GIFT OF 
 C. H. Shinn 
 
C]^e jHonft'js ancööinö. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN BY S. H. ADAMS. 
 
 ^^ Of 
 
THE MONK'S WEDDING 
 
 ^ U^Ol^EL 
 
 BY 
 
 Convali jjcrtiinantj fHtjia 
 
 ^^^^. 
 
 
 SI^- 
 
 P^' *y 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 CUPPLES AND HURD 
 
 g4 Boylston Street 
 1887 
 
i '-'^ ■'^-- ■■"> 
 
 (^S^S^ 
 
 Copyright, 1SS7, 
 By Cupples and Hurd. 
 
 A II Rights Reserved. 
 
 Gift of 
 
 CThe f^Döe i^arfe iprrgg. 
 

 THE MONK'S WEDDING. 
 
 It was evening in Verona. Round a 
 spacious hearth, glowing with a fire which 
 filled its roomy depth and centre, sat .a 
 princely group. In the centre — Lord and 
 Master — was that Scaliger whom they 
 called Cangrande. Of the blooming ladies 
 on either side of him, the one nearest to the 
 fire and half in shadow, was his wife ; the 
 other upon whom the full light shone, his 
 relative and friend. Near them were the 
 other members of the party, leaving the 
 remainder of the hearth free, according to 
 courtly custom, and with significant glances 
 and half-suppressed laughter they were tell- 
 ing stories. 
 
 Into this brilliant, joyous company, a grave 
 man entered, whose stern features and long 
 flowing robe seemed out of another world. 
 
 " Prince, I come to warm myself at your 
 hearth," said the stranger, in a tone of 
 
^ The Monk's Wedding, 
 
 mingled seriousness and disdain, adding re- 
 proachfully, " The negligent servants, despite 
 this frosty evening, have delayed, or for- 
 gotten, to light the fire in the upper guest- 
 chamber." 
 
 " Take a seat beside me, my Dante, " re- 
 plied Cangrande, " but, if you would feel a 
 genial warmth, you must not sit, as is your 
 wont, mutely gazing at the flames. We are 
 amusins: each other with stories and the hand 
 which has to-day forged the Terza Rima (for 
 in my astrological chamber I overheard you 
 scanning the verse, ) this mighty hand, I say, 
 must consent to grasp our diverting plaything 
 without shivering it to pieces. Dismiss the 
 Goddesses " — he meant the Muses — " for a 
 while and satisfy yourself v/ith these l^^ely 
 mortals " — and with a graceful wave of the 
 hand Cangrande directed the eyes of his 
 guest to the two ladies. Seemingly uncon- 
 scious of his presence, the taller of them had 
 not thought of moving, whilst the younger 
 and more sprightly one gladly made place 
 for the Florentine beside her. Disregard- 
 ing, however, the invitation of his host he 
 proudly chose a seat at the end of the table. 
 
f 
 
 The Monk's Weddhig, 5 
 
 Either he was displeased at finding two ladies 
 at the side of the Prince, if only for an even- 
 ing, or he was disgusted with the court-fool 
 who, with legs stretched out before him, was 
 sitting on Cangrande's mantle which had 
 fallen to the ground. 
 
 This fool, a toothless old man, with goggle 
 eyes and soft sensual mouth, fit only for gab- 
 bling and licking sweet-meats, was beside 
 Dante, the one elderly man in the company. 
 He was called Gocciola, which means " little 
 drop " — because it was his habit to secretly 
 collect the little drops clinging to the empty 
 glasses. He hated the Florentine with a 
 kind of childish spite, seeing in him a rival 
 for the, not always daintily bestowed, favor of 
 the prince. He made up a face, and grin- 
 ning scornfully, had the boldness to call the 
 attention of his pretty neighbor on the left 
 to the profile of the poet sharply outlined 
 upon the ceiling of the lofty room. Dante's 
 profile was like that of a gigantic woman, 
 w4th long aquiline nose and drooping lips — 
 one of the Parese — or weird sisters. The 
 light-hearted maiden turned aside to hide a 
 childlike laugh. A clever looking youth, 
 
6 The Monk's Wedding, 
 
 who now drew nearer and was named Asca- 
 nio, helped her to smother it by addressing 
 Dante with that measure of reverence with 
 which the poet Hked to be approached. 
 
 " Thou who art Italy's Homer and Virgil" 
 — he said — "I beg of thee scorn not to 
 share in our innocent sport. Deign to en- 
 tertain us tonight, not with song, but with 
 story. " 
 
 " What is your theme 1 " Dante asked, 
 still harshly though somewhat less ungra- 
 ciously than at first. 
 
 " Sudden change of profession, with good, 
 bad, or laughable results. " the youth replied 
 quickly. Dante was silent for a moment ; 
 with melancholy eyes he thoughtfully sur- 
 veyed the company which did not wholly dis- 
 please him, for he discovered, together with 
 many shallow brows, some that were strik- 
 ingly noble and powerful. " Has any one 
 of you made the uncowling of a monk his 
 theme ? " he enquired, already in a milder 
 tone. 
 
 "Yes, Dante, " answered a soldier with a 
 slightly foreign accent, who was dressed in 
 chain armor, had an earnest, good-natured 
 
The Mo7tk's Wedding, 7 
 
 face, and wore a long drooping moustache. 
 " I have related the story of the young 
 Manuccio who leapt over the walls of his 
 cloister to become a soldier. " 
 
 *' He did right, " responded Dante, "for he 
 had deceived himself as to his callino:. " 
 
 A pert and somewhat voluptuous Paduan, 
 named Tsotta, now interrupted with — "Mas- 
 ter, I have narrated the story of Helena 
 Manenta, who after her first curl had fallen 
 under the consecrated shears covered the 
 rest with both hands and slurred over her 
 nun's vows, for among the people in the nave 
 of the church she had caught sight of her 
 lover who was carried off into slavery, but 
 had been miraculously released, and was now 
 hanging up his chains " — she was going to 
 say — " in the church," when Dante cut short 
 her chatter by saying, " And she also did 
 well for she acted out the instincts of her 
 amorous nature, but I shall tell you of a 
 wholly different case from any that has been 
 here mentioned. There was a monk who, not 
 from his own instinct, nor from any longing 
 for worldly pleasure, or power, nor because 
 he had mistaken the bent of his capacities 
 
8 The Monk's Wedding, 
 
 or talents, but for the love of another, under 
 the compulsion of another's will, on the 
 ground of what may indeed be called filial 
 piety, became false to himself ; broke vows 
 made to himself even more than to the 
 church ; flung aside the rope and cowl which 
 had never been a trial to him, but on the 
 contrary, had seemed a part of himself. Has 
 this been related ? No ? Good ! Then I will 
 do it; but, my patron and protector, say 
 what must be the end of such a thing ? " — 
 and he turned to Cangrande. 
 
