A DAUGHTER OF VENICE A DAUGHTER OF VENICE. BY JOHN SEYMOUR WOOD. IL LUSTRATED BY FRANCIS THAYER NEW YORK CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY FOURTH AVENUE Stack Annex COPYRIGHT, 1892, BY T. S. WOOD. Press of J. J. Linle & Co., Astor P ace, New York. StacK Annex " Love, in this summer night, do you recall Midnight, and Venice, and those skies of June Thick-sown with stars, when from the still lagoon We glided noiseless through the dim canal? A sense of some belated festival Hung round us, and our own hearts beat in tune With passionate memories that the young moon Lit up on dome and tower and palace wall. We dreamed what ghosts of vanished loves made part Of that ssveet light and trembling, amorous air; I felt in those rich beams that kissed your hair, Those breezes warm with by-gone lovers sighs All the dead beauty of Venice in your eyes, <\11 the old loves of Venice in my heart." JOHN HAY, in Harper s Monthly. DAUGHTER OF VENICE. VENICE, Nov. $th. RESUME my diary neglected for so many months for the reason, suffi ciently satisfactory to myself, that here, in Venice, those who come after me, and who may see fit to peruse it, will find writ ten less of myself and more of what I note in this strange, sad old city. I intend to make a study of the lesser known art ists of the school of Paul Veronese and of Paris Bordone ; I intend to spend some days in the Old Library ; I have already printed in the Review some notes on Gol- 8 A Daughter of Venice. doni, and on Carlo Gozzi : I intend thus to make my stay here of some small value to literature and art. I shall leave some notes which may be useful to Alfred, my nephew, who betrays a desire to make lit erature his profession and shows unmis takable signs of authorship, and whose in teresting monograph on Mediaeval Florence I received in London, forwarded by ex press from Boston. I shall furnish him with some valuable notes also, on Roman- in, Capelletti, Quadre, and Daru. As for this strange, splendid city of Venice, to my shame I now recall that on my first visit I thought most of the old palazzi required repairs ; that the odors arising from some of the narrow canals, and the sunless calle, were very disagreeable. In those happy days of my " Wander- jahre," I ran down from Vienna for a week in Venice, prepared to exhaust its treasures in a few days ; to consider St, Mark s a dingy bit of orientalism ; to fully believe that the " unapproachable Piazzetta " was literally so, and badly arranged ; to smile A Daughter of Venice. at the Campanile a tall red brick factory chimney out of whose pinnacle I regretted the absence of the busy smoke of produc tion. I remember I had no sympathy then for the graceful and beautiful disintegra tion which I saw "at either hand." It had no story to tell me, and my Byronic enthu siasm for " the pleasant place of all fes tivity " began and ended, too some years later. Sometimes, looking backward, I have attributed this insensibility to igno rance ; but I am the more convinced after revisiting "the Masque of (Mediaeval) Italy," that it was purely because I was at the time very much of an American, and a materialistic young American at that. My face was turned solely to the future, to commercial success. But as the years went on, and I came to the time of "the thoughtful middle age," and the generous hopefulness for all things American faded a little ; as, indeed, the tone of those of my friends in America, about me, underwent a change into the minor key of criticism, and the " liberties" granted by our post-revolu tionary forefathers became, under scrutiny, io A Daughter of Venice. difficult to define in the concrete ; as, in deed, the industrial and commercial spirit grew and thrived, to the suppression of much that I had learned already to be necessary to the best " life," and I saw clearly that the real liberties were not so much to be regulated by government as by opinion ; that success in purely physical development did not wholly make a nation ; when, indeed, I tired of the continuous rush and roar of our coarser, noisier, material civilization, I turned to Venice again this time as a lover. Its hopelessness fascinated me. The tragedy of its fine silent despair stirred me. I recalled that, after all, in the days of its glory it might not have received my admiration. It was a city of commerce and industry like our own in America ; it was active, energetic, pushing ; it fought wars in order to sell its cloths and jewelry ; it rifled cities to embellish its own " home market," and " pirated " gold and silver from the great mosques of Constantinople to adorn its gorgeous Church of St. Mark. I was not aware but that the " blind old Dandolo," A Daughter of Venice. u or Mocenigo, or the Council of Ten, would have been found exasperatingly like some of our pushing, energetic countrymen. I admitted to myself, that I belonged to that growing class of Americans the unsat isfied. It is either that the " liberties" of my oratorical forefathers were, in their practical details, less attractive, or, in the course of years, have suffered an unholy change. I believe to-day, that Venice consoles very delicately and sympathet ically those Americans who have not especially the " joy of patriotism." All is over, here. The city is now passionless. It gives one, more than nature, deep calm, sincere repose. I am not required to have any opinions to take sides. So for three days I have sat about idly, or swung in the tender, cradle-like movement of a gondola. It seems sometimes as though I were tast ing eternity here, among these environ ments of age. That, in fact, there is, here, neither youth nor age, nor time, nor aught but kindly Death. As I sit in the windows of my hotel and glance down, this November afternoon, A Daughter of Venice. upon a flight of sea gulls which sweep along the Canalazzo on flashing wings, I confess that New York five hundred years hence may, as well as Venice, have the happy destiny to become a most charm ing city. The taint of money getting has finally disappeared in the grey of these old palace walls. It is possible that the taint may depart from the brown stone ; but will any intelligent geologist tell us whether the brown stone will retain its co- hesiveness after the age of business has passed away ? Or is it a temporary meally sandstone which is destined to melt into the Bay and give place to something finer in the way of architecture while we are still masters? November is hardly the month to see Venice ; it rains frequently. Now and then, however, there are gorgeous, high- colored days when the SUIT flashes in daz zling brilliancy across the glittering facade of the Procuratie. Such an afternoon was yesterday s. The sun makes the season in this leafless city ; it bathes the golden dome of St. Mark s in radiant summer A Daughter of Venice. 13 light. To-day there is a dead sombre pall of winter grey over all. Across the Grand Canal yonder, rise the stained marble walls of the Palazzo Mocenigo, from the open casement of which Lord Byron s " Baker- ess " leaped laughing, one moonlit night (my guide book tells me), to her death. In a palace a little way below, the girlhood of Catharine Cornaro, Queen of Cyprus, a fascinating figure of the i5th century, was passed. I close my eyes, and the magnificent (but insincere) pageant which greeted that beautiful woman s return to Venice the music, the parade of the Bucentaur, the rich color of the costumes, the march of the heralds, the solemnity of the mock reception glows before me. I am rudely awakened by the sound of laughter and voices below me. I look down and see a party of my countrymen and women wafted past upon the puffing vaporetto, or canal omnibus. There is something in their preference for the noisy little steamer which angers me. A tall gentleman in solemn black, and " threaded gloves of lisle," points, guide book in 14 A Daughter of Venice. hand, as it were rebukingly, at Byron s palace. Permit me here to record my dis approbation of the use of the index um brella in the hands of my countrymen. Twenty times to-day have I observed it raised and pointed with a moral signifi cance toward the Palazzo Mocenigo. It assists more than the flaming advertise ments of the curiosity shops in making of Venice an exhibition, a something to b^ seen, not felt. I have a presentiment thai the passengers upon the steamer quite re gard it so ; they seem to look upon the abundance of water around them with the eyes of persons accustomed to a sudden rise of their native rivers with the eyes of connoisseurs in floods. At least, it would appear that they have no regard for the depth of color in the dark, green-blue water, or in the pink stuccoed wall of the stately pile yonder, or in the vast grey of the sky above, or in the rich red drapery of the gondola of the Princess B , which sweeps by them almost unnoticed. Every thing to my countrymen must be distinctly of use, and it appears to them that the A Daughter of Venice. uses of Venice are past, and so unimpor tant. Yet it would seem that they are but partly right. At the conversazione of Madame Constance last night, I made the acquaintance of a number of the Venetian nobili, who had the boldness of faith sol emnly to observe that the true greatness of the " Planter of the Lion " dated from the epoch of " United Italy," and that her greatest glory was " to arrive." To look upon Venice as in her infancy, occurred to me then to be not only distinctly unique, but to be entirely an American a western audacity. But the Americans ! It is not the place to come to in order to avoid them. There are several charming hospitable Bostonians housed along the Canalazzo. There are Philadelphians at the hotels. At the Museo Civico I met a party of Kentuck- ians. At the Ca d Oro they crowd upon you. The Palazzo Dario is full of my countrymen and women. It is New York, they tell me, which is still a foreign city the European cities are rapidly becoming Americanized ! November ^th. PICK up from my table one of Mr. Ruskin s more recent pamphlets in which he bitterly de nounces the repairers of a portion of the magnificent vestibule of St. Mark s. To be in Venice is to read the author of " The Stones," to smile at his brilliant strenuous- ness his earnestness. But when I find myself suddenly laughing it is not because of Mr. Ruskin s strenuousness. Across the narrow calle rises, opposite my window, the Palazzo Regiani, an enormous granite pile of the Renaissance. It has for me an ab surdly familiar aspect owing to its resem blance to a large business and banking building in lower Broadway. I happen to glance down into one of the great fenetres. I see an expanse of gorgeous, if faded, A Daughter of Venice. 17 chambers, glittering chandeliers of crystal glass for the heavy curtains are to-day well drawn back and an array of dingy sculptures, above which hang dim pic tures in heavy gilded frames. A young girl, holding the long train of her silken skirt in her hand, is backing toward the window step by step, along the polished marble floor. She is followed by a tiny King Charles spaniel, erect upon two legs, and holding upon his high-bred, slender nose a bit of confetti. The forlorn aspect of the poor little beast makes me laugh. His eyes are rolled up to his mistress in a most beseeching way. His queer little hop and sad demeanor at last seem to awaken the pity of the girl. She suddenly falls on her knees, clasps the little dog in her arms, and covers him with kisses. It is a pretty abandon, and she falls prone on the marble floor holding the dog above her at arms length, giving me the innocent exhibition of a very charming girlish fig ure. I cannot see her face, as her hair it is the old Titianesque red has fallen in such heavy showers over her shoulders. 1 8 A Daughter of Venice. She sits up on the floor, and I notice she has the schoolgirl shake of the head the throw of the hair back, like a mane ; in every quick motion there is intense life as it appears in the way she rises an almost feverish animation. I approach the window furtively ; this bit of life in the great dead palazzo arrests my attention, fascinates me. Instantly the entire faade of stained granite undergoes a change ; it brightens, it glows with a reason for being ; it is the home of a warm human spirit. Yet I do not quite see the girl s face ; catching the little dog in her arms, she walks quickly away down the long corridor with a certain stately elegance of carriage in her retreat. She allows her long white train to fall, and passes window after window with a flash of lessening radiance. Her riant romping figure, as she walks down the long vista, now changes into one of statuesque dignity. I infer that others have entered the salon ; that she is not alone. I am right. As she disappears through a gilded doorway, two gentlemen enter the hall under a narrow silken hanging in a wide A Daughter of Venice. 19 arch. One of them bows quite low after the retreating figure of the girl. For a moment, I confess, I am in hope that she will return. The old palace seems, without her, almost too stately, too gloomy. The dark stains below the lintels, the green moss at the plinth of two Corinthian columns, give it additional solemnity. Odd that this one fair young girl should be able to change, in an instant, for me the vast, magnificent pile. I pry into my heart a little, and Ruskin lies unread. Could a fair young creature like that ever bring sunshine into my weary life ? Was it me, or the old palace, she changed so suddenly? November $>th. AM sitting at a little table at Florian s, idly contemp lat i ng the throngs of fores fieri, who, like birds of pas sage, are on their way South, and who pause in their flight at Venice. The day is again clear, the sky deeply blue. The Piazza is very gay; there are many charming English girls with their fresh complexions. There are very many smart young dandies, too. There is the solitary young lady from Newburyport, is it ? going about unchaperoned save by the sternness of her spectacles. These pale-faced, black-mustachioed, pointed- bearded young Venetian dandies, in outre silk hats and green kid gloves and canes like the Inglesi, are fair specimens of A Daughter of Venice. Florian s habitues. They may ogle and smile at the Newburyport miss, or at those two pretty American girls in grey tailor- made suits, in vain. The Americans are industriously feeding the poor pigeons very tough biscuit, and regard the Italians with their calm, wondering, imperturbable stare, very much as they regard their servitore di piazza, who chatters broken English to their papa, near by. I am quite certain they are Americans these girls ; one of them bows ; yes they are the Misses Romney, of West Fifty-seventh Street, New York. As I approach, the Misses Romney ex tend their well-gloved hands and screech : " We saw you at the opera you would not look at us we are doing Venice in three days shocking state of repair, isn t it ? Nothing fit to eat except the ome- lettes-aux-confitures, and one cannot live on sweets always. When do you go back, Mr. Burden ? Are you going to write a novel about Venice? or why are you here? Why are you always here ? Didn t the Lamberts meet you here a year ago ? And 22 A Daughter of Venice. weren t you here the year before that ? We enjoyed er er your last book so very much. The er characters all so interesting. We are going to Lady Gor gon s dance to-night Casa Bonifacio Mamma met Lady Gorgon in London. Are you going or are you do you consider yourself too old for that sort of thing ? " I utter a few commonplaces, seize the honest hand of Papa Romney, a gruff old gentleman of sixty, in English mutton chops and gaiters, and make a lame excuse to get away. The Misses Romney will not have it, however. They are very well dressed, I will say that for them, and they do not disgrace one ; but their chatter is not amusing to me. Nothing gives me a sense of age more than to realize this. Has the day completely gone by for me when chaffing and banter can serve to en tertain ? I can readily recall the old days in New York when I enjoyed this sort of thing remarkably well. Persiflage was then the correct thing. It would appear that to be bright and quick and dashing is still the aim of \.\\t fin-de-sihle New York girl. A Daughter of Venice. 23 " But, Mr. Burden, is it not awfully er dirty ?" I stare at the younger Miss Romney, horrified. This is sacrilege. " But really, Venice does need a good spring cleaning, as Mamma says." I turn on my heel. " There, you have perfectly disgusted Mr. Burden," says the other sister; "he s going to leave us. Depend upon it, he wont come near us again." I smile as I take my departure, mutter ing to myself : " It is a pity we Venetians have not still the lettres de cachet ! " It would give me enormous satisfaction to deal with these rich, crass, lively, mate rial, unappreciative imitators of the Eng lish, summarily, and slap them willy-nilly into some especially disagreeable Vene tian oubliette ! As I approach the western side of the Piazza, it occurs to me to ascend the slop ing brick path of the Campanile. The great tower is to-day thronged. It is ap parent that every one is as anxious, this 24 A Daughter of Venice. cool weather, as I am, to get nearer the sun. In the descending crowd of fashion ables I encounter the sharp little black eyes of the Countess Maria-Giuseppe Co- logni. She is a thin-featured little wea zened old woman, who, they say, looked the same when she threw a bouquet of roses into Victor Emmanuel s carriage the day he first entered Rome. A pinched, walnut- faced little " "lustrissima," who knows every one s history, from Naples to Paris, and who speaks seven languages and " ze Inglese (which is not a language) littella bit." She is frank enough to announce to me that " ze Inglese " is not a tongue, but a " jargon." She spoke to me her faultless Italian for a half hour at her salon the other night, and I hardly had a chance to reply. She wished me, she said then, as she repeats now, to meet her Venetian nobili. " You will make a most admirable model ; for now they imitate, these illus- trissimi it is ze new fad, my sir -not ze Inglese, but ze American!. " Indeed, I have heard that this was the fact from some friends in Rome, and I bow A Daughter of Venice. 25 my acknowledgments. Countess Cologni nods and smiles, and gives me the tips of her shabby black gloves. She has the dull complexion of the Venetians, but her eyes sparkle with their quick vivacity. I ask how she has the boldness to climb the Campanile to-day. She answers that the Signor Carmiolente has delivered one of his fashionable lectures at two o clock in the belfry. " The Dorian wars, you know, M. Bur den ; as if we cared what brought us to gether. Professor Carmiolente permits of the whispered conversation. Ah, but it was delightful to hear again of the con quests of Venice, too." The little woman seemed for a moment to glow with her pride of history, and was briefly silent. All the while she nods right and left at the crowd who are coming down. " There is Milord H , and there is the Prince Kavonowski ; ah, but there is an end of the race there is but one young figlia in Venice of the true Venetians but one, and of the men only a few. 26 A Daughter of Venice. Have you seen Madamigella la Contessa Isabel Folsogni ? She is Isabel Inglese not Isabella, you observe. Charmante charmante ? A child of the sixteenth cen tury. My God, but you may see her, and Desdemona or Cornaro, or Bianca appears again. She is just arrived from \\er pension at Paris. She has had all the advantages, they say. They gave her an American teacher. She herself is quite the American very free, very irrepressible, very brave. She is beginning in the American way ; she is bold now, when she is married, per haps, she will grow more timid and silent, like most of your pretty countrywomen." I pay no attention to this little thrust, and the Countess continues in her fluid Italian : " At the Palazzo Regiani she has insti tuted the oddest American evenings - very late, and after the opera ; she organ izes lectures, debates, ombres chinoises. It is amusing, her ardor." " At the Palazzo Regiani ? Then I have had the pleasure of seeing your beautiful Isabel s back from mv hotel windows." A Daughter of Venice. 27 " Her back ! Mon Dieu, you must see her front, M. Burden, and you will worship as do the others. You shall come to my salon on Tuesday. You will meet her ; you will be able to converse with her in ze Inglese upon many topics yes, history, geography, the States, Boston, out, vraiment. She will fascinate, M. Burden, truly." I bow, as Countess Cologni turns away, and say : " I had a birthday last week, my dear Countess." " You come now to the marriageable age. You are not too sedate at thirty." " Some days I feel very old," I say, " even at thirty. You know, perhaps, that I have met with a great bereavement my sister, whom I dearly loved. I have my days of great depression. All the whole cheery world of America cannot revive me. Since my sister s death I do not care for many of the same things. She was younger than I ; I saw many things pleasantly through her eyes. Oh, I feel very old these days. So I come to Venice for some liter ary work. You will see little of me." A Datighter of Venice. " A true Venetian," she mutters, glancing me over quickly, "not an American at all." " Yes, I feel very old, and yet at times I am suddenly revived. I had that expe rience yesterday. This young Madami- gella of yours is very full of buoyant life and high spirits her vitality attracts me, I confess." I recount the little episode of the King Charles spaniel which I saw from my hotel. Countess Cologni looks at me a moment with a bright smile. " You are too minute," she says ; " you betray yourself." "I?" "The Countess Isabel has really made an impression." I burst out laughing. These little old Italian " lustrissimi," are they always at their matchmaking, even in dreams ? It seems so. It is either scandal or match making. The Countess is an old friend of mine, and she has the warmest heart in the world. It is not often scandal with her, yet I have heard her tell strange tales. A Daughter of Venice. 