a unique curiosity in the master’s work. I was unable to verify for myself the accuracy of the statement, but as I think it over, it does seem to me that a painting by Paolo Veronese always recurs to one’s mind accompanied by a white greyhound, just as a painting by Garofalo is always adorned and signed with his invariable carnation. The purest gem of those picturesque diamonds is the “ Martyrdom of Saint Mark and Marcellus, en- couraged by Saint Sebastian.” Art can scarce go farther, and this picture must be reckoned among the seven wonders of human genius. What marvellous colour and drawing in the group formed of a woman and a child, which the glance first falls upon as one looks at the picture! What ineffable emotion, what —_——. 247 SF ce ee TRAW ELS 2EN PA celestial resignation overspread the faces of the two saints already radiant with the coming glory, and how charming is the woman’s head seen in three- quarters above the shoulder of Saint Sebastian, — young, fair, filled with emotion, her glance sad and solicitous. [he head, which is all that is visible of the figure, is so accurate in movement, so perfect in drawing, that the rest of the body can easily be guessed behind the group which conceals it; you can follow the lines down to the extremities, so exact is the anatomy. It is said that the Saint Sebastian is a portrait of Paolo Veronese him- self, and the young girl that of his wife. They were both then in the flower of their age, and she had not yet bloomed out into the full, heavy, matronly beauty which is characteristic of her in the portraits we have of her—among others that in the Pitti Palace in Florence. The stuffs, the jewels, the accessories, all are finished with the extreme care and conscientious elaboration of early works, when an artist labours only to satisfy his genius and his art. It is almost immediately below this painting that the artist is buried. Never did a more bDril- liant lamp gleam over the shadow of the tomb, and 248 oo bea ke abe ake oe oe che a cade ele abe cl cece ce esha ore ore oe OFS OFe OTO ae OHO Ute aie Sie Creek Ctl BipeeaeN 1): SiC O LE the masterpiece shines above the dead like a dazzling apotheosis. . The “Coronation of the Virgin”? is shown in the midst of a blaze, a display, a sparkling of light which never existed save on Paolo Veronese’s palette. In an atmosphere of molten gold and silver which passes through the hair of the Christ, floats in mid-air a Mary of such celestially human beauty that your heart beats as you bow your head. The ‘Coronation of Esther by Ahasuerus”’ is of incomparable grandeur and richness of tone. Here Paolo Veronese gave full scope to his splendid manner; pearls, satins, velvets, and brocades gleam, shimmer, _ sparkle, and are broken by luminous folds. The warrior in the foreground, careless of the anachronism of his armour, has a proud and manly port; the inevitable great dog is well placed, evidently thorough-bred, and feels that it is an honour to be painted by Paolo Veronese. In the upper portion of the church, in a part almost invisible from below, there are great monochromes by the master painted with exceeding lightness and a very fine effect. Damp, time, and the lack of atten- tion have begun to destroy them; an Austrian shell 249 TRAV EDs) UN@ Tage which burst through the ceiling has scarred them with a broad cicatrice. The sacristy also contains paintings by Veronese, but they belong to his early youth, when his yet timid genius was feeling its way. There are several explanations of the prodigious number of paintings by him in this church: first, that he was specially devoted to Saint Sebastian; next, and more romantic, that having murdered a rival, he was compelled to seek refuge in this place, which he em- bellished out of gratitude during his long leisure hours ; according to others again, the painter concealed himself for two years in San Sebastiano in order to escape the vengeance of a Senator, a caricature of whom he had exhibited on the Piazza San Marco. I repeat these stories for what they are worth, without taking the trouble to criticise them. Santa Maria Gloriosa dei Frari is not in the hideous classical or Jesuit taste of which I was speaking a moment ago. Its ogees, its lancets, its Romanesque tower, its great walls of red brick give it a much more religious aspect. Above the doorway is a statue of the Saviour. “The church, built by Nicolas Pisano, is of the year 1250. It is here that Canova is buried. The 250 —————————— EE eee eee eee bbpbebttttbtttetbbttttddcdel Cre RG Et SgeaN.DY SGU OLE monument which the artist had designed for Titian, modified in some respects, was used for him. I do not much admire it; it is pretentious, theatrical, and cold. At the foot of a green marble pyramid placed against the wall of a chapel gapes the black door of a vault, towards which winds a procession of statues placed on the steps of the monument; at the head walks a funeral figure, bearing a sepulchral urn; behind, genii and allegorical figures carrying torches and garlands of flowers. ‘Io counterbalance this portion of the com- position, a great nude figure, which I believe is symboli- cal of the brevity of life, leans upon a torch which it is putting out, and the winged lion of Saint Mark sadly leans its head upon its paws in a_ pose analogous to that of Thorwaldsen’s famous lion. Above the door two genii hold a medallion portrait of Canova. The monument is all the poorer and the meaner in idea and execution that the Santa Maria dei Frari is full of the most effective ancient monuments in the finest style. The equestrian statue of General Colleoni, which looks uncommonly well upon a bronze horse, first strikes the eye as one comes up the canal to the small Square at the back of which rises the Church di San 251 Pewee WO MTUNTTC TT CS wre FO WHO WTO VFO Oe we UFO TRAVELS JN? aoe Giovannie San Paolo. Although built in the thirteenth or fourteenth century, the church was not consecrated before 1430. [he pediment of the fagade is pretty, the circular arcade which surmounts it is wondrously carved with flowers and fruits. People go there chiefly to see “ The Martyrdom of Saint Peter” by ‘Titian, a paint- ing so precious that it has been forbidden to sell it under penalty of death. I like this artistic ferocity ; it is the only case in which it seems to me that capital punishment should be inflicted. Yet, other paintings by ‘Titian seem to me as worthy as this one, in spite of its beauty, of such jealousy on the part of Venice, and I had formed an idea of it different and greater than the reality turned out to be. The scene is in a wood. Saint Peter has fallen ; the executioner has caught him by the arm and is raising his sword ; a priest flees in terror, and in the sky appear two angels ready to receive the martyr’s soul. The executioner is admira- bly drawn; he threatens and insults in rare fashion; a brutal, furious expression marks his face; his eyes shine under a low brow like that of a tiger; his nos- trils are dilated and scent blood. But perhaps there is too much terror and not enough resignation in the face of the Saint. He sees the sword only, the cold 252 S$tbeeteetetceetetttttttttes ry wie wie ee CRU CIES 770N DD! S@wOiL E steel of which will presently be thrust between his ribs, and he forgets that in the azure above soar celes- tial messengers with palms and crowns. He looks too much like an ordinary man condemned to death, whose throat is about to be cut and who is sorry for it. As for the monk, he is thoroughly frightened and filled with terror, but he does not run off properly. His body, much foreshortened, is ungainly; his legs are thrown back as he runs, his arms go one way and his head another. If the composition may be criticised, one has, on the other hand, to kneel in admiration be- fore the magnificent landscape, so grand, so severe, so full of style, before the simple, manly, robust colouring, the broad and grand execution, the impassible masterli- ness of touch, the proud maestria which reveals the god of painting. ‘Titian, as I have said, is the single artist whom the modern world can oppose to anti- quity for calm strength, tranquil splendour, and eternal serenity. I might mention the funeral monuments which cover the walls: the altar of San Domenichino, on which the history of the saint is modelled ina series of bronze basst-reevi by Mazza of Bologna; ‘Tintoretto’s “Christ on the Cross;” the magnificent carvings 253 bebbbttettetetdhtbtddtt dts T RAW BLS sD Naa in the chapel of Santa Maria degli Rosi; the “© Coronation of the Virgin,’ by Palma Vecchio ; — but in achurch where there is a Titian, you see nothing but Titian; he is the sun that extinguishes all the stars. San Francesco della Vigna, with its red and white belfry, also deserves to be visited. There is near the church a curious cloister, enclosed with gratings of dark wood, which surrounds a sort of green filled with wild mallow, nettles, hemlock, asphodel, burdocks, and other plants found in ruins and cemeteries, among which rises a grotto of rock-work and shells, within which is placed an effigy of Saint Francis, in wood or coloured plaster, a sort of devotional toy or Jesuit’s fancy. Under the damp and mouldy arches of the cloister, among the tombs worn by time and inscriptions which are illegible, I noticed on a stone slab a gondola carved in very low relief but still quite plain. It is placed over a gondoliers’ vault like the tomb of the Zorzi of Cattaro in the church of San Sebastiano. Each traghetto thus had its own separate burial-place. At San Francesco della Vigna I saw a painting by Fra Antonio da Negroponte, remarkable for its beauty and its preservation. It is the only one by that 254 bebbbbeteetetettttttttts CELUWIRC HVE SIAN D' SCUOQLE painter which I have ever come across. I had never before heard his name, and yet it deserves to be known. The Virgin enthroned is dressed in a gown of gold brocade and a mantle figured with flowers painted in the most delicate manner. Ai little girl holds up the corner of the mantle with an air of in- genuous devotion, while the Virgin looks lovingly at the Child Jesus lying in her lap. The Virgin’s head, with its exquisite delicacy, would do honour to Giovanni Bellini, Carpaccio, Perugino, Diirer, and the purest and most suave of the older masters. She is fair, and her golden hair, painted with great care, melts into the splendour of a trefoiled nimbus en~ crusted with precious stones after the Byzantine fash- ion. Above, from within the ultramarine of an artless paradise, the Eternal Father gazes upon the sacred group in a satisfied and majestic pose. “I’wo handsome angels hold garlands of flowers, and behind the throne, covered with gold-work and enamels like that of an empress of the Lower Empire, bloom masses of roses and lilies which recall the sweet names given to the Virgin in the litany. The work is painted with slow minuteness and in- finite patience, which seem to have paid no heed to 255 BLAELEALEALLASAEALL LALA TERS TRAVELS -lNe See time and which betray the ample leisure of the clois- ter; for Negroponte was a monk, as shown by the inscription upon the painting: “ Pater Antonio Ne- groponte pinxit.”” But his extreme minuteness in no wise diminishes the grandeur of the impression or the imposing effect, while the richness of the colouring rivals the brilliancy of the gold and the ornaments in relief. It is at one and the same time an image and a jewel, as, in my opinion, paintings intended for the worship of the faithful should be. In that case art is improved by the hieratic and mysterious luxury of the idol. The Madonna of Fra Antonio da Ne- groponte at San Francesco della Vigna thoroughly fulfils these conditions, and stands perfectly being placed near “The Risen Christ” by Paolo Veronese, “The Martyrdom of Saint Laurent” by Santacroce, and the “ Madonna” by Giovanni Bellini, which is one of his best works, though unfortunately it is placed in an obscure chapel. One should not neglect to visit San Pantaleone, if only to see the huge ceiling painted by Fumiani, representing different episodes in the life of the saint, his martyrdom and his glorification. Since the days of monastic stiffness and mnissal-like artlessness of 256 LLLLAALLALALAAPESLLALALA LALLA ASA CROC H Baa PAN ID) S60 OLE Fra Antonio da Negroponte many years have passed and art has progressed. Whence is it, then, that this ceiling, which, so far as bold facility goes, equals Lemoine’s ceiling in the Hall of Hercules and Luca Giordano’s frescoes at the Escorial, leaves you cold in spite of the skilful foreshortening, of the elusive painting, and all the resources and tricks of execu- tion? It is because in this case the means are the end, the hand works more quickly than the brain, and there is no soul in that vast composition suspended above your head like an actress at the Opera by plainly visible cords. The driest, most constrained, most unskilful Gothic possesses a charm which is lacking in all these great, mannered painters, so clever, so quick, so skilful, so expeditious in their mode of work, In the Church of Santa Maria della Salute there is a superb ceiling by Titian, “ The Murder of Abel by Cain,’ which is painted with masterly vigour and dash. It is at once calm and violent, like all the thoroughly successful works of this unrivalled painter. The church was built by Baldassare Longhena. ‘The white cupolas have a very graceful curve. One hun- dred and thirty statues with flying draperies and ele- 17 257 chee he he ae ae be oh che che cece echo echo che lnc ae obec TRAVELS INDI hee gantly mannered poses surround the cornice. When I lived in the Hotel de Europe a very pretty Eve, in the costume of her day, smiled at me every morn- ing from that cornice in a rosy ray of sunshine which flushed her marble with modest blushes. Religion is not prudish in Italy, and it willingly puts up with nudity when it is sanctified by art. | I might continue indefinitely this pilgrimage from church to church, for they all contain treasures which deserve to be described; but I have no intention of writing a guide-book, so we shall go straight to the Scuole di San Rocco, an elegant building composed of two orders of superimposed Corinthian columns which at one-third of their height are coupled by an exceedingly pretty fillet. San Rocco, as every one knows, enjoys the priv- ilege of curing the plague, so he is greatly venerated in Venice, which is particularly exposed to the pest through its relations with Constantinople and the Levant. The statue of the saint shows upon the bare thigh a horrible, inflamed boil, for the saints are homceopaths and cure only the diseases which they suffer from. The plague is treated by a plague- stricken saint, ophthalmia by a martyr whose eyes have 258 choke eae oe he hace oh ch adeeb decease eo ete oe ee OPC TU PermneN 1) t S eo OLE been put out, and so on; it is really a case of similia similibus. Leaving the medical question aside, no doubt it was thought that these blessed personages would sympathise more deeply with evils from which they had suffered themselves. In the Scuole di San Rocco there is a low hall painted throughout by ‘Tintoretto, that tremendous worker, and on ascending a magnificent and monu- mental staircase by Scarpagnino, there are on the right and on the left, as if to justify the name and patronage of the plague-stricken saint, different scenes in the great Venetian epidemic which might illustrate the cholera in Paris. These cadaverous paintings are, those on the right by Antonio Zanchi, those on the left by Pietro Negri. It is also in the Scuole di San Rocco that is to be seen the masterpiece of Tintoretto, that fertile and uneven artist who passed from the sublime to the wretched with prodigious facility. The immense painting represents in full development the bloody drama of Calvary. It occupies the whole of the end of a large hall. ‘The sky, painted, no doubt, with that blue Egyptian ash which has played such unpleasant tricks on the artists of that day, has most unpleasant 259 ALEK? EE SESSA ete eettse TR AW REISS fl No Aa false tones, which certainly could not have existed before that deceitful colour had darkened. It has also curiously darkened the background of the “ Pilgrims at Emmaus ” by Paolo Veronese. The defect is quickly forgotten, however, so quickly do the groups in the foreground attract the attention of the spectator after he has looked at the picture fora moment. The Holy Women around the cross form the most profoundly despairing group that human grief can dream of}; one of them, wrapped in her mantle, is prostrate, and sobs in the most pathetic and desolate fashion. A negro, who is endeavouring to raise the cross to which is fixed one of the thieves, is standing on tiptoe with an awkward, unnatural motion, but his figure is painted, like all the others, so vehemently and so furiously that you cannot help admiring it. Never did Rubens, Rembrandt, Géricault, or Delacroix in their most feverish and turbulent sketches, attain such dash, such rage, such ferocity. On this occasion Tintoretto fully deserved his surname Robusto. It is impossible to carry vigour farther. It is violent, exaggerated, melo- dramatic, but possessed of a supreme quality, strength. This painting, which shines with the splendour of sovereign art, makes one forgive the artist many acres 260 dob bbb bb bbb bb ere RO ripen Ne DS CW OL EF of the smoky, black canvases which one meets with in every palace, church, and gallery, and which are the work of a dyer rather than of a painter. “The “ Cruci- > fixion ”’ is dated 1565. Before leaving, a very beautiful ‘‘ Christ’ by Titian must be looked at, for its deep expression of grief, and also some lovely altar doors carved in 1765 by Phili- berti with exquisite delicacy and amazing perfection of work. ‘These carvings, which are precious in spite of their modern date, represent different events in the life of San Rocco. “The wood-work in the upper hall is also very remarkable, but if we are to admire every- thing, we shall never get through. 261 NE day I was wandering at haphazard through () the unfrequented parts of Venice, for I like to learn something else about cities than that side of them which is drawn, described, and told by everybody, and I am always curious, having paid my legitimate tribute of admiration, to raise the mask of monuments which every city wears on its face by way of concealing its ugliness and its wretchedness. From lane to lane, by dint of crossing bridges and losing my way, I got beyond the Cannaregio into a Venice which is quite unlike the pretty Venice of water-colour paintings. Half-ruinous houses with ° windows boarded up, deserted squares, empty places on which clothes were drying upon cords and ragged children were playing, barren shores on which ship- wrights were calking boats amid thick clouds of smoke ; abandoned churches smashed by Austrian shells, some of which had burst even at this extreme distance; 262 THE GHETTO—MURANO—VICENZA canals with green, stagnant water in which floated old mattresses and vegetable detritus, formed an ensemble of wretchedness, solitude, and neglect which made a painful impression upon me. Artificial towns con- quered from the sea, like Venice, need riches and splendour; they require all the luxury of art and the magnificence of architecture to make up for the loss of nature. Ifa palace by Scammozzi, with its marble balconies, its pillars, and staircases, looks well on the banks of the Grand Canal, nothing, on the other hand, is more saddening than a wretched house falling to pieces between sky and water, and on the founda- tions of which crawl water-beetles and crabs. I had been walking for some time through a labyrinth of lanes which often brought me back to my starting-point. I noticed with surprise the ab- sence of all religious emblems at the corners of the streets. There were no chapels, no Madonnas adorned with ex-votos, no carved crosses on the squares, no effigies of saints, not one of the outward signs of devotion which are so frequent in the other quarters of the city. Everything looked strange, foreign, and mys- terious. Curious forms glided furtively and slowly along the walls with an air of terror. Nor were the 263 LekebLELLAALLAELALLALALAL ALS TRAWE WS (TN? PAsker . faces of the Venetian type. Hooked noses, black eyes, sallow complexions, thin cheeks, pointed chins, all told of a different race. The wretched, shiny, dirty rags which these people wore were particularly sordid, and denoted cupidity rather than poverty, an avaricious wretchedness voluntary rather than involuntary, and calculated to inspire contempt rather than pity. The lanes grew narrower and narrower; the houses rose like babels of superimposed hovels, as if in search of air that could be breathed and light to be reached above the shadow and the filth, in which crawled deformed beings. Several of these houses were nine stories high, —nine stories of rags, filth, and vile in- dustries. All the forgotten diseases of the lazar-houses of the East seemed to cling to these deathly walls; the damp marked them with plague spots as if they were gangrened, the saltpetre efflorescence looked like the rugosities, warts, and boils of plague patients ; the plaster broke away, like a diseased skin, in scaly pellicles. | There was not a_ single perpendicular line; everything was out of plumb. The windows, blear-eyed, blind, or squinting, had not one whole pane; pieces of paper bound up as best they could the wounds of the glass. Poles like withered arms 264 deco cles ch hob he abcch bbb obcb bh heh ere em whe ore we one wre woe we THE GHETTO—MURANO--VICENZA shook indescribable rags above the passer-by ; mattresses hideously soiled were endeavouring to dry in the sun on the edge of open, black windows. Here and there the remains of a cement formed of broken bricks and plaster gave to some of the facades less decrepit than the others an unwholesome redness like that which marks the cheek-bones of a consumptive patient or of low prostitute who has rouged her face. These houses were not among the least ugly and the least repulsive; they seemed to be health in death, vice in misery. Which is the more horrible, a perfectly livid body or one with its yellow face rubbed with vermilion ? | Ruinous bridges, their arches bending like old men bowed down by the weight of years, and ready to fall into the water, connected these masses of shapeless hovels, separated by stagnant, muddy canals, black as ink, green as sanies, filled with filth and detritus of all kinds which the tide was powerless to carry off, for it could not stir the heavy, thick, stagnant water, which resembled a Stygian swamp or a river of hell. At last I came upon a broad square, fairly paved, in the centre of which showed the open mouth of a cis- tern. At one of the corners rose an edifice of a more 265 HAELAALLALLLEALALLALL ALL ALS DRAW GAS) NA human aspect, over the door of which was an inscrip- tion carved in Oriental letters, which I recognised as being Jewish characters. The riddle was solved. This fetid, purulent quarter was simply the Ghetto, the Jewry of Venice, which has preserved the sordid- ness characteristic of the Middle Ages. Probably, if one were to enter these rotten, cracked houses rayed with loathsome mould, one might find in them, as in the Jewries of old, Rebeccas and Rachels of radiant Oriental beauty, stiff with gold and gems like Hindoo idols, seated on the most costly Smyrna carpets amid vases of gold and wondrous riches heaped together by paternal avarice; for the poverty of the Jew is merely external. If Christians indulge in sham luxury, Israelites indulge in sham poverty. Like cer- tain insects, they roll themselves in the dirt and turn mud-colour in order to escape their persecutors. This habit, acquired in the Middle Ages, has never yet been lost by them, although nothing justifies it at present, but they keep it up with the unbending obstinacy of their race. The building with the Hebraic inscription was a synagogue. I entered it. A fine staircase led me up into a large, oblong room wainscoted with well carved 266 the ea oe oe oe oe oe ee ected che cde oo of chee oe oo ore ae ote THE GHETTO—MURANO—VICENZA woodwork and hung with splendid red damask of the Indies. The Talmud, just like the Koran, forbids its sectaries to reproduce the human form, and considers art an idolatrous practice; consequently the synagogue is as bare as a mosque or a Protestant temple, and can- not equal the splendour of Catholic cathedrals, however wealthy the faithful may be. Jewish worship, which is wholly an abstraction, is poor to the eye; —a pulpit for the rabbi who explains the Scriptures, a gallery for the singers who chant the psalms, a tabernacle in which are enclosed the Tables of the Law, and that is all. I noticed in the Synagogue a great number of brass chandeliers adorned with balls and the arms twisted in the Dutch taste, such as are often seen in paintings by Gerard Dow and Mieris, especially in the painting of “The Paralytic,” which engraving has made so popular. Probably these chandeliers came from Am- sterdam, the northern Venice, which also contains many Jews. ‘The superabundance of illumination is not surprising, for seven-branched candlesticks, lamps, and torches recur constantly in the Bible. The Jewish cemetery is at the Lido. The sand covers it, vegetation grows over it, and children do 207 TRAVELS IN ITALY not scruple to trample and dance on the overturned or broken tombstones. When they are reproached with their irreverence, they artlessly reply, “They are only Jews.” In their eyes a Jew and a dog are one and the same thing. ‘The field is not a cemetery, it is a common sewer. In Spain, at Puerto de Santa Maria, I met with something of the same sort. A negro, an attendant in the bull ring, had just been killed by a bull. He had been carried away, and I was much moved. ‘Don’t worry,” said a neighbour to me, “it is only a negro.” Yet, Jew or negro, they are men. But how long will it be before we can teach that fact to the children of barbarians? The Christians sleep more peacefully on the small island of San Michele on the way to Murano. They are laid under the salt sand, which must be sweet to the bones of a Venetian, and the gondolas salute their crosses as they pass. Murano has fallen from its antique splendour. It is no longer, as formerly, the wizard of imitation pearls, mirrors, and glassware. Chemistry has revealed its secrets ; it no longer possesses the monopoly of beau- tiful bevelled mirrors, of tall glasses, of delicate flasks with milky spirals, of crystal balls that look like 268 THE GHETTO—MURANO—VICENZA tears of the sea, of glass beads which clink on the loin- cloths of Africans. Bohemia does just as good work, Choisy-le-Roi does better; art at Murano has remained stationary amid universal progress. I visited one of the glass-works where were being manufactured small coloured beads. Murano contains another curiosity, which I was shown with some pride,—a horse, an animal more rare in Venice than the unicorn, the griffin, the chimera, or the flying ram of nightmares. In vain would Richard call, “A horse! a horse! my kingdom for ]?? a horse I rather enjoyed meeting that worthy quadruped, the existence of which I was beginning to forget. Meeting with it made me somewhat homesick for the mainland, and J returned to Venice very thoughtful. It struck me that it was a long while since I had seen plains or mountains, cultivated fields, roads bordered by trees, streets traversed by carriages ; it seemed to me that nothing was pleasanter than the cracking of whips and the jingling of the bells of post-horses. 269 oh feo tech he decks ede che decbe tech cbecdecdecbcbeah ob check DBA ELS: TN Te ee téete¢¢e¢e¢ettetettttttttthe 1 Eel oid be Jad bape HE season was growing late, my stay in | Venice had been prolonged beyond the limit which I had settled on in the general plan of my trip. I delayed my departure from week to week, from day to day, and always had some good rea- son for remaining. In vain did light vapours begin to rise in the morning over the lagoon, or sudden showers compel me to take refuge in a church; in vain when I wandered in the moonlight on the Grand Canal did the chill night-air force me sometimes to close the win- dow of the gondola, —I insisted on setting at naught the warnings of autumn. I was always remembering a palazzo, a church, or a picture which I had not seen. I must visit, before leaving Venice, the white church of Santa Maria Formosa, made illustrious by the famous Santa Barbara, so splendidly posed, so heroically beau- tiful, which Palma Vecchio painted; and the palazzo of Bianca Capello, with its remembrances of a love- legend thoroughly Venetian and full of romantic 270 S$eeeeeeettetetetttere PADUA ie i > charm; the strange and splendid church of San Zac- caria, in which there are a marvellous altar-piece bril- liant with gold by Antonio Vivarini, given by Helena Foscari and Marina Donato, and the tomb of the great sculptor Alessandro Vittoria, — «<< Oui vivens vivos duxit de marmore vultus, — ”’ > a splendidly conceited epitaph, justified for once by a world of statues. Sometimes it was something else, — an island I had forgotten, Mazorbo or Torcello, which has a curious Byzantine basilica and Roman antiquities, or a pic- turesque facade on an unfrequented canal which I[ must sketch, —a thousand reasons of this kind, every one excellent, but which were not the real ones, al- though I did my best to believe they were. I yielded, in spite of myself, to the melancholy which seizes upon the most determined traveller when he is to leave, perhaps forever, a country he has long desired to see, a place where he has spent beautiful days and lovelier nights. There are certain cities which one leaves as if they were a beloved friend, with swelling breast and tearful eyes; chosen countries where one is more easily happy than elsewhere, to which one dreams of returning to 271 TRAV) Ege SC Nal Asie die, and which shine in the sadness and the troubles of life like an oasis, an E] Dorado; divine cities where the weary are at rest and to which remembrances fly back- obstinately. Granada was for me one of these celes- tial Jerusalems which glow under a golden sun in the blue mirage of distance. I had thought of it since childhood, I left it with tears, and I very often regret it. Venice shall be for me another Granada, perhaps even more regretted. Has it ever happened to you to have but a few days to spend with some beloved person? You look at her long, fixedly, sorrowfully, to grave her features deeply in your mind; you look at her in every way, study her in every light, notice every particular sign, —the little mole near the mouth, the dimple on the cheek or the hand; you note the inflections and the harmony of her voice; you try to preserve as much as you can of the adored face, which absence will take from you and which you will never again see but in your heart. You cannot be apart, you must be together up to the last moment; even sleep seems to be stolen from these precious hours, and the talk is endless as you sit hand in hand unaware that the light of the lamp is paling and the gray dawn filtering through the curtains. 272 ene ete oF wTe eTe oTe This was just my feeling with regard to Venice. As the moment of departure approached, it became dearer to me, its full value revealed itself as I was about to lose it. I reproached myself with not having turned my stay to better account; I bitterly regretted a few hours of laziness, a few cowardly concessions to the enervating influence of the sirocco. It seemed to me that I might have seen more, taken more notes, made more sketches, trusted less to my memory; and yet, Heaven knows that I conscientiously fulfilled my duty as a tourist. J was to be met with everywhere, in churches, in galleries, at the Academy of the Fine Arts, on the Piazza San Marco, in the Palace of the Doges, in the Library. My weary gondoliers begged for rest. I scarcely took time to swallow an ice at the Café Florian or a soup of mussels and a pasticcio of polenta at the Gasthoff San Gallo or at the tavern of the Black Hat. In six weeks I had worn out three pairs of eyeglasses, a pair of opera-glasses, and lost a telescope. Never did any one indulge in such an orgy of sightseeing; I looked at things fourteen hours a day without a stop. If I had dared, I would have continued my visiting by torchlight. During the last few days it became a regular fever with me. I made a general round, a review, on the 18 y ly fi ttetbebebeetrttedbbttttttes TGR AV@EIES py luNg Tear dead run, with the quick, sharp glance of a man who knows the thing he looks at and goes straight to what he wants. Like painters who ink the drawings which they do not wish rubbed out, I strengthened by a new remembrance the thousand sketches in my memory. I saw again the beautiful Ducal Palace, built purposely for a stage scene in a drama or an opera, with its great rose-coloured walls, its white lacework, its two stories of pillars, its Arab trefoils; wonderful San Marco, the Saint Sophia of the West, the colossal reliquary of Venetian civilisation, a gilded cavern, diapered with mosaics, a vast heaping up of jasper, porphyry, alabas- ter, and fragments of antiquity, a pirate cathedral en. riched with the spoils of the universe; the Campanile, which bears so high within the heavens the golden angel, protector of Venice, and guards at its feet Sanso- vino’s Loggetta carved like a gem; the Clock Tower, gold and blue, on which, on a great dial, meander the black and white hours; the Library, Athenian in its elegance, crowned with graceful mythological statues, sweet remembrance of neighbouring Greece; and the Grand Canal, bordered by a double row of Gothic, Moorish, Renaissance, and rococo palaces, whose ever varying facades amaze one by the inexhaustible fancy 274 bebebettebtttttedttecetes PADUA and the perpetual invention of the details, which it would take more than a man’s whole life to study; a splendid gallery in which is exhibited the genius of Sansovino, Scamozzi, Pietro Lombardi, Palladio, Lon- ghena, Bergamasco, Rossi, Tremignana, and other wondrous architects, to say nothing of the unknown and humble workmen of the Middle Ages, who are not the least admirable. JI went in my gondola from the Dogana Point to Quintavalle Point in order to fix for- ever in my memory that fairy sight which painting is as powerless to render as are words, and I devoured with desperate attention the mirage of the Fata Mor- gana about to vanish forever so far as I was concerned. Now, as I am about to bring to a close this account, already too long, perchance, it seems to me that I have told nothing and that I have but feebly expressed my enthusiasm and given but a poor copy of my splendid models. Every monument, every church, every gallery calls for a volume, and I can scarcely afford a page. Yet I have spoken only of what is visible; I have avoided removing the dust from the old chronicles, reviving forgotten remembrances, peopling with their former inhabitants the deserted palaces; — for that would have been a life work. 275 theese tbebetetteeteeeeee UR AV BASS? SEN Sb eo And now, at any cost, 1 must go. Padua, the city of Ezzelino and of Angelo, calls me. Farewell, dear Campo San Moisé, where I have spent such lovely hours; farewell to the sunsets of the Salute, the moon- light effects on the Grand Canal, the beautiful, golden- haired girls of the Public Gardens, the pleasant dinners under the vines of Quintavalle! Farewell to the glorious art and the magnificent painting, to the splen- did palaces of the Middle Ages, to Palladio’s Greek facades! Farewell to the doves of San Marco and the gulls of the lagoon, to the sea baths on the Lido shore, to the trips in gondolas. Farewell forever, and if for- ever, still forever fare ye well! The railway has carried us off, and already the Venus of the Adriatic has plunged her rose and white body within the azure sea. Padua is an ancient city which looks well against the horizon, with its belfries,; domes, and old walls on which swarms a multitude of lizards. Placed too near a centre which draws all life to itself, Padua is a dead city, and looks almost deserted. Its streets, bordered by two rows of low arcades, are sad, and nothing recalls the elegant and graceful Venetian architecture. The heavy, massive buildings have a somewhat sour 276 seriousness, and the sombre porches at the foot of the houses look like black mouths yawning with weariness. I was taken to a huge inn, probably a palace in olden days, the great remains of which, dishonoured by vulgar use, must of yore have seen better company. It was a journey from the hall to my room through numberless stairs and passages; a map or Ariadne’s thread was needed to find the way. My windows opened upon a fair prospect. The Brachiglione flowed at the foot of the wall, its banks lined with old houses and long walls, above which rose trees. Lines of stakes from which fishermen cast their lines with the patience characteristic of the breed in every country, huts with nets, and clothes drying at the windows, formed a pretty subject for a water-colour drawing. After dinner I went to the Café Pedrocchi, famous throughout Italy for its magnificence. It is classical, monumental, full of pillars and columns, of ova and palmettos, in the style of Percier and Fontaine, all very large and very much in marble. The most curious things about it are great geographical maps which replace hangings and represent the different countries of the world on a large scale. “This somewhat pedan- 27] abe che oh of obs aby obs obs obs obs of cboabs che ohn ob» nota abe ob ob ole of obec ow ete om ve ae wie wie aye we we we TRAV BASS oLiNG Asie tic decoration gives an academic air to the room, and one would not be surprised to see a desk in the place of the counter, with a professor in his gown instead of the master of the café. But as Padua is a university town, it is quite proper that the students should be able to continue their studies while drinking their coffee or eating their ices. The University of Padua was famous formerly. In the thirteenth century eighteen thousand youths, a na- tion of students, followed the courses of its learned professors, among whom later was Galileo, one of whose vertebrz is preserved as a relic, —a relic of a martyr who suffered for truth. ‘The facade of the University building is very handsome; four Doric columns give it a severe and monumental aspect; but the class-rooms are empty and scarcely one thousand students now frequent them. The next day I proceeded to visit the cathedral dedi- cated to Saint Anthony, who enjoys at Padua the posi- tion of Saint Januarius at Naples. He is the genius loci, the saint venerated above all others. If Cazenova may be believed, he was in the habit of working no less than thirty miracles a day. Certainly he deserved his surname Thaumaturgist, but his prodigious zeal has 278 REALL ALLLALLALALE AL SEA LL PADUA considerably fallen off. However, the credit of the saint has in no wise diminished, and so many masses are ordered at his altar that the priests at the cathedral and the days of the year are insufficient to say them. To settle up matters, the Pope has permitted that at the end of the year masses shall be said every one of which is as good as a thousand, and in this way Saint Anthony does not disappoint his faithful worshippers. On the square near the cathedral rises a fine bronze equestrian statue by Donatello, the first cast since the days of antiquity, representing Gattomelato, a chief of condottieril, a brigand who unquestionably does not deserve such an honour; but the artist has given him a splendid port and a proud look, with his Roman emperor’s baton, and that is quite enough. The church of San Antonio is composed of a num- ber of cupolas and bell towers, and a great brick facade with triangular pediment, above which rises a gallery _ with ogees and pillars. ‘Three small doors cut in the high arcade correspond to the three naves. The in- terior is excessively rich, and is filled with chapels and tombs in different styles. It contains specimens of the art of various epochs, from the naive, religious, and delicate art of the Middle Ages to the most extraordi- a7 teteeetteettet ett tttttdteh wo ewe ofo ate TUR AAV eb GOING LT Ag ee nary fancies of the rococo style. ‘The cloister is paved with funeral slabs, and the walls disappear under the monuments which cover them. I read a number of the epitaphs, which were very fine, the Italians having preserved the secret of lapidary Latin. Santa Giustinia is a huge church with a bare facade and an interior so plain as to be dull and mean. Good taste is certainly desirable, but not too much of it, and I must say I prefer to such bareness the mad exuber- ance and the exaggerated scrolls of the rococo style. A fine altar-piece by Paolo Veronese relieves the nudity. If the church is dull and characterless, the same cannot be said of the two giant monsters which guard it, lying on the steps like faithful mastiffs. Never did Japanese monsters present a more terri- fying aspect than these fantastic animals, which are something like hideous griffins, with the hind-quarters of lions, the wings of eagles, and stupid, fierce heads, ending in beaks pierced with oblique nostrils like those of tortoises. ‘hese monstrous animals press to their breasts, between their talons, a warrior on horseback wearing medizval armour, and crush him with slow pressure, with a vague look and without troubling about the convulsive efforts of the myrmidon thus stifled. 280 What is the meaning of the knight caught with his steed in the dread claws of these crouching monsters ? What myth is concealed under that sombre sculptural fancy? Do these groups illustrate a legend, or are they simply the sinister hieroglyphs of fatality? I could not make out, and no one could or would tell me. The other day, on glancing over the album which Prince Soltykoff brought back from India, I found in the propylaa of a Hindoo pagoda exactly similar monsters crushing an armed man against their breast. Whatever may be the real meaning of these terrifying groups, they recall confusedly vague remem- brances of cosmogonic combats, battles between the two principles of good and evil, — Ahriman overcom- ing Ormuzd, Siva overthrowing Vishnu. Later on, under the porch of the cathedral at Ferrara, I again saw these two chimeras, but this time it was lions they were crushing. There is one thing one must not neglect to do in Padua, and that is to pay a visit to the Madonna dell’ Arena, a church situated within a rich and luxuriant garden, and which would certainly never be found if one were not told of it. The whole of the interior was painted by Giotto. No gallery, no ribbing, no 281 choy feo he be che oe ch te cbc eben cbc cde cde ce be shee wre eve yn wre WOR A Vibes CLANS eee architectural division breaks the vast tapestry of the frescoes. The general aspect is of a sweet, starry azure, like a beautiful, calm sky; blue is the keynote and gives the local tone. Thirty compartments of great size, separated by mere lines, contain scenes of the life of the Virgin and of her divine Son in detail. They look like miniatures in a gigantic missal. The personages, through an artless anachronism most pre- cious to historians, are dressed in the costume of Giotto’s day. Below these compositions, charming in their suavity and exhibiting the purest religious feeling, a painted plinth exhibits the seven capital sins symbolised ingen- uously, and other allegorical figures in excellent style. A “ Paradise” and a “ Hell,” subjects which greatly preoccupied the artists of that day, complete this mar- vellous ensemble. ‘There are quaint and touching de- tails in these paintings: children emerge from their little coffins and ascend to Paradise with eager jy, springing forward to play upon the flowery meads of the celestial gardens; others hold out their hands to their half-resuscitated mothers. I noticed that all the devils and vices were stout, while the angels and _vir- tues were slender and thin. The painter thus denoted 282 the preponderance of matter in some, and of mind in others. Let me note here a picturesque and physiological re- mark. ‘The type of the Paduan women differs greatly from that of the Venetians. In spite of the nearness of the two cities, the Paduan beauty is more severe and more classical. ‘Thick brown hair, well marked eye- brows, a serious, dark glance, a pale olive complexion, a somewhat full oval, recall the main features of the Lombard race. The black cape which these lovely women wear gives them, as they glide slowly along the deserted arcades, a proud and shy look which contrasts with the faint smile and the easy Venetian grace. On the Piazza Salone stands the Palace of Justice, a great building in the Moorish style, with galleries, pil- lars, and denticulated crenellations, which contains the largest room in the world perhaps, and recalls the Pal- ace of the Doges at Venice. At the Scuole del Santo there are glorious frescoes by Titian, the only ones which this painter is known to have executed. ‘There also are shown the instruments of torture, the racks, stra- pados, pincers, boots, toothed wheels, saws, axes, which were used upon the victims of Ezzelino, the most famous tyrant that ever lived, by the side of whom 283 ae abe obs obs oe ob ole abby abe abe ob bn abe obo ells obs abv ol che oe obs ofc cle ofle ere ee te ate ere ote je ove ore oe Fe TRAWEAGS GUND GAG Angelo is an angel of light. I had a letter to the am- ateur who looks after this curious collection fit for an executioner’s museum. I did not find him, to my great regret, and I left the same afternoon for Rovigo, quitting regretfully the delightful Lombardo-Venetian kingdom, which lacks nothing save liberty. KLEE DEA EPPS eA SLE ets i ee eae Sal NG Al Abe kktbeebetbbehbbbddhdbbhbche FERRARA N omnibus took us in a few hours from Padua to Rovigo, which we reached in the evening. While waiting for supper, I wan- dered through the streets of the city lighted by a silvery moon which enabled me to make out the outline of the monuments. Low arcades, like those of the old Place Royale in Paris, border the streets, and the alternations of light and shadow formed long cloisters which that evening recalled the effect of the stage setting of the Nuns’ act in “ Robert le Diable.”” A few stray pass- ers-by glided silently along like shadows; sorrowful dogs bayed to the moon, and the city seemed asleep. Every window was dark, with the exception of a few cafés still lighted, in which customers, with a weary, somnolent look, were eating ices and drinking coffee or a glass of water, slowly, wisely, methodically, often stopping to read a meaningless newspaper article, like people who have lots of time to waste and try to get along until it is time to go to bed. 285 choo ob abs os be ce oe obs he ecbecde che bach obe eof ee ee abe ore oe Cre ore ofe re Fe Me OTe ene TRAN AIS DING? [eters The trip from Rovigo to Ferrara is in no wise. pic- turesque,—a flat country with cultivated fields and Northern trees, exactly like a French department. The Po, with its yellow waters, is crossed; the low, bare shores faintly recalling those of the Guadalquivir below Seville. The turbulent Eridano, lacking the tribute of the melting snow, seemed calm and peaceful enough at the time. Ferrara rises solitary in the centre of a flat country, which is rich rather than picturesque. On entering by the main street which leads to the square, the aspect of the city is imposing and monumental. A palace, reached by great steps, stands on the corner of this vast space. I suppose it must be the Court-house or City Hall, for people of all kinds came in and went out of the great doors. While I was wandering in the streets, satisfying my curiosity at the expense of my appetite and stealing from the sixty minutes given us for breakfast forty to regale my eyes and fulfil my duty as a tourist, a strange apparition rose suddenly before me, as unexpectedly as a ghost at midday. It was a sort of spectre masked with a black mask, its head covered with a black hood, its body wrapped in a gown, or rather a 286 = = = J tS = domino, braided with red, with a red cross on the shoul- der, a brass crucifix hung around the neck, and a red sash. It rattled in silence a small box in which money was jingling. ‘This scarecrow, which had noth- ing living about it but the eyes which shone through the holes in its mask, shook two or three times before me its box, in which, terrified, I dropped a handful of bajoccht, not knowing for what charitable work this lu- gubrious figure was begging. He resumed his way with- out a word, with the most sinister, funereal clinking of iron and money, holding out his box, in which every- body hastened to drop some small coin. I inquired to what order belonged this phantom, more terrifying than the monks and ascetics of Zurbaran, who thus walked about like a horrid, nocturnal vision in the bright sunshine, realising in the street the nightmare of bad nights. I was told that he was a penitent of the Brotherhood of Death, begging money for the purchase of coffins and for the purpose of saying masses for poor devils who were to be shot down that very day,—brigands or Republicans, I have really forgotten which. These penitents have taken on themselves the sad and charitable task of accom- panying those who are condemned to death to the 287 che che abe che aba che he he he ot cde cde ech ch cheb bebe oho oleate TR ASV GELS: clan ae Teagan place of execution, to be with them in their last mo- ments, to remove from the scaffold the mutilated body, to place it in a bier, and to bury it in a Christian man- ner. It is townspeople who devote themselves through piety to these painful functions, and thus mingle a ten- der, though vague and masked element with the cold, implacable sacrifices of justice. These spectres seem to stand between the victim and the executioner. They are the timid protest made by humanity. Often these Sisters of Mercy of the scaffold turn faint and are more troubled than the condemned man himself. Italy has preserved largely the methods of Doctor Sangrado, and the breed of doctors whose system is developed in kitchen Latin in the ceremony of the ‘“¢ Malade imaginaire ” has not yet disappeared. I say this with due reservation of talents of the first order. There are in the Peninsula numerous duplicates of Messieurs Purgon, Diafoirus, Macrotin, Desfonandrés, and other doctors of Moliére’s creation. People are bled severely for the least indisposition. The barbers are the operators, so on their shops are seen paintings most surgically fantastic, and in these bloody subjects the painters do not hesitate at any violence of tone, and imagine contrasts which amaze colourists. 288 che heals oho ob abs abe abe abe ahs be deals cbr abr abe ef ade ate clea ole abe oe It was market day, which gave some animation to the city, usually so dull. I saw nothing characteristic in the way of costumes. Uniformity is overrunning everything. [he peasants of the neighbourhood of Ferrara are very like ours, but for the Southern bril- liancy of their black eyes and a certain pride of port which reminds you that you are on classical ground. Autumn products, grapes, pumpkins, pimentoes, toma- toes, mixed with coarse pottery and rustic household utensils, were heaped up on the square, amid which were groups of people talking and buying. A few oxcarts, much less primitive than those of Spain, a few asses with wooden pack-saddles, were waiting with melancholy patience until their masters had finished their business and were ready to returnhome. The oxen, lying down, were peacefully chewing the cud; the asses were grazing the blades of grass growing between the paving-stones. One thing peculiar to Italy is the open-air money- changers. Their outfit is exceedingly simple, and con- sists of a stool and a small table on which are ranged piles of scudt, bajocchi, and other coins. ‘The changer, crouched like a dragon, watches his little treasure with a restless, yellow eye which exhibits constant dread of thieves, who are not kept away by any gratings. 19 289 ttbebebettttttedbttebdbbts DRAYV TEES jl Navigate The Cathedral, the facade of which rises on this square, is in the Italian Gothic style, so inferior, in my opinion, to Northern Gothic. The portal contains some curious details. ‘The pillars, instead of resting on bases like ordinary pillars, rest upon chimeras in the style of those of the portal of Santa Giustinia at Padua. These heavy, crushed chimeras revenge themselves for the pain they suffer by tearing lions in the Ninevite style, caught in their claws. ‘These caryatid monsters writhe horribly under the enormous pressure and are positively painful to look at. The castle of the former Dukes of Ferrara, which is a little farther on, has a fine feudal aspect. It consists of a vast group of towers bound together by high walls, topped by projecting lookouts, and rising from a great moat full of water, which is crossed by a bridge closed to the public. Let not, however, what I have just said lead the reader to imagine a castle like those which bristle on the banks of the Rhine. Italian Gothic has not at all the same appearance as ours; no mould- covered stones, no mossy statues, no curtains of ivy falling over old, broken balconies, no traces of that rust of time which to us is inseparable from the monuments of the Middle Ages. Italian Gothic, in spite of its 290 ches cbs ohe obs he he oe che cde eect ecb eof cob cde oe oh choo OTe we eTe eye oe FERRARA age, appears to be brand-new. It is white and rose, pretty rather than solemn, somewhat troubadour; in short, recalling the feudal clocks of the days of the Restoration. The castle of the Dukes of Ferrara, which is built of bricks and of stones turned red by the sun, has a bright, juvenile air which detracts from its imposing effect. It resembles too closely the stage- setting of a melodrama. It was in this castle that lived the famous Lucrezia Borgia, whom Victor Hugo has depicted as so mon- strous, while Ariosto speaks of her as a model of chas- tity, grace, and virtue, —the fair Lucrezia, who wrote letters breathing the purest love, and some of whose silky, golden hair Lord Byron possessed. There occurred the dramas of Tasso, of Ariosto, and of Gua- rini; there were held the brilliant orgies, mingling poisons and murders, which were characteristic of that period in learned, artistic, refined, and wicked Italy. It is proper to visit piously the very doubtful cell wherein T’asso, crazed by love and grief, spent so many years, according to the poetic legend which has arisen since his day. I had no time to do so, and I did not regret it much. The cell, of which I have a very accurate drawing before me, has only its four walls 291 he obs obs abe obs obs ole ote abe obs ectocde tobe chs checbe cheated oh cools ee ee ome eTs one ore are OTe ote GO WFO CTO VTE ee OTe UFO DRA VéHASS }T4NVGl sie with a low ceiling. At the back there is a window grated with thick bars and an iron-studded door with heavy bolts. It is most unlikely that in this obscure hole, covered with cobwebs, Tasso was able to work over his poems, to compose sonnets, to trouble about the details of his dress, such as the quality of the vel- vet of his beretta and the silk of his stockings, or to worry about cookery either, such as the kind of sugar which he wanted for his salad, that served him not being fine enough, in his opinion. Nor did | see Ariosto’s house,— another obligatory pilgrimage Apart from the little credit which can be given to these unauthenticated traditions, to these characterless relics, I would rather seek for Ariosto in the *¢ Orlando > Furioso,” and for Tasso in * Jerusalem Delivered” or Goethe’s splendid drama. Life in Ferrara is concentrated on the Piazza Nuove, in front of the church, and around the castle. Life has not yet withdrawn from the heart of the city, but as you go farther from that point, the pulsations grow weaker, paralysis begins, death grows; silence, solitude, and grass take possession of the streets. You feel that you are wandering through a Thebaid peopled by the shadows of the past, from which the living have 292 wre oF we oFe wTe ewe ore FERRARA ch oboe feo abe abe ob oh ab doce che cfc lee ob ce cafe abo a disappeared like water that has dried up. There is nothing so sad as to see the body of a city falling slowly into dust in the sunshine and the rain; human bodies at least are buried. Bologna is a city with arcaded streets, like most cities in this part of Italy. They are useful as a shelter from the rain and sunshine, but they transform the streets into long cloisters, absorb the light, and give the towns a cold and melancholy aspect. I had a letter of recommendation for Rossini, who unfortunately was absent and wouid return only a few days later. I followed at chance a street which led me safely into the square, where have been leaning for years without ever falling the Torre delli Asinelli and the Garisenda, which had the honour of furnishing an image to Dante. ‘The great poet compares Antzus bending towards the earth to the Garisenda, which proves that the inclination of the tower of Bologna goes back to the thirteenth century. ‘These towers, seen by moonlight, had a most fantastic aspect. ‘Their strange deviation from the plumb, giving the lie to all the laws of statics and perspective, makes you giddy, and causes the other buildings in the neighbourhood to 293 doch bb bbb bbb bbb bbb bet TRA VEGhS TN D0 A ley seem themselves out of plumb. The Torre delli Asi- nelli is three hundred feet high, and is three and a half feet off the perpendicular. Its extreme height makes it seem slender, and I can best compare it to one of the great factory chimneys of Manchester or Birming- ham. It rises from a crenellated base and has two stories also crenellated, the second one somewhat nar- rower. From the belfry which surmounts it there comes down a series of iron rods which reach to the foot of the building. ‘The Garisenda, which is only about half as high as the Torre delli Asinelli, leans over frightfully and causes its neighbour to appear almost perpendicular. Although it has been leaning over thus for six hundred years, one does not like to stand on the side towards which it bends. You always fancy that the moment of its fall has arrived, and that you will be crushed under its stones. It is a childish impulse of terror which it is difficult to overcome. If the moonlight enabled me to see the towers, it was not sufficient to enable me to examine in the museum the paintings by Guido, the three Carracci, Domenichino, Albani, and the other great masters of the school of Bologna. 294 Lkbeeteetetetettetetette PRR RA KA At four o’clock the next morning I dressed very sleepily to take the stage-coach for Florence. I ob- served a certain movement among the troops. It was an execution which was preparing. Some twenty people were to be shot that morning for political reasons. I left Bologna with the same painful im- pression which I had experienced at Verona and Fer- rara and which awaited me at Rome;-— but the thought of crossing the Apennines on that fine Sep- tember day soon cleared away the lugubrious feeling. 