 " It must necessarily be bad," he replied 
 without hesitation — " Who voluntarily takes 
 a leap, leaps well ; — who is pushed to it 
 leaps badly." 
 
 " Thou speakest the truth. Prince," re- 
 sponded Dante, " for if I understand it, the 
 Apostle meant just this when writing to the 
 Romans, that ' whatever is not of faith is sin,' 
 which means acting against the truth of 
 nature, and our highest convictions." 
 
 " Is it at all necessary that there should 
 be monks ? " whispered a voice out of a dim 
 corner, as if to suggest that any sort of 
 escape from an unnatural condition was a 
 blessing. 
 
The Monk's Wedding, g 
 
 The audacious question caused no shock, 
 for at this court the boldest discussion of 
 rehgious matters was allowed, yes, smiled 
 upon, whilst a free or incautious word in re- 
 gard to the person or policy of the Emperor 
 was certain destruction. 
 
 Dante's eyes sought the speaker and 
 recognized in him a young ecclesiastic whose 
 fingers toyed with the heavy gold cross he 
 wore over his priestly robe. 
 
 " Not on my account," said the Florentine 
 
 deliberately, " May the monks die out as [j 
 soon as a race is born that understands how 
 to unite justice and mercy — the two highest 
 attributes of the human soul — which seem 
 now to exclude one another. Until that 
 late hour in the world's history may the State 
 administer the one, and the church the other. 
 Since, however, the exercise of mercy re- 
 quires a thoroughly unselfish heart, the three 
 monastic vows are not only a proper but es- 
 sential preparation ; for experience has taught 
 that total abnegation is less difficult than a j 
 reserved and partial self-surrender." - 
 
 " Are there not more bad than good 
 monks 1 " persisted the doubting ecclesiastic. 
 
10 The Monk's Weddmg, 
 
 *' No," said Dante, " when we take into con- 
 sideration human weakness ; else there are 
 more unjust than righteous judges, more 
 cowards than brave warriors, more bad men 
 than good." 
 
 " And is not this the case ? " asked the 
 guest in the dim corner. " No, certainly 
 not," Dante replied, a heavenly brightness 
 suddenly illuminating his stern features. 
 " Is not philosophy asking and striving to 
 to find out how evil came into this world ? 
 Had the bad formed the majority we should, 
 ^ on the contrary, have been asking how good 
 came into the world." 
 
 This proud enigmatical remark impressed 
 the party forcibly but at the same time ex- 
 cited some apprehension lest the Florentine 
 was going deeper into scholasticism instead 
 of relating his story. 
 
 Cangrande saw his pretty young friend 
 suppress a yawn, and said " Noble Dante, 
 are you to tell us a true story or will you em- 
 bellish a legend current among the people ; or 
 can you not give us a pure invention of your 
 own laurel-crowned head ? " 
 ^ Dante replied with slow emphasis, " I evolve 
 my story from an inscription on a grave." 
 
The Monk's Wedding, ii 
 
 " On a grave ! " 
 
 " Yes, from an inscription on a grave stone 
 which I read years ago when with the Fran- 
 ciscans at Padua. The stone was in a corner 
 of the cloister garden hidden under wild rose 
 bushes, but still accessible to the novices, if 
 they crept on all fours and did not mind 
 scratching their cheeks with thorns. I 
 ordered the prior, or I should say, besought 
 him, to have the puzzling stone removed 
 to the library, and there commended to the 
 interest of a gray-headed custodian. 
 
 " What was on the stone ? " interposed 
 somewhat listlessly the wife of the Prince. 
 
 " The inscription, " answered Dante, " was 
 in Latin and ran thus : — 
 
 " Hie jacet monachus Astorre cum uxore Antiope. 
 Sepeliebat Azzolinus.' " 
 
 "What does it mean ? " eagerly cried the 
 lady on Cangrande's left. 
 
 The Prince fluently translated : — 
 
 " Here sleeps the monk Astorre beside his wife 
 Antiope. Both buried by Ezzelin." 
 
 " Atrocious tyrant ! " exclaimed the impres- 
 sible maiden, " I am sure he had them buried 
 
12 The Month's Wedding, 
 
 alive, because they were lovers, — and he in- 
 sulted the poor victims, even in their graves, 
 by styling her the ' wife of the monk ' , — 
 cruel wretch that he was ! " 
 
 " Hardly, " said Dante, " I construe it quite 
 differently, and according to the history this 
 seems improbable ; for Ezzelin's rigor was 
 directed rather aQ-ainst breaches of ecclesias- 
 tical discipline. He interested himself little 
 either in the making or breaking of sacred 
 vows. I take the ' Sepeliebat ' in a friendly 
 sense, and believe the meaning to be that he 
 srave the two burial. " 
 
 " Right, " exclaimed Cangrande. " Floren- 
 tine, I agree with you ! Ezzelin was a born 
 ruler, and, as such men usually are, somewhat 
 harsh and violent ; but nine tenths of the 
 crimes imputed to him are inventions — 
 forgeries of the clergy and scandal-loving 
 people. " 
 
 " Would it were so ! " sighed Dante, " at 
 any rate where he appears upon the stage in 
 my romance he has not yet become the mon- 
 ster which the chronicle, be it true or false, 
 pictures him to be ; his cruelty is only begin- 
 ning to show itself in certain lines about the 
 mouth. " 
 
The Monk's Wedding, ij 
 
 " A commanding figure, " exclaimed Can- 
 grande enthusiastically, desiring to bring 
 him more palpably before the audience, 
 " with black hair bristling round his great 
 brow, as you paint him, in your Twelth 
 Canto, among the inhabitants of Hell. But 
 whence have you taken this dark head ? " 
 
 " It is yours, " replied Dante boldly, and 
 Cangrande felt himself flattered. 
 
