The Marble Statue
On
a fine summerfs 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.
gWhat
business brings you to
gNo
business at all? – Well, then you must be a poet!h the other said with a merry
laugh.
gNot
exactly that,h replied Florio, turning red all over. gI 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 larkfs
voice, blown away in the wind beneath the vast vault of Heaven.h
gEveryone
sings his own hymn to God,h said the stranger, gand a chorus of voices makes
the spring.h 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.
gI
have now chosen to travel,h the latter continued in a bolder and more familiar
tone, gand 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.h
At
these last words the stranger had sunk into deep thought. gHave you ever heard,h he remarked
absent-mindedly, yet in deadly earnest, gabout the miraculous minstrel whose
tune enticed the youths into a magic mountain, from which none of them has
returned? Be on your guard!h
Florio
did not know what to make of the strangerfs 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.
gThis
is a good place to stay,h said the stranger cheerfully, swinging himself down
off his palfrey, gsee you soon!h
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
companionfs 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 Floriofs 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 opponentfs 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 Floriofs attention away from that
charming game, and he wandered alone for a good hour among the eternally
changing scenes.
gThere
is the singer Fortunato!h 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 girlsf 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 heartfs 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.
gBravo,
bravo!h 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 singerfs 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
worldfs 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!
Itfs
love? Itfs awe, that you
Find
cause for delight?
All
round spring smiles at you
In
thought on joyfs height.
To
Venus, Queen, I sing,
The
sweetest, soft strain,
In
morningfs 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
knightsf 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, gWho of those here
Desires
to go home?h
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!
Ifm
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, everyonefs
thoughts turned, with an involuntary shudder, to the silent guest in
Fortunatofs song.
After
a fleeting bow to the company, he betook himself to the hostfs 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, Donatifs 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 riderfs 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 cavalierfs
usual refined and considered respectability. But the latter soon recovered his
composure. Turning to Florio: gI
wanted to accompany you to the door of your inn,h he said smiling, with his
accustomed delicacy, gbut 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.h
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.
gThank
God,h exclaimed Fortunato, gthat 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 catfs-whiskers and hideous large eyes appearing to really
form a face.h 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 Floriofs 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 hilltopfs 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 vintnersf rejoicing is past,
And
gone is all lifefs 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 dayfs 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, Ifve 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 maidenfs 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 waterfs 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.
gMorning,h
Fortunato cheerfully began, gis 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.h
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:
gWell, if
you donft believe it, try it just once, come and stand here and say, for
example, eOh fair, beauteous soul, oh moonlight, thou pollen of loving heartsf
etc. – now isnft 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.h
Florio had
always imagined Fortunato to be so quiet and meek; the beloved singerfs jaunty
joviality wounded his innermost soul.
He said hurriedly, tears welling up in his soulful eyes: gYou 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.h
Fortunato
looked at the youth in amazement, then cried out: gWell really, you are truly
and deeply in love!h
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. gYou know, I feel sorry for you,h he
said, gthere 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 Godfs 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!h
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,
Fortunatofs 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
bridefs 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 lifefs 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 youthfs 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. gWhere am I,h the latter hurriedly
cried, gwho is the noble lady that lives in this lovely garden?h
gHow did
you come,h Donati asked in deadly earnest, ginto this garden?h 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: gThe 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. Donatifs 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. gThe lady,h he said with his
habitual circumspect courteousness, gwill 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.h 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.
gTomorrow,
tomorrow!h 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.
gCan I see her?h he promptly cried at the newcomer. Donati shook his head and said, sadly
staring down at the ground, gtoday is Sunday.h
Then he
hurriedly continued, regaining his courage at once: gBut I came to fetch you
for the hunt.h
gThe hunt?h
Florio replied in deep wonderment, gtoday, on the Sabbath-day?h
gNow
really,h the cavalier interrupted, laughing irefully and abominably, gdonft
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 eBless you!f raptly when your aunt
sneezes.h
gI donft
quite grasp your meaning,h said Florio, gand you may laugh at me to your heartfs
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!h
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 bells had arisen from the town spires, passing with the sound of
praying through the clear air. This
seemed to frighten Donati; he grabbed his hat and urged Florio, almost with
anxiety, to accompany him; who however persistently refused. gAway from here, out!h the cavalier
finally cried in a low voice rising from the innermost depths of a cramped
breast, and squeezing the astonished youthfs hand he rushed out of the house
and away.
After that,
Florio felt quite at ease when the fresh, bright singer Fortunato stepped into
his room like a harbinger of peace.
He brought an invitation to a villa before the town for the following
evening. gJust prepare yourself,h
he added, gyou will meet an old lady-friend there!h Florio gave quite a start and hurriedly
asked: gWho?h But Fortunato jovially
refused to furnish any explanation and soon took his leave. eCould it be the beautiful songstress?f
Florio thought to himself; and his heart beat madly.
