Poe, Edgar Allen - The Complete Works of Edgar Allen Poe

by Volume 01-05 (lit)

  but the mid-summer and midnight air was hot, sullen, and still, and

  no motion in the statue-like form itself, stirred even the folds of

  that raiment of very vapor which hung around it as the heavy marble

  hangs around the Niobe. Yet - strange to say ! - her large lustrous

  eyes were not turned downwards upon that grave wherein her brightest

  hope lay buried - but riveted in a widely different direction ! The

  prison of the Old Republic is, I think, the stateliest building in

  all Venice - but how could that lady gaze so fixedly upon it, when

  beneath her lay stifling her only child ? Yon dark, gloomy niche,

  too, yawns right opposite her chamber window - what, then, _could_

  there be in its shadows - in its architecture - in its ivy-wreathed

  and solemn cornices - that the Marchesa di Mentoni had not wondered

  at a thousand times before ? Nonsense ! - Who does not remember

  that, at such a time as this, the eye, like a shattered mirror,

  multiplies the images of its sorrow, and sees in innumerable far-off

  places, the wo which is close at hand ?

  Many steps above the Marchesa, and within the arch of the

  water-gate, stood, in full dress, the Satyr-like figure of Mentoni

  himself. He was occasionally occupied in thrumming a guitar, and

  seemed _ennuye_ to the very death, as at intervals he gave directions

  for the recovery of his child. Stupified and aghast, I had myself no

  power to move from the upright position I had assumed upon first

  hearing the shriek, and must have presented to the eyes of the

  agitated group a spectral and ominous appearance, as with pale

  countenance and rigid limbs, I floated down among them in that

  funereal gondola.

  All efforts proved in vain. Many of the most energetic in the

  search were relaxing their exertions, and yielding to a gloomy

  sorrow. There seemed but little hope for the child ; (how much less

  than for the mother ! ) but now, from the interior of that dark

  niche which has been already mentioned as forming a part of the Old

  Republican prison, and as fronting the lattice of the Marchesa, a

  figure muffled in a cloak, stepped out within reach of the light,

  and, pausing a moment upon the verge of the giddy descent, plunged

  headlong into the canal. As, in an instant afterwards, he stood with

  the still living and breathing child within his grasp, upon the

  marble flagstones by the side of the Marchesa, his cloak, heavy with

  the drenching water, became unfastened, and, falling in folds about

  his feet, discovered to the wonder-stricken spectators the graceful

  person of a very young man, with the sound of whose name the greater

  part of Europe was then ringing.

  No word spoke the deliverer. But the Marchesa ! She will now

  receive her child - she will press it to her heart - she will cling

  to its little form, and smother it with her caresses. Alas !

  _another's_ arms have taken it from the stranger - _another's_ arms

  have taken it away, and borne it afar off, unnoticed, into the palace

  ! And the Marchesa ! Her lip - her beautiful lip trembles : tears

  are gathering in her eyes - those eyes which, like Pliny's acanthus,

  are "soft and almost liquid." Yes ! tears are gathering in those

  eyes - and see ! the entire woman thrills throughout the soul, and

  the statue has started into life ! The pallor of the marble

  countenance, the swelling of the marble bosom, the very purity of the

  marble feet, we behold suddenly flushed over with a tide of

  ungovernable crimson ; and a slight shudder quivers about her

  delicate frame, as a gentle air at Napoli about the rich silver

  lilies in the grass.

  Why _should_ that lady blush ! To this demand there is no answer

  - except that, having left, in the eager haste and terror of a

  mother's heart, the privacy of her own _boudoir_, she has neglected

  to enthral her tiny feet in their slippers, and utterly forgotten to

  throw over her Venetian shoulders that drapery which is their due.

  What other possible reason could there have been for her so blushing

  ? - for the glance of those wild appealing eyes ? for the unusual

  tumult of that throbbing bosom ? - for the convulsive pressure of

  that trembling hand ? - that hand which fell, as Mentoni turned into

  the palace, accidentally, upon the hand of the stranger. What reason

  could there have been for the low - the singularly low tone of those

  unmeaning words which the lady uttered hurriedly in bidding him adieu

  ? "Thou hast conquered," she said, or the murmurs of the water

  deceived me ; "thou hast conquered - one hour after sunrise - we

  shall meet - so let it be !"

