from time to time a breath of spring passed across the february sky.
"do you feel the spring?" said stelio to his friend, inhaling deep breaths of the new air.
la foscarina fell behind him a step or two, because her resolute heart was weakening; she lifted her face to the sky, now flecked with white clouds like floating plumes. the raucous shriek of a siren whistle prolonged itself in the estuary, becoming fainter by degrees until the sound was as soft as the note of a flute. it seemed to the woman that something rose from the depths of her heart and escaped with that prolonged note, as a poignant grief gradually changes into a tender memory.
"yes, spring has already arrived at the tre porti."
once more they floated aimlessly along the lagoon, that water as familiar to their thoughts as is the web to the weaver.
"did you say at the tre porti?" the young man cried, enthusiastically, as if his soul were reawakened. "it is there, near the lower bank, at the setting of the moon, that the sailors take the wind prisoner, and bring it, chained, to dardi seguso. some day i will tell you the story of the archorgan."
his air of mystery in describing the action of the sailors made la foscarina smile.
"what story?" she asked, enticed by his significant tone. "and what does seguso do here? has the story anything to do with the master glassblower?"
"yes, but a master of a former day, who knew latin and greek, music and architecture, who was admitted to the academy of the pellegrini, whose gardens are at murano; he was often invited to sup with titian in his house in the contrada dei biri; was a friend of bernardo cappello, of jacopo zane, and other ancient petrarchists. at caterino zeno's house he saw the famous organ built for matthias corvinus, king of hungary, and his magnificent idea came to him in the course of a discussion with that agostino amadi who succeeded in adding to his collection of instruments a true grecian lyre, a great lesbian heptachord, rich with gold and ivory. ah, imagine it, that relic of the school of mitylene, brought to venice by a galley which, in passing through the waters of santa maura, caught and dragged the body of sappho as far as malamocco, like an armful of dead grass! but that, too, is another tale."
again the nomad woman recovered her youthful spirits enough to smile, pleased as a child to whom one shows a picture-book. how many marvelous stories, how many delightful fancies had not the visionary conjured up for her on those waters, during the long hours of the afternoon? how many enchantments had he not known how to weave for her, to the rhythm of the oar, in words that made all things seem reality? how many times, seated beside her beloved in the light boat, had she not enjoyed that sort of waking dream in which all cares were banished, carried away on waves of poetry?
"tell it to me," she begged.
she wished to add:—this story will be the last.—but she restrained herself, because up to this time she had not spoken to him of her fixed resolution.
he laughed.
"you are as eager for stories as sofia."
at that name, as when she heard the name of spring, she felt her resolution weaken; the cruelty of her fate pierced her heart, and her whole being turned with yearning toward her escaping happiness.
"look!" he said, pointing to the mirror-like lagoon, rippled here and there by a light breeze. "do not those infinite lines of silence aspire to become music?"
silvery-white in the calm afternoon, the estuary seemed to bear the islets on its breast as lightly as the softest clouds hung from the sky.
"well, the master glassblower heard at zeno's house praises of the famous organ of the king of hungary, and cried: 'corpo di bacco! you shall see what an organ i will build, with my stick, liquida musa canente! i will make the god of organs! dant sonitum glauc? per stagna loquacia cann?. the waters of the lagoon shall give it its tone, and in it the stones, the buoys, and the fish also shall sing. multisonum silentium. you shall see, by the body of diana!' all his hearers laughed, save giulia da ponte—because she had black teeth! and the sansovino gave a dissertation on hydraulic organs. but the boaster, before taking his leave, invited the company to hear his new music on the day of the sensa, and promised that the doge on his bucentaur should halt in the middle of the lagoon to listen. that evening the news that dardi seguso had lost his senses spread to venice, and the council, which had a tender regard for its famous workmen, sent a messenger to murano to learn the truth about the report. the messenger found the artisan with his sweetheart, perdilanza, who was very loving to him because she was anxious, and feared that dardi was insane. the master, after looking at the messenger with fiery eyes, burst into a hearty laugh, which reassured her as to his state of mind; then, quite calm again, seguso ordered the messenger to report to the council that, on the day of the sensa, venice, san marco, the grand canal, and the palace of the doges should possess yet another miracle. on the following day, he made a formal request for the possession of one of the five little islets that circled murano like the satellites of a planet, but have now disappeared, or have dwindled to mere sandbanks. after exploring the waters around temòdia, trencòre, galbaia, mortesina, and la folèga, he chose temòdia as one chooses a bride, and perdilanza entered the shadow of affliction. look, fosca; perhaps even now we are passing over the memory of temòdia. the organ-pipes are sunk deep in the mud, but they never will decay. there are seven thousand of them. we are passing over the ruins of a forest of melodious glass. how delicate the seaweed is here!"
