all the world seemed to have diminished in value.
the nomad woman had armed herself anew with courage, and planned the route of her next professional tour. from the thought of the hero lying in his coffin, a lofty inspiration came to all noble hearts. la foscarina knew how to receive it and to convert it to the thoughts and actions of daily life.
it happened that her beloved surprised her at the time she was packing her familiar books, the little cherished treasures from which she never parted—things that for her possessed the power of imparting dreams or consolation.
"what are you doing?" stelio asked.
"i am making ready to leave the country."
she saw a change pass over his face, but she did not waver.
"and where are you going?"
"a long distance from here—i shall cross the atlantic."
stelio became slightly paler. but suddenly he was seized with doubt; he thought she was not speaking the truth; that she wished only to prove him; that her decision was not absolutely fixed, and that she expected to be persuaded to remain. the unlooked-for disillusion on the banks of murano had left its mark on his heart.
"have you really decided on this, then, so suddenly?"
she was simple, sure of herself, and prompt in her reply.
"my decision is not exactly sudden. my idleness has lasted too long, and i have the responsibility of all my company on my shoulders. while i am waiting for the theater of apollo to be opened, and for the victory of man to be finished, i shall go once more to bid farewell to the barbarians. i must work for your beautiful enterprise. we shall need a great deal of gold to restore the treasures of mycen?. and all that is connected with your work must appear with unrivaled magnificence. i do not wish cassandra's mask to be of some base metal. but, above all, i wish to satisfy your desire that for the first three days the populace shall have free admission to the theater, and after that on one day of every week. my faith aids me to leave you. time flies. it is necessary that each person should be in his own place, ready and full of strength, when the great day comes. i shall not fail you. i hope that you will be satisfied with your friend. i am going away to work, and certainly the task will be more difficult than i ever have found it before. but you, my poor boy, what a burden you have to bear! what an effort we demand from you! what great things we expect from you! ah, you know it!"
she had begun courageously, in a tone that was almost blithe, trying to seem what above all she must be—a good and faithful instrument at the service of a powerful genius, a strong and willing companion. but a wave of repressed emotion would rise in her throat and stop her speech. her pauses grew longer, and her hand wandered uncertainly among her books and treasures.
"may everything be ever propitious to your work! that is the only thing that really matters—all else is nothing. let us lift our hearts!"
she shook her head, with its two wild wings, and held out both hands to her beloved. he, pale and grave, clasped them close. in her dear eyes, that were like sparkling springs of water, he saw a flash of the same beauty that had dazzled him one evening in the room where the fire had roared, and he had listened to the development of the two great melodies.
"i love you and i have faith in you," he said; "i will not fail you and you will not fail me. something springs from us that shall be stronger than life itself."
"a great melancholy," she answered.
before her, on a table, lay the familiar book, with pages turned down and margins full of scribbled notes; here and there a petal, a flower, a blade of grass lay between the leaves—signs of the sorrow that had asked and obtained from them the consolation of relief or of forgetfulness. before her were strewn all the little cherished objects dear to her, strange, varied; nearly all were things of no value: a doll's foot, a silver heart, an ivory compass, a watch without a dial, a small iron lantern, a single earring, a flint, a key, a seal, and other trifles; but all were consecrated by some memory, animated by some superstitious belief, touched by the finger of love or of death, relics that could speak only to one of war and of truce, of hope and of sadness. among these objects were figures to which artists had entrusted their secret confession, signs and enigmas, profound allegories, hiding truths that, like the sun, could not be gazed at by mortal eyes.
the young man put his arm around his friend's waist, and silently they went to the window. they saw the far-distant sky, the trees, the towers, the end of the lagoon over which twilight was bending her face, while the euganean hills were as quiet and blue as if they were the wings of earth folded in the peacefulness of eventide.
they turned toward each other, looking into the depths of each other's eyes. then they embraced, as if to seal a silent compact.
yes, all the world seemed to have diminished in value.
stelio effrena had asked of the widow of richard wagner that the two young italian men that had carried the unconscious hero from the vessel to the shore that night in november, with four of their friends, might have granted to them the honor of bearing the coffin from the death-chamber to the boat and from the boat to the hearse. this request was granted.
