lost! lost! now she was lost! she still lived—vanquished, humiliated, as if some one had trampled pitilessly upon her; she still lived, and dawn was breaking, the days were beginning again, the fresh tide was flowing once more into the city beautiful, and donatella was still sleeping upon her pure pillow. into an infinite distance had faded the hour, in reality so short a time before, when she had waited at the gate for her beloved, recognized his step in the funereal silence of the deserted path, and felt her knees weaken as if from a blow, while a strange reverberation rang in her ears. how far-away now seemed that hour! yet the little incidents of her vigil returned to her mind with intensity: the cold iron rail against which she had leaned her head, the sharp, acrid odor that rose from the grass as from a retting-vat, the moist tongue of lady myrta's greyhounds that came noiselessly and licked her hands.
"good-by! good-by!"
she was lost! he had left her as he would have left some light love, almost with the manner of a stranger, almost impatient even, drawn by the freshness of the dawn, by the freedom of the morning.
"good-by!"
from her window she perceived stelio on the bank of the canal; he was inhaling deep breaths of the fresh morning air; then in the perfect calm that reigned over all things, she heard his clear, confident voice calling the gondolier:
"zorzi!"
the man was asleep in the bottom of his gondola, and his human slumber resembled that of the curved boat that obeyed his movements. stelio touched him lightly with his foot, and instantly he sprang up, jumped to his place and seized the oar. man and boat awoke at the same time, as if they had but one body, ready to glide over the water.
"your servant, signor!" said zorzi with a smile, glancing up at the brightening sky. "sit down, signor, and i will row."
opposite the palace, the door of a large workshop was thrown open. it was a stonecutter's shop, where steps were fashioned from the stone of val-di-sole.
"to ascend!" thought stelio, and his superstitious soul rejoiced at the good omen. on the sign, the name of the quarry seemed radiant with promise—the valley of the sun. he had already seen, a short time before, the image of a stairway, on a coat-of-arms in the gradenigo garden—a symbol of his own ascension. "higher, always higher!" joy came bubbling up from the depths of his being. the morning awakened all manly energies.
"and perdita? and ariadne?" he saw them again, as they descended the marble stairway, in the light of the smoking torches. "and la tanagra?" the syracusan appeared to his vision, with her long, goat-like eyes, reposing gracefully upon her mother earth, motionless as a bas-relief on the marble in which it is carved. "the dionysian trinity!" he fancied them as exempt from all passion, immune from all evil, like creations of art. the surface of his soul seemed covered with swift and splendid images, like sails scattered over a swelling sea. his heart beat calmly, and with the approaching sunrise he felt a renewal of his life-forces, as if he were born anew with the morning.
"we do not need this light any longer," murmured the gondolier slyly, extinguishing the lantern of the gondola.
"to the grand canal, by san giovanni decollato!" cried stelio, seating himself.
as the dentellated prow swung into the canal of san giacomo dall'orio, he turned to look once more at the palace, of a leaden hue in the early dawn. one lighted window grew dark at that moment, like an eye suddenly blinded. "good-by! good-by!" the woman no longer young was up there alone, sad with the sadness of death; the song-maiden was preparing to return to the place of her long sacrifice. he knew not how to pity, he could only promise. from the abundance of his strength, he drew an illusion that he might change those two destinies for his own joy.
"stop before the palazzo vendramin-calergi!" he ordered the gondolier.
the canal, ancient stream of silence and of poetry, was deserted. the pale green sky was reflected in it with its last fading stars. at first glance, the palace had an aerial appearance, like an artificial cloud hung over the water. the shadows in which it was still wrapped suggested the quality of velvet, the beauty of something soft and magnificent. and, just as in studying a deep-piled velvet, the pattern gradually becomes discernible, the architectural lines revealed themselves in the three corinthian columns that rose with rhythmic grace and strength to the point where the emblems of nobility, the eagles, the horses, and the amphora, were mingled with the roses of loredan. non nobis, domine, non nobis.
within that palace throbbed the great ailing heart. stelio saw again the image of the barbaric creator: the blue eyes gleaming under the broad brow, the lips compressed above the powerful chin, armed with sensuousness, pride, and disdain. was he sleeping? could he sleep, or was he lying sleepless with his glory? the young man recalled strange things that were told of wagner. was it true that he could not sleep unless his head rested on his wife's bosom, and that, despite advancing years, he clung to her as a lover to his mistress? he remembered a story told him by lady myrta, who, while she was in palermo, had visited the villa d'angri, where the very closets in the room occupied by the master had remained impregnated with an essence of rose so strong that it made her ill. he fancied that slight, tired body, wrapped in sumptuous draperies, ornamented with jewels, perfumed like a corpse ready for the pyre. was it not venice that had given him, as long ago it had given albert dürer, a taste for luxury and magnificence? yes, and it was in the silence of her canals that he had heard the passing of the most ardent breath of all his music—the deadly passion of tristan and isolde.
and now, within that palace throbbed the great ailing heart, and there its formidable impetuosity was flagging. the patrician palace, with its eagles, its horses, amphora, and roses, was as tightly closed and silent as a great tomb. above its marble towers the sunrise turned the pale green sky to rosy pink.
"hail to the victorious one!" stelio stood up and cast his flowers at the threshold of the palace door.
"on! on!" he cried.
urged by this sudden impatience, the gondolier bent to his oar, and the light craft threaded its way along the stream. a brown sail passed silently. the sea, the rippling waves, the laughing cry of the sea-gulls, the sweeping breeze arose before his desire.