Then he
betook himself to church, but he could not hold his hands in prayer; his mind
was too happily elsewhere. He
ambled idly through the alleys.
Everything there looked so clean and festive; handsomely apparelled
ladies and gentlemen made their merry, shimmering way to the churches. But alas! the fair one was not among
them!
This
recalled to his mind the adventure he had had while returning to the inn the
previous evening. He sought out the
alley and soon found the large, handsome house again; but, strange to say, the
door was locked, and all windows were tightly shut; there was no sign of life inside.
In vain did
he roam around the region all the next day, looking to obtain more detailed
information about his unknown lady-love.
It was as if her palace, as well as the garden he had found by chance
that
It was
completely dark by the time they arrived.
In the middle of a garden, as it seemed, there lay a graceful villa with
slender columns, above which a second garden, of oranges and all kinds of
flowers, hazily rose from the merlons.
Large chestnut-trees stood around, boldly stretching their giant,
strangely-illuminated arms through the lights that thrust from the windows and
out into the night. The master of
the house, a refined, cheerful man in middle life, who Florio however could not
recall ever having seen before, warmly received the singer and friend on his
threshold and led them up a set of wide steps into the ballroom.
There they
were met by a ringing wave of merry dance-music; a numerous company wove
elegantly and colourfully in and out between one another in the sheen of
countless candles that hovered, like circles of stars, in crystal chandeliers
over the joyful swarm. Some danced,
others regaled themselves with lively conversation; many were masked, their
strange appearance often unthinkingly giving the graceful diversion a deep,
almost eerie significance.
Florio
stood still, bedazzled, himself resembling a graceful picture between the
beautiful roving images. Then a
graceful maiden walked up to him, lightly holding a gathered-up Greek robe, her
beautiful hair woven into plaits. A
domino concealed half of her face, thereby making the lower half look all the
rosier and more charming. She gave
a fleeting bow, handed him a rose and was quickly lost in the swarm.
The latter,
astonished, now wandered through the glittering crowd. Nowhere could he find what he had
secretly hoped for, and he was close to reproaching himself for having so
thoughtlessly followed merry Fortunato onto this sea of joy that now seemed to
be bearing him further and further away from that lonely, majestic figure. All the while the ranging waves washed
light-heartedly, with teasing flattery, round the pensive figure, imperceptibly
taking the place of his thoughts.
Dance-music, even if it does unsettle our innermost being and turn
everything upside-down, comes over us with the light and forceful touch of
Spring; its chords enchantingly feel for the depths like the first glances of
summer, wakening all the songs that sleep bound below, and springs and flowers
and ancient memories; and life, in its frozen, heavy, faltering entirety,
becomes a smooth, limpid river on which the heart happily rides, once more,
with streaming pennants, towards its long relinquished wishes. In this way had the general merriment
infected Florio too in next to no time; his heart felt so light, as if all the
mysteries that weighed him down so oppressively must soon resolve themselves.
His
curiosity aroused, he now sought the pretty little Greek. He found her engaged in lively
conversation with other masks, but he clearly saw that her eyes were wandering
off to the side, searching, throughout the conversation, and that she had
descried him from afar. He asked
her to dance. She made a friendly
bow, but her agile vivacity seemed broken when he touched her hand and held it
fast. She followed him in silence
with lowered head; whether in mischief or sadness, it was impossible to
tell. The music struck up, and he
could not take his eyes off the beautiful enchantress who glided around him like
the magical figures on old, fabulous paintings. gYou do know me,h she told him, in a
barely audible whisper, at a fleeting moment during the dance when their lips
almost touched.
The dance
was finally at an end, the music suddenly stopped; then Florio thought that he
saw his beautiful dancer again at the far end of the ballroom. It was the same garb, the same colour of
dress, the same hair-decoration.
The lovely image seemed to be gazing fixedly at him, and stood
stone-still among the swarm of dancers who were now scattering all over, in the
way that a bright star will now set among light, flying clouds, now reappear in
all its charming loveliness. The
dainty Greekess seemed not to notice this figure, or not to pay any attention
to it, but without saying a word, and giving his hand a gentle, hurried
squeeze, she hastily left her dancing companion.
The
ballroom had largely emptied in the meantime. Everyone had swarmed down into the
garden to take the mild air; that strange double had also disappeared. Florio followed the train of people and
ambled, wrapped in thought, through the tall arcades. The host of lanterns cast an enchanting
light between the trembling leaves.
In this uncertain illumination, the masks, with their disguised, shrill
voices and wonderful decoration, took on an even stranger, almost sinister,
appearance as they roamed to and fro.
He had just
wandered off somewhat from the company, having unthinkingly taken a lonely
path, when he heard a delightful voice singing among the bushes:
It
comes as greetings from afar,
Over
the glittering mountain-pass;
The
tree-tops shake their crown of stars
And
bow a whispering kiss.