295 P “HE road from Bologna to Florence crosses the Apennines, the backbone of Italy. There are certain names which cast a spell, even upon travellers most accustomed to disappoint- ments. [The name of the Apennines is of them. Unquestionably the mania for making comparisons is a mistake, and it is unjust to expect one place to be other than it is; but I could not help, from the top of the stage-coach, thinking of the beautiful Spanish Sier- ras of which no one speaks and whose unknown beauty is far grander than that of the Italian mountains, which are perhaps overpraised. I recalled a trip from Gra- nada to Veles-Malaga across the mountains, along a lonely track traversed by scarcely more than a couple of travellers in the course of the year, and which sur- passes all that can be imagined in the way of effects of outline, light, and colour. I thought also of my excursion into Kabylia, of the mountains gilded by the African sun, of the valleys full of rose laurel, 296 tttebeettttretettttettetets Ba Ore E NICib: mimosas, arbutus, and mastic trees, through which strayed rivulets inhabited by little tortoises; of the Kabyle villages surrounded with fences of cactus, and of the broken horizon lines, over which rose always the mighty mass of Djourdjoura; and positively the Apennines seemed to me mediocre in spite of their classical reputation. Although the road never climbs such abrupt steeps as those of Salinas and Descarga in Spain, the hills are sometimes bad enough to make it necessary to employ oxen. It was an ever new pleasure to me to see the slow animals come along, their heads bowed under the yoke, their glistening noses, their great peaceful eyes, their strong legs. ‘To begin with, they were always pic- turesque in themselves, and then there was always with them a rustic, wild oxherd, often of fine mien, with tousled hair, steeple hat, and brown jacket, carrying his goad like a sceptre. Besides, oxen to me always mean a rough tableland, a high plateau whence one enjoys unexpectedly a vast prospect, a blue panorama of plains, mountains, and valleys, the horizon full of towns and villas shimmering in the light and shadow. As the slopes of the Apennines begin to sink towards Florence, the landscape improves in beauty. Villas 297 Seéeeeeteeeteteteteetettt TRA V Eels)? NY Agee show upon the sides of the road, black cypresses rise arrow-like, Italian pines outspread their green tops, olive trees open their gray, sad foliage. ‘There is a bustle of foot-passengers, horses, and carriages, betok- ening the approach to a great, living city, a rare thing in Italy, that ossuary of dead cities. Night had fallen when we arrived at the San Gallo Gate. For a city of pleasure and festivals, whose very name is scented like a nosegay, Florence received us in so strange a fashion that more superstitious persons might have been repelled by the apparent evil omen. In the very first street into which the stage-coach entered, we met an apparition as dreadful as that of the Cortés of Death met by the ingenious knight of La Mancha in the neighbourhood of Toboso; only in our case it was not the decoration of an auto sacramental, but a horrid reality. Two files of black spectres, masked, bearing resinous torches which shed a lurid light with much thick smoke, walked, or rather ran behind and before a catafalque borne on men’s shoul- ders, and the outline of which could be vaguely made out in the dun-coloured cloud of the funeral lights. One of these spectres sounded a bell, and all murmured with bocca chiusa under the beard of their masks the 298 debe abe ok ch hob hab bch ch check cbecbece ok check HLO@O REN CE prayers for the dead in broken, stifled rhythm. A single black spectre would issue from a house and hastily join the sombre flock, which soon disappeared at the corner of a street. It was a brotherhood of Black Penitents who, according to their custom, were following a funeral. As soon as it was day, I looked out of the win- dow to study the prospect unrolled before my eyes. The Arno, muddy and yellow, flowed between two stone quays, leaving half of its bed bare and show- ing in places the slimy bottom strewn with potsherds, rubbish, and detritus of all kinds. ‘The spell of Italian names, which we meet with set in the verse of poets, is so great that their sonorous syllables always awaken in the mind an idea different from their aspect in reality. In spite of one’s self, one imagines the Arno as a stream with silvery waters, flowery, verdant banks reached from terraces by marble staircases, and traversed at night by boats bearing lights, their “Turkish carpets dipping in the tide, and sheltering under their silken awnings pairs of lovers. ‘The truth is that the Arno should rather be called a torrent than a stream. It flows intermittently according to the caprice of the wet or dry weather, sometimes overflowing, sometimes a 299 cheb heals ch heck ch be che tecbe tech che bch cabo oh once TT RA Vale ieeS) ve Ne Asia mere thread, and in Florence it resembles more the scene between the Pont de |’Hotel-Dieu and the Pont- Neuf than anything else. A few fishermen standing in the water nearly up to their knees alone imparted any animation to the river, which on account of the constant change of height, carries only flat-boats ; which is the more regrettable that the sea is very close, the Arno flowing into it after having traversed Pisa. The houses on the opposite side of the quay were tall, of a sober and not very cheerful architecture. A few domes and distant church-towers alone broke the horizontal line. I caught sight, above the roofs of the buildings, of the hill of San Miniato with its church and its cypresses, the name of which had remained fixed in my mind, although I had never been to Flor- ence, after I had read Alfred de Musset’s “ Loren- zaccio,” the twenty-fifth scene of which is thus designated: “ Before the church of San Miniato at Mount Olivet.” The handsome Ponte Santa Trinita, designed by Ammenato, rebuilt by Bartolommeo Ammanati, spanned to the right the river with its three light surbased arches. It thus offers less hold to the water in time of flood and inundation. It is adorned with statues of 300 DALLLLEL EL Eee tht heteeb ese PLOREN CE the Four Seasons, which from a distance have a fairly monumental effect. On the left was the Ponte alla Carraja, one of the oldest in Florence, for it goes back to the thirteenth century. Destroyed by an inundation, it was rebuilt by Ammanati. The general aspect of Florence, contrary to the idea which one has of it, is sad. ‘he streets are narrow, the houses high, the facades sombre and lacking the Southern brightness which one expects to meet with. The city of pleasure, the summer residence of rich and elegant Europe, has a cross and dissatisfied look. Its palaces resemble prisons and fortresses. Every house seems to intrench itself and to defend itself against the street. [he imposing, serious, solid architecture with very few openings has preserved the mistrust charac- teristic of the Middle Ages and seems to be constantly prepared for some sudden attack of the Pazzi or the Strozzi. The Greeks had a particular way of expressing in a single word the central or important place in a city or country, — ophthalmos (the eye). Every great capital has its eye. In Rome it is the Campo Vaccino, in Paris the Boulevard des Italiens, in Venice the Piazza San Marco, in Madrid the Prado, in London the 301 Strand, in Naples the Via Toledo. Rome is more Roman, Paris more Parisian, Venice more Venetian, Madrid more Spanish, London more English, Naples more Neapolitan in that particular privileged place than anywhere else. The eye of Florence is the Piazza della Signoria, a fine eye; for indeed, if you suppress that square, Florence loses its meaning, it might just as well be any other city. The first view of the Piazza, with its graceful, pic- turesque, complete effect, makes one understand at once the mistake made in modern capitals like London and Paris and Saint Petersburg, which, under the name of squares, open up in their compact masses vast empty spaces on which they exhibit all possible and impos- sible failures in decoration. It is easy to understand why the Carrousel and the Place de la Concorde are nothing but great empty fields that absorb fruitlessly fountains, statues, triumphal arches, obelisks, candelabra, and gardens: all these embellishments, very pretty on paper, very good also, no doubt, seen from the car of a balloon, are practically lost to the spectator who cannot see them all at once. A square, in order to produce a fine effect, should not be too large; beyond a certain limit, the glance fails to grasp everything. Next it 302 che obs fe cbecteclocte leah oe cbr clo oe ob doo ere mT BO REN CE i ae = ie a i must be bordered by different buildings of varied heights. Tall buildings are elegant, and suitably circumscribe a square. Every detail can then be made out. It is just the difference between a painting standing up and a painting lying down, upon which you have to walk in order to see it. The Piazza della Signoria at Florence combines all the conditions of architectural picturesqueness, unity, and variety. Bordered by buildings which are regular in themselves but different one from another, it satisfies the eye without wearying it by cold symmetry. The Palazzo della Signoria, or Palazzo Vecchio, which at once attracts attention through its imposing mass and its severe elegance, stands at one of the corners of the square instead of being in the centre. ‘This curious position, fortunate in my opinion, but regretted by those who can see nothing beautiful in architecture save geometric regularity, is not due to chance, but to a thoroughly Florentine reason. In order to attain perfect symmetry, it would have been necessary to build upon the detested ground belonging to the Ghi- belline rebels, the proscribed house of Uberti. The Guelph faction, then all powerful, would not allow the architect, Arnolfo di Lapo, to do so. There are 393 Sheet etteteteteetttetetest AR AVE Oh “NCS Dae scholars who have cast doubts upon this tradition; I shall not discuss the question here. What is quite certain is that the Palazzo Vecchio is much improved by the peculiarity of its position and thus leaves space for the grand Fountain of Neptune and the equestrian statue of Cosimo I. | The Palazzo Vecchio ought really to be called a fortress. It is a great mass of stone, without pillars, without facade, without architectural orders, forming a sort of huge square tower somewhat longer than it is wide, dentellated with battlements, and topped by a look-out which projects fairly well out. The stories are marked by ogival windows which cut like loop- holes the thick walls of the massive edifice, and in the centre, like the donjon in the centre of a fortress, rises a high, crenellated belfry with a dial on the face which looks upon the square. Time has gilded the walls with beautiful golden and russet tones, that contrast superbly with the clear blue sky, and the whole building has a haughty, romantic, fierce aspect that fully comes up to the idea which one has formed of the old Palazzo della Signoria, that has witnessed, since the thirteenth century, when it was built, so many intrigues, riots, violent deaths, 304 $ebeeeebeeeeeeetettetetest FLORENCE and crimes. The battlements of the palace, squarely — built, show that it was carried to that height by the Guelph faction; the bifurcated battlements of the belfry indicate a reaction and the accession to power of the Ghibelline faction. Guelphs and Ghibel- lines hated each other so intensely that they pro- claimed their opinion in the fashion of their clothing, in the manner they cut their hair, in the way they fortified their homes. They dreaded nothing so much as to be mistaken one for the other, and made as marked a difference as they could between themselves. They had a private greeting, after the manner of the Free Masons and the Companions of Duty. By the characteristic crenellations, we may recognise in the old palaces of Florence the opinions of the former owners. The walls of the city are crenellated squarely after the Guelph fashion, and the tower of the ramparts opposite the Mall has the swallow-tailed Ghibelline crenellations. Under the arches which support the upper portion of the palace are painted in fresco the arms of the people of the Commune and Republic of Florence. After the expulsion of the Duke of Athens, whose romantic title makes one think of Shakespeare’s ‘¢ Midsummer Night’s Dream,” Florence was divided into four quarters and 20 305 AELAKAALEALEALAEAAAELLALALELS TRA Voneies; i Na ae sixteen banners, four standards to a quarter, and each had its arms. The substructure of the Palazzo Vecchio consists of steps which formerly were used as a tribune from which the magistrates and demagogues harangued the people. Two marble colossi, ‘Hercules and Cacus,” by Baccio Bandinelli, and Michael Angelo’s ‘ David,” stand on guard by the gate like two giant sentries whose relief has forgottenthem. Bandinelli’s “ Hercu- les”? and Michael Angelo’s “ David,’’ have been sub- jected to criticism and admiration which do not appear to be entirely just. In my opinion, Bandinelli has been too much depreciated and Michael Angelo over- praised. ‘Iche “Hercules and Cacus” has a haughty pride, a fierce energy, a feeling of grandeur, which mark the artist of the first rank. Never did Florentine exaggeration carry farther its swelling violence and its boastful anatomy. ‘The network of muscles which uplift the monstrous shoulders is of amazing force, and Michael Angelo himself, when he saw this part moulded separately, could not refrain from approving of it. The torso of the Hercules has been greatly criticised by contemporary artists and sightseers. It is true that 306 bebeebeeeeetttttttttttste BE OR EN CE every detail is wrought out to exaggeration, the deltoid and pectoral muscles, the mastoidean ligaments, the modelling and the projection of the ribs, are brought out in extreme relief. It is an anatomical preparation carried to the third power; the artist has forgotten to put a skin over the bumps and projections, or rather, he would not do it; hence the comparison of the torso to a sack full of pine-cones. The reproach, which is not undeserved, might be addressed to many another Florentine artist, and even to the great Buonarotti. Michael Angelo’s “ David,” besides the fact that it represents in gigantic form a Biblical hero whose stature was notoriously short, seems to me rather heavy and commonplace, an infrequent defect in a master so rigorously elegant. David is a great, stout, healthy fellow, strong-backed, provided with solid pectoral muscles and monstrous biceps, a powerful porter waiting to load a sack on his back. ‘The way the marble is worked is remarkable, and on the whole it is a good study which would do honour to any other sculptor than Michael Angelo, but it lacks the Olympic and formidable maestria which is the characteristic of the productions of that superhuman sculptor. [am bound to add that the artist was not fully free. He aha ftbbbbbebbbbtobbtte tees RA ViEXES: IN eal Avie a drew his David from a huge block of Carrara marble which had been cut a hundred years before by Simeone da Fiesole, who had tried to make of it a colossus, but had failed. Michael Angelo, then twenty-nine years of age, took up the work, and as he played with it, found a giant statue amid the shapeless attempts of Simeone da Fiesole. Some defects of proportion in the limbs, ——a lack of marble,— and chisel marks plainly seen on the shoulders, denote the difficulty the great sculptor experienced in carrying out this singular tour de force, which consisted in putting one statue into the skin of another. Michael Angelo alone could indulge so strange a fancy. Two other statues ending in Hermes, the one by Bandinelli, the other by Rossi, were formerly used as chain posts. That by Rossi represents a man ending in an oak trunk, as a symbol of Tuscan magnanimity and strength; Bandinelli’s, a woman with a crown on her head and her feet caught in a laurel, the symbol of the supremacy in arts and courtesy of this happy land. Above the gate two lions support a cartouche with rays bearing this inscription : — «< Jesus Christ, Rex Florentini Populi, S. P. decreto electus,’’ As a matter of fact, Christ was elected King of Flor- 308 RLAELE ALLELES Settee tts Pe OREN CE ence on the motion of Nicolo Capponi in the Council of One Thousand, with the hope of securing popular tranquillity, for Christ could not be supplanted or re- placed by any one. Nevertheless, this ideal presidency did not prevent the overthrowing of the Republic. The outer court, into which one enters through this gate, was restored by Michelozzo. His Renaissance taste blooms out in the architecture. Elegant columns supporting arches form a patio such as you find in Spanish houses. A fountain by the sculptor Taddi, from the designs of Vasari, built by order of Cosimo I, is placed in the centre and completes the likeness. “The basin is of porphyry ; the water springs from the mouth of a fish choked by a beautiful bronze child, the work of Andrea Mocchi. Above the arcades are painted in fresco trophies, spoils, weapons, and prisoners chained to medallions which bear the arms of Florence and of the Medici. One of the most interesting rooms in the Palazzo Vecchio is the great hall, which is of enormous dimen- sions and has its legend. When the Medici were driven away from Florence in 1494, Fra Girolamo Savonarola, who was at the head of the popular upris- ing, suggested the building of a vast hall in which the 599 beeebdetdbeteetetettetttest oe we are TRA WErieS? ONS Agioas council of one thousand citizens could elect the magis- trates and settle the affairs of the Republic. The architect: Cronaca was charged with the work and carried it out with such marvellous celerity that Fra Savonarola caused the report to be spread that angels came from heaven to help the masons, and continued their work during the night. In this rapidly erected building Cronaca displayed, if not all his genius, at least all his skill. T"he plans and methods employed to resist the strains in the framing of the great ceiling, which is of enormous weight, are justly admired and have often been studied by architects. When the Medici returned and removed their resi- dence from the palace which they had occupied on the Via Larga to the Palazzo della Signoria, Cosimo desired to change the council hall into an audience hall, and ordered the presumptuous Baccio Bandinelli, whose designs had captivated him, to make certain alterations. The sculptor, however, had overestimated his talent as an architect, and in spite of the assistance of Giuliano Baccio d’Agnolo, whom he called to his help, he worked for ten years without managing to get out of the difficulties which he had himself created. It was Vasari who raised the ceiling several feet, finished the 310 Copyright, 1901, by George D, Sproul The Loggia dei Lanzi, the gem of the Piazza della Signoria bia bee. at work, and adorned the walls with a series of frescoes still existing, representing scenes in the history of Flor- ence, battles, and stormings of towns, —all travestied after the antique manner, and mingled with allegories. ‘These frescoes, painted with intrepid and skilful medi- ocrity are full of the commonplace exaggerated muscles and anatomical tricks customary at that time among the herd of artists. Although it is the history of Florence which is illustrated, it looks as if the people were Romans of old laying siege to Veia, or any other ancient city of Latium, so that the frescoes look like huge illustrations of “ De Viris [lustribus.”’ ‘This bad taste is shocking. What have classical helmets, striped cuirasses, and naked men to do with the war between Florence and Pisa and Sienna? I remarked a moment ago that colossal dimensions are unnecessary to produce striking effects in architec- ture. The Loggia dei Lanzi, the gem of the Piazza della Signoria consists of a portico formed of four arches, three on the facade and one on the side towards the gallery of the Uffizi. It is a miniature monument, but the harmony of proportion is so perfect that it gives a sensation of comfort. The neighbourhood of the Palazzo Vecchio with its great mass and its robust 311 bbb bbb bbb bbb bbb bet T-R A‘ Veeriss 3. EN Aisa squareness brings out wonderfully the elegant lines of the arches and the pillars. Its principal charm is that, symmetrical in itself, it obeys the law of intersequence, which governs the monuments that surround it and which it interrupts. ‘T’his diversity gives to the square a brightness which would have been quickly replaced by monotony, if the arches had been repeated on each side. [he capitals of the pillars of the Loggia are in a Gothic and fantastic Corinthian style, in which the rules of Vitruvius have not been carried out. This fact in no wise diminishes their grace and their happy proportions. An open-worked balustrade crowns the building, which ends in a terrace of delicate and light design. Its name, Loggia dei Lanzi, dates from the time when the German spearmen or lancers had a barracks not far from there. Its purpose was to shelter the towns-people from sudden showers, and to enable them to converse on their business and that of the city. It was under this gallery, raised a few feet above the level of the square, that magistrates were invested with their functions, knights created, decrees of the government published, and the people harangued as from a tribune. The Loggia is a sort of open-air museum. The “‘ Perseus’ by Benvenuto Cellini, the ‘ Judith” by 212 che cte ae oe oh abe ade cle che abe cr cbrcbecbecte cde cheebe ote eres ere ove oe CTO CFO OTE OTe WTS “TO FLORENCE Donatello, “ The Rape of the Sabines” by Giovanni da Bologna are framed in within its arches. Six antique statues, the cardinal and monkish virtues, by Jacopo Pietro, and a Madonna by Orcagna adorn the inner wall. “I'wo lions, the one antique, the other by Flaminio Vacca, almost as good as the Greek lions in the Arsenal at Venice, complete the ornamentation. The “ Perseus”? may be considered the masterpiece of Benvenuto Cellini, an. artist who is a great deal spoken of in France, though really little known. The statue, mannered in pose like all the works of the Florentine school, which carried very far the affection of contour and a desire for nobility in motion, is very seductive in its juvenile grace. ‘This made-up pose, inferior no doubt to antique simplicity, nevertheless has a great charm ; it is elegant and cavalier-like. “The young hero has just cut off the head of the unfortunate Medusa, whose body, twisted with skilful boldness, forms, with its mass of limbs writhing in agony, a footstool for the conqueror’s foot. Perseus, turning away his face full of compassion mingled with horror, holds in one hand his curved sword and with the other raises on high the petrifying, motionless, dead face with its hair of writhing serpents. The pedestal, which is another BN: dhbbbbbbbobetbbbbtttobtee TR AWRE-S SION DTT Aste masterpiece, is adorned with dassi-relevi containing the story of Andromeda, small figures and foliage which exhibit the talent of Benvenuto the goldsmith. Below these small figures, which represent Jupiter standing and brandishing a thunderbolt, runs the threatening inscription : <<'Te, fili, si quis leserit, ultor ero, —’”’ which applies as much to Perseus as to the artist. This inscription with its double meaning, appears to be a warning from the swordsman sculptor to critics, who had better profit by it. Without being influenced by this rodomontade, I frankly admire the Perseus for its heroic grace and the beauty of its delicate form; it is a charming statue, an exquisite gem; it is worth all the trouble it has cost its author. Donatello’s “ Judith” exhibits with rather alarming and repulsive pride, the head of Holofernes cut off. It fulfils under the arch of the Loggia the same function as Foyatier’s “Spartacus”? opposite the Palace of the Tuileries; only the warning of Spartacus is dumb, while in order that Judith’s warning should be in no wise ‘ambiguous, there is engraved on the plinth this terrible inscription: ‘ Exemplum salut publ. cives pos- ~ uere MCCCXV.” Both the statues are in bronze. 314 Lhbbbeeeebetetbetteteetes FLORENCE The “Rape of the Sabines”’ offered Giovanni da Bologna an admirable pretext for the exhibition of his knowledge of anatomy, and enabled him to show human beauty under three expressions; a beautiful young woman, a vigorous man, and an old man still splendid. The Fountain of Neptune by Ammanati, which rises in monumental fashion at the corner of the Palazzo Vecchio in the empty space left by the razing of the home of the Uberti, is rich and grandiose in aspect, although it is inferior to the designs of the other artists which were rejected in favour of the favourite architect of the Grand Duke Cosimo I. The god, of colossal size, stands upon a shell drawn by four horses, two of white marble and two of veined marble. “Three Tritons play at his feet, and the water falls in numer- ous jets into an octagonal basin, the four corners of which are adorned with bronze statues representing Thetis and Doris, marine deities, and children playing with shells, corals, and madrepores. Eight satyrs, also in bronze, masks and cornucopiz complete this rich decoration, which exhibits already the pompous and mythological taste of the fountains in the gardens of Versailles, a taste which is believed to be French, but which is really decadent Italian. $23) chee le de oe he he oh abe che cde fected che doe he choc wwe ore we ete we TRA Vebalis) DNy oT Aug a The equestrian statue of Cosimo de’ Medici, the best of the four which Giovanni da Bologna was lucky enough to make during his artist’s life, is marked by great ease and nobility. “The horse has a distinct mo- tion in his short trot, the man sits well on the saddle and is not ridiculously historical. The half real, half historical costume of the Grand Duke has a fine monu- mental effect. The statue is in bronze, and proved very difficult to cast. Bassi-relievi representing scenes in the history of Cosimo are placed on the four faces of the pedestal. On one of them is seen the portrait of a dwarf jester whom the Duke was very fond of. I must also mention, as being on this splendid square, the palace of the Ugoccini, said to have been designed by Raphael ; its suave, pure style is indeed that of the master. Also the Pisani Roof, a historical roof which the Florentines caused the Pisan prisoners to erect as a mark of contempt, which covers the Post-Office. But I have described enough statues and palaces. Let us take a carriage and go to the Cascine, the Champs- Elysées of Florence, to see human faces and rest our eyes after all this marble, stone, and bronze. The Florentine type differs essentially from the Lombard and Venetian types. We have no longer 316 FLORENCE abe abe obs ols abe abs obs obs abe abe abe cllnele ole oll ole obs obs ole obe obs obs abe obs i i : $ ; i ; the regular, pure outlines, the somewhat full oval, the rich neck, and the happy serenity of form, the perfect healthfulness of beauty which strike one on the streets of Milan, where, as Balzac so truly says, ‘ Jani- tors’ daughters look like queens’ daughters.” One cannot understand in Florence the proud, pagan epitaph of some count or another whose tomb bore for sole inscription, “Fu bello e Milanese; ” the grace and the bright gaiety of Venice are lacking here. Faces in Florence do not possess that antique cast which yet exists in the rest of Italy after so many cen- turies, so many successive invasions and so radical a change in manners and religion. ‘They are plainly more modern. If it is impossible to mistake on a Paris boulevard a thoroughbred Neapolitan or Roman, a Florentine might easily pass unnoticed among Parisians, The strong Southern character which marks other Ital- ians will not betray him. There is more caprice, more unexpectedness in the features of the Floren- tine men and women; thought and moral preoccupa- tions leave visible marks on their faces and alter the modelling in an irregular fashion which improves the expression. The Florentine women, less beautiful! ote] ae abe obs elle ob ols ole ols ole abe alle abocle abe obs obs obs obn of obs ole obs ol ole hy Vo OFs oye OTe ate OTe wie ore efe ore UTe eTe TRAVERS DN AT ae than those of Milan, Venice, or Rome, are more inter- esting and appeal more to the mind. ‘Their eyes are melancholy, their brow is at times dreamy, and some of them have a look of vague suffering, a wholly recent, Christian feeling which would be sought for in vain on Greek and Roman statues. Amid the classical Italian heads, the Florentine heads are bourgeois in the deepest and best sense of the word; they express not only the race, but the individual; they are not exactly human, they are also social. The Florentine artists, Andrea del Sarto, for in- stance, lack the serene beauty of ‘Titian, the angelic placidity of Raphael. They reproduce a type which is at once humbler and more refined. One feels the reality through their ideal; they do not put upon their faces the mask of general regularity which the other great Italian masters have perhaps used too often. They venture oftener upon portraiture, and are not afraid to make use of a certain ugliness in order to reproduce character. On looking at their works one understands how some of their heads, unquestionably less beautiful than the types employed by the painters of the Venetian or Roman school, produce a deeper and more lasting impression. 318 de obese oe oe de oe oe ob de tecde sch oe choco cbe cto cke oh chook FLORENCE These generalisations, — which, of course, are sub- ject to numerous exceptions, for there are regular Florentine heads, —are the result of observations I have made in the streets, at the theatres, at church, and on my walks; for is not the human face as worthy of attention as architecture? Is not the model as good as the picture, and the work of God as the work of art? And if I have looked too attentively at some fair passer-by, surely she was not more disturbed by it than would be a column or a statue. The place in Florence which is most favourable to this kind of study, too frequently forgotten by artists in love with antiquity or art, is undoubtedly the Cascine, a sort of ‘Tuscan Champs-Elysées or Hyde Park where, from three to five, crowd in buggies, tilburies, phaetons, coupés, landaus, and victorias all the rich, noble, elegant, and even pretentious people of the city. The Cascine (which means “dairy ’’) is situated outside the walls beyond the Frato Gate and extends along the right bank of the Arno for about two miles to the point where the Terzolli flows into the river. Through great clumps of tall old trees, pines, green oaks, cork trees, and other southern varieties, with resinous trees of the North, run sandy roads which end 319 LELLEAEELELELELELLELELES oe wie die vie TRAVABAINS TINS US AS in a large open space equivalent to what the Spaniards would call the Salon of this fashionable drive. The great masses of verdure, bordered on the one hand by the gently flowing stream of the Arno, on the other framed in by the blue Apennines, the distant masses of which are seen dotted with villas and hamlets, com- pose in the splendid Southern light an admirable ensem- ble which it is difficult to forget. “The Cascine has something more artlessly rural than its companion drives in Paris and London, and the influx of foreign elegance does not deprive it of an Italian simplicity graceful in its nonchalance. A very simple and quiet country house belonging to the Grand Duke is buried within this cool verdure, which Southern people appre- ciate more than we do, no doubt, on account of its rarity. In Spain I met with similar admiration for the shades of the Park at Aranjuez watered by the Tagus and filled with Northern trees. Some years ago, Florence, especially before political events had driven away rich tourists, was the drawing- room of Europe. Thither, from all points of the hori- zon, came the Englishman flying from his native fogs, the Russian throwing off the snows of a six-months winter, the Frenchman bound on the fashionable tour, 320 HEPA E ALE PLEA AAAALAALAALAA LLY BUG RIAN CE the German seeking simplicity in art, the singers, the dancers who had retired from the stage, the doubtful lives and fortunes, the fallen queens, the sweet couples united at Gretna Green or simply before the altar of nature, the women separated from their husbands for some reason or another, the great ladies who had made a mistake, the princesses having in their train tenors or black-bearded youths, the dandies half-ruined at Baden or Spa, the victims of cards or of Parisian credit, the old maids dreaming of lively adventures; a whole curious society mingled with much alloy, but bright, witty, gay, looking for pleasure only, and spending money with the greater carelessness that Italian luxury is relatively economical. This influx of strangers has somewhat diminished, yet the Cascine still offers, from three to seven, according to the season, a very brilliant spectacle. When I reached it in my carriage, — for it would be bad form to go on foot, although the distance from the city is very small,—there was a very full reunion. The day was fine, the air soft, and the sun sent bril- liant beams from between the dappled clouds. The open space of the Cascine was like a vast drawing- room. The carriages, drawn up in line, represented 21 321 LLEAA ELS SSAA ttt tttette T RAVAERAES © Tt NOTET Alene the arm-chairs and sofas. Ladies in full dress reclined in these carriages, the back seats of which were filled with flowers. Their lovers and friends visited them, just as one goes to call on a lady in her box at the opera, and chatted standing on the steps. The riders also took part in the conversation, seated upon spirited animals which they held in, exciting them to make them show off, bravely safe performances which always make a man appear somewhat of a hero in the eyes of the beloved. Meanwhile the flower girls with their baskets, which are no sooner emptied than they are filled again, pass from one carriage to another or stop _ horsemen and foot-passengers. ‘They literally carry out Virgil’s advice, — <«¢ Manibus date lilia plenis.” They even seem to give them, although in reality they sell them. ‘They are not paid at once, but from time to time you give them a small amount of silver or something else, which is more gracious, for these ower girls are usually young and pretty, there being a natural attraction between young and pretty girls and flowers. 322 decoded ch heh heoteck ch cheats Hoe we wir ‘oe ee o1e ase ENO DUCERLON ot ene meres, ivloile Ser et Papen i FORTUNIO e ° ° ° . e LJ e e e ° 66 15 QNETOFA@LEOPATRA’S NIGHTS. Wh Te... S629 POTN CANDAULES Wier ualbielt sel eih) Ye Sh 2O7 ¥ aly fc i : Lan % »\y f is ay hire i ae - +o iy 1A it ae ' i f i ; i Vatire : i) GA ris Kay Ve ak) nal ‘ ny 7 ¥ { 5 : : My ; i“ P ks ; ihe u iy au ‘ee ai a mney ‘fo ae ‘ | ois ya om | be iy ae Pcs ei : arte a id , ' u ty, z a any P ee alte i 12 I Se ree | Oy rial . x te r * ed iY qt, é R.. a wa Rik a -)) (are Ase Rae any Aad wee ’ «ami they . * v) €7ae ! he MPL Zz ; t Ei hive i La | ) ‘ ue bbbbbtdttttetettttettets ie Reidel: Nok che che che he obs abe he che che he be beet dct chee tect ch oh obect Introduction ERE is a characteristically Romanticist work, or rather three works, the first of which is boldly, almost offensively in- tended as a demonstration of the Ro- manticist theories of art and manners. Fortunio was advertised, on its first appearance, as an “ Incredible Tale.’ Was this meant as a concession to the com- mon-sense and the artistic feeling of the readers of the book? By no means. The accurate epithet was in- tended rather to pique public curiosity, then whetted to the utmost by the extravagances of the Romanticist writers. The motive which inspired Gautier in the com- position of this work, which even now enjoys considera- ble popularity in France, was the desire to indulge to the full his fervid imagination, and at the same time to make another pronouncement in favour of his peculiar views on art, peculiar in this that they ran counter to the sober understanding of many able minds of the day and 3 kekebetetetetettteetetes OR \ as be OR Te) especially to the notions, imperfect and commonplace, no doubt, of the mass of the readers of newspapers and light literature. These views, however, were not pecu- liar to Gautier in so far as he was a member of the Romanticist school, and an important one at that. All the young authors who had rallied round Victor Hugo, recognised for some years past as the standard- bearer of Romanticism, shared the opinions of Gautier on the question of ‘Art for art’s sake,” and the conse- quent necessity for shocking, as frequently and as violently as possible, the sense of decency that in spite of repeated attacks, still survived among the general public. The greatest and most celebrated authors of the school, save Lamartine and Alfred de Vigny, had adopted the courtesan, of the worst and most con- temptible type, as the natural heroine of their lucu- brations. The chief in person, the monumental, cathedral, pyramidal Hugo, had devoted infinite pains to the rehabilitation of the abandoned female. His Marion de Lorme is too well known in this respect to render more than a passing allusion to it necessary. Alexandre Dumas had taken the woman in society and adorned her adultery with all the flashy colours and fine 4 oh robe ob os abe abe abe he che ober aoe a oe abe eo cae ere awe oe are wre OTe ore ore Ure INTRODUCTION writing at his disposal. Petrus Borel, the lycanthrope, wrote novels at once unintelligible and vile; the whole band of hangers-on to the chief imitated the example set by him, and sang the praises of the fallen woman in the finest language they could command. It seemed as if French society were composed exclusively of young debauchees, old voluptuaries, and women, young and old, rotten to the marrow. ‘The protests of the more respectable readers and artists were treated with con- tumely, hooted down, characterised as British cant and puritanical hypocrisy, and declared to spring from an impossibility on the part of the protestants to under- stand art or anything connected with it. Gautier, who never swerved from the application of the doctrine, could not possibly remain behind in the race, so his Fortunio, and, in a less degree, his Cleopatra and Candaules, were intended as a declaration of princi- ples, though he had already stated these principles with sufficient clearness and vigour in his AZademaoiselle de Maupin and its startling “ Preface.” Fortunio is in every respect inferior to that celebrated novel, and although Gautier declared that the ‘‘ Incredible Tale,” like the novel, was intended to be and actually was an exposition of Beauty in the highest and purest form, no 5 ALELAEALELAALALLALALL ELA ELA FORTUNIO comparison is possible between the genuine feeling for beauty, albeit too often enveloped in sensuality, which is the characteristic trait of MJademoiselle de Maupin, and the merely sensual and gross, nay, usually coarse and repellent Fortunio. The absurdities and extrava- gances which abound in this tale, and which recall the similar but more talented performances of the senior Dumas in the same line, lack everything that in the works of the latter attracts and retains the reader. The adventures of the hero in Gautier’s absurdity are merely idiotically impossible. The adventures of Monte-Christo are improbable, assuredly, but not wholly wild and devoid of a shade of possibility. Besides, there is dramatic force and effect in all of Dumas’ work, and there is absolutely none in Fortunio. It is so painfully plain that the author desires to startle, shock, and irritate decency and common-sense, that he ends by failing in his purpose. He actually wearies one, though it must be owned that this is truer of the foreign reader and of the more refined French public than of the mass of devourers of light literature, For- tunio, as has been stated, being still one of the most popular of Gautier’s books, and even very modern critics still expressing admiration for it. 6 BLELALALLALLALALALLALALELS INTRODUCTION Most of the performances of Fortunio are childishly ridiculous, where they are not low and disgusting. The description of the orgy with which the book begins, and in which Gautier evidently revels, may have pleased the Romanticists of his day, but it is merely sickening now. Neither art nor beauty in any form redeems this passage from wearisomeness. Nay, more: it is Gautier’s evident intention to amaze his reader by a description of the most splendid luxury and to impress on the contemned Jdourgeois the fact that a Romanticist is intimately acquainted with all the details of the most refined wealth and taste. He simply suc- ceeds in proving that he, like Hugo, his master and exemplar, is one of the most thorough-paced bourgeois that ever gaped in amazement and surprise at scenes that offer, in reality, neither real splendour nor real artistic interest. Next to this motive — the stupefying of the average reader and the insistent proclamation of the doctrine of “Art for art’s sake,””—the most striking feature of the work is the additional proof it affords of the contempt of the Romanticists for woman. ‘They looked upon her as merely a plaything destined to satisfy the carnal lusts of their heroes —and possibly ENS EES aE NESE ESET EE ee Lheebdeteetetteebebtt teeters FORTUNIO themselves — or to play the part of an ornament in a room or at a feast, exactly like the vases and golden cups they are so fond of piling on tables and side-boards. In most of the Romanticist dramas and novels — with the exception, already noted, of Lamartine and Vigny — the part played by woman is that assigned to her in the East: that of ministering to the sensual satisfaction of man. In the whole range of that form of the litera- ture of France, there are but few examples of female characters treated sympathetically and reverently. The wretched beings upon whom Gautier lavishes all the skill of an artist, are wholly contemptible, and not even his assertion, borrowed from Hugo, that the love Musi- dora feels for Fortunio suffices to wash away all her sins and to transform her into a pure and honourable woman, not all his casuistry can reconcile the reader to the acceptance of that character as that of a woman, any more than Hugo’s magic verse accomplishes the same purpose in his Marion de Lorme. ‘The tale is deliberately meant to be astonishingly immoral and im- proper, and yet it utterly fails of its purpose. It is simply absurd. The reader feels that there is beauty in the words, in occasional suggestions, but as for admiring the characters or being in the slightest degree 8 tt¢¢eteettbtttettttete ttt IN VRGOD WU CT ION influenced to evil by the pranks of the extremely inane. Fortunio, he knows himself entirely safe from any such temptation. The other two tales, One of Cleopatra’s Nights and King Candaules, are both infinitely superior to For- tunio. In both, Gautier has sought a sensual subject in order to apply once more his doctrine of Art, but in these two cases, and especially in the latter, genuine feeling for beauty and for the dramatic have swamped the merely gross side of the subject. The exotic has helped Gautier; an archeologist might find reason to differ with him and to criticise some of the details, but the general effect of the two tales is dis- tinctly strong and interesting. ‘There is a story — there is practically none in Fortunio; there is a drama, and a bloody one, quite in keeping with the manners of the times described; there are force and power, both of which are lacking in the other work; there is con- sistency in the characters of Cleopatra and of Nyssia. Indeed, in the latter there is a glimpse of a higher ideal of woman; of a woman to whom chastity and self- respect mean something, and who is the more attrac- tive on that account. ‘There is some analysis of senti- ments and motives; not very deep, no doubt, but more 7 LEEAKALEAEALLALLALAAALA LLL ELLE FORTUNIO than one meets with usually in the works of Romanti- cist writers. Gautier’s love of plastic beauty, his fondness for spectacular pomp, his enjoyment of the vast, the mighty, the huge, the colossal, his passionate love of colour in its most dazzling as well as in its most delicate manifestations, combine in these two tales to enchant and delight the reader. Here is no mere bal- derdash, no absurd attempt to amaze the profanum vul- gus, whom he hates so cordially, but an artistic and dramatic representation of scenes from long vanished civilisations, from realms of tradition and legend, in which the imagination may freely indulge in its wildest flights, and yet is more under control because the desire to be archeologically accurate and to prove that a Romanticist can be reliably erudite checks the excesses in which Gautier has previously revelled. Fortunio was published serially in /e Figaro, from May 23 to July 24, 1837. It then bore the title ! Eldorado, and the name was changed only on the publication in book form in 1838. Another edition appeared in 1840, and in 1845 it was included in the Nouvelles, of which it has ever since formed part. One of Cleopatra’s Nights was written for la Presse, 1 fe) LLALEALALALASASS LALA ALS LNT N@sD UC T LON in which it was published in instalments from Nov- ember 29 to December 6, 1838. It is not prob- able that the subject was suggested to Gautier by the Ruy Blas of Victor Hugo, though the general drift is similar, and Gautier no doubt had talked Ruy Blas over with his great chief. In the original draft of the tale, Gautier introduced a verse from Hugo’s drama, which he excised later when the story was included in the Nouvelles. As for King Candaules, it is later in date, appearing in /a Presse from Octo- ber 1 to 5 in the year 1844, and being subsequently included in the same volume as the other two tales here given. It is enthusiastically lauded by Victor Hugo in a letter to the author, dated October 4, 1844, and reproduced by the Vicomte de Spoelberch de Lovenjoul in his admirable Histoire des ceuvres de Théophile Gautier, to which the editor is indebted for the bibliographical details of Gautier’s works. BL 5 ay dea Tp igre AN Md 1 ie e et in fig ¥ « asi 4 a _ : YY o> iv Wan. yi) Fortunio Py Cl att ‘ \ w/e af Pee 0p [ caret) Wea bebebettettetttetkdetedetds I EORGE was entertaining his friends at supper. Not all of them, for they num- bered two or three thousand, but a few of the lions and tigers of his private menagerie. His suppers were so famous for their brilliancy, elegance, and delicate sensuality, that it was considered a piece of luck to be invited to them; but it was difficult to obtain the favour, and few could boast of having their names habitually inscribed on the list of fortunate ones. A man had to be a very high liver indeed, tried by fire and water, before he could be admitted into the sanctuary. As for the women, the conditions were still harder, —the most perfect beauty, the most refined corruption, and not more than twenty years of age. Hence it will be readily supposed that there were not many women at George’s supper, although the second condition is apparently easy enough to fulfil. There were four I5 ee che che oe ob obs che abe che be che he che afe he che che che che che abe abe he abe abe FORTUNIO that evening, four superb, thorough-bred creatures, half angels, half devils, with hearts of steel in breasts of marble, miniature Cleopatras and Imperias, the most delightful monsters imaginable. Although there was every possible reason why the supper should be exceedingly gay, it was, on the con- trary, rather dull. Pleasant fellows, excellent cookery, very old wines, very young women, candles enough to deaden the noonday light,—all the elements which usually go to make up human enjoyment were com- bined in proportions rarely met with, yet a shadow of dulness had fallen upon every brow; George himself found it difficult to conceal a feeling of disappointment and annoyance which his guests seemed to share. The party had sat down to table on leaving the Bouffes, that is, at about midnight. A magnificent clock by Boulle, placed upon a pedestal inlaid with tortoise-shell, was about to strike one o’clock, and vet the guests had only just taken their seats. An empty chair denoted that some one had failed to come, and so the supper had begun with the unpleasant sen- sation of disappointed expectation, and dishes which were no longer at their best; for it is with cookery as with love, there is a moment that never recurs, and 16 kebeeketereebetedttttttttst FORT UNIO which it is extremely difficult to seize upon. The absentee must unquestionably have been very highly thought of by the company, for George, who was a gourmand after the manner of Apicius, would not have waited fifteen minutes for a couple of princes. Musidora, the most piquant of the four deities, uttered a soft sigh like the cooing of a sick dove, which meant, “I am going to spend a gloomy evening and to be horribly bored. ‘The party has started wrong, and these young fellows look like undertakers.” “¢ Heaven blast me!” said George, breaking between his fingers a very costly Venetian glass, bell-shaped on a spiral stem rayed with milky lines. ‘The broken glass scattered over the cloth, in lieu of dew, a few drops of old Rhine wine more precious than Orient pearls ; “it is one o’clock and that confounded Fortunio is not here! ” The handsome girl was seated by the empty place intended for Fortunio, so was completely alone on that side. [he seat had been reserved for Fortunio as a place of honour, for Musidora belonged to the highest ranks of the aristocracy of beauty, and she certainly lacked only a sceptre to be a queen. Possibly she might have obtained it in a poetic age, or in those fabulous 2 17 tetebebedcetettttttttttes FORTUNIO days when kings married shepherdesses. It is not quite certain, either, that Musidora would have accepted a constitutional monarch. She appeared not to be en- joying herself; she had even yawned once or twice quite openly. She cared for no one among the guests, and her self-love not being interested, she remained cold and gloomy as if she had been alone. Until Fortunio turns up, let us cast a glance over the room and the guests. ‘The room itself has a rich and splendid air. ‘The walls are wainscotted in oak set off by dull gold arabesques. A richly carved cornice, supported by children and monsters, runs around the room. ‘The ceiling is formed of cross beams covered with ornaments and carvings, and upon the golden background of the compartments have been painted female faces in the Gothic taste, but with more free- dom and grace of manner. Between the windows are placed sideboards and tables in antique breccia sup- ported by silver dolphins with gilded eyes and fins, whose twisted tails form capricious volutes. The side- boards are laden with silver plate engraved with coats of arms, and flagons of strange shapes holding curious liqueurs. Full, thick curtains of orange-red velvet hang before the stained-glass windows, which are pro- 18 kkbeetetetcettetettttettttes FORTUNIO vided with triple shutters to prevent any noise from outside being heard within, or from within being heard outside. A great mantelpiece of carved wood fills up the end of the room. ‘Two caryatids with jut- ting breasts and swelling hips, their long hair falling in waves, two living figures worthy of Jean Goujon or Germain Pilon, support on their shoulders a trans- verse shelf delicately carved and covered with foliage, the finish of which is admirable. * Above, a bevelled Venetian mirror, very narrow and placed horizontally, sparkles within a magnificent frame. A perfect forest is flaming within the vast chimney, lined with white marble, with two great bronze dragons, their wings provided with claws, for andirons. “Three chandeliers of rock crystal covered with wax tapers hang from the ceiling like bunches of a miraculous vine. “Twelve candelabra in gilt bronze, in the form of slaves’ arms, spring from the wainscotting, each holding in its fist a bouquet of strange flowers whence white tapers issue like lighted pistils; to cap this splendour, and by way of ornaments above the doors, four fabulously beautiful Titians with all their glow of passion, all their wealth of warm golden colour, Venuses and mis- tresses of princes, proudly enthroned in their divine rg LLELEALLAALALLALLLLLL ALS we of one ots awe wre oy FORTUNIO nudity in the red shadow of curtains, smiling with the self-satisfaction of women who are sure of being eternally beautiful. Count George prized these paintings highly, and he would have given away twenty-five dining-rooms such as the one I have just described rather than one of his pictures. In poverty, if poverty could have come to him, he would have pawned his father’s portrait and his mother’s ring, before consenting to sell his beloved Titians. It was the one thing which he possessed of which he was proud. In the centre of this great room, imagine a large table covered with a damask tablecloth with Count George’s coat of arms woven in, with the coronet and motto of his house. A chased centre-piece, represent- ing tiger and crocodile hunts with Indians riding on elephants, plates of Japan or old Sévres china, glasses of all shapes, silver-gilt knives, and all that is nec- essary for drinking and eating delicately and long. Around the table four lost angels, Musidora, Arabella, Phcebe, and Cynthia, charming girls, trained in fatherly fashion by the great George himself and surnamed zn- comparable. Between them six young men, not one of whom was old, contrary to custom, and whose smooth ZO t$ettttitte¢t¢eteteteetetede FORTUNIO and restful faces expressed the indolent security and the patrician self-possession of people who are the happy possessors of two or three hundred thousand a year and the greatest names in France. George, as master of the house, is lying back in a great arm-chair of Cordova leather, the others are on smaller chairs of the shape now called Mazarin, made of ebony and upholstered with cherry and white silk damask of exquisite rarity. The company is served by little naked negroes with plum-coloured trunk hose, necklaces of glass beads and golden armlets and anklets such as are seen in the paintings of Paolo Veronese. ‘These little negroes move around the table with monkey-like agility and help the guests to the costliest wines of France, Hun- gary, Spain, and Italy, contained, not in ignoble bottles, but in beautiful Florentine vases of silver-gilt admirably chased ; yet, in spite of their quickness, they scarcely manage to serve every one rapidly enough. Over all this regal elegance and luxury, over the crystals, bronzes, gilding, a flood of light so brilliant that the least detail is illumined and flames strangely ; a torrent of silver light which leaves no place in shadow save underneath the table, a dazzling atmosphere rayed 21 ALALALAALEALLLALLLALL LAL LAL ALLS FORTUNIO by iris and prismatic beams which might dull less glori- ous eyes and diamonds than those of the incomparable Musidora, Arabella, Phoebe, and Cynthia. On George’s right, next to Fortunio’s empty chair, is seated Musidora, the beauty with the sea-green eyes. She is at most eighteen years of age. Never has im- agination dreamed of a more suave and chaste ideal. She might be mistaken for a living vignette from Thomas Moore’s “ Loves of the Angels,”’ so limpid and diaphanous is she, and she appears rather to illu- mine than to be illumined herself. Her hair, so fair that it melts into the transparent tones of her skin, falls upon her shoulders in lustrous curls. A simple band of pearls, something between a frontlet and a tiara, keeps the two golden waves which fall on either side of her brow from scattering and meeting. Her hair is so fine and silky that the least breath lifts it and makes it wave. A dress of a very pale green colour figured with silver sets off the ideal whiteness of her bosom and her bare arms, round which twist two bracelets in the form of emerald serpents with diamond eyes, painfully realistic. These form her sole orna- ments. Her pale face, which exhibits inexpressible youth in its heyday, is of the highest type of English 22 btbeebettbetetttttttetetes FORTUNIO beauty. A light down, like the bloom of a fruit, softens its delicate contours, and the flesh is so delicate that the light penetrates and illumines it within. ‘That divinely pale oval face, with the two masses of fair hair, the eyes moist with vaporous languor, and the child-like mouth with its moist lustre, has an air of modest mel- ancholy and plaintive resignation very remarkable on such an occasion. To look at Musidora, one would think she was a statue of Modesty placed by chance in a house of ill-fame. But with a little care one notes certain less angelic glances, and at the corner of the tender rosy mouth shows now and then the tip of the serpent’s tongue ; yellow gleams irradiate the limpid eyes like golden veins in antique marble, and impart to the glance a soft cruelty characteristic of the courtesan and the kitten. At times the brows are feverishly agitated by deep, repressed ardour, and the eyes are filled with moist light as if a tear spread without overflowing. The lovely girl sits with one arm hanging down, the other outstretched on the table, her lips half-parted, her full glass before her, her glance wandering around. She is borne down by that immeasurable weariness known to those only who have very early gone to =a) FORTUNTO excess in everything, and as far as Musidora is con- cerned, there is no novelty left save in virtue. “Come, Musidora,” said George, “you are not drinking.’”’ And taking the glass which she had not yet touched, he put it to her lips, and pressing it against her teeth, he poured the liquor drop by drop into her mouth. Musidora allowed him to do so with the utmost indifference. “Do not torment her, George,” said Phoebe, half rising ; “¢ when she is in one of her sad fits you cannot get a word out of her.”’ ““ By Jove!” replied George, putting down the glass ; “Tf she will neither drink nor speak, I shall kiss her, so that she shall not be wholly unsociable.” Musidora turned her head away so quickly that George’s lips merely touched her earring. “Oh,” said George, “‘ Musidora is becoming mon- strously virtuous. Soon she will allow no one to kiss her but her lover, — and yet I had taught her the very best of principles. Musidora virtuous and Fortunio absent! that makes a pretty poor supper.” Since the much wished-for Fortunio has not yet arrived, and I cannot begin my story without him, I shall ask the reader’s permission to sketch the portraits 24 tteteetbreeeetcetetettteretee of Musidora’s companions, much in the way in which one hands a book of engravings or of sketches to a person who has to wait. Fortunio, who shall, if you please, be the hero of this tale, is a young man usually very punctual, and some important reason must have delayed him and kept him at home. Phoebe resembles Apollo’s sister, save as regards chastity, and that is why she has assumed the name, which strikes her as both a madrigal and a piece of irony. She is of tall, willowy stature, and in her port has something of the warlike pride of the huntress of antiquity. Her delicate nose, with its rosy, sensual nostrils runs into her brow almost without a change. Her long, slender eyebrows, her narrow eyelids, her round, well-shaped mouth, her slightly curved chin make her closely resemble a Greek medal. She wears a costume piquant in its originality: a dress of silver brocade cut in the shape of a tunic and held on the shoulders by large cameos, silk stockings of the utmost fineness flushed with the rosiness of the flesh, and shoes of white satin, which with their crossed ties closely imitate cothurns. A crescent of diamonds fixed in her hair as black as night and a necklace of stars complete her costume. 