 " And the rest of the characters in my 
 story, " he said with smiling menace, " I 
 will also take from among you, if you will 
 allow me, " and he turned toward his list- 
 eners, " I borrow your names only, leaving 
 untouched what is innermost; for that I 
 cannot read. 
 
 " My outward self I lend you gladly, " re- 
 sponded the Princess, whose indifference was 
 beginning to yield. 
 
 A murmur of intense excitement now ran 
 through the courtly circle, and "Thy story, 
 Dante, thy story ! " was heard on all sides. 
 
 " Here it is," he said, and began : — 
 
 " Where in a slender bow the course of the 
 Brenta nears the city of Padua without 
 
i^f The Monk's Wedding. 
 
 touching it, there once glided over its swift 
 but quiet waters, to the soft sound of flutes, a 
 barque adorned with wreaths, and over-laden 
 with a gay band in festal array. It was bear- 
 ing homeward, on a lovely summer after- 
 noon, the bride of Umberto Vicedomini. 
 The Paduan had sought his betrothed in a 
 cloister situated on the upper course of the 
 river, to which, according to an old city cus- 
 tom, maidens of rank retired before their 
 nuptials for pious exercises. The lady was 
 sitting on a purple cushion in the middle of 
 the barque between her bridegroom and his 
 three beautiful boys. Umberto Vice- 
 domini had lost the wife of his youth five 
 years before when the pest raged in Padua, 
 and, although, still in the vigor of manhood, 
 had but reluctantly consented to a second 
 union to gratify his sick and aged father, who 
 daily urged it upon him. 
 
 With suspended oars the barque quietly 
 floated onward at the will of the stream, 
 the boatmen in an undertone accompanying 
 the soft music with song. Suddenly there 
 came a pause. All eyes were directed to the 
 rioht bank of the river where a tall rider was 
 
 C5 
 
The Monk's Wedding, iß 
 
 reining in his steed ; with a majestic wave 
 of the hand, he saluted the company in the 
 boat. A thrill of dismay passed from one to 
 the other up and down the rows of seats, the 
 oarsmen snatched the red caps from their 
 heads, and the entire party including Diana, 
 her bridegroom, and the boys, rose to do 
 reverence to Ezzelin, the ruler. With up- 
 lifted arms quicHy rttrowing themselves into 
 all possible attitudes of humility and sub- 
 servience they turned toward the strand with 
 such violence that the boat lost its balance, 
 swayed for an instant to the right and capsized 
 A shriek of terror, a whirlpool, then a void in 
 the middle of the stream filled from time to 
 time with heads suddenly emerging only to 
 sink again, or with the floating wreaths which 
 had adorned the unlucky barque. Help Vv'as 
 not far distant. A little lower down on the 
 river was a small fishing-port where horses 
 and litters had been waiting to convey the now 
 drowning party to their homes in Padua. 
 
 The two first boats which started to their 
 relief approached rapidly from opposite di- 
 rections. In the one, beside an old dwarf 
 with shaggy beard, stood Ezzelin the tyrant 
 
i6 The Monk's Wedding. 
 
 of Padua, and the innocent cause of this catas- 
 trophe. In the other, and coming from the 
 left shore, a young monk, with a boatman, 
 who, at the moment of the accident was 
 about to row the dusty pilgrim across the 
 stream. Between them on the top of the 
 water was now seen a mass of blonde hair, 
 which the monk, kneeling, seized with out- 
 stretched arm, while the boatman held the 
 boat steady with all his strength on the other 
 side. By means of a thick braid the monk 
 at last raised a head with eyes shut fast, 
 and assisted by Ezzelin, who was at his side, 
 dragged a woman, in heavily dripping gar- 
 ments, out of the current. The tyrant had 
 sprung from his own boat into the other, and 
 now contemplated the lifeless face before him, 
 which seemed to wear an expression of both 
 defiance and unhappiness. Ezzelin's gaze 
 betrayed a species of satisfaction — perhaps 
 at the repose of death, or perhaps at the 
 grand features before him. 
 
 "Do you know her, Astorre?" he asked of 
 the monk, and when the latter shook his head, 
 Ezzelin continued, " See ! it is the wife 
 of your brother." 
 
The Monk^s Wedding, /pr 
 
 The monk cast a shy pitiful look on the 
 still face under which the heavy eyes 
 slowly began to open. 
 
 "Take her to the shore," commanded Ez- 
 zelin, but the monk gave her in charge to his 
 boatman, saying, "I must seek for my brother 
 until I find Jiim. I will help thee, monk, 
 said the tyrant,' yet I doubt if it is possible to 
 save him ; I saw him as he clasped his arms 
 tightly around his boys and with the three 
 clinging to him sank heavily into the depths 
 below." 
 
 Meanwhile the Brenta had become covered 
 with boats of every description. The men 
 Y\'ere fishing with hooks, poles, angles and 
 nets, while towering over all the workers, or 
 bending over the burdens raised, was the tall 
 form of the governor. 
 
 "Come, Monk," he said finally, "there is 
 nothing more here for thee to do. Umberto 
 and his boys have now lain too long in the 
 depths to be brought back again to life. The 
 current has borne him far away ; it will lay 
 them all on the shore when it is tired of 
 them." 
 
 "But do you see the tents there — yonder } 
 
i8 The Monk's Wedding. 
 
 They were pitched on the strand for the re- 
 ception of the wedding guests, but are now 
 filled with their lifeless, or apparently life- 
 less bodies, surrounded by mourning rela- 
 tives and servants. Go, Monk, and fulfil thy 
 ofiice. Comfort the living ; bury the dead." 
 
