The Marble Statue
On
a fine summer’s evening Florio, a young nobleman, was riding slowly towards the
gates of Lucca, enjoying both the delicate fragrance that shimmered over the
beautiful landscape and the towers and roofs of the city before him, and the
colourful procession of spruce ladies and gentleman strolling in a merry throng
down the avenues of chestnut-trees along both sides
of the street.
“What
business brings you to
“No
business at all? – Well, then you must be a poet!” the other said with a merry
laugh.
“Not
exactly that,” replied Florio, turning red all over. “I have, admittedly, occasionally tried
my hand at the happy art of song; but ever since I read the great old Masters,
and found all my secret wishes and presentiments there, really there, with
flesh and breath, then I have seemed to myself to be a weak little lark’s
voice, blown away in the wind beneath the vast vault of Heaven.”
“Everyone
sings his own hymn to God,” said the stranger, “and a chorus of voices makes
the spring.” And his large,
intelligent eyes rested with visible pleasure on the handsome youth, who looked
out before him with such innocence into the duskening world.
“I
have now chosen to travel,” the latter continued in a bolder and more familiar
tone, “and I find myself as though delivered from prison; all my old wishes and
joys have now, all at once, been set free.
Having grown up in seclusion in the country, for how long have I fixed a
yearning gaze on the distant blue mountains when Spring passed through our
garden like an enchanting minstrel, singing of the wondrous beauty of distant
lands and of great, immeasurable joy.”
At
these last words the stranger had sunk into deep thought. “Have you ever heard,” he remarked
absent-mindedly, yet in deadly earnest, “about the miraculous minstrel whose
tune enticed the youths into a magic mountain, from which none of them has
returned? Be on your guard!”
Florio
did not know what to make of the stranger’s words, nor was he able to question
him; for just at that moment, having followed the procession of strollers
unnoticed, they had arrived, not at the gates, but in a broad, grassy square,
where a merrily resounding realm of music, many-hued palfreys, riders, and
strollers, was shimmering back and forth in the fading flush of evening.
“This
is a good place to stay,” said the stranger cheerfully, swinging himself down
off his palfrey, “see you soon!”
And with this he quickly disappeared into the throng.
Florio
stood still for a moment in joyous amazement before the unexpected
prospect. Then he followed his
companion’s example, leaving his horse with his servant and mingling with the
lively swarm.
Concealed
choirs sent out music from the blooming bushes on all sides; demure ladies
walked up and down under the tall trees, surveying the radiant meadow with
beautiful eyes, laughing and chatting, their colourful feathers nodding in the
mild, golden evening like a flowerbed swaying in the wind. On a bright green plain, several girls
were amusing themselves with ball games.
The multicoloured, feathered balls fluttered like butterflies,
describing dazzling arcs through the blue air; while the girlish forms, gliding
up and down at the bottom of the garden, presented the most delightful
spectacle. One in particular, with
her dainty, almost childlike figure, and the grace of her every movement,
attracted Florio’s gaze. She wore a
thick, gaily coloured floral wreath in her hair, and she looked just like a
merry picture of spring as she now flew over the turf, now bent forward, now
reached up into the clear air with her graceful limbs, moving with such
exceeding vivacity. As a result of
an error on her opponent’s part, her shuttlecock flew off in the wrong
direction and fluttered down directly in front of Florio. He picked it up and presented it to the
garlanded girl as she came running up in pursuit. She stood, almost frightened, before
him, observing him in silence with beautiful large eyes. Then she bowed, blushing, and hurried
back to her playmates. However, the
great, sparkling stream of carriages and riders, which was moving in slow
magnificence along the main avenue, claimed Florio’s attention away from that
charming game, and he wandered alone for a good hour among the eternally
changing scenes.