25 LLAELEALLALLLLALALALAL ALLS FORTUNIO Phoebe is Musidora’s dearest friend, or rather her dearest foe. Cynthia, enthroned at one end of the table between two handsome young fellows, one of whom is her ex- lover and the other her coming lover, is a regular, serious Roman beauty. She has nothing of the sprightly grace and the ever evident coquetry of Parisian women. She is beautiful, she knows it, and rests tranquil in the consciousness of her all-powerful charms, like a warrior who has never been defeated. She breathes slowly and regularly, much like a sleeping child; her gestures are simple and quiet, her movements few and rhythmical. At this moment she is leaning her chin upon the back of her wondrously shapely white hand, her little finger capriciously turned up, and the turn of her wrist and the pose of her arm recalling the fine, mannered poses admired in the paintings of the old masters. The black hair with blue reflections, separated in simple bandeaux, shows the little white ears which have never been pierced and stand out a little from the head like those of Greek statues. Warm brown tones soften the transition between the deep black of her hair and the rich pallor of her brow. Some light hairs on the temples diminish the stiffness of her clearly 26 HLEEAL ALE LHASA AALS Lest FORTUNIO arched brows, and golden tones which increase in intensity as they ascend towards the back of the neck, gild it harmoniously and show off richly in the supple, firm flesh the three lovely folds of Venus’ necklace. Her firm, mat shoulders look like the marble which Canova washed with water saturated with oxide of iron to soften its dazzling crudity and to remove the shine of the polish. Cleomenes’ chisel never produced any- thing more perfect, and the most exquisite contours caressed by art are as nothing by the side of this magnificent reality. When she wants to look to one side, she does so without turning her head, by turning her eyes alone, so that the blue crystal, brightened by a broader glance, is illumined with unctuous brilliancy indescribable in its effect. “[hen, when she has seen, she brings her dark eyes slowly back to their place, without interfering with the immobility of her marble mask. In the pride of her beauty, Cynthia rejects all dress as an unworthy artifice. She has but two gowns, one of black velvet, the other of white watered silk. She never wears collars or earrings, not even a finger-ring. What ring, what collar, could possibly be worth as much as the spot they would cover. One day she 27 ebbeb ch bbc hab bbe ch check checbece oh heck FORTUNIO replied with Cornelian pride to a woman who had asked to see her dresses and gems, and who, astonished at this excessive simplicity, inquired how she dressed on gala days and ceremonies: “I take off my gown and take out my comb.” That evening she was in demi-toilette, wearing her black velvet dress next to the skin without a chemise or a corset. As for Arabella, I scarce know what to say of her, save that she was a charming woman. Supreme grace- fulness marked her every motion. Her gestures were so soft, so harmonious, that they were rhythmic and musical. She was a Parisian of Parisians. She could not be called beautiful exactly, and yet there was about her such an exciting zest, so highly spiced with airs and graces and manners peculiar to herself, that her. lovers themselves would have maintained that there was no woman on earth so perfect in beauty. Her somewhat capricious nose, eyes not very large but sparkling with wit, a slightly sensual mouth, pale rosy cheeks framed in by silky brown hair, composed the most adorably saucy face imaginable. For the rest, she had small feet, slender hands, a well shaped figure, neat, well turned ankles and wrists, — every mark of 28 bb bbb bbs bbb bbb baht FORTUNIO being thorough-bred. I will spare you the description of her dress. You must be satisfied with knowing that she was dressed in the fashion of to-morrow. “Come! there is no doubt that Fortunio is playing > us false,” cried the host, swallowing a deep draught of Constantia wine. ‘I have a great mind, when I next meet him, to propose that we should cut each others’ throats.” “TI am of your opinion,” said Arabella, “for it is not easy to meet my lord Fortunio. Chance is the only one clever enough to do so. I wanted to meet him, — not to cut his throat, far from it; but I could not find him, though I looked for him in every place where he might be, next in every place where he might not be. I went to the Bois de Boulogne, to the Bouffes, to the Opera, yes, even to church! and no more met Fortunio than if he had never lived. Fortu- nio is not a man, he is a dream.” “¢ What was it that you were in such a hurry to ask of him?” said Musidora, with a lazy glance at Arabella. “ ‘‘'You are talking nonsense,’ replied George gravely. “Where would he put his clothes and his boots? A 30 teteteteétere rarererierie er kbbbh FORTUNIO man must always have a house to put his boots in. Besides, we had supper with Fortunio not long ago, and you were there, unless I am mistaken.” “So I was,” said Alfred; ‘“‘I had forgotten.”’ “¢T was there also,” said Arabella. ‘For the matter of that, his supper was a good deal better than yours, George, although you pique yourself on being an adept in such matters. But it proves nothing, except that Fortunio is the most mysterious of mortals.” ‘¢’ There is nothing mysterious in entertaining twenty people at supper.” ‘“‘ Certainly not, but here is where the mystery lies, I had myself driven to the mansion where Fortunio received us, and no one seemed to know what I was talking about. Fortunio was perfectly unknown there. I set on foot inquiries which at first were fruitless, but at last I managed to find out that a young man whose name was not known, but who was exceed- ingly like him, had purchased the mansion for two hundred thousand francs, which he paid in bank notes, and that as soon as the bargain was struck an army of upholsterers and workmen of all sorts invaded the house and with magical speed placed it in the condition you saw it in. Numerous servants in full livery, a 31 che oho abe abroad ole che ob cto cba ole fe obec t ef; HOR TUNG fe te + i - 1 chef, accompanied by a host of aids and kitchen ser- vants bearing in great covered baskets provisions enough for an army, had arrived no one knows whence the very night of the supper. The next morning everything disappeared, the servants went away just as they had come, and Fortunio walked out not to return. There was left in the mansion only the old janitor to open the windows from time to time and air the rooms.” “© Tf Arabella had drunk water only during the meal, I might perhaps believe what she is telling,” broke in Phoebe, “but her story strikes me as being as crazy and disordered as the globules of champagne which rise to the surface of my glass. She takes us for children, and tells us fairy tales with deplorable seriousness.” “¢ Indeed, you lunatic Phoebe, is that your opinion ? ” cried Arabella, with the dry, sharp tone which women alone know how to take among themselves. “ Yet my tale is a much truer story than many another.” ‘¢ Just let Phoebe talk, and go on,” interrupted Mu- sidora, whose curiosity was at last stirred. ‘“‘T tried every means, — that is to say, I tried the only means with which one may corrupt somebody or something, to corrupt the virtuous dragon of the en- 32 LEELLELELALEALALLALLL ELS FORTUNIO chanted castle. I gave him a great deal of money, but the conscientious rascal, who perhaps was afraid that I should take my money back, could not tell me any- thing simply because he knew nothing, which is an excellent reason for discretion. For the rest, the worthy man, very sorry at not having any secrets to betray, kindly offered to show me the entire house on the chance that I might find something which would enlighten me. I accepted, and preceded by the old fellow, who opened the most secret places, I visited every part with extreme care. I saw nothing which could enlighten my ignorance ; there was not a scrap of paper, not a word, not a number. I went to the dealer who had sold the furniture, and who is one of the most celebrated in Paris. He had not seen For- tunio. It was a middle-aged man, looking like a steward and with the ways of a usurer, who had made every purchase. He did not know him at all other- wise. We had all been the dupes of a hallucination, and we had only thought we had supped with Fortunio.” “‘ This is very strange — very strange — excessively strange,” murmured the elegant Alfred, who for quite a time had not needed a mirror to see double. “ Ha, ha! his creditors must be nicely sold.” 3 33 Sebbbht teehee eh ttt bE tee FORTUNIO “ Nonsense! he has removed somewhere else or gone to the country ; there is nothing mysterious in all that,” said George. “ What is Fortunio? ”’ said Phoebe. “Why, Fortunio is Fortunio,” broke in Alfred. “© What does it matter to you?” “¢ He is a worthy gentleman, the most genuine mar- quis in the world. My father knew his very well indeed. His coat of arms would adorn any carriage,” added George reflectively. ““He is very handsome,” said Cynthia, “ as hand- some as Guido’s Saint Michael in Rome with which I was in love when I was a child.” “No one has finer manners, and besides he is as > witty as Mercutio,”’ continued Arabella. “© He is said to be enormously rich, richer than all the Rothschilds together, and as generous as the mag- nifico in La Fontaine’s tale,’’ put in Phcebe. ‘Then who is the mistress of that happy personage, who seems to have had a fairy godmother?” said Musidora. “No one knows, for to all these virtues Fortunio joins absolute reserve; but certainly it is not one of you, for whichever it was would have shouted it on the 34 thebbbttetetetetttttttttes FORTUNIO housetops,” answered George. “ It shall be you if you like —or if you are able, for Fortunio appears to be very thoroughly protected against the darts of love, and the glances of your cat’s eyes, sharp and burning though they are, do not appear to me likely to find the point of his armour.” ‘A young English peer with six hundred thousand a year blew out his brains on my account,” said Musi- dora disdainfully. ‘Yes, but you may jump over a bridge with your handsomest dress and a brand-new bonnet, before you get Fortunio.”’ “© He is a devil, then, your Fortunio? Never mind; I wager I will make him madly in love with me before six weeks are past.” “If he were only a devil, it would not be so diffi- cult, and you could easily manage to do what you pro- pose. To deceive the devil is child’s play for a woman.” “ Then he is an angel?” “Not an angel, either. But you shall judge for yourself, for the gates of the mansion have just been thrown open, and I hear the sound of a carriage in the court. It must be he. I will wager my dapple-gray oi) FORTUNIO horses against one of your curl-papers, that you will not find a spot as big as a mouse-hole by which you can penetrate into Fortunio’s heart.” ‘¢ In that case, I shall drive to Longchamp in a car- riage and four,” said the girl, joyfully clapping her hands. «© Mr. Fortunio !” called in a shrill voice, which for a moment overcame the buzz of conversation and the clinking of glasses, a tall mulatto in a quaint costume. All heads were suddenly turned in that direction; the meal was suspended. Fortunio walked firmly and quickly towards George’s arm-chair and shook hands with him. “ Ah, good morning, Fortunio! Why the devil are you so late?” “You must pardon me, ladies; I have just come from Venice, where I had been invited to a very bril- liant masked ball at the Princess Fiamma’s. I forgot to tell George when he met me at the Opera and asked me to come to his entertainment. I have scarcely had time to change my clothes.” “Oh! If you go to balls in Venice, I have nothing more to say, but I rather think, Fortunio, that I saw you on the Boulevard de Gand less than a week ago. 36 ttttrttbeettttebbttebttetes PF O;RRE-UIN: LO You are lying like an epitaph or an official newspaper, my young friend.” “ Quite right; I was on the Boulevard de Gand with Marcilly. There is nothing surprising in that.” “Oh! nothing, unless you own Faust’s travelling- cloak, or have found a means to steer balloons or to ride on eagles ; otherwise that ubiquity of yours appears rather improbable to me.”’ “Nonsense !”’ said Fortunio, chinking the money in his purse with a careless gesture, “if you ride this kind of thing you can get on much faster than if you had a hippogriff between your legs. Now I should much like to have a drink. My tongue is dried up for want of liquor. Mercury, bring me the Hercules cup! ” The Hercules cup was a great carved vase as large as the brazen sea supported by twelve oxen, spoken of in the Bible, and which the greatest topers never lifted save with some dismay. “Mercury, pour into that thimble a drop of any kind of liquor, for thirst stifles me as if it were a neck- tie drawn too tight.” Mercury poured from on high, like the pages in Terburg’s paintings, the contents of an antique urn magnificently chased, the handles of which were 37 LKELAEALELLLLAALLALLLALA AAA FORTUNIO formed of two Cupids, trying to embrace each other. Young Fortunio seized the heavy cup with a firm hand and emptied it at a draught. This splendid deed won him universal admiration. ‘“©Oh, Mercury! Is there not some of this cheap wine left in your master’s cellar? I should like to have another cup of it.” Mercury, astounded, hesitated a second, glancing to George to know if he should obey, but George’s eyes, in a mist of intoxication, did not express anything. “Well, you brute! Must I repeat things twice? If I were your master, I would have you skinned alive and hung up by the feet until I could do better for you.” Mercury hastened to take another vase from another sideboard, overset it above the cup, then withdrew with a timid air, and stood at a distance on one foot, looking like a heron in a marsh, awaiting the result with a sort of respectful anxiety. Worthy Fortunio drained the vast cup with a facil- ity which gave proof of long and patient study as to the best way of imbibing lush, as Master Alcofribas Nasier would say. ““ Now, gentlemen, [ am all ready. I have made up for lost time, and we can sup quietly. Perhaps you 38 $ttet¢te¢e¢etteetetettteteese bE OPRTTGUIIN, LO: thought I came late for fear of having to drink, and entertained the most awful suspicions about my man- ners. Now you must surely consider me as innocent as a three months’ lamb or a boarding-school girl going to her first communion.” ‘©Oh, yes,” said Alfred, “you are as innocent as a robber led to the gibbet.”’ The suggestion of Fortunio to sup quietly was ab- surd, for certainly nothing was more impossible. Jupi- ter might have come through the ceiling with his eagle and his thunderbolts, and no one would have paid any attention to him. Musidora was about the only one who appeared to have kept her senses. Fortunio’s presence had aroused her from her torpor; she was as wide awake as an adder that has long been teased with a straw. Her green eyes sparkled strangely, her nostrils swelled, the mali- cious corners of her mouth were drawn up, she no longer leaned against the cushion in her arm-chair, she sat upright like a horseman standing in his stirrups about to strike and making sure of his blow. George’s dapple-gray horses were trotting and prancing in her mind, and she saw herself already lying back on the cushions of the carriage, raising the fashion- 39 Lebbbhbb bbe bebbhbbebeeste FORTUNIO able dust of the Bois de Boulogne with her whirling wheels. Besides, Fortunio alone took her fancy quite as much as George’s four horses, and the equipage was now secondary in importance to the perilous conquest which she was attempting. She sought within her arsenal for the most murderous glance, the most amor- ously victorious smile to address to him and pierce his heart. Until the moment came for a deadly blow she kept watching Fortunio with deep attention concealed under an appearance of trifling. She observed his every motion, she surrounded him with lines of circum- vallation, and tried to enclose him within a network of coquetry. For Fortunio was the living type of the virile ideal dreamed of by women, and which men un- fortunately realise so rarely, preferring, as they do, to abuse the permission which they have of being ugly. Fortunio seems to be not more than twenty-four years of age. He is of middle stature, well set-up, thorough-bred, and vigorous-looking, with a gentle, resolute look, broad shoulders, delicate hands and feet, a mixture of grace and strength irresistibly effective. His movements are as velvety as those of a young jaguar, and under their nonchalant slowness, prodigious 40 cheb oh heh oh ch ok dh ch cbc obec cb ch babe cheb FORTUNIO vivacity and quickness make themselves felt. His head is of the purest type of Southern beauty, rather Spanish than French, rather Arab than Spanish in character. No artist could draw a more perfect oval than that of his face. His well-shaped nose, slightly aquiline and clean cut, relieves the fem- inine purity of the other features and gives him something of a proud look. Velvety black eyebrows, turning bluish at the ends, show clean above his long eyelids, which look as if coloured with £oh/, after the Oriental fashion. Through a singular chance the pupils of his brilliant eyes are of a celestial blue as brilliant as the azure of a mountain tarn; impercepti- ble brown lines ring them and set off their diamond- like brilliancy. His mouth has the vivid, moist rosiness becoming very rare indeed, which 1s a sign of richness of blood. The somewhat thick lower lip is full of voluptuous ardour; the upper, finer, narrower, some- what drawn in at the ends with an expression of humorous disdain tempered by the kindliness of the rest of the face, denotes resolution and great power of will. A moustache that does not seem to have been often cut, shadows the angles of the mouth with soft, silky hair. The delicately rounded chin, with a 41 tetbbbbebtbtttebbbtdded kd FOR TUN EO dimple in the centre, runs by a powerful line into an athletic neck,—the neck of a young bull that has never known the yoke. ‘The brow, though not as high and broad as that of a fashionable poet, is nevertheless handsome and broad; the temples are smooth, and the parts over which the hair usually falls have a satin-like sheen. The tone of the brow is fairer than that of the face, tanned by a sun more brilliant than ours with a warm, golden tone, under which show rosy and bluish tints whose bloom revives the somewhat swart dryness of the rich, warm tone beloved of artists. Hair as black as a crow’s lustrous wing, long, and slightly curled, falls around the pale face in happy disorder. ‘The ear is small and colour- less, and seems to have been pierced. So far as the hideous modern costume enables one to judge, his frame is admirably proportioned ; his limbs round and vigorous, muscles of steel covered with a velvety skin, something like the Indian Bacchus in the Museum of Antiquities, which in its harmonious per- fection rivals the Venus of Milo herself, for there is nothing on earth so beautiful as grace united to strength. Under the dazzling whiteness of his shirt front one feels there is a broad, powerful chest, solid and polished 42 PALL ALALALLALLLALLLAEAL LES FORTUNIO like marble, on which it must be delightful for a woman to rest her head. Arms modelled as beautifully as those of Antinots, ending in hands inimitable in their perfection, can be guessed at through the close-fitting sleeve. As for the rest of the costume, I shall not describe it, for the description of a modern sack coat and pair of trousers would make bolder men than [ draw back with horror. But you can imagine what it is by recall- ing the masterpieces of the best tailors in Paris, which you have admired on some dandy at a concert, at the promenade, or elsewhere; then you must mentally add a divine elegance, a certain aristocratic and nonchalant carelessness, a modesty full of assurance and self- possession, a careless grace, manners which you have never certainly seen in any dandy: also, on the first finger of the left hand a huge diamond fine enough to rival the Regent and the Sancy diamonds, casting to right and left a blaze of light. Musidora was a prey to the most violent emotion, although apparently she was quite at her ease. Until then she had been kept from loving by a delicate in- stinct, a deep feeling for beauty ; amid her mad cour- tesan’s life she had remained in perfect ignorance of 43 FORT UNI@ passion. Her senses, excited too early, were dulled, and all the intrigues she began or broke off so easily were dictated by interest or mere fancy. As is the case with all women who have known many men, the sex in- spired her with deep disgust. Dainty Musidora thought all men thoroughly despicable, and also exceedingly ugly. Their exterior did not please her any more than their minds. Insignificant or deformed, earthy or apo- plectic, with bilious or blotched faces, blue when shaved, marked with deep wrinkles, rough wild hair, muscular, hairy arms did not charm her. ‘The excessive delicacy of her temperament made her feel these defects much more keenly; a man who was but a man to robust Cynthia seemed a wild boar to her. Although Mu- sidora was eighteen, she was not really a woman, she was not even a girl, she was a child, utterly cor- rupt, it is true, and concealing within her frail form hyperdiabolical wickedness. With her candid air, she would have duped cardinals and tricked Talleyrand. She therefore had remarkable advantages over her rivals, for her well-known indifference and coldness were a sort of virginity which any one would have been glad to take from her. She had the art of creat- ing obstacles and irritating desire by erecting a barrier 44 FORTUNIO against it. She was less fortunate this time, however, in her attempts at seduction. In spite of her kitten- like airs and her pretty manners, Fortunio paid her only just as much attention as a well-bred man does to any woman sitting near him; that is, the meaningless semi- familiar attentions which one indulges in with a pretty woman. Musidora did her best to draw him into more tender conversation and some of those rather warmly gallant phrases which may be taken at a pinch for a confes- sion, or even for a plain declaration of love; but Fortunio, like a sly fish, wisely played around the net, and did not enter it. He replied evasively to Musidora’s insinuating questions, and at the very’ moment when she thought she had him, would break away with an unexpected joke. She tried every pos- sible plan, made false confidences to him in order to obtain real ones, questioned him about his travels, his life, and his tastes. Fortunio drank, ate, laughed, said yes or no, and slipped between her fingers more fluid and more difficult to retain than quicksilver. “Why, George!” said Musidora, bending towards him, “this man is like a porcupine. I do not know how to take him.’’ 45 KLAKKKEL LESS AAA LAE e tse FORTUNIO “Take care not to spit your heart on one of his quills, my queenlet,” replied George. ‘© What life has he led? what is he made of ?”’ said Musidora, troubled. “The devil knows,”’ replied George, with a shrug of the shoulders full of meaning. |» “ Fortunio! Fortunio!” cried Arabella, rising at the other end of the table; ‘* When am I going to get your Chinese princess’s slippers?” ‘They are in your room, fair lady, carefully placed on the tiger skin which you use for a carpet.” ‘¢ Nonsense, Fortunio! you have never entered my bedroom, and last night there were certainly no slippers at the foot of my bed.” “‘ Probably you did not look carefully. I assure you they are there,” said Fortunio, imbibing a deep draught of wine. Arabella smiled incredulously. > ‘Ts it true,” said Musidora, with childish coquetry, “that these slippers were given to you by a Chinese princess ?”’ “J think so,” replied Fortunio. ‘She was called Yu Tsu. A lovely girl! She had a silver ring in her nostrils and her brow was covered with gold plates. I 46 _—=— LKEALAALLALLPLALEALLE LAL LE LS PORT UNIO wrote madrigals for her, in which I told her that she had a jade-like skin and eyes like willow leaves.” “© Was she prettier than I?” broke in Musidora, looking towards Fortunio as if to make the comparison easier. 7 “Tt depends. ‘She had small wrinkled eyes turned up at the corners, a flat nose, and red teeth.” “Oh, the monster! she must have been hideous.”’ “Not at all; she passed for an incomparable beauty. All the mandarins were madly in love with her.” “¢ And were you?”’ said Musidora, piqued. “She adored me, and I let her do so.”’ “¢ Mr. Fortunio, either you are amazingly conceited or else you are making fun of us. You bought the slippers in some curiosity shop.” “¢T swear to you I did not. You ask questions and I answer them. As for the slippers, they were not bought. Besides, who has not gone to China some time or another? Won’t you have some of this sherry? It is excellent.” “¢ Pass me your glass,”’ said Musidora with a graceful smile. Fortunio held it out to her without being astonished at so signal a favour. Musidora carried to her lips the side which Fortunio’s mouth had touched. 47 When she had drunk, he filled and emptied the glass very quietly, as if a young and lovely woman had not just touched it familiarly with her pretty, rosy lips. Musidora did not give up the game, but by a clever movement threw off her satin slipper and put her foot on Fortunio’s. Her silk stockihg, more tenuous than a cobweb, enabled the perfection and the ivory polish of this Cinderella-like foot to be felt in full. “Don’t you think, Fortunio, I could put on your princess’s slippers ? ” said Musidora, her cheeks burning as she lightly pressed Fortunio’s foot with her own. “They would be too large for you,” quietly replied Fortunio, and he went on drinking without further ceremony. This might have passed for a compliment but for Fortunio’s indifferent air, so Musidora did not look upon it as a favourable omen. Seeing that her efforts were in vain, she changed her plan, affected indiffer- ence, — without, however, taking away her foot, — and talked with George. Her coldness was no more successful than her coquetry had been. Fortunio spoke to her at long intervals only, as if to discharge a duty. Musidora thought she noticed that Fortunio was slightly pressing her knee, but she soon found out her mistake. 48 che ah oe ah oe fe be ae che he cde cde che cb ob che ob cde abe be dee FORTUNIO While this business was going on, I need not say that the rest of the company were drinking heavily and indulging in the most gigantic bacchanal imaginable. The fashionable Alfred called for the heads of tyrants and the abolition of the slave trade, to the great amaze- ment of the negro waiters, astounded at such sudden philanthropy ; two of the gentlemen had suddenly slipped from their chairs under the table and were snoring like priests in church; the others were warbling and shrieking something or another in most lamenta- ble and funereal fashion, an agreeable occupation which they interrupted from time to time to relate to themselves their own successes, for no one was fit to listen. The women, who had resisted longer, were at last being drawn into the whirlpool. Arabella was so tipsy that she forgot to be coquettish; Phoebe, her two elbows on the table, was gazing with stupid fixity at one of the figures of the centre-piece which she did not see. As for the Roman, she was wonder- ful in her placid peace. She was gently wagging her head and seemed to beat time to music that she alone could hear; an idle smile played upon her half-opened lips like a bird over a rose, and her long dark lashes 4 49 LEE LL bbb bbb bbb bt FORTUNIO and black eyes cast a deep shadow over her rosy cheeks. Her two hands were placed one upon the other like those of the Roman woman in Ingres’ mag- nificent portrait, and her striking calm was in marked contrast with the general turbulence. As for Musidora, the drop of sherry was beginning to go to her head. Her brow was pearly with a slight perspiration, fatigue overcame her in spite of herself, the little golden dust of sleep began to roll in her eyes ; she dozed off like a little bird that feels warm in its downy nest. From time to time she half opened her lovely eyelids to look at Fortunio, whose splendid profile stood out superbly against the background of dazzling light. “Then she closed them, seeing him all the same, for the beginnings of the dreams she in- dulged in were still full of Fortunio. Then she let fall her head like a flower overcharged with dew, mechanically drew over her eyes two or three curls of her beautiful fair hair as if to make a curtain of them, and fell fast asleep. “ Ah!” said George, ‘“ Musidora has tucked her head under her wing. Look. what a lovely mouth she has. She could sleep in the midst of an orchestra of drums. She is very pretty, and yet I prefer my 50 Stetbeebetettttettttetceeed FORTUNIO Titians. Between you and me, Fortunio, I have never loved any one but the beautiful girl who is lying above that door on her bed of red velvet. Just look at her hand, her arm, her shoulder! What won- derful drawing, what vigour of life and colour! ” “Take care, Giorgio carissimo, take care! You worry me, you may get pleurisy if you excite yourself thus. Preserve yourself for the sake of your worthy parents, who want you to be a peer of France and a minister. You are wrong to slander nature, which has its value. You are talking of the shoulder of that painted wo- man? Why, look at Cynthia yonder, who says noth- ing and lets her eyes wander on the ceiling, thinking perhaps of her first love in a little brick house in the Transteverine Quarter, and whose shoulders are finer than those of any Titian in Venice or Spain. Come here, Cynthia, show us your back and bosom, and prove to that fellow George that God is not as unskil- ful as he pretends.” The beautiful Roman woman rose, gravely undid her dress, which slipped down to her waist, and showed a bosom wonderful in its purity of line, and shoulders and arms fit to make a god come down from heaven to kiss them. 51 tibebtbbtrttttdbdbdedbdided FORTUNIO «© Put on your dress, we have seen you enough.” The Roman woman slowly went back to her seat. As for George, he still repeated, “I prefer my ‘Titians.” The candles were burning low; the negroes, worn out, had fallen asleep standing leaning against the wall. The table, so splendidly set, was in the most fright- ful disorder, stained with wine, covered with debris ; the elegant confections were falling to pieces, the mar- vellous dessert of fruit, pineapples and Chili straw- berries, the dishes dressed with such care, all had been destroyed, upset, and wasted; the cloth looked like a battlefield. Yet some of the more obstinate among the guests were still struggling with the despair of unfortunate courage, and tried to overcome drunken- ness and sleep; but they had lost their dash and vigour; they could scarcely make a noise, and were unable even to break the china and the glassware, which is the violent method used to revive a waning orgy. George himself was turning green in a very marked manner, and had just entered that unhealthy period of intoxication when a man begins to talk of morality and to celebrate the charms of virtue. Fortunio alone, still fresh, his eye clear, his lips red, with a calm restfulness 52 ——. like that of a devotee about to go to communion, his mind as free as when he had come in, was playing carelessly with his silver-gilt knife, and appeared ready to begin again. “ Well! ” said Fortunio, “no one drinking! That is poor hospitality. I am as dry as sand after a fort- night’s drought.” An immense bowl of arrack punch was brought in, lighted and blazing, the pretty flames gliding over the surface like around of will-o’-the-wisps. George filled his own glass and Fortunio’s with the blazing liquor, seized the bowl by its pedestal and threw it on the floor, saying with a gesture of ineffable contempt, “ It is better to throw it away than to profane it by giving it to such brutes. Let us cook them alive, since they will not drink. We are justified in doing so, for they are only beasts.” The blazing liquid spread over the floor, and the bluish tongues began to lick the feet of the sleepers and the edges of the tablecloth. The gleam of the improvised conflagration at once flashed through the most carefully closed eyelids, and soon everybody was up—even the worthy gentlemen who had slid down at the beginning of the storm and who would unques- oye) bbb bbb bbe hhh he eeb dhe FORTUNIO tionably have been cooked alive if Mercury the negro and Jupiter the mulatto had not helped them to emerge from the dark subterranean places where they were lying. : “Where is Fortunio?”’ asked Musidora, pushing aside her curls. ‘“¢ Fortunio f ” said George, “‘ he was here just now.” “© He has gone,” said Jupiter, respectfully. ‘© Who knows when we shall see him again? Per- haps he has gone to drink with the Grand Mogul or Prester John. Qlueenlet, I am afraid you will be obliged to go on foot or in a hired carriage like a vir- tuous girl. If you come upon him, you will be mighty lucky.” “ Never mind,” said Musidora, drawing from her bosom a small pocket-book with gold corners; “I have got his pocket-book.” “© Why, you femaled evil! You are a well brought- up girl! Never would ordinary parents have thought of teaching you to steal.” II Musrpora did not awake until about three in the afternoon, which is a very sensible hour. She care- 54 FORTUNIO lessly stretched out her arm towards a silk cord hang- ing near her bed, but her white hand fell back. Musidora’s bed was extremely plain. It in no wise resembled the beds of rich middle-class women, that look like street altars erected for Corpus Christi Day. This bed was as fresh and charming as the interior of a harebell. Curtains of Indian muslin lined with white cashmere hung in cloudy folds from a broad silver rose fixed in the ceiling and fell around an elegant bedstead of very pale citron-wood with ivory feet and inlaid work. Through the sheets of ideally fine, vaporous Holland linen, showed softly the pale rose-coloured mattresses filled with the silkiest of Thibetan wool. ‘That precious wool, probably the real golden fleece that Jason set forth in search of on the ship Argo, seemed scarcely costly enough to Musi- dora for ordinary mattresses. Her devilish pride was inwardly flattered at the thought that her bed held the price of the corruption of twenty honest girls, and that two or three yards of that woven and dyed wool would make the fiercest scruples suddenly yield. A double bolster edged with English point-lace yielded softly under her little head, sunk in its fair curls scattered around her like the water from a naiad’s urn. A white 55 bebe bbbeebeetteettttetes FORTUNIO satin coverlet filled with the costly down which the eider plucks from its wings to warm its dear young was spread over her like a warm fall of snow, and under the folds of the stuff could be faintly seen a charming little slope formed by her half-drawn up knee. That is how the lovely Musidora was bedded. For that single bed, Africa had given its largest elephant tusks, America its costliest wood, Mazulipatam its muslin, Cashmere its wool, Norway its down, France its skill. The whole world had been ransacked, and each corner of it had contributed its highest luxury. It is only courtesans, who have spent their childhood in eating raw apples, who can indulge in such insolently brazen luxury. Heliogabalus and Séguin did not more enjoy soiling gold and making it vile than this frail girl whose name was Musidora. However, the girl’s bed, as I have said, was none the less of the most maidenly simplicity. The rest of the furniture was just as ruinously simple. ‘The walls and the ceiling were hung with white satin relieved with rose and silver cords. A white carpet, thick as the sward strewn with roses that seemed living, covers the rosewood floor. Doors so accurately cut in the hangings that it was difficult to see where they were, 56 che he obs abs abe abe abe abe abe abe abe cbrebe ofl or ae of ole of af fe abe ste ofe FORTUNIO had handles and guards of beautifully cut Irish crystal. The clock was made of a block of Oriental jasper with a dial of inlaid platinum. At the bed head, by way of night light, there was placed upon an elegant table a small red clay Etruscan lamp of the most correct form, with charming drawings of winged chimeras and women at their toilet. A few chairs, the indispensable sofa, and a mosaic table, composed the rest of the furniture. Musidora opened her little mouth as wide as she could without managing to yawn very wide. Her pearly teeth showed like dewdrops within a poppy, and most lovely they looked. Musidora’s yawn was more graceful than any other woman’s smile. She closed her silken eyelashes, lay on her left side, then on her right, and seeing that she could not hope to sleep again, uttered a soft, languidly modulated sigh as full of reverie and thought as a note of Beethoven. For the second time she stretched her arm towards her bell. An unseen door concealed in the wall opened partially, and through the narrow opening glided into the room a tall, well-made girl with a picturesque ban- dana headdress in the Creole fashion. She came on tiptoe to her mistress’s bedside and awaited her orders in silence. 57 kebtttetetettetetttttchtb ths FORTUNIO ‘“¢ Jacintha, draw back the window-shades and help me to sit up.” Jacintha drew aside the heavy curtains. A bright, saucy ray of sunshine burst into the room like a spoiled child, accustomed to be well received every- where on account of his gaiety. “Oh, you wretch! Do you want to blind me and to make me darker than a bear’s nose and the hands of a tight-rope dancer?” moaned Musidora. <“ Put out that dreadful sun quickly. So, that is right. Now beat up my pillows.” Jacintha took two or three, which she beat up and arranged softly behind the back of her voluptuous mistress. “What do you wish next, madam?” said Jacintha, seeing that Musidora did not make the gesture with which she was in the habit of dismissing her. “Tell Jack to bring me my English cat, and have my bath made ready.” The door opened softly, and Jacintha disappeared as she had come in. 58 kkttetbeeetettttbbttttds FORTUNIO Ill I BELIEVE it not out of place to devote a chapter to Musidora’s cat, a charming animal, which is quite as good as the lion of Androcles, Pellisson’s spider, the dog of Montargis, and other virtuous and learned animals whose memory has been preserved by grave historians. It is a common saying, “ Like dog, like master,” and it might be said also, ‘¢ Like cat, like mistress.”’ Musi- dora’s cat was white, fabulously white, whiter than the whitest of swans. Milk, alabaster, snow, whatever has served to make white comparisons since the beginning of the world, would have seemed black by its side. Of the millions of imperceptible hairs which composed its ermine fur, there was not one which did not shine like the purest silver. Imagine a great puff with a pair of eyes in it. Never did the most coquettish and man- nered woman have the perfect grace and finish of movement which this adorable cat exhibited. She un- dulated, arched her back, turned her head, curled her tail, put out and withdrew her paw in the daintiest fashion. Musidora copied her as closely as she could, though she was far from equalling her; yet, imperfect as was the imitation, it had made Musidora one of the 59 LEALLALEALLALALAALLAALALL LAS FORTUNIO most graceful women in Paris, —that is, in the world, for there is nothing here below but Paris. A little negro, dressed in black from head to foot by way of more striking contrast, is charged with the care of this discreet, white creature. He puts her to bed every evening in a cradle of sky-blue satin, and brings her to her mistress in the morning. He is also charged with feeding the cat, combing her, washing her ears, smoothing her moustaches, and putting on her collar, — a collar of genuine, fine pearls of very great price. ‘There are virtuous mortals who will no doubt be indignant that so much luxury should be lavished upon a mere animal, and who will say that it would have been much better to spend the money on bread for the poor. ‘To begin with, people do not give bread to the poor, they give them a sou, and not very often either, for if everybody gave a sou every day, the poor would be richer than nabobs. Then I must ask the worthy philanthropists who distribute economic soup to observe that the existence of Musidora’s cat is just as useful as anything else. First, it pleases Musidora, and prevents her slapping two or three maids a day. Secondly, the little negro, who has nothing to do but to care for this animal 60 BLRELEALELEAPAAALALA LAL LLY FORTUNIO would otherwise be cooking in the West Indian sun, where he would be thrashed from morning to night and from night to morning; instead of which he is well fed, well clothed, and all he has to do is to show black by the side of the white creature. “Thirdly, the charm- ing cat has no greater pleasure than to use her claws upon the interior lining of her little sky-blue boudoir, so that a new one has to be provided pretty much every month, and that is enough to pay for the schooling of the two children of Musidora’s upholsterer; so France will be indebted to that remarkable white cat for a bar- rister and a doctor. Fourthly, three little peasants are earning enough to pay for a man if they should be drawn by the conscription, by catching with lime little birds for the breakfast and dinner of the cat, that would refuse to eat them if they were not alive. The pretty, voluptuous animal, almost as cruel as a woman who is bored, likes to hear her dinner chirping in her stomach, and there is nothing living enough for her. ‘Io my knowledge that is her one defect. As for the collar, it was given to Musidora by a gen- eral of the Empire who stole it in Spain from a black Madonna. It was in the shape of a bracelet. It passed straight from the very white arm of the young 61 AEELEALLALLALALALLALLL ELSA FORTUNIO girl to the whiter neck of the cat. I consider that a pearl collar is much more in its place on the velvety neck of a pretty cat than on the red and skinny neck of an old Englishwoman. All this may appear a digression to some of my readers. | am entirely of their opinion, but without digressions and episodes how could one possibly write a novel or poem, and how could one read either after it is written ? IV Wien the negro had brought the white cat and placed her by his mistress’s side on the snow-white down Musidora, now wide awake, began to remember a cer- tain Fortunio whom she had seen the night before at George’s supper. ‘The features of the beautiful face, made finer by sleep, now showed clearly within her memory. She saw him again, handsome, smiling, and calm in the midst of the dreadful noise, as inaccessible to intoxication as to love. She recalled the wager she had made that she would enter with drums beating and standards flying into the fortress of that impregnable heart before six weeks were out, and that she would warm her feet on the very andirons of that elegant 62 tttbttttettettttettttttttet FORTUNIO vagabond whose real dwelling no one knew. The victoria with its four dapple-gray horses, its postilions in satin jackets, its cracking of whips, and its flash of varnish passed before her eyes like a whirlwind. She clapped her little hands with joy, so sure was she of success. ‘¢ How delightful it will be,” she said, laugh- ing to herself, “to take Fortunio driving in the very carriage he will have helped me to win!” And to begin hostilities, she put her hand under the pillow and drew from it the stolen pocket-book, which she had in vain tried to open the night before. “©] shall manage it,” she said, turning it over in , every possible way. ‘Just imagine a woman feeling there is a secret behind so slight a guard, and not breaking it down. For my part, I would have undone the Gordian knot without needing a sword like that brute Alexander.” Musidora sat up, and with the swiftness of a ferret looking for a hole into which she may insert her sharp nose to reach some preserve full of milk and fresh eggs, began to look for the secret which was to give access to the mysterious pocket-book, wherein, no doubt, she would find valuable information concerning my hero. She felt with her fingers, more delicate than 63 SEEKS AEE SSAA Lee etttsese Be CN ae) the antennz of insects or the horns of a snail, every rib and every rugosity of the leather; one after an- other, she pressed every turquoise and every chryso- prase which studded the two outer surfaces of the pocket-book ; she pressed with all her strength, until she actually bent back her frail, delicate thumb, upon the lock, to overcome the resistance of the spring. She might just as well have tried to open a strong-box banded with steel. She was so intent upon her attempt that a light perspiration began to show upon her delicate brow. It was long since she had worked so hard. At last, despairing of opening the trusty pocket- book, she rang for Jacintha, and called for scissors with which to cut a portion of the cover, and thus manage to withdraw the letters and papers which might be within; but the leather was not even scratched by Musidora’s fine English scissors. It was made of some lizard or serpent-skin tougher than bison or buffalo-skin. The imbricated scales, which Musidora had mistaken for stamped or symmetrical work, pre- vented any cutting of the leather. However, Musidora had touched by chance the spot at which the pocket-book opened. The covers separated with a sharp snap like the click of a jack-in-the-box. 64 che cde abe ol te oh eh che abe ected ocho cde cheb che abe obo The young girl let fall the pocket-book on her lap, expecting to see spring from it an irritated genie as out of the magic jars of Arab tales, or an asp coiled up on its tail, Pandora never gazed in a more fearful attitude at the box of which she had raised the cover, and from which escaped in a dense smoke all the ills that afflict this earth. Yet, seeing that nothing came out, Musidora became reassured and picked up the book to examine it and ascertain what she had discovered. A quaint, exotic, intoxicating perfume, unlike any | known scents, spread through the room and acted vo- luptuously upon the olfactory nerves of the curious beauty. She stopped a moment to breathe in that strange aroma, then plunged her inquisitive fingers into the different parts of the pocket-book, which were made of silvery Chinese silk flushed with gold and greenish tints. The first thing she drew from it was a large flower of curious shape, from which the colour seemed long since to have vanished. It was the Pavetta Indica, of which. Dr. Rumphius speaks in his “ Hortus Mala- baricus.” This gave no very clear information con- cerning my lord Fortunio. 5 65 Next, Musidora pulled out a small tress of blue hair intertwined with gold threads and having at each end a pierced golden sequin. ‘Then a sheet of Japan paper covered with curious characters interlaced like network, on a background of silver flowers. She supposed this to be some plaintive epistle from the Princess Yu Tsu to the Lord Fortunio. Musidora did not quite know what to make of this pocket-book so curiously filled; nevertheless, hoping to come across some more European and intelligible find, she emptied the other two pockets. All she got was a golden needle rusted and reddened at the point, and a small piece of papyrus covered with a great many characters which looked as if they might be in Orien- tal writing. The disappointed girl angrily threw the pocket-book into the very middle of the room. “¢ Alas!” said she, looking with an air of deep com- miseration at her pretty fingers still marked with the useless work imposed upon them, “I shall not have the carriage, I shall not have Fortunio ! — Jacintha, take me to my bath.” Jacintha threw around her mistress a great wrapper of muslin, took her up in her arms and lifted her like a sick child. 66 tebbbteettttttttbttttetes FORTUNIO V Ir Musidora is very much put out, | am even more so, for I reckoned upon that pocket-book to give my readers — may I be forgiven this piece of vanity !— accurate information concerning my mysterious hero. I had hoped that the pocket-book would contain love letters, drafts of tragedies, novels in two volumes or more, or visiting cards at least, as would necessarily be the case with the pocket-book of any well-condi- tioned hero. Cruel, indeed, is my embarrassment. For since Fortunio is the hero of my own choice, it is right that we should be interested in him and wish to know whatever he does. I must speak of him often, he must rise above the other characters and get to the end of my two hundred odd pages, dead or alive. And yet never was a hero more troublesome. You expect him and he does not come; you have got hold of him and he vanishes without a word, instead of making fine speeches and long discourses in poetic prose, as he ought to do in his character of hero of a novel. It is true that he is handsome, but between you and me, I think he is eccentric, as tricky as a monkey, 67 LLLSE ALE See teettet ba bes HORT UNTO full of conceit and caprice, more changeable than the moon, more variable than a chameleon. To these de- fects, which I can still forgive him, he adds that of refusing to speak of his own business to any one, which is unpardonable. He is satisfied with laughing, drinking, and being a well-bred man. He does not discourse of the passions, or of the metaphysics of the heart ; he does not read fashionable novels ; he tells, by way of adventures, of Malay or of Chinese intrigues only, which can in no wise harm the great ladies of the noble Faubourg. He does not roll his eyes at the moon at dessert, and never talks of any actress. In a word, he is a mediocre man who every one, I know not why, insists is witty, and whom I am very sorry to have taken for the principal character in my novel. I have a good mind to drop him. Suppose I were to take George in his place? The latter has the abominable habit of getting tipsy morning and evening and sometimes during the course of the day, and also occasionally at night. What would you say, madam, to a hero that was always drunk and would talk for two hours at a stretch on the difference between the right and the left pinion of a partridge? 68 “ What of Alfred?” “‘ He is too stupid.” “ And de Marcilly ?” “¢ He is not stupid enough.” So, for lack of a better, I shall keep Fortunio, and as soon as I know anything about him, I shall tell it to you. So let us, if you please, enter Musidora’s bath- room. VI Musipora’s bathroom is octagonal in form; the walls are lined half way up with small square tiles of blue and white porcelain. Paintings in light green mono- chrome representing Diana and Calisto, Salmacis and Hermaphrodite, Hylas surrounded by nymphs, Leda surprised by the swan, framed in richly wrought frames with reeds and water plants carved and silvered, are placed above the doors, over which hang chintz por- tires with a tiny flower pattern. Shells, madrepores, and corals ranged along the cornice complete the aquatic decoration. The windows, glazed with azure blue and pale-green glass, shed on this mysterious retreat a soft and voluptu- ously chastened light, so that one might believe one’s 69 abs abe abs abs obs abe abe abe obs abe obs abeale obras obs ole oe obe be ofl ob cbr ole js SO WTO VES WHS wT OK ope we oe oFe xe ac FORTUNIO self in the very palace of an Undine ora naiad. A beautiful bath of white marble supported by gilded claws fills up one end of the room. Opposite is the couch. Musidora has just been brought by Jacintha to the edge of the bath-tub. While two handsome girls plunge their rosy arms into the tepid, smoking water, so as to make sure that the heat is even at the head and the foot, she walks about the room in Turkish fashion on two little pattens, and complains in a dying voice of the slowness and unskilfulness of her people, with as graceful impertinence as a duchess of the proudest times. Finally she draws near the bath lined with linen of exquisite fineness, slightly lifts her small, rounded, and polished leg and dips the tip of her toe into the water. ‘¢ Jacintha, support me!” she says, as she falls back upon the shoulder of her kneeling maid, “I am fainting ! ” Then, in a sharp voice, the dryness of which scarcely matches her soft and affected manner: “So you want to cook me alive, to make me as red as a lobster for a week! Iam quite sure that this evening the skin of my foot will come off with my stocking,” 7O Steetebetretttetettetttes HORT UN LO she adds, speaking to the two maids. “Can you never prepare a bath properly ? ” . The bath was cooled. Musidora then ventured to put in her other leg, knelt down, her arms crossed on her bosom like the antique statues of Modesty, and at last stretched herself out in the water like a serpent compelled to untwist. Then she had some other com- plaint to make: the linen was so coarse it scratched her and marked her back and loins; that was always the way, they always did it on purpose,—she did not know what would come next; ina word, all that bad temper and disappointed curiosity can suggest to a pretty, wilful woman who has never been contradicted once in her life. The soft warmth of the bath, however, seemed to diminish this nervous irritation, and Musidora let her lovely arms float nonchalantly over the water. Some- times she raised them and enjoyed with childish curios- ity seeing the water divide on her skin and roll to the right and to the left in transparent pearls. Jacintha entered and whispered something to Musi- dora. It was to say that Arabella asked to see her. | “Tell her to come in,”’ said Musidora, raising her body so as to bring it from the bottom of the bath to aN ieeeereeeeeteebtttetetest FORTUNYDO the surface, in order that the glance should have to traverse only a thin layer of crystal to see the sub- merged perfections; for she knew that Arabella had said that she was thin, and she was not sorry to give the lie in unmistakable fashion to that statement; for Musidora, by a privilege peculiar to organizations of very strong vitality, was at once very slender and very plump. “Well, you beauty, how are you? ” said Arabella as she kissed Musidora. “Fairly well, my health is improved. For some time past I have been putting on flesh,” and the vin- dictive girl drew herself up still more. The tips of her breasts and one of her knees emerged from the water. ‘©T seem thinner, don’t I, when I am dressed?” she went on, fixing her cat-like eyes on Arabella, who could not help blushing a little. ‘¢ Yes, you are as plump as a little ortolan rolled in lard. ‘That is a charming surprise you keep for your favoured ones. Usually one is deceived in the opposite way. But you do not know what has brought me.” “ No; do you?” said Musidora, smiling. ‘“‘ First, the pleasure of seeing you.” “That is not a sufficient reason.’’ cae bebtebettttttettettttttes FORTUNIO “Well, I have come to tell you of an absurd, un- imaginable, mad, impossible thing which upsets all preconceived notions. If I believed in the devil, I should say it was the devil in person.” “¢ Have you really seen the devil, Arabella? I wish you would introduce him to me since you know him,” said Musidora, with a half-incredulous look. “I have long desired to meet him.” “¢ ‘You remember the Chinese princess’s slippers that Fortunio promised me? Well, I found them, just as he said, on the tiger skin at the foot of my bed. All the doors were closed, and that to my bedroom opens only by a combination which I alone know. Is it not strange? Fortunio is a demon in black coat and white gloves. How did he manage to pass through the key. hole with these slippers?” “© Perhaps you have some secret door, the key te which has been given him by some of your former lov ers,” said Musidora, with a somewhat venomous smile ““No; that room is the one where I keep my dia monds and my jewels. It has but one door, which carefully closed when I left to go to George’s supper. Meanwhile, here are the slippers.” Arabella drew from her bosom two little shoes curi- 13 sh oe oe ols oe be obs oho oe ob chee el abe cba abe be ofl ab abe abe hocks owe we CTO CHO OFS we FORTUNIO ously embroidered with gold thread and pearls, most Chinese in design and the prettiest imaginable. ‘©Why, the pearls are real, and the work is the finest of Eastern work !” said Musidora, examining the slippers. ‘¢It is a much more valuable gift than you fancied. Just look at those two pearls — Cleopatra’s were neither purer nor rounder.” “‘ Fortunio is really Oriental in his magificence, but he is as invisible as an Eastern king; he only shows himself when he chooses. I am afraid, dear Musidora, you will lose your wager.” ““T am greatly afraid of it, too, Arabella. I pre- tended to go to sleep, but I profited by a moment when Fortunio, who did not mistrust me, had his attention called away, to snatch from him his pocket- book, the corner of which showed through his coat. To begin with, the accursed thing would not open, and I spent some two hours in finding the myste- rious sesame which caused the springs to fly back and give up the precious secrets so carefully concealed. But as if Fortunio had guessed my intention, I found only a dried flower, a needle, and two bits of blackened paper covered with the most abominable scrawls. Is it not atrociously derisive ? ”’ 74 KAPHA LE LALA AAAAALL Ses FORTUNIO “¢ May I see the pocket-book ?” said Arabella. “< Yes, if you wish to. I threw it away angrily in my room. Jacintha, go and fetch it.” Jacintha returned with the mysterious pocket-book. Arabella smelled it all over, turned it, examined its every recess, but could discover nothing new. She remained thoughtful for a moment, and then, — “© Musidora,” she said, “I have thought of some- thing. “Those papers must be written in some sort of a language. We ought to goto the Collége de France. There are professors of all sorts of languages there. We shall surely learn from these gentlemen, who are said to be so erudite, the explanation of this riddle.” “Jacintha! Mary! Annette! Come and take me quickly out of this bath where I have been rotting for an hour. I can already feel drops of water growing out of my arms, and my hair is becoming as seaweed- like as that of a marine nymph,” said Musidora, stand- ing up in her bath. The sparkling drops of water, racing over her body, formed, as it were, a net-work of pearls ; she was lovely in that attitude. Her skin lightly touched by the kiss of the air, her long, fair hair falling upon her back and shoulders, her face gently flushed with the humidity of the bath, she looked like 75 ALADLAALALALLALALALAL ELLA? L SSS FORTUNI O a sylph rising with the first moonbeams from the heart of the flower bell where she has taken refuge during the day. The servants hastened up, sponged off her body the last tears of the naiad, enveloped her carefully in a great cashmere wrapper over which they threw a vast Turkish shawl, put her feet into elegant slippers lined with swan’s-down, and Musidora, leaning on the shoul- der of her maid Jacintha, passed into her dressing- room with her friend Arabella. ‘There she was combed and perfumed, she put on a chemise with exquisite Valenciennes lace, she was shod, and every one of her clothes was put on her without her helping herself in the smallest degree. But when the maids had finished, she rose, stood before the mirror, and like a master who adds here and there a touch to the work carried out according to his design, by one of his pupils, she untied a ribbon, gave another form to a fold, passed her slender fingers through the masses of her hair to derange their too exact symme- try, and gave accent, life, and a poetic turn to the colourless work of her women. Thereafter they breakfasted quickly, and Jack an- nounced that the carriage was waiting. 