Tizianello Part 1

Tizianello.

by Alfred de Musset.

CHAPTER I.

IN the month of February, in the year 1580, a young man was crossing, at break of day, the Piazzetta, in Venice. His clothes were in disorder: his hat, on which was a fine scarlet plume waving in the breeze, was pushed down over his forehead. He was walking rapidly toward the Riva degli Schiavoni, his sword and mantle dragging in the dust, while, with a disdainful air, he cautiously stepped over the forms of the fishermen scattered on the ground. Having reached the Ponte della Paglia, he stopped and looked about him. The moon was setting behind the Giudecca, and the aurora of the morning was gilding the Ducal Palace. A thick smoke and a brilliant light from time to time escaped from a neighboring palace. Beams, stones, enormous blocks of marble, and other debris enc.u.mbered the Ca.n.a.l of Prisons. In the midst of the waters a fire had just destroyed a patrician's home. Flying sparks rose upward every moment, and by this brilliant light an armed soldier was to be seen mounting guard over the ruins.

But our young man seemed struck neither by this spectacle of destruction nor by the beauty of a sky tinged with the most delicate colors. For a time he looked in the distance, as if to distract his dazzled eyes. But the light of day seemed to have a disagreeable influence on him, for he folded his mantle round him and hastened on his way. He soon came to a stop at the door of a palace, on which he knocked. A valet, holding a candle in his hand, opened immediately. At the moment of entering he turned, and, casting a look at the sky, cried: "By Bacchus, my carnival is costing me dearly!" This young man was named Pomponio Filippo Vecellio. He was t.i.tian's second son, a child full of spirits and imagination, whose father cherished fond hopes for him, but whose pa.s.sion for play led him continually into riotous ways. It was scarce four years since the great painter and his eldest son Orazio had died, almost at the same time, and young Pippo, in four years, had already squandered the greater part of the immense fortune that this double inheritance had brought him. Instead of cultivating his natural abilities and sustaining the glory of his name, he spent his days in sleeping and his nights in playing at the house of a certain Comtesse, or at least so-called Comtesse, Orsini, who made the ruination of the young Venetians her business. There a.s.sembled at her house every night a numerous company of n.o.bles and courtiers. There they supped and played, and as their supper cost them nothing, it goes without saying, that the dice took care to indemnify the mistress of the house. While the sequins were piling up in heaps, Cyprus wine was flowing, and the victims were ogling their hostess and, doubly dazed, left behind them both their money and their reason.

It was from this dangerous spot that we have just seen emerge the hero of this tale, and he had suffered that night more than one loss. Besides having emptied his pockets at dice, the only picture he had ever completed, a picture that the connoisseurs voted excellent, had just been destroyed in the fire at the Dolfino Palace. It was an historical subject, treated with a spirit and a boldness of touch almost worthy of t.i.tian himself. Sold to a wealthy senator, this canvas had suffered the same lot as a great number of valuable works. The imprudence of a valet had reduced this wealth to ashes. But that was Pippo's smallest trouble.

He thought only of the bad luck which had followed him with such unusual obstinacy and of the dice which had caused his loss.

On returning home, his first act was to remove the cloth that covered his table and to count the money remaining in his drawer: then, being naturally of a gay and heedless character, when he had undressed, he sat at the window in his dressing-gown. Seeing that it was broad daylight, he wondered if he should close the shutters and go to bed or wake up like the rest of the world. It was a long time since he had seen the sun in the quarter whence it rises, and he found the sky more pleasing than usual. Before deciding to get up or to sleep, and still struggling against slumber, he took his chocolate on the balcony. As soon as his eyes closed, he could see a table, agitated hands and pale figures, and could hear the sound of the dice-boxes. "What fatal luck!" he murmured. "It is scarcely credible for one to lose with fifteen." And he saw his usual adversary, the old Vespasiano Memmo, throwing eighteen and taking possession of the gold that lay piled on the table. He quickly opened his eyes, to remove this bad dream, and watched the young girls walking on the quay. He seemed to see afar off a masked woman. He was astonished, although a carnival was taking place, for poor people are not masked, and it was strange that a Venetian lady should be out alone and on foot at such an hour.[1] But he saw that what he had taken for a mask was the face of a negress. He saw her soon from a closer point of view and noticed that she was possessed of tolerable good looks. She walked very fast, and a gust of wind driving her dress, streaked with flowers, tight against her hips, showed the outline of a graceful figure. Pippo leaned on the balcony and saw, not without surprise, that the negress was knocking at his door.