How
gentle he is, how fair!
Voices
sound across nightfs deep,
And
softly sing his form and air –
Ah,
how glad the wake I keep!
Do
not burble so loudly, you springs!
It
must not come to morningfs light
That
I sink silent joy and sufferings
Into
the balmy waves of moon-touched night.
Florio
followed the song and came upon an open, circular lawn, in the middle of which
a fountain was sporting merrily with sparks of moonlight. The Greekess sat on the stone basin like
a beautiful naiad. She had removed
her domino and was pensively playing with the reflection of a rose in the
shimmering water. The moonlight
swept caressing beams up and down her dazzlingly white nape; her face was
hidden from view, for she had her back turned to him.
When she
heard branches rustling behind her, the beautiful image sprang to her feet, put
her domino on and fled with the speed of a startled deer back to the company.
Florio now
mingled once more with the colourful ranks of strollers. Many a tender, loving word echoed softly
through the mild air; the moonlight had woven its invisible threads into a
golden net of love entangling every figure, with many a peculiar hole rent by
the masks and their impersonal parodies.
Fortunato, in particular, had donned various fancy-dress costumes during
the course of the evening, constantly enacting oddly changing, meaningful
charades, ever new and unrecognised, and often taking himself by surprise with
the boldness and deep significance of his play; so that on occasions he would
suddenly fall into a melancholic silence while the others were killing
themselves with laughter.
The
beautiful Greekess, however, was nowhere to be seen; she seemed to be
deliberately avoiding another encounter with Florio.
The Master
of the House, on the other hand, had thoroughly monopolised him. This man artfully plied the youth with
long-winded, wide-ranging questions about his early years, his travels, and
plans for his future life. All this
while Florio could not, by any means, find a familiar footing; for Pietro, as
his host was called, looked so unceasingly watchful, as if behind all the
elegant expressions there lurked a particular intrigue. In vain did he rack his mind to trace
the cause of this intrusive curiosity.
He had just
managed to free himself from his host when, following a curving corner into an
avenue, he ran into a company of masques, among whom he unexpectedly recognised
the Greekess. The masques spoke
much, and with a strange synchronicity; he felt that he knew one of the voices,
but he could not bring its owner to mind.
Soon afterwards the figures began to fade away one by one, until
finally, and before he had fully realised what was happening, he found himself
alone with the maiden. She stood in
still hesitation, looking at him in silence for some moments. The domino was off, but a short,
lily-white veil, embellished with all kinds of wondrous, gold-embroidered
figures, covered her face. He was
surprised that she, so shy, so alone, should remain with him.
gYou
eavesdropped on my song,h she said at last in a cordial tone. These were the first words he had heard
her say out loud. The melodic ring
of her voice pierced his soul; it seemed to stir memories of all the love,
beauty and happiness he had experienced in his life. Asking her to excuse his boldness, he
spoke confusedly about the loneliness that had enticed him, about his
absent-mindedness, the murmuring of the fountainsc Meanwhile several voices approached the
lawn. The maiden looked timidly
around then hastened into the further depths of the night. She seemed to take pleasure in watching
Florio follow her.
Bolder now,
and more familiar, he asked her not to hide herself any longer, or at least to
give her name, so that her delightful appearance would not be lost among the
thousand bewildering images of that day.
gLeave that be,h she replied wistfully, gtake lifefs flowers as the
moment yields them and be happy; do not search for the roots, for down below
all is joyless and still.h Florio
looked at her in amazement; he did not understand how such mysterious words
could pass the cheerful maidenfs lips.
Moonlight was falling between the trees in sweeping rays upon her
figure. Then it seemed to him that
she was now taller, more slender, and nobler than she had been at the dance and
by the fountain.
By this
time they had arrived at the garden-exit.
No lamp was burning here any longer; ever and anon a voice could be
heard dying into the distance. Out
there the broad arc of the surrounding region rested, still and solemn, in the
magnificent moonlight. In a meadow
lying ahead, Florio noticed a weaving jumble of horses and people, half-visible
in the twilight.
Here his
companion suddenly halted. gIt will
give me pleasure,h she said, gto see you at my home some day. Our friend will escort you there. –
Farewell!h
With these
words she threw back her veil, and Florio started with shock. She was the wonderful beauty whose song
he had eavesdropped on in that garden with the sultriness of
He now
watched her passing over the meadow, being received by several richly-adorned
servants, and mounting a snow-white palfry in a shimmering hunting-cloak that
was quickly thrown over her shoulders.
Spellbound by amazement, delight and a surreptitious horror that crept
over his deepest self, he stood, not moving a muscle, until horses, riders, the
whole peculiar apparition had disappeared into the night.