76 HLELAEALELLALALAELAELAAL ALA LALA FORTUNIO We shall not begin the next chapter, and we shall not get into the carriage, without having said how Musidora was dressed. She had on a white India muslin with close-fitting sleeves, a rice-straw hat with a bunch of small flowers ideally delicate and light, a Venetian scarf of black lace gracefully thrown over her shoulders and somewhat drawn in at the waist, setting off admirably the abundance and richness of the folds of the dress, which stretched like marble tubes down to the smallest feet in the world. Add a jet necklace with large beads, mittens of black net, and a small watch thinner than a five-franc piece, suspended by a small silken cord, and you have Musidora’s dress in full, which it is at least as important to be acquainted with as the exact year of the death of the Pharaoh Amenoteph. Vil THE carriage stopped before a house of mean appear- ance in a lonely, deserted street. You know those houses of the last century which have not been touched since they were built, and which the avarice of their owners allows to fall slowly into ruins, their gray walls weather-stained and spotted here and there with bebbtttttttebee dhe PORT Und tkteees te broad splashes of yellow moss like the trunks of old ash-trees. [he substructures are as green as a marsh in springtime, and a special flora might be made of all the herbs which grow on them. ‘The slates on the roof have lost their colour, the wood of the doors is rotting and seems ready to fly into splinters at the least knock. False windows, formerly painted black to resemble panes, the colour of which has run from the second story to the first, show that when the house was built a very poor attempt was made to obtain symmetry. A vane cut out of tin and representing a sportsman firing at a hare, creaks at the angle of the roof and worthily crowns the sumptuous edifice. The groom let down the steps and knocked at the door in such masterly fashion that he nearly broke it in. The janitress, terrified, put her head out of a broken window which she used both as a look-out and asa wicket. Her face was a mingling of snout, jowl, and muzzle. Her nose, of the most violent crimson, and of the shape of a carafe stopper, was studded with brilliant grog-blossoms, adorned with three or four extraordinarily long and stiff white hairs, like the bristles upon the noses of hippopotami, that gave her proboscis the look of a holy-water sprinkler. Her two 78 abe abe abs obs obs obs ole of abe obs abe abel obo obs ole obs obs ote ob ole ole ob ole OFS ote UFO oFe OTS Gee Ghee te Bb in Gan aan ot ye EC cinee, (LAN ©) cheeks, rayed with red lines and marked with yellow blotches, were not unlike two vine-leaves killed by the autumn frost. A staring wall eye showed within its socket like a candle in a cellar. A sort of tusk of doubtful ivory turned up the corner of her upper lip like a boar’s tusk and gave the finishing touch to the charm of her physiognomy. ‘The lappets of her cap, flabby and wrinkled like elephants’ ears, hung down her skinny jowls and formed a suitable frame for the whole. Musidora was very nearly frightened at the sight of this grotesque Medusa, who fixed upon her two dirty- gray, inquisitive eyes. “Ts Mr. V “¢ Certainly, madam, he is; he never goes out except at home? ”’ asked Arabella. to his courses, poor dear man. A very learned man, —no more trouble in the house than a tame mouse. You will find him at the back of the yard, the left hand stair, second story, the door with a hare’s-foot, — you cannot mistake.” Musidora and Arabella crossed the yard, holding up their skirts as if they were walking through a meadow wet with dew. ‘The grass was growing between the paving stones as freely as in the open ground. ite, Sheet eeteetetebetttektese FORTUNIO But, seeing that they hesitated, the horrible Cerberus left her room and advanced towards them, waddling and limping like a wounded shepherd-spider. “<’This way, ladies, this way. ‘This is the path in the centre. This is not a house like republics in which people come and go; and yet it is not more than six weeks since I hurt my hands cutting the grass. Are you relatives of Mr. V ee Musidora shook her head negatively. ‘‘] have heard him say that he had some country relatives who were coming to Paris.” They had now reached Mr. V neither Arabella nor Musidora had answered her, the *s door, and as viscous, sticky beast caught hold of the balustrade and let herself slide grumbling to the foot of the stair, trust- ing to the cleverness of Miss Césarine, the professor’s housekeeper, to obtain fuller information. Arabella pulled at the hare’s-foot. The cracked, shrill tinkling of a bell was heard in the mysterious depths of the apartment, two or three doors were opened and closed in the distance, a dry cough was heard, and a sound of heavy steps drew near. Fora few moments there was a noise of heavy keys and of ironwork, of bolts drawn, of padlocks opened. Then 80 che oe abe abe obo hs che he che cde he check cece obo fo obe ce ab heh FORTUNIO the door, slightly ajar, gave passage to the pointed, inquisitive nose of Miss Césarine, a beauty long past her prime. At the sight of the two young women her face instantly assumed a sour expression, tempered, however, by the respect inspired by the brilliant gold chain which Arabella wore around her neck. “We wish to see Mr. V es The old woman opened the door wide and showed the two beauties into an antechamber which also served as a dining-room. It was hung with jasper- green paper and adorned with framed engravings rep- resenting the four seasons, and a barometer wrapped up in gauze to preserve it from the flies. A white earthenware stove, the pipe of which was carried into the opposite wall, a walnut table, and a few straw- bottomed chairs composed the rest of the furniture. Small, round pieces of waxed cloth were placed oppo- site each chair to save the red colour of the tiling, and a band of carpet ran from the entrance door to the door of the other room, also for the purpose of pre- serving the precious layer of red ochre so carefully waxed and wiped by Césarine. The latter recom- mended the two young women to waik along the car- pet, whereat Musidora smiled, for she was much more 6 SI che obo bo aba aba ctnele boa ol foal toate cle of slo ore te ore FORTUNIO ie ib iP os it th desirous of not soiling her shoes than of not marking the tiling. The second room was a parlour hung with yellow, with furniture of old yellow Utrecht velvet. The worn and polished backs of the chairs testified to long and loyal service. China busts of Voltaire and Rous- seau, a pair of gilt brass candlesticks bearing tapers, and a clock with a group of Time killing Love, or Love killing ‘Time, I really do not know which, adorned the mantelpiece. An oil painting of Mr. V , and one of his wife, — fortunately dead, —in the full dress of 1810, made this room the finest in the apartment, and Césarine herself, overcome with so much magnificence, crossed it only with much internal respect, although for a long time she must have been familiarised with its splendour. The duenna begged the two ladies to be kind enough to wait a few minutes while she informed her master, who was shut up in his study, buried, according to his habit, in learned researches. He was standing before the mantelpiece in an atti- tude of the most intense contemplation. He held between his finger and thumb a small piece of toast, which he was crumbling up from time to time into a $2 ors vie OO WTe ID WIS one oi vie FORTUNIO che cte oe abe oe oe ce ee ode coool obec cde ooo check oe shoo bow] of clear, sparkling water, where played three gold- fish. The bottom of the bowl was filled with fine sand and shells. A ray of light traversed this crystal- line globe, which the motions of the three fishes tinged with burning and changing rainbow-like tints. It was really a very beautiful sight, and a colourist would not have disdained to study the play of light and the bril- liant reflections; but Mr. V paid no attention to the alternate gold, silver, and purple with which the twisting and turning of the fishes coloured the diapha- nous prism in which they were enclosed. “ Césarine,’” said he, with the most serious and the most solemn look, “the big red fellow is too greedy and prevents the others feeding. He will have to be put in a separate bowl.” It was in this important occupation that Mr. V : professor of Chinese and Manchoo, spent regularly three hours a day, carefully shut up in his study as if he were commenting on the precepts of the wisdom of the cele- brated Confucius or the “Treatise on the Breeding of Silkworms.” “ “Tt is Fortunio,” replied Musidora. “Oh!” said George, ‘“ Fortunio! When am I to send you the carriage and horses? [am not surprised now at your disappearance. Well, you have turned your time to good account. You asked for six weeks, and it has taken you a fortnight only to penetrate a mystery which has baffled our sagacity for three years. That is very good! I shall give you a powdered coachman and two grooms into the bargain. I hope that you will now drive us in the carriage which you have so cleverly won, to the royal residence of that sly fox who has always thrown us off the scent.” “T have not seen Fortunio since the night of the ’ supper,” replied Musidora with a sigh, “and I know 104 che obo dace cde ob beable ob abe obo be fe fof wre vte ore Sie we UY we ORTUNIO no more than you do, George, whither his caprice has taken him, —I do not even know whether he is in France. ‘These stones came from the pocket-book which | took from him, as you know. ‘They adorned the covers. Inside I found only a Chinese letter and a Malay song. Fortunio, finding that I had taken his | pocket-book, wrote me a mocking letter in which he asked me to have a bracelet made of the topazes ; — and that is all. Since then I have had no news of him. Perhaps he has gone to join the Chinese princess.” “ That he has not done, little one, for I have twice caught sight of him at the Bois de Boulogne: the first time in the Madrid Drive, the other, at the Maillot Gate. He was riding a devil of a black horse with a long tail and a long mane, of the fiercest look, and was going like acannon ball. I had not yet killed Belle, and you know at what a pace she could go, but by the side of Fortunio’s hippogriff, she was, — for all that concerns the poor brute must now be put in the past tense,—a snail crawling over a stone covered with crushed sugar. Behind Fortunio galloped a little monster with a brown face, eyes bigger than his head, thick lips and flat hair, and dressed in the most eccen- tric fashion in the world, — a nightmare riding a whirl- 105 bhtbbtttttttttbt tt tt dtdst FORTUNIO wind, for the whirlwind alone can go at such a pace. That is all I can tell you about Fortunio. Of course, as you say, he may be in China.” In all George’s talk, Musidora had heard but one thing, — that Fortunio might be met in the Bois de Boulogne. A flash of hope lighted her green eyes, and she addressed George in more friendly fashion. ‘“¢T will give you another month,” said George, kiss- ing her hand. ‘‘ Under other. circumstances, I should have thrust myself on your hospitality; but we are now a girl of principles. Farewell, my infanta, my princess; dream rose-coloured and mother-of-pearl dreams. If I can come across my Lord Fortunio, although it may cost me four horses, I shall send him to you.” With which fine peroration, George went out, not without kissing Jacintha, as he had done on entering. XI Musrpora awoke more joyous than usual. She had her mirror brought, and thought herself pretty, — somewhat pale, her eyes a little heavy, just enough to make her beauty delicately interesting. She said to herself, ‘If Fortunio could see me thus, I should be quite sure of victory.” 106 Stbetetttetteteettttttttee POR UN L® Indeed, she was irresistible. But how are you going to overcome an enemy that flees and refuses to fight ? The weather was rather fine for the season. A few bits of blue showed among the clouds, the wind had dried the roads. Musidora, usually very indifferent to the changes of the weather, and who had not many opportunities of ascertaining whether it was rainy or fine, felt extreme joy at the beauty of the day. She ran through the house with extraordinary vivacity, looking at all the clocks to see what was the time, and at all the vanes to see which way the wind was. Jacintha, her faithful maid, helped her to put on an elegant sky-blue riding habit, a beaver hat with a green veil; a riding whip from Verdier’s and a neatly turned boot, — nothing was wanting. Musidora in that cos- tume had a charmingly resolute and victorious air. Her curls, held in by a light net to resist the action of the wind, fell gracefully down her cheeks; her figure, set off by the close-fitting waist of her habit, showed sup- ple and slight above the ample, rich folds of the skirt ; her foot, naturally so tiny, became imperceptible, im- prisoned as it was in the small boot. Jack announced that her ladyship’s mare was saddled and bridled, whereupon Musidora went down to the 107 oh che oh fe abe oe che oho oe cbs oben cde che oe ob ake de che oe oe ee FORTUNIO yard, and, Jack holding her stirrup, she sprang into the saddle with consummate lightness and skill. Then she touched her animal with the whip and went off like a flash. Jack galloped behind her and had the greatest difficulty in keeping up with her. The long avenue of the Champs-Elysées was soon traversed. Musidora’s mare had not been exercised for some time, and dashed forward impatiently. Although she was going at full speed, her mistress gave her her head and whipped her up. Musidora evidently had a presentiment that she would meet Fortunio that day. The mare, thus urged, galloped even faster, and seemed no longer to touch the ground. ‘The passers-by were amazed at the boldness of the young woman. Some- times a cry of terror broke from a carriage in which a frightened duchess threw herself back as she turned her head not to see the imprudent rider fall and be dashed to pieces; but Musidora was an excellent horsewoman, and sat her mare asif she were made fast to the saddle. At the Maillot Gate she met Alfred, who was re- turning towards Paris. Alfred, surprised, attempted to swing his horse around and to gallop after her in order to declare his love and beg for relief to his sorrows, but 108 be of of aie chs! whe. ote abe abe obs be cleo che obs ols ofr of ore obs che che ofp ole FORTUNIO he did not perform the movement very skilfully, lost a stirrup, and before he had regained his seat, Musidora was out of sight. ““The devil take it!” said he, bringing his horse to a walk, “there is a great chance lost. I shall wait for her at this gate, for it is probable that she will come out this way.” And, for fear of missing her, Alfred stood sentry at the Maillot Gate as motionless as a carbineer on sentry before the Triumphal Arch of the Carrousel. The Bois de Boulogne was still leafless; scarcely a few blades of green grass showed on the detritus of the last season’s leaves; the red stems, sticky with sap, opened like the frames of umbrellas or fans from which the silk had been torn. Although there was no sun, the roads were already as dusty as after a hot summer. The Bois de Boulogne was as ugly as a fashionable wood can be, which is saying not a little. Musidora, not much inclined by nature to pastoral woods, cared very little for the beauty of the prospect. That was not what had brought her to the Bois. She traversed every drive, particularly the Madrid Drive where George had met Fortunio, but in vain. 10g BLADE ALE ALAA ALALE SALAS ESS FORTUNIO “© What is the matter with Musidora?” said a young fellow who saw her passing by at full speed like a shadow carried away by the wind. ‘She is riding madly and leaping the barriers at the risk of breaking her neck. Is she trying to become a circus rider or a jockey ? What mania has suddenly seized upon her? ” Once Musidora thought she saw Fortunio at the corner of a road. She dashed off in pursuit of him with renewed whipping and spurring. Her mare, mad- dened, reared, lashed out twice or thrice, and went off at score. ‘Ihe veins stood out upon her smoking, muscu- lar neck, her flanks were heaving, foam flecked her bridle, and her speed was so great that her mane and tail stood out straight. “© Musidora! ”’? cried George, who was riding in the opposite direction, ‘you will break your mare’s wind.” The girl paid no attention, but continued her mad gallop. She was wonderfully beautiful. The speed at which she went had brought the roses to her cheeks, her eyes flashed, her fair, loosened hair flew behind, her heaving breast rose and fell, she breathed in strongly through her nostrils, holding her lips tightly closed so as not to be suffocated by the wind, her veil unrolled along her back in waving folds that gave her a trans- Ilo BORD UN IO parent and ethereal aspect. Bradamante or Marphisa, the two lovely warriors, never looked prouder and more resolute on horseback. Alas! it was not Fortunio; it was a very good- looking young fellow, who was much surprised to see a young woman dash at him at full speed and suddenly turn round without a word. Musidora, exceedingly disappointed, again met George, who was riding quietly along like a village priest mounted upon an ass. “ George,” she said, “take me home. I have lost my groom.” George rode by her side, and they went out together by the Auteuil Gate. “Why!” said de Marcilly, “it looks as if dear George had taken on Musidora again.” “J think they never quite broke off,” answered his comrade. | ‘¢T must tell that to the Duchess of M »” said de Marcilly, ‘she will lead George a fine life. What amazing stuff he will have to talk in order to get back |!» into her good books And the two rode down an- other drive. As for Alfred, whose nose, irritated by a sharp wind, was visibly getting redder, when he saw the mist rise ng ALELLALALALALALALLALLLLLAL ELS FORTUNIO on the horizon and the night coming on apace, he made a very judicious remark which ought to have occurred to him two hours earlier: “ Why! it looks as if Musidora had gone out by another gate. ‘hat girl is really too capricious. I shall make up my mind to pay court to Phoebe; she has a very much better disposition.” Whereupon he sates his horse, and got comfort- ably drunk that evening at the Café de Paris by way of consoling himself for his disappointment. XII THE lovely girl returned home, worn out, almost dis- couraged, and sadder than a professional gambler who has been refused twenty francs by his intimate friend in order to go back to the card-room. She threw herself on a sofa, and while Jacintha was unlacing her boots and undoing her dress, she began to weep bitterly, shedding the first tears which had ever moistened her sparkling eye, with its clear, cold glance, sharp and cutting like a dagger, When her mother died, she had not wept. It is true that her mother had sold her at the age of thirteen to an old English nobleman, and I1I2 that she beat her to get her money out of her; these facts had somewhat tempered in Musidora the impulses of filial love. She had seen carried away upon a stretcher the blood-stained body of young Willis, who had blown out his brains in despair at being unable to satisfy her extravagant wants, and she had not ex- hibited a trace of emotion. But she wept at not hav- ing met Fortunio. Her icy heart, colder and more barren than a Siberian winter, was at last melting under the warm breath of love and dissolving in a sweet shower of tears. [hese tears were her baptism into a new life. There are diamond-like natures coldly brilliant and unnaturally hard. Nothing affects them; no fire can melt, no acid dissolve them; nothing can grind them down; they tear with their sharp corners the weak and loving souls they meet on their way. ‘The world charges them with being barbarous and cruel, but they merely obey a fatal law which requires that of two bodies which come in contact, the harder shall wear and cut the other. Why should a diamond cut dia- mond, and glass not cut diamond? ‘There is the whole question in a nutshell. Is it fair to accuse the diamond of being insensible ? 8 113 LLELEALEALLELLALL LALLA L ELS FORTUNIO Musidora’s nature was of that kind. She had lived indifferent and calm amidst disorder; she had plunged into shame like a diver in his bell, who sees turning round him the monstrous polyps and the hungry sharks that cannot reach him; her real existence was entirely separate from the one that went on outside it. Often it seemed to her that another woman who, by a curious accident, happened to have her name and figure, had done everything that she was charged with. But let there turn up a soul of equal strength and power of resistance, and suddenly the angles are cut away, facets are formed, a monogram is engraved ineffaceably : diamond alone can cut diamond. For- tunio had succeeded in raying the hard armour of Musidora and in drawing his own image upon the metal which had resisted agua fortis and the graver. The statue had become a woman. So in the fabulous days of antiquity, a young goatherd, endowed by Venus with resistless beauty, caused to spring from the hard and knotty heart of an oak a nymph smiling in all the splendour of her fair nudity. Musidora feels a new soul blooming in her like a mysterious flower sown by Fortunio on the barren rock of her heart. Her love is full of the divine puer- 114 oe oe oe be oe be oh oe abe detect cte tec obec edocs oe ces WFO HO WTO CTO TO Om He ute ote ae FORTUNIO ilities, of all the adorable childishness of pure, virgin passion. Musidora is, in truth, an innocent girl, who would blush at a word and tremble under a too burn- ing glance. It is quite sincerely that she wears on her dear little heart the letter of the beloved Fortunio, that she goes to bed with it and kisses it twenty times a day. You may be quite sure that if the daisies were in bloom, she would pick the petals of one, saying, ‘“ He loves me a little, very much, not at all,” like the artless Marguerite in Martha’s garden. Who has dared to say that there was in the world a certain Musidora, haughty, proud, capricious, depraved, venomous as a scorpion, and so wicked that people glanced under her dress to see if she did not have a cloven foot; a soulless, pitiless, remorse- less Musidora, who deceived even her chosen lover; a vampire thirsting for gold and silver, drinking up the inheritance of eldest sons like a glass of soda water by way of appetiser; a mocking fiend, laughing discord- antly at everything; a vile courtesan renewing the orgies of antiquity, without even having for excuse the ardours of Messalina? Those who say these things are unquestionably in error. I do not know that Musidora, and I doubt 115 whether she ever existed. Besides, I would not have taken so abominable a creature for my heroine. Scan- dal must not be believed. Men are so wicked that they manage to slander Tiberius and Nero. The Musidora I know is softer and whiter than milk, a month-old lamb is not more candid; the scent of the early strawberries is less suave and spring-like than the perfume of her newly opened soul. In her young dreams she wanders innocently upon tender green meads by flowery hawthorn hedges; her sole desire is to inhabit a humble cabin by the bank of alimpid stream and to live in eternal solitude with her beloved. What girl of fifteen who has never been away from her mother’s protection, could wish for chaster and simpler happiness? Nothing but her heart, without any accom- paniment of Emir-green Thibet shawls, of sorrel horses, gems from Provost’s, and a box at the Bouffes. O sancta simplicitas!' as John Huss said on ascending the pile. Yet this dream, so commonplace and apparently so easy of realisation, does not strike me as likely to come true very soon. Shall we have the luck to meet Fortunio at the Bois de Boulogne? It is doubtful, yet I have no other means of continuing my novel. 116 chee ae oe oe oe fe oe che fe a ctecde abe le ee ob ede efecto ole abe eae FOR UN TO The Italian birds have fled from their gilded cage, so I must give up thinking of bringing Fortunio and Musidora together at a performance of “ Anna Bo- lena”? or “Don Giovanni.” Fortunio does not go often to the Opera, and I do not want to upset my dear hero’s habits. Meanwhile I keep supplied with Havana cigars a young fellow who is a friend of mine and who is mounting guard on the. Boulevard de Gand watching for Fortunio, who sometimes walks there with his friend de Marcilly. I had thought of making Musidora go back to the Madrid Drive and making her catch sight of Fortunio galloping at full speed. She would have rushed in pursuit of him, and her mare, shying at a branch, would have thrown her violently to the ground. For- tunio would have picked her up in a faint and taken her home, and could not in decency have helped com- ing to inquire after the invalid. “hen would have come Musidora’s confession, the emotion of the shy For- tunio, and the inevitable consequences. But this plan is worn out. In every novel you see nothing but women pursued by mad bulls, carriages stopped on the brink of a precipice, horses rearing and a stranger seizing their bridle, and no end of other fine inven- Yr7 LELALAAALALLALALALLLLLLAL ALE FORTUNIO tions of the kind. Besides, when you are thrown from your horse, it is quite natural that you should break your shoulder bone, punch a hole in your head, smash your teeth or your nose; and I confess that I have taken too much pains to make Musidora a very pretty crea- ture to run any risk of thus damaging her fine polished shoulders, her delicately shaped nose, her clean, well set teeth as white as those of a Newfoundland dog, in favour of which I have used up all that I possess in the way of crystalline comparisons. Do you think it would be pleasant to see that silky, fair hair turned into stiff, straight wisps full of coagulated blood? Perhaps it would be necessary to cut it off in order to dress the wound; I could not bear such a monstrosity as my heroine with her head shaved. It would be quite impossible for me to continue a story in which the heroine’s head should be dressed Titus fashion; and I ask you, ladies, if anything could be more hateful than a princess in a novel who should look like a little boy. It is a pretty hard task which I have undertaken. How the devil should I know what Fortunio is doing? There is no reason why I should know it any better than you. I have seen Fortunio but once, at supper, and the unfortunate idea came into my head to take 118 LEELA LE LES b hhh bbb FORTUNIO him for my hero, believing that such a good-looking young fellow could not fail to have many romantic adventures. [he ready welcome he received at every one’s hands, the mysterious interest attached to his person, certain strange words which he had let fall be- tween a smile and a toast had singularly predisposed me in his favour. Fortunio, you have deceived me! I expected merely to have to write at your dictation a marvellous story full of surprising incidents. On the contrary, I have got to invent everything, to rack my brains, to make my readers have patience until you are ready to present yourself and bow to the company. I have made you handsome, witty, generous, a million- aire, mysterious, noble, well-shod, with handsome neck- ties, — all rare and precious gifts. If you had had a fairy godmother, you could not have been better off. And how many pages have you given me in return, you ungrateful Fortunio? Not more than a dozen. O Hyrcanian ferocity! O unparalleled callousness ! A dozen pages in return for twenty-four perfections ! It is scant. In order to fill up the space which you should have filled up alone, poor Musidora has had to mourn be- yond measure, George to get as drunk as innumerable 11g bhbbbtbettttttbdtttdbd dds WORT ONTO lords, Alfred to utter a greater number of stupidities than usual, Cynthia to show her back and breasts, Phoebe her legs, and Arabella her dress. If I have been improper in introducing my reader into Musi- dora’s bathroom, because [ did not know where else to take him, you alone are the cause of it. You have compelled me to spin out my description and to go counter to Horace’s precept, semper ad eventum festina. If my novel is poor, it is your fault. May it weigh lightly upon you! I have spelled the words as well as I could, and hunted out in the dictionary those I was not sure of. You who were my hero, you ought to have furnished me with incredible events, Platonic and other passions, duels, elopements, dagger-thrusts. It was in return for this that I provided you with all pos- sible qualities. If you go on in this way, my dear Fortunio, I shall have to say that you are ugly, a fool, commonplace, without a sou to your name. I cannot go and look for you at the street corners like a be- trayed woman who waits in the pouring rain to see her faithless lover come forth from his new mistress’s house, and catch hold of him by the tail of his coat. If you had a janitor, I could go and ask your story of him, but you have not one, since you have not a 120 che be obs abe be ae ob abe be abe abet tee abe abe obec abe ohne FORTUNIO house, and consequently have not a door. O Cal- liope, Muse of the brazen trump, sustain my breath ! What the devil am I to say in the next chapter? I have nothing left to do but to put Musidora to death. Do you see, Fortunio, to what extremities you have reduced me? I created a pretty woman to be your mistress, and I am compelled to kill her at page 127 contrary to custom, which does not permit the bubble swollen with love sighs and called heroine of a novel, to be pricked until page 216 or thereabouts. XITI THE days passed, and Fortunio did not show up. Musidora’s quest had been utterly fruitless. Arabella’s * remark, “ Fortunio is not a man, he is a dream,” re- curred to her memory. And indeed, once seen, he was so handsome that it was easy to believe him a supernatural vision. The noisy brilliancy in the midst of which he had appeared to Musidora greatly helped out this poetic illusion, and sometimes she doubted its reality ; as some one might who had seen heaven open for a moment and afterwards, finding it inexorably closed, had come to believe himself the dupe of a hallu- cination due to fever. 1 RAAA | i> i} it it i it ale obs ole oll als abncte cle obs abr obs oll ell ole ole ole oll of ene CF ee aye aye ere oie we eve FORT UNIO Her familiar friends brought her perfidious consola- tion, with airs of ironical condolence and faces that were joyously sad. Cynthia advised her, with all the generous sincerity of her kindly heart, to take another lover, because that would always occupy her a little; but Musidora replied that this remedy, which might do for Phoebe or Arabella, was in no wise suited to her. Then Cynthia kissed her tenderly on the forehead, and withdrew, saying, ‘ Povera innamorata! I shall have a novena said to the Madonna for the success of your love.” And this she did religiously. Musidora, seeing that every gleam of hope had died out and that Fortunio was more lost than ever, became thoroughly disgusted with life and turned over in her * lovely head the most sinister projects. Like a cour- ageous girl, she resolved not to survive her first love. “¢ At least,” she said to herself, ‘“‘since I have seen the man I was to love, I will not be low enough to permit any other to touch my dress with the tip of his finger. I am now consecrated. Ah! if I could only take back and suppress my life! If I could only strike out from the number of my days all that have not been devoted to you, dear and mys- I22 che obs obs obs ols abs alle obe obs all obs cbrcls oy ob ols ole obs ob obs abe obs cba ofs ame eTe ove oe CFO WTO oT Ute OTe ROREU Nil O terious Fortunio! I had a vague presentiment that you existed somewhere, sweet and proud, witty and beautiful, a lightning gleam in your calm eyes, an indulgent smile on your divine lips, like an angel come down to live among men. Once I saw you, my whole heart went out to you; witha single glance you seized upon my soul; I felt that I belonged to you, and [ recognised in you my master and my conqueror. { understood that it would be impossible for me ever to love any one else than you, and that the centre of my life was forever displaced. I am punished for not waiting for you, but now I know that you exist. You are no phantom ; you are not merely a charming image evoked in my heated brain by my hot heart. I have heard you, seen you, touched you; I have done my best to find you, to cast myself at your feet, to beseech you to forgive me and to love me a little. You have escaped from me like an evanescent shadow, — all that is left me is to die. To know that you are not a dream and to go on living is impossible.” Musidora turned over in her mind ever so many ways of committing suicide. First she thought of drowning herself, but the Seine was very yellow and muddy ; then the thought of being fished out of the 123 HOK TiUaNEo Saint-Cloud nets and stretched naked upon the black, sticky slabs of the Morgue proved singularly repug- nant to her. For a moment she thought of blowing out her brains, but she had not a pistol, and besides, no woman cares to disfigure herself, even after death. She has a certain funereal vanity ; she wants to bea presentable corpse. She rather fancied a knife-thrust in the heart, but she was afraid of recoiling at the touch of steel and of not striking firmly enough. She wished to kill herself in real earnest and not merely to make an in- teresting wound. Finally she settled on poison. I may assure my readers that the commonplace and inelegant idea of asphyxiating herself with a brazier of lighted charcoal did not occur to my heroine. She knew too well how to live, to go and die in that fashion. Suddenly a thought flashed into her brain; she recalled Fortunio’s needle. “‘] shall prick my breast with the needle, and that will be the end of it. Death will be sweet since it will come from Fortunio,” said she, as she drew the needle from one of the divisions of the pocket-book. She carefully looked at the sharp point, dulled by a 124 chee a abe obs th obo che ch che eee che cbc chobeh bot FORE UN TO sort of reddish coating, and placed it upon a table by her side. “Then she put on a wrapper of white muslin, fastened a white rose in her hair, and stretched herself out on the sofa, after having first drawn aside the folds of her dress and brought out her round, white breast, in order to prick it more readily. She was certainly resolved to kill herself, but I am bound to confess that she did not hurry the preparations. Some vague and secret hope still kept her back. >> “J shall prick myself at sharp noon,” she said to herself. | It was then a quarter to twelve. Whatever may he the explanation of the strange caprice, it is certain that Musidora would have been very sorry to die at a quarter to twelve. While Time dropped in his hourglass the sands of the fatal quarter of an hour, a thought occurred to Musidora: Did that poison cause much suffering be- fore death? Did it leave on the body red or black spots? She would have liked to see its effects. In the days of Cleopatra, in the days of antiquity, there would have been no difficulty about the matter. She would have sent for five or six male or female slaves and tried the poison on them; she would have 125 chee fe che oe he te eo abe ote ctocde che cdc choca ofr cole abe cece FORT UANP © Benard what the doctors call an experiment in anima vili. A dozen poor wretches would have writhed like eels cut to pieces on the handsome porphyry pavement and the brilliant mosaics, while their mistress, leaning carelessly upon the shoulder of a young Asiatic child, watched with her velvet glance their last agonising spasm. Everything has degenerated nowadays, and the prodigious life of that gigantic world is no longer understood by us. Our virtues and our crimes are shapeless. Having no slaves on whom she could try her needle, Musidora, very much perplexed, held it in her fingers three inches from her breast, envying Cleopatra’s fate, who at least had seen, before she yielded her life to the venomous kiss of the asp, what she would have to suffer to join her dear Anthony. Just as Musidora was plunged in this maze of un- certainty, her English cat emerged from below a piece of furniture and came to her with soft purring. Seeing that her mistress did not pay any attention to her advances, she sprang into her lap and moved her hand with her little, cold, pink nose. She arched her back as she looked at her mistress with round eyes cut by a pupil in the shape of a capital I, and expressed her 126 bbb bbb bh bbb bbb bt ¥ 5 RTUNIO pleasure at being caressed by the soft purring peculiar to cats and to tigers. A devilish idea occurred to Musidora, as she petted the cat. She pricked its head with the needle. ‘The cat leaped up, sprang to the floor, made two or three attempts to walk, then fell as if seized with vertigo; its sides heaved, its tail faintly beat the floor, a shudder ran through its body; its eyes filled with a greenish gleam and then died out. It was dead. The whole thing had lasted scarcely a few seconds. ‘That is good,” said Musidora; “evidently one does not suffer much; ” and she put the needle to her breast. She was just about to scratch her white skin with it, when the low rumble of a carriage passing at full gallop under the gateway reached her ear, and fora moment delayed the carrying out of her project. She rose and looked out of the window. A carriage, to which were harnessed four dapple- gray horses so absolutely alike and so thorough-bred that they would have been taken for Arab horses of the Prophet’s breed, was just then passing round the sanded court. ‘The postilions wore pale-green jackets with Musidora’s colours. ‘There was no one in the carriage. 127 whe be obs ob ols oe oh ae che abe cb cb cde cto te che che cb che chee oh beds EO R FUNG oO Musidora did not know what to make of it, when Jacintha handed her a note which had been given her by one of the postilions. Its contents were as follows: “‘ Madam: ‘© My shy ways have made you lose a carriage, which is not right. ‘This one is better than George’s. Pray accept it in exchange. If you should desire to try it, the Neuilly Road is a very fine one, and you could try your horses’ speed. I should be happy to meet you there. <¢ Fortunio.”’ XIV IT is easy to imagine the delighted amazement of Mu- sidora. She passed suddenly and without any transition from the deepest depression to the liveliest joy. For- tunio, who had fled, who .was not to be found, who was so shy, surrendered of his own accord at the very moment when she least expected it. The triumphal clarions sounded already joyously in Musidora’s ear, for she no longer doubted that she was victorious, and felt sure that she would storm Fortunio’s heart with- out striking a blow. O ever up-springing hope, how obstinately you raise your elastic and supple branches bent under the heavy tread of disappointment, and how little time do you need to bloom into graceful flowers 128 SELEL ADA EE PSASeS Lett ttt FORTUNIO and to send out vigorous branches in every direction! Here is a girl who but a moment since was paler than the alabaster statue that would have been placed upon her tomb and whose blue veins seemed to mark marble rather than living flesh, and she now skips through the room singing as joyously as a sparrow in the month of May. “ Jacintha, Jacintha! Quick! Dress me, put on my shoes, —I am going out.” ‘What dress will you wear, madam?” replied Ja- cintha, weighing each word to give her time to reflect. “© Any one,” said the girl, with a charmingly impa- tient gesture, “and please be quick. You are slower than a tortoise. One would think you carried a shell on your back.” Jacintha brought a white dress with narrow, very pale rose stripes which gave it a delicate flesh tint, something like that of the hortensia bursting into bloom. Musidora put it on without a corset, so eager was she to go. Besides, she ran no risk in doing so, for she was one of the very few women who do not fall to pieces when they are undressed. “Then she wrapped herself in a great white cashmere which came down to her heels, and Jacintha placed delicately on her head 9 | 129 ShbhbhbhbLtbttthhE terest tes FORTUNIO the freshest, most graceful, most delightfully coquettish bonnet imaginable. I dare not describe in vile prose such a masterpiece. Be satisfied, ladies, with knowing that the brim, which was not very broad, was lined with an airy garland of little wild-flowers which formed around Musidora’s lovely face a charming aureole for which more than one saint would willingly have ex- changed her golden nimbus. Imagine a great camellia with an angel’s face for a heart! Her small shoes, like the wing of a scarabazeus, so cut away that they scarcely covered the toes, showed under the hem of her dress and readily suggested that they covered feet belonging to the prettiest legs in the world. Exces- sively fine stockings showed through their open-worked embroidery the rose-flushed skin of the adorable feet. Musidora scarcely took time to put on her gloves, went downstairs and got into the carriage. “To Neuilly!”’ she said to the groom who put up the steps. The carriage went off like a flash. “Why!” said Jacintha, stumbling against the body of the cat, which she had not yet perceived, “ Blan- chette is dead! Here, Jack, look at your brute. It is dead. Your mistress will make a fine row about it to- night when she comes home.” 130 ALELALALEALLAEEAALLLALLEL ELS FORTUNIO Jack, terrified, knelt down by the cat, pulled its tail, pinched its ears, rubbed its nose with a handkerchief dipped in cologne, but alas! all in vain. “© Oh, the wicked brute! it died on purpose to have > me beaten by my mistress,” said the negro boy, rolling his eyes with an air of comical terror; “and her hand is so heavy!” ‘‘ Hold your tongue, you fool! Do you suppose that Madam would lower herself to beat you? She ’ will have you whipped by Zamora,” replied Jacintha, majestically. ‘And to tell the truth, you thoroughly deserve it. You have only a cat to look after, and you let it die like a dog, — poor little thing ! ” “Oh, oh!” cried the little negro, as if he already felt upon his shoulders the shower of blows which was reserved for him. “You can howl by and by,” said Jacintha, who took pleasure in increasing the negro’s terror; ‘ you know that Zamora detests you, and he has a strong arm. He will flay you alive like an eel; you can reckon on that, Master Jack.” Jack picked up the cat, carried it to its cradle, bent its four paws under it, arranged its tail in a circle, opened its eyes so as to give it an appearance of life, 131 che he be che che che be che hee heel tech cb tele eho ch bet FORTUNIO then hid himself in a hay-loft behind a pile of hay until the storm should have passed, taking care to put in his pockets a bottle of wine, bread, and a piece of cold meat. Since I am talking about the cat, let me clear Musi- dora of the charge of cruelty which may be brought against her for having killed her favourite pet. Musi- dora thought that she was going to die herself, and that perhaps the cat, after her death, would be reduced to travelling on the roofs in snow and rain, exposed to the horrors of famine; a most afflicting prospect. She was cruel through kindness. Besides, she has had it very nicely stuffed and placed under a glass edged with red plush. It lies upon a little sky-blue pillow, and its beautiful enamelled eyes are green, exactly as if it were alive. You could almost swear you heard it purring. Which of us can hope to be stuffed and put under glass after death? Which of us will ever be regretted as much as a long-haired cat or a trained dog? XV THE postilions in their pale-green jackets cracked their whips joyously, and the carriage went at such a pace that the wheels looked like a shining disc, the 132 spokes of which could not be made out. ‘The dust they raised had not time to settle before the carriage was already out of sight. The best-driven equipages were left behind, and yet the dapple-gray horses had not turned a hair. Their fine thorough- bred legs travelled rapidly over the road which fled past them gray and rayed like a ribbon that is being rolled up. Musidora, carelessly leaning back upon the cushions, indulged in the most amorous anticipations. Her bright complexion was illumined with happiness, and her little hand, encased in a white glove, and resting on the edge of the carriage, beat time to an air which she hummed to herself. Her delight was so great that from time to time she burst out laughing spasmodically and almost feverishly; she felt as if she must shout, leap out and run as fast as she could, or do something equally violent in order to let off steam. All her lan- guor had vanished. ‘The girl who yesterday had to be carried to her bath, who could scarcely lift her feet to ascend the stairs, would now have thought nothing of performing the twelve labours of Hercules. Curiosity, desire, and love, the three terrible levers, any one of which could move the world, excited the faculties of 133 ALALEALEELALEALLELALEL ELS FORTUNIO her soul to their highest pitch. Every fibre in her being was stretched to breaking and vibrated like the chords of a lyre. She was about to see Fortunio, to hear him, to speak to him, to feed on the divine food of his beauty, to suspend her soul to his lips, to drink in each of his words, more precious than the diamonds which fall from the mouth of the virtuous maidens in Perrault’s Tales. Ah! to breathe the air which he breathed, to be caressed by the same sunbeam that played on his black hair, to look at a tree or a prospect on which his glance had rested, to have something in common with him, meant ineffable enjoyment, a world of secret ecstasy. At the thought Musidora’s heart leaped in her breast. The dandies set off at a gallop to see the face of the unknown duchess drawn by this equipage, and more than one nearly fell off with admiration. Musidora, who at any other time would have been flattered by the sensation she created, did not pay the least attention to it. She was no longer a coquette. A real meta- morphosis had taken place in her. Nothing was left of the Musidora of old but her name and her beauty. Even her beauty had no longer the same character. 134 FORTUNIO Until now she had been wittily beautiful; now she was passionately lovely. No doubt it will be thought unlikely that such a change should have occurred so suddenly, and that so great a love should have resulted from a single meeting. Whereto I shall answer that truth is stranger than fiction, and that fiction always has an appearance of probability because it is combined, arranged, and worked out beforehand to produce the effect of truth. Elec- troplate often looks more like silver plate than silver plate itself. Next, I will point out that a woman’s heart is a labyrinth so full of twists, turns, and obscure nooks, that even the greatest poets, who have ventured into it bearing in their hand the golden lamp of genius, have not always managed to find their way about, and that no one can boast of the possession of the thread which leads to the exit from that maze. As far as women are concerned, anything may be expected from them, especially absurdity. Many respectable people will no doubt be of the opinion that the lightning-bolts of love are mere romantic illusions, and that no one falls madly in love with a man or a woman who has been seen but once. For myself it is my belief that if one does not love a 750 K£¢¢¢ SS 4 ¢¢¢¢e¢ebetetseettese FORT UNO person at first sight, there is no reason to love her when she is seen a second time and still less reason when she is seen a third. Then Musidora had to fall in love with Fortunio, otherwise my novel could not have been written. Also, my hero, rich, young, handsome, witty, mysteri- ous, must of necessity have been adored at first sight. Many others, who do not have one-half these qualities, are just as successful. And what is there strange in a young woman loving a handsome young man? So, whether the thing is reasonable or not, Musidora adores Fortunio, whom she does not know or whom she has seen but once, which is the same thing. And this digression does not prevent her carriage from flying rapidly along the great avenue of the Champs-Elysées and passing the Arc de I’Etoile, the gigantic gate which opens on space. Nature on that day wore a very different aspect from that which it had when Musidora was traversing the Bois de Boulogne in every direction on the chance of meeting Fortunio. ‘The dark red of the buds had been replaced by tender green, the colour of hope, and the birds were warbling joyous promises on the branches; the heavens, with floating masses of white clouds, 136 S$t¢¢¢ eee eettttettttttttes CFO BO CTS VTS VFO eTe FORTUNIO looked like a great blue eye gazing lovingly upon earth. A sweet scent of new foliage and of green grass rose in the air like the incense of spring. Little yellow butterflies fluttered about the flowers, and played in the luminous rays which struck across the green back- ground of the landscape. Infinite delight filled heaven and earth; everything breathed joy and life; the atmos- phere was impregnated with youth and happiness, — at least, that was Musidora’s feeling. She saw every- thing through the prism of passion. Passions are like yellow, blue, and red glasses, which give their colour to everything. ‘Thus a prospect which, in a moment of despair appeared hideous, repulsive, bare as bones, repellent in its wretchedness and ugliness, and more inhospitable than a Scythian steppe, when looked at through the glass of happiness appears dia- pered with flowers, sparkling with shining waters, green sward, distant horizons,— in a word, a real earthly paradise. Nature is somewhat like a great symphony which each one interprets in his own way. One man hears the last cry of Jesus expiring on the cross, while his neighbour, on the other hand, believes he is listening to the pearly trills of the nightingale and the shrill piping of shepherds. Sy, tebbbtbbbebtbhbh tb dd ddd dhe FORTUNIO Musidora was just then interpreting the symphony -in the amorous and pastoral mode. The carriage drove on; the great trees, bending their crests, flew by to right and left like a routed army, and yet Fortunio did not appear. Musidora began to feel anxious. Suppose Fortunio had changed his mind! She read his note again; it seemed plain enough, and she felt somewhat reassured. At last she perceived at the very end of the avenue a little whirlwind of white dust which rapidly drew near. She felt so deeply moved that she was obliged to lean back in the carriage; the blood surged through her veins; her cheeks flushed and paled; her hand dropped the note, which she had pressed with almost convulsive vigour. “The supreme moment was ap- proaching which was to decide her fate. Soon the cloud of dust, opening like a classical cloud enshrouding a deity, allowed her to make out a black horse with long mane and tail, arched neck, narrow shoulders, clean fetlocks, fiery eyes and nostrils, re- sembling more a hippogriff than an ordinary quadruped. The horse was bestridden by a horseman who was none else than Fortunio in person. A short distance behind him galloped a thick-lipped Moor. 138 che ote a cba oh che che oe oe oe etek cece obec ce be chee ove eve ote eye vTe FORTUNIO It was indeed Fortunio, with that air of careless security which he never lost, and which gave him so much ascendency over every one. It seemed as though none of the ills to which man is heir could touch him; that he felt himself above the attacks of fate. Serenity reigned on his beautiful face as on a pedestal of marble. He advanced towards the carriage, making his horse perform prodigious curvetings. Sometimes he made it leap into the air, sometimes rear up and proceed on its hind-legs. The noble animal lent itself to all his exigencies with marvellous coquetry and grace. It seemed to seek to rival its master in gracefulness and boldness. “They appeared to be but one creature ani- mated by one soul; for Fortunio had neither spur nor whip, and did not even hold the bridle in his hands. He guided his steed by imperceptible means, and it was quite impossible to see by what method he trans- mitted his wishes to the intelligent animal. When within fifty yards of the carriage, he sent his horse at top speed until within a foot of the victoria. Musidora, terrified at the thought that he must be dashed against the wheels, uttered a great cry; but Fortunio, by a skilful trick well known to Arab horse- see deo ab ob ob oh deb hb eee tech heh bbe FORTUNIO men, suddenly pulled up his horse and passed without transition from the most rapid pace to the most com- plete immobility. One could have sworn that an en- chanter had spellbound horse and rider. After this he made his barb — for it was a barb—curvet by the carriage door, and as he made him kick violently, he bowed to Musidora with the same grace and the same ease as if he were standing on the solid floor of a drawing-room. ‘¢ Madam,” said he, “‘ pardon a poor savage who in his long travels through the East and India has for- gotten the ways of European gallantry, and who scarcely knows now how to behave with ladies. If I had been presumptuous enough to suppose you wished for my presence, be assured I should have has- tened to you with all the speed that Tippoo is capable of; but I could not suppose that an extravagant fellow like myself, whom travels in far regions have made eccentric, could in any wise even pique your curiosity.” I should much like to tell you what was Musidora’s reply, but I never learned it. All I know is that she opened her lips as she raised to Fortunio’s face her beautiful, brilliant, melting eyes. She murmured some- thing, but I listened in vain and could not catch a single I40 phbbbtbbtbbttbtbttbbh tbe FORTUNIO syllable. The sand grinding under the wheels and the trampling of the horses no doubt drowned Musidora’s inarticulate voice. I greatly regret it, for it would have been interesting to collect these precious words. “¢ Musidora,”’ went on Fortunio, in a soft, yet sono- rous voice, “‘no doubt you have been told many strange things about me. My friends are very im- aginative. What will you think when you find out that far from being the hero of a novel, a mysterious being, the victim of fate, I am simply an ordinary fellow, rather good-natured, although capricious and occasion- ally fantastic. I assure you, Musidora, that I drink wine and not molten gold at my meals; that I eat more oysters than pearls dissolved in vinegar; that I sleep in a bed, although more generally I lie in a ham- mock, and that I usually walk on my hind-legs, un- less I borrow those of Tippoo, Zerlina, or Agandecca, my favourite mare. ‘That is my way of life. I pre- fer verse to prose, music to verse. ‘There is nothing in the world [ hold superior to a painting by Titian except a beautiful woman. I have no other political opinions. I hate my friends only, and I should be rather in- clined to be a philanthropist if men were monkeys. I should be willing enough to believe in God if only I4I khebbbhb be eetetehd hd ttttttee FORTUNIO He were not so like a parish beadle, and I think roses are more useful than cabbages. Now you know me as well as if you had lived with me for ten years. And this is about all the information I can give about myself, for really I know nothing more.” Musidora could not help laughing at Fortunio’s pro- fession of faith. “ Really,” she said, “you are very modest if you think you are not eccentric, for, Mr. Fortunio, you are very much so.” “©T? Not at all. I am the most commonplace individual in the world. I eat only what I like and I live for myself alone. But the sun is getting hot and your parasol will soon be insufficient to protect you from its burning rays. Will you not do me the pleasure to rest for a moment in a hut, a sort of Indian wigwam, which I have close by? You could return to Paris this evening in the cool of the twilight.” “ Willingly,” replied Musidora. ‘TI shall not be sorry to see your veranda, your wigwam, as you call it, for I am told that you do not live anywhere, but that you roost.” “¢ Sometimes, but not always. I have spent more than one night in a tree, fastened by my sash to the 142 BEEP A LES Steet tts FORTUNIO trunk so that I should not break my head by falling backwards; but here I live like the most debonair of civilians. All I need is a red-tiled roof and green blinds to pass for the most Arcadian and sentimental fellow in the world. Hadji! Hadji! Come here, J have something to tell you.” In a couple of strides the Moor was by Fortunio’s side. Fortunio spoke a few words in a foreign tongue with a guttural and strange intonation. Hadji im- mediately went off at full speed. ‘¢ Pardon me, madam, for speaking in your presence in an unknown tongue, but that rascal does not know a word of French or any other Christian language.” ‘‘T hope,” said Musidora, “that you have not sent him to make any preparations on my account. Do you propose to have me received at the foot of your steps by a deputation of young girls dressed in white, with bouquets wrapped in paper? I insist that you shall not stand on ceremony with me.” “‘T merely sent Hadji,’ answered Fortunio, ‘‘ to put my tame lion and Betsy, my tigress, in their cages. They are charming animals, as gentle as lambs, but you might have been startled at the sight of them. [| 143 tobbbbbttttetttbdddd hd tet FORTUNIO am very old-maidish in this respect, —I cannot do without animals. My house is a regular menagerie.” «Are the bars of the cages solid?”’ said Musidora, rather alarmed. “¢ Oh, very solid,”’ replied Fortunio, laughing. ‘ Here we are.’ XVI ForTunio’s house had no facade. ‘Two rock-work terraces with corners of vermiculated stone, steps with pot-bellied balustrades, and pedestals supporting great vases of blue china filled with cacti, in the taste of the time of Louis XIII, rose on either side of a massive oaken gate admirably carved and adorned with two medallions of Roman emperors surrounded with wreaths. ‘These two terraces formed a sort of bastion, which kept off inquisitive looks. Below them were the stables. “The carriage with its four horses dashed at full gallop against the gate, which opened, turning on its hinges as if by magic without any one appearing to throw it back. ‘The carriage drove round a great sanded court surrounded by box-wood arcades, and thus gave my heroine time to look at the house of the beloved Fortunio. 