[1 In bygone times, the Venetians were out and masked as long as the carnival lasted.]

The porter was slow in opening.

"What do you want?" cried the young man. "Is it I that you want, brunette? My name is Vecellio, and, as they are keeping you waiting, I will come and open the door myself."

The negress raised her head.

"Is your name Pomponio Vecellio?"

"Yes, or Pippo, whichever you wish."

"You are t.i.tian's son?"

"At your service. What can I do for you?"

After casting a rapid and curious glance at Pippo, the negress stepped back a pace or two and cleverly threw up on the balcony a small box done up in paper, then rushed off precipitately, occasionally turning round. Pippo picked up the box, opened it and found a delicate purse wrapped up in cotton. He suspected with reason that under the cotton there might be a note explaining this adventure. The note was there, all right, but was as mysterious as the rest, for it contained but these words: "Do not spend too lavishly what I enclose. When you go out put to my charge a gold piece; that is sufficient for one day. And if in the evening there is anything left, however little it may be, you can find a beggar who will thank you for it."

When the young man had turned the box a hundred different ways, examined the purse, and again looked at the quay, at least he saw clearly that he could discover no more. "I must admit," he thought, "that this gift is peculiar, but is cruelly ill-timed. The advice I am given is good, but it is too late to tell any one he is drowning, when he is at the bottom of the Adriatic. Who the devil can have sent me this?"

Pippo had easily recognized that the negress was a servant. He began to rack his brains as to who was the woman, or the friend, likely to send him this present, and as his modesty did not blind him, he persuaded himself that it was more likely to be a woman than one of his friends. The purse was of velvet, embroidered with gold. It seemed to him that it was too delicately made to have come from any store. So he reviewed in his mind the most beautiful women in Venice, then those who were the opposite. But here he stopped and wondered what he could do to find out who had sent him the purse. Thereupon, he dreamed most deep and sweet dreams: more than once he thought he had guessed. His heart throbbed while he was doing his best to recognize the writing. There was a Princess of Bologna who formed her capital letters in this way, and a beautiful lady of Brescia whose writing was very similar.

Nothing is more disagreeable than an unpleasant idea suddenly gliding in among dreams of a like nature. It is just as if, while walking in a field of flowers, one stepped on a serpent. And it was just what Pippo felt when he suddenly remembered a certain Monna Bianchina, who latterly had particularly worried him.

With this woman he had had an adventure at a masked ball, and although she was pretty, he felt no love whatever for her. Monna Bianchina, on the contrary, had suddenly fallen in love with him, and she had even forced herself to perceive love where, in reality, there was but politeness. She attached herself to him, wrote often and overwhelmed him with tender reproaches. But, on leaving her one day, he had sworn never to return, and he kept his word scrupulously. So he began to think that Monna Bianchina might well have made him a purse and sent it to him. This suspicion destroyed his gaiety and the illusions which buoyed him up. The more he reflected, the more likely he thought this supposition. Out of temper, he closed his window and decided to go to bed.

But he was unable to sleep. In spite of all the probabilities, it was impossible for him to give up a doubt that flattered his vanity. He continued involuntarily to dream. He wished to forget the purse and to think no more about it: he wanted to forget the very existence of Monna Bianchina. Nevertheless he had drawn the curtains and had turned his face toward the wall so as not to see daylight.

Suddenly he leaped out of bed and summoned his servants. He had suddenly thought of something, simple enough, that had hitherto escaped him. Monna Bianchina was far from rich. She had but one servant and this servant was not a negress, but a large girl from Chioja. How had she on this occasion been able to obtain this unknown messenger whom Pippo had never seen in Venice? "Blessed be your black skin," he cried, "and the African sun that colored it." And without waiting longer, he called for his doublet and ordered his gondola.