"tell me the reason why perdilanza entered the shadow of affliction," said la foscarina, as both leaned over and looked deep into the beautiful clear waters.
"because her name had been driven from the lips and the heart of her lover by the name of temòdia, which he constantly uttered with vehement ardor, and because the island was the only place to which she might not follow him. there he had constructed his new work-rooms, and there he stayed the greater part of the day, and almost all night, assisted by his workmen, whom he had bound to silence by a solemn oath before the altar. the council, in ordering that the master should be provided with everything necessary for his tremendous task, had decreed that he should lose his head should his work prove inferior to his proud boast. then dardi tied a scarlet thread around his bare neck."
la foscarina felt as if she were in a dream. stelio seemed to have been speaking of himself in those strange figures of speech, as on that last night of september when he had explained the myth of the pomegranate, and the name of the imaginary woman began with the first two syllables of the name he had given her in those days! was any personal significance veiled behind this story? why had he, deliberately, in the vicinity of the place where she had been seized with that terrible laughter, called up, by that fanciful tale, the memory of the broken vase? in trying to understand, she made for herself an instrument of torture, with the dream-fancies of stelio's brain. she did not remember that as yet he was ignorant of her approaching departure. instinctively she said within herself:—i am going far-away; do not wound me.—
she wished to hear the remainder of the story, however, for she longed to understand him fully.
"well, what happened then to the man with the scarlet thread?" she inquired.
"more than once he felt his head was insecure on his shoulders," stelio replied laughingly. "he had to blow pipes as large as the trunk of a tree, and he had to do it with his own mouth, unaided by bellows. he blew and blew with all his might, without ceasing. fancy it! the lungs of a cyclops would hardly be strong enough for that. ah, some day i shall describe the fever of that existence hanging between the ax and the production of a miracle, in colloquy with the elements. he had fire, water, and earth, but lacked air—the movement of the air. but every day the council of ten sent to him a red-haired man to wish him good morning—you know, that red-haired man, with a cap over his eyes, who embraces the column in the adoration of the magi of the second bonifazio. after colossal labors, seguso had a brilliant idea. he found a magician, who was said to have power over the wind in favor of long navigations. he said to the wizard: 'i need a little wind, not too light nor too strong, but steady and gentle, which i could manage as i wish: only a little breeze with which to blow some glass that i have in my head. lenius aspirans aura secunda venit. do you understand, old man?'"
the story-teller burst into a ringing laugh, for he could fancy the scene with all its details in a house on the calle della testa, at san zanepolo, where the schiavone lived with his daughter.
la foscarina tried to join in his gayety; but his boyish laughter pained her as it had once before when she was lost in the labyrinth.
"it is a long story," stelio went on. "some day i shall use it, but i am keeping it for a time when i have more leisure. now fancy! the magician works the spell. every night dardi sent his sailors to the tre porti to spread a snare for the little wind. at last, one night, or rather just before dawn, when the moon was about to set, they caught it asleep on a sandy bank in the midst of a flock of tired swallows it had borne thither.
"there it lay, on its back, breathing as lightly as a child in the salty aroma of the waters, almost covered by innumerable little forked tails. the rising tide rocked it in its slumber, and the black-and-white travelers fluttered about it, weary with their long flight."
"what a charming fancy!" exclaimed la foscarina at this fresh picture. "where have you seen that?"
"here begins the real charm of the story," he answered. "they seize the sleeping wind, bind it with osier withes, carry it aboard their boat, and set sail for temòdia. the bark is invaded by the flock of swallows, which will not abandon the leader of their flight."
stelio paused, because the details of the fantasy crowded his imagination to such a degree that he knew not which to choose to relate.
"and then?" urged his companion, with interest.
"i can tell no more now, fosca. i know too many things.... well, imagine that dardi falls in love with his prisoner. it is called ornitio, because it leads flights of migrating birds. a continual twittering of swallows surrounds temòdia; nests hang from the posts and the scaffolding that surround the great structure; wings are singed in the flames of the furnace, when ornitio blows through the tube to create a light and luminous column with that ball of burning paste. but before he had tamed it and taught it what to do, he had much trouble with it. the master of the flame began by speaking latin to it, and reciting lines of virgil to it, believing it would understand. but the azure-haired ornitio spoke greek, naturally, with a slightly sibilant accent. it knew sappho's odes by heart, and while it breathed through the unequal tubes, it remembered the pipes of pan."