144 che oh obs obs oe obs abe Be oe be che obecde che che be abe cde ope obe ee ob oho FORTUNIO At the back of the court sparkled in the bright sun- shine a building of white stones joined with such care that it seemed cut out of one block. Niches framed richly, and filled with antique busts, alone broke the surface of the wall, which was entirely devoid of win- dows. A bronze door, over which quivered the shadow of a striped awning, opened in the centre of the building. Three steps of white marble — on either side of which lay two sphinxes, their paws crossed under their pointed breasts — led to the door. The carriage stopped under the awning. Fortunio got down, raised the lovely girl, and placed her gently on the upper step. Then he touched the door, which slid into the wall and closed as soon as they had entered. They found themselves in a broad hall lighted from above, out of which four doors opened. It was paved with a mosaic representing pigeons perched on the edge of a great cup, bending to drink in it, with scrolls, flowers, and festoons, —the veritable mosaic of Zosi- mus of Pergamos which antiquarians believed lost. Pillars of yellow breccia, half engaged in the wall, supported an attic delicately carved, and formed a frame for waxed paintings, on the black background of which ig : 145 choot abe abe obo os che che ob che he cede cheb coche oh echo dhe oh doce FORTUNIO were represented dancers of antiquity, lightly lifting up their tunics, curving their white, slender arms like the handles of alabaster amphore, or waving their hands, which bore sonorous crotala. Never were more grace- ful silhouettes painted on the walls of Herculaneum or Pompeii. Musidora stopped to look at them. “Oh, do not look at these daubs,” said Fortunio, showing Musidora into a room on the side. ‘* Confess that you expected something better. You must con- sider me a somewhat poor imitation of Sardanapalus, for until now I have offered to your gaze but mean enjoyments. My Asiatic and Babylonian splendours are very imperfect, and I scarcely manage to attain the mediocritas aurea of Horace. A hermit might live here.” In point of fact, the room into which he had led Musidora was exceedingly plain. It had no other fur- niture than a very low divan which ran around it. The walls, the ceiling, the floor were covered with exceedingly fine matting adorned with brilliant pat- terns. ‘Through blinds of China reeds, kept damp with scented water, showed the soft outlines of the distant landscape; the windows were glazed with white 146 kkeebettreeettettttetttts FORTUNIO panes adorned with red vine-leaves. In the centre of the ceiling, in a sort of round window, was fitted a glass globe filled with clear, limpid water, in which swam blue fishes with golden fins. ‘Their constant motion filled the room with changing prismatic reflec- tions which produced the most curious effect. Exactly below the globe a small jet of water shot up in a slen- der crystal thread, that wavered at the least breath and fell back into a porphyry basin in pearly, sparkling spray. In one corner swung a palm-leaf hammock, and in the other stood a magnificent hookah, its supple black rings twisted around the rock-crystal vase adorned with silver filigree-work in which the smoke was cooled. And that was all. s¢ Sit down, fair queen,” said Fortunio, cleverly re- moving Musidora’s shawl, as he led her by the hand to the corner of the divan. “Place this cushion behind you, this one under your elbow, and this under your feet. There, that is right. I[ tell you, Orientals alone know how to sit down properly, and one of their poets wrote these two lines, which contain more sense than all the philosophies in the world: ‘It is better to be seated than standing, to be lying down than seated, to be dead than lying down.’ Match me in all the 147 SBLALALLLALAALALALLLALLELS FORTUNIO lamentations of our fashionable rimesters this distich of good Ferid ed din Atar’s.” As he said these words, Fortunio stretched himself out upon the palm-leaf matting beside Musidora. “© Well, you are lying down, so you have reached the second degree of happiness,” said Musidora. ‘ This morning I came very near passing to the third.” “ What?” said Fortunio, raising himself on his elbow. ‘You nearly died this morning? Is it only your shadow that I see? No, you are very much alive,’ and to make sure of it, he took her foot and kissed it. ‘I can feel your soft, warm skin through this fine net-work.” “¢ All the same, if your note had not come at five minutes to twelve, I should now be white and cold, and secure for a long time in the delight of being laid out horizontally. At noon I was going to kill myself.” ‘© However passionately Oriental I am, I share Ferid ed din’s opinion only up to the half of his second line. The last hemistich is excellent for men who are merely not millionaires, and for women whom ugliness compels to be virtuous; you are not of them. What motive could you have had to adopt the violent resolution to slay yourself at noon exactly? ” 148 ttbtetetttettttttttttttte FORTUNIO “[ do not know. I had the vapours; the blue devils were worrying me; I was quite worn out, — I did not know how to spend my day ; so that, unable to kill time, I concluded to kill myself, and I should certainly have done it if the wish to try your carriage had not recalled me to life.” “© Many people that [ am acquainted with have satis- fied themselves with much less good reasons to live than that one. One of my friends, who had already put the barrel of his pistol into his mouth, very fortunately remembered that he had forgotten to write his epitaph. The notion of not having an epitaph was distinctly unpleasant to him. He laid his pistol on the table, took a sheet of paper, and wrote the following verses : — ‘ Over cruel Fate the will doth triumph, The feeblest mortal destiny may conquer If he has courage and —’ Here my unfortunate friend stopped for lack of a rime. He scratched his head and bit his fingers, but in vain; he rang for a servant and had him bring a dictionary of rimes which he read from end to end without find- ing what he wanted; for there is no rime to ‘ triumph.’ De Marcilly happened to come in and took him off to 149 che che obs oe che che che che che che che cbr abe eho cho che che obs che che be abe checks FORTUNIO a gambling-house, where he won a hundred thousand francs that set him going again. Since that time he has led a jolly life, and never kisses the barrel of his pistols. [his most true story proves the usefulness of difficult rimes in the composition of epitaphs.” ‘© Oh, Fortunio, you are cruel and sarcastic!” said Musidora, with a slight accent of reproach. “Do you suppose that unrequited love is not a very good reason for dying? ” Fortunio fixed his limpid eyes upon her with an expression of infinite sweetness, then with a quick motion, he sprang from his matting to the divan, and putting one of his arms behind her he pressed her to him. | “Why, who told you, child, that your love was disdained ? ”’ A frightful growl, hoarse and guttural, was heard not far from the room. Musidora rose terrified. “¢ It is only my tigress, which scents me and wants to see me. The devil of a brute has broken her chain. She is always doing it. Excuse me, madam, [ shall tie her up more carefully and talk to her a little to calm her. She is as jealous of me as if she were a woman.” 150 kkebekbbbeeetetebettttetts FORTUNIO Fortunio took up a Malay creese concealed unde: the cushion, and went out. Musidora heard him play- ing with the tigress in the corridor. Fortunio spoke in an unknown tongue which the tigress seemed to understand, and to which she replied with low roars, The joyous beating of her tail sounded on the wall like the blows of a flail. After a few moments the sound died away, and Fortunio returned. He had changed his riding costume and wore a remarkably magnificent dress: a brocade caftan with wide sleeves, bound around the waist with a golden cord, fell in handsome folds around his graceful and robust form; on his head was a cap of red velvet embroidered in gold and pearls, with a long tassel hanging down his back. His hair, naturally curly, fell in the most picturesque black spirals; his bare feet were at ease in Turkish slippers ; full, striped silk drawers completed his dress. Through his open shirt could be seen the whiteness of his mar- ble chest, on which shone a small amulet adorned with embroidery and spangles, very like the small bags which Neapolitan fishermen wear around their necks. Was it, in Fortunio’s case, a matter of superstition, eccentricity, caprice, a tender souvenir, or mere love of local colour? No one has ever known. What is 151 $eeeeebeeeeteettettetdttes FOR TUNYDO certain is that the bright colours of the shining amulet brought out wonderfully the marble whiteness of his supple, polished flesh. ‘© Musidora,” said he, as he re-entered the room, “are you hungry or thirsty? Let us try to get some- thing to eat and drink. You will forgive the defects of a country household managed by a half-wild fellow who, so far as cookery goes, knows only how to dress elephants’ feet and bisons’ humps. Come this way,” said he, raising the portiére; “do not be afraid.” Fortunio, having put his arm around Musidora’s waist like Othello leading out Desdemona, made his trembling beauty enter a small room decorated in the Pompadour style. It was hung with rose damask with a pattern of silver flowers; there were paintings by Watteau above the doors, and the ceiling represented an apple-green sky dappled with cloudlets and peopled with swarms of puffy cupids casting flowers broadcast. Although it was bright daylight everywhere else, it was night in the small drawing-room, for it is ignoble and utterly unworthy of a man who professes elegant sen- suality to eat save by candle-light. Two chandeliers, fastened by red and silver cords harmonising with the hangings, hung from the ceiling. Ten candelabra, 152 ttheebettreetetedttbtttt tte BOR UNI © laden with tapers, intertwining their capricious branches with the borders of the bays, shed a dazzling light upon the gilded furniture and the hangings. At the back, under a baldacchino with silver tassels, spread out like a gigantic bed, a marvellous sofa of white satin brocaded with gold. In every corner were shelves and cabinets in old lacquer-work, covered with Chinese figures, Japanese vases, and porcelain figures. It was a regular great lady’s boudoir. Fortunio took an arm-chair and placed it exactly in the centre of the room. He placed another opposite to it and sat down, after requesting Musidora to do the same. “¢ Now let us eat,’”’ he said in the most serious fashion possible. ‘ I have more appetite than I expected,’ and he pulled up his cuffs like a man about to carve. Musidora looked at him with some anxiety, and for a moment feared he had lost his reason, though he seemed perfectly self-possessed ; yet there was nothing in the room to indicate preparations for a meal, neither table nor attendants. Suddenly two leaves of the floor fell back, and to the great surprise of Musidora, a splendidly lighted table rose slowly, accompanied by two maids. The figures and ornaments of the centre- 153 LELLALALALALALALLALL LLL LA LES AE) Re RR lib WS piece, every part of which sparkled with light, were so brilliant as to eclipse the very orb of day itself. The water-green of the malachite urns, in which the cham- pagne was shivering in its thin glass robe under the white crystals of ice, contrasted happily with the red tones of the gold. Baskets of gold and silver filigree- work of the most precious workmanship, with patterns more delicate and exquisitely wrought than lace, were filled with the rarest fruits: grapes red and yellow as amber, huge crimson peaches, pineapples with saw- edged leaves, giving out a warm, tropical scent, and cherries and strawberries of uncommon size. The first fruits of spring and the last presents which autumn pours out from its late basket met on this table, amazed at being for the first time brought face to face. The seasons and the ordinary course of nature did not ap- pear to exist, so far as Fortunio was concerned. From porphyry bowls rose pyramids of West Indian preserves, roses, pomegranates, oranges, lemons, — everything, indeed, that the most luxurious gorman- dism could collect in the way of refined, exquisite, and ruinously rare confections. I have, contrary to the usual custom, begun by the dessert, but is not the dessert the whole of the dinner for a pretty woman? 154 the ecb oe oe oh oh oe oh abe catechol ole chaebol oe oe ore ore wre ve OTe OTS OVS WTO Te vie WW FORTUNIO However, in order to reassure the reader, who might think these dishes not very substantial for a hero of the size and strength of Fortunio, I shall add that in blazoned dishes, admirably chased, and placed upon braziers of platinum inlaid with niello, smoked roast quails surrounded by chaplets of ortolans, fish-balls, game stews, and for chief dish a China pheasant with its feathers on, and. besides all this, milt of red mullet, cray fish, and other stimulants to drink. Champagne, the only wine I have named, may seem too frivolous and of too transitory a sparkle for so serious a toper as Fortunio. Flagons of Bohemian glass embroidered with golden arabesques, contained within their transparent form enough to produce a proper and suitable intoxication: “Tokay wine, such as Metternich himself never drank; Johannisberger, six times superior to the nectar of the gods so far as savour and bouquet go; real wine of Shiraz, of which at the time this story was written there were only two bottles in Europe, the one owned by George and the other by de Marcilly, who kept them under triple locks for some supreme occasion. ‘“¢ Fortunio, you have not kept your word, you have indulged, on my account, in frightful extravagance,” 155 decd cke ke he eh chee decbede ccc bebe FORTUNIO said Musidora, in a tone of friendly reproach. ‘ Did “you expect company? This collation might serve a Gamache or a Gargantua.” “ Not at all, dear queen. I have not made the least preparation, for no one loathes ceremony more than [| do. I am of the opinion that cordiality is the best sauce. This is a mere stand-by which is always kept ready for me day and night, so that if I happen to be hungry at any time, there is no necessity to go to the yard,to wring a chicken’s neck, pluck it, and spit it. As I have told you, I am of most patriarchal simpli- city: I eat only when hungry and drink only when thirsty ; when I am sleepy, I go to bed. But I beg of you, my angel, to remember that you are at table. You are taking nothing, and your food remains on your plate untouched. Do not fear to cause me disenchant- ment by dining with a good appetite. I do not share Lord Byron’s views on this point, and besides, I do not like wings. I should be very sorry, madam, if you were merely a vapour.” In spite of Fortunio’s request, Musidora was satis- fied with nibbling at a few sweets and drinking two or three glasses of rosy tea, with a small glass of Barba- does cream. Her emotion had destroyed her appetite, 156 tt¢t¢ebe¢¢¢t¢¢¢ete¢ettetetee PHORTUNIO and the presence of the ideal of her heart moved her to such an extent that she could scarcely carry her fork to her mouth. What perfect happiness, to dine alone with the impalpable Fortunio, to be waited upon by him in his retreat unknown to every one else, to be avenged in such splendid fashion of the hypocritical airs of compassion of Phoebe and Arabella; and per- haps, — though she scarcely dared to allow her mind to dwell upon the delightful and voluptuous thought, — to lay her head upon that handsome, solid, white chest and entwine her arms around that round, fair neck. Fortunio was most attentive to her, and he paid her with the lordly, almost regal air which came nat- urally to him, most exquisitely graceful and delicate compliments. I wish I could report their brilliant conversation, but I cannot do so without manifesting unbearable vanity. As a conscientious novelist, I have invented so perfect a hero that I am afraid to make use of him. [I feel much the same embarrassment, s¢ parva licet componere magnis, as did Milton when he had to make the Almighty speak in that wonderful poem, “ Paradise Lost.” I can find nothing fine or splendid enough for my purpose. ‘The course of my narration, besides, 157 tttbtttteetetetttttetttsees FORTUNIO compels me to use expressions like this: * At this witty remark of Fortunio’s, a lovely smile lighted up Musidora’s face.” ‘The remark must necessarily be witty, or at least appear to be so, which is a difficult matter. ‘There is another very unpleasant situation for an author who is gifted with any modesty : it is when the hero recites a piece of verse which deeply impresses the hearers, who exclaim at the end of each stanza, “ Wonderful! sublime! splendid! excellent!” For myself, as I am shy, I shall gladly turn to account the convenient method of the old painters who, when they did not know how to draw something, or found it too difficult to depict, wrote in its place, “ Currus venustus,” or ‘¢ Pulcher homo,” according as it was a man ora carriage. The repast had long been finished, the table had dis- appeared through the trap like a perjured wretch in the opera, and Fortunio, seated upon the divan, passed his hand through the waves of Musidora’s fair hair. Her head, bowed by love, sank like a flower full of dew; her whole body trembled spasmodically ; her heaving breast rose and fell beneath her dress; her arms fell limp, she seemed about to faint. Fortunio bent towards her, and their lips met in a delicious, endless kiss. 158 kebbhdh dd tdcbttctttttetetttte FORTUNIO XVII Musrpora had not breathed a word of her love to For- tunio. That was a great mistake. She ought to have made endless speeches and indulged in the most tran- scendental metaphysics of sentiment. I should have found a fine opportunity for showing that “her heart was admirably formed for love,” and I could have filled quite a comfortable number of pages; but the truth is that she said nothing, and being a fantastic novel- ist, truth is too sacred to allow me to invent a single sentence. Her eyes, filled with a moist light, her heaving bosom, her trembling voice, a sudden paleness swiftly followed by a sudden flush, told of the state of her soul much more eloquently than the most brilliant verses could have done, and Fortunio’s mute kiss was in its way a perfect reply. Besides, you know very well that people talk only when they have noth- ing to say. Perhaps it will be thought that Musidora yielded very quickly to Fortunio, for this was only the second time that she had met him; but I must remind you on her behalf that Musidora did not profess to be vir- 159 bebbebbhbetettbdhhttddttéetet FORTUNIO tuous, —and then, by way of apophthegm, that love is prodigal, and that to love is to give.. So Musidora attacked Fortunio’s heart by voluptuousness, which is an excellent plan. I shall turn to account the moments during which my two chief characters forget the world, to say some- thing about my hero; for every writer’s duty is to un- ravel for his reader the skein which he has ravelled at will, and to clear away the mysterious clouds which he has brought together himself at the very beginning of his work, so that the end might not be too early perceived. Fortunio is a young nobleman of the highest aristoc- racy, just as much an aristocrat as a king, and as good a nobleman. The Marquis Fortunio, his father, whose fortune was impaired, had sent him, still very young, to India, to one of his uncles (pray forgive the uncle!), a nabob of colossal and titanic wealth. Fortunio’s youth was spent in hunting tigers and elephants, in being carried in palanquins, drinking arrack, chewing betel, and watching, seated upon a Persian carpet, dancing-girls with golden anklets on their little feet, and their breasts enclosed in sheaths of scented wood. His uncle, a clever, voluptuous old man, who had his 160 bbbbbbb bbb bebe bb PORE UN I'O own ideas as to the education of children, had allowed Fortunio’s character to develop freely ; being desirous, he said, to see how a child would turn out if he were never repressed and enjoyed the fullest opportunities of having his own way. His own inexhaustible fortune afforded him every facility for carrying out this plan of education, and his nephew never had any caprice which had not at once been satisfied. He never spoke to the lad of morals or religion; he did not terrify him with thoughts of God, the devil, or even the statute law,— for laws do not exist for a man who has twenty millions a year. He allowed this vigorous human plant to shoot out right and left its strong branches laden with wild perfume. He cut off noth- ing, not a knot, not a single contorted branch; on the other hand, he did not destroy a single leaf or a single flower. Fortunio remained such as God had made him. Never did an unsatisfied desire sink back into his heart to gnaw it with its rat-like teeth. His passions, always gratified, left not a mark, not a wrinkle on his brow; he was gentle, calm, and strong like a god, whose exterminating power he almost possessed. Young, handsome, vigorous, rich, witty, there was no II 161 ALEAAALAALLAAALALLLALALLALL LES KHOR T WN one on earth whom he could envy, and he felt himself envied by all. He did not even have to desire the beauty of women, for his mistresses willingly confessed that they were inferior to him in the inimitable perfec- tion of form. At fifteen years of age he had a seraglio of five hun- dred slaves of all races to serve him, and as many lacs of rupees as he could spend. His uncle’s treasury was open to him, and he drew heavily upon it. Never did care of the future or of his fortune shadow his fair brow with its bat-like wings. He lived careless in a golden atmosphere, never supposing that it could be otherwise. Great was his surprise when he discovered that there were actually people who did not have three hundred thousand a year. Like all spoiled children, Fortunio became a superior man. He had his faults and also his qualities. Ordinary teachers will not admit that a mountain pre-supposes a valley, a tower a well, and anything which shines in the sun a deep dark excavation from which it has been drawn. There is nothing more detestable in this world than a man smoothed and planed like a board, incapable of running the risk of being hanged, and who has not in him the stuff for a crime or two. 162 keteeebettetttetttetttttst FORTUNIO Fortunio was capable of everything, for good as well as for evil, but his position was such that he had no need to do harm... From the height of his wealth he beheld men so small that he did not trouble with them. The black swarm of wretches crawling about his feet and labouring for a year to earn with difficulty as much gold as he spent in a month, did not appear to him worthy of the attention of a well-born man. He did not understand charity or philanthropy, but his caprices caused an abundant shower of gold to rain constantly around him, and all who lived in his shadow soon be- came rich. In fine, he did more good than thirty thousand virtuous men who distribute cheap soup. He was beneficent after the fashion of the sun, which, without giving a cent to anybody, gives life and riches to the whole world. As he had never had any teacher, he knew a great many things and knew them thoroughly, having learned them alone. Being placed very high and not estopped by any prejudice of birth or position, he was broad- minded and far-seeing. If he had chosen to be an emperor or a king, he could have been one. Nothing would have been easier, with his boldness, his intelli- gence, his beauty, his knowledge of men, and his tre- 163 ALALEALLALLLALALE ALLL AL LAS FORTUNIO mendous means of corruption. ‘Through carelessness - and disdain he left potentates in peace on their thrones, satisfied with being an actual king. A distinctive feature of Fortunio’s character was that, capable of everything, he was in no wise disillusioned ; he estimated nothing above its proper value, but he did not systematically despise anything. As all his desires were fulfilled almost as soon as they were formed, he did not experience the fatigue caused by the attraction of the soul towards an object which it cannot reach; for it is not enjoyment that wears men out, but desire. He loved wine, good cheer, horses, and women, just as if he had never had any of them. Whatever was beautiful, splendid, and radiant pleased him. He understood equally well the beauty of a hut with its vine-clad door, its roof with brown, velvety moss strewn with wild flowers, and the magnificence of a marble palace with its fluted columns and its attic studded with endless white statues. He admired equally art and nature; he was passionately fond of red-haired women, which did not prevent his being entirely satisfied with negresses and coloured girls. Spanish women charmed him, but he adored English women, and did not disdain Hindoos; even French 164 bebbbbbbteeettteeteteees TOR UN TO women struck him as very agreeable. He had also a marked taste for Raphael’s Madonnas and Titian’s courtesans. In a word, he was an eclectic of the very first water, and no one ever carried cosmopolitanism farther than he. And yet, —TI confess it to his shame, or his praise, — he was never known to have a regular mistress, and no one ever knew that he had a regular domicile. As for his slaves, black, yellow, or red, they were thrashed as often as the Scapins of comedy or the Daves in Plautus’ plays. Strangely enough, he was worshipped by his servants, who would have gone through fire and water to please him. He treated them so much like brutes that he had made them believe they were dogs, and had inspired them with the loving servility of that animal. Never did he have to repeat an order. Indeed, he rarely took the trouble to express his will by words; a gesture, a glance was sufficient. He had always in his carriage-house a carriage and pair ready harnessed, and two horses saddled and bridled ; a dinner was constantly held prepared in the pantry ; Fortunio had never yet had to wait for any one or anything. Obstacles and delays were unknown to him. He did not know what to-morrow meant; 165 ttetetbbbedbbededbdbbbt dt FORTUNIO in his case everything could be to-day ; he was able to turn the future into the present. When his uncle died, he was about twenty, and he felt the wish to see Europe, France, Paris; so he came, bringing with him twenty fortunes, tons of gold, coffers of diamonds, etc. At first, accustomed as he was to Oriental splendour, everything struck him as mean, wretched, and small. The richest noblemen seemed to him like ragged beg- gars. Yet he very soon discovered, under the mean and dull aspect, a whole world of ideas the very exist- ence of which he had not hitherto suspected. In this world he made the most rapid progress, and was soon as much at home in it as a thorough-bred Parisian, thanks to his admirable natural instinct. It delighted him, after having tasted the deep, wild charm of bar- baric life, to enjoy the refinements of the highest civilisation ; after having hunted tigers on an elephant’s back with Malays in the Javanese jungles he liked to go hunting in company with members of Parliament, mounted on a half-bred hunter and sporting pink; after having dressed in muslin, and, seated cross-legged on a mat of perfumed reeds in the shadow of the great pagoda at Benares, watching the genuine bayaderes, it 166 ch saeco abe aba oe cle cbr rade ce fae abe be obec eae eles FORTUNIO amused him to watch at the Opera, holding his glasses in his yellow kid-gloved hands, Mademoiselle Taglioni in *¢’The God and the Bayadere.” Only at first he had found it very difficult to keep from beheading the people who bored him. The only thing to which his Eastern abies could not conform was to see his house open to everybody, and bold pirates insinuate themselves into the secret recesses of his life under the guise of intimate friends. He met his companions in pleasure in society, at the theatre, out driving, but no one had set foot in his home. If he could not help entertaining them, he did so in some apartment ‘engaged for the purpose, and which he immediately left for fear they should return to it. His life was divided into two very complete parts : the one entirely external, with steeplechases, joyous suppers, and follies of all kinds; the other mysterious, apart, and absolutely unknown. Fortunio had been told once that he had had neither a duchess nor an opera dancer, and that he needed these to. be entirely in the fashion; whereto he re- plied that he looked upon the former as too old and the latter as too thin: nevertheless he was seen the 167 ALALLALELLALAALLALLLAE LAA FORTUNIO next day at the Bouffes with an opera dancer, and the day after that with a duchess. ‘The dancer was plump and the duchess young, which was doubly extraordinary. Having made this sacrifice to conventionalities, For- tunio resumed his usual way of life, appearing and disappearing without ever saying where he went or whence he came. His companions’ curiosity had at first been excited to the highest degree, but little by little it had been dulled, and Fortunio had been taken for what he chose to represent himself. Musidora’s love had awakened the desire to pene- trate the mystery of his life, and his eccentricities were more than ever talked about, yet every one was com- pelled to be satisfied with vague conjectures ; the real truth was unknown; George himself knew of Fortunio only what related to his life in India. I have myself nothing more particular to tell my reader about him; nevertheless I hope soon to track him into his secret retreat. XVIII THE victoria with the dapple-gray horses returned empty to Musidora’s house, to the great astonishment of Jacintha, Jack, and Zamora. Musidora the dove- 168 . kkbbebtbetbttttttttttt tod FOREPUNTO like had chosen for that night the nest of Fortunio the eagle. A rosy red sunbeam struck through the curtains of a sumptuous bed with spiral columns surmounted by a carved frieze. Like a bee hesitating before it alights on a flower, it quivered on Musidora’s lips, asleep with her hair loose and her arms gracefully rounded above her head. Fortunio, leaning on his elbow, was watch- ing with melancholy attention the young girl over- shadowed by the angel of sleep. Her pure and delicate form showed in all its perfection. Her skin, fine and satiny like a camellia leaf, slightly flushed here and there by a fold of the sheet or the mark of a burning kiss, shone in the warm moisture of repose. One tress of her hair, passed between her neck and her arm, fell upon her breast which it seemed to seek to bite like Cleopatra’s asp. At the foot of the bed one of her white dimpled feet, the nails polished like agate, . the heel rosy, the ankle of the daintiest, emerged from under the coverlet ; the other, drawn back, could be vaguely made out under the many folds. The tawny, golden complexion of Fortunio contrasted happily with the ideal fairness of Musidora. It was like a Giorgione by the side of a Lawrence, like yellow Italian amber 169 $teteeteeeetetetehtktektckesd FORTUNIO by the side of blue-veined English alabaster, and it would have been difficult to say which was the more lovely of the pair. Fortunio’s practised eye analysed the beauties of his mistress with the double gaze of a lover and an artist. He was as much of a connoisseur in women as in statues and horses, which is saying not a little. Ap- parently he was satisfied with his examination, for a smile of content hovered over his lips; he bent over Musidora, and kissed her softly lest he should wake her. Then he resumed his silent contemplation. “She is very beautiful,’ he murmured, “ but decid- edly I prefer Soudja-Sari, my Javanese girl. I shall go and see her to-morrow.”’ “Did you not speak, my dear lord?” said Musi- dora, raising her long lashes. “© No, queenlet,” replied Fortunio, pressing her in his arms. XIX Here I am sunk in perplexity again. I had managed to discover the origin of Fortunio’s wealth; I had obtained fairly satisfactory information concerning the manner in which he was brought up, his mode of life, 170 LEELEALELLEELLDALE LEE EES HE O'RS UIN- TO his views on morality and philosophy; in spite of all his cleverness in concealing himself and his Protean skill in avoiding curiosity, I had managed to lay my hand on him and to penetrate into one of his retreats, — perhaps even his chief retreat; and now all my trouble is lost. I have to set out again and seek in every direction for the solution of this new mystery. What accursed idea induced that confounded Fortunio to utter by Musidora’s side so incongruous a name as Soudja-Sari? Evidently my feminine readers will want to know who is Soudja-Sari the Javanese girl. Is she a mistress whom Fortunio had in India, the woman to whom was addressed the Malay pantoum found in the stolen pocket-book and translated by the date-sell- ing rajah? I cannot answer this important question. It is the first time that I have heard the name of Soudja-Sari; she is as much a stranger to me as the Great Khan of Tartary, and I confess that this re- membrance of Fortunio’s is entirely out of place. Does he not possess Musidora, a lovely creature, a peerless pearl, whose soul, regenerated by love, is as beautiful as its frame, a supreme effort of nature to prove its power, the most suave, delicate, perfect, and finished creature imaginable? Is not that enough for a novel, 171 HOR FE WINES and am I to favour my libertine hero so far as to grant him two mistresses at once? It would be far better to give six lovers to Musidora than two mis- tresses to Fortunio; women would forgive me more easily, though Heaven knows why. Yet I shall do my best to satisfy the curiosity of the ladies. Soudja-Sari is not a former mistress of Fortunio’s, since he has just said that he means to go to see her to-morrow. Where is he going to see her? It can- not be in Java, for there is no railway yet between Paris and Java, and even did Fortunio possess the wand of Abaris, he could not make the trip between evening and morning ; and he promised Musidora to accompany her to the Opera at the next performance. Soudja-Sari, therefore, must be in Paris or its suburbs, but in what part? Is it in the Cité Bergére, where dwell the houris, or the Faubourg Saint-Germain ? At Saint-Maur or at Auteuil? Alice jacet lepus, — that is the question. I must be content with telling you that Soudja-Sari means ‘The Languorous Eye,”’ in accordance with Eastern custom which gives women names drawn from their physical peculiarities. “Thanks to the translation of this significant name, which I owe to the kindness 172 of a member of the Asiatic Society deeply versed in Javanese, Malay, and other Indian tongues, we now know that Soudja-Sari is a beautiful girl with a vo- luptuous eye, with a velvety, dreamy look. Which shall win, Soudja-Sari’s jet-like eyes or Musidora’s sea-green eyes P xX Fortunio’s house plunged into the river on one side. A white marble staircase, some of the steps of which were above or under water according to the abundance of rain or the heat of the sun, led from Fortunio’s room to a little gilded, painted boat covered with a silk awning. Fortunio proposed to take a turn on the river before breakfast. Musidora agreed. She sat down under the awning on a pile of cushions; Fortunio lay down at her feet, smoking his hookah, and four negroes dressed in red jackets sent the boat gliding along like a king- fisher that cuts the water with its wing. Musidora plunged her slender hand in Fortunio’s black, silky hair with ineffable delight. At last she had him, that long- wished-for Fortunio, seated at her feet, his head resting in her lap; she had eaten at his table, lain in his bed, nus che choos ke ake Ae che che ae abe a obec cde ee che cb eee ah obech FORTUNIO slept in his arms. At one step she had penetrated into that unknown life so dificult to enter; she possessed the man she loved, she who had been possessed by men she hated. She experienced that total forgetfulness of everything which comes of true love, and allowed herself to be carelessly borne away on the swift current of passion. Her previous life was entirely effaced; she lived only since the night before, she had begun to live only from the day when she had seen Fortunio. Her only fear was lest her life should not be long enough to prove her love for him. ‘Ten years, the longest time which one dare venture to suggest for a liaison, appeared to her very short. She would have liked to preserve her dear passion beyond the tomb: she who had hitherto had been more atheistical than Vol- taire himself believed firmly in the immortality of the soul, in order to indulge the hope of loving Fortunio to all eternity. The boat glided swiftly over the calm sultans of the river; the four sweeps of the rowers did not splash, and the one sound heard was the ripple of the water that rushed past the boat in foamy waves. Fortunio dropped his hookah, took Musidora’s two feet, placed them on his chest as on an ivory foot- 174 LLAELEALAL ALAA ttt sttettse RORPUN 1LO stool, and began to whistle carelessly a quaint and melancholy air. ‘The shadows of the poplars on the bank fell upon the boat, which seemed to float in a sea of foliage. Jimp-waisted dragon-flies flew under the awning in the transparent whirlwind of their gauzy wings, and gazed at our two lovers with their emerald eyes. A silver-bellied fish leaped here and there and marked the oily surface of the water with a passing gleam of light. There was not a breath of air; the light tops of the reeds were motionless, and the boat’s ensign fell into the water in soft, heavy folds. The sky, filled with light, was silvery gray, for the intense noonday sun had killed the blue, and on the edge of the horizon rose a warm dun-coloured mist like that of the Egyptian skies. “ By Jove!” said Fortunio, throwing off the white cashmere burnoose which he wore, “I have a great > mind to bathe;”’ and he sprang from the gunwale of the boat. Although Musidora was a swimmer, she could not repress an emotion of terror on seeing the water boil as it closed over Fortunio’s head, but he soon reappeared, shaking his long hair, which dropped on his shoulders. Fortunio swam as well as the finest and most elegant —— | Bi LLLLAALLAALLAAALALALLEALL ASA OW Vas Oe Oe Ee) Triton in Neptune’s court; the fishes themselves would not have had much chance against him. He was beautiful to look at. His handsome shoulders, firm and polished, and pearly with drops of water, shone like submerged marble; the amorous wave shimmered with pleasure as it touched his fair body, and suspended silver pearls from his arms. The aquatic plants, which he had put into his hair, set off its bright lustrous black with their pale, glaucous green. He might have been taken for the god of the river in person. Musidora could not sufficiently admire that beauty superior to the perfection of the loveliest of women. Neither Phoebus Apollo, the young, radiant god, nor Scamander fatal to virgins, nor Endymion the pale lover of the moon,— none of the ideal forms realised by sculp- tors or poets could have borne comparison with my hero. He was the last type of manly beauty, which has disappeared from the world since the new era. Phidias himself, or Lysippus, Alexander’s sculptor, could not have dreamed of a more pure and more perfect form. ‘© Why do you not bathe?” said Fortunio to Musi- dora, as he drew near the boat. ‘I have been told that you can swim, little one.” ‘Yes, but those negroes ? ” 176 a . CO ee Ss ae. = eee LORS N © “© Those negroes |! — what do they matter? ? Besides, they are not men, they are mutes.” So Musidora undid her dress and slipped into the river. Her long hair floated behind her like a golden mantle, and from time to time her satiny back showed on the surface of the water like the back of a Rubens nymph, and her little heels as rosy as the fingers of dawn. Fortunio and she swam side by side like twin swans, and after describing some graceful curves to break the force of the current, they returned to their point of departure and set foot on the lower steps of the marble stair. Two handsome mulatto girls awaited them with great wrappers of soft, warm stuff, in which they envel- oped themselves. “Well, my fair naiad,” said Fortunio, draped in his wrapper ; “do we not look like two antique statues? I am a passable Triton ; and the fresh water need no longer envy the salt, —a Venus has arisen from it who is at least as good as the other. Why is there not a Phidias on the shore? ‘The modern world would then have its Venus Anadyomene. _ But our sculptors are fit only to cut paving-stones or to make deities of illustrious men in frock coats. With this accursed 177 deck bee oe oe de de de cbr oe cee cece ce obec ce cde ce oe cab FORTUNIO civilisation, which has no other object than to stick up on a pedestal the aristocracy of cobblers and candle- makers, the feeling for form is being lost; and God will one of these mornings be obliged to get out of his Voltairean arm-chair to make the world over, for it has been destroyed by the numberless cads who hate all splendour and all beauty, and who constitute modern nations. A people which was even slightly civilised, in the true sense of the word, would erect a temple and statue to you, my queenlet; they would make a goddess of you,—the goddess Musidora. That would not sound so badly.” “Married to the god Fortunio, both before the mayor and in the Church of Olympus; else the some- what prudish divinities would refuse to receive me at their Wednesday or Friday evenings,” replied Musidora, laughing. Chatting thus, the two lovers re-entered the house. But what of Soudja-Sari? My curious, fair reader, I shall soon tell you something of her. XXI THE day passed like a lovely dream. Our two lovers enjoyed deeply each other’s beauty, and their rosy lips 178 and ae Copyright, 1901, by George D. Sproul The day passed like a lovely dream deseo ce oe oe oe oe oe fe eee ce oe ob co fe oe fe fo ee FORTUNIO were the charming cups in which they drank the heady wine of voluptuousness. “They kissed but once, but that kiss lasted until night. Musidora laid her burning, velvety cheek against Fortunio’s cool breast. She was drawn up on herself in an adorably infantile attitude, like a child that settles in its mother’s lap to sleep at ease. She closed her eyes, the lashes of which came down to the middle of her cheeks; then she raised them slowly to look at Fortunio. “Ah!” she said, after a mute contemplation, and pressing him to her breast with superhuman strength, “the day you cease to love me, I shall kill you.” “ Good!” said Fortunio to himself, “this is the one hundred and fifty-third woman who has said the same thing, and [ am still in pretty fair health. It will not prevent my enjoying life.” He felt the soft girdle which Musidora had bound around his body suddenly relax. He looked at her and saw her pale,—her head thrown back nervously, her teeth clenched, her lips colourless, as if she were plunged in a paroxysm of rage. “The devil!” said Fortunio. ‘Can she be seri- ous? ‘These little, delicate, frail demons are capable of anything. ‘This promises to be amusing, After all, 170 cheba abe obe obs abe aba obe ae abe ode ocda be cto dace abe bach cde oe doe FORTUNIO it is a pretty death, I do not care for any other. No one yet has loved me enough to kill me. It would be rather strange if, after having weathered all the storms of Indian and tropical passions, I should have my throat neatly cut by a fair, clean little Parisian who is just about strong enough to fight a duel with an insect.” “¢ In that case, my queen,” he said aloud, “ you have just signed my warrant for eternal life. I shall grow older than Methuselah and Melchisedec.”’ | “So you will always love me?” said Musidora, with a long and voluptuous kiss. “© Assuredly. When one loves, it is forever, other- wise what is the good of loving? Does not the infinite involve eternity. I shall adore you in this world and in the next, if there be one, and there must be one expressly for that purpose. Love has scores of eterni- ties at its disposal.” ‘Oh, you wicked railer, who believe in nothing!” said Musidora with a charming pout. “J? I believe in everything. 1 believe in the charity of philanthropists, in the virtue of women, in the good faith of journalists, in the epitaphs on tomb- stones,—in everything which is most unbelievable. 180 FORTUNIO I wish there could be four persons in the Trinity so that my faith might be more meritorious.” “ You ought to be ashamed of yourself, sir; you are an atheist, which is very bad form,” answered Musi- dora, playing with the amulet that sparkled on For- tunio’s neck. ‘© An atheist ? Nay, I have three gods: gold, beauty, and happiness. I am at least as pious as pius 4neas of blessed memory.” “Then believe in God; it can do no harm, as old women say when they propose a remedy for headache or toothache.”’ “¢ Now, look here, heart of mine, are we going to talk theology? I would rather dine and take you to the Opera. I have got to present you to the world. Let us sit down to table and then go.” “© How can I go, dressed like this, Fortunio ?” ~“ We will call at your house, and you can put on another gown.” After the dinner, which was no less sumptuous than heretofore, the handsome couple got into the carriage. Musidora stopped at her house and put on a lovely dress. ‘Through a childish caprice, she wore white from head to foot like a young bride. ‘The sweet, 181 ktbettbreteteeddtttetetes FORTUNIO virginal expression of her face, illumined by deep internal felicity, admirably harmonised with her dress. Fortunio, divining the intention which had suggested the choice of the dress, drew from a small box of red morocco which he had in his pocket, a necklace of perfectly round pearls, and earrings and bracelets, also of pearls, of inestimable value. “This is my wedding present, Marchioness. You must put on the earrings and bracelets and the neck- lace. And now, my Infanta, you are perfect, and I will wager that to-night twenty women burst with jealousy. You will cause many a jaundice, and more than one lover will be treated like a negro in con- sequence of the ill-temper which you will certainly excite in the feminine camp.” When Musidora appeared in her box with Fortunio, a wave of admiration swept through the hall and the audience very nearly broke out into applause. Phoebe, who was in a stage-box with Alfred, turned as pale as the moon when rises the sun; the skin of Arabella, who was after Fortunio’s heart, was marked with yel- low lines as if her gall had burst, and the violence of her emotion was so great that she nearly fainted. 182 =~ ——s ne thtttbebebtebebbebbet hes BOR eUN TO As for Cynthia the Roman, she smiled gently, and between the acts came with Phoebe to call on Musidora. “You are so like a bride that you might be taken for one,” said Phoebe with a constrained look and a venomous smile. “Tam,” said Musidora, “ for yesterday I was mar- ried to the dream of my heart.” “<] thought so,” said Cynthia. ‘ Never did a no- vena with a three-pound candle fail to produce its effect. My Madonna is worth a great deal more than all your rough, bearded saints.” “© Madam,” said George, who entered the box; “‘ permit me to present my respects to you, if there is any room for them. ‘The carriage is yours. When am I to send it to you?” ‘Thank you, George, Fortunio has forestalled you.” “ Well, Fortunio,’ went on George, “ have you just come back from Calcutta or from hell? Perhaps it was there that Musidora met you. She is on ex- cellent terms with the devil.” ‘© No, I have come back in the most commonplace way from Neuilly, like a constitutional monarch. Have you had Cynthia framed? ”’ 183 LEEAEALELEPLAAALALLLELAE LES FORTUNIO The Roman girl made a silent negative sign. Phoebe, bending by Fortunio’s ear, informed him that Cynthia was in love with a sort of bravo, half swashbuckler, half fencing-master, six feet tall, with black whiskers and three rows of teeth like a crocodile, and that she wasted all her money upon him. “¢ Just like her,”’ whispered Fortunio. While this conversation was going on in Fortunio’s box, Alfred, left alone, was gazing at Musidora through his glasses. “ Decidedly,” he said to himself, ‘I shall begin to pay court to Musidora,— Pheebe is too cold. It would be in the best of taste to supplant Fortunio, with his fine, satrap-like airs. It would be a brilliant deed, and would restore my reputation as a lady-killer, which needs to be revived, for I cannot conceal from myself the fact that I have missed three women. How the devil can Fortunio meet all the expenses he indulges in? ‘There is something queer about it. He is not known to own a single foot of land. Strange! very strange! excessively strange indeed! But I shall fathom the mystery, and I shall possess Musidora.” Alfred, having come to this praiseworthy deci- sion, felt much satisfied with himself, and repeatedly 184 SEELELLAALALAALL LA LAL ELSE FORTUNIO passed his white-gloved hand through his curled hair with the most satisfied and victorious look in the world. XXII | Fortunio had allowed himself to share Musidora’s passion. True love is as contagious as the plague. Scoffer and sceptic though he appeared to be, he did not suffer from the hardness of heart which is the result of too precocious and too easy enjoyment. He hated worse than death the grimaces of sensibility, and could not be seduced by mincing airs; hypocrisy in love revolted him more than any other. On the other hand, he was touched by the least mark of true affec- tion and would not have treated harshly a ragged beg- gar or a mangy dog that exhibited real affection for him. Although his vast wealth made it easy for him to obtain possession of all brilliant and splendid realities, the little blue flower of artless love softly bloomed in a corner of his heart. A seraglio of two hundred women and the favours of all the handsome courtesans of the world had in no wise caused him to become Dlasé. He was more of a roué than an octogenarian diplomat, yet more candid than Cherubino at his godmother’s feet. He would have led the life of a Don Juan, yet 185 bhbbh bbb bbe ebeteeteees FOR Ff UNTO have enjoyed walking with a boarding-school girl, and wearing an apple-green satin vest on the banks of the Lignon. He calmly yielded to the strangest contra- dictions and cared nothing at all for logic. His pas- sions led him where they chose, without his ever attempting to resist them. He was good in the morning and wicked at night, and oftener good than wicked, for he was in sound health. He was hand- some and rich, and naturally inclined to consider the world well ordered; but unquestionably, whatever his temper might be, he was what he seemed to be. He could perfectly well understand the most opposite things ; he was equally fond of scarlet and of sky-blue, but he hated the phraseology of novels and fashionable jargon, and what had chiefly captivated him in Musidora was that she had given herself to him without a word. Society talked of nothing but the victory won by Musidora over the shy and reserved Fortunio, who had become so singularly tame. The little, green- eyed Parisian kitten had mastered the Indian tiger ; she had caged him in her love, the imperceptible wires of which were more solid than iron bars. She seemed to have completely fascinated him, and poor Soudja-Sari must have been greatly neglected ; Musidora’s tender- 186 POR ON I @ ness triumphed over her beauty. Fortunio behaved with her more as a European than he had done with any other woman since his arrival in France. He went to see her every day, and spent sometimes whole weeks without leaving her. Fortunio the Sultan had assumed the manners of Amadis; a princess could not have been adored more profoundly nor respected more humbly, yet occasionally he had very marked fits of relapses into Asiatic ferocity; the tiger’s claws showed sharp and menacing from out the velvet of his paws. One night when he was with her an extraordinary idea came into his mind. He rose, dressed, took the lamp, which he placed near the fringes of the curtains, and set fire to them with the greatest coolness ; then he entered the next room and did the same there. The great tongues of flame were already blackening the ceiling, and a dazzling light penetrated the sleeping eyes of Musidora. She awoke, and seeing her room full of fire and smoke, uttered a cry of terror. ‘¢ Fortunio! Fortunio! save me! ” Fortunio was standing quietly leaning against the mantel-piece, watching the progress of the fire with an air of satisfaction. “T am stifling!” said Musidora, springing from the 187 Seiccheebeeeeeheeeeee eee FORTUNIO bed and running to the door. ‘ But what are you doing, Fortunio, and why don’t you call for help?” 99 “It is too late,” replied he; and taking up Musidora like a little child, he rolled her up in a blanket and carried her away. The unbearable, suffocating heat would have made the passage through the suite of rooms which com- posed the apartment difficult and perilous to a man less agile and less vigorous than Fortunio. In a few bounds he reached the last door, went down the stairs with the swiftness of a bird, opened the outer door for himself, for it would have taken too long to waken the porter buried in drunkenness and sleep, and entered with his precious burden a carriage that seemed to be awaiting him. He sat down, placed Musidora on his knee, and the carriage drove off. The flames had broken through the windows, and the smoke poured out in dense clouds; the whole {22 household was at last awake, and cries of “ Fire!” re- peated in every key, were heard from one end of the street to the other. Sparks flew up and scintillated like golden spangles against the red background of the conflagration. It looked like a magnificent aurora borealis. 188 eee tttebtbttdttttbttdtettttitctet FORTUNIO “T wager Jack will not wake until he is quite cooked,” said Fortunio, laughing. Musidora did not reply. She had fainted. XXIII WHEN she regained her senses, she found herself lying on a bed at once elegant and simple. Fortunio was seated by her side. The interior of the room was most charming and coquettish. The furniture betokened an _ exquisite taste. It was not that regal and almost insolent luxury which dazzles more than it charms, but a sweet, chastely diaphanous luxury which satisfied the soul even more than the eye. The upholsterer who had designed the room must have been a great poet: it was Fortunio. ‘© What do you think of this little nest? Is it to your taste?” “ Quite,” replied Musidora; ‘ but to whom does this house belong? Where am I?” “That is a foolish question. You are at home.” “ At home! ” said Musidora, astonished. ‘Yes, I bought this house, for I intended to burn 189 Phebe ebebbbetebeeteteees FORTUNIO yours,” replied Fortunio carelessly, as if he had said the most natural thing in the world. “What! It was you who set fire to my house?” “¢] wisely considered that the fire would not break out of itself, so I set it.” “¢ Are you mad, Fortunio, or making fun of me?” “Neither. Have I said anything nonsensical? The architecture of your building was of the Doric order, which is particularly abhorrent to me, — and then —” “ And then what? That is a nice reason to set fire > to a whole quarter perhaps,” said Musidora, seeing that Fortunio had stopped in the middle of his sentence. ‘‘ And then,’ went on Fortunio, whose complexion had assumed a greenish tinge, and whose eyes had lighted up. “I would not see you longer in a house which had been given you by another and where others had possessed you. It made me ill; I hated every arm-chair, every piece of furniture as if it had been my mortal foe, for in each I saw a kiss or a caress. I could have stabbed your sofa as if it had been a man. Your rings, your dresses, your gems, produced on me the same cold and venomous sensation as the touch of a serpent’s skin. Everything in your house recalled to me thoughts that I wanted to drive away forever ; 190 che oh obe che be oh che be ch ch cbc cbedecbe obec ob obob hohe FORTUNIO but they returned more importunate and more obstinate than swarms of wasps, and drove into my heart their poisoned stings. You cannot imagine with what vengeful satisfaction I saw the flames lick up those impure draperies, which had before my day cast their perfidious, soft light upon so many voluptuous scenes. How madly the fire embraced the hated walls, and how well it seemed to share my fury! Honest fire, which purifies everything! Thy rain of sparks, of burning flame, fell upon me fresher than the dew of a May morning, and | felt the peace of my heart renewed as under a beneficent shower. Now there cannot be a sin- gle wall left standing; all has fallen or is ruined; there is nothing left but a mass of ashes and coals. I breathe more freely, I feel my breast dilate. But you still wear that wrapper, more odious than Dejanira’s robe. I must tear it into a thousand pieces and trample it under foot as if it were living.” And Fortunio tore off the wrapper, threw it upon the ground, and trampled upon it with the mad rage of a bull which tosses with its horns the scarlet banner abandoned by the chulos. ? Musidora, terrified by this wild-beast-like madness, had curled herself up under her blanket, her arms 1gI tt¢e¢e¢e¢e¢te¢tetetetteeettetse FOR DIN TD ® crossed on her bosom, and awaited with mute anxiety the close of this strange scene. “Ah! I should like to flay you alive,’ > said For- tunio, drawing near the bed. The girl was terrified for a moment lest he should carry out his intention; but the young: and ill-tamed jaguar continued thus : — “Your soft, satin skin, on which your lovers’ lips, swollen by debauch, have been pressed, —I could tear it from your body with delight. I wish no one had ever seen you, touched you, or heard you; I could break the mirrors in which your image has been reflected for a few seconds. I am jealous of your father, for his blood is in your body, and flows freely through the lovely network of your veins; I am jealous of the air you breathe, and which seems to kiss you; of your shadow, which follows you like a tender lover. I must have your whole life, past, pres- ent, and future. I do not know why I refrain from killing George and de Marcilly, and having Willis dug up to throw his body to the dogs.” While thus speaking, Fortunio roamed around the room like one of those lean wolves wnich may be seen in menageries moving around their cage and rubbing 192 che ce che ofa obs ofl ells ale cle aly abn abn oe ole ole cle obs obs cbr obe oly lr cfe FORTUNIO their black noses against the bars. He was silent, raged round the room a few times more, and then fell upon his face on the bed, weeping bitterly. The storm which had begun with thunder was turning into rain. “You madman! How is it you do not feel that I > have never loved any one but you,” said Musidora, taking his head and drawing it to her heart. ‘* Oh, my beloved! I was born on the day I found you. My life dates from the day of our love. Why should you be jealous of Musidora? You know very well that she is dead. Are you not my god, my maker, have you not made me out of nothing? Why should you tor- ment yourself?” ‘“¢ Forgive me, my angel, I was brought up very close to the sun, in a land of fire. I go to extremes in everything, and my passions roar in my soul as lions in their dens. But it is striking three o’clock. Close g your eyes, my little crocodile, — go to sleep, Miss.” XXIV I PROMISED my fair readers to discover Soudja-Sari, the Javanese beauty with the languorous eyes. As she now happens to be the oppressed heroine, since Fortunio loves Musidora, interest naturally is concentrated upon v3 193 LLAELAEALLALLAELALLLAL ALE LAS FORTUNIO her. But it was rash of me to make a promise so diffi- cult to fulfil. I have no means of finding Soudja-Sari other than to follow Fortunio, and how am I going to follow on foot a young fellow drawn by thorough-bred horses ? And besides, have I the right to spy upon my hero? Is it decent to insinuate myself thus into the secrets of a well-bred man? Is it his fault that I have taken him for the hero of my tale? ‘There are so many others who are glad enough to print their private correspondence. Yet at any cost I must find Soudja-Sari, the beauty with the languorous eyes. I here renounce all the artifices usually employed by novelists to excite and create interest, and being warned, besides, that it will soon be time to write the glorious word “Finis,” I proceed to betray Fortunio’s secret. As I have said, Fortunio was brought up in India by his uncle, a nabob enjoying untold wealth. After his uncle’s death he came to France, bearing with him enough to purchase a kingdom. One of his greatest pleasures was to mingle barbaric and civilised life, to be at one and the same time a satrap and a dandy, Beau Brummel and Sardanapalus; he enjoyed having one foot in India and the other in France. 