CHAPTER II.

HE had resolved to call upon the Signora Dorothee, wife of Pasqualigo, the advocate. This lady, respected on account of her years, was one of the richest and most intelligent ladies of the republic. Besides, she was Pippo's G.o.dmother, and as there was no one of any distinction in Venice whom she did not know, he hoped she might help to fathom the mystery that surrounded him. Still, he thought it too early as yet to present himself before his patroness, and while waiting, strolled about under the Procuraties.

As luck willed it, whom should he meet there but Monna Bianchina, who was purchasing some cloth. He entered the store and without exactly knowing why, after a few commonplace remarks, he said to her, "Monna Bianchina, you sent me this morning a nice present, and gave me good advice. I tender you my most humble thanks."

Speaking in this tone of certainty, he perhaps expected at once to rid himself of the doubt that had tormented him. But Monna Bianchina was too cunning to exhibit surprise before having discovered if it was to her interest to show any.

Although she had really sent nothing to the young man, she saw that here was the means of putting him off the scent. It is true, she answered that she did not know of what he was speaking, but she took good care, in saying this, to laugh so slyly and blush so modestly that Pippo remained convinced, despite appearances, that the purse was from her. "And since when," he asked her, "have you had that pretty negress at your command?"

Disconcerted by this question, and not knowing how to answer, Monna Bianchina hesitated a moment, and then gave a hearty laugh and bruskly left him. Alone and disappointed Pippo gave up the visit he had planned, He went home, threw the purse in a corner, and no longer thought about it.

But some days later it happened that he lost a large sum in gambling and gave his note. As he went out to pay his debt, it seemed convenient for him to make use of this purse, which was large and looked well in his belt. So he took it, and that very night he played again and lost still more.

"Are you going on?" asked Ser Vespasiano, the old notary of the Chancellor's office, when Pippo had no more money.

"No," answered he, "I do not wish to play any more, on my note of hand."

"But I will lend you whatever you want," cried the Comtesse Orsini.

"And I also," said Ser Vespasiano.

"And I also," repeated one of the Comtesse's numerous nieces in a soft and sonorous voice; "but open your purse, Signor Vecellio, there is still another sequin inside."

Pippo smiled, and at the bottom of his purse found, in fact, a sequin, which he had forgotten. "So be it," said he, "let us have another throw, but I will risk no more." He took the dice-box, won, and, doubling the stakes, continued to play. In short, at the end of an hour he had made up his loss of the night before and that of the evening. "Are you going on?" in his turn he asked Ser Vespasiano, who no longer had anything in front of him.

"No! For I must be a big fool to allow myself to be drained by a man who would risk but one sequin. Cursed be that purse! No doubt it is bewitched."

The notary left the room furious. Pippo was preparing to follow him, when the niece, who had advised him, laughingly remarked, "Since it is to me you owe your luck, make me a present of the sequin which helped you to gain it."

This sequin had a small mark on it by which it could be recognized, Pippo looked for it, found it and he was already handing it over to the pretty niece, when he suddenly cried: "No, my beautiful one, you can not have it. But to show you I am not greedy, here are ten others which I beg you to accept. As for this one, I wish to follow some advice lately given me and I present it to Providence."

So speaking, he threw the sequin out of the window. "Is it possible," he said to himself, on returning home, "that the purse of Monna Bianchina brings me luck?

It would be a singular turn of fortune if a thing, which in itself is disagreeable to me, had a pleasing influence over me." And, in fact, it soon appeared to him that every time he made use of this purse, he won. When he placed a gold piece in it he could not help a certain superst.i.tious feeling, and, in spite of himself, he sometimes reflected on the truth contained in the words he had found at the bottom of the box. "A sequin is a sequin," he would say to himself, "and there are plenty of people who do not possess one for each day." This thought made him less imprudent and led him to somewhat curtail his expenses.

Unfortunately, Monna Bianchina had not forgotten her meeting with Pippo under the Procuraties. To confirm the mistake she had led him to believe in, from time to time she sent him a bouquet or some small nothing, accompanied by a short note. I have already stated that he was very tired of these attentions, to which he had made up his mind not to reply.