"and what did it eat?"
"pollen and salt."
"who gave it the food?"
"no one. it was sufficient to inhale the pollen and salt scattered on the breeze."
"and did it never try to escape?"
"always. but seguso took infinite precautions, like the lover he was."
"and did ornitio return his love?"
"yes, it began to love him after a time, particularly because of the scarlet thread that the master wore continually around his bare neck."
"and perdilanza?"
"she was left alone, and languished in her grief. i will tell you more of her some day. some day i shall go to the seashore of palestrina, and i will write this fable for you in the golden sand."
"but how does the story end?"
"the miracle is accomplished. the archorgan is raised at temòdia with its seven thousand glass pipes, resembling one of those frozen forests which ornitio—who was a little inclined to boast of the wonders it had met in its travels—declared it had seen in the land of the iporborrei. at last comes the day of the sensa. the serenissimo, between the patriarch and the archbishop of spalatro, goes out of the harbor of san marco on the bucentaur. so great is the pomp that ornitio believes it must be the triumphal return of the son of chronos. the fountains are set playing all around temòdia; and animated by the eternal silence of the lagoon, the gigantic organ peals forth, under the magic fingers of the new musicians, a wave of harmony so vast that it reaches as far as the mainland and even to the adriatic. the bucentaur stops, because its forty oars have suddenly fallen at its sides, abandoned by the astonished crew. but suddenly the wave of harmony breaks into discordant sounds, and at last it dies away in a faint murmur. dardi feels the instrument becoming dumb under his fingers, as if his own soul had failed. what has happened? the master hears only great shouts of jeers and scorn that come to him through the silent pipes—the sound of firing and the uproar of the populace. a group embarks from the bucentaur, bringing the red-haired man, who bears a block and an ax. the blow is aimed exactly at the scarlet thread; the head falls, and is thrown into the water, where it floats like the head of orpheus."
"but what had happened?"
"perdilanza had thrown herself into the cataract! the water dragged her into the machinery of the organ. her body, with its famous hair, lay across the great delicate instrument, and silenced its musical heart."
"but ornitio?"
"ornitio rescued the head from the water and flew away with it toward the sea. the swallows heard of its flight and followed it, and very soon a cloud of black wings and white surrounds the fugitive. all the nests in venice remain empty after this sudden flight."
"and dardi's head?"
"where it is, no one knows," concluded the story-teller, laughing.
the woman bent her head in thoughtful silence.
"perhaps there is a hidden meaning in your tale," she said, after a pause. "perhaps i have understood."
"alas, yes! if there were any resemblance between my audacity and that of the master workman. perhaps i too should wear a scarlet thread around my neck, as a sort of warning."
"you will have your great destiny. i have no fear for you."
he ceased to laugh.
"yes, my friend, i must conquer. and you shall help me. every morning i too receive my menacing visitor—the expectation of those that love me and those that hate me. expectation should wear the dress of the executioner, for nothing on earth is so pitiless."
"but it is the measure of your power."
he felt the vulture's beak in his breast. instinctively he straightened himself up, seized with an impatience of even their slow idling on the water. why did he live in such idleness? every hour and every minute he ought to be trying, struggling, fortifying himself against destruction, diminution, violation, contagion. every hour and every minute his eyes should be fixed on his aim, and all his energies should be concentrated upon it.
"do you know this saying of the great herodotus: 'the name of the bow is bios, and its work is death'? this saying is one that excites our spirits even before communicating to it its exact meaning. i heard it continually within myself, that evening last autumn, when i was sitting at your table—the night of the epiphany of the flame. that night i had an hour of true dionysian life, an hour of secret though terrible delight, as if i held in my breast the burning mountain where the tiades howl and shriek. sometimes i could really hear songs and clamor, and the cries of distant battle. it astonished me that i could remain motionless, and the sense of my bodily immobility increased my mental frenzy. i could see only your face, which suddenly appeared extraordinarily beautiful, revealing all the strength of your soul; and behind it i could see other countries and other peoples. if i could only tell you how i saw you! in the tumult, at the passage of marvelous images, accompanied by floods of music, i called to you as in the thick of battle; i made appeals which perhaps you heard—not for love alone, but for glory; not for one thirst, but for two, and i know not which was the more ardent. and the face of my great work appeared to me then the same as your face. i saw it, i tell you! and with incredible rapidity my work took form in words, song, movement, and symphony, and was so real that if i succeed in infusing a part of it into that which i wish to express, i shall surely inflame the world.