194 re TT cheb abe oboe by abe cbr abe ae ace ol ob cao be oe ob oe obs cfoofe HO Reis UNIT © To carry out this double purpose, this is what he had done. He had purchased, in a very retired quarter of Paris, a whole block of houses, the centre of which’ was filled with great gardens. He had torn down all the inner buildings, and had left to his block of houses merely a thin crust of facades. All the windows looking upon the gardens had been carefully walled up, so that it was impossible to perceive from any side the buildings erected by Fortunio unless one passed overhead in the car of a balloon. Four houses, one at each corner of the block, served as entrances. Long, vaulted passages led to them and afforded communica- tion with the outer world without exciting suspicion. Fortunio went out and came in sometimes through one, sometimes through another, so as not to be noticed. A dealer in provisions, the back of whose shop com- municated with the buildings, and who was merely a devoted servant of Fortunio’s, enabled provisions to be brought in in a natural and plausible manner. It was in that unknown palace, more undiscoverable than El] Dorado sought by Spanish adventurers, that Fortunio disappeared in the mysterious way which so greatly excited his friends’ curiosity. There he spent a week, a fortnight or a month, as his fancy dictated, 195 FOR TU NUS without showing outside. “Che workmen employed in erecting the building had been richly compensated for keeping the secret, but had been scattered in different parts of the globe; not one of them had been left in Paris. Fortunio had sent them off without their being aware of the fact, some to America, others to India and Africa; he had proposed to them wonderful oppor- tunities of bettering their lot, which seemed to arise fortuitously and of which they had been completely the dupes. El Dorado, the golden palace, as Fortunio baptised it, did not belie its name. Gold shone in it every- where, and Nero’s Golden House assuredly could not have been more magnificent. Imagine a vast court surrounded by spiral columns of white marble with gilded capitals and shafts, en- twined with a vine, also gilded, the grapes formed of rubies. Into this quadruple portico opened the exqui- sitely carved cedar doors of the apartments. From the centre of the court plunged down four porphyry stairs, with balustrades and landings, leading to a basin, the sparkling, deep water of which could be lowered to the lowest steps or raised to the level of the ground, according to the depth desired. ‘The rest of the space 196 Bote chee ce he oe oh oh ale hole oo che doe he choc PORN. O was filled with orange-trees, tulip-trees, yellow-flowered angsokas, palms, aloes, and all manner of tropical plants growing in the open ground. . In order to make this wonder intelligible, I add that E] Dorado was a palace under glass. Fortunio, who was as chilly as a Hindoo, had, in order to secure an atmosphere such as he liked, first caused to be built a vast hot-house which com- pletely enclosed his wondrous nest. A glass vault replaced the sky; and yet he did not lack rain. on that account. When he wished to change the “set fair’? of his crystalline atmosphere, he ordered rain, and rain at once fell. Invisible tubes full of holes poured down a shower of fine pearls upon the leaves, fan-shaped or quaintly cut, of his virgin forest. Thousands of humming-birds and birds of paradise flew freely in the vast cage, shining in the air like winged, living flowers. Peacocks with lapis-lazuli necks and ruby aigrettes proudly dragged their starry tails over the sward. A second court contained the lodgings of the slaves. An inevitable disadvantage of the building was that it had no view. Fortunio, who had a very inventive mind and who was never put out by anything, had remedied this. The windows of his drawing-room 197 kebbb bbe ee eteddkhd ht dhe test FORTUNIO looked out upon dioramas painted in marvellous fash- ion, and causing the most perfect illusion. One day it was Naples with its blue sea, its amphitheatre of white houses, its volcano crowned with flames, its golden, flowery islands; another day it was Venice, with the marble domes of San Giorgio, the Dogana, or the Ducal Palace; or else, if my Lord Fortunio hap- pened to be in a pastoral mood, a Swiss view; but usu- ally Asiatic prospects, Benares, Madras, Mazulipatam, and other picturesque places. His valet would enter his room in the morning and say, ‘* What country will you have to-day, sir?” “© What have you ready?” Fortunio would answer. “< Tet me see the list.” The valet would hold out to Fortunio a mother-of- pearl notebook on which the names of the landscapes and cities were carefully engraved. Fortunio marked a view which he had not yet seen or which he desired to enjoy again, just as if he were ordering an ice. He enjoyed life there like a rat in a Dutch cheese, indulging in all the refinements of Asiatic luxury, waited on by slaves on bended knee, adored like a god, beheading with a perfect dexterity, that would have done honour to a Turkish executioner, those 198 FORTUNIO who displeased him or served him awkwardly. The bodies were thrown into a well filled with quicklime and at once destroyed. But for some time past, no doubt influenced by European ideas, he had more rarely indulged in this sort of pleasure, unless he were drunk or sought to distract Soudja-Sari. Before entering El Dorado he threw off his fashion- able clothes and resumed his Indian dress: a gown and turban of gold-flowered muslin, slippers of yellow morocco, and a creese with diamond-studded handle. None of the Hindoos, men or women, who were shut up in the splendid prison, knew a word of French, and they were all perfectly ignorant of the part of the world in which they happened to be. Neither Soudja- Sari, his favourite, nor Rima-Pahes, who draped herself in her long black hair as in a jet mantle, nor Koukong- Alis, with the rainbow-like eyebrows, nor Sicara with the flower-like mouth, nor Cambana, nor Keni-Tam- bouhan suspected that they were in Paris, for a very good reason, — they did not even know of the exist- ence of that city. Thanks to this ignorance, Fortunio governed his little world as despotically as if he had been in the very depths of the Indies. na PORT UAaN TO He would spend whole days in perfect immobility, seated upon a pile of cushions, his feet resting upon one of his women, following with a careless glance the blue spirals of smoke that rose from his hookah. He plunged with delight into the voluptuous state of stupor so dear to Orientals, and which is the greatest happi- ness that one can taste on earth, since it consists of perfect forgetfulness of all human affairs. Dreamy, vague reveries caressed his bent brow with the soft down of their wings; brilliant mirages shimmered before his half-closed eyes. From the broad calyx of the great Indian flowers, natural urns and scent~ boxes, rose wild, penetrating perfumes, strong, bitter scents capable of intoxicating like wine or opium. Jets of rose water sprang as high as the carved lintels of the arcades, and fell in showers of spray within their rock-crystal basins with melodious murmur; to crown all this magnificence, the sun, illumining the glass vault, gave to the golden palace a diamond sky. It was the realisation of a fairy tale. Within it one was two thousand miles from Paris, in the recesses of the Orient, in the very depths of the ‘“ Thousand and One Nights;” and yet the muddy, vile, noisy street roared and swarmed within a few steps; the 200 teeebetetetetetetctcecetes FORTUNIO dim light of the lamp of the Commissary of Police swung from the end of a post in the fog; the book- sellers sold the five Codes, with their edges of vari- ous colours; the Constitutional Charter opened its tricoloured flowers in the shape of cockades; the atmosphere of hydrogen gas and molasses characteristic of civilisation was breathed by passers-by who waded through a slough of muddiest roads. Noise, smoke, rain, ugliness, wretchedness, yellow faces under a gray sky, —in a word, the hideous, ignoble Paris which you all know. But on the other side of the wall a little sparkling, warm, golden, harmonious, scented world ; a world of women, birds, and flowers; an enchanted palace which Fortunio the wizard had known how to make invisible in the very centre of Paris, a city not favourable to prodigies ; a poet’s dream carried out by a poetic mil- lionaire, who is as rare as a millionaire poet, blooming like a marvellous flower of Arabian tales. On one side work, with its bare, blackened arms, its breast heaving like a blacksmith’s bellows ; on the other, soft leisure carelessly leaning on its elbow; delicate idlesse with its white, frail hands, recovering during the day from the fatigue of having slept all night; the most 201 de dlo cde te de che dh oh de he cheek dedboch habe che chool abe chock wre ee oTe OVO oTe OO ere eTe ere FORT UNTO perfect quietness by the side of the most feverish agitation; a complete antithesis. In this way did Fortunio lead a double life, enjoying both Asiatic and Parisian luxury. His mysterious retreat was a poetic nest where from time to time he indulged in his dreams. “There were his only loves, for he could not put up with European manners and the constant mingling of the sexes. He was inclined to the opinion of the Sultan Schariar, that nothing was pleasanter than to buy a young maid and to have her beheaded after the first night. This simple plan pre- vented any possible treachery. He did not, however, carry his jealous precautions so far, though he felt it im- possible to love any woman who had had another lover. Undoubtedly, if he had ever married, he would never have wedded a widow. Musidora was the only woman with whom he had carried on an intrigue so long; he had yielded to the penetrating charm, to the transcend- ent coquetry, and especially to the true love of the girl. The warm flame of her passion had softened his heart ; he loved her, and yet he was unhappy for the first time in his life. Unbearable remembrances harried his soul, and in the midst of the sweetest kisses he tasted hideous bitterness: he always remembered that she 202 ktteetbetettettetbbbbbod FORTUNIO had been possessed by others. His power for once failed him; he could not wipe away the former life of Musidora and purify her, and the thought clung to him like a vulture. He was so accustomed to exclusive possession that he found it difficult to under- stand that there were other men in the world besides himself. When anything reminded him that others could have been loved as he was, he entered into fiend- ish rages and would have torn lions in twain, so trans- ported was he by fury. At such times he felt an irre- sistible need to mount on horseback, to leap into a crowd, and with great sword-cuts to slash off arms, legs, and heads. He uttered dreadful howls, and rolled on the ground like a madman. It was in one of these fits of jealous rage that he had set fire to Musidora’s house. But for this, he was as impassible as an old ‘Turk; had the lightning fallen and lighted his pipe, he would not have expressed the least surprise. He feared neither God nor devil, death nor life, and he was possessed of the finest coolness in the world. Fortunio, spellbound by the enchanter Musidora, had appeared only at rare intervals in El Dorado; for nearly a week he had not set foot in it. A crushing weariness weighed down upon the glass sky of that little 203 oe a deo ch beh dh db ck hh abba abch bob bbe FORTUNIO world the sun of which was hidden. As none of the inhabitants of El Dorado knew where he was, any conjectures as to the motives which kept him away were impossible. They did not know whether he was ele- phant hunting or making war against a rajah. Brought directly from India without having landed, they did not suppose that the manners of the country in which they were differed in any respect from the manners of Benares or Madras. Soudja-Sari, restless and sad, lived withdrawn within her apartment with her women. It is to be regretted that none of our painters ever saw Soudja-Sari, for she was the daintiest and loveliest creature imaginable, and words, however well combined, give but an imperfect idea of a woman’s beauty. Soudja-Sari might have been thirteen years of age, though she seemed to be fifteen, so well formed was she and so delicately full were her contours. A single pale, warm tone spread from her brow to her feet; her skin, mat and pulpy like a camellia leaf, was softer to the touch than the internal membrane of an egg; cer- tain transparent forms of amber could alone give an idea of her colour. It is difficult to imagine anything more piquant than the blond fairness of her virgin body 204 deol he dob cbc ches ach chee chebech cheb FORTUNIO covered with a thick mantle of hair as black as night, falling straight from her head to her heels. The roots of her hair, planted in the golden skin of her brow, formed a sort of charmingly quaint bluish penumbra. The long black eyes, rising slightly toward the temples, were full of inexpressible voluptuousness and languor, and the eyeballs passed from one side to the other with an irresistibly sweet, harmonious movement. Soudja- Sari was well named. When her velvet glance rested upon you, you felt in your heart an infinite idlesse, a calm full of freshness and perfume, a sort of joyful melancholy. The will yielded, projects vanished like smoke, and one desired only to remain forever lying at her feet; all things seemed useless and vain, and naught on earth worth doing save to love and sleep. Yet Soudja-Sari had violent passions, as violent as the perfumes and poisons of her native country. Her fine, delicate nose, her blooming lips red like the cactus flower, her broad hips, her small feet and hands, — all marked her as thorough-bred and remark- ably strong. Fortunio had purchased her when she was nine years old, paying three oxen for her. She had had no diff- culty in emerging from the crowd of beauties in his 205 kebbeeeeeeeeeetteettetes FORTUNIO seraglio and becoming his favourite. Fortunio, no doubt, had not been faithful to her; that was impos- sible with his ideas and in view of Oriental manners, but he had always remained constant. Never until he had met Musidora had he felt for any one such quick and passionate desire, and the kitten with the sea-green eyes was the only woman that had ever rivalled Soudja- Sari’s face in my hero’s heart. Seated on a carpet, Soudja-Sari was looking at her- self in a little mirror made of specular iron with a handle of exquisitely chased gold. Four women, kneeling around her, were tressing her hair which they had divided among themselves, and in which they plaited golden threads. A fifth, seated farther away was gently tickling her back with a little hand of carved jade set at the end of an ivory wand. Keni-l'ambouhan and Koukong-Alis drew from cedarwood chests—the wardrobes of our princess —gowns and precious stuffs: black satins covered with fanciful flowers, the pistils formed of peacocks’ aigrettes and the petals of butterflies’ wings; brocades with grainy woof starred and dotted with luminous points; light velvets; silks more changeable than the neck of dove or the fire opal; muslins ribbed with 206 KLELALALAE ALPES AAAS e ts FORE UNTO gold and silver and ornamented with elegant designs, — the wardrobe of a fairy or a peri. They spread all these splendours upon divans, so that Soudja-Sari may choose the robe she will wear that day. Rima-Pahes, whose long hair, tressed in Japanese fashion, is twisted around two golden pins with silver balls, kneels before Soudja-Sari and exhibits to her various gems contained in a small malachite coffer. But Soudja-Sari is uncertain; she does not know whether to take her chrysoberyl necklace or the azerodrach beads. She tries them in turn, and ends by choosing a small string of rose pearls, for which she soon substitutes three rows of coral. ‘Then, as if worn out by so much labour, she leans back upon the knees of one of her women and lets fall her arms, the palms open, turned upwards, like a person worn out by lassitude. She closes her eyelids fringed with long lashes, and lets her head fall backwards. The four slaves, who have not yet finished tressing, draw near so as not to pull her hair, but one of them not having been quick enough, Soudja-Sari utters a cry more shrill than the hissing of an asp which has been trodden upon, and sits up with an abrupt, quick motion. ‘The slave turns pale on seeing Soudja-Sari trying to draw from 207 tekbebtbbtttet td tdetdddtd dds FORTUNIO Rima-Pahes’ hair one of the long gold needles by which it is kept up; for one of the habits of the lady is to plant these pins in the breast of her women ‘when they do not fulfil their functions with all desirable light- ness. However, as the needle does not come out at once, Soudja-Sari resumes her nonchalant pose, and closes her eyes again. ‘The slave breathes once more, and Soudja-Sari’s toilet is completed without further incident. This is how she was dressed: A pair of very full trousers, with black stripes on a tawny gold ground, fell from her hips to just above her ankles. A sort of jacket or very narrow waist, resembling the strophia and the cestus of antiquity, fastened top and bottom by two jewelled clasps, set off the rich contours of her round brown breasts, the upper portion of which was seen through the opening of the garment. This vest was of gold stuff with figures and flowers embroidered in gems; the foliage with emeralds, the roses with rubies, the blue flowers with turquoises. It was sleeve- less, and showed the exquisite form of two lovely arms. ‘The piquancy and singularity of this Javanese costume was due to there being quite a space between the bust and the girdle, so that her dimpled hips, more 208 rhe he che te ctecde che obe teehee ta ete oe abe chock POR FEU NTO ie ie ie ie ie ie iS polished and shining than marble, and her supple loins, as shapely as those of a Greek statue of the finest period, were visible. Her hair was divided, as I have said, in four long tresses twined with gold threads, which fell down to her feet, two in front and two behind; a camboja flower bloomed on either side of her polished, transpar- ent temples, on which was a network of delicate veins similar to that on the temples of the portrait of Anne Boleyn, and on the tips of her pearly ears, exquisitely shaped, sparkled two scarabei, the golden-green wing- sheaths of which were coloured with all sorts of tints of unimaginable richness. A great scarf of Indian muslin, with a pattern of sprigs of flowers worked in gold, wound carelessly around her body, softened by its vapoury whiteness the over-brilliancy of the costume. Her feet were bare, each toe covered with diamond rings, and her ankles adorned with golden anklets. On her arms she wore three brace- lets, two close to the shoulder and the other on the wrist. In case she wished to walk and to go down to the garden,—a fancy that rarely seized her,—there was placed by the side of a divan a pair of slippers 14 209 bkketebeteteettettttttttts FORTUNIO wonderfully delicate and small, with the points curved inward after the Siamese fashion. Having finished dressing, she called for a pipe and began to smoke opium. Rima-Pahes dropped with a silver needle upon the porcelain mushroom the pastille which had been liquified in the flame of scented wood, while Keni-Tambouhan softly waved two great fans of the feathers of the Argus pheasant, and the beautiful Cambana, seated upon the ground, sang, accompanying herself on a guzla with three cords, the pantoum of the dove of Patani and the vultures of Bendam. The blue, aromatic smoke of the opium escaped in light puffs from Soudja-Sari’s red lips as she sank deeper and deeper in the delightful forgetfulness of all things. Rima-Pahes had already renewed the pastille six times. “¢ More,” said Soudja-Sari, in the imperious tone of a spoiled child who would be given the moon if it fancied it. “* No, mistress,” replied Rima-Pahes; “you know very well that Fortunio has forbidden your smoking more than six pipes.” And she went out, bearing with her the precious golden box that contained the voluptuous poison. ye Te) decoded chk ob bbb cha heb FORTUNIO ‘You wicked Rima-Pahes, to take away my box of opium! [I wanted to sleep until my Fortunio returned. At least I should see him in my dreams. What is the use of being awake and alive when he is absent? Never did he stay away hunting so long. What can nave happened tohim?’ Perhaps he has been bitten by a serpent or wounded by a tiger.” “Not much!” said Fortunio, raising the portiére, “It is I who bite serpents and wound tigers.” At the sound of the well-known voice, Soudja-Sar rose from her divan and cast herself into Fortunio’s arms with a movement like that of a young fawn unexpectedly wakened. She passed her two hands around her lover’s neck and clung to his lips with the mad avidity of a traveller who has crossed the desert without quenching his thirst; she pressed him to her breast, wound around him like an adder; she seemed to desire to envelop him with her body at every point at once. “© Oh, my dear lord,” she said, seating herself on her knees; ‘if you only knew how much [I have suffered during your absence! You bore away my heart with your last kiss, and you did not leave me yours, wicked man! I was as one dead, or sunk in sleep. My tears 211 $tbbetttttbpttettttedbttsé FORTUNIO alone, falling in silent drops down my cheeks, proved that I still existed. When you are away, O Fortunio of my heart, it seems to me as though the sun had died out in the solitary heavens; the brightest light is as dark to me as the shadows of night; everything is solitary. You alone are light, motion, life! Without you nothing exists. Would I could melt and lose my- self in your life! Would I could be you to possess you more entirely |!” ‘This young woman expresses herself very well in Hindustani. It is a pity she does not know French; she could write novels, and would be a very agreeable bluestocking,”’ said Fortunio to himself, as he untied Soudja-Sari’s tresses while playing with them. “Will my gracious sultan take a sherbet, chew betel, or drink arrack punch? Would he prefer pre- served Chinese ginger or a prepared nutmeg?” said the Javanese, raising her soft eyes to his face. “© Have everything brought in. I feel a regal desire to get horribly drunk. You, Keni-T’ambouhan, shall play on the tympanon; you, Cambana, shall work your claws upon your pumpkin with the broom-handle stuck in it; and the whole of you shall make noise enough to deafen the devil. It is long since I have enjoyed 212 ch che a be oe abe ote ob ote abe octet cto ob we Oe oe FOREUNTO 1 ie i i ib if i if C09 O10 vie @ we myself. Rima-Pahes, while I sing and drink, shall tickle the sole of my feet with a peacock’s feather ; Fatme and Zuleika shall dance, and afterwards we shall have a fight between a lion and a tiger. Every one who is not dead drunk within two hours shall be beheaded or impaled, as he or she pleases. I have spoken.” A swarm of little black, red, yellow, and piebald slaves arrived, bearing silver platters on their finger- tips and carved vases upon their heads. In three minutes everything was ready. Each group of women had its table, or rather its carpet, covered with bowls filled with preserves. “The service was carried on in Oriental fashion. From time to time Fortunio cast to these beauties dried fruit mixed with gold and silver almonds that contained some gem, and he laughed heartily at the efforts they made to seize them. Never did the eyes of the Greeks, who adored lovely forms, gaze upon more graceful athletes, or behold more beautiful bodies in more varied and happy attitudes. “he groups were admirable in their arrange- ment, interlaced like adders, and supple as Proteus. “Come!” said Fortunio to Koukong-Alis, “do not bite. Look at that little scorpion waving its claws! 213 eckecke desk ch eck ob dee cbech decheah abe cheebck oh ahh FORTUNIO If you make Sacara cry again, I will have you hung by the hair. Come here, Sacara; instead of one silver almond, you shall have a handful.” Sacara, smiling through her tears, cast a glance of triumph at Koukong-Alis, who remained gloomy and sombre in her place. Fortunio filled the fold of her dress with the precious fruit, kissed her, and made her sit down by him on the divan. The two almehs advanced, swaying their hips, and danced until they fell on the floor breathless and half dead. ‘The lion and the tiger fought with such fierce- ness that there was very little left of the pair. Arrack and opium performed their work so well that no one kept his or her senses beyond the prescribed time. Fortunio fell asleep on Soudja-Sari’s bosom. Musidora waited for him all night, and slept but little. XXV Ir would seem that Fortunio was very comfortable in his gilded nest, for Musidora waited for him in vain for a week. The cause of this sudden rupture was that Fortunio had recognised that there. existed between Musidora 214 abe ab abe abe obs beable abe abe abe cbncbe abe cta obo obecde cbr cde oe oe obec PORT ONT ® and him an inexhaustible source of bitterness. He thought her charming, clever, entirely worthy of being loved, but he could not forget the past; his retrospec- tive jealousy was always awake; he would have been miserable beyond conception without in the least con- tributing to Musidora’s happiness. He had made the greatest efforts to overcome the ever-present thought, but it always sprang up more venomous and obstinate. Feeling that the very efforts he made to forget com- pelied him to remember, he preferred to give up the useless struggle. If he had loved Musidora less, he would have kept her; he loved her too much to allow a secret thought to exist between them. With his firm character, he soon came to an irrevocable decision. Musidora received a letter containing an annuity of twenty-five thousand livres, together with a _ lock of Fortunio’s hair, and these words written in an unknown hand : — «¢ Mapam, — The Marquis Fortunio has just been killed in a duel. Remember him sometimes.’’ “Oh!” said Musidora, “he did not come, — so he must have been dead. [ had guessed it. But I shall not long survive him.” And without shedding a tear, 215 TORTUSEO. she fetched the pocket-book in which was the poisoned needle that Fortunio had taken from her at the begin- ning of their loves, mistrusting her impulsive character, and which she had found forgotten at the bottom of a casket. “‘ It was a fatal omen, and chance was clear-sighted when it made me find an instrument of death where I looked only for love letters and a means of beginning a frivolous intrigue.” With these words she kissed the lock of Fortunio’s hair and pricked herself in the throat with the point of the needle. Her eyes closed, her rosy lips turned blue, a shudder shook her lovely frame. She was dead. XXVI “My pear Rapin Manrri,—I shall very shortly follow this letter. [I return to India, which I shall probably never leave again. “You may remember with what eagerness I desired to visit Europe, the country of civilisation, as it is called. Heaven forgive me! If I had known what it was, I should never have put myself out for it. ‘‘At present I am in France, a wretched country, 216 ae ae a j and in Paris, a mean city. It is difficult to enjoy one’s self properly here. To begin with, it is always raining, and the sun only shines with a flannel vest and a cotton cap on, — it looks like an old fellow stiff with rheumatism. The trees have very small leaves, and only for three months. There is no hunting save rabbits, or at most, a few wretched wild boars, or wolves which have not the strength to devour a dozen peasants. — “©The men are horribly ugly, and the women — oh! ah! The rich people, or at least, those who claim to be so, have not even a twenty-five-franc piece in their pocket, and if when out driving it occurs to them to back their carriage into a shop-window, or to run over a fool or two, they are obliged to leave their hat in pledge or to go and borrow money from one of their friends. ‘There is a certain class of young fellows who are called fashionables. ‘They lead the most curious life. The dress of the most elegant of them is not worth a thousand francs, and generally they are in debt for it. Their supreme refinement consists in wearing patent- leather boots and. white gloves. A pair of boots costs forty francs, a pair of gloves from three to five francs, 217 dedecbib cb bbc bbcbbabechch bec becbecke ob bk BP ORT UWNL.© — marvellous luxury, is it not? ‘Their clothes are made of cloth very like that worn by janitors, dealers in salads, and barristers; it is very difficult to tell a nobleman or a rich man’s son from a teacher of writing in twenty-four lessons. “« ‘These gentlemen dine in two or three cafés which are approved by fashion, where everybody can go, and where you run the risk of being seated at the same table as a writer of bad vaudevilles or of newspaper articles who has just received his month’s pay and proposes to make up for an eight-days’ fast. “The cafés are the worst eating-houses in the world. You cannot get anything in them. You call for a bison’s hump or an elephant’s foot, and the waiter looks at you amazed, as if you had said something extraordinary. Their turtle-soup rarely contains shells, and you cannot find in their cellars a single drop of genuine Tokay or Shiraz wine. ‘After dinner, these fashionables go to a place called the Opera, a sort of barracks of wood and canvas, with faded gilding, and daubs like painted paper, sufficiently fine to exhibit acrobatic monkeys and learned asses in. It is considered good taste to sit in one of the oblong boxes which are close to four big 218 ch ooh abe abe obo ode abe abe rabecbe och abe ebe cde oa ob oe oo HOUR UNIO pillars in repulsive Corinthian style, and which are not even of marble. It is impossible to see anything from these boxes, and that is probably why they are more sought after than any others. I asked myself fre- quently what pleasure one experienced there. It seems that the amusement consists in watching the legs of the dancers. These legs are usually very poor and covered with stuffed tights. The rest of the time there is a great deal of noise which is called music. The play is always the same, and the lines are written by the worst poets to be found. “When there is no opera, you walk about with a cigar on the boulevard, which is not two hundred yards long, has no shadow, no coolness, and where you tread upon your neighbour’s feet. Or else you go to a party. “To go toa party is one of the most inexplicable pleasures of civilisation. This is it. You assemble four hundred people in a room where one hundred would be uncomfortable. “The men are dressed in black’ like undertakers; the women wear the most astonishing costumes possible, — gauze, ribbons, ears of corn in imitation gold, the whole business worth some fifteen francs. Their dresses, which are pitilessly 219 bebbbetbeetetettttttttts FORTUNIO cut low, exhibit unspeakably wretched contours. Every- body remains standing, stuck against the wall; the wo- men are seated separately. Nobody speaks to them excepting a few aged, bald, pot-bellied individuals. A piano, which is an execrable invention, piteously maunders in a corner, and the shrill singing of some famous singer rises from time to time above the low murmur of the assembly. Hostlers and porters dis- guised as lackeys bring in a few cakes and glasses of tasteless mixtures, at which everybody dashes with disgusting avidity. The people who are best off dance themselves, as if they could not afford to pay for dancers. ““'You would be very much astonished, my good Radin Mantri, to see civilisation closer. It consists in having newspapers and railways. The newspapers are great, square pieces of paper which are scattered through the city in the morning. ‘They appear to have been printed with boot-blacking, and contain accounts of the events which have occurred in the city: dogs drowned, husbands beaten by their wives, and remarks on the condition of the cabinets of Europe, written by people who do not know how to write and whom one would not take for valets. 220 dhe dbo ole ob oh of ‘ abs che abe obs abe obo obras cf nb che ohooh obo che he oh che cke F ORs UNI @ “The railways are grooves on which kettles gallop along, — a most entertaining spectacle ! ‘“¢ Besides the newspapers and the railways, there is a sort of constitutional mechanism, with a king who reigns and does not govern. When the poor devil of a king needs a million, he is obliged to ask it of three hundred country louts who meet at the end of a bridge and talk the year through without paying any attention to what other speakers have said. A speech on molasses is replied to by a philippic on fresh-water fishing. That is the way Europeans live. ‘© Their private manners are still more strange. You may call on their women at any hour of the day or night; they go to walk or to balls with the first comer; jealousy seems to be unknown to these people. “© The peers of France, generals, and diplomats gen- erally take for mistresses opera dancers as thin as spiders, who betray them in favour of wig-makers, machinists, writers, or negroes. ‘They know it very well, yet are not put out with them, — instead of having them sewn up in sacks and cast into the river, as would be proper. Z2i kttbtteeeeteetttttttttest FORTUNIO “© A singular and wide-spread taste among this people is love for old women. Almost all the actresses adored and run after by the public are at least sixty years of age. They have to be about fifty before any one finds out that they are pretty and have talent. ““ As for the arts, their condition is far from being brilliant. All the fine pictures in the galleries are by old masters. There is, however, in Paris a poet whose name ends in go (Victor Hugo), who seems to me to do pretty good work,— but after all, I like King Soudraka, the author of ‘ Vasantesena,’ just as much. ““[ have not enjoyed myself greatly in Europe. The only pleasant thing I have met with is a lit- tle girl called Musidora, whom I should have liked to carry off to put into my seraglio; but with her stupid European ideas she would have been very un- happy in it, and I hate nothing more than to see long faces. ‘“¢ | shall start in a few days. I have chartered three vessels to carry away what is worth taking, and I shall burn the rest. El Dorado shall disappear like a dream, —- one or two barrels of powder will do the business. fap a8 3 HLLDLEA LEAL ESE AAA ees EO Ree UNL © “« Farewell, old Europe, — old, though you think yourself young. Try to invent a steam engine to manufacture beautiful women, and to find a new gas to take the place of the sun. I am going to the East. It is simpler.” 22% 4 A PAAL Hey | WAT j On ia Patani’ acne rh of ar ty 4 { , a beh 5 Haw Celye ty. cat tt a i) ana 5 ct ® von vat ee et Shen oe rbot Aen s Be at 4 7 F " we % delpbunh Og apes Eatery aerate liye serra em ~ i a i ‘ 4 oe 4 © a [ = 1 sy eer basta i¢ (Ff ivhal ae 2 y ORD te mee a Ad gated Aa > 7 ’ oh) , 7 et oR g \ Ps » “ a be FERS, Pee baer jc eae Ree 4 ‘ he ‘% Cw nT ‘ ' ce Rae Ae Gal) Be) ONS Cee > ] ‘Se © \ ; ‘ 4 F e awe 454 go NAn pha th haves i) ¢ veh > ] we [ f { | eh rl oh hee . ed AA APE ea aad Rati THe 18 « on - WP Cs ae gee ne EE UR Honig ah Do eerie teenie i i a / Bhi fi yA id Se Wy ; hy y wets eee ee os ie Oi ah a eee i a One of Cleopatra’s Nights ti Gigs yi a ; ; wath Vea bd i aoe 7 Rk yawd . : ae iy #: es "i ; t i. ci . ; { Ml r Ba ie ¥ f 5 i) tie ‘ t ) J i F ia Gy od ‘a an | 4 Ar 4) } n vas nO , f \ eo iy wl Py bebbebbbtrteeetttettetetest ON Ei. Off C Ls.6,.0:Pd> TEAS va GSA ed GE os BG gebebb beh best hhe tt ete tes I BOUT nineteen hundred years ago a magnificent barge, gilded and painted, was flying down the Nile, impelled by fifty long, flat sweeps that rayed the surface of the water like the feet of a gigantic scarabzeus. “The barge, of slender proportions and admirably designed for speed, was long and narrow, and turned up at each end in the shape of the crescent of the young moon. ‘The ram’s-head surmounted by a gilded ball, placed at the point of the prow, denoted that the craft belonged to a personage of royal race. In the centre of the vessel rose a flat-roofed cabin, asort of maos or tent of hon- our, painted and gilded, with a palmetto moulding and four small, square windows. “Two cabins, also covered with hieroglyphs, were placed at each end of the cres- cent. One, larger than the other, had an upper story of less height, like the forecastle of the quaint galleys 227 LELLEEEE Eee ebebbeebeeeeds ONE OF CLEOPATRA’S NIGHTS of the sixteenth century drawn by Della Bella. The smaller, which was the pilot’s, ended in a triangular pediment. The rudder was formed of two huge sweeps fastened to posts painted with stripes, and showed in the wate behind the barge like the web feet of aswan. Heads wearing the pschent and having on the chin the alle- gorical beard, were carved on the handle-ends of these great sweeps, which were worked by the pilot standing on his cabin roof. The pilot was a dark-complexioned man, tawny like new bronze, with eyes slightly slanting at the outer corners, and full of bluish reflections, hair plaited into small cords, open mouth and prominent cheekbones, ears standing out from his head; in a word, a man of true Egyptian type. A narrow waistcloth wrinkling on his hips, and five or six strings of glass beads and amu- lets formed his costume. He appeared to be the only living person on the barge, for the rowers, bending to their sweeps and concealed by the plank-sheer, could only be guessed at by the symmetrical motion of the oars, which opened on either side of the barge like the leaves of a fan and struck the water after a slight pause. 228 $ete¢t¢e¢eetttetetttt ttt tee ONEV OF CLE ORATRA:S NIGHTS - There was not a breath of air, and the great tri- angular sail, furled and stopped with a silken cord around the mast, which had been unshipped, proved that all hope of seeing the wind rise had been given up. The noonday sun poured down in fiery beams; the ashen, dry mud on the river-bank reverberated the heat ; a crude, dazzling light, dusty, so intense was it, overspread everything with its torrents of flame; the blue sky whitened in the heat like metal in a furnace; a hot, dun mist smoked on the burning horizon. Not a cloud showed on the unchanging sky, as mournful as eternity. The water of the Nile, colourless and dead, seemed to sleep on its course, and spread out in sheets of molten tin. No breath rippled its surface, or bowed on their stems the flowers of the lotus, still as if carved out of stone. Only from time to time the leap of a | bechir or a fahaka made it sparkle like silver; the sweeps of the barge appeared to find it difficult to tear the dusky pellicle of the coagulated waters. The banks were deserted. Immense, solemn melan- choly brooded over the land, always a vast tomb, in which the living seemed to have no other occupation than to embalm the dead. An arid gloom, dry as 229 LKAELLALLALALLALP?LALL AALS LSA ONE.OF CLEOPATRA’S, NIGHiagS pumice stone, without softness or reverie, without a pearly gray cloud to watch on the horizon, without a secret spring in which to bathe its dusty feet; the gloom of a sphinx weary of gazing forever at the desert, but which cannot leave the granite pedestal on which it has been sharpening its claws for twenty centuries. The silence was so deep that it was as though the world had become mute or the air had lost the power of conveying sound. The only murmur heard was the low whisper and laugh of the crocodiles weltering in the heat and wallowing amid the river reeds; or else some ibis, tired of standing one leg under its wing and its neck sunk between its shoulders, abandoned its motionless pose, and suddenly striking the blue air with its white wings, flew away and perched upon an obelisk _ or a palm tree. The barge sped like an arrow over the water, leav- ing behind it a silver wake that soon was effaced; a few frothy bubbles breaking on the surface alone tes- tified to the passage of the craft, already out of sight. The river banks, yellow and salmon-coloured, unrolled rapidly like papyrus bands between the double azure of the heaven and the water, these so alike in tone that 230 LLEKE EEA epttett tet ttetese ONEMOL (CLEOBA TR A'S: NIGHTS the thin tongue of earth which separated them seemed a causeway built across an immense lake, and made it dificult to decide whether the Nile reflected the sky or the sky reflected the Nile. The prospect changed constantly. Sometimes gigan- tic propylza mirroring in the river their sloping walls covered with large panels containing quaint figures ; pylons with swelling capitals; stairways bordered by great crouching sphinxes wearing caps with fluted lapels and crossing their black basalt paws under their pointed breasts ; huge palaces, showing against the hori- zon the stern, horizontal lines of their entablatures, on which the emblematic disc opened its monstrous wings like an eagle with exaggerated spread of pinions; temples, with enormous columns the size of towers, against the dazzling white background of which stood out processions of hieroglyphic figures, — all the won- ders of the Titanic Egyptian architecture. Or again, a landscape desolate in its aridity: hills formed of small pieces of stone, the débris of excavations and construc- tions, crumbs of the gigantic granite debauch which had lasted for more than thirty centuries ; mountains exfoli- ated by the heat, cut and rayed by black stripes like the marks of a conflagration; deformed hillocks crouching AZT che ch ech fe be ohooh oe ce cece choco ce fee ood ofe cece ope efe we cto ONEVOF CELEOPATRA’S NGGHAS like the ram-headed sphinxes of the tombs and outlin- ing against the sky their grotesque shapes. Nor was the aridity tempered in any way. No oasis of foliage refreshed the glance; green seemed a colour unknown in nature. Here and there a slender palm blossomed on the horizon, a thorny cactus raised its leaves sharp as bronze swords, a carthamum, finding a little humidity in the shadow of a broken column, broke with its red dot the general monotony.. Having cast this rapid glance upon the landscape, let us return to the fifty-oared barge and enter straight into the naos of honour. ‘The interior of it was painted white with green arabesques, vermilion lines, and golden flowers of fantastic shape. A reed matting of extreme fineness covered the floor. At the end stood a sort of small bed with griffin’s feet, with the back up- holstered like a modern sofa or arm-chair, a footstool with four steps to ascend to it, and —a piece of refine- ment which strikes our ideas of comfort rather strangely —a sort of crescent of cedar wood mounted on a foot and destined to hold the neck and support the head of the sleeper. On this strange pillow rested a very (say Beate one glance of whose eyes had, wrought woe to half the 232 eeeeetedceeteetttetettee ON Bae Ory Ce OAT Rear SUN TGiBIVTaS world; a head adored and divine ; the head of the most perfect woman that ever existed, the most womanly and the most queenly; an admirable type to which poets have been unable to add and which dreamers always find at the end of their dreams. It was Cleopatra. Near her, Charmian, her favourite slave, waved a broad fan of ibis feathers. A little maid watered with scented water the small reed blinds hung across the windows of the zaos, in order that the air should enter only impregnated with coolness and perfume. Near the couch, in a vase of wavy alabaster with slender spout, its slight, graceful shape vaguely recall- ing the profile of a heron, was plunged a bouquet of lotus flowers, some of a celestial blue, others of a ten- der rose like the finger-tips of Isis the great goddess. Cleopatra on that day, either through caprice or policy, was not dressed in Greek fashion. She had just been present at the Panegyrics, and was returning to her summer palace in the Egyptian costume she had worn at the festival. My feminine readers may per- haps desire to know how Queen Cleopatra was dressed on her return from the Hammisi of Hermonthis, where is worshipped the trinity of the god Mandou, the god- SLAELAL ELAS ESAS ettttttesttse ONE OF CLEOPATRA’S NIGHTS dess Ritho and her son Harphre, and I cannot refuse them this satisfaction. Queen Cleopatra wore for a head-dress a sort of very light golden helmet formed of the body and wings of the sacred hawk; the wings, falling fan-like on either side of the head, covered her temples and spread down almost over the neck, allowing to emerge through a small cut an ear rosier and more delicately formed than the shell whence rose Venus, whom the Egyptians name Hathor. ‘The bird’s tail was in the place where ladies wear their chignons ; its body, covered with im- bricated feathers, and painted with different enamels, enveloped the upper part of the head, and the neck, gracefully turned towards the front, composed, with the head, a sort of horn dazzling with gems. A sym- bolical crest in the shape of a tower completed this elegant though curious head-dress. Hair as black as a starless night escaped from under the helmet and fell in long tresses upon fair shoulders, the upper por- tion of which alone could be seen above a collarette adorned with several rows of serpentine, azerodrach, and chrysoberyl. A robe of lawn with diagonal rib- bing, a misty stuff, — woven air, ventus textilis, as Petronius has it, — fell like a white vapour around the 234 bbb bbb bb bbb bbb be ONE OF CLEOPATRA’S NIGHTS beautiful body, the contours of which it delicately soft- ened. The short sleeves fitted close on the shoulder, but were wider near the elbow, and showed a lovely arm and perfectly shaped hand; the arm bound with six circlets of gold, and the hand adorned with a ring representing a scarabeus. A sash, the knotted ends of which fell in front, marked the waist of the loose, easy tunic. A fringed cape completed the costume ; and if a few barbaric words do not frighten my readers, I shall add that the dress was called schenti and the cape calasiris. I may add that Queen Cleopatra wore very thin, light sandals, turned up at the point and fastened over the instep like the long-pointed shoes of ladies in the Middle Ages. Yet Queen Cleopatra did not wear the satisfied air of a woman sure of being perfectly beautiful and per- fectly dressed. She twisted and turned upon her narrow bed, and her abrupt movements constantly disarranged the folds of her gauze conopeum, which Charmian readjusted with inexhaustible patience with- out ever ceasing to wave her fan. > “JT am stifling in this room,” said Cleopatra. “If Phtha, the god of fire, had started his furnaces here, it mele tetetbetttttetetttttttttst ONE \OF CLEOPAPDPRA'S NIG could not be hotter. “The room is like an oven.” And she passed the tip of her little tongue over her lips and stretched out her hand like a patient who looks for a cup that is not there. Charmian, ever attentive, clapped her hands. A black slave, wearing a kilt pleated like an Albanian skirt, and a panther skin thrown over his shoulder, entered as swiftly as an apparition, holding in equilib- rium in his left hand a tray laden with cups and slices of watermelon, and in his right a long vase provided with a spout like a teapot. The slave filled one of the cups, pouring from on high with marvellous dexterity, and placed it before the queen. Cleopatra wetted her lips with the drink, and turning upon Charmian her lovely black eyes, unctuous and lighted by a brilliant spark of light, — “¢ Oh, Charmian,” she said, “ I am weary.” II CHARMIAN, foreseeing a confidence, put on an expres- sion of dolorous assent, and drew nearer her mistress. bd “Tam horribly weary,’’ went on Cleopatra, letting her arms fall as if discouraged and overcome; “ Egypt crushes me and bears me down. That implacably 236 bebebebbtttttttttttett tee we oe Te ONE OP ‘ChE OBATRA’'S: NIGHTS blue sky is more gloomy than the deepest night of Erebus. Never a shadow and never a cloud! Always that red, bloody sun gazing upon me like the eye of a cyclops! See, Charmian, I would give a pearl for a drop of rain. From the burning orb of that bronze sky there has not fallen a single tear upon this desolate land. It is like the covering of a tomb, like the dome of a necropolis, —a sky as dead and dry as the mummies which it covers. It weighs on my shoulders like a cloak that is too heavy ; it troubles and worries me; I feel as if I could not rise without striking my head against it. And then the country is truly fright- ful, —- everything sombre, enigmatical, incomprehen- sible. Imagination gives birth but to monstrous chimeras and vast monuments. I am terrified by its architecture and its art. The colossi, condemned to remain eternally seated, their hands on their knees and their legs caught in the stone, weary me with their stupid immobility; they oppress my eyes and my reason. When will the giant come who is to take them by the hand and relieve them of their watch of twenty centuries? Even granite tires at last. Who is the master they are waiting for to leave the mountain on which they are seated, and to rise in sign of respect? 237 ttetebetttteetetttttttete ONE OF CLEOPATRA’S NIGHTS What invisible flock do these great sphinxes guard, as they crouch like watch-dogs ?— for they never close their eyes, and their claws are ever unsheathed. Why do they so obstinately fix their stony glare upon Eter- nity and the Infinite? What strange secret do their closed lips retain within their breasts? Right or left, whichever way I turn, I see naught but hor- rid monsters, dogs with men’s heads, men with dogs’ heads, chimeras born of hideous couplings in the dark depths of passages, — Anubis, Typhon, Osiris, yellow-eyed hawks whose inquisitive glance seems to traverse your heart and to see, beyond you, unnam- able things, —a host of horrible animals and gods with scaly wings, hooked beaks, sharp claws, ever ready to devour and seize you if you but cross the threshold of the temple and raise the corner of the veil. “© On the walls, on the pillars, on the ceilings, on the floors, in the palaces, in the temples, in the deepest depths and lowest wells of the necropolis, even in the entrails of the earth, whither light never reaches, where torches die out for lack of air, — everywhere and ever, endless carved and painted hieroglyphs telling in incomprehen- sible language things now no longer known, which be- long doubtless to vanished creations; mighty buried 238 SEEPS AEE AES AAA tetetse ONE, OF (CLEORATRA’S NIGHTS works in which a whole people was worn out writing a king’s epitaph. Mystery and granite — such is Egypt ! What a country for a woman and a queen who is young! Nothing but threatening and funereal symbols, —the pedum, the tau, the allegorical disc, the curled serpent, the scales for the weighing of souls, — the Unknown, Death, and Nothingness! For sole vegeta- tion, stela inscribed with strange characters ; for avenues of trees, avenues of granite obelisks; for soil, vast granite slabs of which each mountain can furnish but one; for a heaven, granite ceilings, — eternity made palpable, a bitter and incessant sarcasm on the fragility and the shortness of life ; stairs made for Titans, which human feet cannot ascend and which have to be climbed by ladders; pillars which a hundred arms could not surround; labyrinths where one’s way is lost before exit is found, —the vertigo of enormity, the intoxica- tion of the gigantic, the disorder bred of pride which means at any cost to carve its name on the surface of the earth. “¢ And then, Charmian, let me tell you, — there is a thought that terrifies me. In other countries on this earth bodies are burned and their ashes are soon mingled with the soil; here the living seem to have no 2.39 HLAAAC ALE ALLS tet tsetttts ONE“ OF CELEOPATRA-S (NIGH other occupation than to preserve the dead. | Powerful balms preserve them from destruction ; they retain their form and their aspect. “The soul gone, the frame remains, and under this people lie twenty peoples ; each city stands upon twenty stories of tombs, each genera- tion which disappears makes a new population of mum- mies in a darksome city. Under the father lie the grandfather and the ancestor in their painted and gilded boxes, such as they were during their life; and the more you dig, the more you find. When I think of the multitudes wrapped in bandages, of the swarms of dried-up spectres which fill up the funeral wells and which have been there for two thousand years, face to face, in a silence that nothing breaks, not even the worm of the sepulchre as it crawls past, and which will be found intact after two thousand other years, with their cats and their crocodiles and their ibises and all that lived at the same time with them, —I feel over- come by terror, and I shudder with fear. What do they say, since they yet have lips, and their soul, if the fancy occurred to it, would find the body in the state in which it left it? “¢ Koypt is indeed a sinister realm and not suited to me, who am gay and joyous. Everything contains a 240 che cte cheba oe che he cde te beech cbe dele de ch cbecde ce choo Ue are ciw Fre wre Fe We ONE OF s pursuit of this man,” said Cleopatra, whose curiosity was excited to the highest degree. Phrehipephbour appeared. He was a man of the Nahasi race, with broad hands, muscular arms, wearing a red cap not unlike the Phrygian helmet, and close- fitting drawers striped diagonally white and blue. His torso, entirely bare, shone in the light of the lamp, black and polished like a jet globe. He received the queen’s orders, and at once withdrew to carry them out. Two long, narrow skiffs, so light that the least care- lessness would have caused them to capsise, were soon 256 LLELLALL ELSES AE ELERLELLE ONE OF CLEOPATRA’S NIGHTS dashing across the Nile under the impulse of twenty vigorous oarsmen. But the quest was fruitless. After having explored the river in every direction and searched every tuft of reeds, Phrehipephbour returned to the palace without having done more than caused a sleeping heron to take flight and upset the digestion of a crocodile or two. Cleopatra was so bitterly disappointed that she ex- perienced a lively wish to doom Phrehipephbour to the grindstone or to the wild beasts. Fortunately Charmian interceded for the trembling wretch, who turned pale under his black skin. It was the first time in her life that one of Cleopatra’s desires had not at once been fulfilled; she therefore experienced an uneasy surprise, a sort of first doubt as to her omnipotence. She, Cleopatra, wife and sister of Ptolemy, proclaimed Goddess Evergetes, the Living Queen of the Lower and the Upper Regions, the Eye of Light, the Beloved of the Sun, as may be seen by the cartouches carved upon the temple walls, —she to meet with an obstacle, to have willed something which was not done, to have spoken and not been obeyed! She might just as well be the wife of some poor undertaker and melt bitumen ina kettle. It was monstrous, it was outrageous, and Ly 257 Libkbbhhbbbhbbhbbbbbbbb bbe ONE OF CLEOPATRA’S NIGHTS indeed, if she had not been a very gentle and clement queen, she would have that wretch Phrehipephbour crucified. Yet she had wished for an adventure, for something strange and unexpected, and her wish was gratified. Her kingdom was not as dead as she had thought ; it was no stone statue’s arm that shot the arrow; it was not from a mummy’s heart that came the three words that had moved her, she who looked with a smile at her poisoned slaves, beating their heads and heels in agony upon her lovely pavements of mosaic and porphyry, she who applauded the tiger when it had torn open the side of the conquered gladiator ! She can have whatever she pleases: silver cars studded with emeralds, quadrigze of griffins, tunics of purple thrice dyed, mirrors of polished steel set in precious stones so bright that she can see her beauty in them, gowns from the land of Serica, so fine, so tenu- ous that they could be passed through the ring on her little finger, pearls of perfect shape, cups by Lysippus or Myron, Indian parrots that speak like poets, — she can have everything she pleases, even if she call for the cestus of Venus or the pschent of Isis, but she will 258 LEELLALLALALLALLLLALLL ELS ONE: OF CLEOPATRA’S NIGHTS not have to-night the man who shot the arrow that still quivers in the cedar-wood of her bed. The slaves who will dress her to-morrow will not have a pleasant time. They had better be deft and light-handed, or the golden pins on the dressing-table may be thrust into the breast of the unskilful hair- dresser, and the rubber run the risk of being hanged from the ceiling by her feet. ‘Who could have had the audacity to shoot that declaration fastened to an arrow? Is it the nomarch Ammon Ra, who believes himself more beautiful than the Apollo of the Greeks, or is it Cheopsira, the com- mander of Hermotybios, so proud of his battles in the country of Kush? Or may it not be rather young Sextus, the Roman debauchee, who rouges, lisps, and wears Persian sleeves? ” .“O Queen, none of these. Although you are the loveliest woman in the world, these people flatter you and do not love you. Ammon Ra has an idol to which he will be always faithful, — himself; Cheopsira the warrior thinks only of telling his battles ; as for Sextus, he is so taken up with compounding a new cosmetic that he has no thoughts for anything else. Besides, he has received from Laconia yellow tunics brocaded with 259 ONE OF Cen Ars phere gold, and Asiatic children which entirely take up his attention. None of these handsome lords would risk his neck in so bold and perilous an enterprise, — they do not love you enough for that. But yesterday you said in your barge that dazzled eyes dare not gaze upon you, that men could only turn pale and fall at your feet in supplication, and that there was nothing left for you but to awaken in his gilded bier some old Pharaoh perfumed with bitumen. Now here is a young and ardent heart that loves you. What will you do with it?” That night Cleopatra had much difficulty in going to sleep. She turned in her bed; she long called in vain for Morpheus the brother of Death. She repeated several times that she was the most unfortunate of queens, that everybody took pains to be contrary, that life was unbearable, — terrible grievances which did not touch Charmian very much, although she pretended to sympathise with them. Let me leave Cleopatra in search of the sleep which avoids her, as she turns over in her mind the names of all the great at court, and let me return to Meiamoun. More skilful than Phrehipephbour, chief of the rowers, I shall manage to find him. 260 tetbbbbttttedbbbttttttes DNE OF CLEOPATRA’S NIGHTS Terrified by his own boldness, Meiamoun had cast himself into the Nile and had swum across to the little grove of dom palms before Phrehipephbour had launched the two boats in pursuit of him. When he had recoy- ered his breath and thrown back behind his ears his long hair covered with the foam of the stream, he felt more comfortable and calmer. Cleopatra now had something that came from him; there was now a bond between them. Cleopatra thought of him, Meiamoun. It might have been an angry thought, but at least he had awakened in her some emotion, terror, anger, or pity; he had compelled her to be aware of his exist- ence. It is true that he had forgotten to put his name upon the paper strip, but what would ‘“* Meiamoun, son of Mandouschopsch,”’ have told the queen? A mon- arch or a slave were the same to her. A deity does not lower herself any more if she takes for her lover a man of the people than if she takes a patrician or a king. When one is placed so high, love alone is seen in a man. The words that pressed upon his heart like the knee of a bronze statue had at last gone forth; they had traversed the air, had reached the queen, the apex of the triangle, the inaccessible summit. In her disillu- 261 LA}LDAL ALE LSE AAtetetttts ONE OF CLEOPATRA’S NIGHTS sioned heart he had excited curiosity, which was a good deal. Meiamoun had no idea that he had succeeded so well, but he was calmer, for he had sworn to himself by the mystic bari which takes souls to Amenti, by the sacred birds, Bennu and Gheughen, by Typhon, by Osiris, by all the terrors of Egyptian mythology, that he would be Cleopatra’s lover, were it but a night, were it but an hour, even if it cost him his soul and body. It would be useless to try to explain how this love had come about, —love for a woman whom he had only seen from afar and to whom he scarce dared lift his eyes, he who did not cast them down before the yellow orbs of lions ; or how that little grain, fallen by chance in his soul, had grown so quickly and thrown out such deep roots. It is a mystery ; as I have said, the abyss attracted him. When he was quite sure that Phrehipephbour had returned with the oarsmen, he sprang a second time into the Nile and swam towards Cleopatra’s palace, where a lamp shone through a purple curtain like a radiant star. Leander did not swim towards the Tower of Sestos more boldly and vigorously, yet Meiamoun was not awaited by a Hero, ready to pour 262 che che be ab oe ob alls obs ob abe ab beable oboe eyeball be of eb cle Oe Fe OF) ate wVe ome Ore Fe OO CFO CFO OTE UTE OFS QONHDOK CLBORADRA’S NODGHTS upon his head vials of perfumes in order to drive away the smell of the sea and the bitter kisses of the tem- pest. The best that could happen to him was a good lance-thrust or sword-cut; and, truth to tell, he was not much afraid of it. He swam for some time along the palace wall, the marble base of which plunged into the river, and stopped before a submerged opening into which the water rushed with a whirl. He dived two or three times unsuccessfully. Finally he was luckier, found the passage, and disappeared. The arcade was a vaulted canal which led the waters of the Nile to the baths of Cleopatra. V Ir was not until morning, at the time when dreams come back after their flight through the ivory gates, that Cleopatra slept. In her visions she saw all manner of lovers swimming or scaling walls to reach her, and —-a remembrance of the night before — end- less arrows bearing declarations of love. Her little feet, agitated by nervous tremulousness, beat upon the breast of Charmian lying across the bed to serve her as a pillow. 