“There
is the singer Fortunato!” he suddenly heard several ladies and cavaliers at his
side cry out. Quickly following
their pointing fingers, he descried, to his great astonishment, the graceful
stranger who had, only a short while before, accompanied him to this
place. Standing on the edge of the
meadow, leaning against a tree, he was in the centre of a dignified ring of
ladies and cavaliers who were listening to his song; from time to time a few
voices from the circle would sing a sweet reply. Among their number Florio recognised the
beautiful ball-player, who was gazing straight ahead with eyes opened wide in
silent joy at the melody.
It
was with quite a start that Florio recalled how he had been chatting so
familiarly with the famous singer, whom he had long revered on account of his
reputation; and he remained shyly standing some distance away, also listening
to the delightful contest. He would
willingly have stood there throughout the night, for the strains winged towards
him bearing such encouragement; and he was really quite annoyed when Fortunato
finished so soon and the entire company rose from the lawn.
Then
the songster espied Florio in the background and immediately walked up to
him. Cordially taking him by both
hands, he led the dazed youth, in spite of his protests, like a favourite
prisoner towards the open marquee nearby, where the company had now assembled
and prepared a cheerful supper.
Everyone greeted him as if they were old acquaintances, and many
beautiful eyes rested in astonished joy on the young, blossoming figure.
After
a number of jocund conversations, everyone settled down at the round table in
the centre of the marquee.
Refreshing fruits and wine in brightly-cut glasses sparkled against the
dazzling white table-cover; pretty girls’ faces peeked out charmingly between
the large bunches of flowers which cast forth their scent from silver
receptacles; outside, the last lights of evening played in beams of gold on the
lawn and the river sliding along as smooth as glass before the marquee. Florio had, almost involuntarily, sat
down beside the pretty little ball-player.
She recognised him at once and sat there shy and silent; but her long,
timorous eyelashes kept but a poor guard over her dark, ardent glances.
It
had been arranged that every man would take his turn at toasting his sweetheart
with a short, improvised ditty. The
light songs, merely flitting like a spring breeze over the surface of life,
without immersing life in their depths, made a merry stir with the ring of
happy faces around the table.
Florio was delighted in his innermost being; all dull apprehension had
been removed from his soul, and with an almost dreamy silence of joyous
thoughts he looked out before him, between the lights and the flowers, into the
beauteous landscape as it slowly sank in the last embers of evening. And when the turn to toast came round to
him, he raised his glass and sang:
Every
man names his heart’s own,
Only
I stand here alone;
Her
I toast will ask, no doubt,
Who that man is singing about?
And
so I must, like waves in yonder river, sing
And
die away unheard against the banks of spring.
His
beautiful neighbour looked up at him almost roguishly during these words, then
quickly lowered her little head on meeting his gaze. But he had sung with such heartfelt
emotion, and now he leant across so pressingly, with his fine, pleading eyes,
that she willingly allowed him to kiss her quickly on her red, burning lips.
“Bravo,
bravo!” cried several gentlemen; a mischievous, but innocent laughter rang out
around the table. Florio hastily,
confusedly, dashed his glass down; the beautiful kiss-taker, her cheeks burning
crimson, stared at her lap, looking indescribably charming beneath her full
floral wreath.
In
this way each one of the lucky men cheerfully chose a sweetheart from the
circle. All except Fortunato, who
belonged to everyone or no one, and appeared almost lonely in this agreeable
confusion. He was exuberantly
merry, and some could perhaps have called him rumbustious – from the way in
which he launched himself body and soul into witty, grave, and jocular remarks,
darting wildly from one to the other – had his clear, pious eyes not given him
all the while an almost miraculous appearance. Florio had firmly resolved to tell him,
across the table, of the love and reverence he had long felt for him. But he could not seem to manage this
today; all his gentle attempts bounced off the singer’s aloof joviality. He just could not comprehend him.
Outside,
meanwhile, the neighbourhood had become more silent; single, solemn stars came
out between the tops of the darkling trees, and the river murmured with
increased vigour through the cool, refreshing night. And now the final turn to sing had
fallen on Fortunato. Jumping
quickly to his feet, he swept his hand over his guitar and sang:
What
sounds with such fire
Through
spirit and soul?
