A cherub in its mother's arms,Look'd from a casement high—And pleasure o'er the features stray'd,As on his simple organ play'dA boy of Italy.So, day by day, his skill he plied,With still increasing zeal,For well the glittering coin he knew,Those fairy fingers gladly threw,Would buy his frugal meal.But then! alas, there came a changeUnheeded was his song,And in his upraised, earnest eyeThere dwelt a silent wonder, whyThe baby slept so long.That polished brow, those lips of RoseBeneath the flowers were laid—But where the music never tires,Amid the white-robed angel choirThe happy spirit stray'd.Yet lingering at the accustom'd placeThat minstrel ply'd his art,Though its soft symphony of wordsConvulsed with pain the broken chordsWithin a mother's heart.They told him that the babe was deadAnd could return no more,Dead! Dead!—to his bewildered ear,A foreign language train'd to hear—The sound no import bore.At length, by slow degrees, the truthO'er his young being stole,And with sad step he went his wayNo more for that blest babe to play,The tear-drop in his soul.
A cherub in its mother's arms,Look'd from a casement high—And pleasure o'er the features stray'd,As on his simple organ play'dA boy of Italy.
So, day by day, his skill he plied,With still increasing zeal,For well the glittering coin he knew,Those fairy fingers gladly threw,Would buy his frugal meal.
But then! alas, there came a changeUnheeded was his song,And in his upraised, earnest eyeThere dwelt a silent wonder, whyThe baby slept so long.
That polished brow, those lips of RoseBeneath the flowers were laid—But where the music never tires,Amid the white-robed angel choirThe happy spirit stray'd.
Yet lingering at the accustom'd placeThat minstrel ply'd his art,Though its soft symphony of wordsConvulsed with pain the broken chordsWithin a mother's heart.
They told him that the babe was deadAnd could return no more,Dead! Dead!—to his bewildered ear,A foreign language train'd to hear—The sound no import bore.
At length, by slow degrees, the truthO'er his young being stole,And with sad step he went his wayNo more for that blest babe to play,The tear-drop in his soul.
City of Washington, May 24, 1858.
By night through the forest who rideth so fast,While the chill sleet is driving, and fierce roars the blast?'Tis the father, who beareth his child through the storm,And safe in his mantle has wrapped him from harm."My son, why hid'st thy face, as in fear?""Oh, father! see, father! the Erl-king is near!The Erl-king it is, with his crown and his shroud!""My boy! it is naught but a wreath of the cloud.""Oh, pretty child! come—wilt thou go with me!With many gay sports will I gambol with thee;There are flowers of all hues on our fairy strand—My mother shall weave thee robes golden and grand.""Oh, father! my father! and dost thou not hearWhat the Erl-king is whispering low in mine ear?""Be quiet, my darling! thy hearing deceives;'Tis but the wind whistling among the crisp leaves.""Oh, beautiful boy! wilt thou come with me!—say!My daughters are waiting to join thee at play!In their arms they shall bear thee through all the dark night—They shall dance, they shall sing thee to slumber so light?""My father! oh, father! and dost thou not seeWhere the Erl-king's daughters are waiting for me?""My child! 'tis no phantom! I see it now plain;'Tis but the grey willow that waves in the rain.""Thy sweet face hath charmed me! I love thee, my joy!And com'st thou not willing, I'll seize thee, fair boy!""Oh, father! dear father! his touch is so cold!He grasps me! I cannot escape from his hold!"Sore trembled the father, he spurs through the wild,And folds yet more closely his terrified child;He reaches his own gate in darkness and dread—Alas! in his arms lay the fair child—dead!
By night through the forest who rideth so fast,While the chill sleet is driving, and fierce roars the blast?'Tis the father, who beareth his child through the storm,And safe in his mantle has wrapped him from harm.
"My son, why hid'st thy face, as in fear?""Oh, father! see, father! the Erl-king is near!The Erl-king it is, with his crown and his shroud!""My boy! it is naught but a wreath of the cloud."
"Oh, pretty child! come—wilt thou go with me!With many gay sports will I gambol with thee;There are flowers of all hues on our fairy strand—My mother shall weave thee robes golden and grand."
"Oh, father! my father! and dost thou not hearWhat the Erl-king is whispering low in mine ear?""Be quiet, my darling! thy hearing deceives;'Tis but the wind whistling among the crisp leaves."
"Oh, beautiful boy! wilt thou come with me!—say!My daughters are waiting to join thee at play!In their arms they shall bear thee through all the dark night—They shall dance, they shall sing thee to slumber so light?"
"My father! oh, father! and dost thou not seeWhere the Erl-king's daughters are waiting for me?""My child! 'tis no phantom! I see it now plain;'Tis but the grey willow that waves in the rain."
"Thy sweet face hath charmed me! I love thee, my joy!And com'st thou not willing, I'll seize thee, fair boy!""Oh, father! dear father! his touch is so cold!He grasps me! I cannot escape from his hold!"
Sore trembled the father, he spurs through the wild,And folds yet more closely his terrified child;He reaches his own gate in darkness and dread—Alas! in his arms lay the fair child—dead!