29 Many years ago I met her in Rome. At that time she nearly had me married to a rather risque Russian noblewoman. At Nice, in the spring of 1889, she confronted me with an exceedingly lovely, but entirely stupid Italian widow. It amuses me to see if she will try again now. She has come to regard me as a grand parti, not so much because of my literary repute, but because I am, she hints, so fabulously rich. Indeed, to her all Americans are rich. In addition to my desirability as a millionaire, I believe she has taken a fancy to me because she knows she amuses me, and I will listen to her. There are not many men who can afford to pay her this compliment. I never go abroad of a summer without meeting her at Homburg, at Baden-Baden, at Aix- les-Bains, at Nice. She never forgets me, she never forgets to waylay me, to plan for me. I fancy I am down in her books as incorrigible ; even at my age she is still praising a pretty girl to me ! Eheufugaces, Postume, Postume ! My pretty girls must all go down in my books, and the amusing little Countess must remember, once for 30 A Daughter of Venice. all, that my years have all had three hun dred and sixty-five days. I leave her and stroll upward, in the slant of the Campanile. After the exces sive sunlight the dim, sloping gallery is a relief. I begin to catch glimpses of the roofs below me through the narrow fenetres of the tower. Suddenly I hear the tinkle of a silver bell, such as a small pet dog might wear on its collar. Then, listening, I hear what I take to be a young boy s rich voice calling. It has a fluty tone, clear and sweet as the ringing bells of the dis tant San Giorgio Maggiore. Down the winding pathway the voice makes a sin gular music ; it pervades the spot where I stand ; it is a song from " Carmen ;" it winds down the spiral, thrilling me with its own volume as if I were standing at the vibrant bend of a silver trumpet. Sweet, powerful, strange like music at night on the water. Presto, a thundering basso profundo growls out a tremendous, "Isabella!" and the boy s voice ceases. Another turn, and I am face to face not with a boy, but A Daughter of Venice. 31 with a beautiful young girl. It is Mada- migella the Countess Isabel. I think Countess Cologni forbore to state that the young Venetian girl was present at the belfry lecture, hoping that I would meet her again in some such unex pected way as this. I am quite sufficiently impressed. "Isabel is astonishingly beauti ful ; she has a delightful clearness of com plexion ; there is a lively sparkle in her eyes. As she sees me, she is suddenly silent ; she walks very straight, looking neither to the right nor left ; she purposely pretends not to see me ; there is a face full of the hauteur of a high, inherited pride full, too, of an amusing curiosity. For a moment I say to myself, I have discovered the young Queen Cornaro breathing the very air of the old life in Venice ; holding the very shape of the fair women who kept back the crusaders from Palestine by their beauty ; yes, as far removed in thought and feeling from the commercial spirit of our time as is the passionate Othello. Her beauty is frankly of the dazzling kind. It is radiant, queenly, unquestioned, over- 32 A Daughter of Venice. powering. I note her salient features quickly ; her face and throat are milk white ; her hair, bronze gold, is confined in a quaint embroidered cap. Chiefly she im presses me as a thing of life ; she seems to walk buoyantly ; to scarcely contain herself ; to be almost irresistible with her youth and lightness. Yet in her eyes, too, this curiosity. As if she would make in quiries herself concerning all things that live and move and have their being. She is at once mediaeval, and very modern this beautiful creature. I tell myself that she is worth studying ; worth days of Quaclre, or Capelletti. Following her at a little distance comes a tall, dark, elderly gentleman, whom I take to be the Count, her father. His expression is as stern and contracted as the daughter s is open and fancy free. There is something in the fact that she does not walk beside him. There is no appearance of cama raderie between them, and yet I fancy the stern old Venetian nobile lends himself to many of her whims that it is she and her curiosity that has led the rheumatic old A Daughter of Venice. 33 knees up the long incline to the belfry lecture. They pass by in an instant father and daughter and I slowly keep on my way. What has impressed me at once is the unusual in the girl. I find I am mentally endeavoring to place her, and that in placing her I involuntarily go back to Pampinea, and Fiammetta, and Emilia and Neiphile. She is not decidedly not a modern Venetian ; neither is she, as the Countess Cologni pretends, in the slightest an American. I place her, warm with her glowing life and her bounding health, com fortably in the cool gardens of the Floren tine villa of Boccaccio. And now, that I have summarily disposed of her, in this historic niche, I try to forget her. I draw a long breath of the cool sea air from the Adriatic, as I emerge into the belfry of the Campanile. I lean upon the parapet alone, for all have now departed of the fashion able throng who were here a moment since. I am carried back to the Venice of the sixteenth century. It is her face her carriage her air of old patrician grace 3 A Daughter of Venice. that causes me to forget not her, hut the present, and to see once more, far below me, the gorgeous pageant of the Bucen- taur ! Still, I cannot forget her. Isabel is Venice, the old vital Venice, the Queen of the Adriatic, which here and now stretches beneath the sun far out to the eastward. Her beauty has overpowered and dazzled me. I, who but just now was harping upon my age ! I, who avoid the young girl always, as a young and lively pest ! Her image haunts my eyes as I go down the long spiral again, and wander about the empty Giardini Reale. I wish to be alone to think of her as charming as Boccaccio may have known her years ago, or as the soldier Mocenigo may have crowned her in the beautiful Catharine, Queen of Cyprus. I wish to be alone to try and forget her ! November i$th. HAVE spent a rainy week in Venice, and to night, for the first time, the stars are out in full force, as are the Venetians in the Piazza. The western wind is balmy, as it sweeps over the long la- gunes, and, as an indication of the thermom eter, Florian s little tables are out beyond the arcade. There is indifferent music at the eastern end of the Piazza ; a band composed of mediocre talent, discourses of La Belle Helene, and Aida and Norma. I smoke my cigarette, and sip my coffee with a friend who has been strangely hovering over the two American girls who are upon their southern flight toward Egypt. The 36 A Daughter of Venice. two Misses Romney of New York have quite fascinated him, but to which of the two he will ultimately submit his fate, I think he will leave to chance to decide. As they talk of " doing " Egypt, my friend will "do" Egypt also. I believe that if the two Misses Romney decide to visit Mount Ararat, my friend will seriously put himself in communication with an Ameri can consul at Erzroum or Damascus, for the furnishing of a suitable caravan ! He finds Venice very disagreeable, and he hopes the two Misses Romney will soon mature their plans for the spoiling of the Egyptians. After listening calmly to a lengthened discourse upon the merits, traits, characteristics and episodic histories of these young ladies, in self-defence I leave him. I must, perforce, see these in teresting creatures face to face. The fact is, I have determined to go to Lady Gor gon s dance. Peace, my conscience. I came to Venice solely for work ; so far, I have done nothing but dream. I have spent but half a day at the Libraria Vecchia. I have A Daughter of Venice. 37 made no progress ; a nice example I am setting to Alfred, indeed. My diary will end in being a confession the confession of an elderly fool ! Same Night. It is nearly ten o clock. I give my direc tions to the gondolier : " The Palazzo Bon ifacio." Pietro is dressed in white trou sers, a blue shirt, a scarf about his waist, a straw hat, in spite of November. He stands upon the poppa and salutes me. He is still incensed against the " maledetti vaporetti " the little steamboats whose " swash" on the Grand Canal has caused the gondole to nearly capsize. Is there then no saint left to kill off these vaporetti ? I step within the dark folds of thefelze, and immediately thereafter Pietro plunges me into one of the narrowest piccoli canali which lead out from that familiar one which, in the sombre night, reflects the Bridge of Sighs. The stars show brighter in the narrow open rim between the palace roofs, and the occasional lamp at the landing stairs makes the darkness felt. 38 A Daughter of Venice. " Giae, giae!" shouts an unseen gon dolier, and a small oil lamp flashes past me ; I see nothing else ; I may be, for aught I know, being silently steered to my death. I care not ; I recline on the cushions, and seem to feel the smooth water slipping underneath ; this is enough ; this is Venice. I hardly know or care whether the Casa Bonifacio may not be at Malamocco, or buried in the center of the most intricate maze of canals, in the heart of the city. Swiftly, with the familiar little rocking motion, I go on in the darkness, and the walls on either side seem given up to the dead. There is fear, and tragedy and danger everywhere but this, too, is Venice and I am merely prosaically taking a cab to Lady Gorgon s dance, that is all ! We seem to turn a corner suddenly ; again there are diabolical shouts of " preme ! preme ! " of " giae ! giae ! " and we come to an abrupt standstill ; all the saints in the calendar are now hurled furiously by one gondolier at the other. I raise my felze at my right and look out. Beneath A Daughter of Venice. 39 the one lamp, which casts a dim yellow light down on the dark water, a woman s hand steals out from the opposing gon dola ; it is covered with jewels which flash and sparkle and dance with light. In stantly, with a sense of the humor of the unexpected, I grasp it. It is young and warm, and it is also strong ; it twists and withdraws itself quickly while I hear with in a rich, boyish, contralto voice giving a perplexed cry of astonishment. At the same moment our gondolas separate, and, after a few more abrupt turns, I am at the landing stairs of the Casa Bonifacio. Lady Gorgon s function is nearly at its height. The windows give out a brilliant light. The entire scene before the house is full of life and pleasure. Outside there are no reminders of the nineteenth century. The red and yellow lanterns strung on the pali flicker and dance on the water of the canal like the fantastic sprites and ghosts of long-forgotten entertainments. I love the dark Italians, arriving and passing up the stairway, and their long mediaeval cloaks. It is again a night in 1589 ! 40 A Daughter of Venice. Upstairs the dancing has already begun ; the music of violins pours out of the casa windows, which are open to the mild night. I enter the mediaeval portal, once the home of the painter Bonifacio, and leave Venice behind. There is all the aspect of a modern London crush. Lady Gorgon has evidently furnished the casa from her Lon don upholsterers. The sala are not small, yet a bit later they will be comfortably crowded ; at present they have quite the cheerful comme il faut English air. There are many red flower decorations. There are many good-looking Englishmen arriving, and a number of handsome women. I touch the tips of my hostess s fingers, and she pronounces my name, I know not why, " Signor Vitella," at the same time saying to her husband : " Another Venetian ; where are the Eng lish ?" I do not attempt to correct her, the crush is too great. Lady Gorgon considers me a Venetian. Is it because I am sallow, and middle-aged, and the lines of my face are sad ? Yes, I feel that I am, to-night, truly LADY GORGON. A Daughter of Venice. 41 a Venetian ; I will not attempt to correct the impression. Lady Gorgon has written a book called " A Moral Italy ; " a gorgeous copy lies near her upon a velvet cushion, on a table. The book has been criticised, as requiring of the Italians a too severely English stand ard. At the end of the volume there is an interesting advertisement in which the noble authoress recommends to them a cer tain English soap. As she often has occa sion, in several chapters, to reprove the Italian lack of cleanliness, it has caused a number of indignant protests from the Italians, and an endless amount of joking and amused comment from the Americans present, but for this she cares little, they say. Lady Gorgon has the reputation of entertaining an intense dislike of all things American and in particular of American girls. She is always engaged in the laud able effort to " rescue " some rich young peer from their clutches. Lord Gorgon probably corrects her as to my name ; at the distance of the room she fixes her lorgnette upon me. 42 A Daughter of Venice. "Ah, Mr. Burden," she calls out in a loud voice, " I quite forgot ; you are an American, aren t you ? There is some one here who desires to be one also." And she seizes and leads me into the adjoining sala, where there is dancing. I observe the two Misses Romney floating about in the arms of Italian officers, and I see a very handsome young girl waltzing with a tall Englishman her face in an ecstasy of delight at the music, at the whirl of the dance, at the quickening of her pulses. Lady Gorgon does not hesitate ; she stops them. " Signorina Isabel," she says and I fancy that the girl, whose back is turned, is making a wry face " here is a real American, Mr. Burden, for you." And I am presented to La Comtessa Isabella Folsogni, and to Lord Blandis, a blond young man, her partner, who breathes rather hard, bows, looks annoyed, and is dragged away by our hostess with hardly an explanation, but with a motherly protecting air, too, as if she were afraid of the fascinations of the girl for her young A Daughter of Venice. 43 English lad. Lord Blandis is, I believe, one of the wealthiest young peers of Eng land ; he has a penchant for American girls ; he has been dangling about in Venice for two months ; he is often, they say, a participant in Isabel s American evenings at the Palazzo Regiani. I give the Comtessa Isabel my arm, and we make our way to a window, where she fans herself vigorously, and looks me over with a disdainful air. Her complexion is pale, her gown is white, she wears white roses ; there is no color about her except her lips, which are vividly red. She is not heated, and her fanning is, I judge, purely perfunctory, or by way of relieving her feelings. It is hardly the pretty timidity of an ingenue. So this is Isabel ! Already I have heard the vague rumors that Lord Blandis has enrolled himself as an admirer and his reputation for " adopting " pretty Amer ican girls has been known, in London, for two seasons. It is the fad of these rich young Englishmen to distinguish our young countrywomen. I admit that I 44 A Daughter of Venice. have Lord Blandis in my mind, when I ask : " You wish to be an American ? " " I wish to be very free," shortly, and, as it were, finally. " You are not free enough in Italy ? " I glance around the room at the dancers, where she, an unmarried girl, has been dancing, and thinking of the hackneyed talk of the " suppressed sex " one hears so much of in America. " The only one of my race unmarried is that freedom, M. Burden ? " I receive the full blaze of her fine eyes. " You have, then, emancipated your self ?" She nods her head twice, giving me a little smile. " Signorina, you are very brave." I bow. " Tell me about America," she says, im peratively, as she leans back against the casement ; " is it true the jeune fille rules there ? " " Yes, she rules everywhere." "Very well ; it is as it should be. Tell A Daughter of Venice. 45 me do your police are they the only es corts ? " There is an amused glance in her lovely eyes. " In New York, yes crossing Broad way." She looks puzzled ; I am adding to her store of information. "In Ni Gark ? " Our eyes meet a mo ment. "Tell me truly, M. Burden, all whatever they do the young girls. Is it that they go and come and do as they may please? Do they arrange the marriage, as I am told ? And do they insist upon this thing in marriage this love ? It is very droll, very amusing." " Yes, they insist upon this love," I say ; " but they are learning to be ambitious," I continue. " I think it may be said they are gradually beginning to see the foolishness of this thing love. They are able to ap preciate titles." "Titles!" Here the Comtessa Isabel makes up a face of derision. I am of the vague impression that she is about to give me some of her very ultra-republican sen timents, and tell me that she knows better, 46 A Daughter of Venice. when that little lynx-eyed Countess Cologni comes up. " You two Americani," she says, with a mock flourish, "you must dance all American! dance divinely ; I wish to ad mire you." " I dance no more to-night," says Isabel, in Italian. " I am on my way to the opera. Papa waits for me there. Ah, my dear Madame, but I met with an odd adven ture in coming. I put my hand out to see if it was raining. I shall never know whether it rained or not. I felt a strong mans hand grasp mine." " O, mon Dieu ! " exclaims the little Countess. " It nearly pulled me into the canal. I gave a loud shriek. Is it that we have our smaller canals infested with foreign pirates, you think, M. Burden ? " " Undoubtedly a Turk or an Algerine," I laugh, as she gives me a quick little glance. " I am very much afraid we harbor the miscreant here in the Casa Bonifacio," she says coolly, fanning herself briskly. A Daughter of Venice. 47 "I do not understand ," says the elder lady, blinking her little black eyes, and pretending to be somewhat fright ened. " I gave orders to my gondolier to follow the pirate ; we gave chase ; we traced him to these landing stairs ; his gondola is at the moment at our pali. We followed him in ; we saw him dive into the intricacies of the cloak-room ; there we left him " M. Burden," cries the little Countess, " is it not quite inexplicable ? It reminds one of the days of the Austrians. I shall be wholly afraid to go home." " A most serious breach of the laws and statutes of Venice," insists Isabel, " for which the penalty is a thousand stripes, and the ransom a thousand golden ducats." As it seems to me though she attempts to be jocose the words roll off her tongue in quite the old Venetian " grand manner." " Foolish pirate," I laugh gallantly, " not to have kept the injured hand in his for ever." Isabel does not despise me for this; it amuses her. 48 A Daughter of Venice. " Questa cosa non m entra," exclaims the little Countess Cologni ; " it is a grave mystery." " Explain it, M. Burden," says Isabel, while her face tries to hide its merriment. " Your hand." The girl pulls off her long white gants de Suede hastily, and stretches her pretty jewelled fingers out to me. On her lips is the same quizzical smile ; her eyes as I gaze into them betray a greenish tint like the depths of the narrow Venetian canals. As our hands clasp, she snatches hers away quickly. " The same ! " she cries, rubbing her hands together as if I had chilled her. " Ecco ! the pirate confessed ! " Countess Cologni gives a loud screech ing laugh ; others draw near us. Isabel takes my arm, and we move away from the window and from the Countess. " That story will now go the rounds," says the girl ; " they will make a great lie of it, as they make stories of everything I do." It is evident, however, that she is well A Daughter of Venice. 49 pleased to be talked about. It is clearly her idea her conception of the part of an American girl to be bold, and to be well advertised. " You let my hand go very quickly," she says in English ; " you have not determi nation ? " And she laughs. " Because you gave such a cry of dismay. You were badly frightened, Signorina ; I was sorry for you." " I was surprised " " Frightened." " M. Burden, you contradict me." She draws herself up. " When you cried out, I recognized you, in spite of the darkness. I remembered your voice in the Campanile to-day. Yes ; and I have seen you before to-day." " M. Burden ! " " From my hotel I saw you one day, playing with your little dog, in the Palazzo Regiani ; and on another I saw you with a joyous abandon, running and sliding along the polished floor as if on skates." " M. Burden ! " She gives a little gasp. "Yes, as I used to slide myself when 4 50 A Daughter of Venice. a boy upon the ice. Ah, how I envy you ! " "You laugh?" (Ready to be very indig nant.) " No ; I envy you." " You are then so old, M. Burden ?" " Old as Mocenigo. Am I not ? " She laughs, and I say : " The windows of my appartamenti are opposite." " You spy me?" she cries out in Eng lish. " Let me say now, that everything you do, Madamigella, is known to me ! " She gives a little cry. " Oh, Monsieur, you know then how very wicked I am become in my efforts to imitate your countrywomen ! " Her eyes flash with jollity. " Do you imitate their faults only ? " " Do you admit of faults ? " "I? I am no friend of America," I laugh ; "that is the reason I return again and again to my beloved Venice. If you knew America as I do, perhaps, Madami gella, you would not wish to imitate." " You care not for your freedom ? " A Daughter of Venice. 