To
clouds and realms higher
It
bears me – until?
Up
where man breathes thinly,
So
lonely a place,
I
greet long and inly
The
world’s lovely face.
Yes,
Bacchus, I know you
For
truly divine!
My
mind grasps your glow, too,
And
restful dreams of wine.
Browed
with a rose-chaplet,
You
beautiful child,
Your
eyes flash and clap, yet
Their
flames are so mild!
It’s
love? It’s awe, that you
Find
cause for delight?
All
round spring smiles at you
In
thought on joy’s height.
To
Venus, Queen, I sing,
The
sweetest, soft strain,
In
morning’s red rising
I
glimpse your domain:
An
enchanted ring set
With
sun-covered hills. –
Fresh-faced
boys with winglets
Sweep
after your will;
Like
golden dreams falling,
They
breeze through the skies,
All
gentle souls calling
To
where the Queen lies.
And
knights and their ladies
Swarm
over green bowers
And
cover the gay leas
Like
brilliant flowers.
The
lovers are strolling
With
linked arms along;
A
reeling and rolling
And
rapturous throng.
Here
he suddenly changed melody and key, continuing:
The
sounds fade, to nought spilled,
The
green turns pale cold;
The
ladies sit thought-filled,
The
knights’ looks are bold.
And
heavenly yearning,
Sky
singing to sea,
Makes
tears shimmer blurring
Round
garden and lea.
In
the heart of the fest
My
eyes catch, how mild!
The
most quiet of guests.
And
whence, lonely child?
He
wears a wreath of poppies,
Blooming
round the seam,
And
a crown of lilies
That
shine as a dream.
His
lips swell for meeting,
So
charming and white,
As
bringing a greeting
From
heavenly light.
The
torch he bears glows near
And
far in the gloam.
He
asks, “Who of those here
Desires
to go home?”
And
once in a while, when
He
upends his link,
Death
looms, deep and violent,
And
sound is extinct.
And
what sank here darkling
As
flowers in games,
You
see up there sparkling
As
stars with cool flames.
Oh
youth come from Heaven,
How
fair-faced art thou!
I’m
leaving this steven
To
go with you now!
For
what would I hope, then?
To
the sky, ah, the sky!
Now
Heaven is open,
Take
me, Father, on high!
Fortunato
was now silent, as were all the others; for outside the sounds had indeed
trickled away, and the music, the milling mass, and all the magical illusions
had gradually ebbed away before the boundless starry sky and the forceful
nocturnal song of the streams and woods.
Then a tall, slim cavalier, in rich jewellery that shone with a
greenish-gold sheen between the lights flichtering in the wind, stepped into
the marquee. His eyes blazed
insanely from deep orbits; his face was handsome, but wan and wild. On his sudden appearance, everyone’s
thoughts turned, with an involuntary shudder, to the silent guest in
Fortunato’s song.
After
a fleeting bow to the company, he betook himself to the host’s buffet and
hastily slurped down long draughts of dark-red wine with his pale lips.
Florio
gave a sharp start when the newcomer then turned to him before all the others
in the group and bade his old acquaintance welcome to
Among
the rest of the company, however, Donati – as the cavalier called himself – did
not seem to fit in anywhere. An
anxious perturbation, the cause of which nobody could give a name to, was
visible all around. And with night
having fully fallen in the meantime, the ring soon broke up.
There
now formed a wondrous throng of carriages, horses, servants and long lanterns
casting strange reflections on the nearby water, in between the trees and the
beautiful, swirling figures. In
this wild illumination Donati appeared even paler and eerier than
previously. The beautiful maiden
with the floral wreath had continually thrown furtive and fearful sidelong
glances at him. Now, when he actually
walked up to her, to help her on to her palfrey with chivalrous courtesy, she timidly
pressed herself towards Florio, who lifted the delightful lady into the saddle
with a pounding heart. Everyone was
ready to leave by this time; she gave him one last friendly nod from her
elegant seat, and soon the entire, shimmering vision had disappeared into the
night.