Fenelon died at Cambray, January 7, 1715, aged 64, some years after the death of Bossuet, his antagonist, and shortly before the death of his royal patron and persecutor, Louis XIV. The conscience of Christendom has already judged between the two parties. Never was the spirit of the good archbishop more powerful than now. Whilst ambitious ecclesiastics may honor more the name of Bossuet, the heart of France has embalmed in its affections the name of his victim, and our common humanity has incorporated him into its body. When Fenelon's remains were discovered in 1804, the French people shouted with joy that Jacobinism had not scattered his ashes, and a monument to his memory was forthwith decreed by Napoleon. In 1826, his statue was erected in Cambray, and three years after, a memorial more eloquent than any statue, a selection from his works, exhibiting the leading features of his mind, bore witness of his power andgoodness to this western world. The graceful monument which the wife of Follen thus reared to his memory was crowned by the hand of Channing with a garland that as yet has shown no trace of decay.
To any conversant with that little work, or with the larger productions of Fenelon's mind, need I say a single word of tribute to his character or gifts? Yet something must be said to show the compass of his character, for common eulogium is too indiscriminate in praise, exaggerating certain amiable graces at the expense of more commanding virtues.
He was remarkable for the harmony of his various qualities. In his intellect, reason, understanding, fancy, imagination, were balanced in an almost unexampled degree. The equilibrium of his character showed itself alike in the exquisite propriety of his writings and the careful and generous economy of his substance. He died without property and without debt. Some critics have denied him the praise of philosophical depth. They should rather say, that his love of prying analytically into the secret principles of things was counterbalanced by the desire to exhibit principles in practical combination, and by his preference of truth and virtue in its living portraiture to moral anatomizing or metaphysical dissection. He could grapple wiselywith the fatalism of Malebranche and the pantheism of Spinosa, as his controversial works show; he could hold an even argument with the terrible Bossuet on the essence of Christianity. He preferred, however, to exhibit under forms far more winning than controversy, his views of human agency, divine power, and Christian love. The beautiful structure of his narratives, dialogues, and letters, is not the graceful cloak that hides a poverty of philosophical ideas. It is like the covering which the Creator has thrown around the human frame, not to disguise its emptiness, but to incase its energies, and to ease and beautify its action. With this reservation, we will allow it to be said that his mind was more graceful than strong.
His heart was equally balanced with his intellect. Piety and humanity, dignity and humility, justice and mercy, blended in the happiest equilibrium. His gentleness never led him to forget due self-respect, or forego any opportunity of speaking unwelcome truths. Bossuet and Louis, in their pride, as well as young Burgundy, in his confiding attachment, had more than one occasion to recognize the singular truthfulness of this gentle spirit. Measured by prevalent standards, his character may be said to lack one element—fear. His life was love. The text that the beloved disciple drew from his Master's bosom was the constant lesson of his soul: "He that loveth not knoweth not God, for God is love."
His active powers were great, for he filled with efficiency posts of duty so various as to call for different orders of ability. Priest, preceptor, prelate, as well as statesman, poet, orator, theologian, he was eminent in every capacity, and in each sphere took something from his distinction by being rival of himself in other spheres. Take him for all in all—allowing to other men superior excellence in single departments—where can we find a man on the whole so perfect as he was?
I am well aware that he has not escaped disparagement, and that the animadversions of his contemporary, St. Simon, have been more than repeated in the suspicions of the over-skeptical historian Michelet. True, that the courtesy that won the hearts alike of master and servant, the high-born lady who sought his society and the broken-spirited widow who asked his Christian counsel, has been ascribed to a love of praise that rejoiced in every person's homage, or a far-sighted policy that desired every person's suffrage. True, that his self-denial has been called a deep self-interest that would win high honors by refusing to accept the less rewards. True, that his piety has sometimesbeen called sentimentalism, and an alloy of baser emotion has been hinted at as running through some of his letters to enthusiastic devotees. True, that he has been called very politic and ambitious. We claim for him no superhuman perfection. Nor do we deny that he was a Frenchman, whilst we maintain that he was every inch a man.
But let him be judged not by a skeptical suspicion that doubts from the habit of doubting of virtue, but by the spirit of his whole life. That life, from beginning to end, was an example of the virtue commended by our Lord in his charge to his apostles. Sent forth like a lamb in the midst of wolves, he blended the wisdom of the serpent with the gentleness of the dove. Whatever failings he may have had he conquered. His course was ever onward to the mark whither he deemed himself called of God.
We probably have often felt, on reading Fenelon, as if his sweetness of temper were sometimes at the expense of his manliness, and we could easily spare some of his honeyed words for an occasional flow of hearty, even if bitter, indignation. To his credit, however, be it said, that with him gentle speech was often but the smooth edge of faithful counsel most resolutely pointed and sharpened at the consciences of the great whom rudeness would offend and inelegance disgust. Recent discoveries have given ample proof of his unflinching boldness to the French Court. During his banishment (1694-97) he wrote that masterly and fearless letter to Louis XIV., which was not discovered until 1825, and which the most earnest of his eulogists, not even Channing, we believe, seems to have noted. Than these intrepid words, Christian heroism cannot further go.
Would that there were time to speak of his works in their various departments, especially those in the departments of education, social morals, and religion.
No name stands above his among the leaders in the great cause of education. None surpass him in the power with which he defended the mind of woman from the impoverishing and distorting systems prevalent in his day, and by his example and pen taught parents to educate their daughters in a manner that should rebuke vanity and deceit, and blend grace with utility. None went before him in knowledge of the art of taming obstinate boyhood into tenderness, and with all modern improvements our best teachers may find in his works a mine of knowledge and incentive both in their tasks of instruction and discipline.