 As he spoke the monk was already moving 
 along the shore, and soon disappeared from 
 sio-ht. Diana — bride and widow of his 
 
 o 
 
 brother in the midst of a crowd of friends, 
 now came up to him — disconsolate indeed, 
 but restored to her senses. The heavy hair 
 still dripped, but upon quite a different gar- 
 ment, for a compassionate peasant woman in 
 the tent had taken possession of the wedding 
 robe and given in exchange her own dress. 
 "Pious brother," said she to Astorre, "I am 
 left behind ; the litter intended for me in the 
 confusion has been taken away to bear 
 another to the city, either of the dead or the 
 living. I pray you go with me to the house 
 of my father-in-law, who is also thy father." 
 
 The young widow deceived herself. 'Twas 
 not the panic and confusion which had led 
 the servants of the elder Vicedomini to aban- 
 don her, but sheer cowardice and superstition. 
 
The Monk's Wedding, ig 
 
 They feared to take the widow to the pas- 
 sionate old man, and with her the tidings of 
 the extinction of his house. 
 
 The monk, seeing many of his brother- 
 hood engaged in acts of mercy, both within 
 and without the tents, acceded to her re- 
 quest. "Yes, we will go," he said, and they 
 turned into a road leading to the city, whose 
 domes and slender bell tow^ers soared into 
 the azure heavens before their gaze. The 
 way was crowded with hundreds of people 
 hurrying to and from the strand. The two 
 walked on silently in the middle of the road, 
 often separated, but always finding each other 
 again, and had reached the workmen's 
 quarter. There the people were standing 
 everywhere either talking in a loud tone, or 
 whispering in groups — for the accident had 
 brought the whole population to their feet. 
 With sympathetic curiosity they gazed at the 
 pair accidentally brought together — the one 
 having lost a brother, the other a bride- 
 groom. 
 
 The Monk and Diana were familiarly 
 known to every child in Padua, — Astorre, 
 if he did not pass for a Saint, was yet reputed 
 
20 The Monk's Wedding, 
 
 a model monk ; he might have been called 
 " The monk of Padua," as being the one most 
 honored and revered by its inhabitants and 
 with reason, for he had bravely, yes, joyfully, 
 resigned the privileges of his high rank, and 
 the boundless possessions of his family, and 
 exposed his life without stint, in times of the 
 plague or other public dangers. Moreover, 
 with his chestnut-brown curly hair, soft, 
 beaming eyes and aristocratic bearing, he 
 was an attractive man — such as people love 
 to picture their saints. 
 
 Diana was, in her way, not less talked 
 about. Her well-developed, powerful physi- 
 que excited far greater admiration than more 
 delicate charms ever do amongst the people. 
 Her mother had been a German, a Hohen- 
 stauffen, as some asserted, though, to be sure, 
 only by blood, not legitimately. Germany 
 and Italy, like good sisters, shared the credit 
 of this grand figure. -4 
 
 However curt and reserved Diana might 
 have appeared to her equals she was always 
 accessible to those beneath her. She en- 
 couraged the poor people to consult her 
 about their business matters, gave them clear 
 
The Monk's Wedding, 21 
 
 and concise information, and kissed the rag- 
 gedest of the children. She spent and gave 
 away money without scruple or hesitation, 
 perhaps, because her father, the old Pizzi- 
 guerra, the richest Paduan, after Vicedomini, 
 was at the same time the most vulgar miser, 
 and Diana was ashamed of her father's vice. 
 
 The loving people in their hours of gossip 
 at taverns and elsewhere, married her every 
 month to some one of the distinguished 
 Paduans, but the reality did not respond to 
 these pious wishes. Three obstacles impeded 
 a marriao-e settlement : Diana's hio^h-arched 
 and often frowninsf brows — her father's 
 hard closed fists, and the blind attachment • 
 of her brother Germano to the tyrant 
 whose possible destruction would involve 
 the faithful servant, and all his family. At 
 last Umberto Vicedomini was betrothed to 
 her, without love, as the gossips said ; — and 
 now he lay in the Brenta ! 
 
 Meanwhile the two were so absorbed in 
 their natural grief that they neither heard 
 nor heeded the eager talk which went on at 
 their heels. Not that the bare fact of the 
 monk and the lady walking together gave 
 
22 The MonMs Wedding. 
 
 any occasion for remark. It seemed quite in 
 order since it was the monk's duty to com- 
 fort her, and since they must both go the 
 same way; for were they not the most appro- 
 priate messengers to bear the sad tidings to 
 the old Vicedomini ? 
 
 The women had lamented that Diana 
 should be forced to marry a man who ac- 
 cepted her merely as a kind of substitute 
 for his dear departed wife, and pitied her in 
 the same breath for having lost this man be- 
 fore the marriage. 
 
 The men, on the other hand, discussed 
 with Q-esticulations and violence the burninof 
 question which the drowning in the Brenta 
 of the four heirs of the first Paduan family 
 had opened. The wealth of the Vicedomini 
 was proverbial — the head of the family, as 
 shrewd as he was able and energetic, had 
 succeeded in remaining on good footing with 
 the tyrant, four times excommunicated, and 
 the church, which had put him under the ban, 
 — had refused all his life to busy himself even 
 in the slightest degree with political matters, 
 but had devoted a tenacious and magnifxcent 
 strenGTth of will to the one aim of increasins; 
 
The Monk's Wedding, 2^ 
 
 the prosperity and worldly possessions of his 
 family. Now this was annihilated. His 
 eldest son and his grandchildren lay in the 
 Brenta. His second and third sons had in 
 this same unlucky year, only a few months 
 before, vanished from the earth. The tyrant 
 had claimed the first and left him behind 
 on one of his wild battlefields. The other, 
 of whom the unprejudiced father had made 
 a merchant In Venetian style, had been cru- 
 cified by pirates on a coast in the Orient, 
 his ransom having arrived too late. His 
 fourth was Astorre — the monk. That with 
 his dying breath the father would attempt 
 to free Astorre from his monastic vows, 
 the quick-witted Paduans did not for a mo- 
 ment question. Whether he would succeed 
 and the monk consent was now matter of 
 dispute In the excited little streets. 
 