Florio
felt quite peculiar on suddenly finding himself so alone with Donati and the
singer on the broad, deserted square.
His guitar in his arms, the latter walked up and down the riverbank
before the marquee; he seemed to be composing new melodies while plucking the
occasional note, which drifted with a soothing sound over the quiet
meadow. Then he suddenly broke
off. A strange displeasure seemed
to fly over his features, which were normally so unclouded; he impatiently
demanded they be off.
So all
three now mounted their horses and rode together to the nearby city. Fortunato spoke not a word on the way;
against his silence Donati poured forth a stream of well-worded, refined
conversation all the more cordially; Florio, still in the fading echoes of
delight, rode between the two as silent as a dreaming girl.
When
they arrived at the gate, Donati’s horse, which had already shied at a number
of passers-by, suddenly reared almost straight up in the air, and would not
enter. A flash of glittering anger
passed over the rider’s face, almost contorting it, and a furious, half-spoken
curse escaped his twitching lips – at which Florio felt no little astonishment,
for such behaviour seemed to him to be totally at variance with the cavalier’s
usual refined and considered respectability. But the latter soon recovered his
composure. Turning to Florio: “I
wanted to accompany you to the door of your inn,” he said smiling, with his
accustomed delicacy, “but my horse has other intentions, as you can see. I live in a villa before this town,
where I hope to receive you as my guest in the very near future.”
And
with this he made a bow, and his horse, almost beyond the point of restraint
from incomprehensible haste and dread, flew away with him into the darkness as
swift as an arrow, the wind whistling in its wake.
“Thank
God,” exclaimed Fortunato, “that night has engulfed him once more! For he truly reminded me of one of those
dun, misshapen moths, flown as from a phantastic dream, who zing through the
twilight, their long cat’s-whiskers and hideous large eyes appearing to really
form a face.” Florio, who had
already become quite good friends with Donati, expressed his amazement at this
harsh judgement. But the singer,
whom such astonishing meekness only served to irritate more and more, kept
soundly cursing, calling the cavalier – to Florio’s secret annoyance – a
moonlight hunter, a starveling, a swanking melancholic.
With
such conversation they finally arrived at the inn, and each soon betook himself
to his appointed chamber.
Florio
threw himself down fully-clothed onto the bed, but it was long before he could
fall asleep. His soul, agitated by
the images of the day, was still surging with echoing song. And as the doors in the house were opened
and closed with ever less frequency, and only an occasional voice rang out,
until at last the house, city and countryside sank into deep silence – then he
felt as if he were drifting alone with swan-white sails on a moon-illumined
sea. The waves beat gently against
the boat, sirens leapt out of the water, every one of them resembling the
beautiful maiden with the floral wreath of the past evening. She sang so wonderfully, so sadly, so
endlessly, that it seemed he must expire from yearning. The boat began to dip imperceptibly, and
sank slowly deeper and deeper.
Then
he woke up with a start, afraid.
He
jumped out of his bed and opened the window. The house was situated on the edge of
the town; it gave the prospect of a wide, silent circle of hills, gardens and
valleys, all clearly lit by the moon.
And out there the trees and the rivers were full of the lingering echoes
and fading sounds of past delight, as if the entire region were softly singing
like the sirens he had heard in his slumber. And he could not resist the
temptation. Grabbing the guitar
that Fortunato had left with him, he walked out of the room and stepped lightly
down through the quiet house. The
door downstairs was ajar; a servant lay sleeping over the threshold. So he emerged, unnoticed, into the open
air, to wander happily between vineyards, through deserted avenues, past huts
sunk in slumber, and ever onwards.
He
could see out between the vine-trellises to the river in the valley; many
shining white castles, scattered here and there, rested like sleeping swans
down in the sea of silence. Then he
sang with a happy voice:
How
cool, a stroll along the hours of night,
My
faithful zither in my hand!