So it happened that Monna Bianchina, driven to desperation by this coldness, attempted a daring move, which greatly displeased the young man. She went alone to his house during his absence, bribed the servant, and succeeded in hiding in his room. On returning, he found her there, and felt himself obliged to tell her plainly that he had no love for her and that he begged her to leave him in peace.

La Bianchina, who, as I have said, was pretty, gave way to terrible anger. She overwhelmed Pippo with reproaches, but this time no longer tender ones. She told him he had deceived her in speaking of love, that she thought herself deeply injured, and finally, that she would be revenged. Pippo did not listen to all these threats, without himself being irritated. To show her that he was not afraid, he forced her, there and then, to take back a bouquet she had sent him that morning; and, as he happened to lay hands on the purse, he added: "Here, take this, too. This purse has brought me luck, but understand by this that I want nothing from you."

Hardly had he given way to this moment of anger, than he regretted it. Monna Bianchina took good care not to enlighten him regarding the lie she had told him. She was full of rage, but also of dissimulation. She took the purse and left, fully decided to make Pippo repent of the way in which he had treated her.

That evening he played as usual and lost. The following days brought no better luck. Ser Vespasiano always had the better dice and won considerable sums from him. He revolted against his luck and his superst.i.tion, became obstinate and lost again. At last, one day on leaving the Comtesse Orsini, he could not help crying on the stairs, "May G.o.d forgive me! I believe that old fool was right, and that my purse was bewitched, for I have not had a fair throw since the day I returned it to La Bianchina."

At this moment he perceived floating before him a dress embroidered with flowers, from which there appeared two active and slender legs; it was the mysterious negress. He doubled his pace, accosted her, and asked her who she was and to whom she belonged.

"Who knows?" answered the African, with a teasing laugh.

"You, I suppose. Are you not Monna Bianchina's servant?"

"No. Who is Monna Bianchina?"

"Well, by G.o.d! She it is who told you the other day to bring me that box which you so cleverly threw on to my balcony."

"Oh! Your Excellency, I do not think so."

"I know it; do not try to excuse yourself. It is she herself who told me."

"If she told you..." answered the negress in a hesitating manner. She shrugged her shoulders and thought for a moment. Then, giving Pippo a light tap on the cheek with her fan and running away, she cried: "My fine gentleman, you have been tricked." The streets in Venice form a labyrinth so complicated, they cross in so many different ways, in such a various and unexpected way, that Pippo, after having let the young girl escape, could not find her again. He felt very embarra.s.sed, for he had made two mistakes, the first in giving his purse to Bianchina, the second in not keeping the negress. Chancing to enter the town without being aware of it he went toward the palace of the Signora Dorothee, his G.o.dmother. He was sorry he had not made her the visit he had planned some days before. He was accustomed to consult her on everything that interested him and rarely had recourse to her without learning something.

He found her alone in the garden, and after having kissed her hand, remarked: "My dear G.o.dmother, think of the foolishness of which I have just been capable.

Not long ago, I received a purse..." But hardly had he said these words, when the Signora Dorothee began to laugh, "Well," said she, "is not the purse pretty?

Do you find the golden flowers look well on the red velvet?"

"What!" cried the young man, "is it possible you know of this?"

At this moment, several senators entered the garden. The venerable lady rose to receive them and made no answer to the questions that Pippo, in his astonishment, continued to ask her.

CHAPTER III.

WHEN the senators had left, the Signora Dorothee, in spite of her G.o.dson's prayers and importunity, absolutely refused to say more. She was annoyed that a sudden moment of mirth had made her acknowledge that she knew the secret of an adventure with which she wished to have nothing to do. Pippo still insisted.

"My dear child," said she, "all I can say is that it is true that I might be rendering you a service by giving you the name of the person who embroidered that purse for you, for she is a.s.suredly one of the most n.o.ble and beautiful ladies in Venice. Let this be sufficient. In spite of my wish to oblige you, I must be silent. I will not betray a secret which I alone possess and which I could not tell you, unless requested to, for I could then honorably do so."