 Finally the strife became so noisy and 
 fierce that even the grief-absorbed monk 
 could no longer remain In doubt as to who 
 was meant by the "egll" and "ella" which 
 were heard on all sides. For this reason, and 
 more for his companion's sake than for his 
 own, he turned into a grass-grown path his 
 
24 The Monk's Wedding. 
 
 sandals knew full well, for It led along the 
 damp decaying walls which surrounded his 
 cloister. Here it was cool enough to make 
 them shiver, but the dreadful news had 
 reached even this secluded spot. Through 
 the open windows of the refectory, built into 
 the thick wall, sounded the clatter of plates 
 at the belated dinner; the catastrophe had 
 disturbed times and hours all over the city. 
 . The conversation of the brothers at the 
 table w^as so unusually loud and disputa- 
 tious — so full of "inibus" and "atibus" (the 
 monks spoke in Latin), that he knew they 
 were discussing the same problem with the 
 people in the streets. And though perhaps 
 he did not quite take in the substance of 
 their talk, still he could not help knowing 
 
 of whom they talked. But what he did'^is- 
 
 n 
 cover was 
 
 In the midst of his sentence Dante gave a 
 sidelong glance at the aristocratic young 
 priest who had concealed himself behind his 
 neighbor. 
 
 " Two burning hollow eyes, peering at him 
 and the woman who walked by his side. 
 They belonged to an unfortunate creature, 
 
The Monk's Wedding, 2^ 
 
 a wretched monk, named Sera^IoDr-ivho was / 
 consuming himself body and soul in the 
 cloister. With his fevered imagination he 
 had instantly conceived that the Brother 
 Astorre would now no lono-er be oblis^ed to 
 toil and fast, denying himself according to 
 the rule of St. Francis ; but that by the 
 humor of Death he was restored to all his 
 worldly joys and possessions — and he en- 
 vied him madly. He had been waiting for 
 his return home that he might study his 
 own face and read in it what the monk 
 had resolved upon. His eyes devoured the 
 woman and followed her steps: 
 
 Astorre with his sister-in-lav/ finally turned 
 into a square surrounded by four city-castles, 
 where thev entered a low door leadino: to the 
 most distinguished among them. Upon a 
 stone seat in the courtyard two persons w^ere 
 resting, one a fresh young German clad in 
 armor from head to foot, the other a grey- 
 headed Saracen. The German who was 
 stretched out asleep had laid his blond 
 curly head in the lap of the unbeliever, 
 w^ho likewise slumbering, nodded his snow- 
 white beard in fatherly fashion over him. 
 
26 The Monk's Wedding, 
 
 The two belonged to Ezzelin's body guard, 
 which in imitation of his father-in-law, the 
 Emperor Frederick, was composed of an 
 equal number of Germans and Saracens. 
 The tyrant was in the palace. He had 
 thought it his duty to visit the old Vice- 
 domini. In fact Astorre and Diana now 
 heard upon the winding stairs the few quiet 
 words in which Ezzelin was attempting to 
 argue with the old man, who wholly beside 
 himself, was weeping and cursing in a loud 
 voice. They remained standing at the 
 entrance to the hall among the crowd of 
 pale menials who were trembling in every 
 limb. The old man had heaped upon them 
 the most violent oaths, and doubling up his 
 fist chased them all out of his room because 
 they had brought the unlucky tidings so 
 tardily and then hardly dared to stammer 
 them out. Added to this they had heard 
 the step of the terrible tyrant in the house. 
 It was forbidden to announce Ezzelin's ap- 
 proach anywhere on pain of death — unhin- 
 dered like a spirit he entered houses and 
 chambers. 
 
 "And you inform me of this so coolly, 
 
The Monk's Wedding. 2j 
 
 cruel man," stormed out the Vicedomini in 
 his despair, " as you would tell the loss of a 
 horse, or a harvest ! You have murdered 
 the four — who but you ? What was the 
 need of your riding to the strand precisely at-'- 
 that hour ? Why should you greet them 
 upon the Brenta ? You did it to injure me. 
 Do you hear ? " 
 
 " Fate," replied Ezzelin." 
 
 '' Fate ! " yelled the old man, "fate — star- 
 gazing — conjurations and conspiracies — 
 heads cut off — women flung from the pave- 
 ment below — young men dropping from their 
 horses, in your crazy fool-hardy battles, 
 pierced through with a hundred arrows : — 
 this is your age and rule, Ezzelin, you cursed 
 damned one ! You drag us all along your 
 bloody path ; all life, and even death itself, 
 near you, is violent and unnatural. Nobody 
 meets his end any longer as a repentant 
 Christian in his bed." 
 
 " You do me wrong," said the tyrant, " I 
 have nothing to do with the church, it is 
 true ; — 'tis a matter of indifference to me — 
 but I have never prevented you and yours 
 from alliance with it ; this you know, or 
 
28 . The MonHs Wedding, 
 
 you would not dare to exchange letters 
 with the Holy See. Why are you twisting 
 that paper in your hands to conceal from 
 me the Papal seal ? An indulgence ? — a 
 letter ? Give it to me ! verily a letter. May 
 I read it ? Do you allow me ? " 
 
 " ' Thy patron the Holy Father writes to 
 thee that should thy lineage become extinct 
 up to the fourth and last, the monk — he, 
 ipso facto, would be released from his vow 
 if with free will and of his own free choice 
 be returned to the world.' Cunning foe ! 
 How many ounces of gold has this parch- 
 ment cost you ? " 
 
 " Dost thou dare to scoff at me ? " howled 
 the Yicedomini. " What remains to me but 
 the monk, after the deaths of mv second and 
 third son ? For whom have I amassed and 
 hoarded up ? For the worms } for thee .^ 
 Would'st thou rob me ? No } Then help 
 me, good father." (Ezzelin, not then excom- 
 municated, had stood godfather to the third 
 Vicedomini boy — the same who later sacri- 
 ficed himself for him upon the battlefield) ; 
 " help me to persuade the monk to return 
 to the world and take a wife — command 
 
The Monk's Wedding. 2g 
 
 him to do it, thou all powerful ! Give him 
 
 to me in place of the son whom thou hast V^ 
 
 slain ; do this for me, if you love me." 
 
