III.
"Sulpizia's powerful nature chafed in the narrow bounds of the convent discipline. But her religious education assured her that that discipline was so much the more necessary, and she struggled with the sirens of worldly desire. The other sisters were shocked and surprised, at one moment by her surpassing fervor, at another by her bold and startling protests against their miserable bondage.
"Often, at vespers, in the dim twilight of the chapel, she flung back her cape and hood, with the tears raining from her eyes and her voice gushing and throbbing with the melancholy music, while the nuns paused in their singing, appalled by the religious ecstasy of Sulpizia. She was so sweet and gentle in her daily intercourse that all of them loved her, bending to her caresses like grain to the breeze; but they trembled in the power of her denunciation, which shook their faith to the centre, for it seemed to be the voice of a faith so much profounder.
"While she was yet young she was elected abbess of the convent. It was a day of triumph for her powerful family. Perhaps the Count Balbo may have sometimes regretted that solemn vow, but he never betrayed repentance. Perhaps he would have been more secretly satisfied by the triumphant worldly career of a woman like his daughter, but he never said so.
"Sulpizia knew that my brother loved her. I think she loved him—at least I thought so.
"The nuns were not jealous of her rule, for the superior genius which commanded them also consoled and counselled; and her protests becoming less frequent, her persuasive affection won all their hearts. They saw that the first fire of youth slowly saddened in her eyes. Her mien became even more lofty; her voice less salient; and a shadow fell gently over her life. The sisters thought it was age; but Sulpizia was young. Others thought it was care; but her duties could not harass such a spirit. Others thought it was repentance; but natures like hers do not early repent.
"It was resolved that the portrait of the abbess should be painted, and the nuns applied to her parents to select the artist. They, in turn, consulted my brother Camillo, who was the friend of the family, and for whom the Count Balbo would, I believe, have willingly unvowed his vow. Camillo had left Venice as the great door of the convent closed behind his life and love. He fled over the globe. He lost himself in new scenes, in new employments. He took the wings of the morning, and flew to the uttermost parts of the earth,[A] and there he found—himself. So he returned an older and a colder man. His love, which had been a passion, seemed to settle into a principle. His life was consecrated to one remembrance. It did not dare to have a hope.
[A] I use, here, words corresponding to the Marchesa's.
"He brought with him a friend whom he had met in the East. Together upon the summit of the great pyramid they had seen the day break over Cairo, and on the plain of Thebes had listened for Memnon to gush with music as the sun struck him with his rod of light. Together they had travelled over the sea-like desert, breaking the awful silence only with words that did not profane it. My brother conversing with wise sadness—his friend Luigi with hope and enthusiasm.
"Luigi was a poor man, and an artist. My brother was proud, but real grief prunes the foolish side of pride, while it fosters the nobler. It was a rare and noble friendship. Rare, because pride often interferes with friendships among men, where all conditions are not equal. Noble, because the two men were so, although only one had the name and the means of a nobleman. But he shared these with his friend, as naturally as his friend shared his thoughts with him. Neither spoke much of the past. My brother had rolled a stone over the mouth of that tomb, and his friend was occupied with the suggestions and the richness of the life around him. If some stray leaf or blossom fell forward upon their path from the past, it served to Luigi only as a stimulating mystery.
"'This is my memory,' he would say, touching his portfolio, which was full of eastern sketches. 'These are the hieroglyphics Egypt has herself written, and we can decipher them at leisure upon your languid lagunes.'
"It was not difficult for my brother to persuade Luigi to return with him to Venice. I shall not forget the night they came, as long as I remember anything."
The Marchesa paused a moment, dreamily.
"It was the eve of the Purification," she said, at length, pausing again. After a little, she resumed:
"We were ignorant of the probable time of Camillo's return; and about sunset my mother, my younger sister Fiora, and I, were rowing along the Guidecca, when I saw a gondola approaching, containing two persons only beside the rowers, followed by another with trunks and servants. I have always watched curiously new arrivals in Venice, for no other city in the world can be entered with such peculiar emotion. I had scarcely looked at the new comers before I recognized my brother, and was fascinated by the appearance of his companion, who lay in a trance of delight with the beauty of the place and the hour.
"His long hair flowed from under his slouched hat, hanging about a face that I cannot describe; and his negligent travelling dress did not conceal the springing grace of his figure. But to me, educated in Venice, associated only with its silent, stately nobles; a child, early solemnized by the society of decay and of elders whose hearts were never young, to me the magnetic charm of the young man was his youth, and I gazed at him with the same admiring earnestness with which he looked at the city and the scene.
"The gondolas constantly approached. My brother lay lost in thoughts which were visible in the shadow they cast upon his features. His head rested upon his hand, and he looked fixedly toward the island on which the convent stands. A light summer cloak was drawn around him, and hid his figure entirely, except his arm and hand. His cap was drawn down over his eyes. He was not conscious of any being in the world but Sulpizia.
"Suddenly from the convent tower the sound of the vesper bell trembled in throbbing music over the water. It seemed to ring every soul to prayer. My brother did not move. He still gazed intently at the island, and the tears stole from his eyes. Luigi crossed himself. We did the same, and murmured an Ave Maria.