The sound
of someone calling from the garden finally woke him from his reveries. Recognising Fortunatofs voice, he
hurried to reach his friend, who had long noticed his absence and had been
seeking him in vain. No sooner did
Fortunato see the youth than he began to sing to him:
In
still skies
See
it flower,
Gently
rise
From
scentfs bower,
Darling
cries,
Sweetheart
cars
Through
the skies;
Grasps
at stars,
Sighs
and cries,
Heart
is low,
Scent
half-dies,
Time
is slow,
Scent
moon sighs,
Skies
on skies,
Love
and beloved remain as they were!
gBut where
have you been floating around for so long?h he finally concluded, with a laugh.
–Florio could not have revealed his secret at any price. gLong?h he simply replied, himself
astonished. For the garden had
indeed completely emptied in between whiles; all the lights had gone out, but
for a few lamps that still flickered uncertainly to and fro like
will-of-the-wisps in the wind.
Fortunato
did not press the youth any further, and they walked in silence up the steps
into the now quiet house.
gNow I am
keeping my word,h said Fortunato, as they arrived on the terrace on the villa
roof, where a small company was yet assembled under the brightly star-studded
sky. Florio immediately recognised
several faces he had seen at the marquee on that first, merry evening. In their midst he espied his beautiful
neighbour once more. But today the
chaplet of flowers was missing from her hair; without ribbons, without
ornaments, the lovely locks flowed around her head and dainty neck. He stood still, almost taken aback by
the sight. The memory of that
evening flitted through him with a strangely wistful force. It seemed to him that it lay far back in
the past, so complete was the change that had since taken place.
The maiden
was called Bianca and was introduced to him as Pietrofs niece. She seemed quite intimidated when he
approached her, and hardly ventured to lift her gaze to his. He expressed his amazement at not having
seen her all evening. gYou have
seen me on occasion,h she said quietly, and he thought that he recognised that
whisper. –Meanwhile she caught sight of the rose on his breast, which he had
been given by the Greekess, and cast down her eyes, blushing. Florio perceived this clearly; and it
brought to his mind the remembrance that he had seen the Greek girl in double
after the dance. eMy God!f he
thought, bewildered: eso who was that?f
gIt is really
strange,h she broke the silence, gto step so suddenly out of noisy pleasure
into the open night. Just look –
the clouds are drifting in such dreadfully changing forms across the sky, that
you would go out of your mind if you watched them for long; now like enormous
mountains of the moon with yawning chasms and terrible jagged peaks, now really
like faces, and now like dragons, suddenly stretching out long necks; while
beneath, the river secretly rushes like a golden serpent through the darkness,
and the white house over there resembles a silent marble statue.h
gWhere?h
Florio cried, violently startled out of his thoughts by these words. The maiden looked at him in amazement,
and they were both silent for some moments.
gYou will
be leaving
Finally he
could bear the oppression no longer.
His heart was so full, so constricted, and yet so blissfully
rapturous. Taking a hasty leave, he
rushed down the steps and rode, without Fortunato or any other companion, back
to the town.
The window
in his room was open; he threw a fleeting glance outside. The countryside lay unrecognisable and
still, like a wonderfully interwoven hieroglyph in the magical moonlight. In a state not far from fear, he closed
the window and threw himself down on the bed, where he sank like a man in the
grip of fever into the oddest dreams.
Bianca
remained seated on the open terrace for a long while. Everyone else had repaired to their
beds; now and then some larks awoke and floated high through the calm air with
uncertain song; the tree-tops began to brush against one another, and rays of
dun dawn light flew between the negligent surging of her released locks and
across her overwatched face.
It
is said that a girl who falls asleep wearing a garland woven from nine types of
flowers will be visited in a dream by her future husband. Falling asleep in this fashion after
that evening at the marquee, Bianca had seen Florio in a dream.
Now
all was a lie; he was so distracted, so cold and so strange.
She
plucked the deceitful flowers she had been preserving like a bridal-wreath to
pieces. Then she rested her brow on
the cold railing and cried from the depths of her heart.
Several
days had passed when, one afternoon, Florio found himself with Donati at the
latterfs country house before the town.
At a table laid with fruits and cool wine, they passed the sultry hours
in graceful conversation until the setting sun was low in the sky. In the meantime, Donati had his servant
play the guitar; this man knew how to coax the most delightful sounds from its
strings. The large, wide windows
were open; through them the mild evening breezes wafted in the fragrance of the
manifold flowers on the sill.
Outside, the town lay in a coloured haze between the gardens and
vineyards, from which a joyful sound rose through the window. Florio was happy to the heart, for he
was constantly thinking about the lovely lady.
Meanwhile
bugles could be heard out in the distance.
Now nearer, now further away, they gave one another an incessant,
charming reply from the green hills.