In social morals he was a great reformer; not, indeed, so remarkable for being engrossed withsome favorite innovation, as for urging the constant need of applying Christian truth and duty to every social institution. He rebuked the passion for war, by his own demeanor disarmed the hostility of combatants, and by his instructions struck at the root of warfare in the councils of princes. We may well be amazed at his political wisdom, and taught more emphatically than ever that we are to look for this not to the hack-politicians who think only of the cabals of the moment, but to the sage men who interpret the future from the high ground of reason and right. His political papers embody the lessons that France has since learned by a baptism of blood. Hardly a single principle now deemed necessary for the peace and prosperity of nations, can be named, that cannot be found expressed or implied in Fenelon's various advice to the royal youth under his charge. Well may the better minds of France and Christendom honor his name for the noble liberality with which he qualified the mild conservatism so congenial with his temperament, creed and position.
As a theologian, he constantly breathes one engrossing sentiment. With him, Christianity was the love of God and its morality was the love of the neighbor. Judged by occasional expressions, his piety might seem too ascetic and mystical—toourgent of penance and self-crucifixion—too enthusiastic in emotion, perilling the sobriety of reason in the impassioned fervors of devotion—sometimes bordering upon that overstrained spiritualism, which, in its impulsive flights, is so apt to lose its just balance and sink to the earth and the empire of the senses. He has written some things that prudence, nay, wisdom, might wish to erase. But, qualified by other statements, and above all, interpreted by his own life, his religion appears in its true proportion—without gloom, without extravagance. To his honor be it spoken, that in an age when priests and prelates eminent for saintly piety sanctioned the scourging and death of heretics, and enforced the Gospel chiefly by the fears of perdition, Fenelon was censured for dwelling too much on the power of love, that perfect charity that casteth out fear. It may, perhaps, be a failing with him that he had too little sympathy with the fears and passions of men, and appreciated too little the more sublime and terrible aspects of Divine Providence. His mind was tuned too gently to answer to all of the grandest music of our humanity, and we must abate something of our admiration of him for his want of loyalty to the new ages of Christian thought and heroism. He evidently loved Virgil more than Dante, Cicero more than Chrysostom, and thoughtthe Greek Parthenon, in its horizontal lines and sensuous beauty, a grander and more perfect structure, alike in plan and execution, than Notre Dame or Strasbourg Cathedral, with its uplifting points and spiritual sublimity. He was a Christianized Greek, who had exchanged the philosopher's robe for the archbishop's surplice.
Viewing him now on the whole, considering at once his gifts and graces of mind, and heart, and will; his offerings upon the altar of learning, humanity and religion, we sum up our judgment in a single saying. He worshipped God in thebeautyof holiness. His whole being, with all its graces and powers so harmoniously combined, was an offering to God that men cannot but admire and the Most High will not despise.
We may not take leave of Fenelon without applying to our times the teachings of his spirit, the lesson of his life. However rich the topic in occasion for controversial argument, we defer all strife to the inspiration of his gentle and loving wisdom. Let an incident connected with the tomb of Fenelon furnish us an emblem of the spirit in which we shall look upon his name. His remains were deposited in the vault beneath the main altar at which he had so often ministered. It would seem as if some guardian-angel shielded them fromdesecration. Eighty years passed and the Reign of Terror came upon France in retribution for her falsity to her best advisers. The allied armies were marshalling their hosts against the new republic. Every means must be used to add to the public resources, and the decree went forth that even the tombs should be robbed of their coffins. The republican administrator of the District of Cambray, Bernard Cannonne, in company with a butcher and two artillery-men, entered the cathedral and went down into the vault which held the ashes of so many prelates. The leaden coffins with their contents were carried away and placed upon the cars; but when they came to the inclosure whose tablet bore the name of Fenelon, and lifted it from its bed, it appeared that the lead had become unsoldered and they could take away the coffin and leave the sacred dust it had contained. Years passed, and the reign of Napoleon bringing a better day, rebuked the Vandalism that would dishonor all greatness and spoil even its grave. The facts regarding the acts of desecration were legally ascertained and the bones of the good archbishop triumphantly reserved for a nobler than the ancient sepulchre. There was a poetical justice in the preservation of them from violence. It was well that the bloody revolutionists who went to thetombs for metal to furnish their arsenals, were made, in spite of themselves, to respect the ashes of one whose counsels of duty heeded would have averted that revolution by a system of timely concessions and benignant legislation.
Now that we virtually draw near the resting-place of this good man, let it not be to furnish material for bullets of lead or paper to hurl against theological antagonists. Appreciating the beauty of his spirit, let us learn and apply the rebuke and encouragement it affords. A genius so rare we may not hope to approach or imitate. Graces still more precious and imitable are associated with that genius and create its highest charm. Our time has been worse than thrown away, and our study of his works and his biographies has been in vain, if we are not better, more wise, and earnest, and gentle for the page of history, the illustration of divine providence that has now come before us. Placed in the most perplexing relations, he never lost hold of the calm wisdom that was his chosen guide. Exposed to the most irritating provocations, he never gave up the gentle peacefulness of his spirit.