5 1 " It s a myth." "That is a lie." (In English.) I bow, with an amused smile. " There is more freedom here," I say ; " a young girl may sing as loud as she pleases in the Campanile." "Oh, but that is not what I mean." There is a little pause. The sala of the Casa Bonifacio are becoming more crowded every moment ; there is an open balcony out upon which we step. The night is quite warm. Below us gondolas and gon doliers make a pretty show under the lamp light. Not far away is the inevitable band of serenaders. Hark ah, yes, it is also the inevitable " II Trovatore " but not so badly sung. "Perhaps -sometime I may hear yous mg again," I say as the music floats up to us. In Venice one becomes very silly on a night like this. I am aware that I have been a bit too forward in the tones of my voice, by her drawing herself slightly away. " Come, my dear M. Burden " (very coolly), " come any night to the Palazzo Regiani at twelve. At that hour we sing 52 A Daughter of Venice. over the opera again. We travesty it, I and my friends." "At night?" " Certainement." Then in English, " After the opera we have great excitements. Music, dancing, cards, charades, American games, puss in ze corner, blind-man s-bliff what you call him ? poker it is exciting ! Besides, at times, we do the serious ; we listen while my father reads to us a speech of M. Webster, of M. Clay, of M. ze Honest Abe, or, perhaps, an account of ze conquest of Mexico. There is debates, oratory ma foi, we are entire American}." I conceal my amusement as she con tinues, volubly and earnestly, confiding in me because I am an American. " My father and I make to live as you in Ni Gark. We read ze American news papers, of ze murders, of ze matrimonial infelicities of your people. We introduce many of your customs. As for me, I do my part I do all I can. I am fiancee to two gentlemen, the Count Grandino, and the celebrated French artist, M. Aretier. You perceive I am quite serious of purpose, M. A Daughter of Venice. 53 Burden. I explain my purpose to these two at great length, but they are ever what is it to say at odds ? It is that I fear a duel. They will not understand that I have become an American that I follow the new customs that I choose to fiancer myself to those that I find agreeable. But they are both immensely stupid, M. Burden. It is that they will not comprehend this new movement this new regime. Non, it is a bore. I throw them, the both, as you would say. They tire me ; they are not liberal ; they are not of the new spirit of the age. Ma foi, they are both selfish, also ! " " What other American customs have you adopted, Madamigella ? " I ask, amused. At the same time I wonder at the sweet and innocent expression of her face this girl of two lovers ! " I make myself to go about alone she replies. As she speaks, she holds down her head, half abashed, as if she feels that I will be overcome, although an American, by this shocking bit of boldness. 54 A Daughter of Venice. " And you have met with nothing dis agreeable ?" " Until to-night." " And from an American ! Madamigella, permit me to offer you an unqualified a national apology." Again she giv es me her deliciously modelled, soft young hand with its jewels. " We will be friends, M. Burden, and you will come to the Palazzo Regiani?" She looks up into my eyes confidingly : " I must learn from you directly of America." " The best of friends," I say warmly, and hold her hand in mine now, for a brief moment, thinking it would not be positively disagreeable to share the American en gagement of this charming young lady even with M. Aretier and the Count Gran- dino. Below us now, the gondolieri on the tra- ghetti are singing " Funiculi funicula," and their raucous voices come up to us on the air mingled with the " Subito subito " of arriving and departing gondolas. The ball is growing to its height, and the " flute, violin, bassoon " are heard from the great A Daughter of Venice. 55 windows of the ball-room. There is a dis position on the part of several other couples to take possession of our little balcony. A handsome English girl comes out to flirt a little with Lord Blandis. She has a degage air ; he looks only at my charming vis-a-vis. The Countess Isabel pays no attention to him, and waves her fan languidly. 56 A Daughter of Venice. " Tell me," she says, " are all American! lika those one sees at Danieli s ?" " Americans are cosmopolitan " They shriek I try to shriek, too, M. Burden!" She laughs with a schoolgirl s glee. " They are nasal they speak through ze nose ; so do I (Imitating.) See ? I study the girl Americana as I do a part in a comedy. Eet ese fun! " We re-enter the window as the serenaders cease their music. The Countess Cologni advances, in search of us, across the scaglia floor of the sala, leading by either hand two ladies of the old nobili rank. When they come opposite us they raise their lorgnettes, and stare at Isabel coolly enough. " We wished to see the Signorina," says the taller and more scrawny of the two, in Italian, " who has had the audacity to walk alone twice around the Piazza, yes, and along the Merceria as far as the Rialto. It is an unheard-of attempt, it is ultra- liberal it is immodest." " It is that we change some of our old customs for those of the new and better A Daughter of Venice. 57 across the sea," murmurs Countess Co- logni, half apologetically, in her soft Vene tian. " The new and better ! " exclaims the elder lady of rank. " Who, pray, is to be the judge ?" " Ladies," says the Countess Isabella, " it is altogether right for young girls like myself to be the judges." Isabel has the air and attitude of a lecturer. A chorus of voices. " So improper. So risque"." " We know that is best of which our consciences approve. We young girls would be free. Hitherto we have been prisoners at our own firesides. We have been pretty playthings who could not en dure the bright sun and the fresh air. We are taught to have just as much knowledge as will keep us ignorant of the world, and be amusing to the men. We are not taught to be earnest, sincere. There is no thought that we must do our share of the work. We are to be effective as mere ornaments. From the cradle is it not so ? And when we fade when we grow old 58 A Daughter of Venice. what is our place ? Ladies, you know how little you are truly respected - A glance of anger from the taller dame, but Isabel is mounted upon her fad, and as other ladies gather about us, she continues: " An old woman now appears to have no place ; a young one may yet be able to make one for herself, if she can, by being strong- willed, thinking for herself, studying that which will not make her an ornament mere ly, but useful. Ultimately I will be .useful now I will be free. I will be able to go as I choose, to do as Ichoose, to read what I choose." Horrified attitude of several ladies of fashion, who have come up. " And your father the Count ? " asks one of them. " He is also liberal like myself. He sees the future the greatness of United Italy the new opportunities of woman, as in the Stati Uniti. M. Burden will tell you how they lecture, enter the law, surgery, den tistry, become the apothecaries, and invade the political arena, in America. Is it not so, M. Burden ? " A Daughter of Venice. 59 I murmur a subdued, half regretful, as sent, and the Countess Isabel continues in sweet, rich voice to talk of "liberty," "the revolt of the sex," " the lesson of America," " the mission of woman." I freely confess that while I am outwardly full of the high est admiration, not only for the beautiful young girl herself, but for her fine senti ments, visions of a strong-minded, spec tacled New England school-marm, who has escaped from her native Boston to a Paris pension to instil these ideas into her French and Italian pupils, keep coming to my mind, . as Isabel pursues her flight. Is it possible that one of these arid reminders of New England has obtained a position in the Ecole de la Ste. Theodosia, where, in the suburbs of Paris, the young Countess has passed the preceding three years of her life ? Certainly the emancipation of the young girl appears to Isabel as worthy an enterprise in this city of Venice as. that of the negro for merly in Virginia. She grows more radiant, more beautiful in her charming enthusiasm.- For her sake, I say to myself, mentally, I may not deny myself my native America. 60 A Daughter of Venice. She talks of the new regime, the energy of the new Italy her manufactories, her industries, her splendid navy ; the building that is going on at Naples, at Rome. She seems to feel the new budding material life, and she fairly glows with her suppressed emotion. " And what is the destiny of Venice ? " I ask. " Will you modernize Venice ? " " Venice was the chief commercial city of mediaeval times," she replies in her au fait school-girl fashion. " It was useful ; so it shall be again. It was the mart of the East and the West not the depository of art. Yes " (very primly, and in her smooth Ital ian), " I would have the most beautiful city in the world lose her beauty and return to her work and to her duty. It is very pleas ant to me to see that the Palazzi Balbi, Ruggieri, Foscari, Salviati, and many oth ers, are now glass factories." I raise my hand in devout protestation. " I fancy you will be pleased if St. Mark s is turned into a blast furnace, and the Ducal Palace into a boiler shop," I laugh. " What is this bias furnis, M. Burden ? " A Daughter of Venice. 61 she asks innocently and inquiringly, with out smiling. " You will enjoy seeing the smoke of in dustry issuing from the Byzantine domes. And what then becomes of religion, Madami- gella ?" In answer Isabel simply shrugs her pretty shoulders. A moment later she says gaily: " It is late ; I must go. I go to the opera, M. Burden ; come with me, I am quite afraid !" I am not slow to follow, although I am sure that my presence in Isabel s gondola will only bring consternation to her maid. La Fenice is thronged, as we arrive, with the forestieri, and nobili, and common folk, who have come to see and hear A , and to talk through the opera of Lohengrin. I do not hesitate to accompany the young Comtessa Isabel, although I perceive that she has accepted, with considerable bravery, another opportunity to get herself talked about. I will lend her all the aid I can. She, apparently, enjoys these studied dis plays of " liberty." At the little plaza before the theatre, a crowd of officers, for eigners in full dress, women with intense 62 A Daughter of Venice, yellow hair, and " rapid " colored cheeks, are promenading to and fro in the gaslight. There is also the strong flavor of the Turk ish cigarette. As we make our way through the crowd we receive a few bows, and many impolite stares. Isabel is indifferent. She has been very silent in the gondola, and it would seem that her mind is still intent upon her new regime. As we enter her box many lorgnettes are turned upon us. She stands a moment in front, looking about leisurely, bowing to some, scrutiniz ing others. It is evident that she has great self-possession, great courage. She allows her white opera cloak, with its lining of brilliant red satin, to fall back ward over her chair, throwing into relief her full white figure in its shimmering ball dress. She stands in a composed attitude, and a momentary anxiety seizes me lest she is about to make a speech upon her " New Italy." Her astonishing indifference to the public gaze is more than amusing. It is almost embarrassing. At last she takes her seat, and we fall into conversation upon Wagner s music. I find that she despises A Daughter of Venice. 63 Wagner with all the ardor of a French woman, although she is acquainted only with Lohengrin. She talks of Paris of the rigid, sombre Paris as seen from behind the grated windows of the Pension Ste. Theodosia, and under the surveillance of a very strict Mam selle. Still she admits to me, en confidence, that she has dined three times at Bignon s, and has once been to the "cirque." She plies me with questions about America. Is it true that in many States plurality of wives is permitted ? Then why not, in justice, plenty of hus bands, indeed ? With an innocent free dom, she is about to give me her original ideas of the marriage relation, when to my relief there is a knock at the little door of the anteroom. The Count Folsogni, accom panied by a bald-headed, dapper little man, enters. I am presented to Isabel s father, and to one of her lovers M. Aretier, the artist. The Count gives me a smile upon discovering that I am from America, and Isabel whispers that her father is a great student of our Constitution. " I, for one, follow your lead," he says ; 64 A Daughter of Venice. " I believe in the advance. Italia has long slept ; Italia awakes ; Italia imitates your free country." But all the while the Count s gray hair seems to bristle rather stiffly ; his mus- tachios curl furiously about the corners of the mouth ; he is still the patrician, and there is in his strong-willed face much that one sees in some of the portraits of the old Doges in the Sala dello Scrutinio. I fancy, in spite of his ultra-liberalism, the Count Folsogni is very proud of his diamond order upon the blue ribbon across his breast, and that the proud blood of the old nobili flows still strong in his veins. He seats himself just behind his daughter, and they converse in low, earnest tones. It ap pears that M. Aretier has been making some complaint of the conduct of his fiancee to her father. As the curtain rolls up for the next act, they cease whispering, and both become absorbed in the story of Elsa and Ortrud. It is A at her best. In the entr acte, we stroll out into the well-thronged foyer. The Count takes my arm, Isabel that of M. Aretier. It is easy THE OLD COUNT. A Daughter of Venice. 65 to perceive that she has added the cele brated Frenchman to her train, largely by way of advertisement. Doubtless she will seek to add me in the same way. Mean while I listen with amused attention to the Count. " I cannot bring myself to believe," he says in his rich, deep Italian, "that it is now the custom in your country for the young girl to engage herself to several for marriage. I admit that it enables the par ties to the ultimate contract to become the better fitted to select but it is provoca tive of much embarrassment. It is not easily understood how you avoid the con stant duello." I offer the Count a cigarette. " It is a custom," I say, " which does not obtain in our better society." I feel that I must treat the Count seriously ; he appears to be quite in earnest. " It may be com mon in our Western cities I have heard of several instances but it is not a cus tom. " " Not a custom ? " " When it occurs, it arises from the fact 5 66 A Daughter of Venice. that the American girl is usually too good- natured she dislikes to refuse." "Tell me how do they submit the lovers ? " " They remain in ignorance. The young lady is too clever to let them find it out." " Oh ah." "They do occasionally find it out, and then there comes a struggle to be first. Sometimes they quarrel - "Yes, yes it is well that he muses. " But the lover usually finds out before he commits himself. However," I add lightly, " they rarely blame the young lady." " No ?" "People admire her cleverness sne is wicked, but clever ; her little ruse makes charming gossip ; she is seldom blamed and it is all very amusing." " It is all very strange," replies the Count, puffing away a cloud of smoke. " The situation is quite reversed then it is the man s heart that is broken it is he that is deserted ? I suppose, M. Burden? that you have quaint national songs which A Daughter of Venice. 67 you sing, depicting the sad state of the betrayed and deserted young lover ! " The Count smiles gravely. " Women are born coquettes, the world over," I reply ; u and men are deserted every day in Italy as well, and as often, as young women. The truth is, my dear Count, the stories you hear of America are frequently exaggerated. The customs of people in good society there are the same as those of people here. It is not good form for a girl to engage herself to two 01 three men at once but it is a thing which is forgiven. To be a flirt is no sin in a young girl at home ; she is given immense freedom and opportunity." " I admire much America," says the Count, seriously. " I have given much time to the study of her institutions. I desire that we shall sincerely imitate that we shall become Americanized. The New Italy has already begun. But these strange social customs I I really, M. Burden, you perceive that I have but one child my daughter and that, in her sincere efforts to imitate your countrywomen, she has promised it is quite 68 A Daughter of Venice. true to marry M. Aretier, and the Count Grandino, two most honorable and worthy gentlemen, but they cling fondly to the old they will not yield. M. Burden, they fight to-morrow at sunrise, at Malamocco." " The duel is tabooed in America," I in terpose. The Count stares a moment. " I believe you mistake," he says abruptly. "I have read to-day, in Galignani, of two duels between justices of your higher courts in the place Kentucky. They fought with the shotgun. In fact, I find the duello com mon news from America. I am inclined to refer it to your custom for the young girl to make one two three alliances. It is not well, this. As for Isabel, she will put to the test these new ideas ; but as for me, I am more conservative. I do not go to the extreme. It would please me much, M. Burden, if you would explain to my daugh ter that the better class of society does not tolerate the dual engagement." The Count betrays such an air of grave anxiety, that 1 ask : "You will be present at the duelling ground to prevent it ? " A Daughter of Venice. 69 " I have promised Isabel that I will not interfere," he says, smiling, and there is a little pause. "Your daughter cares very little?" " It is of no moment ; she will wed neither the one nor the other so it does not con cern her." " But if one is killed, she will feel obliged to marry the survivor, will she not ? " "Peste/" he laughs, "there will be two survivors at Malamocco." And the Count proceeds to remark upon the degeneracy and harmlessness of the modern duel, ex cept as it obtains in America, and except as it involves the use of shotguns. He goes so far as to show me a cut from an Amer ican newspaper, which he carries in his wallet. It is called a Society Note, and is as follows : " We learn, with pleasure, that Miss Godfrey, who was shot by Mr. Keefe, is to marry Mr. Wenn, who killed her former lover, last week. She was able to use her revolver in target practice yesterday." " This is American humor," I laugh, hand ing back the slip. The Count tries to smile. 70 A Daughter of Venice. Immediately, as we parade in the long line of people in the foyer, Isabel turns, and I catch an interested glance from her fine eyes. " M. Burden," she says, with a demure air, " I am not willing to make two gentle men quarrel. Explain, if you please, to M. Aretier this coutume Americain -je men rap port e a vous." At this the distinguished M. Aretier, who is a round, bald, little man with a pom pous dignity of manner, pauses and stares vaguely at me. He seems to have little appreciation for the new-fangled American social customs. He has for me a glance of sinister distrust. " I tell M. Aretier," says Isabel, and it is impossible for me to discover if she is laugh ing, " that in America you have done with jealousy is it not so ? " " We are still human, even in the States," I say. "We are still full of hate and pas sion ; we are no better than the rest of the world." "No better, perhaps/ pursues Isabel; "but you have got beyond the rudimentary pas- A Daughter of Venice. 7 1 sions; you find they take time they are vex atious they impede business, M. Burden ? " " It is impossible thus to ignore the com mon attributes of the race," observes M. Aretier, solemnly. " I am not wrong in de ciding that America cannot hope to ignore entirely the feelings. Love, hate, revenge even jealousy have not passed away. Non. The Comtessa Isabella wrongs her self by adopting these barbarous theories. Believe me, the American is still uncivilized ; he is still, from his parentage, half Indian, half English. The American demoiselle imitates the native squaw for her customs so called. It is the freedom of the wig wam of the savage." " Eugene ! " cries Isabel, indignantly, with flashing eyes. " It is astonishing that one brought up in a pension of Paris should acquire this taste for savagery," continues M. Aretier, grow ing very red and choleric. " Are we to take our lesson from the habits and customs of American Indians of the prairies ? " The Count Folsogni looks rather em barrassed. 72 A Daughter of Venice. " The French truly cannot understand," says Isabel, turning to me with a confiding air ; " they can never receive anything new from outside of Paris. Even Signor Gran- dino understands a little at least he is too polite to speak unfeelingly. But voila they fight I cannot prevent it it is the way of the world. Peste, they will not do themselves much harm ! " We return to the box, and Lord Blandis, having escaped from Lady Gorgon, enters. He has also every appearance of having dined well. He is a comely, pink-com- plexioned, blond youth, whose hair, parted accurately in the middle, is plastered down with admirable neatness on either side of his head. Evidently Isabel is a continual source of fascinating interest. He leans over to me delightedly, with : " She might have been born in Boston ! " I have it on my tongue to say : " Everything odd is not American," but I change it to, " You admire Americans ? " " I limit my admiration to one sex," he laughs ; " and the girls cannot be too Ameri can to please me. It s because they have A Daughter of Venice. 