Donati walked to the window.
gIt is the lady,h he said, gwhom you have seen in the beautiful garden;
she is just this moment returning to her castle from the hunt.h Florio looked out. He saw the lady riding on a handsome palfrey
across the bottom of the meadow. A
falcon, fastened to her girdle by a golden string, sat on her hand; a jewel on
her breast, caught by the evening sun, cast golden-green rays of light across
the mead. She looked up and gave
him a friendly nod.
gThe
lady is at home but seldom,h said Donati, gif it was pleasing to you, we could
visit her this very day.h At these
words Florio was joyfully jolted out of the wistful gazing in which he was
standing immersed; he could have flung his arms around the cavalierfs neck.
And in
little time they were both outside, sitting in the saddle.
They
had not been riding for long when the palace rose before them in its clear
magnificence of columns, surrounded by the beautiful garden as by a merry
floral wreath. From time to time
jets of water soared up from the numerous fountains, rejoicing over the tops of
the bushes, and sparkling brightly in the gold of the evening sun. Florio wondered how he had never been
able to retrace his steps to the garden.
His heart beat loudly with delight and anticipation as they finally
arrived at the palace.
Several
servants hurried over to take their horses. The palace itself was entirely of
marble, and was built in a strange style, almost like a pagan temple. The harmonious proportions of every
part, the columns that strove towards the sky like the thoughts of youth, the
artistic decorations representing complete stories from a happy world that sank
long since, finally the beautiful marble statues of gods standing in niches all
around – everything regaled the soul with an indescribable delight. They now entered the broad gallery that
ran the length of the palace. The
garden shone and wafted a sweet scent towards them between the lofty columns as
they passed.
On
the wide, highly polished steps leading down to the garden, they at last met
the beautiful Lady of the Palace, who bade them welcome with perfect
grace. She was resting, between
lying and sitting, on a bed of exquisite sheets. She had removed the hunting-habit; a
sky-blue gown, held together by a wonderfully dainty girdle, enfolded her
lovely limbs. A maid, kneeling by
her side, was holding a richly-ornamented mirror up to her, while several
others were engaged in adorning their graceful mistress with roses. At her feet, a ring of maidens were
lying on the lawn and singing in turn to the strains of a lute, now with a
captivating gaiety, now descanting a gentle lament, like nightingales answering
one another on warm summer nights.
In
the garden itself, refreshing breezes and showers were everywhere visible. Many unknown ladies and gentlemen
strolled up and down, in courteous conversation, between the rose-bushes and
fountains. Pages in rich raiment
served out wine and silver bowls containing oranges or fruits bedecked with
flowers. In the further distance,
as the music of the lute and the evening rays glided away over the blooming
fields, beautiful maidens rose here and there, as if awaking from midday
dreams, shook their dark curls out of their faces, washed their eyes in the
clear fountains, and then mingled with the merry swarm.
Floriofs
eyes wandered, as if bedazzled, over each colourful scene, always to return
freshly intoxicated to the beautiful Lady of the Palace. The latter was not to be disturbed in
her minor, graceful activity. Now
improving some aspect of the plaiting of her dark, fragrant locks, now
regarding herself in the mirror once more, she spoke continually to the youth,
sweetly playing with indifferent matters in delicate words. Occasionally, she would suddenly turn
round and give him such a delightful look from under the wreath of roses that
it pierced his innermost soul.
Night
had now begun to fall, in between the flying evening lights; the merriment that
rang through the garden gradually softened to amorous whispers; the moonlight
settled with enchanting rays over the beautiful scene. Then the lady rose from her flowery seat
and cordially took Floriofs hand to lead him into the interior of the palace, of
which he had spoken with admiration.
Many of the others followed.
They walked up and down several steps; meanwhile the entire company
dispersed amid merry laughter and jests through the manifold colonnades; Donati
was also lost in the swarm, and soon Florio found himself alone with the lady
in one of the palacefs most magnificent chambers.
Here
his beautiful conductress lay down on several silk cushions that had been
strewn on the ground. In the
process she threw her broad, lily-white veil in various directions, now
revealing, now loosely concealing, ever more beautiful features in delicate
succession. Florio watched her with
blazing eyes. Then all at once, out
in the garden, a beautiful song began.
It was an old, pious song, which he had often heard in his childhood
days and, since then, almost forgotten under the changing images of
travel. He was totally distracted,
for it at once seemed to him to be Fortunatofs voice.
gDo
you know the singer?h he hastily asked the lady. She seemed thoroughly frightened and
uttered a confused denial. Then she
sat still for a long time in silent reflection.
This
gave Florio time and freedom to examine the wondrous ornamentation in the
chamber. It was illumined but dimly
by a few candles held in two immense arms that projected from the wall. Tall, exotic flowers, which stood around
in decorated pots, spread an intoxicating fragrance. Opposite was an old row of marble
statues, over whose charming forms the fluctuating lights roved lasciviously. The other walls were filled with
exquisite arrases of silk-woven stories containing life-size figures of
exceptional freshness.