 " This is no concern of mine," answered 
 the tyrant, without the slightest emotion. 
 " If he is a true monk, as I believe he is, why 
 should he change his profession ? That 
 the blood of the Vicedomini may not be 
 exhausted ? Is the life of the world then 
 dependent on it ? Are the Vicedomini a ne- 
 cessity ? " At this the old man grew frantic 
 with rage. " Thou wicked, cruel one — mur- 
 derer of my children, I see through it. Thou 
 — thou would'st be my heir and carry on thy 
 mad campaigns with my money ! " Just then 
 he caught sight of his daughter-in-law, who 
 had pressed through the crowd of servants 
 in advance of the monk and was standing on 
 the threshold. Spite of his physical weak- 
 ness he rushed towards her stasfs^erinor • 
 seized and wrenched her hands apart, as if 
 to make her responsible for the misfortune^ 
 which had befallen them. " Where is ni}^ 
 son, Diana ? " he gasped out. " He lies in 
 the Brenta," she answered sadly, and her 
 blue eyes grew dim. 
 
JO The Monk's Wedding. 
 
 " Where are my three grandchildren ? " 
 
 " In the Brenta," she repeated. "And you 
 bring me yourself as a gift — you are pre- 
 sented to me ? " And the old man laughed 
 discord an tly- 
 
 " Would that the Almighty," she said 
 slowly, "had drawn me deeper under the 
 weaves, and that thy children stood here in 
 my stead ! " She was silent ; then bursting 
 into sudden anger, " Does my presence in- 
 sult you, and am I a burden to you ? " 
 Impute the blame to him (pointing to the 
 monk). He drew me from the water w^hen 
 I was already dead and restored me to 
 life." 
 
 The old man now^ for the first time per- 
 ceived his son, and collecting himself quickly, 
 exhibited the powerful will w^hich his bitter 
 grief seemed to have steeled rather than 
 lamed. 
 
 " Really — he drew you out of the Brenta ? 
 H'm ! Strange. The ways of God are mar- 
 vellous ! " 
 
 He grasped the monk by the shoulder and 
 arm at once, as if to take possession of him 
 body and soul, and dragged him along to 
 
The Monk'^ Wedding, ji 
 
 his great chair, Into which the old man fell 
 without relaxing his pressure on the arm of 
 his unresisting son. Diana followed, knelt 
 down on the other side of the chair, and 
 leaned her head upon the arm of It, so that 
 only the coil of her blond hair was visible — 
 like some inanimate object. Opposite the 
 group sat Ezzelin, his right hand upon the 
 rolled-up letter, like a commander-in-chief 
 resting upon his staff. 
 
 " i\Iy son — my own one," whimpered the 
 dying man, with a tenderness in which truth 
 and cunning mingled, " my last and only 
 consolation. Thou staff and stay of my old 
 age, thou wilt not crumble like dust under 
 my trembling fingers. Thou must under- 
 stand," he went on, already In a colder and 
 more practical tone, " that as things are it is 
 not possible for thee to remain longer in the 
 cloister. It is also according to the canons, 
 my son, is it not, that a monk whose father 
 is sick unto death, or impoverished, should 
 withdraw in order to nurse the author of his 
 days, or to till his father's acres } But I 
 need thee even more pressingly ; thy brothers 
 and nephews are gone, and now thou must 
 
j2 The MonMs Wedding, 
 
 keep the life-torch of our house burning. 
 Thou art a httle flame I have kindled, and 
 I cannot suffer it to glimmer and die out in 
 a narrow cell. Know one thing ; " — he had 
 read in the warm brown eyes a genuine 
 sympathy, and the reverent bearing of the 
 monk appeared to promise blind obedience. 
 *' I am more ill than you suppose, am I not, 
 Issacher ? " He turned to look a spare little 
 man in the face, who, with phial and spoon 
 in his hands, had stept behind the chair of 
 the old Vicedomini, and now bowed his white 
 head in afflrmation : — "I travel toward the 
 river; but I tell thee, Astorre, if my wish is 
 not granted, thy father will refuse to step into 
 Charon's boat, and will sit cowering on the 
 twilight strand." 
 
 The monk stroked the feverish hand of the 
 old man with tenderness, but answered quietly 
 in two words — " My vows ! " 
 
 Ezzelin unfolded the letter. " Thy vows," 
 said the old man in a wheedling tone — 
 " loosened strings ; filed-away chains. Make 
 a movement and they fall. The Holy Church, 
 to which thy obedience is due, has declared 
 them null and void, There it stands written," 
 
. The Monks Wedding, jj 
 
 and his thin finger pointed to the parchment 
 with the Pope's seal. 
 
 The monk approached the governor, took 
 the letter from him respectfully, and read 
 it through, closely watched the while by four 
 eyes. Completely dazed, he took one step 
 backward, as if he were standing on the top 
 of a tower and all at once saw the rampart 
 give wa}^ 
 
 Ezzelin seized the reeling man by the arm 
 with the curt question, " To whom did you 
 make your vows, monk, — to yourself or to 
 the church } " 
 
 " To both, of course," shrieked the old man 
 angrily ; " these are cursed subtleties. Take 
 care, son, or he will reduce us, Vicedomini, 
 to beggar}^" 
 
 Without a trace of feelinsr or resentment, 
 Ezzelin laid his right hand on his beard and 
 swore — " If Vicedomini dies, the monk here 
 inherits his property, and should the famuly 
 become extinct with him if he love me and 
 his native city, he shall found a hospital of 
 such size and grandeur that the hundred 
 cities (he meant the Italian) will envy us. 
 Now, godfather, having cleared myself from 
 
j^ The Mo7ik's Wedding, 
 
 the charge of rapacity, may I put to the 
 monk a few questions ? — have I your permis- 
 sion ? " 
 
 The fury of the old man now rose to such 
 a pitch as to bring on a fit of convulsions, 
 but even then he did not release the arm of 
 the monk. 
 