73 ideas. It seems odd that a girl should have them don t you know it s a new thing and I I like it." Later we go to the Palazzo Regiani. M. Aretier, with almost a funereal solemnity, takes his leave at the landing stairs. He has painted a glorious picture of Isabel in choppines in the costume of the times of 1570-1610. As he departs he whispers, with a pathetic earnestness,. " Isabella, Isabella if I am killed, it is as a royal Venetian, not as an Americana, that I shall think of you in the other world ! " She gives him a pitying smile, and on his departure, he is permitted to kiss her finger tips. In the salon of the old Regiani Palace, the young girl holds for a time a little court. Many artists, many distinguished Italians, many literary men gather about her, en joying her sallies, her amusing description of Elsa whose hair came down at the depart- ureof Lohengrin, and there is much laughter, too, at the account of the two elderly females who undertook to " bait " her, as she said, 74 A Daughter of Venice. at the Casa Bonifacio. Partly in my honor, American games are introduced, and Lord Blandis is blindfolded, and turned around three times, holding a tail in his outstretched hand, which he vainly endeavors to pin upon the ridiculous caricature of a donkey pinned upon the wall. There are a number of richly dressed Italian ladies present, who are amused at Lord Blandis absurd antics, but who do not appear to be greatly edified. He boldly rushes at them with extended arms, and they shriek in fright. He nearly embraces Isabel, who escapes from him laughing. At last he pins his donkey s tail forlornly upon the wall upon the donkey s nose. Isabel claps her hands in glee. Ah, she is very charming to-night ! Standing a little way back is the old Count, her father. He wears a sort of stage smile, which, as it conveys exactly the opposite effect from that he wishes to pro duce, gives him the unpleasant appearance of a skeleton at the feast. He seemed to applaud Isabel in her extraordinary Amer icanisms to applaud Lord Blandis. Yet I feel that his smile is not spontaneous his A Daughter of Venice. 75 applause is hollow. It would be an odd thing if the Count Folsogni could relinquish at his daughter s whim the stern parental control of the old Venetian. Yet it seems that he has done this fully. She is her own mistress she may do what she wills. But her hand may she finally bestow it as she wills ? I fancy that the old Count may make himself felt at such an important juncture. It is most laughable and trag ic -his attitude of mere onlooker. He is waiting for what ? When will he begin to show his claws? Or is he only a fond, foolish, indulgent, easy-going father in short, an American father ? November 26t/i. OR ten days, in addition to nightly attend ance at the Pal azzo Regiani, I have, with all the fervor of a true lover of Venice, thrown myself into the art life of the old city. I have renewed my acquaintance with the Accademia, the Scuola di San Rocco, the Museo Conver, and the Vendramin ; I revisit the splendid Frari, the noble San Giovanni e Paolo, and San Sebastiano. I find myself again rapt urously delighted and charmed by the deli cately subtle influence of the masters who have adorned the city for all time. I read again of Maletesta, of Loredan, of Tomaso Mocenigo. I have consulted the pages of Villehardouin. And yet the more I live in A Daughter of Venice. 77 that old life of passion and splendor and energy, the old Venice appears progressive, commercial, money getting. To her, war was but an incident St. Theodore holds his spear in his left hand. In all her pag eants, her bucentaurs, her grand carnivals, Venice advertised. All the world came to the Piazza, and poured its gold literally in to her coffers. The essential spirit of her greatest period was not in her art, but her in dustries, and her commerce. I am inclined to believe that the Venetians were the Amer icans of the sixteenth century, and la Com- tessa Isabella may, after all, have inherited her admiration for " independence " and " industry " from her patrician ancestors. Isabel ! In Aretier s portrait she is mount ed upon choppines, and is clothed in the velvet and lace and rich damask of a young Vene tian lady of rank. He has made her hair fluffy, and standing out in the style of that time, and has given her the long, golden chains seen in the old portraits by Titian. I have but just come from his studio in the Palazzo Pesaro, where he received me with a face covered with sticking plaster the 7 8 A Daughter of Venice. only ill result of the duel and told me that Isabel had broken their engagement. As the Count Grandino has been made to sub mit to the same fate, M. Aretier did not appear to be wholly disconsolate. He spoke of the portrait : " It is in the sixteenth century I place her," he said ; " full of life, gaiety, ardor, ambition looking forward, expansive. She fancies that there is a grand future for Venice but the West will not look back ward." " It is quite pathetic," I ventured, " her enthusiasm her hopes for her sex her hopes for Venice " It is her youth her fine health. I con sider that she should properly live in the far West in the environment of the prai ries of Chicago." " Or in the time of Doge Nicolo Da- ponte," I suggested. Our eyes met. " You are thinking of La Charmante Bianca di Cappello," he said. " I have thought of her also, and I confess that I have imitated the dress she wears in the A Daughter of Venice. 79 fine old Tintoretto in the splendid collec tion of the Duke A . Yes, Bianca readily occurs to one as he beholds the Comtessa Isabella. She was the most beau tiful woman of her time she was passion ate wilful charming "She outwitted her father." "Ah, there the comparison ends. Isabel will never outwit her father." " You regard the Count Folsogni as a very shrewd man ? " " Un homme terrible, my dear sir ; he has a dreadful history that rather mild-man nered man. He has killed three men in duels. He is subtle. I have heard the Prince d X. speak of him. He has the deep indi rectness of an old nobile combined with unusual will power. At present, I hear he is very much in debt." " And is there a Countess Folsogni ? " M. Aretier shrugged his shoulders ; then he said, after a little pause : " She is never seen on view. Perhaps they have determined that she, too, shall be a truly American mother." M. Aretier was no longer solemn ; he gave a short laugh. 8o A Daughter of Venice. " You have a grudge against my country," I laughed, " and very naturally." Again the versatile artist shrugged his shoulders. I left him with the impression that he was glad, on the whole, in spite of his sticking-plasters, to be well out of an entanglement. He had fallen and wor shipped at the shrine of Isabel ; he had painted a very charming portrait of her. He would now turn pleasantly to something else. He has survived his " emotion " of the young Countess. He was cheerful he was no longer solemn a Frenchman. I left M. Aretier with the additional feel ing that it was somewhat disagreeable of him to have painted the young girl in Bianca s costume. I stroll across the Piazza, and happen upon Count Folsogni at Florian s. I fre quently meet him at this little cafe of an afternoon. He is, as usual, deeply engrossed in an old copy of the New York Herald. I regret to say it happens to be a presidential year, and the American newspaper succeeds from week to week in involving the Count in a series of mild dilemmas. He is at a A Daughter of Venice. 81 loss to discover the distinctions of party. He has been a student of American politics for several years, he tells me, as I draw near, and he asks me to explain for him he is so dull so bete the policy to be adopted by one or the other party, should it attain success at the polls. He draws from an inner pocket two newspaper slips, which, he tells me, are the two " pronuncia- mientos " of the Democrats and the Repub licans. I recognize them as " platforms." I read them over cursorily, and they appear to be identical. There is much about "re form" in both ; they each "point with pride to the past ; " and there are the same glit tering generalities. " I have little time to explain the dis tinctions of party," I say ; " it is a matter of history. Suffice it to say, one of these great parties has given the franchise to the negro, and the other has advocated a re duction of the enormous tariff imposed upon foreign goods." The Count bows gravely, and I am aware that my words have conveyed little meaning. 6 82 A Da ug liter of Venice. " I consider politics as of very little moment in our country." 1 say ; " as a rule, too, the better class of citizens are not interested largely." He rolls up his heavy eyebrows in won der, and there seems to be a tacit uiuLr- standing that we will pursue the subject no farther. "Your social life," says the Count, after a short pause, taking a sip of his cafe noir, " it presents also some difficulties. I read to-day of several bold murders, of two family feuds, of many divorce scandals. It appears that in the city of Tennessee two families have chosen to annihilate the one the other ; in another place, Arkansas, two gentlemen shoot with the revolver at dinner, and a lady is accidentally killed. It is very marvellous this, your internal social life." " The press mistake these crimes for news," I say, parenthetically, suppressing my amusement. " Your criminal class must be large and important," pursues the Count meditatively; " it appears that your statesmen pay much respect to them." A Daughter of Venice. 83 " They are voters," I laugh. " Ah, yes, the vote, it is all important. There are many outcries against bribery. I read in one instance that it is a question whether a certain statesman will enter the hall of your Congress or the State s prison. It is very strange to the student of your institutions. Sometimes I have much of doubt. Perhaps there is still something of good in our elder civilization yes ? " Has the Count, then, a fund of pleasant irony, mingled with his apparent interest in America ? During the last few days, I have been frequently to the American evenings at the Palazzo Regiani, and have observed the taciturn nobile, standing a little at one side, watching with an air of studious in terest, of curious expectancy, these first in roads of Isabel s new civilization. At these times his face has never betrayed the slightest feeling. If his lips moved it was to pay me some flattering compliment for my country ; to speak of Washington, of Lafayette, of Lincoln. He was even willing 84 A Daughter of Venice. one night to take a hand at draw poker, but I never saw him engage himself but that once. It was as a student and philos opher that Count Folsogni posed. One may have observed much the same im perturbable expression upon the face of a professor of vivisection. At several of these affairs there has been present a young Venetian, the son of a rich merchant, named Ferati, whose pres ence, it seemed to me, gave the Count con siderable uneasiness. Ferati entered very energetically into the American ideas. He was always ready with a very flowery and superlative oration upon " the equality the lesson of the West." He was likewise useful to Isabel in sustaining some of her idealities with a flimsy fabric of argument. An reste, he is a rather handsome, frank, fat, open-faced young Italian, who wears his beard, and his patent leather shoes, to a fine Parisian point. It is evident that the young plebeian is a very aggravated ex ample of an unpleasant Americanism to the Count, and he seems to shower his favors upon me by way of contrast. A Daughter of Venice. 85 Signore Ferati is fond of reciting Amer ican poetry, and he is fondest of all of Bret Harte. There are other ambitious young Italians at these gatherings, who be long to Isabel s cult, and who cannot speak of Longfellow without rolling up their eyes. I can never forget how one of these gentle men recited to a hushed audience one even ing : " Ze Pislam offaleefa," and beginning, " Telia me note in moornfu" noombra Leefe isa butta eedel darim," etc. Some of these Americo-maniacs are highly educated. Sometimes it seems to me that the greater student of language a man is the less his ear catches the sound. Signore Ferati is only too fond of these recitations. He has a rich baritone voice. He declaims Alfieri very well, but he has no ear for English. Last night he gave us Bret Harte. It was quite impossible for me to remember the gravity of the occasion. Signor Ferati, recitativo : A Daughter of Venice. A PLAN LANGAVEECH FROMA TROOTFUL ZSHAMS. " Veechy veech ta ramarque Onta mi langaveech ista plan Zat fo vays zat ara daarka Onta fo dreeks zat ara van Ze ethan kine ista paycoola, Veech ze sama ee voda rise t eggsplan. " Aseena vas sa nam Onta ee salna dena In rayquarda t ze sam Vat zat nam mita ampli Butta ees meel eetvas ponseeve onta cheeldlika Z frequant ramarque ta Beel Nee." Great applause, clapping of hands, and laughter, although it was difficult for me, who knew the famous verses by heart, to understand what was said. A few Italians who spoke " ze Inglese " might have gathered the meaning of the words, but they could hardly have proved humorous. It was largely out of politeness, therefore, that the applause became deafening as Ferati went on and finished : A Daughter of Venice. 87 " Ecu s slivas veech vare langue He hadda vcnta-fora pacque Veech vas becomina strang, Ah yet ee stata butta ze fat, Onta ve foun on s nail veech vare tapa, Vat ees frayquanta in tapu zat s vax ! " Veechy veech ta ramarque Onta mi langaveech ista plan Zat fo vays zat ara daarka Onta fo dreeks zat ara van Ze than kine ista paycoola, Veech ze sama ee voda rise t eggsplan." These American nights ! The memory of them is delicious to me not from what was said and done, but from the exquisite grace and charm of Isabel. It is she to whom, as our queen, all homage and all affection in three languages, was due, and to whom it was paid. As we sit to-day at Florian s, and I am considering how exactly to test the Count s sincerity, Ferati passes along the arcade. Immediately the Count frowns, as I bow to the young man. " Perhaps my daughter goes too far in her Americanisms," he says shortly; "but we stand committee! we may not go back. A Daughter of Venice. Our friends, the Venetians, will laugh only the more." " Go the whole distance ! " I cry, smitten with sudden, strange excitement, as well as he, at the appearance of Ferati. " Let me, an American, gain your consent, your inter cession with your daughter." " Ah," he replies, studying me for a whole minute, " that is Isabel ! - affair, not mine." " I wish at least your permission." " It is nothing to me." And Count Fol- sogni smiles bitterly as he folds his arms in resignation. " You her father ? " " Of course precisely." And he twirls his long black moustachios with a discon solate air. " You have, then, in American fashion, given up all control of Isabel ? " The Count merely shrugs his shoulders ; then, leaning forward with a frank expres sion, he says : " To tell you the truth, my dear M. Burden, I am not entirely content with this new American system ; it has certain errors, and it has certain gains. I am told that A Daughter of Venice. 89 by this system I give no dowry. Bien! a dowry is an impossibility with me. I am told that I am required to give my blessing only. Yes, so far, I will act to the letter the American father. But since I may not forbid a marriage, I may not permit it ! " There was a short pause. " I am not the master. I have abdicated to my daughter. She may select the husband at her leisure ; any one, even Ferati." He rises from the table as he speaks, and fairly hisses out the name of the young merchant. " There was Grandino," he goes on, " rich, noble, much in love, so that they tell me he now consoles himself by a jour ney into the cold and forbidding climate of England. There was Aretier, rich, a man of celebrity. There was before them, Cava- lazzi, a noble of Padua. My Isabel aston ished and amazed them all by her beauty ; and, finally, my dear Sir Burden, you, an American, come forward. Sir, I esteem this last favor a profound honor." The Count bows very low, and again I am puzzled as to his sincerity. I note that A Daughter of Venice. he has not mentioned the name of Lord Blandis as a suitor for his daughter s hand ; yet the Englishman has been constantly at her side. " You give me your permission to to try?" " Of what use ? " and he raises his eye brows. As we stroll away from Florian s a little later, I am tempted to consign my native country and all of its customs to perdition. It might seem that my nationality would be of consummate advantage if it is true, as I at last frankly confess to myself, I am infatuated with this charming young Vene tian. I will give her the opportunity to thus lastingly carry her ideas into practice to become an American in fact. Her behavior to me of late, when not delight fully confidential, has been characterized by the easy gaiety, and even flippancy, of a younger sister. Sometimes she has re spected my opinion too much ; sometimes she has openly laughed at me. Not many nights ago she amused herself by pro nouncing me a living embodiment of old A Daughter of Venice. 91 Francesco Foscari. "You care for me!" she laughed ; " you care only for Venice." We make our way past Miinster s book store, and glance through the open door. There, holding an English Tauchnitz open in her hand, is Isabel. She is alone, and she looks to-day demure and sweet. She wears a long, conventional English cloak and cape. Her hat is quite masculine, but the face beneath it appears to have a tem porary lack of daring. As she glances at her father, her eyes are full of a beseeching entreaty. " We return to the Palazzo Regiani," says the Count, not unkindly. " It is early ; Signore Ferati will call here for me." " Signore Ferati Signore Ferati ? " the Count frowns fiercely. Instantly Isabel bristles a little. " You have chosen to make it disagreeable for him at the Palazzo Regiani," she says. " He is bourgeois." It is the worst he can say. She turns her back upon her father, with 92 A Daughter of Venice. a swift girlish indignation. It is the thoughtless bird-like motion of a wilful child. " Isabella," and the Count s voice is full of protest, " I have not interfered you have your way." " Non but it is the same. We meet here in future." And she appears to brace herself very firmly with her back toward us. The Count strides out of the bookstore hurriedly. He gives me a quick glance ; it is as if he said : " I end this American foolishness at once." But Isabel only deigns to smile. " A child," she laughs lightly, turning to me, while the aged servitor of the shop dis appears behind a pile of freshly invoiced French novels. " He is full of whims. See how he permits himself to be enraged. It is not that I care that for Signore Ferati," and she makes a quick little gesture with her book. " Explain to your father, and to me then," I say, with a lover s secret gladness. "You?" She gives me a questioning glance. A Daughter of Venice. 93 " Yes, I confess that I, too, am interested in you, Madam :gella." " Oui, I am a part of your beloved Ven ice." u You, for yourself," I insist warmly, as our eyes meet. She bursts out laughing, at which the aged servitor looks up feebly, and pushes his brass spectacles high up upon his fore head. Impulsively she gives me her hand. " Mistake not, dear friend, that I do not feel honored," she says caressingly; "but I am interested in no one I care for the new advance. It is all to me." I cannot doubt her sincerity. She lays aside her book, and continues. " This love is all very amusing it is even ridiculous one reads so much of it. But it is so entirely foreign to our real lives. I grow tired of the continual romance. Must we be thus forever falling in love ? M. Bur den, at your age, at least, one becomes inter ested in serious matters." I am hardly prepared to be lectured, but I am mute as she goes on. " There is so much to do. The world is A Daughter of Venice. so full. It is for us cultivated ones to lead the way. You in America have become our instructors. You, M. Burden, know much that you can tell me about. I would sit at your feet as St. Paul at the feet of Gama liel. Yet you come to me, and from your sad expression I discover that you, too, would make love. Oh, my friend, it is so tiresome so unpleasant ! The men seem to me so devoted to this idling that one is apt to despise them. It seems that English men are less disposed to make this thing love ; they hesitate to commit them selves ; they are much more dignified. Yes, I confess I like their blunt manner toward women ; it is better than this mawkish atti tude of false worship of most of you [laugh ing] Venetians ; this appearance of devout respect, which is insincere ; this affectation of taking us seriously, when you know you do not give us your best ideas, and you do not respect us even. You reserve for the smoking-room your real selves. I have ob served several Americans yes it is quite true, even of them." " You, as well as your father, have dis- A Daughter of Venice. 