To
his amazement, Florio thought that he clearly recognised, in all the ladies he
saw in these last depictions, the beautiful Lady of the House. Now she appeared, falcon on hand, as he
had previously seen her riding to the hunt with a young cavalier; now she was
portrayed in a splendid rose-garden, another handsome page on his knees at her
feet.
Then
the feeling suddenly flew through him, as if borne on the strains of the song
outside, that at home, in the days of early childhood, he had oftimes seen such
a picture: a wonderfully beautiful lady in those very clothes, a cavalier at
her feet, behind her a broad garden with many fountains and landscaped avenues,
exactly the same in appearance as the garden outside. He also remembered seeing illustrations
of
He
recounted this, not without deep emotion, to the lady. gAt that time,h he said, lost in
reminiscence, gwhen I stood, on sultry afternoons, in the secluded summerhouse
in our garden, before the old pictures, looking at the bridges and avenues,
where magnificent coaches rattled by and stately cavaliers rode along, greeting
the ladies in the carriages – then I did not think that all of this would some day
come to life around me. My father
often walked up beside me and related many an amusing adventure that had
happened to him in this, in that, painted city on his youthful travels in the
army. Then he would habitually walk
up and down the quiet garden, in deep thought, for a long time. – While I threw
myself into the tallest grass and lay for hours, watching the clouds drift over
the sultry country and away. The
grass and flowers swayed gently back and forth over me, as though they wished
to weave strange dreams; in between, bees buzzed incessantly, so summerly – ah!
all is like a sea of silence, in which the heart could founder from
melancholy.h
gOh,
let that be!h the lady said distractedly, gevery man believes he has seen me
before, for my image dawns and blooms together with the growth of all the
dreams of youth.h While saying
this, she soothingly stroked the handsome youthfs brown curls away from his
clear brow.
Florio
stood up, his heart was too full, too deeply moved; he walked to the open window. Outside the trees rustled; here and
there a nightingale sang; in the distance lightning flashed ever and anon. All the while the song passed over the
quiet garden and into the distance like a clear, cool river whose surface was
broken by youthfs rising dreams.
The force of the melody had plunged his entire soul into deep thought;
all at once he felt such a stranger here, he felt as if he had lost
himself. Even the ladyfs last
words, which he did not rightly know how to interpret, alarmed him strangely –
then he said, softly, from the bottommost depths of his soul: gLord God, do not
let me lose my way in the world!h
Hardly had he pronounced these words to himself than a sombre wind arose
outside, from the approaching thunderstorm, and blew tousling through his
hair. At the same moment he
noticed, on the window-sill, grass and clumps of weeds, such as were to be
found on ancient ruins. A snake
shot out of them with a hiss and plunged, wriggling its golden-greenish tail,
into the abyss.
Startled,
Florio left the window and returned to the lady. She sat motionless, as if she were
listening. Then she swiftly stood
up, walked to the window and scolded in a graceful voice out into the
night. But Florio could not
understand anything, for the storm immediately tore the words into its path and
away.
Meanwhile
the thunderstorm seemed to be coming ever nearer; the wind, between whose gusts
a solitary strain of the song would fly up and rend the heart all the while,
swept whistling through all of the house, threatening to extinguish the wildly
flickering candles. The next
moment, a lengthy flash of lightning illuminated the duskening chamber. Then Florio suddenly started back a few
steps, for it seemed to him that the lady was standing before him, rigid, eyes
shut, with extremely white countenance and arms.
However,
this frightful face disappeared as it had arisen, with the fleeting flashes of
lightning. The familiar twilight
filled the chamber once more; the lady looked at him with smiling eyes as
before, but silently, melancholically, as if with the arduous suppression of
tears.
Florio,
staggering back in alarm, had bumped into one of the stone statues that stood
around against the wall. At that
very moment it began to move, this movement quickly communicated itself to the
others, and then all the statues were rising in terrible silence from their
pedestals. Florio drew his rapier
and flung an uncertain glance at the lady.
When he noticed, however, that she was growing ever paler and paler as
the strains of the song in the garden swelled with ever increasing power, like
a sinking sunset, in which at last even her delightfully twinkling orbs seemed
to wane, then he was seized by a deadly horror. For now the tall flowers in planters had
begun to hideously wind and intertwine like colourfully-spotted rearing snakes;
every cavalier on the arrases suddenly looked like him and gave him a malicious
smile; both of the arms that held the candles strained and stretched themselves
longer and longer, as if a giant were struggling to work his way out of the
wall; the hall filled up more and more, the flames of lightning threw horrible
lights among the forms, through which throng Florio saw the stone statues
thrusting for him with such violence that his hair stood on end. Terror overwhelmed his every sense;
bewildered, he dashed out of the room and down through the desolate, echoing
chambers and colonnades.