Our age is not peculiarly ecclesiastical, yet we have not done with the church and its teachers. Many a time of late we have had cause to thinkwith regret of the persuasive eloquence of the Archbishop of Cambray, of the sacred Art that could make truth lovely to wayward youth, and religion beautiful to hard and skeptical manhood. Has it not sometimes seemed as if ambitious prelacy had forgotten the purer example for the baser, and copied Bossuet's pride instead of Fenelon's charity? Nay, has not priestly assumption coveted the talons and forgotten the wings of the Eagle of Meaux and lost sight wholly of the Dove of Cambray? What government or ruler in Christendom would not be the better for a counsellor as eloquent and fearless as he who dared rebuke without reserve the great Louis of France in words like these:
"You do not love God; you do not even fear him but with a slave's fear; it is hell and not God whom you fear. Your religion consists but in superstitions, in petty superficialities. You are like the Jews, of whom God said:'Whilst they honor me with their lips, their hearts are far from me.'You are scrupulous upon trifles and hardened upon terrible evils. You love only your own glory and comfort. You refer everything to yourself as if you were the God of the earth, and everything else here created only to be sacrificed to you. It is you, on the contrary, whom God has put into the world only for your people."
The earnest traveller, who would feed his eyeTo fullness of content on Nature's charms,Must not forever pace the easy plain.No! he must climb the rugged mountain's side,Scale its steep rocks, cling to its crumbling crags,Nor fear to plunge in it's eternal snows.And yet, if he be wise, he will not chooseTo find the doubtful way alone, lest nightO'ertake him wandering, and her icy breathChill him to marble; not alone will riskHis foot unwonted on the glassy bedOf rifted glacier, lest a step amissShould hurl him headlong down some fissure dark,That yawns unseen—thence to arise no more.But, furnished with a trusty guide, he mountsFrom peak to peak in safety, though with toil.Once on the lofty summit, he beholdsA glory in earth's kingdom all undreamedTill now. The heavy curtains are withdrawn,That shut the old horizon down so close;And, lo! a world is lying at his feet!A world without a flaw! What late he heldBut as discordant fragments, now show forth,From this high vantage ground, the perfect partsOf a harmonious whole! He would not dareTo change one line in all that picture marvellousOf hill and vale, bright stream and rolling sea,O'erhung by the great sun that gildeth all.And thou! If thou would'st truly feast thy soulUpon the things invisible of HimWho made the visible, fear not to treadThe awful heights of Thought! not to thyselfSole trusting, lest thou perish in thy pride;But following where Faith enlightened leads,Thou shalt not miss or fall. The way is rough,But never toil did win reward so richAs that she findeth here. At every stepNew prospects open, and new wonders shine!Mount higher still, and whatsoe'er thy pains,Thou'lt envy not the sleeper at thy feet!Visions of truth and beauty shall ariseSo multiplied, so glorified, so vast,That thy enraptured soul amazed shall cry,"No longer Earth, but the new Heavens I seeLighted forever by the throne of God."
The earnest traveller, who would feed his eyeTo fullness of content on Nature's charms,Must not forever pace the easy plain.No! he must climb the rugged mountain's side,Scale its steep rocks, cling to its crumbling crags,Nor fear to plunge in it's eternal snows.And yet, if he be wise, he will not chooseTo find the doubtful way alone, lest nightO'ertake him wandering, and her icy breathChill him to marble; not alone will riskHis foot unwonted on the glassy bedOf rifted glacier, lest a step amissShould hurl him headlong down some fissure dark,That yawns unseen—thence to arise no more.But, furnished with a trusty guide, he mountsFrom peak to peak in safety, though with toil.
Once on the lofty summit, he beholdsA glory in earth's kingdom all undreamedTill now. The heavy curtains are withdrawn,That shut the old horizon down so close;And, lo! a world is lying at his feet!A world without a flaw! What late he heldBut as discordant fragments, now show forth,From this high vantage ground, the perfect partsOf a harmonious whole! He would not dareTo change one line in all that picture marvellousOf hill and vale, bright stream and rolling sea,O'erhung by the great sun that gildeth all.
And thou! If thou would'st truly feast thy soulUpon the things invisible of HimWho made the visible, fear not to treadThe awful heights of Thought! not to thyselfSole trusting, lest thou perish in thy pride;But following where Faith enlightened leads,Thou shalt not miss or fall. The way is rough,But never toil did win reward so richAs that she findeth here. At every stepNew prospects open, and new wonders shine!Mount higher still, and whatsoe'er thy pains,Thou'lt envy not the sleeper at thy feet!Visions of truth and beauty shall ariseSo multiplied, so glorified, so vast,That thy enraptured soul amazed shall cry,"No longer Earth, but the new Heavens I seeLighted forever by the throne of God."
A widow, feeble, old and lonely,Whose flock once numbered many a score,Had now remaining to her onlyOne little lamb, and nothing more.And every morning forced to send itTo scanty pastures far away,With prayers and tears did she commend itTo the good saint that named the day.Nor so in vain; each kindly patron,George, Agnes, Nicolas, Genevieve,Still mindful of the helpless matron,Brought home her lambkin safe at eve.All-Saints' day dawned; with faith yet stronger,On the whole hallowed choir the dameDoth call—to one she prays no longer,—That day the wolf devoured the lamb!
A widow, feeble, old and lonely,Whose flock once numbered many a score,Had now remaining to her onlyOne little lamb, and nothing more.
