from that first evening, stelio had preferred to go to the house of his beloved through the gate of the gradenigo garden, making his way through trees and shrubs that had become wild again. the actress had received permission to open a communication between her own garden and that of the long-abandoned palace by means of an opening in the dividing wall. but soon afterward, the lady myrta had come to live in the great silent rooms wherein the last guest had been the son of the empress josephine, the viceroy of italy. the apartments were ornamented with old, stringless musical instruments, and the garden was peopled by graceful hounds, that lacked any prey.
to stelio, nothing seemed sweeter or more sad than that walk toward the woman that waited for him while counting the hours—so slow, yet so swift in their flight. in the afternoon, the path of san simeone piccolo turned a pale golden hue, like a bank of the finest alabaster. the reflected rays of sunlight danced on the iron prows that stood in a row by the pier. a few decaying gondola cabins lay in the shadow of the pavements, with their curtains and cushions stained and spoiled by rain, as if they were catafalques worn out by continual use in funeral ceremonies, grown old on the way to the churchyard. the garden gate opened at the end of the campiello della comare, green and mossy like a country cemetery; it spread out between two columns, topped by broken statues, on the limbs of which the dry branches of ivy were outlined like veins.
"helion! sirius! altair! donovan! ali-nour! nerissa! piuchebella!"
seated on a bench near a rose-covered wall, lady myrta was calling her dogs. la foscarina stood near her, in a fawn-colored costume, the material of which resembled that superb textile called rovana, used in ancient times in venice. the sunlight bathed the women and the roses in the same soft warmth.
"you are dressed like donovan to-day," said lady myrta to the actress, with a smile. "did you know that stelio prefers donovan to all the others?"
a slight blush rose to la foscarina's cheeks; she looked at the fawn-colored greyhound.
"he is the strongest and the most beautiful," she replied.
"i believe that stelio would like to have him," added the old lady, with a sweet, indulgent smile.
"what is there that he would not like to have?"
lady myrta noted the tinge of melancholy in the tone of the woman in love. she remained silent.
the dogs lay near them, serious and sad, sleepy and dreamy, far from plains, steppes, and deserts, stretched out in the clover, where also grew the gourds, with their greenish-yellow fruit.
"does your lover grieve you?" the elder woman would have liked to ask of the woman in love, for the silence weighed on her, and she felt her own heart revivified by the fire within that sorrowful soul. but she dared not. she only sighed. her heart, ever young, still throbbed at the sight of despairing passion and beauty menaced.
"ah, you are still beautiful, and your lips still attract kisses, and the man that loves you can still be intoxicated with your sweet pallor and your eyes," she thought, as she looked at the pensive actress, toward whom the november roses leaned. "but i am a specter."
she lowered her eyes, gazed upon her own deformed hands lying on her lap, and wondered that those hands were hers, they were so dead and distorted, lamentable monsters that could no longer touch anyone without exciting disgust, that had nothing to caress any more except the dogs. she felt the wrinkles in her face, the false teeth against her gums, the false hair on her head, all the ruin of her poor body, which once was obedient to the graceful will of her delicate spirit; and she wondered at her own persistence in struggling against the outrages of time, in deceiving herself, in recomposing every morning that ridiculous illusion with essences, oils, unguents, rouge and powder. but, in the perpetual springtime of her dreams, was she not ever youthful? was it not yesterday, only yesterday, that she had caressed a loved face with her perfect fingers, hunted the fox and the deer in the northern counties, danced with her betrothed in the park to an air of john dowland's?—there are no mirrors in the house of the countess glanegg; there are too many in lady myrta's house—was la foscarina's thought.—one has hidden her decline from herself and from everyone else; the other sees herself growing older day by day. she counts her wrinkles one by one, gathers up her dead hair in her comb, feels her teeth rattling against her pale gums, and tries to repair the damage by artificial devices. poor tender soul, who wishes still to be smiling and charming! but we must die, disappear, descend into the earth!—she observed the little cluster of violets that lady myrta had pinned to her skirt. in all seasons fresh flowers were fastened there, barely visible, hidden among the folds, a sign of her daily illusion of springtime, of the ever-new enchantment she wove about herself by the aid of memory, music, poetry, and all the arts of dreams against old age, infirmity, and solitude.—we should live one supreme, flaming hour, then disappear forever in the earth before all charm has vanished, before all grace is dead!—
she felt the beauty of her own eyes, the careless strength of her hair, blown back by the wind, all the power of rhythm and transport that slumbered in her muscles and her bones. she heard again in fancy the words of her lover, saw him again in his tender transport of love, in the sweetness of languor, the moments of profound oblivion.—still a little while, still a few days longer i shall please him, and seem beautiful to him, and put fire in his blood. a little while longer!—with her feet in the deep grass, her brow raised to the sunlight, amid the fragrance of fading roses, in the fawn-colored robe that made her seem like the magnificent beast of prey, she glowed with passionate joy of life and hope, a sudden quickening of the blood, as if that future which she had renounced by her resolution to die were flowing back into the present.—come! come!—within herself she called to her beloved with a sort of intoxication, sure that he would come, because she already felt that he would, and never had she been deceived by her presentiment.