"Honorably, my dear G.o.dmother? But can you think that in confiding to me only..."

"I understand," answered the old lady. And as, despite her dignity, she could not help a little sarcasm, she added: "Since you sometimes write poetry, why not make this the subject of your verses?"

Seeing that he could find out nothing, Pippo put an end to his questions. But his curiosity, as one may think, was excited to no small degree. He stayed to dinner with the Pasqualigo, unable to make up his mind to leave his G.o.dmother and hoping that his fair unknown might possibly call that night. But he saw only senators, magistrates, and the most important men of the republic.

At sunset, the young man separated from the rest of the company and went and sat down in a little grove. He thought of what he must do and determined on two things: to make La Bianchina give up his purse, and to follow the advice that the Signora Dorothee had laughingly given him, that is to say, to write a poem on his adventure. He also resolved to give this poem, when finished, to his G.o.dmother, who would no doubt show it to his fair unknown. Not wis.h.i.+ng to delay any longer, he at once put into execution his dual project.

After having arranged his doublet and carefully placed his hat on his head, he first examined himself in a mirror to see if he looked well, for his first thought had been to again deceive La Bianchina by fict.i.tious protestations of love and to persuade her by kindness. But he soon gave up this idea, reflecting that in this way he would only bring to life the woman's pa.s.sion and make further trouble for himself. He took the opposite course and hastily rushed to her house, as if he were furious. He prepared to create a scene and so well to intimidate her that she should henceforth leave him alone.

Monna Bianchina was one of those blonde Venetians with black eyes, whose resentment has always been looked upon as dangerous. Since he had so misused her, Pippo had not received a single message from her. She was, no doubt, preparing in silence the vengeance of which she had spoken. It was therefore necessary to strike a decisive blow, in default of increasing the harm done. She was about to go out when the young man arrived. He stopped her on the staircase and forced her to go back to her room.

"Unhappy woman!" he cried. "What have you done? You have destroyed all my hopes and your vengeance is accomplished!"

"Good G.o.d! What has happened to you?" asked La Bianchina, thunderstruck.

"Can you ask? Where is that purse that you told me came from you? Do you still dare lie to me?"

"What matters it if I have lied or not? I do not know where that purse has gone."

"You will die or return it!" cried Pippo, rus.h.i.+ng at her. And, with no respect for a new gown which the poor woman had just put on, he violently tore away the cloth that covered her breast and placed his dagger on her heart.

La Bianchina thought her end had come and began to call for help, but Pippo choked her with his handkerchief, and without her being able to utter a sound, he forced her to return the purse, which happily she had kept. "You have caused trouble to a powerful family," he then told her. "You have forever troubled one of the most ill.u.s.trious houses in Venice! Tremble! This redoubtable house watches you: neither you nor your husband will now take a single step without its being known. The Lords of the Night have inscribed your name in their book; think of the dungeons of the Ducal Palace! At the first word you say, that makes known the terrible secret that your malice has caused, your entire family disappears!"

With these words he left, and every one knows that in Venice none more terrifying could be uttered. The pitiless and secret arrests of the Corte Maggiore spread so great a terror that those who thought themselves even suspected already looked upon themselves as dead. This was just what happened in the case of La Bianchina's husband, Ser Orio, whom she had told, in part, of the threat that Pippo had just made. It is true that she ignored the motives, and in fact Pippo himself ignored them, since all this was but a fable. But Ser Orio prudently thought it was not necessary to know why one had brought down upon oneself the wrath of the supreme court, and that the most important thing was to avoid it. He was not born in Venice. His parents lived on the mainland. So he embarked the next day with his wife and they were no longer spoken of. It was thus that Pippo found means of getting rid of La Bianchina, and of repaying her with interest for the injury she had done him. All her life she thought that a state secret was really connected with the purse, which she had wished to steal, and as in this strange event everything was a mystery to her, she could only conjecture. The parents of Ser Orio made this the subject of their particular conversation. Beginning with suppositions they finished by creating a plausible tale. "A great lady," said they, "had become enamored of Tizianello, that is to say, of t.i.tian's son, who himself was in love with Monna Bianchina, and of course in vain. Now this great lady, who had herself embroidered a purse for Tizianello, was no other than the Doge's wife. Imagine her wrath on learning that Tizianello had sacrificed this gift of love to La Bianchina!"