"to express oneself! that is the necessity. the greatest vision has no value if it is not manifested and condensed in vital forms. and i have everything to create. i am not pouring my substance into hereditary molds. my work is entirely my own invention. i must not, and i will not, obey anything but my instinct and the genius of my race. nevertheless, like dardi, who saw the famous organ at the house of caterino zeno, i too have another work before my mind—a work accomplished by a formidable creator, a gigantic work in the eyes of man."
the image of the barbaric creator reappeared to him: the blue eyes gleamed under the vast forehead, and he saw once more the white hair tossed by the wind about that aged neck. he remembered his own indescribable thrill of joy and fear when he had so unexpectedly felt beneath his hand the throbbing of that sacred heart.
"i should say not before but around my spirit. sometimes it is like a stormy sea trying to draw me down and swallow me. my temòdia is a granite rock in the open sea, and i am like an artisan trying to erect upon it a pure doric temple. compelled to defend the order of his columns from the violence of the waves, his spirit is always strained in order never to cease to hear, in the midst of the clamor, the secret rhythm which alone must regulate the intervals between lines and spaces. and in this sense too my tragedy is a battle."
he took one of his friend's hands.
"do you hear the song?" he asked.
"where is it?" she said, raising her face to the sky. "is it in heaven or on the earth?"
an infinite melody seemed to be flowing through the peaceful, silvery atmosphere.
she felt stelio's hand quiver.
"when alessandro enters the illuminated chamber where the virgin has been reading the lament of antigone," he said, "he tells how he has come on horseback across the plain of argos, where the song of the larks fills the sky. he says that one lark fell at his horse's feet, like a stone, and lay there silent, overcome by its own frenzy of joy in its song. he picked it up. 'here it is.' then you hold your hand toward him, you take the bird, and murmur: 'ah, it is still warm!' and while you speak the virgin trembles. you can feel her quivering."
the actress felt the mystic chill steal over her once more, as if the soul of the blind woman re?ntered her own soul.
"at the end of the prelude, the impetuosity of the chromatic progressions expresses this growing joy, this fever of delight.... listen, listen!... ah, what a miracle! this morning, fosca, this morning i was at work upon my melody, and now it is developing itself in the air! are we not in a state of grace?"
a spirit of life seemed indeed running throughout the solitude; a vehement inspiration filled the silence with emotion. la foscarina gave up her whole soul to it, as a leaf yields itself to the whirlwind, ravished to the very summit of love and faith.
but a feverish impatience to act, to work, to accomplish seized the young man. his capacity for work seemed multiplied. he thought of the plenitude of the hours to come; he saw his work in concrete form—the pages, the scores, the variety of needs, the richness of material adaptable to rhythm.
"in a week, fosca, if grace assists me, my prelude will be finished, and i should like to try it immediately with an orchestra. perhaps i shall go to rome to do this. antimo della bella is even more impatient than i; i receive a letter from him almost every day. i believe that my presence in rome is necessary for a few days in order to prevent certain errors that may arise in the building of the theater. antimo writes about the possibility of tearing down the old stone stairs leading from the corsini garden to the janiculum. the street that will lead to the theater, after one passes the arch of septimius, will continue beside the palazzo corsini, cross the garden, and extend to the foot of the hill. the hill is green and mossy, covered with cypress, laurel, and flags. the paulina fountain rises at the left. a flight of stone steps leads to a terrace from which open two paths bordered by apollo-like laurels, and worthy of leading the people toward poetry. can anyone imagine a nobler entrance? centuries have wrapped it in mystery; no sound is heard but the song of birds, the tinkling of fountains, the whisper of the forest. and i believe that poets and innocents can even hear there the fluttering of the hamadryads and the breath of pan!"
the ugly shores, crumbling stones, decaying roots, traces of ruined buildings, the odor of dissolution, the funereal cypresses, the black crosses, in vain recalled to him the words the statues beside the brenta had spoken with their marble lips. only the great song of victory and liberty, stronger than all other signs, now touched the heart of him who was to create with joy. "on! on! higher! ever higher!"
and the heart of perdita, purified from all cowardice, ready for any test, betrothed itself once more to life! as in that distant hour of the delirious night, she repeated: "let me serve! let me serve!"