Below in
the garden there lay, to the side, the still lake he had seen on that first
night, with the marble statue of Venus. – The singer Fortunato, so it seemed to
him, was sailing in a skiff in the middle of the lake, standing bolt upright,
his gaze averted, plucking single notes from his guitar. – But Florio took this
apparition to be an illusion of the night, and meant to disorder the mind; and
he rushed ever away, without looking around, until lake, garden and palace had
all sunk far behind him. The town
lay resting before him, brightly illumed by the moon. From far away on the horizon came the
sound of a thunderstorm dying; it was a marvellous, clear summerfs night.
The
occasional streak of light was flying over the morning sky by the time he
arrived at the gates. There he
vigorously sought Donatifs dwelling, to take him to task over the events of
that night. The country-house was
situated on one of the highest points, with a prospect over the town and the
whole surrounding area.
Consequently he found the charming spot again in little time. But instead of the graceful villa he had
been in on the previous day, there was only a lowly hut, completely overgrown
with vine leaves and enclosed by a small garden. Pigeons, gleaming in the first rays of
morning, walked cooing back and forth on the roof; all around there reigned a
deep, serene peace. Just at that moment
a man with a spade on his shoulder came out of the house and sang:
The
gloomy night is done, and gone
With
cheats and spells the evil one;
To
work! lights dawnfs arousing chord,
Look
sharp, who wants to praise the Lord!
He
broke off his song abruptly when he saw the stranger flying towards him, so wan
and with tousled hair. Utterly
bewildered, Florio asked for Donati.
But the gardener did not know the name and seemed to take the querist
for a madman. His daughter
stretched up her arms on the doorstep in the cool morning air and cast a fresh,
dew-clear gaze on the stranger with wide, wondering eyes.
gMy
God! And where have I been for so
long?h Florio said to himself in an undertone, and he fled back through the
gate and the yet deserted alleys into the inn.
Here
he locked himself in his room and sank, body and soul, into staring
reflection. The ladyfs
indescribable beauty, as she had paled so slowly before him and her lovely eyes
had set, had left such an endless melancholy in the depths of his heart that he
felt the irresistible yearning to die here.
He
remained lost in such unhappy brooding and daydreams for the whole day and
throughout the following night.
The
first light of dawn found him on his horse before the city gates. The untiring persuasion of his loyal
servant had finally moved him to the resolution to leave this region
entirely. Slowly, wrapped in
thought, he now made his way down the lovely road leading from
Meanwhile
the morning sun rose ever higher and cooler over the gorgeous landscape before
them. Then the merry Pietro said to
Fortunato: gJust look at how strangely the twilight is playing over the walls
of the old ruin on that mountain!
How often did I climb around it, as a little boy, with curiosity,
amazement, and a furtive fear! You
have knowledge of so many legends: could you perhaps give us information on the
origin and decline of this castle, about which such wondrous rumours run
through the land?h
Florio
threw a glance at the mountain. In
deep seclusion there lay old, dilapidated ruins; beautiful pillars half-sunken
in the ground and skilfully sculpted stones, all covered with a lushly
blossoming wilderness of intertwined green tendrils, hedges and tall
weeds. A lake was situated beside
them; over it rose a partly wrecked marble statue, glowing brightly in the
morning. It was clearly the same
area, the same place, in which he had seen the beautiful garden and the
lady. Every fibre of his being
shuddered at the sight.
Fortunato
said: gI know an old song about it, if that will suffice.h And herewith, without hesitation, he
sang with his clear, happy voice out into the morning air:
A
heap of rubble riving
Arcanely
sculptured rooms,
Beneath
a garden thriving
With
lush, eye-catching blooms.
A
realm in sunken seating,
The
heavens near and far
Send
other kingdomsf greetings –
That
is Italia!
When
spring wafts slow convection
Fair
over the green dales,
A
quiet resurrection
Arises
in the vales.
And
something starts to judder,
Down
where gods lie at rest;
Man
feels it with a shudder,
Deep
in the pit of his breast.
Voices,
confusedly turning,
Pass
in and out the trees;
A
dream awake with yearning
Drifts
over the blue seas.
As
springtide stirs with flowers
Under
a scented veil,
The
ancient, magic powers
Weave
in secret wassail.
Frau
Venus hears the chorus
Of
birdsf bright, coaxing call,
And
rises, gladly nervous,
As
clothing flowers fall.
She
seeks the well-known places,
Her
airy, columned hall;
And
with a smile she faces
The
waves that blow springfs call.
But
they lie in abandon,
The
columns harbour hush;
The
wind lays draughty hand on
The
threshold green and lush.
Where
now are all her cronies?
Dian
sleeps under forest skies;
And
in the frigid, echo-lonely
Ocean-castle,
Just
sirens, on occasion,
Emerge
from coral plains,
A
sorrowful invasion
Of
weird and wildered strains.