I
send forth greetings from the hilltop’s height,
To
the heavens and the quiet land.
How
different is the aspect of that combe
In
which such happiness was mine!
How
still the forest is, but for the moon
Ranging
through the lofty hall of pines.
The
sound of vintners’ rejoicing is past,
And
gone is all life’s motley mell;
All
but the silver glances sometimes cast
Up
by the rivers winding through the dell.
Now
nightingales, as from soft dreams, awake,
To
pour out honeyed melodies;
And
everywhere a secret whisper shakes
The
forest with the breath of memories.
For
joy can not just cease at once to sound,
And
from the day’s refulgent zest
A
song in undertones still holds its ground
Within
my most secluded breast.
And
joyously I make my strings tune out,
Oh
maiden, on the far side of yon stream;
You
listen and you hear me, I’ve no doubt,
And
recognise the singer from the dream!
Florio
could not help laughing at himself, because in the end he did not know whom he
was serenading. For it had long
ceased to be the charming little maiden with the floral wreath whom he actually
meant. The music by the marquees,
the dream in his room, and his heart, in an echoing dream of the strains of his
night-vision and of the maiden’s dainty figure, had imperceptibly and
wondrously transformed her image into one much more beautiful, much larger,
much more magnificent, such as he had never seen anywhere before.
Thus
in thought, he walked on for a long time, until he unexpectedly arrived at a
large lake, encircled by lofty trees.
The moon, having just appeared over the tree-tops, clearly illuminated a
marble statue of Venus that stood on a stone close to the water’s edge, as if
the goddess had just this moment surfaced from the waves, and now, herself
enchanted, was beholding the reflection of her own beauty radiated by the
intoxicated water-surface between the stars that gently blossomed out of the
depths. Several swans described
their uniform circles around the reflection in silence; a soft rustling passed
through the trees.
Florio
stood and stared, rooted to the spot, for that statue appeared to him like a
loved one, long-sought and suddenly recognised; like a marvellous flower that
had grown up out of the spring dawn and dreamy silence of his earliest
youth. The longer he looked, the
more strongly did he feel that it was slowly opening its soulful eyes, that the
lips were about to move with a greeting, that life was blooming like a
delightful song, bringing warmth as it rose up the lovely limbs. He kept his eyes shut for a long time
with bedazzlement, yearning and delight.
When he
looked up, everything suddenly seemed transformed. The moon shone out between clouds with a
peculiar light; the wind, increased in strength now, ruffled the lake into
filmy waves; the statue of Venus, so dreadfully white and motionless, was
giving him an almost terrifying stare with its stone orbits from the boundless
silence. Then a horror, deeper than
any he had ever known, came over the youth. He quickly left the place and hurried
through the gardens and vineyards, running faster and faster, and never pausing
for breath, towards the restful town; for the very rustling of the trees struck
his ears as an audible, comprehensible whispering, and the tall, ghostly
poplars seemed to be reaching their far-stretching shadows in pursuit.
And so he
arrived, visibly disturbed, at the inn.
The sleeping servant, still lying on the doorstep, jumped up with a
start when the youth brushed past him.
Florio quickly closed the door behind him; but not until he had entered
his room upstairs did he begin to heave sighs of relief. He paced up and down for a long time
before he could calm his mind. Then
he threw himself on the bed, finally falling into a sleep full of the strangest
dreams.
On the
following morning Florio and Fortunato sat together breakfasting under the tall
trees before the inn, whose foliage sparkled with the morning sun. Florio looked paler than usual and
agreeably worn with waking.
“Morning,”
Fortunato cheerfully began, “is a journeyman of rugged beauty, as fit as a
fiddle, who descends rejoicing from the highest mountains into the sleeping
world, shakes the tears from the flowers and trees, and surges and booms and
sings. He does not make an
especially great deal of the tender sensations, but coolly grasps you all over
and laughs in your long face when you step out before him so bemused, so still
wholly immersed in moonlight.”