And every morning forced to send itTo scanty pastures far away,With prayers and tears did she commend itTo the good saint that named the day.
Nor so in vain; each kindly patron,George, Agnes, Nicolas, Genevieve,Still mindful of the helpless matron,Brought home her lambkin safe at eve.
All-Saints' day dawned; with faith yet stronger,On the whole hallowed choir the dameDoth call—to one she prays no longer,—That day the wolf devoured the lamb!
When I was in Venice I knew the Marchesa Negropontini. Many strangers knew her twenty and thirty years ago. In my time she was old and somewhat withdrawn from society; but as I had been a fellow-student and friend of her grand-nephew in Vienna, I was admitted into her house familiarly, until the old lady felt as kindly toward me, as if I, too, had been a nephew.
Italian life and character are different enough from ours. They are traditionally romantic. But we are apt to disbelieve in the romance which we hear from those concerned. I cannot disbelieve, since I knew this sad, stern Italian woman. Can you disbelieve, who have seen Titian's, and Tintoretto's, and Paolo Veronese's portraits of Venetian women? You, who have floated about the canals of Venice?
I was an American boy; and my very utterstrangeness probably made it easier for the Marchesa Negropontini to tell me the story, which I now relate. She told it to me as we sat one evening in the balcony of her house, the palazzo Orfeo, on the Grand Canal.
The Marchesa sat for a long time silent, and we watched the phantom life of the city around us. Presently she sighed deeply and said:
"Ah, me! it is the eve of the Purification. My son, seventy years ago to-day the woman was born whose connection with the house of Negropontini has shrouded it in gloom, like the portrait you have seen in the saloon. Seventy years ago to-day my father's neighbor, the Count Balbo, saw for the first time the face of the first daughter his wife had given him. The countess lay motionless—the flame of existence flickered between life and death.
"'Adorable Mother of God!' said the count, as he knelt by her bedside, 'if thou restorest my wife, my daughter shall be consecrated to thy service.'
"The slow hours dragged heavily by. The mother lived.
"My brother Camillo and I were but two and four years older than our little neighbor. We werechildren together, and each other's playmates. When the little neighbor, Sulpizia Balbo, was fourteen, Camillo was eighteen. My son, the sky of Venice never shone on a more beautiful girl, on a youth more grave and tender. He loved her with his whole soul. Gran' Dio! 'tis the old, old story!
"She was proud, wayward, passionate, with a splendor of wit and unusual intelligence. He was calm, sweet, wise; with a depthless tenderness of passion. But Sulpizia inherited her will from her father, and at fourteen she was sacrificed to the vow he had made. She was buried alive in the convent of our Lady of the Isle, and my brother's heart with her.
"Sulpizia's powerful nature chafed in the narrow bounds of the convent discipline. But her religious education assured her that that discipline was so much the more necessary, and she struggled with the sirens of worldly desire. The other sisters were shocked and surprised, at one moment by her surpassing fervor, at another by her bold and startling protests against their miserable bondage.
"Often, at vespers, in the dim twilight of the chapel, she flung back her cape and hood, with thetears raining from her eyes and her voice gushing and throbbing with the melancholy music, while the nuns paused in their singing, appalled by the religious ecstasy of Sulpizia. She was so sweet and gentle in her daily intercourse that all of them loved her, bending to her caresses like grain to the breeze; but they trembled in the power of her denunciation, which shook their faith to the centre, for it seemed to be the voice of a faith so much profounder.
"While she was yet young she was elected abbess of the convent. It was a day of triumph for her powerful family. Perhaps the Count Balbo may have sometimes regretted that solemn vow, but he never betrayed repentance. Perhaps he would have been more secretly satisfied by the triumphant worldly career of a woman like his daughter, but he never said so.
"Sulpizia knew that my brother loved her. I think she loved him—at least I thought so.
"The nuns were not jealous of her rule, for the superior genius which commanded them also consoled and counselled; and her protests becoming less frequent, her persuasive affection won all their hearts. They saw that the first fire of youth slowly saddened in her eyes. Her mien became even more lofty; her voice less salient; and ashadow fell gently over her life. The sisters thought it was age; but Sulpizia was young. Others thought it was care; but her duties could not harass such a spirit. Others thought it was repentance; but natures like hers do not early repent.
"It was resolved that the portrait of the abbess should be painted, and the nuns applied to her parents to select the artist. They, in turn, consulted my brother Camillo, who was the friend of the family, and for whom the Count Balbo would, I believe, have willingly unvowed his vow. Camillo had left Venice as the great door of the convent closed behind his life and love. He fled over the globe. He lost himself in new scenes, in new employments. He took the wings of the morning, and flew to the uttermost parts of the earth,[A]and there he found—himself. So he returned an older and a colder man. His love, which had been a passion, seemed to settle into a principle. His life was consecrated to one remembrance. It did not dare to have a hope.
[A]I use, here, words corresponding to the Marchesa's.
[A]I use, here, words corresponding to the Marchesa's.
"He brought with him a friend whom he had met in the East. Together upon the summit of the great pyramid they had seen the day break over Cairo, and on the plain of Thebes had listened forMemnon to gush with music as the sun struck him with his rod of light. Together they had travelled over the sea-like desert, breaking the awful silence only with words that did not profane it. My brother conversing with wise sadness—his friend Luigi with hope and enthusiasm.