  * * * * * * *

  The tumult had subsided, the lights had died away within the

  palace, and the stranger, whom I now recognized, stood alone upon the

  flags. He shook with inconceivable agitation, and his eye glanced

  around in search of a gondola. I could not do less than offer him

  the service of my own ; and he accepted the civility. Having

  obtained an oar at the water-gate, we proceeded together to his

  residence, while he rapidly recovered his self-possession, and spoke

  of our former slight acquaintance in terms of great apparent

  cordiality.

  There are some subjects upon which I take pleasure in being

  minute. The person of the stranger - let me call him by this title,

  who to all the world was still a stranger - the person of the

  stranger is one of these subjects. In height he might have been

  below rather than above the medium size : although there were

  moments of intense passion when his frame actually _expanded_ and

  belied the assertion. The light, almost slender symmetry of his

  figure, promised more of that ready activity which he evinced at the

  Bridge of Sighs, than of that Herculean strength which he has been

  known to wield without an effort, upon occasions of more dangerous

  emergency. With the mouth and chin of a deity - singular, wild,

  full, liquid eyes, whose shadows varied from pure hazel to intense

  and brilliant jet - and a profusion of curling, black hair, from

  which a forehead of unusual breadth gleamed forth at intervals all

  light and ivory - his were features than which I have seen none more

  classically regular, except, perhaps, the marble ones of the Emperor

  Commodus. Yet his countenance was, nevertheless, one of those which

  all men have seen at some period of their lives, and have never

  afterwards seen again. It had no peculiar - it had no settled

  predominant expression to be fastened upon the memory ; a

  countenance seen and instantly forgotten - but forgotten with a vague

  and never-ceasing desire of recalling it to mind. Not that the

  spirit of each rapid passion failed, at any time, to throw its own

  distinct image upon the mirror of that face - but that the mirror,

  mirror-like, retained no vestige of the passion, when the passion had

  departed.

  Upon leaving him on the night of our adventure, he solicited me,

  in what I thought an urgent manner, to call upon him _very_ early the

  next morning. Shortly after sunrise, I found myself accordingly atr />
  his Palazzo, one of those huge structures of gloomy, yet fantastic

  pomp, which tower above the waters of the Grand Canal in the vicinity

  of the Rialto. I was shown up a broad winding staircase of mosaics,

  into an apartment whose unparalleled splendor burst through the

  opening door with an actual glare, making me blind and dizzy with

  luxuriousness.

  I knew my acquaintance to be wealthy. Report had spoken of his

  possessions in terms which I had even ventured to call terms of

  ridiculous exaggeration. But as I gazed about me, I could not bring

  myself to believe that the wealth of any subject in Europe could have

  supplied the princely magnificence which burned and blazed around.

  Although, as I say, the sun had arisen, yet the room was still

  brilliantly lighted up. I judge from this circumstance, as well as

  from an air of exhaustion in the countenance of my friend, that he

  had not retired to bed during the whole of the preceding night. In

  the architecture and embellishments of the chamber, the evident

  design had been to dazzle and astound. Little attention had been

  paid to the _decora_ of what is technically called _keeping_, or to

  the proprieties of nationality. The eye wandered from object to

  object, and rested upon none - neither the _grotesques_ of the Greek

  painters, nor the sculptures of the best Italian days, nor the huge

  carvings of untutored Egypt. Rich draperies in every part of the

  room trembled to the vibration of low, melancholy music, whose origin

  was not to be discovered. The senses were oppressed by mingled and

  conflicting perfumes, reeking up from strange convolute censers,

  together with multitudinous flaring and flickering tongues of emerald

  and violet fire. The rays of the newly risen sun poured in upon the

  whole, through windows, formed each of a single pane of

  crimson-tinted glass. Glancing to and fro, in a thousand

  reflections, from curtains which rolled from their cornices like

  cataracts of molten silver, the beams of natural glory mingled at

  length fitfully with the artificial light, and lay weltering in

  subdued masses upon a carpet of rich, liquid-looking cloth of Chili

  gold.