Florio now
felt too ashamed to tell the singer, as he had initially resolved, about the
beautiful statue of Venus; and he remained in an embarrassed silence. His nocturnal walk had however been
noticed, and probably betrayed, by the servant at the front-door, and Fortunato
continued, laughing all the while:
“Well, if
you don’t believe it, try it just once, come and stand here and say, for
example, ‘Oh fair, beauteous soul, oh moonlight, thou pollen of loving hearts’
etc. – now isn’t that hilarious?
And yet I would wager that you frequently made such remarks last night,
and you doubtless looked dreadfully serious while you did so.”
Florio had
always imagined Fortunato to be so quiet and meek; the beloved singer’s jaunty
joviality wounded his innermost soul.
He said hurriedly, tears welling up in his soulful eyes: “You are surely
saying what you do not feel yourself, and that is something you should never
do. But I will not let you confuse
me, for there are gentle and noble
sensations, that are certainly bashful, but have no cause to feel shame; and a
quiet bliss, which shuts itself off from the noisy day, only opening its holy
cup to the star-studded sky, like a flower that is home to an angel.”
Fortunato
looked at the youth in amazement, then cried out: “Well really, you are truly
and deeply in love!”
In the
meantime, a servant had brought Fortunato, who wished to go for a ride, his
horse. He warmly stroked the bent
neck of his gracefully caparisoned small steed, which stamped the earth with
joyful impatience. Then he turned
to Florio once more and held out his hand with a good-natured smile. “You know, I feel sorry for you,” he
said, “there are far too many gentle, good young people, particularly
enamoured, who are really hooked on being unhappy. Leave all that – the melancholy,
moonlight and the rest of that rubbish – and if events should on occasion take a
turn for the worse, just stride out into God’s free morning, and once outside,
shake off your cares in a prayer born in your heart of hearts; and you will
have to be in a bad way for that not to send joy and strength flowing right
through you!”
And with
these words he quickly swung himself on to his horse and rode away between the
vineyards and blooming gardens into the vivid, echoing land, itself presenting
as colourful and joyful a sight as the morning which lay before.
Florio
stared after him for a long time, until waves of sparkling light engulfed the
distant sea. Then he paced
hurriedly up and down under the trees.
The phenomena of the night had left a deep, undefined longing in his
soul. On the other hand,
Fortunato’s words had strangely disturbed and bewildered him. Now he himself no longer knew what he
wanted, like a sleepwalker suddenly addressed by name. Oft would he stand brooding before the
marvellously rich prospect down into the countryside, as if he wanted to make
enquiry of the joyfully powerful forces at work out there. But the morning played only the
occasional magical light down through the trees into his dreamily glittering
heart, which was yet in the grip of another power. For inside there the stars were still
continuing around their magical circles, between which the wondrously beautiful
statue of Venus lifted her gaze with a fresh, irresistible power.
So he
finally decided to return to the lake, and he swiftly took the same path he had
walked down during the night.
But how
different everything looked there now!
Cheerful people bustled around the vineyards, gardens and avenues;
children played peacefully on the sunny lawn in front of the huts that, during
the night, under the dreamlike trees, had often frightened him like sleeping
sphinxes; the moon shone distant and faint in the clear sky; countless birds
sang lustily in the wood. He could
not comprehend how such a peculiar fear could have fallen over him in this
place.
Soon,
however, he noticed that he had missed the correct path while absorbed in
thought. He attentively examined
his surroundings, doubtfully walking now back, now forwards once more, but in
vain; the more keenly he searched, the more unfamiliar and entirely different
everything appeared to him.