"Luigi was a poor man, and an artist. My brother was proud, but real grief prunes the foolish side of pride, while it fosters the nobler. It was a rare and noble friendship. Rare, because pride often interferes with friendships among men, where all conditions are not equal. Noble, because the two men were so, although only one had the name and the means of a nobleman. But he shared these with his friend, as naturally as his friend shared his thoughts with him. Neither spoke much of the past. My brother had rolled a stone over the mouth of that tomb, and his friend was occupied with the suggestions and the richness of the life around him. If some stray leaf or blossom fell forward upon their path from the past, it served to Luigi only as a stimulating mystery.
"'This is my memory,' he would say, touching his portfolio, which was full of eastern sketches. 'These are the hieroglyphics Egypt has herself written, and we can decipher them at leisure upon your languid lagunes.'
"It was not difficult for my brother to persuade Luigi to return with him to Venice. I shall not forget the night they came, as long as I remember anything."
The Marchesa paused a moment, dreamily.
"It was the eve of the Purification," she said, at length, pausing again. After a little, she resumed:
"We were ignorant of the probable time of Camillo's return; and about sunset my mother, my younger sister Fiora, and I, were rowing along the Guidecca, when I saw a gondola approaching, containing two persons only beside the rowers, followed by another with trunks and servants. I have always watched curiously new arrivals in Venice, for no other city in the world can be entered with such peculiar emotion. I had scarcely looked at the new comers before I recognized my brother, and was fascinated by the appearance of his companion, who lay in a trance of delight with the beauty of the place and the hour.
"His long hair flowed from under his slouched hat, hanging about a face that I cannot describe; and his negligent travelling dress did not conceal the springing grace of his figure. But to me, educated in Venice, associated only with its silent, stately nobles; a child, early solemnized by the society of decay and of elders whose hearts werenever young, to me the magnetic charm of the young man was his youth, and I gazed at him with the same admiring earnestness with which he looked at the city and the scene.
"The gondolas constantly approached. My brother lay lost in thoughts which were visible in the shadow they cast upon his features. His head rested upon his hand, and he looked fixedly toward the island on which the convent stands. A light summer cloak was drawn around him, and hid his figure entirely, except his arm and hand. His cap was drawn down over his eyes. He was not conscious of any being in the world but Sulpizia.
"Suddenly from the convent tower the sound of the vesper bell trembled in throbbing music over the water. It seemed to ring every soul to prayer. My brother did not move. He still gazed intently at the island, and the tears stole from his eyes. Luigi crossed himself. We did the same, and murmured an Ave Maria.
"'Heavens! Camillo!' cried my mother, suddenly. He started, and was so near that there was a mutual recognition. In a moment the gondolas were side by side, and the greetings of a brother and sisters and mother long parted, followed. Meanwhile, Camillo's companion remained silent, having respectfully removed his hat, and looking asif he felt his presence to be profane at such a moment. But my brother turned, and taking him by the hand, said:
"'Dear mother, I might well have stayed away from you twice as long, could I have hoped to find a friend like this.'
"His companion smiled at the generosity of his introduction. He greeted us all cordially and cheerfully, and the light fading rapidly, we rowed on in the early starlight. The gondolas slid side by side, and there was a constant hum of talk.
"I alone was silent. I felt a sympathy with Camillo which I had never known before. The tears came into my eyes as I watched him gently conversing with my mother, turning now and then in some conversation with Luigi and my younger sister. How I watched Luigi! How I caught the words that were not addressed to me! How my heart throbbed at his sweet, humorous laugh, in which my sister joined, while his eyes wandered wonderingly toward mine, as if to ask why I was so silent. I tried to see that they fastened upon me with special interest. I could not do it. Gracious and gentle to all, I could not perceive that his manner toward me was different, and I felt a new sorrow.
"So we glided over the Lagune into the canal, and beneath the balconied palaces, until we reachedour own. The gondolas stopped. Luigi leaped out instantly upon the broad marble pavement, and assisted my mother to alight, then my sister. Then I placed my hand in his, and my heart stood still. It was a moment, but it was also an age. The next instant I stood free upon the step. Free—but bound forever.
"We were passing up the staircase into the palace, Luigi plucked an orange bud and handed it to me. I was infinitely happy!
"A few steps further, and he broke an acacia for my sister: ah! I was miserable!
"We ascended into the great saloon, and a cheerful evening followed. Fascinated by these first impressions of Venice, Luigi abandoned himself to his abundant genius, and left us at midnight, mutually enchanted. Youth and sympathy had overcome all other considerations. We had planned endless days of enjoyment. He had promised to show us his sketches. It was not until our mother asked of my brother who he was, that all the human facts appeared.
"'Heavens!' shouted my younger sister, Fiora, laughing with delight, 'think of thenobleMarchese Cicada, who simpers,per Bacco, that the day is warm, and,per dieci, that I am lovelier than ever. Viva Luigi! Viva O il pittore.'
"'My daughter,' said my grave, cautious mother, 'you are very young yet—you do not understand these things. Good night, my child!'
"Fiora kissed her on the brow, and darted out of the room as if she were really alive.