95 covered that there is room for criticism," I say, smiling at her vehemence and her lofty tone, "concerning America." " Not in the great things ; not in matters of moment. Oh ! M. Burden," she sud denly breaks out, " how I long to meet and talk with one of your really great states men a member of the Congress ! " At this moment the young Signore Ferati enters. He wears a bell-shaped Italian silk hat, a brilliant necktie, a rather conspic uous watchchain with many charms. He is dressed in the clothes of an Italian tailor who receives his patterns and fashion plates from London. There is a comical exag geration of the Bond Street trousers and the Bond Street cut-away. Signore Ferati twirls a slender cane of ebony in his well- gloved hand. He bows ceremoniously to the Countess Isabel. He shakes hands with me in a hearty English manner, the elbows well up. There is a spruce, alert air, about this young man, which taken together with his commonplace, matter-of-fact ap pearance, probably typifies to the young girl the " new " citizen of Venice she affect? f)6 A Daughter of Venice. It is evident that in Signore Ferati she has discovered an energy, a spirit of business enterprise, a contempt for the past, which satisfies her. To me, as I remark his robust, fat face, with its pointed beard, it seems that he may have a truly grocer s mind, and but little else. His eyes are small and full of petty cunning. Evidently he sees considerable glory in being tempo rarily associated with the already famous young beauty. It is an association, how ever, about which the Count, her father, need not, I believe, be in the least anxious. It is suggested that we embark in a gon dola, and that Signore Ferati describe for my benefit some of the proposed improve ments in Venice, which, he says, can be more easily pointed out from the water front. We stroll across the Piazza, and Isabel bows with easy nonchalance to a party of young Englishmen. It is Lord Blandis and his friends. I fancy I overhear them saying, and Lord Blandis resenting it, as we pass, " She has now a second set of lovers, in the true American style ! " The sun breaks out of a huge bank of A Daughter of Venice. 97 clouds as we embark at the landing stairs of the Piazzetta. The Redentore across the water is bathed in the most fantastic ethe real light. As we swing out into the tide, the Doge s Palace, the efflorescent carving of the Library, the domes of St. Mark s, become suddenly, in the intense irradiation, more than " a dream of beauty." It is at this unpropitious moment as we float along theGiudecca, past some rich-colored Chiog- gian fishing boats, that Signore Ferati pro ceeds to unroll a map which he has carried in an inner pocket. " This is the old the past " he waves his hand to the glittering domes ; " this is the new the future," and he points to his map. It may be remarked of Signore Ferati, as of many Italian men of business, that he makes abundant use of "designs," and "ele vations," that he talks and gestures very much with the pencil. The future Venice as laid out by Signore Ferati, will hardly please Mr. Ruskin. " We make of Venice," he says, with his eyes upon the calm, approving face of Isa- 7 9 8 A Daughter of Venice. bel, " a great centre of commerce. For merly, this was so, but in the devotion to art we have forgotten ourselves. We now come to our senses. Art is not the chief thing it is the least thing. In our foolish love of art we have witnessed the splendid growth of England which is without art, and of America which despises it. While we have been dreaming of the beautiful [Signore Ferati seems to speak of the Italy of a good half dozen centuries ago] other nationali ties have sprung up and overtopped us. We now be practical we awake. Is it not so, Signorina ? " Isabel nods; her eyes are fixed on the gorgeous picture of golden San Giorgio Maggiore rising from the water in the dis tance, like some fateful warning vision, as Ferati continues. " The palaces of the canalazzi we, of the new republic, will make to become valuable warehouses. As for the Piazza, we enlarge it a little. We have need of additional wharfage, Signore Burden. The Piazzetta shall be extended, thus, as in the design. We have what you call a pier ; we have also A Daughter of Venice. 99 in place of St. Mark s a grain elevator ware house of ten stories." " The people will have work not wor ship," chimes in Isabel. " There will be no need of the church, no need of priests, no need of monks and convents. I burn to see the new Venice a busy hive of industry." " Observe upon the map," continues Sign- ore Ferati, pointing, " the American dock, the German dock, the English dock. By adding but two stories to the Ducal Palace, we have a suitable storage warehouse. Ob serve my railway around the entire city. Ultimately, perhaps, we pump out the canals by means of hydraulic rams, and we shall have excellent streets. We introduce the tramcar. Venice shall not always labor under the disadvantage of slow waterways. Here in the Public Garden, we establish a huge foundry of iron. We shall, also, devote our attention to shipbuilding " Is it not fine ? " interrupts Isabel, look ing at me expectantly and with unaffected enthusiasm. " I shall value the opinion of Signore Burden ; he is an American," says Signore ioo A Daughter of Venice. Ferati. " I have already discussed the mat ter with a gentleman from America whom I met at the Hotel Beau Rivage Signore Ramsay, of Chicago. It was he who pro posed the stock company with a capital of fifty millions," he adds, turning to Isabel. "I trust the day will never come when Venice shall become wholly industrious," I rejoin, amused. " Is it then possible that we find an un practical American ? " asked the young mer chant, raising his eyebrows and regarding me with renewed interest. "I see too much at home of this eternal industry, " I say ; " I long to escape it. Business, carried too far, causes a lack of interest in one s government, in morals, in religion, in everything good and ennobling. I attribute to too great attention to indus try, which you applaud so much, the fact that our American cities are ruled by thieves yes, that we are very badly gov erned." " Signore Burden delights in paradox," says Ferati, politely, turning to Isabel with a smile. A Daughter of Venice. " What you say reminds me of the in verted fairy stories of Behind the Looking Glass ; to dream of such sacrilege is most absurdly, childishly Philistine." "But the end must come ? " " Yes, Venice is dying now, and her end will come with her years. But she is dying in all the changing colors of a beautiful sea animal. If you must have your commerce and your industries, come West with me how soon you will return ! " Isabel leans back on her cushions and sighs. " When I think of these things as they are, I am bitterly unhappy," she says, point ing to the Piazza. " I wish to see Venice as she was. I wish to see the new regime of action. You deny me this, M. Burden. Signore Ferati, tell me that what you plan is feasible." " Let only the nobili yield to the popu lar will," he says very gravely ; " it is, after all, the aristocrats who impede." " But many yield. My father would give up the old regime." " I fear that Count Folsogni deceives A Daughter of Venice. himself," says the glib young Italian, with a smile. She lets her eyes fall. " I know that my father tries very hard to join the new movement, hut it is quite impossible for him to forget that he is a Venetian nobile. Some of us feel com pelled to forget that, Signore Ferati." The latter reddens at this little femi nine thrust. " I am glad I am of the people," he says simply, with a quiet air, at which the fair young Countess gazes upon him a moment admiringly. We return to the Piazzetta, after an hour s floating on the tide, which sweeps slowly out past the Lido. Signore Ferati leaves us at the Molo, and the Countess Isabel and I enter St. Mark s just at sunset ; she is entirely careless of the fact that she is with out a chaperone, indifferent to the gossip of the Venetians. The dusky gloom of the vast interior is filled with incense. The many candles on the altar throw out a soft yellow glow, and give a rich tone to the purple-robed priests A Daughter of Venice. 103 who are standing within the rail. As many as fifty wretched, ill-clothed poverini are kneeling on the cold, uneven floor, enjoy ing their sole visi-on of daily warmth. An organ, much out of tune, wails out a dis mal chant ; now and then it utters an unearthly shriek. It, too, like the mendi cants, appears to be old and forlorn, and should have been at rest long ago. Far up in the three Byzantine domes some flickering sunbeams enter, giving them an effect of vast height. All is shadowy, un real ; saturated with the musty odor of mediaeval history, dim with the dense life of the dead ; carrying one back by a sud den breath to pre-Christian times. It is a surprising thing to see the conventional saints and holy fathers blazed in the glass mosaic against the golden domes. One expects here the Greek gods. The Pan theon is not more ancient than these grimy pilasters of alabaster than this screen of weathered bronze than these faded and discolored sculptures. It is not strange that the effect of this Christian church is distinctly pagan, if not barbarian. A Daughter of Venice. " Come, let us go," whispers Isabel, in Italian ; " I never liked it I never could bear to remain a moment in it. A common tomb is a ballroom compared with it. Come, I can hardly breathe in this incense. Signore Ferati is quite right ; we must destroy this dreadful reminder that the old Venice is dead." There is a little pause. " One may not revive it," I say at length. She is silent. " If you wish for life, activity, the dis play of energy, turmoil, noise, and strife, come away, leave Venice forever ; come to the West with me, Isabel ! You know what I mean." I am half laughing, yet entirely serious. AVe have walked a little way since I said these words, down one of the dark side aisles. Near us is a chapel, the altar of which is covered with dusty mediaeval treasures and votive offerings. A wire screen prevents the casual visitor from mak ing away with the gold and silver cups and candelabra, now rusty and dingy with four centuries. Before the altar burns a solitary A Daughter of Venice. 105 lamp night and day. A red globe surrounds the flame and permits a soft warm glow to fall upon the patrician face of the young Countess. She stands for a moment just beneath. She is tall and sweet, and for the time the inexpressible sense of life and of animation, which usually radiates from her, has succumbed to the sombre tone of the ancient church. The deeper poetry of renunciation has entered her soul to tarry there for an instant. It is as if the affect ing and essential merit and meaning of Christianity has awed her into reverence. It is but momentary, however. She soon turns, and walks rapidly out. In the fresh open air of the Piazza she says with her old smile, as I catch up with her, " Remember, I am an American." " Yes," I say, puzzled. "I am free I may choose, myself." " Certainly, and being free to choose, Isabel " But in America, from the novels at least, it appears that this thing, love, is still quite necessary, is it not so ? " 1 06 A Daughter of Venice. " Yes, undoubtedly. This thing, love " Her eyes rest upon mine with a peculiar sense of compassion. She comes up to me, and her hand, the hand I have once clasped, lies lightly on my arm. It trembles, and is lifted. For a moment or two I am silent, and in doubt of her meaning. There is a subtle air about Isabel to-day which tells two stories. She seems to be groping about upon untried territory. At all events, love is something entirely new to her, and I am in a quandary whether to accept her atti tude as a final answer of refusal, or whether she wishes to learn more about this love, this un-Italian, intellectual form of it, which is so new to her. As I stand there, Cow- ley s pretty fragment occurs to me : " Love in her sunny eyes does basking play, Love walks the pleasant mazes of her hair ; Love does on both her lips forever stray And sows and reaps a thousand kisses there. In all her outward parts Love s always seen, But, oh, he so far, never goes within ! " " Love," I cry out laughing ; " there is no such thing ! " A Daughter of Venice. 107 She looks at me more coldly. " I do not marry without love," she says very calmly ; then adds, " You are not a true American, M. Bur den." "A true American has so little time for a grande passion" I say. " Yes ? " with an air of surprise. " We are rather inclined to despise it." "Oh." " As a true American, you, too, may des pise it also." " I cannot, I cannot," she cries with a strange emotion ; " I have tried." She looks down, and avoids my glance. She stands a moment before the glittering shop windows of the Arcade in deep maiden meditation. " My dear friend, it seems that you are wrong. A true American must love once, truly, forever and I can only reason this from perfect freedom. Is it not so that you are so un-American and ignorant of your real opportunities ? Is this thing, love, to be despised, as you despise so much io8 A Daughter of Venice. in your great country ? No, no, it is with you a strange reaction." Then after a pause she says, laughing, and showing her pretty white teeth, " But I confess, I am very ignorant." November 2&th. DAY has passed during which I have made no attempt to see Isabel. I have tried to bury myself in my notes on Gol- doni ; I confess they seem very stupid ; I have occasion frequently to use the blue pencil ; I de test (ioldoni s humor, too, greatly ; his plays appear too childish, too immature. Xelida e Lindoro is better Baruffe Chioz- /.otte is his best. I, ate in the afternoon I am on my way across the Piazza when I see her again at Minister s with her father. As I approach he bows and ceremoniously departs. Isa bel s manner is kind to-day. She is superior. She will lecture a little. Now that I have A Daughter of Venice. made an avowal and have been quietly re fused, we are on a better footing. "It seems to me," she says meditatively, " that all I hold most dear, you hold in disesteem. It is as if you had had a surfeit of success in your country. You appear to tire of your material progress. Per haps you have become bored by it. You are wearied with people the people, in the first place ; then with your new brick and mortar, your new buildings, new bridges, new towns, yes, I can feel that I partly understand you. But, as we pass on, I cannot perceive clearly from whence you derive your antipathies. They are not born in you, M. Burden ?" " On the contrary, my father was a great patriot," I reply. " He lost his life in our Civil War. Do not try to account for me, Isabel. I am what they call of the new generation. " And I laugh rather dis mally. " I know," she says gently, " I know that if another war arises that you yes, you would also willingly die for your country." " You pay me a splendid compliment." A Daughter of Venice. " It is what I read in all in many Anglo- Saxons. It seems an amusing affectation to despise what your fathers have struggled through so many years to obtain. You affect to deplore what every one but you admires. It is the English trait, and yours. I have known several English artists who possess it. They, indeed, despise England ! Oh, you are alike ! When a war comes and your States or your England is threat ened, you calmly go to the battle and end your lives if necessary in defence of what you despise. But you are growing now a little too refined to outsiders you make a pretence." And she laughs teasingly. We have now come to a dark, narrow little calle, which, after several turns, leads us over innumerable bridges to the Palazzo Regiani. As we walk on, the young Count ess becomes suddenly gay, and unexpectedly greatly animated. It is her buoyant youth which asserts itself again. She advances and retreats playfully ; she dances along the unfrequented calle, singing an opera air with a childish freedom and abandon. I follow her gravely ; it would appear that A Daughter of Venice. she is indifferent enough to ignore the pain she has given me. She whirls about on one foot, and laughs merrily at my astonish ment. She has now all the freakish play fulness of a young kitten. She has ceased to use her head to think. She comes run ning up to me breathlessly with a pretty air, and says, in English : " Forgive me, my sir, will you ? But I must be thus foolish ; when I am at the Palazzo I can be the more calm. It is not permitted for me to sport there much, and here, as there is no one, I sport." And with that she dances away again, laughing. And it is this picture of the Countess Isabel which remains impressed upon my mind most lastingly when I am away from her. A dark calle, mysterious doorways, a high wall ; the tall young girl, of a charm ing, lissome figure, with a face radiant with beauty, full of laughter, gracefully turning, dancing along the pavement like some wild young animal, half tamed, every motion exquisitely graceful, natural, full of fire. I stand watching her, wonderingly. At last she comes to me, saying : A Daughter of Venice. 113 " There ; now I can walk like a Chris tian ! " It appears that she had given to her play fulness but a brief opportunity after all. For the rest of our journey she hardly says a word ; she becomes silent and distrait. We arrive shortly at the great iron gateway of the Palazzo, which slowly opens at my ring. As the servant closes it, Isabel turns and gives me a half mocking, half earnest glance. The iron gate creaks and swings to. I catch a last glimpse of a jewelled hand throwing me a kiss, and I hear a sweet voice calling : " Buona notte, Signer e il Doge ! " November ysth. UONA notte, Si- gnore il Doge ! " I still hear her rich contralto voice, filling that abysmal calle and rever berating far out across the Grand Canal. Her English is half French ; her French, half Italian. I cannot describe in cold ink the witchery, the charm, the grace of her every move ment. I have been writing stupid letters all day long. I can only think of Isabel and of Venice, for Isabel is Venice at the height of its glory before, as is said, " Her art began to cast a beautiful sunset over her decline." There appears no weakness, no sense of decline in her. Power, audacity, beauty is stamped on her every feature. She commands, and is obeyed. She is A Daughter of Venice. queenly, tall, dominant. She is truly like an American girl ! Seeing her, I can only think of the Ve netians returning from conquest at the height of their commercial supremacy the Turks conquered, the nations paying trib ute. Do not France, Italy, England and America prostrate themselves at Isabel s feet? (I m not sure that Austria may not be included ; there is a certain Count Ra- vetski who appears occasionally, I m told, on the horizon, and again passes out of sight.) So, once, all nations revered, wor shipped and feared the name of her native city. It is pathetic to realize how in her enthusiasm she has revivified that old, proud, conquering type of energy a nobile of the end of the fifteenth century. There was faith and youth and enthusiasm then, such as she feels. Yes, Venice then, in its glory, was American. But what am I that I should dare ? Love has come to me unbidden, at an age when reason has cooled the brain. I thought, if I loved at all, it would be some beautiful 1 1 6 A Daughter of Venice. creation of art. But here is a creature who is artless ! Who lives and breathes and is ! I loved my sister, she was taken from me ; my heart was torn a long time. ... I am surprised that Isabel has so easily taken possession. How does this dazzling creature regard me ? She sometimes says to me playfully that I am the modern sad Venice, if she personates, as I insist, the gay Venice of the fifteenth century. " Be a Venetian like Loredan, like Moce- nigo, like Carmagnola, the glorious," she often says to me ; " yes, even like Othello, the Moor." Then she will let her shapely head fall on one side quizzically, and dreamily half- close her eyes. It is evident that I am old, very old, to this gay young creature. I rise and study myself in my long cheval glass. I am tall and pale, my dark beard is pointed in Paris fashion but I am not so old. Truly, I do not appear so. I recall many other expressions, which I have not till now considered. " You would greatly improve yourself, sir, by wearing A Daughter of Venice. 117 this pretty costume on the days of Enrigo," or one (lay, " Where have you been at the Accademia ? but you should have been at tending the siege of Constantinople ! " and again, I would like to see, M. Burden, a slight imitation of the fire of passion of the love of those past days, in you ; " and again, " You admire the royal days of Venice in ) T our speech only you will never live them." Would this wild creature have me carry her off some misty night in a gondola, vi et artnis? Does she wish me then to scale her window with a rope ladder ? She speaks coldly enough of " This thing, love." She wishes me to rouse her, to overwhelm her with passion with consuming fire. The long velvet curtains hang together in most mournful solemnity in the windows of the palazzo across the narrow calle. The hotel I am occupying was formerly itself a great palace, and in days gone by it is not improbable that the upper windows were joined by a slender bridge. Such bridges of rope, from palace to palace, are men tioned often in Villehadranim, the historian. 1 1 8 A Daughter of Venice. Would that I could span that little space, high above the calle ! To what end ? Ah, my heart, to plead like a mediaeval Othello, with all the passion in my soul, for a little of this thing love ! I stand in my window mentally willing that Isabel shall come and pull aside the curtains, that I may call over to her, and swear I will throw myself into the canal, or do some foolish thing if she will not love me. I own I am twice a fool for this, for she has re fused me more than once, in definite words. I stand there a moment, longing to see those dark curtains divide and her laughing face show itself between them. Ah ! The curtain does divide, but the Count, her father, stands there. He gravely bows to me. He is dressed in a rather youth ful appearing uniform, and wears a cocked hat surmounted by many feathers. He pre sents an odd appearance, and I can hardly prevent myself from smiling at this warlike apparition. He opens a casement at the side of his window, and I open mine. We can easily talk across. A Daughter of Venice. 