"'Heavens! Camillo!' cried my mother, suddenly. He started, and was so near that there was a mutual recognition. In a moment the gondolas were side by side, and the greetings of a brother and sisters and mother long parted, followed. Meanwhile, Camillo's companion remained silent, having respectfully removed his hat, and looking as if he felt his presence to be profane at such a moment. But my brother turned, and taking him by the hand, said:
"'Dear mother, I might well have stayed away from you twice as long, could I have hoped to find a friend like this.'
"His companion smiled at the generosity of his introduction. He greeted us all cordially and cheerfully, and the light fading rapidly, we rowed on in the early starlight. The gondolas slid side by side, and there was a constant hum of talk.
"I alone was silent. I felt a sympathy with Camillo which I had never known before. The tears came into my eyes as I watched him gently conversing with my mother, turning now and then in some conversation with Luigi and my younger sister. How I watched Luigi! How I caught the words that were not addressed to me! How my heart throbbed at his sweet, humorous laugh, in which my sister joined, while his eyes wandered wonderingly toward mine, as if to ask why I was so silent. I tried to see that they fastened upon me with special interest. I could not do it. Gracious and gentle to all, I could not perceive that his manner toward me was different, and I felt a new sorrow.
"So we glided over the Lagune into the canal, and beneath the balconied palaces, until we reached our own. The gondolas stopped. Luigi leaped out instantly upon the broad marble pavement, and assisted my mother to alight, then my sister. Then I placed my hand in his, and my heart stood still. It was a moment, but it was also an age. The next instant I stood free upon the step. Free—but bound forever.
"We were passing up the staircase into the palace, Luigi plucked an orange bud and handed it to me. I was infinitely happy!
"A few steps further, and he broke an acacia for my sister: ah! I was miserable!
"We ascended into the great saloon, and a cheerful evening followed. Fascinated by these first impressions of Venice, Luigi abandoned himself to his abundant genius, and left us at midnight, mutually enchanted. Youth and sympathy had overcome all other considerations. We had planned endless days of enjoyment. He had promised to show us his sketches. It was not until our mother asked of my brother who he was, that all the human facts appeared.
"'Heavens!' shouted my younger sister, Fiora, laughing with delight, 'think of the noble Marchese Cicada, who simpers, per Bacco, that the day is warm, and, per dieci, that I am lovelier than ever. Viva Luigi! Viva O il pittore.'
"'My daughter,' said my grave, cautious mother, 'you are very young yet—you do not understand these things. Good night, my child!'
"Fiora kissed her on the brow, and darted out of the room as if she were really alive.
"When she had gone, Camillo smiled in his cold, calm way, and turning to me, asked how I liked Luigi. I answered calmly, for I was of the same blood as my brother. I did not disguise how much superior I thought him to the youth I knew. I was very glad he had found such a friend, and hoped the young man would come often to see us, and be very successful in his profession.
"Then I was silent. I did not say that I had never lived until that evening. I did not say how my heart was chilled, because, in leaving the room, Luigi's last glance had not been for me, but for Fiora.
"Camillo did not praise him much. It was not his way; but I felt how deeply he honored and loved him, and was rejoiced to think that necessity would often bring us together; only my mother seemed serious, and I knew what her gravity meant.
"'Do not be alarmed, dear mother,' I said to her, as I was leaving the room.
"'My daughter,' she answered, with infinite pride, 'it is not possible. I do not understand you. And you, my daughter, you do not understand yourself nor the world."
"She was mistaken. Myself I did understand; the world I did not."
Again the Marchesa was silent and tears stood in her eyes. She was seventy years old. Yes, but in love's calendar there is no December.
"The days passed, and we saw Luigi constantly. He was very busy, but found plenty of time to be with us. His paintings were full of the same kind of power I felt in his character. He never wearied of the gorgeous atmospheric effects of which Titian and Paul, Giorgione and Tintoretto were the old worshippers. They touched him sometimes with a voluptuous melancholy in which he found a deeper inspiration.
"Every day I loved him more and more, and nobody suspected it. He did not, because he was only glad to be in my society when he wanted criticism. He liked me as an intelligent woman. He loved Fiora as a bewitching child.
"My mother watched us all, and soon saw there was nothing to fear. I sought to be lively—to frequent society; for I knew if my health failed I should be sent away from Venice and Luigi. He had given me a drawing—a scene composed from our first meeting upon the Lagune. The very soul of evening repose brooded upon the picture. It had even an indefinable tone of sadness, as if he had incorporated into it the sound of the vesper bell. It had been simply a melancholy sound to him. To the rest of us, who loved Camillo, it was something more than that. In his heart the mere remembrance of the island rang melancholy vespers forever.
"This drawing I kept in a private drawer. At night, when I went to my chamber, I opened the drawer and looked at it. It lay so that I did not need to touch it; and as I gazed at it, I saw all his own character, and all that I had felt and lived since that evening.
"At length the day came, on which the parents of Sulpizia came to my brother to speak of her portrait. Camillo listened to them quietly, and mentioned his friend Luigi as a man who could understand Sulpizia, and therefore paint her portrait. The parents were satisfied. It was an unusual thing; but at that time, as at all times, a great many unusual things could be done in convents, especially if one had a brother, who was Cardinal Balbo.