"ah, here is stelio!" said lady myrta at that instant, seeing the young man advancing among the laurels.
la foscarina turned swiftly, with a blush. the greyhounds rose, pricking up their slender ears. the meeting glance of those lovers had something in it like an electric flash. again, as always, in the presence of that wonderful creature, her lover had the divine sensation of suddenly being enfolded in a cloud of flaming ether, in a vibrant wave that seemed to isolate him from ordinary atmosphere and almost to ravish his senses.
"you were awaited here by all that dwell in this seclusion," said lady myrta, with a smile that hid the emotion that stirred the youthful heart in the infirm and aged body at the sight of love and longing. "in coming here, you have responded to a call."
"that is true," said the young man, holding the collar of donovan, which, remembering his caresses, had run to meet him. "the fact is, i have come a long distance. guess from where?"
"from the country of giorgione!"
"no, from the cloister of santa apollonia. do you know that place?"
"is that one of your inventions to-day?"
"invention? it is a cloister of stone, a real cloister, with a well and with little columns."
"it may be so, but everything that you have once looked at, stelio, becomes your invention."
"ah, lady myrta, i should like to offer you that gem of a cloister. i wish i might move it here, into your garden. imagine a small, secret cloister, opening on a sequence of slender columns, set in pairs like nuns when they walk, fasting, in the sun; very delicate, neither white, gray nor black, but that most mysterious tint ever given to stone by the great master colorist—time. in the midst of these is a well, and on the curb, which is worn by the rope, hangs a pail without a bottom. the nuns have disappeared, but i believe that the shades of the dana?des frequent the place."
he stopped speaking suddenly, seeing himself surrounded by the greyhounds, and began to imitate the guttural sounds the kennel-men make to gather the dogs. the animals became excited; their wistful eyes brightened.
"ali-nour! crissa! nerissa! clarissa! altair! helion! hardicanute! veronese! hierro!"
he knew them all by name, and when he called them they seemed to recognize him for their master. there was the scottish hound, native of the highlands, with thick, rough coat; the irish wolf-hound, ruddy and strong, with brown irises showing clearly in their whites; the tartary hound, spotted with black and yellow, a native of vast asiatic steppes, where at night he had guarded a tent against hyenas and leopards; the persian dog, light-colored and small, with ears covered with long silky hair, a fluffy tail, of lighter tint on the sides and legs, more graceful than the antelopes he had killed; there was also the spanish galgo that had migrated with the moors, that magnificent animal held in leash by a pompous dwarf in the painting by velásquez, instructed to course and to force on the naked plains of the mancha; the arabian sloughi, illustrious depredator of the desert, with black tongue and palate, a noble animal, all pride, courage, and elegance, accustomed to sleep on rich rugs and to lap pure milk from a pure vase. assembled in a pack, they quivered around him who knew how to reawaken in their torpid blood their primitive instincts of pursuit and carnage.
"which among you was gog's best friend?" he asked, looking from one to another of the pairs of beautiful, eager eyes fixed upon him. "you, hierro? you, altair?"
his peculiar accent animated the sensitive creatures, which listened with suppressed and intermittent growls.
"well, i must tell you all something that i have kept secret till to-day. gog—do you hear?—who could crush a hare with one snap of his jaws—gog is crippled."
"oh, indeed!" exclaimed lady myrta, concerned. "is it possible, stelio? and magog—how is he?"
"magog is safe and well."
these were the names of a pair of greyhounds that lady myrta had given to the young man.
"how did it happen?"
"alas, poor gog! he had already killed thirty-seven hares. he possessed all the virtues of his fine breed: swiftness, resistance, incredible rapidity in turning, and the constant desire to kill his prey, besides the classical manner of running straight and seizing his prey from behind almost at the same instant. have you ever watched a greyhound in coursing, foscarina?"
"never."
"then you never have seen one of the rarest spectacles of daring, vehemence, and grace in the world. look!"
he drew donovan toward him, knelt beside him, and began feeling the animal with his expert hands.
"no machine in nature exists that is more exactly and powerfully adapted to its purpose. the muzzle is sharp in order to penetrate the air; it is long, so that the jaws can crush the prey at the first snap. the skull is wide between the ears in order to contain the greatest courage and skill. the jowls are dry and muscular, and the lips so short they hardly cover the teeth."
with sure and easy touch, he opened the mouth of the dog, which offered no resistance.
"look at those white teeth! see how long the eyeteeth are, with a little curve at the top, the better to hold his prey. no other species of dog has a mouth so well constructed for biting."
his hands lingered over the examination, and his admiration for the superb specimen was unbounded. he was kneeling in the clover, and received in his face the breath of the dog, which quietly permitted him to examine it, as if it comprehended and enjoyed the praise of the connoisseur.