119 " I did not know we were such neighbors," says the Count, taking off his chapeau. " Where your hotel is, was once the Palazzo Confrari. General d Hilliers lived a month there in 1797." Answering my look of interest at his uni form, he says, " It is an anniversary of Sadowa a fete of the departure of the Austrians." As it grows late, I suggest a cafe noir at Florian s, and I stroll down there presently it is not far from my hotel rather mar velling at his continued appearance of friendliness. Count Folsogni is not long in joining me at a little table. He has a copy of the Herald, and also Galignani, in his hand. He is still in his uniform. His face is clouded. "A friend who is posted, has just informed me of very grave news and news which doubtless will affect you, my dear Sir Burden. Sir, you have my sym pathy." He spreads out the Herald on the table " In this war with England, which must en sue " I2O A Daughter of Venice. " War with England ? " I read the scare- heads "FISHERIES WAR ON THE NEW FOUNDLAND BANKS!" " Oh, my dear Count, they won t go to war, I think " But read, my sir ; it is that England is vituperative and do you read these words relative to twisting the tail of the British lion ? Sir, no country in the world can re main quiet after such insults have passed ! " The Count glares at me, as if to inquire what my mild sentiments can possibly mean, after hearing of the enormities Eng land is perpetrating at the banks of New foundland upon innocent American fisher men. Being now an " American " forsooth, the scare-heads of the American paper have really given this student of republican ideas a bad quarter of an hour. " Vero ! They merely quarrel every year this way I laugh. " It is noth ing." " But, is it that your government cares not for insult ? " A Daughter of Venice. 121 " Well, you see, it isn t considered im portant." I am at a loss to explain. " And they care not that the British ves sel fires a shot at their flag ?" " Well you see my dear sir " " Then I am clone with this United States ! " he cries angrily. " It has no sense of honor. There should be a grand war, M. Burden. You should go home you should bravely lead a regiment, as did your father, as my daughter has informed me. Ah, perhaps then affairs might ar range themselves differently. ... I ad vise you, Sir Burden, to go at once to the seat of war. Be -brave return to Venice a general." Imagine my instantly starting for the bleak coasts of Newfoundland ! I find that I seriously affront the father of Isabel by my hilarity at this suggestion. He scowls, knits his brows, twirls his fierce moustachios. I hasten to pacify him. I order some absinthe it is what he likes. After we separate, I reflect upon his words. Is he really friendly to me ? Then why does he urge me so to depart from Venice ? He A Daughter of Venice. must be too astute to seriously try to per suade me to interest myself in this fishery dispute but he wishes me to absent my self for a time? I feel sure that it is so. In answering this query in the affirma tive, the placid, fat, handsome face of Lord Blandis, whose enormous wealth is known, rises before me. The young Eng lish peer has, it is said, completely thrown off the yoke of Lady Gorgon. That she has become alarmed and written to his mother in England, is more than probable, since within a day or two several members of his family have appeared upon the scene. He has been constantly at the Palazzo Regiani. He has had his opportunities to make an avowal. I have suspected that the Count strongly favors the pretensions of this young man. In every way, I acknowledge his superi ority over me as a suitor for Isabel. He is young his family one of the greatest in England. He is in full command of his fortune. I am in every way his opposite. I feel old, I have passed through sorrow. I have a little money not much. He has A Daughter of Venice. 123 his castles. In every way for her sake, it would be better that she should become Lady Blandis. She could do more for Italy for Venice. She might be able to carry out a few of her plans to make Ven ice still great. As I write in my diary, with the sunlight streaming in across my page, it is clear, it is evident, that if I love sincerely this glorious creature, I will quietly take my self away. If I remain, I cannot control myself. I will see her again annoy her. I will leave Venice ! Leave the musty MSS. in the Old Library. Leave her ! Yes, it is best. Alfred, I am sure, will think me vacillating, but I will go to Florence and make notes there. Some day Isabel will understand why 1 go away. She will appreciate my less passionate but more self-sacrificing " American " love. I think she has really formed no theory of love but one the mediaeval -the chival- ric. It must be frenetic hectic passion ate. There must be the wildest raptures, the most desperate situations. Alas ! I can only love her devotedly, simply like 124 A Daughter of Venice. a plain common man. I fancy she would prefer, at least, a little more sound and fury. She saw Salvini s Othello at Milan, two years ago, and she received an impression which she does not readily relinquish. It was thus that she would like to be loved ; madly, cruelly, say by some passionate tenore ! Isabel is but a sweet imaginative schoolgirl. She is inexperienced. She is still a Venetian ! A GONDOUKR, December nth. HAVE not gone away. I have remained, tast ing day by day the quiet mel ancholy of the old city, which has sympa thized with me and harmonized with my own. Modern Venice is balm to a disap pointed lover. I heartily recommend it as a solace to all such ! When one does not marry at twenty-five, he runs along sometimes to the end of the thirties. These are a man s two dangerous periods. A woman may have him at these times, at twenty-one and thirty-five. We made up a jolly party to the Lido, yesterday. Lord Blandis, her father and Isabel went over in a gondola together. 126 A Daughter of Venice. At the landing she allowed me to join her, and we walked across to the beach together. There were a number of people a large woman with Lady Gorgon proved to be Lord Blandis aunt, Lady Harrow. They had procured some rather ancient clams some where, and I was to show them an American clambake. The day was warm, like October. Isabel gave me her thick sacque, and raised her sun-umbrella. Afterward we were all to dine on board the Euterpe, Lord Blandis yacht, and there was to follow a moon light sail. The sail had been planned for the night before, but had been given up because of the cold. Yesterday the Adri atic was calm and deeply blue. The golden white-yellow sun flooded the atmosphere with prismatic light. Isabel, in her little London hat, her boa, her close-fitting habit, presented all the glories of the winter s fashions. But her eyes were all the time fastened on the distant Alps. Her face was pale preoccupied. " Tell me what to do ? " it seemed to ask. We walked side by side along the avenue of trees for a few moments before she said : A Daughter of Venice. 127 " A woman even in America must attain her end through marriage ! " " No it is not necessary," I replied. " She studies she leads she ignores her sex she is respected ? " " Certainly. There are colleges in the West where women study professions like men ; where it is the fashion to regard only the intelligence the intellect. She is there the equal of man." " There, in the West, love this curious thing, love is wholly discarded ?" " Yes, among those who enter the pro fessions " It is not actually necessary to life, M. Burden ?" She looked at me timidly. I replied with a laugh, " No. For a woman, who always gets the worst of the bargain, it is entirely unnecessary." " For a man ? " " A man rarely loves." She gave me a quick furtive glance, as if she would have said : " Are you then this rara avis, as you d have me believe ? " Walking with several Venetian gentle men beneath the willows, Signore Ferati, i2<S A Daughter of Venice. in distinctly yellow kid gloves, approaches. He is to-day unusually rubicund and well groomed. He has been lunching with his friends at the Lido restaurant on the shore. They have had several bottles of French champagne. He is all politeness. I would like this young Venetian better if he had less of the air of a commercial traveller. I judge his friends are buyers of glass from Milan or Florence. They, too, are fat and bourgeois. Isabel bows coldly, and looks intently at her Alps. " E Vero! He has only the soul of a pig ! " she murmurs, dismissing him. " He loves," I suggested, as if that at least condoned a little. "Bah \-Dio!" " A good deal of the American in Ferati, too. He would see that the larder was well stocked. A good family man what we call a good provider his wife will be at least comfortable " " I beg you to desist, M. Burden ! " Isabel s eyes were flashing with anger. We walked by willow trees which hung their long branches until they caressed her A Daughter of Venice. 129 hat. She reached and pulled a long streamer down but could not break it ; it vexed her still further. " Signore Ferati is nothing, Aretier is nothing, Grandino is nothing Lord Blandis is nothing ; all men are fools ! " she exclaimed, turning and walking away from me quickly, and then standing still, with a repentant air. " Do you see the gulls ? " she asked, pointing. "Yes." " They are like the souls of women, rest less, restless " Always fishing ! " I laughed. " And catching nothing ! Ah ! M. Bur den, we Venetians hold love to be some thing to be repressed concealed ; our fam ily is more, our city, our state. I don t know is love then universal among those not studying to learn in America ? Is love desired above family ? above wealth ? Tell me " As she seemed to wait to hear me dis course upon this, to her, novel subject of love, I said, gravely, " Love and marriage are not considered antipodal in my country. But if by love is meant infatuation, it is not 9 130 A Daughter of Venice. deemed desirable. They say, I believe, that this latter always dies out in a man after possession, but does not die out so soon in a woman. But the love which is partly love of temperance, home, honor, children, and all the virtues this we have most commonly. This is the American love which wears there is equality in this." " But how does it begin ? " " Propinquity " Not infatuation ?" " I think not." " No," she said thoughtfully, " naturally not. Very well, I like it better. Yet yet A crimson flush overspread her beautiful face. I read her, and she saw she was read, and laughed. How I could then and there have taken this sweetest of the sweet, most glorious of glorious girls in my arms ! Did she pant for early mediaeval passion ? I would have covered her lips, her throat with the wild est, insanest kisses ! How that white shining necklace of snowy Alps across the Adriatic caught her two eyes that day ! These pearls above the A Daughter of Venice. 1 3 1 blue sea fascinated her, Venice rising with her " tiara of towers," the long lagunes, the magnificent Santo Giorgio Maggiore held her not. She was looking toward my country. She was very near to me. Every thought, I seemed to share. As we walked along the shore, she, some times silent a moment, then talking briskly in her pretty, clearly enunciated French, digging her parasol in the sand, and con fiding a little hesitating quivering like some pretty bird, I felt I knew she was near to me, my own ! The chain of white, glistening, Alpine pearls meant America. The little Countess Cologni soon came running up with, " My God ! but you two will walk as if you were willing the Lido be twenty miles long." Again Isabel blushes. I read that romance still held the heart of this Venetian girl. She would secretly love to be loved, but not, necessarily, with all the furor and protestation, all the ex travagance of an operatic bravo. She may be content, even, with mine. 132 A Daughter of Venice. At the beach I endeavored to amuse the party of English and Italians with an at tempt at an American clambake. My efforts were not regarded with much favor. I regret to say that I did not cover my coun try with honor. To the fishermen, servants, and gondolier! who assisted me were soon given the unsavory clams. Afterward, Lord Blandis wandered away along the shore with Isabel. He returned alone after an hour, looking distressed and saying that she had gone back to the landing direct. He appeared much agitated, and, I hear, left Venice last night on his yacht for Con stantinople. The sail was given up. The dinner was a forlorn affair. Through all the twelve courses on the Euterpe, Count Folsogni s face was a study of carefully concealed anger. He said little. He was studiously polite. He did not look exactly malignant but I felt him. I was in his way. I had done him an injury. In all chance conversations 1 have had at receptions, dances, Accademia parties, at Florian s or in the foyer of the opera A Daughter of Venice. 133 house, with the young Lord Blandis, I have failed to notice any especial sign of intel ligence, which, should he eventually marry the fair Venetian girl, would tend to make their double journey in life a satisfactory one. It would mean for Isabel, I fear, a life of terrible ennui. I have noted his expressions concerning her. The fellow is undoubtedly very much in love infatuated in his English way. How soon his love would die in a year in a month ! Here is what he said : " Awfully clever girl, bah Jove ! She s caught on to Amer ica as many of our girls have. Thinks just as I do, bah Jove ! Likes to say and do as she likes. Burden, she s got you down fine. She even hates England ! " " It would be then a more subtle affecta tion of Americanism for Isabel to imitate the Anglomaniacs," I replied. Love day by day, hour after hour, in sickness and in health, in youth and old age, in joy and sorrow. This shallow hand some blond young Englishman knows it not. Not that Isabel would not compel it even from him for a long time after marriage. 134 A Daughter of Venice. But there would come a wretched time, when she would say to her heart, " I am dead " and to life, " It is but a wearisome vanity of vanities." I do not say that Lord Blandis is not a " good fellow." His friends are many. He would not be so brutal as the average Eng lish husband, but there would be tyrannies, extravagancies, domestic exactions. Lord Blandis has no sensitiveness. A good fel low indeed if always amused. Jolly if pleased. Isabel would not always please. Angered, I can imagine her a tempest of fury. She must reign be paramount. . . . There are beauties in England. Lord Blandis, they say, could never be accused of too great constancy. The young Count ess Isabel is his latest fancy. There would be a later. The world has him forever in its grasp, and when we say the world how often we mean the women of it ! I believe he would hold her a little higher than most English noblemen, their wives he would not merely regard her duties to his line but love, he little understands. December 21st. pHEN I walked through the rain to my hotel late this afternoon, my mind was filled with mis- giving. The tall palaces reaching skyward above the ca nal never seemed so mysterious, so threat ening, so mediaeval. A dismal mist hung over the Lido. A stray gondola flying along before the Ponte Longo ran swift, like the black cat of Hecate. Murder seemed to hang low in the air like the mist. I walked fast. " A band of bravoes with daggers drawn," I saw in every group of Venetian gentlemen. The screeching gondolieri were ruffians the beggars of St. Mark s, lepers. A gentle man forsooth must venture forth with Ian- 136 A Daughter of Venice. terns and a bodyguard. It was Venice of the middle ages a transformation sudden as it was terrifying. At noon the sun loomed through the yellow mist like a white moon at midnight. All things were beautiful to the eye. At noon I had not seen the Count ess Cologni. The Countess Cologni had no need to tell me to-day at her salon, that it had been the Count Folsogni s purpose to marry his daughter to Lord Blandis. She went on, however, after some hesitation, and in formed me that the Count was badly in debt. He had led a passionate, wicked life. He had broken his wife s heart long ago. Until Isabel returned from her pension in Paris, he had filled the Palazzo Regiani with his mistresses. He is an old roue, a reprobate, a scoundrel. I do not care to write here all that she told me. But Isa bel s return had changed him. He became a most solicitous, dutiful father. He did his best to gratify her every whim. He even made many sacrifices, that Isabel should make a great marriage. He bought her dresses, jewels everything. Latterly A Daughter of Venice. 137 he favored her Americanism, when he saw that the English milords admired it. Lord Blandis was worth hooking with every or any variety of bait. And this man now holds his daughter s destinies rudely, cruelly in his grasp. She has refused the Englishman she is to be disciplined ! " He is mediaeval always was, always will be cruel, villainous, mysterious," she whispered. " He has two three cowardly murders, which he calls duels, on his soul. . . . It is the end of the race of nobile Folsogni the end of the nobili Regianis ! Quevuole? Let it go ! That is the reason one never hears nor sees the poor Countess, his wife she knows him. She does not resist him. Si, Signore, she retires. She is silent these ten years. She is afraid. . ." " But Isabel is not afraid ? " " There have been terrible scenes Although the appearance of the weazened little Countess was almost ludicrously over- tragic, yet what she said was sufficiently appalling. " Ecco ! She is a capricciosa ! She would be Americana. So shall she 138 A Daughter of Venice. now do what her father wishes or the convent ! But she is a young tigress " They mean to send her to the convent ? " " A relative of ours a dignitary of the Church, the .Prince Fratelli ." Here the little Countess paused enigmatically and coughed. " This Prince will procure her a fine opportunity in the Church ? " I asked as calmly as I could. " He is enormously rich. He will pay the Count s debts." " He is benevolent ? " " Benevolent ! " She threw me a des pairing glance. I am at a loss exactly to follow her meaning. Prince Fratelli she tells me is one of the youngest and richest in the college at Rome. He inherited an enor mous fortune from the old banker Olgi, of Florence, his grandfather. He is a rela tive. He desires to assist the Fblsognis. He has seen Isabel. " He has seen her ?" " Yes. He admires her beauty. He is a connoisseur." A Daughter of Venice. 139 " But a priest is he not ? " " He will play the part of good friend and protector. She will go to live in Rome. Afterward, she will be well settled in some rich convent in Spain a career for Isabel M. Burden ! " I was silent. " Oh, do not consider that we are no longer mediaeval," said the Countess lightly. " Recall also the ruin which confronts him the immense sums the Count Folsogni owes. He will do anything to still retain his ancient house on the canal, that palace of palaces. He has pride of race. He is driven to desperation at this time. And it is at this moment that the Jesuit comes for ward. Prince Fratelli was here but yester day. He had audience with Isabel. He will pay all the debts, one hundred thou sand napoleons. You see the situation for Isabel ? It was Lord Blandis or the Church ! But now Lord Blandis has gone forever. My sir, the power of the Vene tian father has not been lost through the Austrians, or the Italian regime, nor yet been quite extinguished by the American- 140 A Daughter of Venice. ism of Isabel. Non! It is not for herselt alone that she must choose her husband her fate. Her family demands that she shall sacrifice herself that it may be pre served." " But on the Count s death Isabel is the last of her race ? " " There is a son. Some years ago he quarrelled with his father, left Venice, and entered a mercantile house in Naples. He is an honest, worthy, young man but he cut himself off from his family by this act. Now it is the plan to request his return to Venice, to rehabilitate him, to marry him well. The Palazzo will be refur nished. The Count Folsogni will grow old grandly, piously, surrounded by grand children " " And Isabel buried for life in some remote conventual house in Spain ?" " Eventually." The little Countess laid much stress on this word. " Eventually ? " I repeat dazedly. " The good Prince will at first permit her to see much of the world, the flesh, and the devil." A Daughter of Venice. 141 " She will revolt." The little Countess shook her head in the Venetian manner, hopelessly. " At first, yes in the end, no." "She will kill him ! " " Possible too." " She has so much to live for. She is ambitious hopeful." u Non ! No true Venetian is ever truly hopeful. Isabel is a Venetian." " It is horribly cruel." " There is reason in the thing, Sir Burden. The family survives. The old palazzo is restored. The name Folsogni again becomes great. The Count will enter the political arena. His son returns. Ah, the family is everything all, Sir Burden. It is more than the life than the mere honor of a figlia." Her honor is the family s "Non! She is not dishonored she dis appears. She is soon forgotten." The little old " lustrissima " began to weep gently. " Are we living in the days of Doge Falieri ? " I exclaim. 142 A Daughter of Venice. When I left her palazzo, and hurried to my hotel, my head was in a fever of excite ment. I read Isabel s little note, which I find at the hotel, five times. It would ap pear that she is anxious to see me. In all that the Countess Cologni has told me, she has herself shown the true Venetian fatalism. She will be merely a witness to Isabel s sacrifice. Deploring it, yet not seeking to prevent it. Witnessing calmly the sale of this beautiful slave to the evil-minded prince, seeing the money paid, the family name redeemed, the palaz zo refurnished. All at once it seems as if I am being hurried backward into the medievalism of the fourteenth century, when "chivalry" meant lust, and what we call pure disinterested love had barely dawned in the hovels of the poor, and in tradesmen s shops. Chivalry ! How many lies are uttered in thy name ! It was chivalry which invented the curious name of "maitresse." It was chivalry which bred gallantry, and gallantry, deception. All the while, the truer, higher love was dawning among the A Daughter of Venice. 