"When she had gone, Camillo smiled in his cold, calm way, and turning to me, asked how I liked Luigi. I answered calmly, for I was of the same blood as my brother. I did not disguise how much superior I thought him to the youth I knew. I was very glad he had found such a friend, and hoped the young man would come often to see us, and be very successful in his profession.
"Then I was silent. I did not say that I had never lived until that evening. I did not say how my heart was chilled, because, in leaving the room, Luigi's last glance had not been for me, but for Fiora.
"Camillo did not praise him much. It was not his way; but I felt how deeply he honored and loved him, and was rejoiced to think that necessity would often bring us together; only my mother seemed serious, and I knew what her gravity meant.
"'Do not be alarmed, dear mother,' I said to her, as I was leaving the room.
"'My daughter,' she answered, with infinite pride, 'it is not possible. I do not understandyou. And you, my daughter, you do not understand yourself nor the world."
"She was mistaken. Myself I did understand; the world I did not."
Again the Marchesa was silent and tears stood in her eyes. She was seventy years old. Yes, but in love's calendar there is no December.
"The days passed, and we saw Luigi constantly. He was very busy, but found plenty of time to be with us. His paintings were full of the same kind of power I felt in his character. He never wearied of the gorgeous atmospheric effects of which Titian and Paul, Giorgione and Tintoretto were the old worshippers. They touched him sometimes with a voluptuous melancholy in which he found a deeper inspiration.
"Every day I loved him more and more, and nobody suspected it. He did not, because he was only glad to be in my society when he wanted criticism. He liked me as an intelligent woman. He loved Fiora as a bewitching child.
"My mother watched us all, and soon saw there was nothing to fear. I sought to be lively—to frequent society; for I knew if my health failed I should be sent away from Venice and Luigi. He had given me a drawing—a scene composed from our first meeting upon the Lagune. The very soulof evening repose brooded upon the picture. It had even an indefinable tone of sadness, as if he had incorporated into it the sound of the vesper bell. It had been simply a melancholy sound to him. To the rest of us, who loved Camillo, it was something more than that. In his heart the mere remembrance of the island rang melancholy vespers forever.
"This drawing I kept in a private drawer. At night, when I went to my chamber, I opened the drawer and looked at it. It lay so that I did not need to touch it; and as I gazed at it, I saw all his own character, and all that I had felt and lived since that evening.
"At length the day came, on which the parents of Sulpizia came to my brother to speak of her portrait. Camillo listened to them quietly, and mentioned his friend Luigi as a man who could understand Sulpizia, and therefore paint her portrait. The parents were satisfied. It was an unusual thing; but at that time, as at all times, a great many unusual things could be done in convents, especially if one had a brother, who was Cardinal Balbo.
"It was a bright morning that Camillo carried Luigi in his gondola to the convent. He had merely said to him that there was a beautiful abbess to paint, an old friend of his; and Luigi replied that he would always willingly desert beautiful waters and skies for beautiful eyes. They reached the island"—
The Marchesa beat the floor slowly with her foot, and controlled herself, as if a spasm of mortal agony had seized her.
"They reached the island, and stepped ashore into the convent garden. They went into the little parlor, and presently the abbess entered veiled. My brother, who had not seen her since she was his playmate, could not pierce the veil; and as calmly as ever told her briefly the name of his friend, said a few generous words of him, and, rising, promised to call at sunset for Luigi, and departed."
The Marchesa now spoke very rapidly.
"I do not well know—nobody knows—but Sulpizia raised her veil, and Luigi adjusted his easel. He painted—they conversed—the day fledaway. Sunset came. Camillo arrived in his gondola, and Luigi came out without smiling. The gondoliers pulled toward the city.
"'Is she beautiful?' asked Camillo.
"'Wonderful,' responded his friend, and said no more. He trailed his hands in the water, and then wiped them across his brow. He took off his hat and faced the evening breeze from the sea. He cried to the gondoliers that they were lazy—that the gondola did not move. It was darting like a wind over the water.
"The next day they returned to the island—and the next. But at sunset, Luigi did not come to the gondola. Camillo waited, and sat until it was quite dark. Then he went through the garden of the convent, and inquired for the painter. They sought him in the parlor. He was not there. The abbess was not there. Upon the easel stood her portrait partly finished—strangely beautiful. Camillo had followed into the room, and stood suddenly before the picture. He had not seen Sulpizia since she was a child. Even his fancy had scarcely dreamed of a face so beautiful. His knees trembled as he stood, and he fell before it in the attitude of prayer. The last red flash of daylight fell upon the picture. The eyes smiled—the lips were slightly parted—a glow of awakening life trembled all through the features.
"The strong man's heart was melted, and the nuns beheld him kneeling and weeping before the portrait of their abbess.
"But where was she?
"Nobody knew. There was no clue—except that the gondola of the convent was gone.
"Camillo took the portrait and stepped into his gondola. He returned to the city, to the palace of Sulpizia's parents. Slowly he went up the great staircase, dark and silent, up which his eager steps had followed the flying feet of Sulpizia. He entered the saloon slowly, like a man who carries a heavy burden—but rather in his heart than in his hands.
"'It is all that remains to you of your daughter,' said he in a low voice, throwing back his cloak, and revealing the marvellous beauty of their child's portrait to the amazed parents. Then came the agony—a child lost—a friend false.