  "Ha ! ha ! ha ! - ha ! ha ! ha ! " - laughed the proprietor,

  motioning me to a seat as I entered the room, and throwing himself

  back at full-length upon an ottoman. "I see," said he, perceiving

  that I could not immediately reconcile myself to the _bienseance_ of

  so singular a welcome - "I see you are astonished at my apartment -

  at my statues - my pictures - my originality of conception in

  architecture and upholstery ! absolutely drunk, eh, with my

  magnificence ? But pardon me, my dear sir, (here his tone of voice

  dropped to the very spirit of cordiality,) pardon me for my

  uncharitable laughter. You appeared so _utterly_ astonished.

  Besides, some things are so completely ludicrous, that a man _must_

  laugh or die. To die laughing, must be the most glorious of all

  glorious deaths ! Sir Thomas More - a very fine man was Sir Thomas

  More - Sir Thomas More died laughing, you remember. Also in the

  _Absurdities_ of Ravisius Textor, there is a long list of characters

  who came to the same magnificent end. Do you know, however,"

  continued he musingly, "that at Sparta (which is now Palæ ; ochori,)

  at Sparta, I say, to the west of the citadel, among a chaos of

  scarcely visible ruins, is a kind of _socle_, upon which are still

  legible the letters 7!=9 . They are undoubtedly part of '+7!=9! .

  Now, at Sparta were a thousand temples and shrines to a thousand

  different divinities. How exceedingly strange that the altar of

  Laughter should have survived all the others ! But in the present

  instance," he resumed, with a singular alteration of voice and

  manner, "I have no right to be merry at your expense. You might well

  have been amazed. Europe cannot produce anything so fine as this, my

  little regal cabinet. My other apartments are by no means of the

  same order - mere _ultras_ of fashionable insipidity. This is better

  than fashion - is it not ? Yet this has but to be seen to become the

  rage - that is, with those who could afford it at the cost of their

  entire patrimony. I have guarded, however, against any such

  profanation. With one exception, you are the only human being besides

  myself and my _valet_, who has been admitted within the mysteries of

  these imperial precincts, since they have been bedizzened as you see

  !"

  I bowed in acknowledgment - for the overpowering sense of splendor

  and perfume, and music, together with the unexpected eccentricity of

  his address and manner, prevented me from expressing, in words, my

  appreciation of what I might have construed into a compliment.

  "Here," he resumed, arising and leaning on my arm as he sauntered

  around the apartment, "here are paintings from the Greeks to Cimabue,

  and from Cimabue to the present hour. Many are chosen, as you see,

  with little deference to the opinions of Virtu. They are all,

  however, fitting tapestry for a chamber such as this. Here, too, are

  some _chefs d'œuvre_ of the unknown great ; and here, unfinished

  designs by men, celebrated in their day, whose very names the

  perspicacity of the academies has left to silence and to me. What

  think you," said he, turning abruptly as he spoke - "what think you

  of this Madonna della Pieta ?"

  "It is Guido's own ! " I said, with all the enthusiasm of my

  nature, for I had been poring intently over its surpassing

  loveliness. "It is Guido's own ! - how _could_ you have obtained it

  ? - she is undoubtedly in painting what the Venus is in sculpture."

  "Ha ! " said he thoughtfully, "the Venus - the beautiful Venus ?

  - the Venus of the Medici ? - she of the diminutive head and the

  gilded hair ? Part of the left arm (here his voice dropped so as to

  be heard with difficulty,) and all the right, are restorations ; and

  in the coquetry of that right arm lies, I think, the quintessence of

  all affectation. Give _me_ the Canova ! The Apollo, too, is a copy

  - there can be no doubt of it - blind fool that I am, who cannot

  behold the boasted inspiration of the Apollo ! I cannot help - pity

  me ! - I cannot help preferring the Antinous. Was it not Socrates

  who said that the statuary found his statue in the block of marble ?

  Then Michael Angelo was by no means original in his couplet -

  'Non ha l'ottimo artista alcun concetto

  Che un marmo solo in se non circunscriva.' "