143 common folk, in the narrow little shops, in the small country-life among the people, whence it was carried across the seas to bloom in the soil of my native America. 10 p. M. I have spent two hours with Isabel at the old palazzo. There was no disposition to prevent me, only when I called at six I was informed that Isabel was not at home. I learned later that this was untrue. When I called at seven, she had not returned. At eight, I was ushered through the cold, gloomy halls of the first floor up the wide stone staircase into a richly carved little chapel, as it seemed. The varied marbles of the walls, the gold lacunae of the ceiling, the exquisite little altar of silver before which hung a red lamp, the three or four pictures of the Bellini school, the general stillness and silence of the great dimly lit palace, the length of time I was left alone waiting for Isabel, all gave me the impres sion that I had closed the doors of the nineteenth century upon myself. Every- 144 A Daughter of Venice. thing here, from the oriental footstools to the tabourettes, and the curious lamps, is of the past. Why I am ushered into the chapel I know not. The chambers in which Isabel has had her " American even ings " were always light, cheerful, filled with furniture of recent date, and made modern by an English Uroadwood. The chapel opens by a stately doorway into the grand hall, the walls of which are covered with family portraits and one or two Canalettos. The family have moved into the story above for the winter season, and all the vast dimly-lit chambers on the second floor are empty. But what impos ing grandeur of effect ! What magnificent balls, marriage feasts, banquets, festivities have taken place here ! Grand, cold, glistening, magnificently uncomfortable, this stately Venetian palace ! The grandness of the house strongly impresses me, too, with the greatness of the old nobile family. Regarded through the centuries, it is the family, not Isabel, which is important and which must be kept alive. She is but an individual, an item ; the fam- A Daughter of Venice. 145 ily corporation goes on forever. One of the race was a Doge in the sixteenth century. Decayed now, its wealth departed, to be restored to all its grandeur through the sac rifice of Isabel s life. I confess I feel the subtle influence of the old palace, and am aware how intensified this gens feeling is, in the rich little family chapel. Not so many years ago, a canonico a family priest was the necessary appendage of every great Venetian house ; the chapel is still scented by his incense ; here Isabel was christened " Isabella," which she has Americanized into Isabel. Pictures of her infant life in these vast halls come to me ; her girl life. The influences of the past must have strongly affected her ; could she have thrown them all to the winds during her Paris schooling ? Is she, then, in reality such a modern ? Is her Americanism the purest affectation ? Behind it, is the true Isabel still a Venetian ? Presently the young girl enters, looking pale, and as though she had been weeping. After a few preliminaries, she turns to me. " My father is angry," she says, " because 10 146 A Daughter of Venice. I have thrown over Lord Blandis (you are my friend, and I can say anything to you), and he says there is an end of my freedom of America and this, too, after I had de clined to see Signore Ferati. Che Tiwle ? I have done much for my father every prin ciple of republicanism he has learned through me ; I have educated him. It sur prises me to see him so severe. But Lord Blandis he I don t know he is a num skull." The pretty mo ue she makes with her purse- like red lips, as she say this, causes me, even in the presence of the possible tragedy (of which Isabel herself is at present ignorant), to smile. " Could you not after your marriage with him learn to love him ? " " Learn to love learn to love ! " she said contemptuously. " That is so absurd. It is either love or not," decisively. " If not, then no marriage. Am I not an American ? I have said this to-day many times, M. Burden." As she speaks, she glances about over the dim pictures of the little chapel, and A Daughter of Venice. 147 unconsciously shudders. " Why have they brought you in here ? it is so cold," she says. " The chapel of the Folsognis " I never liked the feeling of all the old ghosts pointing so commandingly at me. The ancestors so intent on the family s name and future. In life they could roy ally wreck it but in death, woe be to her who is disobedient eh, my friend ? " She looked up at the portrait of an old Doge in black velvet and golden neck- chains. He frowned sternly. The question in my eyes she answers abruptly in her ready French, " I have sent for you, because because I shall not see you again now. I am going to Rome. The Prince Fratelli is a distant rela tive. I do not know what society I shall see. I fear it will be stupid no American fun but I long to see Rome. I can pass a few weeks there very well, until the carnival. Perhaps you are not to be in Rome this winter, M. Burden ? " Could she but know ! How can I frame the words which announce to her the vil- 148 A Daughter of Venice. lainy of her own father ! They have not told her of the convent afterward. I murmur that I will go to Rome if she goes. She is pleased. " So many Americans in Rome," she says, reddening a little ; and she mentions half a dozen names people she has met in Venice. It is evident that Rome appears to her an attractive change. " At the Prince s palace I intend to have my own way. I shall give perhaps a ball and some quiet little dinners. Do you think my American evenings will please the canonicos ? The Prince has been here. He is not very old. I am not afraid of him. He likes port wine. He drinks two bottles at a time. In Rome, if he wishes me to remain long, he will drink one bottle or less. They will send for my brother at Napoli he will return to Venice and the old quarrel be made up .They will restore the palace. There seems to be money now from somewhere and money has been so scarce with us, M. Burden." " Do not go to Rome ! " I say impul sively. " Do not go to Rome ?" she asks. A Daughter of Venice. 149 " At least have you talked with the Countess Cologni ? " " She approves." " Approves ? " " She says it is well to interest the rich Prince Fratelli in our fortunes. He is very wealthy. Indeed it is very kind of him to come all the way to Venice. He has no friends, poor soul ! I am sorry for him ; he is childless, I will be a daughter to the good man I will show him that, though I have thrown overboard the Church, yet I have not lost my better feelings. I need not teach him republicanism. I shall try to love him. He will be kind. I shall not be afraid of him as I am of my father ; yet never until lately was I he least afraid of him. My father is changed. He is not the same. He seems to have suddenly grown very old and harsh. When I kiss him, he turns away his head. Is it not strange ? " At that instant a gentle footfall is heard on the threshold. A lady whom I have seen once before enters. " Madre ! " exclaims Isabel, rising. 150 A Daughter of Venice. The elder woman wears a look of settled melancholy. Her dark eyes turn from me in the saddest, most beseeching manner. She is bent and old beyond her years. " Your father has returned," she whis pers. A frightened look comes over Isabel s face. " He was not to return until to-mor row. How is it that he returns so soon ? " she asks. " He is here." It is all that her mother says, and with out being presented, withdraws. This silent woman ! Once before have I seen her passing with bowed head from one of those vast, gloomy sala to the other. Her spirit is broken. She seems the very epitome of the old patrician* lady of a past century. Her will, her hopes, her fears bound to the tyranny of the head of the house into which she married. She stoops as she walks, and yet I can see that the Countess Folsogni was once a tall and graceful even a spirited woman. What dreadful scenes have met her gaze in this vast pile- where no outside law could enter A Daughter of Venice. 1 5 1 to override the will of her husband ? Her son has been banished, yet now to be re called, and her daughter sold to the caprices of a prince ! The Count enters the hallway, and Isabel rather timidly advances to meet him. She swims down the long polished marble floor to where he awaits her, near the entrance. Softly the Countess Folsogni approaches me, and in the purest English, says in a low voice, " Signore Burden, I have no time to explain. Do you love her [indicating Isa bel] ? Will you be good to her always ? " Her face admonishes me to betray no sur prise. " She has refused me, madame." " Still she will not again. This is her last night in Venice her last of freedom. She is ignorant. Fly with her ! She loves you. Go to America, where there is happi ness for her she will prove a loyal wife, Signore." " Fly with her ?" I ask in amazement. " Every moment is precious. They have sealed their bargain. She is sold ! " The Countess buried her face in her 15- A Daughter of Venice. hands. She is trembling as she speaks. It is a supreme effort for her. She sinks back upon one of the high gilt chairs which stand at either side of the door. Over her face spreads a pallor like the pallor of death. Still stronger comes over me the feeling that I am witnessing one of those mediaeval household dramas which, now at the end of our prosaic century, seem to us so im possible. It cannot be true. Isabel sold ? Absurd ! The honest, if worldly old Count, too, from whom I have derived only amuse ment, is not as base as that. Impossible ! Impossible ! I thrust the mists of such a ter rible accusation from me, and awake as from a hideous dream. The police are within call. There are the newspapers. All Christendom shall ring out their startled outcry against such a piece of satanic wickedness, if there is a suspicion of its truth. I turn from the face of the wretched mother, and gaze upon the smiling, luminous countenance of Isa bel, who approaches on her father s arm. Under the candles of the great chande lier her face shines like some beautiful SMt* -35^??^^^" ffj K, flj*. ^ l! sfc THE PALACE GATE A Daughter of Venice. 153 radiant star. She seems exalted, full of a strange enthusiasm. I have never seen her so beautiful, so spiritual, yet so gay. It is as if something the Count has said, has raised her spirits to the highest point. She dances along the scaglia floor on her father s arm, as I have seen sweet young girls dance in America, at the whispered promise of a desired Christmas present. " My brother has telegraphed he will re turn at once to Venice," she cries. "Ah, the good Prince Fratelli it is his doing. And my good father, he, too, wishes my brother Manuelo here at home. He will forgive and forget all." The Count s face was inscrutable. " And my brother, he, too, is of the new generation he works. When in a short time I return to Venice, he and I will begin our reforms." " We will not weary Signore Burden with these plans," remarks the Count, gravely. " Suppose you do not return, Madami- gella," I say impulsively. " Oh I die then?" She laughs. It seems to this young beauty that death 154 A Daughter of Venice. is the very last, remotest, obstacle in her path. Her father eyes me narrowly. "You may find it difficult to return from Rome," I say. " Rome is dangerous." The Count bursts out laughing. " It is that you will spend every centesimo you possess, mia cara, at the Carnival. You will not have the fares for the railway. This I know now to be American humor ! " Isabel laughs, but I do not laugh, and her face becomes grave again. " What is this not come back ? " She glances quickly toward her mother. It is from her she has learned in this household she can only get the truth. She has noted the serious ring in my voice. It is a tragic moment. Slowly the beaten woman rises from her chair, clad in her long gown of black velvet, which trails behind her as she totters toward her hus band, her hands clasped, her lips closed in mute appeal. " Tell her the truth you dare not ! " she hisses in the old Venetian dialect. In a furv of rage the Count has shaken A Daughter of Venice. 155 his arm free from Isabel and advanced upon his wife. He raises his hand to strike her down. Instantly Isabel throws herself between them. The coward s blow has unmasked the Count to her and to me. " Tell me the truth ! " she cries to her father. " Is it a trick ? If you could strike her, what can you not do to me ? Is it all a lie what the good Prince Fratelli has done for us? A lie all you have told me? A lie, that Manuelo returns and we are one again ? What is the truth, poverina Madre? Tell me ! I will know it. I m not the one to be easily duped. I shall do as I please. I shall not go to Rome, for it is true then that I shall not be permitted to return to Venice yes, it is true ! What ! There is some trick there ? I can play tricks too ! I will not go to Rome. I will not leave Venice. So, once for all, I do as I please ! / am Americana!" She draws herself to her full height. Her anger is fine. It calms her father, and turns his malignity into subtle pas sivity. " Isabella," he calls out in his deep basso 156 A Daughter of Venice. profundo, " do not be so foolish ! You may go or stay as it pleases you. Forgive my anger, Madam." Turning to his wife with a low bow. " I am not myself in anger. I know not what I do." A low bow again. " M. Burden, you will understand us Vene tians. We are all impulse, feeling, emotion, whatever we do. When we go in villeggia- tura each season, it is the same. We have a tableau, tears, outcries, reproaches. I am accused of every known crime. It is so now. Isabella, you need not go to Rome. Do you hear me ? You shall stay in Venice with your old father, so that you never need fear you will not return. As for the Prince, I do not care that for his good will ! Do you hear, Isabella, you may go or stay." Isabel s anger drops out of sight. "Pardon, my father," she says sweetly. "I forgot myself also. I will think over this thing. Perhaps I will go or not. Per haps I will stay or not. We shall see. It is as I wish." " It is as I will," growls the old Count, in an aside, looking furtively at me. A Daughter of Venice. 157 Taking her mother s arm, and making a sweeping courtesy to me, Isabel moves slow ly down the great sala, and passes out. At the portal she turns, and waves me an adieu. " Humph," shrugs the Count, smiling, " She is still Americana ! " Then he adds, " America is one grand humbug ! tsa ! " "Count Folsogni," I say slowly, "you are aware that I love your daughter. I will not willingly permit any harm to come to her any wrong to be done her. I pro pose to hold you responsible for your charge with your life." " Bah ! the duello ! " and he helps him self laughingly to a pinch of snuff. I turn on my heel, feeling that the man may be a small mean sort of villain enough, but that Isabel is clearly his master, at least, she is safe to-night. I leave the palaz/o, and return to my hotel, still pon dering over the Countess s words, " Fly with her she loves you." They sound and resound in my ears as I walk through the narrow calle, like the lines of Goldoni in some romantic play. The whole scene has 158 A Daughter of Venice. been mediaeval strangely antique. The cold moon looks down on the Venice of three centuries ago as I go home. Such family crimes were common to the age of Chivalry, not to this age of Commerce. "Fly with Isabel!" Aye, truly to the ends of the earth ! December y)th. OW softly the light steals into my c h a m b er across the Grand Canal ; how it sifts through the white mist, en- velopi n g the Salute. Night All seems dull Isabel has white Santa Maria clella scarcely wakens to day. and passionless enough, for been gone three days. Across the little calle the great Palazzo Regiani seems wrapped in gloom. The cur tains are all drawn. I have called once to pay my respects to the Countess Folsogni, but they told me she was ill. From the Countess Cologni I learned to-day that hitherto Isabel has always had her own way with her father. In little or 160 A Daughter of Venice. great things about the palace, her will has been law. Within a week, all this has changed. Isabel never ventured out for a walk again alone. Those who saw her marked her appearance of distress. She was no longer Americana ! Since the night I saw and talked with her I have seen her but once. In this little rencontre I learned enough to make me doubt her mother s accuracy of statement as to her having any feeling for me, as well as the fact of any danger attending her on her visit in Rome. I came to believe that the Countess Folsogni was the victim of purely nervous derangement. Isabel at the interview betrayed no emotion, and even seemed to me a trifle cold and hard. She seemed to have aged a little within so short a time. I learned from the Cologni that little by little the debts, the ruin, the evil deeds of her father have been gradu ally made known to her. Her pride of race was slowly stabbed to death. Perhaps she came to hate him and Rome seemed a refuge. She went at last, they say, quite willingly, sending by Felicia, her maid, a A Daughter of Venice- 161 basket of white roses for me, with a little note asking me to forgive the wildness, the foolishness of a young girl who had only brought jests upon my native country, America. Those who saw her at the station, and there were many to see her depart, who could not help loving this strange, beauti ful creature? those who saw her close at hand remarked the change in her face as some said, from youth to womanhood ; as others said, to premature old age. ROME, January^, 18 . VERYWHERE I went to-day they were talkingof the beauty of Isabel. Yet she has not been in Rome a month. I called again at the Fratelli palace on the Aretino, but was informed by the servants that Isabel was in the country. I learned from a friend that she was at the Marchesa di Severini s ball two days ago. She attracted great attention ; she wore the most gorgeous diamonds she, a young girl ! They say she drank champagne, and made English puns on every name of note in the ball room. From this I am rather pleased to observe that Isabel has returns of her former " American " feeling a desire to be advertised. The Prince and his friends A Daughter of Venice. 163 make a great pet of her. (That old story was a canard.) She will undoubtedly become a great belle at Rome. She will be much talked about, admired, and, shortly, she will for get that I have existed. The high society of Rome, like that of London, is pleased with a new toy. I fancy that this rare daughter of Venice will easily make her little court, as in her native city. The rich Prince Fratelli, the magnificent palace, give her the requisite background. She will, perhaps, marry a royal personage, giving- to me this advantage, that hereafter her every movement will be chronicled in Galignani and the Morning News. It will be a curious experience to watch this im perial star set so high in the social firma ment ; to remember that I knew and loved her when she was simply a young signorina fresh from school, when she was filled with her first vague enthusiasms her youthful dreams. I am conscious of the fact that a woman who is awakened too rudely often becomes a cynic at twenty-one. She will learn to laugh at me at my ambitions ! I 164 A Daughter of Venice. think that her death would be more endura ble than this her disappearance into the "light of common day " of the great world. There is a mocking laugh at me in this event. I have schooled my heart to give her up ; yet I must linger here where sometimes I may see her, hear her gay laugh, thrill with a kindly glance of her eye. Hitherto I have never been accused of being a senti mentalist ; but now I seem to float in a sea of it : I await and watch my emotions. I forget my Puritan origin, forget my train ing, which has sought to teach me that love is but a matter of religion ! As I sit at my window looking out over the towers and roofs of the Imperial City, a vision of my native New England town appears. The elm-covered street is de serted. The wintry wind sighs among the elm branches. The leaves drop and are caught on the wind. A solitary " buggy " winds along the muddy road toward a tall, ungainly, white meetin house. A tall girl walks slowly churchward. My sister ! She is pale and unhappy, the beginning A Daughter of Venice. 165 of the long illness which ended in her death. She has just refused a worthy young man because he was of a different denomination! She was loyal to her Con gregationalism he to his Episcopalianism. Her face shows vigils and conflict. I remember how it saddened her to know that I could not sympathize. But I could not bring myself to think that love was religion, even in Puritan New England ! She never recovered. I hold it true that she was but another victim of that dread ful human scourge an overwrought con science. January 26t/i. SAW Isabel to- day as she drove rapidly past in her stylish brough am, en route for Lady Minturn s reception. A lady sat by her side the Baroness Mun- zorff a wicked old Austrian aristo crat (a friend of the Prince), who, they say, has taken Isabel up. I saw her face, flushed with excitement and restless earnestness. She did not recognize me in the crowd. I heard an Italian say at my elbow, as the carriage dashed past, " There goes the Prince s beauty." I turned and knocked A Daughter of Venice. 