 Issacher put carefully to the pale lips a 
 spoon filled with some strong smelling es- 
 sence. The sufferer turned his head away 
 with an effort. " Leave me in peace," he 
 groaned ; " you are the governor's physician 
 as well," and closed his eyes again. 
 
 The Jew looked at the tyrant as if to beg 
 forgiveness for this suspicion. " Will he re- 
 turn to life } " asked Ezzelin. " I think so," 
 replied the Jew, " but not for long ; I fear 
 he will not live to see the sun go down." 
 
 The tyrant took advantage of the moment 
 to speak to the monk who was exerting 
 himself to the utmost to restore his father. 
 
 "Answer me, Astorre," he began, while he 
 buried the outspread fingers of his right 
 hand, a favorite gesture, in his beard — 
 " how much have the three vows cost you 
 which you took some ten years ago ; for I 
 
The Monk^s Wedding, jß 
 
 take It you are now about thirty? The 
 monk bowed assent, then raised his frank 
 clear eyes and said without hesitation : "The 
 two first, poverty and obedience, nothing — I 
 had no desire for possessions, and it is easy 
 for me to obey." He paused and blushed. 
 
 The tyrant was pleased with this simple 
 manliness. " Did your father compel or per- 
 suade you to choose this profession ? " " No," 
 he replied ;"for three or four generations, as 
 the family history records, the last son of our 
 house has been a priest or monk, perhaps 
 because we needed an intercessor in Heaven, 
 — or it may have been considered one way to 
 preserve our power on earth ; — whatever the 
 reason, it was a time-honored custom. I 
 knew my destiny from childhood, and it was 
 not repugnant to me. No restraint was ex- 
 ercised over me." 
 
 "And how about that third?" He meant 
 the third vow ; Astorre understood him. 
 
 Again blushing, but this time faintly, he 
 replied " It was not easy for me, still I con- 
 quered, like other monks who have good ad- 
 visers, and such I had in St. Antonius," he 
 added reverently. 
 
j6 The Monk's Wedding, 
 
 •' This meritorious saint, as you know, 
 my Lords, lived for some years in the Fran- 
 ciscan cloisters at Padua," explained Dante. 
 " Why shouldn't we know," jokingly retorted 
 one of his hearers ; " haven't we all paid our 
 respects to the relic swimming about in the 
 cloister pond yonder? I mean the pike, 
 which once heard a sermon of the saints, was 
 converted, renounced animal food, kept hence- 
 forth to the strait and narrow path, and at an 
 advanced age remained a strict vegetarian." 
 He choked down the end of his nonsense, 
 for Dante frowned upon him and continued. 
 
 " What did he advise you ? " asked Ezzelin. 
 " To take up my profession in a simple 
 straightforward way, as I would any other 
 service, for instance, military service, which 
 also requires obedient muscles, self-denial, 
 and the strength to endure hardships of 
 various kinds, although a true warrior does 
 even feel them to be such ; to till the earth 
 in the sweat of my brow, eat moderately, fast 
 moderately, confess neither maidens nor 
 young women, live in the sight of God and 
 worship His Mother not more passionately 
 than the breviary prescribes." 
 
The Monk's Wedding, J7 
 
 The tyrant smiled, then extended his right 
 hand toward the monk in encouragement or 
 blessing and said, " Fortunate one, thou hast 
 a star ; with thee, to-day follows naturally upon 
 yesterday, and will unawares usher in the 
 morrow. Thou art something, and that not 
 insignificant, for thou fulfillest the office of 
 charity, which I neglect, however well I may 
 perform a different one. If you should enter 
 the world, which has its own laws, though it 
 is too late for you to learn them, your clear 
 star would become a mere fire-rocket, which 
 after a few foolish leaps, would explode, hiss- 
 ing into darkness, scoffed at by the heavenly 
 powers. One thing more, and this I say, 
 being what I am, the Lord of Padua. Thy 
 character has elevated my people and set 
 them an example of self-denial. The poorest 
 was comforted by remembering he had seen 
 thee sharing his scanty food and doing the 
 same hard daily work. If you throw aside 
 the cowl as an aristocrat, wed a proud lady, 
 and draw with full hands from the wealth of 
 your house, you will commit a robbery on the 
 people, who had taken possession of you as 
 one of their own ; you will create discontent 
 
j8 The Monk's Wedding. 
 
 and dissatisfaction, and it would not surprise 
 me if a train of evils should follow in their 
 wake. These thino's are linked too^ether!" 
 
 " Padua, and its ruler, cannot dispense 
 with thee, the eyes of the multitude are 
 drawn to thee, and thou hast more, or cer- 
 tainly a nobler, spirit than thy low-born 
 brethren. If the people, in mad frenzy, 
 should threaten to murder this man," and 
 he pointed to Issacher, " for instance, as they 
 did in the time of the last plague, because he 
 brought them relief, who would defend him 
 against their insane fury until I could arrive, 
 and command them to halt ? " 
 
 " Issacher, help me to convince the monk," 
 and Ezzelin turned to the physician with a 
 cruel smile, " you see that even for your sake 
 he must not be allowed to lay aside his cowl." 
 
 " Prince, " whispered the Jew, " under thy 
 sceptre this irrational scene, for which you 
 so properly exacted a bloody penalty, will 
 scarcely be repeated, and therefore on my 
 account whose faith extols, as God's greatest 
 blessing, the perpetuity of race, this illustri- 
 ous Lord (he already substituted this title 
 for that of Reverend) is no longer to remain 
 unmarried." 
 
The Monk's Wedding, jg 
 
 Ezzelln smiled at the subtlety of the Jew. 
 " And whither do your own thoughts tend, 
 Monk?" he inquired. " They are unchanged 
 and persistent, yet, God forgive me, I would 
 that my father never woke again, that I 
 should be forced to oppose him cruelly. If 
 he had but received extreme unction!" He 
 kissed passionately the cheek of the fainting 
 man, who thereupon returned to conscious- 
 ness. 
 