Such was the family tradition repeated with lowered voices in the little house of Ser Orio in Padua.

Pleased with the success of his first enterprise, our hero now thought of attempting the second-to write a poem for his beautiful unknown. As the strange comedy in which he had taken part had moved him, in spite of himself, he commenced by rapidly writing one or two verses full of a certain rapture. Hope, love, mystery, all the impa.s.sioned expressions common to poets, rushed headlong through his mind. "But," thought he, "my G.o.dmother told me it was to do with one of the most n.o.ble and most beautiful ladies in Venice: I must therefore be proper and approach her with more respect."

He effaced what he had written, and pa.s.sing from one extreme to the other, he put together a few sonorous lines to which he tried hard to adapt, not without trouble, thoughts similar to his lady; that is to say, the most beautiful and n.o.ble he could think of. For hope too bold, he subst.i.tuted a fearful doubt; in the place of mystery and love, he spoke of respect and grat.i.tude. Unable to eulogize the charms of a woman he had never seen, he, as delicately as possible, made use of some vague terms which might apply to all faces. Shortly, after two hours of thought and work, he had written twelve pa.s.sable verses, extremely harmonious and very significant.

He made a careful copy on a fine sheet of parchment, and on the margins designed birds and flowers which he carefully colored. But directly his task was finished he read over his verses once more, and thereupon threw them out of the window into the ca.n.a.l, which pa.s.sed close to the house. "Whatever am I doing?" he asked himself. "Of what use to follow up this adventure, if my conscience does not speak?"

He took his mandolin and walked up and down the room, singing and playing an old tune composed for some of Petrarch's sonnets. At the end of a quarter of an hour he stopped; his heart was throbbing. He no longer thought of conventionalities, nor of the effect he might produce. The purse he had seized from La Bianchina, and which he had just brought back in triumph, was lying on the table. He looked at it and said to himself: "The woman who made that for me must love me and know how to love, too. Such a work is long and difficult; those light threads, those brilliant colors take time, and in working, she thought of me. In the few words that accompanied that purse there was a friend's advice and not one ambiguous word. It is a love challenge sent by a woman with a heart. If she thought of me but for one day, I must bravely take up the glove."

He started again and in taking up his pen was more agitated by fear and hope than when he had risked the largest sums on the throw of the dice. Without reflecting and without stopping, he hastily wrote a sonnet, of which the following is about the meaning: When first I conned the somber beauty of His song, I longed to tune my new-strung lyre And catch the wondrous harmony and fire- Whose endless fuel was brave Petrarch's love Of Laura sweet-that I might somehow prove Another Laura quite so loved. O, dire The effort! When did Boldness so aspire, Or tree-frog try to imitate the dove?

Alas, I've Petrarch's message in my heart And am a moody lover day and night E'er breathing halting prose for poesy And making putty ape the marbled art: O, sweet, sad master of a death delight For such fond sorrow I'd unhappy be!

Pippo then next day called at the house of the Signora Dorothee. As soon as he found himself alone with her, he placed his sonnet in the ill.u.s.trious lady's lap, saying, "For your friend." The Signora at first appeared surprised, then she read the verses, and vowed she would never show them to any one. But Pippo only laughed, and as he was sure of the contrary, he left, a.s.suring her he felt no uneasiness regarding the matter.

CHAPTER IV.

NEVERTHELESS, he lived through the following week in great trouble, but this trouble was not without its charms. He remained at home and did not dare, so to speak, to stir up Fortune for fear of affecting it. In this he was wiser than one usually is, at his age, for he was only twenty-five, and the impatience of youth will often make us overreach ourselves in attempting too quickly to achieve our desires. Fortune wishes us to help ourselves and to know when the time is ripe: for, according to Napoleon's saying, she is a woman. But, for this very reason, she wishes to appear to grant that which is s.n.a.t.c.hed from her, and she must be given time to open her hand.