He had been
wandering about in this manner for a long time. The birds were silent now; the ring of
hills gradually grew more and more quiet; the
Galleries
of tall beeches received him with their solemn shadows, between which golden
birds flapped ever and anon like blossoms wafted off in the wind; while large,
strange flowers, whose like Florio had never seen, swayed their red and yellow
bells back and forth in the gentle breeze as in a dream. Innumerable fountains splashed an
unvarying tone, playing with gold-bathed pellets in the absolute solitude. Through the branches could be seen, some
distance away, a magnificent, resplendent palace with tall, slender columns. There was no one in sight; all around
there reigned a deep silence. Only
from time to time would a nightingale awake and sing as if in a sobbing
slumber. Florio regarded the trees,
fountain and flowers with amazement, for he had the feeling that everything
here had sunk away a long time ago, and the river of days was passing over him
in light and limpid waves, and underneath lay only the garden, confined,
enchanted, and dreaming of life gone by.
He had not
advanced far when he heard the strains of a lute, now rising in volume, now
softly dying away below the murmuring of the fountains. He stood still, listening; the sound
came nearer and nearer, when suddenly a tall, slender lady of wondrous beauty
stepped out from among the trees into the quiet arcade, walking slowly, her
eyes cast downwards. In her arms
she held a marvellous lute, adorned with golden reliefs; and she plucked the
strings one at a time, as if immersed in profound thought. Her long, golden hair fell in showering
curls over almost bare, dazzlingly-white shoulders; her long, wide sleeves,
which looked like they had been woven from lily-blossom, were held in place by
dainty golden bangles; her superb figure was enwrapped in a sky-blue robe,
embroidered all around at the ends with colourfully glowing and wonderfully
intertwined flowers. Just at that
moment a bright sunbeam, straying through an opening in the arcade, sharply
illuminated the blooming form.
Florio felt something stop inside: her features were unmistakably those
of the beautiful statue of Venus he had seen by the lake on the previous night.
She sang,
not noticing the stranger:
Ah
Spring, why wake me again to this musing,
Resurrecting
those forgotten desires,
The
land with wondrous wafts suffusing,
And
trembling my limbs with tingling fires.
A
thousand songs hail fair Mother, so sweet in
Her
bride’s wreath; once more her youth-time arrives;
The
forests will speak, the rivers flow greeting,
A
song of naiads leaps and dives.
From
its green cell I see the rose rise swelling,
And,
stirred by the amorous breezes,
Spread
its blush across the river burning.
And
so you call me from my quiet dwelling –
I
smile with spring, and smiling my mouth freezes,
Sinking
under sound and scent with yearning.
So singing,
she strolled onwards, now disappearing into the foliage, now coming into view
once more, further and further away, until at last she was lost to sight in the
vicinity of the palace. Now all was
silent again but for the trees rustling and the fountains murmuring as
before. Florio stood lost in
flowering dreams; he felt as though he had known the beautiful lute-player for
a long time – he had merely forgotten and lost her through life’s distractions
–, as though she were now sinking from melancholy among the burbling springs
and incessantly calling to him to follow her.
Deeply
moved, he rushed deeper into the garden, to the area in which she had
disappeared. There he arrived,
under ancient trees, at a dilapidated stone building, on which the occasional
beautiful fresco could still be half distinguished. At the base of the wall, on shattered
marble blocks and plinths, between which a lush profusion of high grass and
flowers shot up, there lay stretched-out a sleeping man. Florio, amazed, recognised the cavalier
Donati. But his facial features
seemed strangely altered in sleep; he almost resembled a dead man. This sight sent a secret shudder down
the youth’s spine. He vigorously
shook the sleeper. Donati opened
his eyes slowly, and his first look was so strange, vacant and fierce that
Florio was truly horrified.
Moreover, still between sleep and waking, he mumbled several dark words
that the youth did not understand.
When he had at last thoroughly roused himself, he sprang to his feet and
looked at Florio, so it seemed, with great amazement. “Where am I,” the latter hurriedly
cried, “who is the noble lady that lives in this lovely garden?”