263 bebtebetteeetetettteetcttes ONEVOER CEBOPA TRA 5 NEG Has When she awoke, the brilliant sunshine was playing through the window curtain and lighting it up with innumerable points of light; it came familiarly to the bed and fluttered like a golden butterfly around her lovely shoulders, on which it dropped a kiss of light as it flashed. Happy sunbeam, which the gods would have envied ! Cleopatra, in a dying voice like a sick child’s, called her maids to help her to rise. “Iwo of her women lifted her in their arms and placed her carefully on the ground on a great tiger-skin, with claws of gold and eyes of carbuncles. Charmian wrapped her in a linen calasiris whiter than milk, bound her hair with a net of silver threads, and placed on her feet sandals of cork, on the soles of which, as a mark of contempt, had been drawn two grotesque figures representing two men of the Nahasi and Namou races, bound hand and foot, so that Cleopatra literally deserved the epithet, “She who treads on the Nations,’”’ which she bears in the royal cartouches. It was the hour for the bath. Cleopatra went thither with her women. ‘The baths were constructed in vast gardens filled with mimosas, carobs, aloes, lemon- trees, and Persian apple-trees, whose luxuriant cool- 264 chee obs oho oe abe be he he he obec dooce cee ce ele oe he ONE OF CLEOPATRA’S NIGHTS ness contrasted delightfully with the aridity of the environs. Great terraces supported masses of verdure, and carried the flowers to heaven by giant staircases of rose granite. Vases of Pentelic marble bloomed like great lilies by the side of the steps, and the plants they contained seemed to be merely their pistils. Chimeras carved by the most skilful of Greek sculptors, and less repellent in appearance than the Egyptian sphinxes with their sour mien and their morose attitudes, lay idly on the sward diapered with flowers, like slender white greyhounds on the carpet of a drawing-room. They represented charming figures of women, straight- nosed, smooth-browed, with small mouths, arms deli- cately plump, round, clean breasts, with earrings, necklaces, and ornaments of exquisite fancifulness, and ending in fish-tails, like the woman of whom Horace speaks, or in birds’ wings, or in the quarters of a lioness, or in volutes of foliage, according to the fancy of the artist and the exigencies of the architecture. A double row of these lovely monsters bordered the avenue leading from the palace to the bath hall. At the end of the avenue lay a large basin with four porphyry steps leading through the transparent, spark- ling water to the bottom covered with golden dust. 265 thttbbbbbbbetttbtttte tos ONE OF CLEOPATRA’S NIGHTS Statues of women, ending in a block like caryatids, poured from their breasts thin streams of scented water, which fell into the basin in silver spray and broke its clear surface with their glittering drops. Besides this purpose, the caryatids served the further one of bearing on their heads entablatures adorned with Nereids and Tritons in bas-relief, and provided with bronze rings to which were fastened the silken cords of the awning. Beyond the portico were seen cool, bluish greenery, umbrageous shades, a bit of the Vale of Tempe trans- ported to Egypt. -The famous gardens of Semiramis were as nothing by the side of these. I shall not mention the seven or eight other halls of different temperatures, with warm or cold vapour, boxes of per- fumes, cosmetics, ointments, pumice-stones, hair gloves and all the refinements of the art of bathing carried by antiquity to so high a pitch of voluptuousness and refinement. Cleopatra arrived leaning upon Charmian’s shoulder. She had walked at least thirty steps by herself, a won- drous effort, a dreadful fatigue! A faint, rosy flush, showing under the transparent skin of her cheeks, brightened their warm pallor. Her temples, golden like amber, showed a network of blue veins; her 266 cheba cba cto ate ate cde he cba ce tote eo che ce ee cece ore ONHVOF CLEOPADRA’S NIGHAS smooth brow, low like the brows of the women of antiquity, but perfectly rounded and shaped, was joined by an irreproachable line to a clean, straight nose, with rosy nostrils that palpitated at the least emotion like the nostrils of an amorous tigress; a small, round mouth, close to the nose, with disdainfully curled lip; but mad_ voluptuousness, incredible ardour of life, beamed in the red brilliancy, the humid lustre of her lower lip. Her eyelids were narrow, her eye- brows thin and almost straight. I shall not attemp* to give an idea of her eyes, which were filled with a fire, a languor, a brilliant limpidity, that would have turned the dog’s head of Anubis himself. Every one of her glances was a poem superior to those of Mim- nermus or Homer. An imperial chin, full of strength and power, worthily rounded out her exquisite profile. | She remained standing on the first step of the basin in a proud, graceful attitude, leaning slightly backward, one foot uplifted, like a goddess about to leave her pedestal, her glance still fixed upon heaven; two superb folds fell from the tips of her breasts straight to the ground. Cleomenes, had he been her contempo- rary and able to see her, would have smashed his Venus for very annoyance. 267 ebb Lb LLEee bbb tebe bee ONE OF CLEOPATRA’S NIGHTS Before entering the water, a new caprice led her to order Charmian to change her silver-net head-dress. She preferred a wreath of lotus flowers with reeds like a marine deity. Charmian obeyed. Her hair, unbound, fell in black masses upon her shoulders, and hung down her cheeks like ripe grapes. Then the linen tunic, held up by a single golden clasp, was undone, slipped down from her marble body, and fell like a white cloud at her feet, like the swan at the feet of Leda. And where was Meiamoun? Ah, cruel fate! so many insensible things enjoy favours which would transport a lover with rapture. ‘The wind toys with the perfumed hair or kisses lovely lips which it cannot appreciate; the water, indifferent to voluptuousness, envelops with a single caress the beautiful, adored body ; the mirror reflects her many charming images ; the cothurn or the sandal encloses a divinely small foot ; — oh, how much delight wasted ! Cleopatra dipped into the water her golden foot, and descended a few steps. [he shimmering water made her a belt and bracelets of silver, and rolled in pearls upon her breasts and shoulders like a broken necklace ; her long hair, supported by the water, stretched behind her like a regal mantle. She was a queen even in her 268 $f¢teteeeeeetetetttettetest ONE OF CLEOPATRA’S NIGHTS bath. She came and went, plunged and brought up handfuls of golden sand which she laughingly threw at her women; at other times she hung over the balus- trade of the basin, alternately hiding and revealing her charms, sometimes showing only her polished, lustrous back, sometimes exhibiting herself fully like Venus Anadyomene, and constantly varying the aspect of her beauty. Suddenly she uttered a cry shriller than Diana’s when surprised by Acteon. ‘Through the foliage she had seen shining a burning glance, yellow and phos- phorescent, like the eye of a crocodile or of a lion. It was Meiamoun, who, lying on the ground behind a tuft of foliage, more agitated than a fawn in a grain- field, was drinking in the dangerous joy of gazing upon the queen in her bath. Although he was brave to rashness, Cleopatra’s cry pierced his heart more coldly than a sword-thrust. A deathly sweat broke out on his body; his blood surged to his temples with a strident sound, and the iron grasp of anxiety clutched his throat and choked him. The eunuchs hastened up, lance in hand. Cleopatra pointed out the group of trees, where they found Meiamoun curled up in concealment. 269 ttteeetteeettttttetttettts ONE’ ‘GF “CLEOPATRA’S INI GEIDS Defence was impossible; he did not even attempt it, but allowed himself to be arrested. “They were making ready to slay him with the cruel and stupid impassibility characteristic of eunuchs; but Cleopatra, who had had time to wrap herself in her calasiris, signed to them to stop and bring the prisoner before her. Meiamoun fell at her feet, holding out towards her supplicating hands, as if she were the altar. of the gods. ““Are you one of Rome’s paid murderers? What were you doing within this sacred place whence men are banished?” said Cleopatra, with an imperious gesture of interrogation. “May my soul be found light in the scales of Amente, and T’mei, daughter of the Sun and goddess of ‘Truth, banish me, if I have ever entertained any evil thought towards you, O Queen,” replied Meiamoun, still kneeling. Sincerity and loyalty shone on his face so plainly that Cleopatra at once put away that thought, and fixed on the young Egyptian a less severe and less angry look. She thought him handsome. “Then what motive brought you to a place where death alone awaited you? ” 270 thebebbetetttetettettttetee ONE OF CLEOPATRA’S NIGHTS > “T love you,” murmured Meiamoun in a low but distinct voice; for his courage had come back, as in all extreme situations when at their worst. “Oh!” said Cleopatra, bending towards him and seizing his arm with an abrupt, unexpected motion. “Then it was you who shot the arrow with the roll of papyrus! By Oms, the dog of the lower regions, you are a very bold wretch. Now I know you. I have long seen you wandering like a mournful shadow around the places I dwell in. You were at the proces- sion of Isis, at the Panegyrics of Hermonthis ; you fol- lowed my royal barge. Ah! you want a queen! Your ambition is not very modest. No doubt you expected to have your love requited,— of course I shall love you; why not?” “OQ Queen,” replied Meiamoun, with grave melan- choly, “do not hurl sarcasms at me. J am mad, it is true; I have deserved death, that is true also. Be humane and have me slain.” “No, I shall indulge in the fancy of being clement to-day. I grant you your life.” ‘‘And what would you have me do with my life? I love you.” “Well, you shall be satisfied; you shall die!” 271 ttteeeteeeeeettetttttetttee ONE) OF *CURDPAT RATS UNTGEATs answered Cleopatra. ‘ You dreamed a strange, an ex- travagant dream ; your desires and your longings crossed the forbidden place. You thought you were Cesar or Mark Antony, and you loved the Queen. In your hours of delirium you fancied, perchance, that circum- stances which happen but once in a thousand years, might lead Cleopatra to love you one day! Well, what you believed impossible shall be; I shall turn - your dream into reality ; for once I shall enjoy satisfy- ing a mad hope. I shall overwhelm you with splen- dour, with radiance and lightnings; I mean that your fortune shall be dazzling. You were at the bottom of the wheel, I shall put you at the top, abruptly, sud- denly, without a transition. [| take you from nothing- ness and make you the equal of the gods, —and then I shall plunge you back into nothingness. But do not call me cruel, do not implore my pity, do not weaken when the hour strikes. I am kind, I favour your folly. I have the right to have you slain at once, but you tell me you love me; you shall be slain to-morrow. Your life shall be given in exchange for one night. I am generous. I purchase it, though I might take it. But why are you at my feet? Rise and give me your hand to return to the palace.” 272 Lkebeeeeetetettettdtdtttotsd ONETCOR CEPORADRIA Sy NIGHTS VI Our world is very small in comparison with the world of antiquity, our feasts very mean by the side of the terrific sumptuosity of Roman patricians and of Asi- atic princes. ‘Their ordinary meals would now pass for mad orgies, and the whole of a modern city could live for a week upon what was left by Lucullus after supping with a few intimate friends. We find it diffi- cult to understand, with our miserable habits, these vast lives which realised all that imagination can invent in the way of boldness and strangeness and of most mon- strously abnormal. Our palaces are stables in which Caligula would not have put his horses; the richest of our constitutional kings does not maintain the state of the humblest satrap or of a Roman proconsul. The brilliant skies that shone upon earth have died forever in the nothingness of uniformity. Above the black swarm of men rise no more those colossi whose Titan forms traversed the world with three strides like the heroes of Homer. There are no more towers of Lylacq, no more giant Babels raising to the heavens infinite spirals ; no more immeasurable temples built of pieces of moun- tains; no more regal terraces which centuries and a 273 ALLALALAEALLAALALALL LAE ALLS ONE OF CLEOPATRA’S NIGHTS nations could increase one course only at a time, and whence the prince, leaning on his elbow and sunk in thought, could look upon the figure of the world as upon an outspread map. No more labyrinthine cities, formed of inextricable masses of cyclopean edi- fices, with deep circumvallations, amphitheatres filled with roars night and day, reservoirs overflowing with sea-water and peopled with leviathans and whales, colossal staircases, superimposed terraces, towers whose summits were lost in clouds, giant palaces, aqueducts, vomitories and sombre necropolis. Alas! we have nothing left but plaster hives upon a checker-work of pavement. It is amazing that men did not revolt against the confiscation of all riches and living forces for the bene- fit of a few privileged ones, and that such exorbitant fancies did not meet with obstacles upon their bloody road. The reason is that these wondrous lives were the realisation in the light of day of the dreams which each man dreamed at night; they were the incarnation of the common thought, and the nations saw themselves living, symbolised in those meteoric names which flame vividly in the night of ages. “To-day, deprived of the dazzling spectacle of almighty will and the high con- 274 checte oe oleae ob oe fo he abe ecole cece che che ce cde ce ob foe ~~ ee ONE) OF CLEOPATRA’S NIGHTS templation of the human soul, whose least desire mani- fested itself in incredible actions, in enormities of granite and bronze, the world is hopelessly and desper- ately weary; man is no longer represented in his imperial fancy. The story which I write and the great name of Cleopatra which comes into it, have led to these reflec- tions which sound ill in civilised ears ; but the spectacle of the world of antiquity is so crushing, so discouraging to imaginations which believe they are extreme, and to minds which think they have attained the utmost limits of fairy magnificence, that I could not help embodying here my complaints and my regret at not having been the contemporary of Sardanapalus, Tiglath-Pileser, Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt, or even of Heliogabalus, Emperor of Rome and Priest of the Sun. I have now to describe a supreme orgy, a feast by the side of which Balshazzar’s would have paled, — one of Cleopatra’s nights. How can I, with the French tongue, so chaste, so icily prudish, reproduce the frantic madness, the vast and mighty debauch, which unhesitatingly mingled the purple of blood and wine, and the furious impulses of unsatisfied voluptu- ousness seeking the impossible, with all that fire of the 275 sho bso oe abe abe oe oe cde ce cele cece ce ab ce ce cb coe checks ONE) OF ‘CLEOPATRA-S NAGisS senses which the long Christian fast has not yet deadened ? The promised night was to be splendid. All the joys possible to human existence had to be crowded into a few hours. Meiamoun’s life was to be concen- trated into a powerful elixir which he could drain at a draught. Cleopatra willed to dazzle her voluntary victim and to plunge him into a whirlwind of vertigi- nous voluptuousness, to intoxicate, to stun him with the wine of orgy, so that death, although expected, should come unseen and not understood. Let me take my readers into the banquet hall. Our existing architecture offers few points of com- parison with the mighty buildings, the ruins of which resemble fallen mountains rather than edifices. It took all the exaggeration of antique life to animate and fill these prodigious palaces, the halls of which were so vast that they could have no ceiling other than the heavens, a magnificent roof well worthy of such architecture. The banqueting hall was of enormous and Babylon- ian proportions; the glance could not fathom its im- measurable depths. Monstrous columns, short, squat, sturdy enough to upbear the poles, raised their heavy, 276 Skéeeeeeetttretetttttttttse ONEFOD CHM OPA RAIS! NIGHTS swelling shafts upon pedestals covered with hieroglyphs, and supported on their massive capitals gigantic granite arches rising in courses like overset stairs. By each pil- lar a colossal basalt sphinx, crowned with the pschent, stretched out its head with its bearded chin, and with its oblique glance stared fixedly and mysteriously into the hall. On the second story, back of the first, the capitals of the columns, themselves more slender, were formed of four heads of women placed back to back, with fluted beards and the convoluted Egyptian head- dress. Instead of sphinxes, bull-headed idols, impas- sible spectators of nocturnal and furious orgies, were seated on stone thrones like patient guests awaiting the beginning of the feast. The third story, of a different order, with bronze elephants projecting scented water through their trunks, crowned the edifice, and over all the sky spread like a blue abyss and the inquisitive stars leaned upon the frieze. Prodigious staircases of porphyry, so polished that they reflected bodies like mirrors, ascended and de- scended on all sides and bound together these vast architectural masses. I am merely giving a rapid sketch, to give an idea of the tremendous building with its superhuman pro- 277 tttettttetttetetettttttts ONE OF CUBOPATRAIS NIGH FS portions. It would take the brush of Martin, the great painter of vanished enormities, and I have but a meagre pen-stroke instead of the apocalyptic depths of steel- plate engravings; but imagination must make up for what is wanting. Less fortunate than the painter or the musician, I can only present things one after another. I have spoken of the architecture alone, leaving the. guests aside, and even the banquet-hall I have merely indicated. Cleopatra and Meiamoun await us; they are now coming forward. Meiamoun wore a linen tunic embroidered with stars, a mantle of purple and bands in his hair like an Eastern potentate. Cleopatra wore a sea-green robe open at the sides and held together by golden bees ; on her fair arms two rows of great pearls; on her head.a golden pointed crown. Instead of a smile on her lips, a shadow of preoccupation slightly darkened her lovely face, and her brows sometimes met with a feverish motion. What was troubling the great queen? As for Meiamoun, he had the radiant and luminous appearance of a visionary in ecstasy. Brilliant effluvia springing from his temples and his brow formed a golden nimbus around his head, as if he were one of the twelve great 278 tttebetbtetcbtttedttttedtettet ONE OF -CLEOPATRA’S NIGHTS gods of Olympus; a deep, serious joy shone in his eyes. He had embraced his chimera with the quick wings and it had not flown away; he was realising the aim of his life. If he were to live to the age of Nestor and Priam, if his veined temples were to be covered with white hair like that of the high priest of Ammon, he could feel nothing new, he could learn nothing more. He had obtained so much more than his wildest hopes that the world had nothing left to give him. Cleopatra made him sit down by her side on a throne supported by golden griffins, and clapped her little hands together. Suddenly lines of fire, sparkling cords, outlined every projection of the architecture ; the eyes of the sphinxes cast phosphorescent lightnings ; a burning breath poured from the mouth of the idols; the elephants, instead of scented water, projected glow- ing streams; bronze arms issued from the walls hold- ing lighted torches in their hands; in the carved calyx of the lotus flowers suddenly flamed dazzling aigrettes ; great bluish flames rose and fell on the brazen tripods ; giant chandeliers shed their light in a radiant vapour ; everything shone and beamed. ‘The colours of the prism broke and crossed in the air; the facets of the “In any case,” resumed Theano’s lover, “ we shall be able to judge for ourselves, for it seems to me that I hear the clarions sounding afar, and without having Nyssia’s sight I can see yonder the heralds 297 tebbbbbbbbbtbtbbbbbdddhel KING CANDAULES advancing with palms in their hands announcing the arrival of the wedding procession and forcing the crowd back.” | At this news, which rapidly spread, strong men used their elbows, to get to the front row; agile youths, embracing the shafts of pillars, endeavoured to climb to the capitals and sit there; others, at the cost of skinning their knees against the bark, managed to perch themselves comfortably enough in the elbows of the branches of trees; women placed their little chil- dren on one shoulder, advising them to cling closely to their necks ; those who were fortunate enough to live in the street through which Candaules and Nyssia were to pass, looked from their roofs, or, raising themselves on their elbows, left for a moment the pillows which supported them. A murmur of satisfaction and relief ran theca the crowd, which had been waiting for many hours already, and the beams of the noonday sun were beginning to make themselves felt. Warriors heavily armed with cuirasses of buffalo- skin covered with plates of metal, helmets adorned with aigrettes of horse-hair dyed red, knemids lined with tin, baldrics studded with nails, blazoned bucklers, 298 KING CANDAULES and brazen swords, marched behind a row of trumpet- ers who were blowing hard in their long tubes that shone in the sunshine. The steeds of these warriors, as white as the feet of Thetis, might have served, by the nobility of their gait and their thorough breeding, as models for those which Phidias carved later on the metope of the Parthenon. At the head of this troop rode Gyges, well named, for in Lydian ‘“‘ Gyges”’ means “ handsome.” _ His feat- ures, almost absolutely regular, seemed cut out of marble, so pale was he, for he had just recognised in Nyssia, although she was covered. with the veil of brides, the woman whose face the treason of the wind had exposed to his looks by the walls of Bactra. ‘‘ Handsome Gyges seems very sad,” said the maid- ens. ‘What proud beauty has disdained his love? Or has some one whom he has neglected had a spell cast on him by a Thessalian witch. Can the magic ring, which he found, it is said, within the depths of a forest, within the flanks of a bronze horse, have lost its virtue and ceased to render its master invisible? Has it suddenly betrayed him to the astonished glance of some worthy husband who thought himself alone in his conjugal chamber ? ”’ 299 th robe ch ob che abe abe ce che ceeds chee oe chee ob chee abe chee KING CANDAULES ‘¢ Perhaps he has lost his talents and his drachmas at the game of Palamedes, or else he is annoyed at not having won the prize at the Olympic Games. He reckoned greatly upon his horse Hyperion.” None of these conjectures was correct. People never do guess the truth. Next to the battalion commanded by Gyges came young boys crowned with myrtles, who playing upon ivory lyres with a bow, accompanied an epithalamium in the Lydian mode. ‘They wore rose-coloured tunics embroidered with silver threads, and their hair hung down on their shoulders in thick curls. They pre- ceded the bearers of presents, robust slaves whose half- nude bodies exhibited muscles which the most vigorous athlete might have envied. On litters borne by two, four, or more men, accord- ing to the weight of the objects, were placed enormous brazen cups carved by the most famous artists; vases of gold and silver, their sides adorned with bassi-relievt, their graceful handles covered with chimeras, foliage, and nude women; magnificent ewers for the washing of the feet of illustrious guests; flagons encrusted with precious stones and holding the rarest of perfumes, — Arabian myrrh, Indian cinnamon, Persian nard, Smyrna 300 che ooh ae os oh oh a oh abe cabecde doa oe obec oe oh deh obs obs obs obs obs abe ob RPL N Gree Gree NY 1) AS Ue S essence of roses; perfume burners, the covers pierced with holes; coffers of cedar and ivory of marvellous workmanship, opening by secret methods unknown to any but the inventor and containing bracelets of gold of Ophir, necklaces of the finest orient pearls, clasps studded with rubies and carbuncles; toilet cases con- taining yellow sponges, curling-irons, sea-wolves’ teeth for polishing the nails, the green rouge of Egypt, which turns the loveliest red on touching the skin, powders to darken the eyebrows and eyelids, —in a word, all that feminine coquetry can invent in the way of refinement. On other litters were borne purple robes of the finest wool, and of every shade, from the carna- tion of the rose to the deep red of the juice of the grape; calasiris of Canopean linen which are thrown white into the dyers’ vats, and which, thanks to the different mordants with which they are impregnated, emerge diapered with the most brilliant colours; tunics brought from the fabulous country of Serica, at the very extremity of the world, made with thread spun by a worm that lives on leaves, and so fine that they might have been drawn through a ring. Ethiopians, shining like jet, their heads bound with cords, so that the veins of their brows should not burst 301 LEELELELELLLSLALELAL ALLELES KOI NGeGAWN DAWES under the efforts they made to support their burden, carried in great pomp a colossal statue of Hercules, the ancestor of Candaules, made of gold and ivory, with the club, the Nemzan lion’s skin, the three golden apples of the gardens of the Hesperides, and all the consecrated attributes. The statues of the celestial Venus and of Venus Genetrix, carved by the best pupils of the school of Sicyon in that marble of Paros whose brilliant trans- parency seems made on purpose to represent the ever youthful flesh of the immortal goddesses, followed the efigy of Hercules, whose powerful contours and mus- cular forms brought out still more strongly the harmony and elegance of their proportions. A painting by Bularchus, bought for its weight in gold by Candaules, painted upon a panel of the wood of the female larch and representing the defeat of the Magnetes, excited general admiration by the perfection of the drawing, the accuracy of the attitudes, and the harmony of the colour, although the artist had made use of the four primitive colours only, — white, Attic ochre, red earth of Sinope, and atrament. ‘The young King loved painting and sculpture rather more than beseems a monarch, and he often spent a year’s in- 302 tbhbbbbbbbbbtb tbh bt K come from one of his cities in the purchase of a costly painting. Camels and dromedaries with magnificent housings and trappings, bestridden by musicians playing on cym- bals and tympanons, bore the golden pins, the cords and stuffs of the tent intended for the young queen when she went travelling or hunting. On any other occasion these splendours would have delighted the people of Sardis, but their curiosity had another object, and this portion of the procession was watched with some impatience. “Ihe maidens, wav- ing burning torches and scattering handfuls of crocus flowers, were not even looked at. The thought of beholding Nyssia filled every mind. At last Candaules appeared riding on a car drawn by four horses, — handsome and spirited as those of the Sun, covering their golden bits with white foam, shak- ing their purple tressed manes, and held in with diffi- culty by the driver, who stood by the prince and leaned back to secure a greater purchase. Candaules was a vigorous young man, who fully justified his Herculean descent. His head was joined to his shoulders by a bull neck; his black, lustrous hair curled in short, rebellious curls, and in places cov- 393 LEELA AELELLLALALAELALLAS ELS KING CANDAULES ered the band of the royal diadem. His small, straight ears were red; his brow was broad and full, though somewhat low like the brows of the people of an- tiquity ; his glance, full of softness and melancholy ; his oval cheeks, his chin with its gentle, easy curve, his mouth with half-opened lips, his athletic arm ending in a woman’s hand, marked a poetic rather than a war- like nature; and indeed, though he was brave and skilful in every bodily exercise, breaking in a horse as cleverly as one of the Lapitha, swimming across the rivers which flow from the mountains swollen by the melting snows, capable of bending the bow of Odysseus and of bearing the buckler of Achilles, he did not seem to be preoccupied by conquest ; and war, so attractive to young sovereigns, had but mediocre attractions for him. He was satisfied with repelling the attacks of ambitious neighbours, without attempting to extend his possessions. He preferred to build palaces and to advise his architects, to collect statues and paintings by old and new masters. He possessed works by Telephanes of Sicyon, Cleanthes and Ardices of Corinth, Hygiemon, Dinias, Charmadas, Eumarus, and Cimon, — some mere drawings, others coloured or in mono- chrome. It was even said that Candaules had, for- 304 desde oo ob dee ob debe ccd cb abeckoeecke de deck KING CANDAULES getful of princely decency, not disdained to handle with his royal hands the sculptor’s chisel and the sponge of the painter of encaustics. But why do we dwell on Candaules? The reader, no doubt, like the people of Sardis, cares only for Nyssia. The daughter of Megabasus was seated upon an ele- phant with wrinkled skin and huge ears like standards, that advanced with heavy but swift step like a vessel amid waves. Its tusks and trunk were bound with silver rings, strings of huge pearls wound around its pillar-like legs. On its back, covered by a magnificent Persian carpet with variegated designs, rose a sort of howdah covered with chased gold and studded with onyx, sardonyx, chrysolite, lapis-lazuli, and opals. In this howdah was seated the young queen, so covered with gems that she dazzled the eyes. A mitre shaped like a helmet on which pearls formed designs and letters after the Oriental fashion, covered her head; her ears, pierced in the lobes and on the edges, were laden with ornaments in the shape of cups, crescents, and balls; necklaces of open-work gold and silver balls hung in triple rows around her neck and fell upon her bosom with metallic rustlings; emerald serpents with eyes of 20 305 bhbbbbhbbbbbetbbbebtb toe KING CANDAULES rubies and topazes wound around her arms, biting their own tails. These bracelets were connected by chains of precious stones, and their weight was so great that two maids, kneeling on either side of Nyssia, supported her elbows. She wore a dress embroidered by the workmen of Tyre with brilliant patterns of gold leaves and diamond fruits, and over it a short Persepolis tunic, which came down almost to the knee, with sleeves slit open and held together by sapphire clasps. Around her waist she had a sash made of narrow stuff marked with stripes and designs that formed symmetrical patterns as they were brought together by the arrange- ment of the folds, which Indian girls alone know how to manage. Her drawers of byssus— which the Phoenicians call syndon— were fastened above the ankles by anklets adorned with balls of silver and gold, and completed a costume of barbaric richness absolutely opposed to Greek taste. But alas! a saffron-coloured flammeum closely masked the face of Nyssia, who appeared troubled, although she was veiled, at the sight of so many glances fixed upon her, and who often signed to the slaves placed behind her to lower the parasol of ostrich-feathers so that she might be the better concealed from the eager crowd. 306 KING CANDAULES In vain had Candaules begged; he had been unable to induce her to throw off her veil even on this solemn occasion. The young barbarian had refused to pay to her people the welcome of beauty. Great was the disappointment. Lamia maintained that Nyssia dared not unveil for fear of showing her double eyes; the young debauchee was convinced that Theano of Colo- phon was more beautiful than the Queen of Sardis ; and Gyges sighed when he saw Nyssia, after her elephant had knelt down, descend upon the bowed heads and the arms of the slaves, as down a living staircase, to the threshold of the royal dwelling, in which the elegance of Greek architecture was mingled with the fancifulness and the enormities of Asiatic taste, II More fortunate than the Sardians, who, after a day’s waiting, were obliged to return home reduced as before to mere conjectures, I, as a poet, have a right to draw aside the saffron-coloured flammeum which veiled the young bride. Nyssia was really more beautiful than she was said to be: it seemed as though nature had intended, in 397 LEELEALELELSEAEALALAEALLLLE LAS KOEN GaICPALN DTA rs creating her, to use-her power to the utmost and to be pardoned all her gropings and all her failures. It seemed as though, moved by a feeling of jealousy of the future marvels of the Greek sculptors, she also had tried to model a statue and to show that she was still sovereign mistress in matters of plastics. The grain of the snow, the micaceous brilliancy of Parian marble, the shining pulp of the flowers of the balsam, convey but an imperfect notion of the ideal substance of which Nyssia was formed. Her fine, delicate flesh was interpenetrated by the light, and the contours were modelled transparently in suave, har- monious, rhythmic lines. In her different aspects she was sunny or rosy, like the odoriferous body of a goddess, and seemed to radiate light and life. The world of perfections contained in the noble oval of her chaste face no man can ever describe, no painter reproduce with his brush, no sculptor with his chisel, no poet with his style, even were they Praxiteles, Apelles, or Mimnermus. On her smooth brow, shaded by waves of ruddy hair, like molten electron, and powdered with golden filings according to the Baby- lonian fashion, reigned, as on a jasper throne, the unchangeable serenity of perfect beauty. 308 oe eFfe CFO ee ere ete ere eve Te US oe IT INIGe, CAIN: Dy ALL Res As for her eyes, if they did not fully bear out what popular credulity believed of them, they were at least wondrously strange. Brown eyebrows, the extremities of which were gracefully fined away like the ends of Cupid’s bow, and joined by a line of hair after the Asiatic fashion, long fringes of silky, shadowy lashes, contrasted strangely with two sapphire stars playing on a sky of bluish silver which formed the eyeballs. “che eyeballs, the pupil of which was darker than ink, showed singular variations of tint in the iris. They passed from sapphire to turquoise, from turquoise to aqua- . marine, from aquamarine to yellow amber, and some- times like a limpid lake the bottom of which is strewn with gems, allowed to be seen at unfathomable depths sands of gold and diamonds on which green filaments wriggled and twisted like emerald serpents. In these eyes with phosphorescent flashes or beams of dead suns, the splendour of vanished worlds, the glories of eclipsed Olympus, seemed to have concentrated their reflections. On looking at them eternity was recalled, and one was seized with vertigo as when bending over the edge of infinity. The expression of these extraordinary eyes was no less changeable than their colour. Sometimes the eye- 329 LLELLL LEE E EAE hbk KING CANDAULES tids, half opening like the gates of the celestial dwell- ings, called one into elysiums of light, ineffable azure and felicity, promising the realisation of all one’s dreams | of happiness twenty-fold and a hundred-fold, as though they had read the secret thoughts of one’s soul. At other times, as impenetrable as the bucklers composed of seven superimposed plates of the hardest metals, the glance fell against them weak and like blunted arrows. With a mere bending of the brow, with one turn of the eye more tremendous than Jove’s lightning, they hurled one from the top of the most ambitious ascents into such deep nothingness that it was impossible to rise again. “[yphon himself, who turns over under Etna, could not have raised the mountains of disdain with which they overwhelmed one. ‘They made one feel that even if a man possessed, in the course of a life of a thousand Olympiads, the beauty of the fair son of Leto, the genius of Orpheus, the boundless power of the Assyrian kings, the treasures of the Cabiri, the Telchines and the Dactyli, gods of subterranean riches, it would be hopeless to induce them to assume a softer expression. At other times they were filled with such eloquent, emotional, and persuasive languor, with such penetrating effluvia and radiations, that the ice of Nestor 310 ketbettttbetetttttttbthese KUN GA GAN DADAL ES and Priam would have melted at their aspect as the waxen wings of Icarus on his approach to the burning zones. For a single one of these glances, a man would have imbrued his hands in the blood of his host, scat- tered to the four winds of heaven his father’s ashes, overthrown the sacred images of the gods, and stolen fire from heaven like Prometheus, the sublime thief. Yet their most common expression, I must say, was one of inflexible chastity, of sublime coldness, of igno- rance of all possibilities of human passion, by the side of which the moon-like eyes of Phoebe and the sea- green eyes of Athene would have appeared more las- civious and alluring than those of a Babylonian maiden sacrificing to the goddess Mylitta within the roped-in space of the court of Succoth-Benoth. ‘Their uncon- querable virginity seemed to defy love. Nyssia’s cheek, which no human glance had profaned save that of Gyges on the day when her veil flew away, had a bloom of youth, a tender pallor, a delicacy of grain and down, of which not the faintest idea can be formed from the faces of our women, which are always exposed to the air and sunshine. Maidenly modesty flushed them with a rose such as might be produced by a drop of red essence within a cupful of milk; and 311 HEELALAL LES AAE eet ttttttstt KINGYCANDAUTVES when no emotion coloured them, they had silvery re- flections, warm gleams, like alabaster lighted from within. ‘The light was her lovely soul seen through her transparent flesh. A bee would have mistaken her mouth for a flower, so perfect was its shape, the corners so exquisitely arched, the redness so living and rich; the gods them- selves would have come down from their Olympic dwellings to touch it with their lips moist with immor- tality, had not the jealousy of the goddesses prevented them. Happy indeed the air that breathed through that purple and those pearls, that dilated the lovely nostrils so exquisitely formed and shaded with rosy tints like the interior of the shells cast by the sea on the shores of Cyprus at the feet of Venus Anadyomene! But that is just the way many delights are granted to things unable to understand them. What lover does not long to be the tunic worn by his beloved, or the water in which she bathes? Such was Nyssia, if I may apply the words to so vague a description of her beauty. If our dull Northern idioms had the warm liberty, the burning enthusiasm of Sir-Hasirim, perhaps by means of comparisons, by calling up to the reader’s mind recollections of flowers, 312 bob bbe bbb dhe KING CANDAULES perfumes, music, and sunshine, by evoking by the magic of words all that creation contains of graceful and charming ideas, I might have managed to give some notion of Nyssia’s appearance. But Solomon alone may compare the nose of a beautiful woman to the tower of Lebanon that looks towards Damascus. And yet what more important in the world than a beautiful woman’s nose? If Helen, the fair Tyndaris, had been flat-nosed, would the war of Troy ever have taken place, and if Sem Rami had not had a perfectly regular profile, would she ever have seduced the old monarch of Nin-Nevet, and bound on her brow the pearl mitre, mark of supreme power! Although Candaules had had brought to his palaces the loveliest slaves of Sour, Askelon, Sakkes, Razaf, the most famous courtesans of Ephesus, Pergamos, Smyrna, and Cyprus, he was completely fascinated by Nyssia’s charms. He had not even suspected hitherto the existence of such perfection. Free, as her hus- band, to enjoy the contemplation of her beauty, he felt himself dazzled and seized with vertigo, like a man who bends over an abyss or stares at the sun. He experi- enced a sort of delirium of possession, like the priest intoxicated by the god which fills him; all other SuS abe oe olbs obs ob obs ole obs che ale obs elo obe obo oly obs ole obs ole obo ob of obo ole KD Nt Gt AGAIN DA CF Ey thoughts vanished from his soul, and the universe appeared to him only as a blurred mist wherein shone the brilliant figure of Nyssia. His happiness turned into ecstasy, his life into madness. At times his felicity terrified him. ‘To be merely a wretched king, the distant descendant of a hero become a god by dint of labours, merely a common man, made of flesh and bones, and, without having done anything to deserve it, without even having, like his ancestor, killed the hydra or the lion, — to enjoy a happiness of which Zeus with the ambrosial hair would scarce be worthy, master of Olympus though he was! He felt in some sort ashamed to keep so rich a treasure to himself, to rob the world of such a marvel, to be the scaly, clawed dragon that guarded the living type of lovers’, sculp- tors’, and poets’ ideals, all they had dreamed in their aspirations, their sorrows, their despair, — he, Candaules, the poor tyrant of Sardis, who had scarce a few miser- able coffers filled with pearls, a few cisterns full of gold pieces, and thirty or forty thousand slaves, bought or taken in war! His happiness was too great for him, and the strength which he no doubt would have found to bear up under misfortune failed him in felicity. His joy 314 che os ae ohooh abe cho oe cho oe oe ook be cho oe be ae abe eae oe abe oe KING CANDAULES overflowed his soul like water in a vase on the fire, and in the exasperation of his enthusiasm for Nyssia, he had come to the point of desiring that she were less timid and less modest, for it pained him to keep to himself the secret of such beauty. “©Oh!” he said to himself, during the deep reveries which filled up all the time which he did not spend near the queen, ‘what a strange fate is mine! I am wretched at what would make the happiness of any other husband. Nyssia refuses to leave the retreat of the harem, and, in her barbaric modesty, to raise her veil for any one but me. And yet with what intoxication of pride would my love see her radiant and sublime, standing at the top of the royal steps, dominating my prostrate people, and eclipsing like the dawn of day all the pale stars which, as long as night lasted, believed they were suns! You proud Lydians who believe yourselves beautiful, you owe it only to Nyssia’s mod- esty that you do not appear, even to your lovers, as ugly as the oblique-eyed, thick-lipped slaves of Nahasi and Kush. If but once she were to traverse the streets of Sardis with uncovered face, in vain you would drag at the folds of your admirers’ tunics; none of them would turn their heads, or if they did, they would ask Bs HLALEALELALAEALAN ALL ALL ALLE LS KING’ GAN DAU TES your name, so completely would they have forgotten you. They would cast themselves under the silver wheels of her car to enjoy the delight of being crushed by her, like the devotees of the Indus, who pave with their bodies the road traversed by their idol. And you, you goddesses whom Paris Alexander judged, if Nyssia had competed not one of you would have won the apple ; not even Aphrodite, in spite of her cestus and her promise to make the shepherd beloved by the most beautiful woman in the world. “To think that such beauty is not immortal, alas! and that the years will spoil those divine lines, that admirable hymn of form, that poem of which the strophes are contours and which no one on earth has read or is to read but myself! To be the sole deposi- tary of such atreasure! If at least I could, with the help of lines and colours, and by the imitation of the play of light and shade, fix upon wood a reflection of her celestial face! If marble were not rebel- lious to my chisel, how I would carve out of the purest Parian or Pentelic stone a simulacrum of that lovely body that should make even the effigies of the goddesses fall from their altars! And long hereafter, when under the mud of floods, under the dust of van- 316 dbbbbbbbbbbebbbhba bh bad KING CANDAULES ished cities, men of future ages came upon some por- tion of that petrified image of Nyssia, they would say, ‘Such were the women of that vanished world.’ And they would raise a temple in which to place the divine fragment. But all I am capable of is stupid admira- tion, insensate love. Sole worshipper of an unknown divinity, | have no means of spreading her worship on the earth.” Thus in Candaules the artist’s enthusiasm had killed the lover’s jealousy, admiration was stronger than love. If instead of Nyssia, the daughter of the Satrap Mega- basus, full of Eastern ideas, he had married a Greek girl of Athens or Corinth, no doubt he would have brought to his court the most skilful painters and sculptors and given them his queen as a model, as Alexander the Great did with Campaspe his favourite, who posed nude before Apelles. Such a fancy would not have been objected to by a woman coming from a land where the most chaste gloried in having con- tributed, one by her back, another by her bosom, to the perfection of some famous statue. But scarcely did shy Nyssia consent to throw off her veils in the discreet shadows of the bed-chamber; and the king’s hot eagerness shocked her, if the truth be told, aay) bttettreteeeeeeettttttttte K EN G 7@tA (N DA CHEE more than it delighted her. “The knowledge of the duty and submission which a woman owes her hus- band alone made her yield sometimes to what she called his caprices. Often he prayed her to let fall upon her shoulders the waves of her hair, a golden river richer than Pacto- lus; to place upon her brow a wreath of ivy and lime like a Bacchante of Menalus; to lie down on a tiger- skin with silver teeth and ruby eyes, scarce covered with a cloud of tissue thinner than woven wind, or to stand within a pearly shell, dropping from her tresses a dew of pearls instead of sea water. When he had found the most favourable position, he lost himself in mute contemplation, his hand tracing vague contours in the air, some sketch, some projected painting; and he would have remained thus for hours, had not Nyssia, soon weary of her part of model, recalled to him, in a cold and disdainful voice, that such amusements were unworthy of royal majesty, and contrary to the sacred laws of marriage. ‘It is thus,” she would say, withdrawing, draped to the eyes, within the most secret recesses of her apartments, ‘that mistresses are treated, and not honest women of noble racer’ 318 dhe ede cbe oh check hob ech leche cbedbecbeabedk dhe dbeck KING CANDAULES These wise remonstrances had no effect upon Can- daules, whose passion grew in inverse ratio to the coldness which the Queen exhibited towards him, and he reached the point of being unable to keep to him- self the chaste secrets of his nuptial couch. He felt compelled to have a confidant like a prince in modern tragedy. He did not, as you may readily believe, choose a repellent philosopher with sour mien, whose long gray or white beard falls upon a cloak full of proud holes, nor a warrior who could talk only of ballistze, catapults, and cars armed with scythes, nor a sententious Eupatrid full of counsel and political maxims; but he chose Gyges, whose renown as a lady- killer naturally gave him a reputation as a connoisseur in matters of women. One evening he put his hand on Gyges’ shoulder more familiarly and cordially than usual, and looking at him significantly, drew away from the group of courtiers, saying aloud, “ Gyges, I want your opinion of my statue which the sculptors of Sicyon have just carved in the genealogical bas-relief on which are represented my ancestors.” “OQ King, your knowledge is greater than that of your humble subject, and I know not how to acknowl- Shy, ch beable ok oe a oe ob abe abe ab cece obec eof oe che al oe fea ce ere ere ote VTE ov KIN GaACAIN D AWW eae edge the honour you do me by deigning to consult me,” replied Gyges, with a sign of assent. Candaules and his favourite traversed a number of halls decorated in the Greek taste, in which the Cor- inthian acanthus and the Ionic volute bloomed and curled on the capitals of the columns, and the friezes were studded with figures in polychrome representing processions and sacrifices; they reached at last a remote part of the old palace, the walls of which were formed of irregularly shaped stones, laid dry after the cyclopean fashion. The proportions of this old architecture were as colossal as its character was formidable. The mighty genius of the old civilisations of the East was plainly imprinted upon it, and it recalled the Egyptian and Assyrian debauches of brick and granite. Some- thing of the spirit of the old architects of the ‘Tower of Lylacq survived in the squat pillars with deep, spiral flutings, the capitals of which were formed of four heads of bulls connected by knots of serpents that seemed to seek to devour them, — an obscure and cosmogonic emblem, the meaning of which was no longer intelligible, and which had gone down to the tomb with the hierophants of past ages. The doors were neither square nor round. ‘They formed a sort 320 che he abe ahah be te be oe ae oe cheats che cece cde ce ae be teh OFS CFS GIO UTS VTE WFO eve wwe ATE OTe KING CANDAULES of ogee not unlike the mitre of the magi, and added by their quaintness to the characteristic appearance of the building. This part of the palace formed a sort of court sur- rounded by a portico, the architrave of which was adorned with the genealogical bas-relief to which Can- daules had alluded. In the centre was Hercules, the upper portion of his body bare, seated on a throne, his feet on a foot-stool, according to the rite for the repre- sentation of divine beings. His colossal proportions removed any possible doubt as to his apotheosis. The archaic rudeness and coarseness of the work, due to the chisel of some primitive artist, imparted to it an air of barbaric majesty and savage grandeur more in harmony perhaps with the character of the monster-slaying hero than the work of a sculptor deeply versed in his art. On the right of the throne sat Alczus, the son of the hero and of Omphale, Ninus, Belus, and Argon, the first kings of the dynasty of the Heraclids; then the whole series of intermediary kings, the last of whom were Ardys, Alyattes, Meles or Myrsus, the father of Candaules, and finally Candaules himself. All these personages, with their hair plaited into cords, their curled beards, their oblique eyes, and their 21 321 REEDA ALE EES AL ALES ees KAN GGA N DAU Tess angular attitudes, their awkward, constrained gestures, seemed to be endowed with a sort of fictitious life due to the rays of the setting sun and to the reddish colours which time imparts to marble in hot countries. The inscriptions in antique characters, engraved near each by way of legend, added yet more to the mysterious singularity of that long pracession of figures in strange, barbaric accoutrements. By a chance which Gyges could not help noticing, the statue of Candaules happened to occupy the last vacant place on the left of Hercules. The dynastic cycle was closed. ‘T’o include the descendants of Can- daules it would be necessary to erect a new portico, and to begin a new bas-relief. Candaules, whose arm still rested on Gyges’ shoul- der, walked around the portico in silence. He seemed to hesitate about opening the conversation, and to have wholly forgotten the pretext under which he had brought his captain of the guards to this solitary place. “What would you do, Gyges,”’ at last said Can- daules, breaking a silence that began to weigh on both, “if you were a diver, and from the green depths of the ocean you had brought up a perfect pearl, incom- 322 desbeade oaks oh dec oe ecb cbecb de ecb ecb decde ce oh de KING CANDAULES parable in brilliancy and purity, and more valuable than the richest treasures? ”’ ‘‘T should enclose it,” replied Gyges, somewhat sur- prised at the abrupt question, “¢in a cedar box covered with plates of bronze, I should bury it in some desert place under a displaced rock, and from time to time, when I could be sure of not being seen by any one, I would go and contemplate my precious gem and admire the colours of heaven mingling with its pearly tints.” “¢ And I,” replied Candaules, his eye lighted up with enthusiasm, ‘if I possessed so rich a gem, I would set it within my diadem, show it freely to every eye, place. it in the bright light of the sun, adorn myself with its brilliancy, smile with pride on hearing people say: ‘Never did any king of Assyria or Babylon, never did any Greek or Trinacrian tyrant, possess a pearl of such perfection as Candaules, son of Myrsus, descend- ant of Hercules, King of Sardis and Lydia. Compared to Candaules, Midas, who changed whatever he touched into gold, was but a beggar poor as Irus!’”’ Gyges listened in amazement to Candaules’ speech, and sought to penetrate the hidden meaning of these lyrical divagations. ‘The king appeared to be in a state 323 LEELLELLELEALALLL ALLEL ELSA KING CANDAULES of extraordinary excitement; his eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, a feverish flush reddened his cheeks, his swollen nostrils drew in the air forcibly. “Well, Gyges,” continued Candaules, without ap- pearing to notice his favourite’s disturbed look. “I am that diver. In the sombre human ocean in which jostle confusedly so many misshapen and misbegotten beings, so many incomplete or degraded forms, so many types of bestial ugliness, wretched failures of nature in her attempts, I have found a pure, radiant, spotless beauty, without defect, the real ideal, the ful- filled dream, a form which never a painter or a sculptor -could have reproduced on canvas or in marble. I have found Nyssia! ” “Although the Queen is endowed with the timid modesty of the women of the East, and no man save her husband ever beheld the features of her face, Fame with the hundred tongues and the hundred ears has b] published her praises everywhere,” said Gyges, bowing respectfully. ‘‘Mere vague, insignificant rumours. They say of her, as of all women who are not exactly ugly, that she is more beautiful than Aphrodite or Helen; but no one can imagine, even faintly, such perfection as hers. In 324. eer ee ee ee KING /GANDA UL ES vain have I besought Nyssia to appear without her veil at some public festival or some sacrifice, or to show herself for a moment leaning on the royal terrace, to give to her people the mighty benefit of one of her aspects, to bestow upon them one of her profiles, more generous in this than the goddesses who exhibit to their worshippers only pale simulacra in alabaster or ivory. Never has she consented to do so. It is strange, and I blush to confess it, dear Gyges,— once I was jealous; I sought to conceal my loves from all eyes; no darkness was deep enough, no mystery impenetrable enough; but now I do not know myself, 1 do not feel like a lover or a husband. My love has melted into adora- tion like thin wax in a burning brazier. All my feel- ings of jealousy and possession have vanished. No, the most perfect work which heaven has bestowed on earth since the day when Prometheus applied fire to the left breast of the clay statue, cannot be thus concealed within the icy shadows of the harem. If I were to die, the secret of this beauty would remain forever buried under the sombre draperies of widowhood. I consider myself guilty when I conceal her, as if I had the sun within my palace and prevented its lighting the world. When I think of the harmonious lines, the $25 ches be che che he oe oe oh abe be cdocde cheb ck doch che eok oh chek KING CANDAULES divine contours which I scarce dare touch with a timid kiss, I feel my heart near breaking; I long that a friendly eye should share my happiness, and, like the severe critic to whom a picture is exhibited, to have him acknowledge after attentive examination that it is irreproachable and that the possessor’s enthusiasm is fully justified. Yes, many atime I have felt tempted to put away with a rash hand those detested veils; but Nyssia’s fierce chastity would never forgive me. And yet I am unable to bear alone such great happiness; -I must have a confidant of my ecstasy, an echo which shall answer my cries of admiration, — and that echo shall be you.” With these words Candaules abruptly disappeared into a secret passage. Gyges, left alone, could not help noting the course of events which seemed ever to put him on Nyssia’s road. Chance had caused him to behold her beauty hidden from all eyes; of all princes and satraps, she had married Candaules, the very King whom he served; and by a strange caprice which he could not help considering almost fatal, that King had just made him, Gyges, confidences about the mysteri- ous creature whom no one approached, and insisted upon completing the work of Boreas in the plains of 326 $t¢ee¢¢e¢t¢eee¢etetceteeecetee KING CAN DAULES Bactria. Was not the finger of the gods visible in all these facts? Did not the spectre of beauty, whose veil was being dropped little by little, as if to inflame him, lead him unsuspectingly towards the fulfilment of some great destiny? ‘These were the questions which Gyges asked himself ; but unable to fathom the obscure future, he resolved to await events, and left the Court of Portraits, where the shadows were deep- ening in the corners and rendering more and more strange and threatening the effigies of Candaules’ ancestors. Was it a mere play of light, or an illusion produced by that vague uneasiness caused in the firmest hearts by the arrival of night in antique monuments? Gyges, as he was about to step over the threshold, thought that low moans issued from the stone lips on the bas- relief, and it seemed to him that Hercules was making mighty efforts to free his granite club. Ill THE next day Candaules took Gyges apart to continue the conversation begun under the Portico of the Por- traits. Freed from the difficulty of beginning the conversation, he opened himself unreservedly to his Soy Stt¢¢eeeetettetbbtttbtts INGYGANDAULES confidant, and if Nyssia could have heard him, she might possibly have forgiven his conjugal indiscretions in consideration of the passionate praise which he bestowed upon her charms. Gyges listened to these praises with the somewhat constrained look of a man who is not yet certain whether his interlocutor is not assuming greater enthu- siasm than he really feels, in order to induce trustfulness slow to bestow itself. So Candaules said to him, with an accent of annoyance : — ““T see, Gyges, that you do not believe me. You think I boast, or that I have allowed myself to be fascinated like a coarse clown by some robust peasant girl on whose cheeks Hygeia has spread the crude colours of health. No, by all the gods! I have col- lected within my harem, like a living nosegay, the love- liest flowers of Asia and of Greece; since Dedalus, whose statues spoke and walked, I know everything which has been produced by sculptors and painters ; Linus, Orpheus, Homer, have taught me harmony and rhythm. I do not look with the bandage of love over my eyes; I am judging coolly. The fire of youth has naught to do with my admiration, and were I as broken down, decrepit, and wrinkled as Tithonus, my action 328 tketbeeeteeteetetettttttttest KT: NiGy (GAGN DA US LE’S would still be the same. But I forgive your incredulity and lack of enthusiasm. ‘To understand me you must behold Nyssia in the radiant brilliancy of her sparkling whiteness, without any importunate shadow, without any jealous drapery, such as nature herself modelled her in a moment of inspiration that shall never again return. ‘To-night I shall conceal you in one corner of our apartment. You shall see her.” “Sire! what are you asking of me?” answered the young warrior, with respectful firmness. ‘‘ How, from the depths of the dust that I am, from the abyss of my nothingness, could I dare to gaze upon that sun of perfection, risking to be blinded for the rest of my life, or to see in darkness only a dazzling figure? Have pity upon your humble servant; do not compel me to an action so contrary to the maxims of virtue. Every man must look only upon what belongs to him. You know the immortal goddesses always punish im- prudent or audacious men who surprise them in their divine nudity. I believe you; Nyssia is the loveliest of women; you are the happiest of husbands and of lovers; Hercules, your ancestor, in his numerous con- quests, never found any one who approached your Queen. If you, the prince whom the most famous we. tetebthbbtbbtdbbbdbbbbbdbe KING CAN DAULEES artists take for judge and adviser,— if you think her incomparable, what matters the opinion of an obscure soldier like me? So give up your fancy, which I ven- ture to say is unworthy of your royal majesty, and which you will regret as soon as you have satisfied it.” “Listen, Gyges,” answered Candaules. ‘I see that you mistrust me. You think I seek to try you, but I swear by the ashes of the pile from which my ancestor rose a god, that I speak frankly and without any hidden thought.” | “OQ Candaules, I do not mistrust your good faith ; your passion is sincere; but perchance if I were to obey you, you would conceive for me deep aversion, you would hate me for not having resisted more, you would seek to take from my eyes, forced to be indiscreet, the image which you would have allowed them to catch a glimpse of in a moment of delirium. And who knows whether you would not condemn them to the eternal night of the tomb, to punish them for hav- ing opened when they ought to have been closed ? ” “Fear nothing, I give you my royal word that noth- ing shall happen to you.” “Pardon your slave if I venture, after such assur- ance, to make another objection. Have you reflected 339 doable eos bees hee cede ceabecbecb be tec oe dees K that what you propose to me is a profanation of the sacredness of marriage, a sort of visual adultery? Often woman puts aside modesty with her garment, and when she has been violated by a glance, without having ceased to be virtuous, she may well believe that she has lost something of her bloom of purity. You promise to feel no resentment towards me, but who shall secure me against the wrath of Nyssia,—so reserved, so chaste, of such delicate, savage virtue that she might be supposed yet a girl, ignorant of the laws of Hymen? Suppose she learns of the sacrilege of which [ shall have been guilty through obedience to the will of the King himself. “To what torture will she not doom me in expiation of such a crime? Who shall protect me against her avenging wrath? ” “I did not know that you were so wise and pru- dent,” said Candaules, with a slightly ironical smile; “but all these dangers are imaginary. I shall conceal you in such fashion that Nyssia shall never be aware that she has been seen by any one else than her royal spouse.” Gyges, unable to object further, made a sign of assent to show that he yielded to the King’s will. He had resisted as long as he could; his conscience 33} che he ob oho abe abe be he abe abe cb ech che che abe hoch obo chads oh hocks CTO Ve Ve CTS Cee UO KING CAN DA UDES was henceforth at peace as regarded what might happen. He feared, besides, by further resistance to Candaules’ wish to interfere with the fate which seemed determined to bring him near Nyssia for some formidable and all-important reason which he was not allowed to understand. Without foreseeing what might be the end of it all, he vaguely saw pass before him innumerable, tumultu- ous, indistinct images. His hidden love, crouching at the foot of the staircase of his soul, had ascended a few steps, guided by the uncertain light of hope; the weight of impossibility no longer bore so heavily upon his breast now that he believed himself helped by the gods. For, indeed, who could have thought that the boasted charms of the daughter of Megabasus were to be no longer mysterious so far as Gyges was concerned ? > “« Come, Gyges,” said Candaules, taking him by the hand; “let us turn this moment to account. Nyssia is now walking with her women in the gardens. Let us go and study the place and arrange our stratagem for to-night.” The King took his confidant by the hand, and guided him through the windings which led to the nuptial 332 keeeeteteetetttettttetetes KING /GANDAULES apartment. ‘The doors of the bedroom were formed of boards of cedar so closely joined that it was impos- sible to notice the divisions. By dint of rubbing them with wool steeped in oil, slaves had made the wood shine like marble. The bronze nails with faceted heads which studded them, shone like purest gold. A complicated system of straps and metal rings, of which Candaules and his queen knew the secret, formed the lock, for in those heroic days locksmithing was still in its infancy. Candaules untied the knots, slid the rings on the straps, and raised with a handle, which he inserted into the mortice, the bar that closed the door; then, ordering Gyges to stand against the wall, he pushed back against him one leaf of the door so as to conceal him entirely. But the door did not fit so perfectly the frame of oak carefully polished and levelled by skilful workmen, but that the young warrior could, through the space left free for the play of the hinges, plainly perceive the whole interior of the room. Opposite the door the royal bed stood upon a plat- form reached by several steps and covered with a purple carpet. Pillars of carved silver supported the entabla- ture adorned with foliage in relief, amid which loves 333 bbebbb bbb bbb bbb bbb bebe KING CANDAULES played with dolphins. Thick curtains embroidered with gold surrounded it like the folds of a tent. On the altar of the household gods were placed vases of precious metal, pater enamelled with flowers, two-handled cups, and all that was necessary for liba- tions. Along the walls, lined with boards of cedar marvellously carved, were placed at intervals statues of black basalt in the constrained attitudes of Egyptian art, holding in their fists bronze torches in which were fixed pieces of resinous wood. An onyx lamp, suspended by a silver chain, hung from that particular beam in the ceiling called “the black,”’ because it was more exposed than the others to be soiled by smoke. Every night a slave had to fill this lamp with scented oil. Near the head of the bed hung from a small column a trophy of weapons, consisting of a helmet with a vizor, a buckler lined with four thicknesses of bull- hide and covered with plates of tin and copper, a two- edged sword, and ash javelins with brazen heads. From wooden pegs hung Candaules’ tunics and mantles. They were simple and double, —that is, large enough to wrap twice around the body. Espe- cially noticeable was a cloak thrice dyed in purple and Ba% KING CANDAULES adorned with embroidery representing a hunt in which Laconian molossi pursued stags and tore them to pieces, and a tunic the stuff of which, as fine and delicate as the pellicle of an onion, was as brilliant as if it were woven of sunbeams. Opposite the trophy of arms was placed an arm-chair encrusted with ivory and silver, the seat covered with a leopard-skin spotted with more eyes than the body of Argus, and an open-worked foot-stool, on which Nyssia laid her garments. ‘J usually retire first,’ said Candaules to Gyges, ‘©and leave the door open as it is now. Nyssia, who has always some flower to finish on her tapestry, some- times delays joining me, but at last she comes, and as if the effort cost a great deal, slowly and one by one lets fall upon the ivory arm-chair the draperies and the tunics which envelop her all day like the wrappings of amummy. From the depths of your retreat you can follow her graceful movements, admire her unrivalled charms, and judge for yourself if Candaules is a young madman who boasts wrongly, or whether he does not really possess the richest pearl of beauty that ever adorned a diadem.”’ “O King, I should believe you even without this test,” replied Gyges, leaving his hiding-place. Ohh tetebetteeetedtbbtdeteted KING CANDAULES “Once she has thrown off her garments,” repliea Candaules, without paying attention to his confidant’s words, ‘she comes and takes her place by my side. That is the moment you must seize upon to make your escape, for in walking from the arm-chair to the bed, she turns her back to the door. Step as if you were walking on the top of ripe grain; take care that not a grain of sand creaks under your sandals, hold in your breath, and withdraw as softly as possible. ‘The vestibule is plunged in shadow, and the faint rays of the only lamp that remains lighted do not reach beyond the threshold of the room. It is certain, therefore, that Nyssia will be unable to see you, and to-morrow there will be some one in this world to understand my ecsta- sies and who will not be amazed at my mad admira- tion. — But the day is drawing toa close; the sun will soon lead his coursers to drink in the Hesperian wave at the extremity of the world beyond the pillars erected by my ancestor. Get back into your hiding-place, Gyges. Although the hours of waiting are long, I swear by Eros and his golden arrows that you will never regret them.” With this assurance Candaules left Gyges again concealed behind the door. The forced inactivity 336 HELLA LLL ELLA ALALLAL ALS KT Gt GaN’ Di ALU TES of the King’s young confidant gave free course to his thoughts. Certainly the situation was most strange. He loved Nyssia as one loves a star, without hope of his love being requited. Convinced of the useless- ness of any attempt, he had made no effort to draw near her, and yet, by a concourse of extraordinary cir- cumstances, he was about to be made acquainted with treasures reserved for lovers and husbands alone. Not a word, not a glance, had been exchanged between Nyssia and himself, for she was probably ignorant of the existence of him to whom her beauty would soon be no longer a mystery. ‘Io be unknown to her whose modesty would have nothing to sacrifice to him, was a strange position indeed. To love a woman secretly and to see himself led by the husband across the threshold of the nuptial chamber, to be guided towards the treasure by the very dragon that should have defended its approach, was not this enough to fill him with amazement and to make him admire the singular workings of chance? At this point of his reflections he heard steps sounding on the pavement. It was the slaves com- ing to renew the oil of the lamp, to cast perfume upon the coals of the kamklins, and to shake the 22 be He KING Soe rhe fleeces, dyed purple and saffron, that formed the royal couch. The hour was approaching, and Gyges felt the blood surging in his heart and veins. He even felt tempted to withdraw before the Queen’s arrival, to tell Candaules afterwards that he had remained, and to indulge in the most excessive praise of Nyssia. It was repugnant to him, — for Gyges, in spite of his somewhat easy life, did not lack delicacy of sentiment, — it was repugnant to him to steal a favour for which he would willingly have given his life had it been granted freely. The husband’s complicity made the deed more odious in some sort, and he would have preferred to owe to any other circumstance, the happiness of seeing the Marvel of Asia in her night-dress. Perhaps also—I must confess it as a truthful historian—the approach of danger had something to do with his virtuous scruples. Undoubtedly Gyges did not lack courage. Standing on his war chariot, his quiver rattling on his shoul- der, his bow in his hand, he would have defied the proudest warriors ; out hunting he would have attacked without trembling the boar of Calydon or the Nemzan lion; but — let who will explain the riddle — he shud- dered at the thought of gazing upon a beautiful woman 338 che he beable oho obs ae abe abe abe cdot cho cba abe bree ca abece abe coal Reb ING GRAN DAUD, kes through the chink of a door. No one possesses every sort of courage. ‘Then he also felt that he would not see Nyssia with impunity. ‘This was about to be the decisive moment in his life. He had lost the repose of his heart because he had seen Nyssia for one mo- ment. What would it be after what was about to happen? Would life be possible for him when to that divine face, which already inflamed his dreams, should be added a lovely body made for the kisses of the immortals? What would become of him if hence- forth he could not contain his passion in shadow and silence as he had done hitherto? Would he give to the court of Lydia the ridiculous spectacle of an insensate love, or would he try to draw upon him, by his extravagance, the disdainful pity of the Queen? This was not unlikely, since the reason of Candaules, the legitimate possessor of Nyssia, had been unable to resist the vertigo caused by that superhuman beauty, — Candaules, the young and careless King, who up to that day had laughed at love and preferred pictures and statues to everything else. His reasoning was very sound, but very useless, however. At that very moment Candaules entered the room and whispered in a low but very distinct 7 btebbbrbbbetrteretttdtdttttés KING SPOAN DAU Es voice, as he passed near the door, ‘ Patience, my poor Gyges; Nyssia will soon come.” _ When he saw that he could not draw back, Gyges, who after all was a young man, forgot all in the happi- ness of feeding his eyes upon the exquisite spectacle which Candaules was about to give him. A young fellow of twenty-five cannot be expected to possess the austerity of a philosopher grown gray with age. At last the soft rustle of stuffs trailing over the marble, easily discerned in the deep silence of night, announced the queen’s coming. It was she. Witha step as cadenced and rhythmical as an ode, she crossed the threshold of the bed-chamber, and the wind made by the floating folds of her veil almost touched the burning face of Gyges, who nearly fainted, and was obliged to lean against the wall, so great was his emo- tion. He recovered, and approaching the crack of the door, he assumed the most favourable position in order to lose nothing of the scene of which he was to be the invisible witness. Nyssia walked towards the ivory footstool and began to take out the pins ending in hollowed balls, which fastened her veil to her head; and Gyges, from the shadowy corner whee he was concealed, was able to 340 Se OFS OFS OFS OFS OHO LIN Ge Cran DA ae iS examine freely the proud and lovely face, of which he had had but a glimpse; the round, delicate, yet strong neck on which Aphrodite had traced with the nail of her little finger the three soft rays which are even now called Venus’s necklace; the back of the neck on which little playful, rebellious curls twisted and turned ; the silvery shoulders which half emerged from the chlamyd like the disc of the moon showing from behind a dark cloud. Candaules, leaning on_ his elbow, watched his wife with an air of affected care- lessness and said to himself, “ Now Gyges, who seems so cold, so difficult to please, and so disdainful, must be half convinced.” Opening a coffer placed on the table supported by lion’s claws, the queen freed her beautiful arms, — which rivalled in whiteness those of Hera, sister and wife of Zeus, king of Olympus, — of the weight of the bracelets and chains of gems with which they were overladen. However precious these gems might be, they certainly did not equal the beauty of what they covered, and had Nyssia been a coquette, it might have been supposed that she put them on in order to be begged to take them off. The bracelets and the chas- ings had left upon her fine skin, tender as the inner 341 kobeebetteeettttetetdcttettese KIN G «GAN, DA Wie Ss ae surface of the lily, light, rosy prints, which she soon caused to disappear by rubbing them with the slender, rounded, delicate fingers of her small hand. Then, with a gesture like a dove that fluffs out its snowy feathers, she shook out her hair, which, no longer held by the pins, rolled in soft curls down her back and her bosom like the flowers of the hyacinth. She stood still for a few moments before drawing together the scattered tresses, which she then bound in one mass. It was marvellous to behold the fair curls streaming like golden jets between her silvery fingers, and her arms undulating like swans’ necks above her head to roll and fix the tress. If perchance you have ever glanced at one of those lovely Etruscan vases with black backgrounds adorned with one of those subjects designated “‘ Greek toilette,’ you may have an idea of Nyssia’s grace in that attitude which from the days of antiquity to our own times has furnished paint- ers and sculptors with so many charming motives. Having dressed her hair, she sat down upon the ivory stool and began to untie the bands that held her cothurns. We moderns, thanks to our horrible system of shoes, almost as absurd as the Chinese, have lost the conception of what a foot really should be. Nys- 342 chet che obe os cb cde che sh hbo cheb ce ch heheh KING CANDAULES sia’s was wondrously perfect, even in Greece and ancient Asia. ‘The great toe, slightly separate like a bird’s, the other toes somewhat long and arranged with charming symmetry, the shapely nails shining like agates, the clean, well-turned ankles, the rosy heel, — nothing was wanting to it. The leg which rose above the foot, and seemed in the light of the lamp to shine like polished marble, was irreproachable in form and outline. Gyges, absorbed in his contemplation, said to him- self, although he understood Candaules’ madness, that if the gods had granted him such a treasure, he would have known well how to keep it for himself alone. “Well, Nyssia, are you not coming to sleep by my side?” said Candaules, seeing that the Queen was not making haste, and desiring to abridge Gyges’ period of waiting. bb) “Yes, my lord, I shall be done presently,” replied Nyssia, and she unhooked the clasp which fastened her peplum upon her shoulder. She had now nothing but her tunic to throw off. Gyges, behind the door, felt the blood throbbing in his temples. His heart beat so loud that he was sure that it must be heard in the room, and to still its pul- 343 teretebettetttbtttdttet TON. G" AGRAVN «ADA Ch EE ss sations he pressed his hand to his breast. When Nyssia, with a motion of graceful negligence, undid the girdle of her tunic, he felt his knees sink beneath him. Was it through some instinctive presentiment, or was Nyssia’s skin, untouched by profane glances, en- dowed with such lively magnetic susceptibility that it could feel the glance of an impassioned though invisible eye? However it may be, she yet hesitated to take off her tunic, the last rampart of her modesty. Twice or thrice her bare shoulders, her breast, and her arms shivered nervously as if they were touched by the wing of a night moth, or as if some insolent lip had dared to approach them in the shadow. At last, apparently making up her mind, she threw off the tunic, and the white poem of her divine body appeared suddenly in its splendour like the statue of a goddess stripped of its veils on the day of the inaugu- ration of atemple. The light shimmered with pleas- ure over her exquisite form and enveloped it in a timid kiss, profiting by an occasion, alas! very rare. The rays scattered through the room, disdaining to illumine the golden urns and jewelled clasps and the brazen tripods, concentrated upon Nyssia, leaving everything 344 she oh abe oe ols ob as ole oe ale obo cboad obra abe cbc cb clade fe rele Te WS oe Te KLN GY GAN DAULES else in darkness. If I were a Greek of the time of Pericles, I might praise at length her lovely, undulating lines, her elegant contours, her polished hips, her breasts which might have served as models for Hebe’s cup; but modern prudery forbids such descriptions, for the pen is not permitted what is allowed to the chisel ; and besides, there are things which can be written in marble only. King Candaules smiled with an air of proud satisfac- tion. With swift step, as if ashamed of being so beautiful, being but the daughter of a man and a woman, Nyssia drew towards the bed, her arms crossed on her breast; but by a sudden motion she turned around before she took her place on the couch by the side of her royal husband, and she saw through the crack of the door a burning glance blazing like the carbuncles of Oriental legends ; for if it were not true that she had double pupils and possessed the stone found in the heads of dragons, it was true that her green glance saw in darkness like the glance of the cat and the tiger. A cry like that of a doe shot by an arrow at the moment when she dreams peacefully under the foliage nearly escaped her, yet she managed to contain herself, 345 whe che os obs oD ob ols obec ob by nce ef ebe abe ela obe obs loc ole eto oe KING CANDAULES and lay down by Candaules, cold as a serpent, with the pallor of death on her cheeks. Not a muscle moved, not a fibre stirred, and soon her slow regular breathing justified the belief that Morpheus had poured the juice of his poppies upon her eyelids. She had divined everything. IV GyceEs, trembling and nearly out of his mind, had withdrawn, obeying carefully the directions given him by Candaules, and if Nyssia by a fatal chance had not turned her head as she set foot on the bed and seen him flee, no doubt she would have remained forever ignorant of the outrage done to her charms by a hus- band more passionate than scrupulous. The young soldier, who was well used to the wind- ings of the palace, had no difficulty in finding his way out. He traversed the city with disordered steps, like a madman escaped from Anticyrus, and having made himself known to the sentry on watch near the ram- parts had the gates opened and went out into the country. His head was burning; his cheeks flamed as if with fever; through his dry lips his breath came short and quick. He lay down in search of coolness 346 chef abe abe oe abe abe ob abe abe abe cbe cde abe cb babe ob cabo abe obee ae CFS ame we wre CEN GUGAN DAULES upon the grass wet with the dew of night, and having heard in the darkness through the thick grass and the watercress the silver breathing of a naiad, he dragged himself towards the spring, plunged his hands and arms in the crystal basin, bathed his face in it, and drank some water to calm the ardour by which he was de- voured. Any one who had seen him thus in the faint light, bending desperately over the spring, would have mistaken him for Narcissus pursuing his own image ; but certainly it was not with himself that Gyges was in love. The brief apparition of Nyssia had dazzled his eyes like the glare of lightning. He saw her floating before him in a luminous whirl, and he knew that never again would he be able to drive that image from his memory. His love had grown suddenly; it had bloomed like plants which burst into bloom with a thunderclap. Henceforth it was impossible for him to master his passion. It would have been as easy to advise the purple waves which Poseidon raises with his trident to remain at peace on their sandy beds and not to break in foam against the rocks of the shore. Gyges was no longer master of himself, and he felt the gloomy despair of a man who, riding on a car, sees his mad- 347 LEAKE ALEALEALAALL ALL AAL ELS KING ¢GA Ni DAU ies dened horses, careless of the bit, flying in a wild gallop towards a rocky precipice. Innumerable proj- ects, each more extravagant than the others, passed confusedly through his brain. He accused fate, he cursed his mother for having given him birth, and the gods for not having put him on a throne, for then he might have married the satrap’s daughter. A hideous grief gnawed at his heart. He was jealous of the King. From the moment when the tunic, like a flight of white doves settling on the sward, had fallen at Nyssia’s feet, it had seemed to him that she belonged to him, and he considered that Candaules had robbed him of what was his own. In his amorous reveries, he had not thought of the husband; he had thought of the Queen as of a mere abstraction, without thinking clearly of all the intimate details of conjugal familiarity, so bitter and so keen to those in love with a woman who belongs to another. Now he had seen Nyssia’s fair head bending like a flower by Candaules’ brown head, and the remembrance wrought his anger up to the highest pitch,—though a moment’s reflec- tion should have convinced him that matters could not have been otherwise, —and he felt springing up in his soul a most unjust hatred of his master. The act of 348 decbobcbeck ch bb haba ch ch check cheetah ol ere ete O1O OFS rhe cbe che by obs obs obs KLIN Ga GRAN: DD) ASOT ES compelling him to be present while the Queen undressed struck him as blood-thirsty irony, as an odious refine- ment of cruelty, for he forgot that his love for the Queen could not possibly be known to the King, who had sought in him merely a confidant of easy morals who was a connoisseur of beauty. What he should have looked upon as a wondrous favour, ap- peared to him a mortal insult which he thirsted to avenge. As he reflected that on the morrow the scene of which he had just been the invisible and mute wit- ness would unquestionably be renewed, his tongue clove to his mouth, his brow was beaded with cold sweat, and his hands sought convulsively the handle of his broad, double-edged sword. However, thanks to the coolness of night, that wise counsellor, he became somewhat calmer and returned to Sardis before day had dawned sufficiently to allow the few matutinal inhabitants and the early rising slaves to mark the pallor of his brow and the disorder of his garments. He went to the post which he usually occupied at the palace, expecting that Can- daules would send for him ere long; for whatever the feelings that agitated him, he was not powerful enough to brave the King’s anger and avoid the part of confi- 349 be oe oe oh oe cece odes oes eee ae ole KING ‘CAN DAU LES ee £t+ 3 dant, which now inspired him with disgust only. Ar- rived at the palace he sat down on the steps of a vestibule wainscotted with cypress, leaned against a pillar, and, under pretext of being tired, threw his mantle over his head and pretended to sleep in order to avoid the questions of the guards. If the night had been dreadful for Gyges, it had been no less so to Nyssia, for she did not doubt for a moment that Gyges had been concealed there by Candaules himself. ‘The persistent manner in which the king had begged her not to veil so closely a face made by the gods to be admired of men; the annoy- ance he had felt at her refusal to appear dressed in Greek fashion at sacrifices and public solemnities; the sarcasms which he had not spared her concerning what he called her barbaric shyness, — everything proved to her that the young Heraclid, contemptuous of modesty, like an Athenian or a Corinthian sculptor, had willed to admit some one to mysteries which all ought to ignore; for no one would have been bold enough, unless com- manded by him, to adventure upon such an enterprise, in which discovery meant instant death. Slowly passed the sombre hours! With intense anxiety she waited until morning mingled its bluish 350 t¢eeteetetttetetttt ett eee KING CANDAULES tints with the yellow gleams of the dying lamp. It seemed to her that Apollo was never again going to ascend his car, and that an invisible hand held back the sand in the hourglass. “The night, which was as short as any other, seemed to her six months long, like Cimmerian nights. | As long as it lasted, she kept motionless and straight 7 on the edge of her couch lest she should be touched by Candaules. If until now she had not felt any very great love for the son of Myrsus, she at least had for him that serious and serene tenderness which every honest woman bears to her husband, although the Greek liberty of his manners frequently displeased her, and he entertained about womanly modesty ideas en- tirely contrary to her own; but after such an affront, she felt for him cold hatred and icy contempt only. She would have preferred death to one of his kisses. Such an outrage,— for it is among barbarians, and especially among the Persians and Bactrians, the greatest dishonour to be seen nude, not only for a woman, but also for a man, — such an outrage was unpardonable. At last Candaules arose, and Nyssia waked from her simulated sleep and hastened from the room, now pro- faned in her eyes as if it had been used for the noc- B39 hELLLALDLLALLALAAA LL ALL LAS KING CANDAULES turnal orgies of Bacchantes and courtesans. She longed to breathe purer air, and in order to give her- self up freely to her grief, she hastened to take refuge in the upper apartments reserved for women, called her slaves by clapping her hands, and made them pour upon her arms, her shoulders, her breast, and her whole body ewers full of water, as if by means of this species of lustral ablution she hoped to efface the stain due to the glances of Gyges. She wished she could have torn away the skin on which the rays of his burning eyes seemed to her to have left traces. Taking from the hands of the servants the soft cloths used to dry the last drops of water, she rubbed herself with so much vigour that a faint, rosy flush showed on the places she had rubbed. “Tn vain,” she said to herself as she let fall the damp tissues and dismissed her maids, ‘ in vain shall I pour over my body the waters of springs and rivers. The salt immensity of the ocean itself could not purify me. Such a stain can be washed out with blood only. Oh, that glance! that glance! It clings to me, en- folds, envelops, and burns me like the poisoned robe of Nessus; I feel it under my vestments like a flaming tissue which nothing can detach from my body. In 352 $bbbbbhhhbteett he tLt tee desk KING CANDAULES vain now I may heap robe on robe, choose the most opaque stuffs, the thickest mantles, I shall none the less bear upon my nude flesh that infamous robe formed of an adulterous and shameless glance. In vain have I been brought up from my birth in retreat, enwrapped like Isis, the Egyptian goddess, in a veil which no one could have lifted without paying with his life for such audacity; in vain have [ lived apart from any profane eyes, unknown to men, virgin like the snow on which the eagle itself has not pressed its talons, so high does the mountain which it covers raise its head in the cold, icy air. The depraved caprice of a Lydian Greek has sufficed to make me lose in a moment, without my being guilty, the fruits of long years of precaution and reserve. Innocent and dishonoured! Concealed from all and yet publicly exposed! That is the fate to which Candaules has condemned me. How do I know that Gyges at this very moment is not occupied in describing my charms to the soldiers on the threshold of the palace? Oh, shame! oh, infamy! Iwo men have seen me and yet enjoy at the same time the sweet light of the sun! Wherein does Nyssia now differ from the most shame- less hetaira, from the vilest of courtesans? My body, ca 353 LebehbLbLLLELALLLLLALA?LS KING; GAN DAUIDES which I had sought to make worthy of being the dwell- ing of a pure and noble soul, is now the subject of common talk; it is discussed like some lascivious idol brought from Sicyon or Corinth. It is approved or criticised: ‘That shoulder is perfect; the arm is lovely, a shade too thin, perhaps ’— how can I tell? All the blood rises from my heart to my face at the thought. Oh, beauty, fatal gift of the gods! Why am I not the wife of some poor mountain goatherd of simple, artless manners? He would not have placed on the threshold of his hut another goatherd to profane his humble happiness! My wasted form, my unkempt hair, my sunburned complexion, would have protected me from such coarse insult, and my honest plainness would have had no cause to blush. How dare J, after what has happened last night, pass by these men, upright and proud under the folds of the tunic which conceals nothing from the one or the other? I should fall dead with shame upon the floor. Candaules! Candaules! I had a right to more respect from you, and nothing I have done justifies such an outrage. Am I one of those wives whose arms wind like ivy around the husband’s neck, and who more resemble slaves purchased for money for the pleasure 354 tttet2ebre¢te¢¢ee¢ttt¢teeetese WINGY GOAN DA UOLES of their master than ingenuous women of noble race? Have I ever sung amorous hymns after the meal, ac- companying myself on the lyre, my lips wet with wine, my shoulders bare, my head crowned with roses? Have I ever given you cause, by any immodest action, to treat me as a mistress who is exhibited at the end of a feast to one’s companions in debauchery? ” While Nyssia thus grovelled in her grief, great tears flowed from her eyes, like rain-drops from the azure calyx of a lotus after the storm, and after rolling down her pale cheeks, they fell upon her beautiful hands, languidly opened like roses with half their petals gone, for no order from the brain desired them to act. Niobe, seeing her fourteen children fallen under the arrows of Apollo and Diana, was not more despairing and sad. But soon, recovering from this state of de- pression, Nyssia rolled on the floor, tore her garments, cast ashes upon her beautiful lustrous hair, rended her breasts with her nails, uttered convulsive sobs, and gave herself up to all the excess of Oriental grief, with the greater violence that she had been compelled to contain so long indignation, shame, the feeling of wounded dignity, and all the emotions that agitated her soul; for her pride in life had been broken, and 355 heh he fe de oh oe che he abe che docde tobe che obecde obo cde dh dhe cdek KIN GSsOCAN DA ULES the idea that she was irreproachable in no wise con- soled her. As the poet says, “The innocent alone knows remorse.” She repented of the crime committed by another. Nevertheless, she made an effort to master herself ; she ordered to be brought the baskets filled with wools of different colours, the spindles covered with flax, and distributed work to her women as she was accustomed to do; but it seemed to her that the slaves looked at her meaningly, that they had not the same fearful re~ spect for her as formerly ; her voice did not sound with the same assurance, her gait had something humble and furtive about it. Inwardly she felt herself fallen. No doubt her scruples were exaggerated and her virtue had been in no wise diminished by the mad act of Candaules; but ideas inbred from childhood possess irresistible power, and the modesty of the body is car- ried by Oriental nations to an excess almost incompre- hensible to the peoples of the West. When a man desired to speak to Nyssia in Bactriana, in the palace of Megabasus, he had to do so with his eyes fixed on the ground; and two eunuchs, poniard: in hand, stood by his side ready to plunge their weapons in his heart if he were bold enough to raise his head and gaze upon the 356 (EE Ca St/t¢ebe¢ee¢ttettetttttestse KING CANDAULES | princess, although her face was covered. It can easily be imagined, then, what a mortal insult must have been, to a woman thus brought up, the deed of Candaules, which, no doubt, would have been looked upon by any other as merely an improper liberty. So the idea of vengeance had immediately arisen in Nyssia’s mind, and had obtained enough power over her to stifle, before it escaped her, the cry of offended modesty when, on turning her head, she had seen the burning glance of Gyges flaming in the darkness. She had displayed the courage of the warrior in ambush who, struck by a chance arrow, dares not utter a groan for fear of betraying himself behind his shelter of foli- age or reeds, but silently lets his blood streak his flesh with long, red streams. If she had not repressed that first exclamation, Candaules, forewarned and alarmed, would have been on his guard and would have made more difficult, if not impossible, the carrying out of her purpose. She had yet no well-defined plan. She was, how- ever, resolved to make him pay dearly for the insult to her honour. She had at first thought of slaying Can- daules herself during his sleep with the sword sus- pended by the bed, but she revolted at the thought of Rey if a = ite i - - : a tebeebetebhtttttetee KING CANDAULES imbruing her lovely hands in blood. She feared lest she might not strike a deadly blow, and angry though she was, she hesitated at a deed so extreme and so little in accordance with her womanliness. Suddenly she appeared to have come to a decision. She sent for Statira, one of the maids she had brought from Bactra, and in whom she placed great trust. She spoke to her for a few moments in a low voice and close to her ear, although there was no one in the room, as if she were afraid of being overheard by the walls. Statira bowed deeply and at once went out. Like all people threatened by a great peril, Can- daules felt perfectly secure. He was certain that Gyges had got out without being noticed, and he thought only of the delight of discussing with him the unrivalled charms of his wife. So he sent for him and took him into the Court of Hercules. “Well, Gyges,” said he, with a smiling look, “I did not deceive you when [ told you that you would not regret having spent a few hours behind that blessed door. Was I right? Do you know of any woman as beautiful as the Queen? If you do know any one more beautiful than she, tell me so frankly, and bear 358 bhbbe bbe hb ettethkteetbetetes KING CANDAULES to her from me this string of pearls, the emblem of power.” “© My lord,’ answered Gyges, in a voice trembling with emotion, “no human creature is worthy of being compared with Nyssia. It is not the queenly string of pearls which ought to adorn her brow, but the starry crown of the immortals.” “©T was sure that your coldness would melt in the blaze of that sun. Now you understand my passion, my delirium, my insensate desires. Am I not right, Gyges, when I say that a man’s heart is not great enough to contain such love? It must overflow and spread out.” ‘A deep blush covered the face of Gyges, who now understood too well the admiration of Candaules. The king perceived it and said, half smilingly, half severely, “ My poor friend, do not be mad enough to fall in love with Nyssia. You would lose your pains; it was a statue I showed you, not a woman. [ allowed you to read a few of the stanzas of a beautiful poem, of which I alone possess the manuscript. I wanted to have your opinion of it, — that is all.” “You need not, sire, recall my nothingness to me. Sometimes the humblest of slaves is visited in his 359 HEELEALLAL APA SEPAAALALA LLL LL KING CANDAULES dreams by a radiant and graceful apparition. That ideal form, that pearly skin, that ambrosial hair I dreamed of with my eyes open. You are the god who sent me the dream.” “Now,” went on the king, “I need not tell you to be absolutely silent. If you do not seal your lips, you run the risk of learning to your cost that Nyssia is not as kind as she is beautiful.” The king waved an adieu to his confidant and with- drew to inspect an antique bed carved by Ikmalius, a famous workman, which he was asked to purchase. Candaules had scarcely gone, when a woman, wrapped up in a long mantle so as to show only one of her eyes, after the manner of the barbarians, emerged from the shadow of the pillars behind which she had remained hidden during the conversation of the king and his favourite, walked straight to Gyges, touched him with a finger on his shoulder, and signed to him to follow her. V STATIRA, followed by Gyges, came to a small door, of which she raised the latch by pulling a silver ring attached to a leather strap, and ascended a steep stair- 360 thbbbbbbbbetebbtbbb tte KING CANDAULES case cut in the thickness of the wall. At the top of the stair was a second door, which she opened by means of an ivory and copper key. As soon as Gyges entered, she disappeared without explaining to him what he was expected to do. 2 Gyges felt curiosity, mingled with uneasiness. He did not quite understand the meaning of this mysteri- ous message. He had fancied he recognised in the silent Iris one of Nyssia’s women, and the way they had taken led to the women’s apartments. He asked himself in terror if he had been perceived in his hiding- place, or whether Candaules had betrayed him. Either supposition was probable. At the thought that Nyssia knew all, he turned hot and cold alternately. He tried to escape, but the door had been locked by Statira and his retreat was cut off. He therefore advanced into the room darkened by thick purple hangings, and found himself face to face with Nyssia. She looked like a statue coming towards him, so pale was she. ‘The blood had left her face, a faint rosy tint showed on her lips alone; on her soft tem- ples a few imperceptible veins formed a network of azure; tears had darkened her eyes and traced shining marks upon the bloom of her cheeks; the chrysoprase 361 a EE Se re LEELLELLALLLALALALL ALL ALALASA KING CANDAULES colour of the eyes had lost its intensity. She was even more beautiful and more touching thus; grief had given a soul to her marmorean beauty. Her dress, in disorder, scarcely fastened on the shoulder, allewed her bare arms, her bosom, and the upper part of her breasts to show in their dead white-~ ness. Like a warrior defeated in a combat, her mod- esty had surrendered. Of what use now the draperies which concealed her form, or the tunics with carefully closed folds? Did not Gyges know her? Why should she defend what was lost beforehand ? She walked straight to Gyges, and fixing upon him an imperial glance full of fire and command, she said to him, in a short, sharp voice: — “Do not lie, do not seek vain subterfuges. Have at least the dignity and the courage of your crime. I know all, I saw you ;— not a word of excuse, I shall not listen to it! Candaules himself concealed you behind the door; was it not thus it happened? And no doubt you think that that is the end of it. Unfor- tunately, I am not a Greek woman who yields easily to the whims of artists and voluptuaries. Nyssia shall serve as a plaything to no one. There now exist two men, one of whom has no right to be upon earth. 362 BREAKKEALAL LSS Set otettttst KING7AGAN DA UWE E'S Unless he dies, I cannot live. It shall be you or Can- daules. You may choose. Kill him, avenge me, and win by that murder both my hand and the throne of Lydia, or let swift death prevent you henceforth from seeing, by cowardly complaisance, what you have no right to behold. He who ordered is more guilty than he who merely obeyed; and besides, if you become my husband, no one shall have seen me who has not the right to do so. But make up your mind at once, for two of the four eyes in which my nudity has been reflected must have closed before night.” The strange alternative proposed with terrible cool- ness, with inflexible resolve, so greatly surprised Gyges, who had expected reproaches, threats, a violent scene, that he remained for a few moments pale and mute, as ghastly as a shade on the banks of the black river of Hell. “¢[ dip my hands in my master’s blood! Is it you, O Queen, who ask me to commit so great a crime? I understand fully your indignation, I think it is justi- fied, and it was not my fault that the sacrilege took place. But—you know it — kings are powerful, they belong to a divine race. Our fates rest in their august hands, and weak mortals may not hesitate to obey 363 BEELEALLALLALALELALALA LSS KI N.G #G@Aen D/A CPEs their orders. Their will overcomes our refusals as torrents carry away dykes. By your feet I embrace, by your dress I touch as a suppliant, be clement! for- give an insult which is known to none, and which will remain forever buried in darkness and silence. Can- daules cherishes, admires you, and his fault springs only from excess of love.” “Sooner could your speech move a granite sphinx in the barren sands of Egypt than me; winged words might issue from your mouth uninterruptedly for a whole olympiad without changing my resolution. A heart of brass dwells within my marble breast. Slay or die! When the sunbeam which is streaming through these curtains has reached the foot of this table, let your mind be made up. I wait.” And Nyssia crossed her hands upon her bosom in an atti- tude full of sombre majesty. Seen thus standing motionless and pale, with fixed eyes, contracted brows, wild-haired, her foot firmly pressed upon the pavement, she might have passed for Nemesis watching the moment to strike the guilty. “No one willingly visits the darksome depths of Hades,” replied Gyges. ‘It is sweet to enjoy the pure light of day, and the heroes themselves who 364 ttetbbeteteeetetettebtttdse KING CANDAULES inhabit the Fortunate Isles would willingly return to their country. Every man instinctively seeks to pre- serve himself, and since blood must flow, let it be the blood of another rather than mine.” | Besides these feelings, confessed by Gyges with antique frankness, he experienced others more noble, which he did not speak of. He was madly in love with Nyssia, therefore it was not the fear of death alone which made him accept the bloody task. The thought of leaving Candaules the free possessor of Nyssia was insupportable to him. And then, the vertigo of fatality was upon him. By a series of strange and terrible circumstances he was being car- ried on to the fulfilment of his dreams; the mighty tide bore him on in spite of himself. Nyssia in per- son was holding out her hand to help him ascend the steps of the royal throne. He forgot that Candaules was his master and his benefactor, for no man can escape his fate, and Necessity walks with nails in the one hand and whip in the other, to stay man or drive him on. “Tt is well,’ answered Nyssia. ‘Here is the weapon,” and she drew from her bosom a Bactrian poniard with jade handle adorned with circles of white 365 obs obs ob ob oh obs obo obs obs obs of KING CANDAULES it gold.. ‘“¢ This blade is made, not of brass, but of iron hard to work, tempered in fire and water; Hephzstus himself could not forge a sharper. It will pierce like thinnest papyrus a metal cuirass or a buckler covered with dragon-skin. The time,” she continued, with the same icy coldness, “shall be when he is asleep. Let him slumber and never wake again.” Her accomplice Gyges listened to her in a stupor, for he had not expected such resolution in a woman who could not bring herself to draw aside her veil. “« The place of ambush shall be the very spot where the infamous wretch concealed you to expose me to your glance. At the approach of night I shall push back the door upon you; I shall undress, lie down, and when he is asleep [ shall sign to you. But do not hesitate, do not weaken, and let not your hand tremble when the time is come. And now, lest you should change your mind, I shall secure your person until the fatal moment. You might attempt to escape, to inform your master. Abandon all such hope.” Nyssia whistled in a peculiar way, and immediately, raising a Persian hanging enriched with a flower pattern, gave passage to four tawny monsters dressed in robes rayed with diagonal stripes, with muscular arms like 366 ktéeeeecbedcetttettttetetese STNG ALIN: D Ar USEABeS knotty oaks; big thick lips; golden rings passed in their nostrils; teeth sharp as wolves’, and an expres- sion of brutish servility hideous to behold. The Queen spoke a few words in a tongue un- known to Gyges,— Bactrian, no doubt; the four slaves sprang upon the young man, seized him, and carried him away as a nurse carries away a child in her arms. Now what was the real motive which induced Nyssia to act? Had she noticed Gyges when she met him near Bactra, and kept the remembrance of the young captain in one of those secret recesses of the heart in which the most honest women always have something hidden? Was the desire to avenge her modesty spurred on by some other unconfessed desire? If Gyges had not been the handsomest youth in Asia, would she have been as eager to punish Candaules for having outraged the sacredness of marriage’ ‘These are questions difficult to answer, especially three thou- sand years later, and although I have consulted Her- odotus, Hephzstion, Plato, Dositheus, Archilochus of Paros, Hesychius of Miletus, Ptolemy, Euphorion, and all those who have spoken at length or shortly of Nyssia, Candaules, and Gyges, I have been unable to 367 LEELA ALELLSEAAAAL ALLEL ALAS KING: CAN DA UTES? reach any certain result. ‘To ascertain after so many centuries, under the ruins of so many fallen empires, under the ashes of vanished nations, so slight a dis- tinction, is difficult. What is certain is that Nyssia’s resolve was inflexi- ble, the murder seemed to her the fulfilment of a sacred duty. Among barbaric nations any man who has surprised a woman nude is put to death. The Queen believed herself justified ; only, as the insult had been secret, she did herself justice as best she could. The passive accomplice was to become the executioner of the other, and the punishment to spring from the crime itself; the hand was to chastise the head. The olive-complexioned monsters shut Gyges up in an obscure part of the palace, whence it was impossible that he should escape and from which his cries could not be heard. He spent the rest of the day in cruel anxiety, accusing the hours of being lame, and again of passing too quickly. “The crime he was about to commit, although in a way he was but the instru- ment and yielded to irresistible ascendency, presented itself to his mind under the darkest colours. Suppose the blow should fail through some circumstance which no man could foresee; or the people of Sardis were to 368 LLLLE ALLELE ELAS EEE bet RONG tGeagN DAUIEES revolt and to seek to avenge the death of the King ; — these were some of the very sensible but quite use- less reflections which Gyges made while waiting to be brought out of his prison and led to the place whence he was to issue only to slay his master. At last night spread its starry mantle over the heavens, and darkness fell upon the city and the palace. A light step was heard, a veiled woman entered the room, took Gyges by the hand, and led him through obscure corridors and the many windings of the royal edifice with as much certainty as if she had been preceded by a slave bearing lamps or torches. The hand which held that of Gyges was cold, soft, and small, but the slender fingers pressed his and hurt him as the fingers of a brazen statue made alive by a prodigy. Inflexible will was expressed by the ever- equal pressure, like that of a pair of pincers, which no hesitation of brain or heart caused to relax. Gyges, overcome, subjugated, bowed down, yielded to the imperious hand that drew him along as if he were dragged by the mighty arm of Fate. Alas! this was not the way in which he would have loved to touch for the first time the beautiful royal hand which was holding out a dagger to him and 24 369 te¢tebbbtrtbtttttetttttttts KUNG) CAN DA Us leading him to murder! For it was Nyssia herself who had come to seek Gyges to place him in his ambush. Not a word passed between the sinister couple dur- ing the progress from the prison to the nuptial cham- ber. ‘The Queen undid the straps, raised the bar of the door, and placed Gyges behind the leaf as Can- daules had done the night before. The repetition of the same acts, with so different an intention, had a lugubrious and fatalistic character. Vengeance this time stepped upon the very prints of the insult ; chas- tisement and crime travelled by the same road. Yes- terday it had been the turn of Candaules; to-day it was that of Nyssia and Gyges; the accomplice of the insult was also the accomplice of the penalty. He had served the King to dishonour the Queen; he was to serve the Queen by slaying the King, exposed equally by the vice of the one and the virtue of the other. The daughter of Megabasus appeared to feel a sav- age joy, a fierce pleasure, in employing only the means chosen by the Lydian King, and in turning to the account of murder the precautions he had taken for the satisfaction of a voluptuous fancy. as ee LEEALEALLALALLALALALLLELALALARS KING CANDAULES *¢ You shall see me again to-night take off the gar- ments which displease Candaules so much. The sight ’ no doubt wearies you,” said the Queen, with an accent of bitter irony, as she stood on the threshold of the chamber. ‘¢ You will end by thinking me ugly,” and sardonic, fierce laughter twisted for a moment her pale lips. Then, resuming her impassible and severe face: ‘¢ Do not imagine that you can escape this time as you did before. You know my glance is piercing. At the least movement on your part, I shall awaken Can- daules, and you understand it will not be easy to explain what you are doing in the King’s apartment behind the door with a poniard in your hand. Besides, my Bactrian slaves, the copper-coloured mutes who shut you up, are guarding the issues of the palace and have orders to slay you if you go out. So let no vain scruples of faithfulness stay your hand. Remember that I shall make you King of Sardis, and that [—I shall love you if you avenge me. ‘The blood of Can- daules shall be your purple, and his death shall give you his place in his bed.” The slaves came, according to their custom, to renew the coals on the tripods, to fill up the lamps with oil, to spread upon the royal bed carpets and SAD choke cbse aby oe te oe baal fo cdecdocbocle ce oo ofa leche eee oe KING) GAN DAD EES skins of animals; and Nyssia hastened to enter the room as soon as she heard their steps sounding in the distance. Soon after, Candaules arrived, quite joyous. He had purchased the bed carved by Ikmalius, and intended to substitute it for the Oriental couch, which, he said, he had never greatly cared for. He seemed satished to find Nyssia already in the chamber. “So your embroidery frame, your spindles and needles have not had the same charms for you to-day as usually? Ido not wonder at it. It is monotonous work to pass a thread continually between other threads, and I am surprised at the pleasure which you seem to take in it. The truth is, I was afraid that some day, seeing you so clever, Pallas Athena would angrily break her shuttle on your head, as she did to poor Arachne.” “My lord, I felt somewhat weary to-night, and I came down from the upper rooms earlier than usual. Will you not, before sleeping, drink a cup of the black Samian wine mingled with honey of Hymettus?”’ And as she spoke, she poured from a golden urn into a cup of the same metal the dark-coloured drink, in which she had mingled the sleep-compelling juices of the nepenthe. 3/7 Skteteeetbetettteteteeeetes Ker N/ GAGA N DAW E Ess Candaules took the cup by the two handles, and drank the wine to the last drop; but the young Heraclid had a strong head, and with his elbow sunk on the pillows of the couch, he watched Nyssia unrobe without the dust of sleep yet filling his eyes. Just as she had done the night before, Nyssia undid her hair and let its splendid golden waves fall upon her shoulders; and Gyges, from his hiding-place, thought he saw them gleam with fiery tints, lit up by the reflections of flame and of blood, and the curls stretch- ing out with viper-like undulations like the hair of Medusa. Her simple and graceful action derived from the terrible deed which was about to happen a frightful and fatal character which made the concealed assassin tremble with terror. Nyssia next took off her bracelets, but her hands, stiffened by nervous contractions, ill served her impa- tience. She broke the thread of a bracelet of amber beads incrusted with gold, which rolled noisily on the floor, and made Candaules half open his eyelids, but he again closed them. Each of the grains struck on Gyges’ heart like a drop of molten lead on water. Having unloosed her cothurns, the Queen cast her 343 LEELEALELALAALALALAL LALLA KING CANDAULES outer tunic upon the back of the ivory arm-chair. The drapery, thus laid, seemed to Gyges like the sinister cloth in which the dead are wrapped to bear them to the funeral pile. Everything in the room, which the night before he had thought so bright and splendid, seemed to him livid, darksome, and threaten- ing. ‘The basalt statues moved their eyes and sneered hideously ; the lamp crackled and scattered its light in red, bloody beams like the hair of a comet; in the dark corners showed portentous, monstrous forms of larve and of lemurs. ‘The cloaks, suspended from the pins, seemed to have a factitious life, to assume a human appearance, and when Nyssia, throwing off her last garment, advanced towards the bed white and nude, he thought Death had broken the diamond bonds with which Hercules had of yore chained it to the gates of Hell when he delivered Alcestis, and was coming in person to seize upon Candaules. The King, overcome by the bitter juices of the nepenthe, had fallen asleep. Nyssia signed to Gyges to leave his retreat, and placing her finger upon Can- daules’ breast, she cast on her accomplice a glance so moist, so lustrous, so laden with languor, so full of intoxicating promise, that Gyges, maddened, fascinated, 374 LELLALALLALLALALLLALLLALL LSA ere WEN GY GAN DAUTICES sprang from his hiding-place like a tiger from the rock on which it has lain, traversed the room at one leap, and plunged to the hilt the Bactrian dagger into the heart of the descendant of Hercules. Nyssia’s modesty was avenged, and Gyges’ dream had come true. Thus ended the dynasty of the Heraclids, after hav- ing lasted five hundred and five years, and thus began that of the Mermnades in the person of Gyges, son of Dascylus. 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