"Camillo returned to us and told the tale. I felt my heart wither and grow old. My mother was grieved in her heart for her son's sorrow—in her pride for its kind and method. Fiora did not smile any more. Her step was no longer bounding upon the floor and the stairs, and the year afterward she married the Marchese Cicada.
"The next day, Camillo returned to the island.The abbess had not returned, nor had any tidings been received. Only the gondola had been found in the morning in its usual place. The days passed. A new abbess was chosen. The church did not dare to curse the fugitive, for there was no proof that she had willingly gone away. It might be supposed—it could not be proved. Camillo hung in his chamber the unfinished portrait, and a black veil shrouded it from chance and curious eyes. He did not seem altered. He was still calm and grave—still cold and sweet in his general intercourse.
"My friendship with him became more intimate. He saw that I was much changed—for although pride can do much, the heart is stronger than the head. But he had no suspicion of the truth. People who suffer intensely often forget that there are other sufferers in the world, you know. Camillo was very tender toward me, for he thought that I was paying the penalty of too warm a sympathy with him, and often begged me not to wear away my health and youth in commiseration for what was past and hopeless. I cultivated my consciousness of his suffering as a defence against my own. We never mentioned the names of either of those of whom we were always thinking; but once in many months he would call me into hischamber and remove the veil from the portrait, while we stood before it as silent as devotees in a church before the picture of the Madonna. Camillo pursued his affairs—the cares of his estate—the duties of society. He assembled all the strangers of distinction at his table. Yes, it was a rare and great triumph.
"For myself, I was mistress of my secret, and I reveal it to you for the first time. Why not? I am seventy years old. You know none of the persons—you hear it as you would read a romance. My heart was broken—my faith was lost—and I have never met since any one who could restore it. I distrust the sweetest smile if it move me deeply, and although men may sometimes be sincere, yet sorrow is so sure that we must steer by memory, not by hope. In this world we must not play that we are happy. That play has a frightful forfeit. Society is wise. It eats its own children, whose consolation is that after this world there is another—and a better, say the priests. Of course—for it could not be a worse.
"Suddenly Sulpizia returned. My brother was in his library when a messenger came for him from her parents. He ran breathless and pale to hisgondola. The man was conquered in that moment and the wild passion of the boy flamed up again. When he reached the Balbo palace he paused a moment, despite himself, upon the stairs, and the calmness of the man returned to him. Nature is kind in that to her noble children. Their regrets, their despairs, their lightning flashes of hope, she does not reveal to those who cause them. Every man is weak, but the weakness of the strong man is hidden. He entered the saloon. There stood Sulpizia with her parents.
"Death and victory were in her eyes. They were fearfully hollow; and the strongly-carved features, from which the flesh had fallen during the long struggles of the soul, were pure and pale as marble. It seemed as if she must fall from weakness, but not a muscle moved.
"Nothing was said. Camillo stood before the woman who had always ruled his soul, to whom it was still loyal. The parents stood appalled behind their daughter. It was a wintry noon in Venice—cold and still.
"'Camillo,' said Sulpizia at length, in a tone not to be described, but seemingly destitute of emotion—as the ocean might seem when a gale calmed it—'he has left me.'
"Child, I have not fathomed the human heart;but after a long, long silence my brother answered only, I know not from what feeling of duty and of sacrifice:
"'Sulpizia, will you marry me?'
"Cardinal Balbo arranged the matter at Rome, and after a short time they were married. I was the only one present with the parents of Sulpizia, who were glad enough so to cover what they called their daughter's shame. My mother would not come, but left Venice that very day and died abroad. The circumstances of the marriage were not comprehended; but the old friends of the family came occasionally to make solemn, stately visits, which my brother scrupulously returned.
"You may believe that we enjoyed a kind of mournful peace after the dark days of the last few years. I loved Sulpizia, but her cheerfulness without smiling was the awful serenity of wintry sunlight. She faded day by day. It was clear to us that the end was not far away.
"Two years after the marriage, Sulpizia was lying upon a couch in the room behind us, where you have seen the veiled portrait which hung in my brother's chamber. All the long windows and doors were open and we sat by her side, talking gently in whispers. I knew that death was at hand,but I rejoiced to think that much as he had suffered, there was one bitter drop that had been spared him.
"Sulpizia's voice was scarcely audible, and the deadly pallor deepened every moment upon her face. Camillo bent over her without speaking, and bowed his head. I stood apart. In a little while she seemed to be unconscious of our presence. Her eyes were open and her glance was toward the window, but her few words showed her mind to be wandering. Still a few moments, and her lips moved inaudibly, she lifted her hands to Camillo's face and drew it toward her own with infinite tenderness. His listening soul heard one word only—the glimmering phantom of sound—it was 'Luigi.'
"His head bowed more profoundly. Sulpizia's eyes were closed. I crossed her hands upon her breast. I touched my brother—he started a moment—looked at me, at his wife, and sunk slowly, senseless by the couch."
Think of it! The birds sing—the sun shines—the leaves rustle—the flowers bud and bloom—children shout—young hearts are happy—the worldwheels on—and such tragedies are, and always have been!
I sat with the old Marchesa upon her balcony, and listened to this terrible tale. She tells it no more, for she is gone now. The Marchesa tells it no more, but Venice tells it still; and as you glide in your black gondola along the canal, under the balconies, in the full moonlight of summer nights, listen and listen; and vaguely in your heart or in your fancy you will hear the tragic strain.