And
she must stand and wonder,
So
pale in springfs light grown;
Her
setting eyes go under,
Her
fair form turns to stone.
Above
land-sigh and sea-moan,
In
soft and quiet tears,
The
rainbowfs shining keystone,
Another
lady appears.
An
infant, cradled on her knee,
The
wonderful lady holds;
And
Godfs infinite mercy
The
whole wide world enfolds.
And
up among the bright air,
The
human child awakes;
And
all the shades of nightmare
Swift
from his head he shakes.
From
pits, like rising lark-song,
Of
sultry faery night,
The
soul struggles through dark song
To
reach the morning light.
All
had fallen silent at the song.
gThat
ruin,h said Pietro at last, gwould therefore be a former
gCertainly,h
replied Fortunato, gas far as can be deduced from the overall arrangement and
the decorations that yet remain. Rumour
also has it that the spirit of the beautiful pagan goddess has not found
rest. Every spring, the remembrance
of earthly desire bids her rise from the terrible silence of the grave to the
green solitude of her dilapidated home and use diabolical illusion to exercise
the old seduction on young, carefree souls, who then, having departed this life
without being admitted to the peace of the dead, wander around between wild
desire and dreadful remorse, lost in body and soul, having been consumed by the
most appalling delusion. Frequently
people have claimed to have experienced temptations by spirits on that very
spot, where now a lady of wondrous beauty, now several handsome cavaliers,
appear and lead the passing wanderer into an imaginary garden and palace
presented to the eye.h
gHave
you ever been up there?h Florio asked hurriedly, waking from his thoughts.
gThe
evening before last, for the first time,h replied Fortunato.
gAnd
did you not see anything alarming?h
gNothing,h
said the singer, gbut the calm lake, the mysterious white stone in the diffused
moonlight, and the boundless, star-studded sky overhead. I sang an old, devout song, one of those
original songs that pass through the paradisal garden of our childhood like
memories and echoes from a home world, and constitute a true symbol, by which
all poetic souls are sure to recognise one another later in lifefs age. Believe me: an honest poet can dare a
great deal, for art, being free from pride and sin, tames and exorcises the
wild earth-spirits that reach for us from the depths.h
All
were silent; the sun was that moment rising before them and throwing her
sparkling light over the Earth.
Then Florio shook himself all over, galloped a stretch ahead of the
others, and sang in a clear voice:
Ifm
here, my lord! I greet the light
That
through the sultry fullness
Of
weary breasts inflows with might
And
strict, refreshing coolness.
Now
I am free! Is this head mine?
Has
someone yet to wake me?
Oh
Father, thou knowst me for thine,
And
thou wilt not forsake me!
After
every intense emotion that shakes through our entire being, there comes a calm,
clear serenity over the soul, just as fields breathe out more deeply and
blossom with brighter hue after a storm.
In this way did Florio feel himself refreshed to his innermost self;
once more, he looked stoutly around him and, his mind at rest, waited for his
companions, who came slowly following through the verdure.
In
the meantime, the dainty boy who accompanied Pietro had raised his little head,
like flowers to dawnfs first rays. –Then, to his amazement, Florio recognised
the young lady, Bianca. He was
startled at her looking so much paler than on that evening when he had seen
her, for the first time, in charmingly high spirits among the marquees. The poor girl, in the middle of her
childrenfs games, had been taken unawares by the force of first love. And when, after this, the fervently
loved Florio, following the dark powers, became so distant, moving ever further
away until she at last had to give him up for utterly lost, she sank into a
deep melancholy, the secret behind which she did not dare entrust to
anyone. But wise Pietro knew it
well, and decided to take his niece far away to foreign lands and different
climes, if not to cure, at least to divert and sustain her. To be able to travel with less
hindrance, and at the same time to shed the memory of recent events, she had
had to don a boyfs garb.
Floriofs
eyes rested with pleasure on the lovely face. Hitherto a strange blindness had
enveloped his eyes like a magic mist.
Now he was astounded at seeing just how beautiful she was. There she was, taken completely unawares
by her unexpected happiness, and in joyful humility, as if she did not deserve
such grace, riding in silence beside him, her eyes cast down. Only occasionally did she look up at him
from under long, black lashes; all of her clear soul lay in that look, as if
she were pleading: gDo not betray me again!h
By
this time they had reached a dizzy height; behind them the city of
Instead
of replying, Bianca looked at him, almost questioningly, with an uncertain,
still half-suppressed delight; and she exactly resembled a serene angel against
the background of the matutinal sky.
Morning shone straight towards them, shooting long, golden rays over the
ground. The trees stood warm with
light; countless larks sang as they whizzed through the clear air. And so the happy wanderers passed
joyfully, through resplendent leas, down into