167 the fellow down, not for the words but the leer as he spoke. He got up, felt for his knife, thought better of it, laughed, and said he did not know that she was secretly married. I let his coarse jokes pass. The Italians are only witty upon one subject. At the legation ball to-night I shall see her perhaps again. They tell me she is in the height of fashion, the toast of the clubs. The Prince cannot harm her all Rome would protest. Midnight. I have just returned from the legation ball, and have just assisted Isabel into her carriage. She was taken seriously ill while dancing with the young Prince Piorani. She fainted. She was a long time in com ing to. They dashed champagne in her face an Italian remedy. It wet her bosom, her beautiful dress, her necklace of dia monds. She appeared glad to see me when she recovered but how changed she seemed ! Ah, she has aged ! The lightsomeness of 1 68 A Daughter of Venice. her heart has gone, I trust only tempora rily ; I fear, forever. She told me she felt ill she dreaded the fever. I tried to calm her fears. In her carriage, she fainted again. Her maid held her in her arms, more dead than alive, until they reached the palazzo. We lifted her out and carried her up long stone stair ways to her suite of chambers. I was daz zled by the richness and magnificence of their decoration. Half a dozen maids at tended her, and Italian servants are the best in the world, if unpleasantly impressionable. They at once began to weep, believing their mistress dead. The famous little Italian doctor, Travazzi, bustled in, and going to her bedside unblushingly tore open the bosom of her low ball-dress. " Ze harrta slope ze harrta av not room. I maka room, Signore. Ah, eet is ze fever ze fever ! " April loth. ANY weeks have elapsed since I have written a word in my diary. Isabel has been very ill at the palace with the Roman lever. One day, two months ago, as she lay very near death, as they all believed, she sent for me. As her mother led me in, the priest made his exit, muttering a Latin prayer. I shall never forget the scene. The cur tains were drawn in all the windows but one. Her little, narrow bed stood out in the centre of the room. At her side was a large table on which were some roses I had sent, in a large bowl, Every day she had been ill I had sent them, American fashion, with my " best wishes " written in English on 1 7 A Daughter of Venice. my card, as I gave the roses to the ser vant at the iron gate of the palace, in the little Roman street. Her chamber was on the upper story of the palazzo, and her windows looked east ward. The one in which the curtains were drawn afforded a view of the graceful dome of St. Peter s. I remember I met the old Count looking decrepit and worn, wearing an old dressing- gown, at the door. He grasped my hand and made the sign of the Cross, but said not a word. There were several nurses and tire-women present. The Countess Folsogni sat read ing her breviary and counting her beads in an adjoining room. I recall the deference the Count paid me that all paid me and it gave a new impression that I had a right there at Isabel s bedside. As I was used to seeing her only in the fulness of her beauty and exuberant health, I was shocked when I saw how emaciated she was. Only her eyes remained the same the deep gray green and gave out only the gentlest, most spiritual light. Her A Daughter of Venice. 171 hands, covered with gorgeous rings, lay outside the white covers. Her hair was confined in a small, compact mass within a lace cap. A saintly, holy sweetness per vaded the rich apartment, and all about her. Before her hung a fair copy of Raphael s Madonna di San Sisto. I think she must have read the sorrow and deep concern in my face, for she said in a whisper, in Italian, as I bent down near her : "I shall live, M. Burden and I want you not to be unhappy. I have learned what love is the American love." "Ah?" " Every day you have come, sometimes twice and three times. I could faintly feel if not hear your ring at the gate. I knew it was you. You sent me your best wishes, best wishes ah, yes now I know that is the American love. " She paused a moment to take breath. " And it means so much. It is not a quick passion which comes, devours and goes. Ah no, M. Burden it is best wishes every day, all the whole life. . . . It is 172 A Daughter of Venice. very sweet, that love. But as I lie here and think, and think it has come to me at last. ... I shall live, M. Burden be lieve me, the best wishes they will not go if I live ! " " Ah, my darling ! my love ! " I cried, falling on my knees. Her hand rested a moment on my head and caressed it. " It is very sweet," she murmured, "It is the love of a high sort ; it is unselfish, the best wishes, I understand now. Yes, it is in some of those American novels, too. It is implied. There is no passion, ah, it is a condition. One lives in it, one does things for the other without thought. Ah, how glad I am ! I am still Americana ! " " You have come to love me " I mused, her hand in mine. " Yes" " My sweet American girl." " Yes vraiment yours! " " You a Venetian ! " " It contents me as I lie here. It is the love of the soul, pure, beautiful. I ask no other wish no other. I love only my love who is so unselfish so self-denying." A Daughter of Venice. 173 "And your plans for Venice?" She only smiled. That was two months ago. Since then, what happiness ! Isabel grows better in the quiet joy of our betrothal. The Prince has not forbidden it. The Count, her father, pats me on the back, his " son-in- lav/, beloved." The Countess Folsogni alone still pre serves the same dark, dreadful meaning in her face. I am curiously prevented from having a word with her alone. With Isa bel I may sit and chat an entire morning. To-day the world of Rome never looked so gay to me. It is warm and sunny, and one hears music at every open window. Isabel has recovered so that she can take little walks with me in the pleasant giar- dino of the palace. She is pale still, and cannot walk far or long at a time. But how happy she is ! She continually makes little studies of the way I make love, in what she terms " the fashion American." The palace gardens are filled with the 174 A Daughter of Venice. usual marble Psyches and Cupids, and the usual potted shrubs and plants of all Roman gardens. There are several beautiful olive trees. Under these we sit. A high wall surrounds the pretty acre, above is the blue Italian sky, the deep green of the olive and ilex leaves. The palace, built in the later Renais sance, has none of the awful mediaevalism of the Regiani at Venice. There is a com fortable feeling of security, of the nine teenth century, in its broad porch and door ways. Across the Tiber, in Transtevere, we can see a dozen new buildings of white brick rising. Isabel often remarks them. " Ah, so American ! " she intimates, with a delicious roguery. She delights in improvements, in new buildings, in progress ! -" So American ! " We are happy we are easily pleased. We read only American novels. Isabel longs to visit "Ni Gark," " Bostone." She will make in my country an anomaly a patriotic American woman ! I can recall none who admire, especially, republicanism. But what American woman of fashion does A Daughter of Venice. 175 not know all royal personages by name? She will teach us to be good Americans, per haps to worship that for which our ances tors gave so much. It seems so much to her. I learned that during the early days of her illness, Isabel, in her fever, kept crying my name and calling for me. The doctor at last urgently advised my being sum moned. All my visits seem to be casually watched by the pale-faced Dr. Travazzi, her physician. Sometimes as he rubs his hands and smiles, I imagine that he regards me in the light of a trained nurse or per haps a soothing medicine I have done his patient some service ! It is odd that I have never yet set eyes on the Prince. He remains shrouded in the palace. He is never on view. I learn that he is not in the Church exactly, but close to it. He is too much a man of the world. May 3</. ET me barely set down the facts as they occurred to-day. I cannot understand I am in a state of wild doubt and despair. We walked, Isabel and I, in the sunny garden, as usual. She a PP eared stronger, almost well. She was like her old self, buoy ant, full of laughter, free. The morning was made memorable by our setting the day of our wedding a month later. Isabel said, looking away at the distant view of the hills beyond Transtevere, " I am willing soon. My father he wishes soon." I took her in my arms. "You speak of your father?" I asked. " I think of him. All his troubles his debts I expressed polite interest. A Daughter of Venice. 177 " Paul, you will pay them ! It is nothing to you perhaps a million francs." "A million francs ?" " Bagatelle ! " "But" " You are rich. All Americans are rich." " My darling, I am not rich." "Not rich! Dio!" She looked at me with an expression of wild astonishment. "Mais, all Americans are enormously rich ?" " Frankly, I am not so. There is a little money not much." "Is it the truth, Paul?" She gazed for a moment deeply into my eyes. "Absolutely." Isabel rose, and stood a moment beneath the shade of a palm leaf, trembling. The marble statue of a laughing faun near by seemed to point mockingly at her, to jeer at her. " It disappoints you to find one American who is not wealthy? " I asked coldly. " My father s debts ! My family ! " she ejaculated, bursting into tears. I have never seen her weep before. 178 A Daughter of Venice. " You could not expect me to pay your father s debts ? " " I did ! I did ! " she sobbed. " It is not the American custom," I said, after a little pause, surprised in my turn. Her whole body shook with emotion ; her face turned away from me. At the moment I could not realize the tragedy in her heart. I only felt like a lover. I only wanted her. I doubted not that she cared for me more than family. The old Count must get along as best he could ! I could only pity her disappointment, and regret that I had not fortune sufficient to pay the Count s debts a thousand times over. But pshaw ! why should she care so much ? She loved me ! She loved America, which would be her home ! Finally, as I did not rise and go to her, the words came in French, " Do not think me mercenary." " I am very sorry that I am unable to do more than support you, Isabel, in all the comfort you have been accustomed to. I have a comfortable home in the States. I A Daughter of Venice. 179 have enough. You shall never ask twice for a bonnet." She looked at me, and smiled through her tears. How dear and sweet she looked in the garden of roses ! Like a rose herself, petal by petal opening until I saw the love writ ten in her heart, for me ! My thirty-odd years rolled away in the rapturous perfume and I was twenty -one ! We had been read ing a volume of Ruskin. I let the volume fall on the ground. It grew toward white noon. There was a silent rapture of love between us. Suddenly we heard a voice the deep basso of her father. It called to her. "Isabella! " I remembered instantly that same voice the first day I saw her in the Campanile. She ceased her tears. Tossing me a kiss, she lightly fled away from me to him, laugh ing gayly ; I even heard her singing as she walked toward the palace. I saw her sunny head across the garden, amid the branches of the ilex trees. She entered the palace. . . . The iron gate clashed shut. . . 180 A Daughter of Venice. I think I waited half an hour without feel ing disturbed. Then I approached the pal ace, and made inquiry of one of the liveried servants of the Countess Isabel. Word was brought me that she prayed to be excused. Not doubting, even then, I went away to my hotel, thinking that my Venetian rose was detained by some trivial matter. To morrow she would be twice as sweet to me for this absence. The morrow came. I called. They told me Isabel had suddenly left Rome. Why ? This they did not tell me. The horror that came over me left my mind a blank. ... I cannot write of it now. No word, no explanation. She had gone. The servants knew nothing ; their lips were sealed. Every one of the family had left Rome. I feared the worst. Doc tor Travazzi is apparently as nonplussed as I am. I remember I drove to the prefecture of police. I was merely laughed at for an in sane American. " I understand," said the officer, " you are angry that you cannot marry the cele- A Daughter of Venice. 181 brated daughter of ze Count Folsogni many others also are angry. Che vuole ? Ze Count her fader takes her avay zat is right. Zere s too many adventurers, my sir." No one who has not travelled in Italy can ever know the absolute helplessness which paralyzes a foreigner under such cir cumstances. I employed detectives who did not detect. I flew to Venice in search of her, to Florence, to Padua in vain ! Isabel was lost forever ! . . . I recall that in those days of feverish despair I met Ferati in Venice. " You will assist me in my search for Isabel ? " I asked. He only shrugged his shoulders. " You will help to avenge this crime ?" " I can do nothing." " Nothing ? " " It is a family matter, my sir ; she con sents. Such affairs are not so uncommon among the nobili ; it is the old regime." He turned away with another shrug. NEW YORK, June 21. A year later. OD grant that my nephew may es cape in his life such a sad expe rience as mine ! I write these words in my di ary for the last time. I intend to seal it up, and long after I am dead let it be opened and read by Al fred, my nephew, or, if he desires, destroyed. Bitterness worse than living death ! My heart dead and buried ! The delight of those few short sunny days in Rome in the gardens of the old palace with Isa bel ! Her sweetness ineffable, her return ing health, the daily interviews in the gar den. Oh, the part those wretches played ! God curse them to the deepest pits of hell! A Daughter of Venice, 183 Looking back over what I have written I have thought best to destroy the records of many days. I have left but a slight, brief sketch of Isabel enough, enough ! Dante says, " Life is but the flash of the wave, the sound that echoes and is gone. I ,ove is but a part of life Let my rec ord of her be brief, unfinished, imperfect ; such has been her life imperfect, unfin ished. . . . I never saw Isabel again. I travelled into distant countries India, China, Japan. At Yokohama they forwarded to me a little packet with a Venetian postmark. I waited a day without opening it. I remember that I sat brooding in my small Japanese cham ber while the packet lay on the little bam boo table, and Fusiyama, the holy mountain, reared its slender white crater against the deep blue of the sky, before my open win dow. " If she writes me to come shall I go ? If she has married shall I care? If she is dead shall I live?" These questions I asked throughout the short summer night, and left at the gray dawn unanswered. 184 A Daughter of Venice. The unopened packet I dreaded to unseal. The very wax smelled of dead Venice of the Regianis. I went out, hired a jinrick sha, and rode for miles along the country roads of the eastern paradise, and then returned. The outward aspect of the world was so beautiful, yet so simple, so poetic, that I brought back a fearless resolution. The Japanese were of an old civilization older than the Venetian. But in their civilization there was nothing of mystery, of dread, of death. I felt inspired by their charming light-mindedness, and opened the packet resolutely. First there was a letter in French from my old friend the Countess Cologni, as follows : " MY DEAR M. BURDEN : The enclosed, under seal, my Isabel left for you. I am ignorant of its contents. Pardon her, my sir ! In what she did she was but a daugh ter of Venice. I am convinced that she loved you. You were not daring, M. Bur den ! You had no determination ! [ffer words the first night I met her at the Casa Bonifacio !] It appears that the very night A Daughter of Venice. 185 of her disappearance she escaped from their surveillance at the palazzo and went to you. You were not at your hotel. She walked an hour, at night, subjecting her self to all manner of insult. She made an effort to find you at first. In vain ! Then, by an accident, she met you returning and hid within a doorway. Think of that ! It was within her power to touch you, to call you. But, Monsieur, the claims of her family in Venice when she was free to choose, triumphed ! It was then that she made up her mind to submit while your fiacre, detained by the crowds in the Corso, stood for a moment within her reach. Pardon her, M. Burden ! Think of her sacrifice ! She let you go by go past ! She returned to the Prince ! the bargain was carried out. . . . the money paid, her father saved. . . . the family reestablished " I read no further. My servant brought in a brazier on which a pot of tea was heat ing. I fanned the live coals a moment into flame, and gently placed Isabel s unbroken packet on the embers. 1 86 A Daughter of Venice. I said aloud to my servant, " Go tell the merchant that I will purchase that little urn of old bronze I saw yesterday." He departed and returned presently with the merchant himself bearing the costly urn. I paid his price. The ashes of Isabel s last confession, if such it was (as the packet burned I caught but one word "passio- nata "), repose in the heart of the deli cately beautiful bronze. In it, I conceive that I have buried her heart ; I know that it was and is mine, but its confession of love, and desperate self- sacrifice, does not weaken its hold upon me, any more than it gives me the right to pry into its secret despair, and lay bare its con tents. She was a woman of another age ; I do not seek to judge her ; she has restored her race ; my love compared with this hero ism seems but a puny affair. What is " this thing love " but selfish ness ? Isabel has refounded her family. It will be rich and proud and great as long as Venice remains above the wave. I am appalled at the magnificence of her spirit, at the grandeur of her audacity. She was A Daughter of Venice. 187 a true daughter of Venice a true descend ant of the doges ! They told her that she, a woman, could do nothing they laughed her young ambition to scorn ; but she has chosen to restore her race to do every thing ! . . . The great Palazzo Regiani, on the Grand Canal, the Countess Cologni wrote, in a later letter, has been entirely restored and refitted. The young Count Manuelo Fol- sogni was a good, pious, serious young man. The family was now well established. The very name of Isabel, whose beauty had restored the old ducal race, is almost forgotten in Venice. Amen. Some day I will visit again, if I live, that grave of Isabel s ambitions. I often think how strange it was that the most vital creature (vital in Wordsworth s beautiful sense) I ever knew should have been born in the very heart of the dead city. . . . I will love to see my Venice again. It will be in early May ; and the moon will float above the Dogana, as one observes from the Giardino Reale. I will 1 88 A Daughter of Venice. again be charmed and filled with the strange, sad beauty of that wonderful city. I will see it, too, under the moonlight, with the eyes of a Dandolo, and with the aveng ing heart of a Sforza. I long to have a life for a life ! . . . Yet these vengeful thoughts, little by little, are fading. I feel the years the years. There, rising in the dim moonlight above the Grand Canal, I often picture the old stately, mediaeval palace of the Regianis. They may have restored it, and disfigured it, as they have the old Fondaca dei Turchi, but they can never change that melancholy, mysterious aspect of the past which per vades it. The old mediaeval house has its terrible secrets was built on crime is stained with blood ; but there is no greater infamy chargeable to it than, in this close of the nineteenth century, the effacement of the beautiful young Countess Isabel. She lives, but she lives in an oblivion as deep as the waters of Lethe. I was fortunate enough to purchase of M. Aretier, in Paris, her portrait, in choppines. The Countess Isabel, as I knew her, in her A Daughter of Venice. 189 radiant and patrician beauty, looks down with a gay, charming smile upon me as I write an impersonation of the most en thusiastic youth, a veritable daughter of the Venice of the middle age. FIXE. GRAMERCY PARK. By John Sey mour Wood. (D. Appleton & Co.) " As to Gramercy Park. . .it is a serious piece of fic tion deserving recognition. .It is told without strain ing for sensational effect, without carping, or blame or prudery or lamentation ; but it is told, unflinch ingly nevertheless, with a sense of the essence of truth and good invention even in this struggling, ironical fin dn siecle life of ours." The Critic. Mr. Wood s story is that of a modern pair to one of whom come fickleness and disillusion, which end in separation the last page leaves open the question as to whether it is to be final. The style is vigorous and easy, and the mood of the author is that of a keen, careful, and rather pessimistic artist." N. Y. Trib une. " The opening chapters are a charming love story, which evolves through matrimony into a novel with a purpose the burden of it being that the present social system which sends the wife to the country, and leaves the husband in town, is responsible for much discord and unhappiness." Life. " The story is well told, and points out clearly the increase of a terrible social evil, the decline of home life, and one of the many reasons for both." Com mercial Advertiser. " Gramercy Park. by John Seymour Wood, the author of Harry s Career at Yale, now running in Outing, fulfills its claim as a story of New York life. The absence of over-saintly and vicious characters is, indeed, refreshing, while a satire upon the present state of society adds force to the story." Outing, for October. A 000143232 7