“How did
you come,” Donati asked in deadly earnest, “into this garden?” Florio gave a brief account of the
course of events, which plunged the cavalier into deep reflection. The youth thereupon pressingly repeated
his previous questions, and Donati absent-mindedly replied: “The lady is a
relative of mine, rich and powerful, her estates are spread far over the
land. –You will find her now here,
now there – she also visits the city of
In the
meantime, moving forward with rapid strides, they had arrived unseen at the
gilded, barred garden-gate. It was
not the same gate Florio had entered through a short while before. In astonishment he swept his gaze over
the unfamiliar district; far away over the fields the towers of the city lay in
bright sunshine. Donati’s horse
stood, tied to the bars, snorting and pawing the ground.
Florio now
shyly expressed the wish to see the beautiful owner of the garden again some
time in the future. Donati, who had
been lost in thought all this time, only now seemed to suddenly collect his
wits. “The lady,” he said with his
habitual circumspect courteousness, “will be pleased to make your
acquaintance. Today, however, we
would disturb her, and I am also summoned home by urgent business. Perhaps I can call for you tomorrow.” And hereupon he took his leave of the
youth with well-turned words, mounted his horse, and had soon disappeared among
the hills.
Florio
followed him with his eyes for a long time, then rushed to the town like a
drunken man. There the muggy air
still kept all living creatures in houses behind dark, cool jalousies. The alleys and squares were all
deserted; Fortunato had not yet returned.
The happy youth felt stifled by the doleful solitude. Quickly mounting his horse, he rode back
out into the country.
“Tomorrow,
tomorrow!” The word rang
continually around his soul. He
felt indescribably happy. The
beautiful statue of Venus had come to life and climbed down off her pedestal
into the Spring; the calm lake was suddenly transformed into an immense
landscape, its stars into flowers, and all of Spring was an image of the
beautiful goddess.
And dreaming
thus he roamed for hours through the lovely valleys around
The stars
were out and clear in the sky by the time he slowly passed through the silent
alleys to his inn. In one of the
lonely squares there stood a large, handsome house, brightly illuminated by the
moon. An upstairs window was open,
at which he could see, through some artificial flowers, two female figures who
appeared to be engrossed in animated conversation. To his amazement he distinctly heard his
name mentioned several times. He
also believed that he recognised, in the scattered, incoherent words the breeze
wafted his way, the voices of the marvellous chanteuse. But he could not clearly distinguish
anything for the trembling of the leaves and blossoms in the moonlight. He stopped in order to hear more. Then both ladies noticed him and all
above fell suddenly silent.
Unsatisfied,
Florio rode on; but as he was turning the street corner, he saw one of the
ladies lean out between the flowers, throwing another glance at him, and
quickly close the window.
On the
following morning, when Florio, having just shaken off the blossomed visions of
his dreams, was looking cheerfully out of his window over the towers and domes
of the city as they flashed in the morning sun, the cavalier Donati
unexpectedly walked into the room.
He was dressed all in black, and looked, on this day, unusually
disturbed and hasty, and almost wild.
Florio jumped for joy on catching sight of him, for he immediately
thought of the beautiful woman.
“Can I see her?” he promptly cried at the newcomer. Donati shook his head and said, sadly
staring down at the ground, “today is Sunday.”
Then he
hurriedly continued, regaining his courage at once: “But I came to fetch you
for the hunt.”
“The hunt?”
Florio replied in deep wonderment, “today, on the Sabbath-day?”
“Now
really,” the cavalier interrupted, laughing irefully and abominably, “don’t
tell me you want to stroll to church, arm-in-arm with your paramour, and kneel
down on a hassock in the corner and say ‘Bless you!’ raptly when your aunt
sneezes.”
“I don’t
quite grasp your meaning,” said Florio, “and you may laugh at me to your heart’s
content, but I could not go hunting today.
When out there all labour is at rest and the forest and fields are
wearing such gorgeous adornment in honour of the Lord, as if angels were
winging over them through the azure and into the distance – how calm, how
festive, how full of grace is this time!”
Donati
stood in thought at the window, and Florio imagined he saw the cavalier
furtively shudder as he looked out into the Sunday stillness of the fields.
Meanwhile a ringing of b