"see what elegance in his ribs, arranged with the symmetry of a fine keel, and in that line curved inward toward the abdomen, which is hidden. all point to one aim. the tail, thick at the root and slender at the tip—look! almost like that of a rat—serves as a sort of rudder, necessary to enable him to turn swiftly when the hare doubles. let us see, donovan, whether you are perfect also in this respect."
he took the tip of the tail, passed it under the leg, and drew it toward the haunch-bone, where it exactly touched the projecting part.
"yes, perfect! once i saw an arab of the tribe of arbaa measuring his sloughi in that way. ali-nour, did you tremble when you discovered the herd of gazelles? imagine, foscarina—the sloughi trembles when he discovers his prey, quivers like a willow, and turns his soft, pleading eyes toward his master, begging to be released. i do not know the reason why this pleases me and stirs me so much. his desire to kill is terrible; his whole body is ready to stretch itself like a bow, yet he trembles! not with fear, nor with uncertainty, but with sheer desire. ah, foscarina! if you could see a sloughi at that moment, you would not fail to learn from him his manner of quivering, and you would render the manner human by the power of your tragic art, and would give mankind a new sensation. up, ali-nour! swift desert arrow! do you remember? but now you tremble only when you are cold."
blithe and graceful, he had let donovan go, and had taken between his hands the serpentine head of the slayer of gazelles; he gazed into those deep eyes, wherein lurked nostalgia for the silent, tropical land; for tents unfolded after a march toward some deceiving mirage; for fires kindled for the evening meal under stars that seemed to throb in the waves of the wind just above the summits of the palm-trees.
la foscarina had entered into that physical enchantment of love whereby the limits of one's being seem to dilate and be fused in the air, so that every word and movement of the beloved object brings a feeling of happiness sweeter than any caress. her lover had taken between his hands the head of ali-nour, but she felt the touch of those hands upon her own brow. he was gazing into ali-nour's eyes, but she could feel that gaze deep in her own soul.
had he not touched the obscurest mystery of her being? did he not compel her to feel within herself the animal depths whence had sprung the unexpected revelation of her tragic genius, moving and maddening the multitude as would a splendid spectacle of sea and sky, a gorgeous sunrise, a tremendous tempest. when he had spoken of the trembling sloughi, had he not divined the natural analogies whence she drew the power of expression that amazed peoples and poets? it was because she had re-discovered the dionysian sense of nature as a naturalizer, the antique fervor of instinctive and creative energies, the enthusiasm of the multiform god emerging from the fermentation of all sap, that she appeared so new and so great on the stage. sometimes she felt within herself something like an immanence of the miracle which in the mystic past swelled with divine milk the breasts of the m?nads at the approach of the hungry young panthers.
stelio began again to imitate the guttural call of the kennel-keeper. the dogs grew more excited; their eyes brightened again; the tense muscles swelled under the coats—tawny, black, white, gray, spotted; the long haunches were curved like bows ready to hurl into space those bodies dry and slender, like a quiver-full of arrows.
"there, donovan, there!"
stelio pointed to a reddish-gray object in the grass at the end of the garden; it looked somewhat like a crouching hare with flattened ears. the imperious voice deceived the hesitating hounds, and it was beautiful to see the slender, vigorous bodies quivering in the sunlight.
"there, donovan!"
the great tawny dog looked him deep in the eyes, gave a formidable bound toward the imaginary prey, with all the vehemence of his reawakened instinct. he reached the spot in an instant, then stopped, disappointed, followed by the whole pack.
"a gourd! a gourd!" cried the deceiver, with shouts of laughter. "not even a rabbit. poor donovan! he bit only a gourd! poor donovan! what humiliation! take care, lady myrta, lest he drown himself in the canal for very shame!"
from the contagion of her lover's gayety, la foscarina laughed too. her fawn-tinted gown and the tan coats of the hounds shone in the sunlight against the green clover. her white teeth, revealed by rippling laughter, graced her mouth with a renewal of youth.
"would you like to own donovan?" said lady myrta, with a touch of graceful, malicious significance. "i know your arts!"
stelio ceased laughing, and blushed like a boy.
a wave of tenderness filled la foscarina's heart as she saw the boyish blush. she fairly sparkled with love; she felt a wild wish to clasp him in her arms at that very moment.
before thanking lady myrta, stelio looked again at the dog, admiring him as he was, strong, splendid, perfect, with the mark of style on his limbs as if pisanello had drawn him for the reverse of a medal. then he looked at la foscarina, who had turned to the group of animals, moving over the grass with a swift undulation, like the movement called the greyhound step by the ancient venetians. she advanced, with donovan, holding him by the collar. the chill of evening began to be felt, the shadow of the bronze cupola grew longer on the grass; a purple mist, in which the last flecks of golden sunlight swam, began to spread over the branches that swayed in the breeze.
—see, we are yours!—the woman seemed to be saying mutely, while the animal, beginning to shiver, pressed close against her.—we are yours forever. we are here to serve you!