"row, zorzi, row! to the veneta marina, by the canal dall'olio!" the young man cried.
the canal seemed too narrow for the expanse of his soul. victory was now as necessary to his spirit as air to his lungs. after the delirium of the night, he wished to prove the perfection of his physical nature by the light of day and in the sharp breeze of the sea. he did not wish to sleep. he felt a circle of freshness around his eyes, as if he had bathed them with dew. he had no desire for repose, and the thought of his bed in the hotel filled him with disgust. "the deck of a ship, the odor of pitch and of salt, the flutter of a red sail.... row, zorzi!"
the gondolier redoubled his efforts. the fondaco dei turchi disappeared from their view, a vision of marvelously yellow old ivory, like the only remaining portico of some ruined mosque. they passed the palazzo of the cornaro and the palazzo of the pesaro, those two giants blackened by time as by smoke from a fire; they passed the ca' d'oro, a divine marvel of air and stone; and suddenly the rialto bridge showed its ample back, laden with shops, already bustling with life, sending forth the odor of vegetables and fish, like a great horn of plenty pouring out upon the shores the fruits of earth and sea to feed the queen of cities.
"i am hungry, zorzi, i am very hungry!" said stelio, laughing.
"a good sign when a wakeful night makes one hungry; it makes only the old feel sleepy," said zorzi.
"row to shore!"
he bought at a stall some grapes of the vignole and some figs from malamocco, laid on a plate of vine-leaves.
"row, zorzi!"
the gondola turned, then sped under the fondaco dei tedeschi, making its way toward the rio de palazzo. the bells were now ringing joyously in the full daylight, drowning the noises of the market-place with their brazen tongues.
"to the ponte della paglia!"
a thought, spontaneous as an instinct, led him back to the glorious spot where it seemed some trace must remain of his lyric inspiration and of the great dionysian chorus: viva il forte! the gondola grazed the side of the palace of the doge, massive as a monolith cut by chisels not less apt in finding melodies than the bows of the musicians. with all his new-born soul he embraced the mass; he heard once more the sound of his own voice and the bursts of applause. he said again to himself: "to create with joy! that is an attribute of divinity! impossible to imagine, in the highest flight of the spirit, a more triumphal act. even the phrase itself has something of the splendor of the dawn."
again and again he repeated to the air, the waters, the stones, to the ancient city, to the young dawn: "to create with joy! to create with joy!"
when the prow passed under the bridge and entered the mirror of light, a freer breath gave him fresh realization, with his hope and his courage, of the beauty and strength of the life of the past.
"find me a boat, zorzi—a boat that will go out to sea."
he longed for still wider space in which to breathe; he longed to feel a strong wind, salt air and dashing spray; to see the sails swell, and the bowsprit pointed toward a boundless horizon.
"to the veneta marina! find me a fishing-boat, a bragozzo from chioggia."
he perceived a large red and black sail, just hoisted, and now flapping in the breeze, superb as an ancient banner of the republic, with the device of the lion and the book.
"that one there—that will do. let us catch it, zorzi."
in his impatience he waved his hand, to sign to the boat to stop.
"call out to them to wait for me, zorzi!"
the gondolier, heated and dripping, cried out to the man at the sail. the gondola flew like a canoe in a regatta.
"bravo, zorzi!"
but stelio was panting, too, as if he were in pursuit of fortune, some happy aim, or the certainty of a kingdom.
"we have won the flag!" laughed the gondolier, rubbing his burning palms. "what foolishness!"
the movement, the tone, the good-humor, the astonished faces of the fishermen leaning over the rail, the reflection of the red sail in the water, the cordial odor of fresh bread from a neighboring bake-shop, the smell of boiling pitch from a dock-yard, the voices of workmen entering the arsenal, the strong emanations from the quays, impregnated with the odor of the old rotten vessels of the serene republic, the resounding blows of the hammer on the vessels of the new italy—all these rude and healthful things aroused a wonderful joyousness in the heart of the young man, who laughed aloud for very gladness.
"what do you wish?" demanded the older of the fishermen, bending toward the ringing laughter his bearded bronzed face. "what can i do for you, signor?"
the mast creaked as if it were alive, swaying from top to bottom.
"you can come on board, if you like," he said. "is that all you want?"
he brought a ladder and attached it to the stern. it was a simple affair of ropes and pegs, but to stelio it seemed, like all else in the rough craft, to have a life of its own. as he stepped upon it he felt almost ashamed of his light, glossy shoes. the heavy, calloused hand of the sailor, covered with blue tattoo-marks, helped him to climb up and pulled him on board with a jerk.
"the grapes and the figs, zorzi!"
from the gondola, zorzi handed him the vine-leaf plate.
"may it make new blood for you, signor!"
"and the bread?"
"we have some warm bread," said one of the sailors, "just out of the oven."
hunger would certainly give that bread a delicious flavor, finding therein all the nourishment of the grain.
"your servant, signor, and a fair wind to you!" said the gondolier, taking leave.
"starboard!"
the lateen sail, with the lion and the book, swelled crimson. the craft turned toward the open sea, directing its course toward san servolo. the shore seemed to assume a sharp curve, as if to repel it.
"to the right!"
the boat veered with great force. a miracle met it: the first rays of the sun pierced the fluttering sail and illumined the angels on the campaniles of san marco and san giorgio maggiore, setting on fire the globe of the fortuna and crowning the five miters of the basilica with a diadem of light. venice anadyomene reigned over the waters, and from her beauty all her veils were ravished.
"glory to the miracle!" an almost superhuman feeling of power and of freedom swelled the young man's heart as the wind had swollen the sail transfigured for him. in its crimson splendor, he saw himself as in the splendor of his own blood. it seemed to him that all the mystery of this beauty demanded of him a triumphal act. he felt confident that he was able to accomplish it. "to create with joy!"
and the world was his!