it was the sixteenth of february, at one o'clock in the afternoon. stelio effrena, daniele glauro, francesco de lizo, baldassare stampa, fabio molza, and antimo della bella waited in the hall of the palace. the latter had come from rome, bringing with him the artisans engaged in the building of the theater of apollo, that they might bear at the funeral ceremony bunches of laurel gathered on the janiculum.
they waited in silence, without even looking at one another, each overcome by the throbbing of his own heart. nothing was heard save a faint dropping of water on the steps before the great door, where, on the candelabra at the doorposts appeared the two words: domus pacis.
the boatman, who had been dear to the hero, came to call them. in that rough yet faithful face, the eyes showed that the lids were burned by weeping.
stelio effrena advanced first, followed by his companions. after ascending the stairs, they entered a low-studded, darkened room, filled with the melancholy odor of flowers and fluids. they paused there a few minutes. a door opened. they passed through the doorway one by one into the next room. each turned pale as he entered.
the body was there, enclosed in its crystal coffin, and beside it stood the woman with the face of snowy pallor. the second coffin, of polished metal, stood shining on the floor.
the six bearers ranged themselves about the coffin, awaiting a sign. the silence was profound, and no one moved; but an impetuous sadness shook each soul like a tempest of wind.
each gazed on the elect of life and of death. an infinite smile illumined the face of the hero lying there—infinite and distant as the glint of a glacier, as the sparkle of the sea, as the halo of the star. their eyes could not bear to look long at it, but their hearts, with an awe-struck fear that made them religious, felt as if they had the revelation of a divine secret.
the woman with the snow-white face made a slight movement, yet preserved the same attitude, rigid as a statue.
then the six friends approached the body, extended their arms, summoned up their strength. stelio effrena took his place at the head and daniele glauro took his at the feet, as on that day in november. the young men lifted their burden with one movement, at a low-spoken word from the leader. the eyes of each were dazzled, as if a sudden ray of sunlight had pierced the crystal. baldassare stampa broke into sobs. the same knot was in each throat. the coffin swayed, then it was lowered into its metal covering, which enveloped it like a suit of armor.
the six friends remained overcome with grief. they hesitated to put the cover in its place, fascinated by that infinite smile. stelio effrena heard a light rustling, and looked up. he saw the white face bending over the body, a superhuman apparition of love and grief. that instant was like eternity. the woman disappeared.
when the coffin was closed, they lifted their burden a second time—heavier now. out of the room and down the stairs they bore it slowly. rapt in a kind of sublime anguish, they could see their fraternal faces reflected in the polished metal.
the funeral barge awaited them at the entrance. the pall was laid over the coffin. the six friends waited, with heads uncovered, for the family to descend. they came, all together. the widow passed them, veiled. but the splendor of her face would remain in their memories forever.
the procession was short; the funeral barge went first, followed by the widow with her relatives; then came the young men. the sky was cloudy above the broad road of stone and water. the deep silence was worthy of him who transformed the forces of the universe for man's worship into infinite song.
a flock of doves, flying from the marbles of the scalsi, winged their way with a flash of plumage above the bier and across the canal, circling the cupola of san simeone.
at the quay a silent gathering of faithful friends was waiting. the large wreaths perfumed the air. the water rippled softly under the prows of the boats. the six companions lifted the coffin from the boat and bore it on their shoulders to the railway and placed it in the proper compartment. no one spoke.
then the two artisans from rome came forward, with the clusters of laurel gathered on the janiculum. they were tall, powerful men, chosen among the strongest and finest, and seemed cast in the mold of the ancient roman race. they were calm and serious, with all the wild freedom of the agro in their eyes. their bold outlines, narrow foreheads, short curling hair, solid jaws and bull-necks, recalled the profiles of ancient consuls. their bearing, free from any servile obsequiousness, showed them to be worthy of their function.
the six young men, rendered equal in their fervor, took the branches of laurel and strewed them over the hero's coffin.
noble were those latin laurels, cut on the hill where, in a time long past, the eagles descended bearing prophecies; where, in more recent though still fabulous times, a river of blood has been shed for the beauty of italy by the legions of the liberator. the branches were straight, dark, and strong; the leaves were firm, deeply veined, with sharp edges, green as the bronze of fountains, rich with triumphal aroma.
and they journeyed toward the bavarian hill still sleeping beneath its frost and ice, while their trunks were already budding anew in the light of rome, to the murmur of invisible waters.
settignano di desiderio:
february 13, 1900.