 Heaving a deep sigh, he raised his weary 
 eyelids, and from under the gray bushy 
 brows directed toward the monk a supplica- 
 ting look. "How is it?" he asked, "to what 
 hast thou doomed me, dearest — to heaven or 
 to hell ?" 
 
 " Father," prayed Astorre in a tremulous 
 voice," thy time has come, only a short hour 
 remains, banish all earthly cares and inter- 
 ests, think of thy soul." " See, thy priests " 
 (he meant those of the parish church), " are 
 gathered together waiting to perform the 
 last sacrament." 
 
 It was so ! The door of the adjacent room 
 had softly opened in which the faint glimmer 
 of lighted candles was perceptible, whilst a_ 
 
^o The Monk's Wedding. 
 
 choir was Intoning a prelude, and the gentle 
 vibration of a bell became audible. 
 
 Now the old man, who already felt his 
 knees sinking into Lethe's flood, clung to 
 the monk, as once St. Peter to the Saviour 
 on the Sea of Gennesareth. " Thou wilt do 
 it for my sake ? " he stammered. 
 
 " If I could ; if I dared," sighed the monk. 
 " By all that is holy, my father, think on eter- 
 nity, leave the earthly. Thine hour is come ! " 
 
 This veiled refusal kindled the last spark 
 of life in the old man to a blaze. " Disobe- 
 dient, ungrateful one," he cried. 
 
 Astorre beckoned to the priests. " By all 
 the devils, spare me your kneadings and 
 salvings," raved the dying man, " I have 
 nothing to gain, I am already like one of the 
 damned, and must remain so in the midst of 
 paradise, if my son wantonly repudiates me, 
 and destroys my germ of life." 
 
 The horror-struck monk, thrilled to the 
 soul by this frightful blasphemy, pictured 
 his father doomed to eternal perdition. (This 
 was his thought and he was as firmly con- 
 vinced of the truth of it as I should have 
 been in his place). He fell down on his 
 
The Monk's Wedding, ^/ 
 
 knees before the old man, and in utter de- 
 spair, bursting into tears, said : " Father, I 
 beseech thee, have pity on thyself, and on 
 me!" 
 
 " Let the crafty one go his way," whispered 
 the tyrant. 
 
 The monk did not hear him. Again he 
 gave the astounded priests a sign and the 
 litany for the dying was about to begin. 
 
 At this the old man doubled himself up 
 like a refractory child, and shook his head. 
 
 " Let the sly fox go where he must," ad- 
 monished Ezzelin in a louder tone. 
 
 " Father, Father," sobbed the monk, his 
 whole soul dissolved in pity. 
 
 " Illustrious Signor and Christian Brother," 
 said the priest with unsteady voice, "are you 
 in the frame of mind to meet your Creator 
 and Saviour? " The old man took no notice. 
 
 " Are you firm as a believer in the Holy 
 Trinity? " answer me, Signor," said the priest, 
 and then turned pale as a sheet, for " Cursed 
 and denied be it for ever and ever," fell from 
 the dying man's lips. " Cursed and — " 
 
 " No more," cried the monk springing to 
 his feet. " Father, I resign myself to thy 
 
^^2 The Monk's Wedding, 
 
 will. Do with me what you choose if only 
 you will not throw yourself into the flames 
 of Hell." 
 
 The old man gasped as after some terrible 
 exertion ; then gazed about him with an air 
 
 ^. J. of relief, J_ had almost said of pleasure. Grop- 
 ing, he seized the blonde hair of Diana, lifted 
 her up from her knees, took her right hand, 
 which she did not refuse, opened the cramped 
 hand of the monk and laid the two to- 
 
 ^ gether : — 
 
 " Binding, in presence of the most Holy 
 Sacrament! " he exclaimed triumphantly, and 
 blessed the pair. The monk did not gainsay 
 it, while Diana closed her eyes. 
 
 " Now quick. Reverend Fathers, there is 
 need of haste I think, and I am now in a 
 Christian frame of mind." 
 
 The monk and his affianced bride would 
 fain have stepped behind the train of priests. 
 " Stay," muttered the dying man, " stay where 
 m}^ comforted eyes may look upon you until 
 they close in death." Astorre and Diana 
 were thus with clasped hands obliged to wait 
 and watch the expiring glance of the ob- 
 stinate old man. 
 
The Monk's Wedding, ^j 
 
 The latter murmured a short confession, 
 received the last sacrament and breathed his 
 final breath, as they were anointing his feet, 
 while the priests uttered in his already deaf 
 ears those sublime words, " Rise, Christian 
 Soul." The dead face bore the unmistake- 
 able expression of triuniphant cunning. t 
 
 The tyrant sat, whilst all around were 
 upon their knees, and with calm attention 
 observed the performance of the sacred of- 
 fice, much like a savant studying on a sar- 
 cophagus the representation of some relig- 
 ious rites of an ancient people. He now 
 approached the dead man and closed his 
 eyes. 
 
 He then turned to Diana. "Noble Lady," 
 said he, " let us go home, your parents, even 
 if assured of your safety, will long to see 
 you." 
 
 " Prince, I thank you, and will follow," she 
 answered, but she did not withdraw her 
 hand from that of the monk, whose eyes 
 until then she had avoided. Now she looked 
 her betrothed full in the face, and said in 
 a deep, but melodious voice, whilst her 
 cheeks glowed : " My Lord and Master, we 
 
^/ The Monk's Wedding, 
 
 \/could not let your father's soul perish ; thus 
 have I become yours. Hold your faith to 
 me, better than to the cloister. Your brother 
 did not love me ; forgive me for saying it, 
 I speak the simple truth. You will have 
 in me a good and obedient wife, but I have 
 two peculiarities, which you must treat with 
 indulgence. I am hot with anger if any 
 attack is made on my honor or my rights, 
 and I am most exacting in regard to the 
 fulfilment of a promise once made Even 
 as a child I w^as so. I have few wishes, and 
 desire nothing unreasonable, but when a 
 thing has once been shown and promised me, 
 I insist upon possessing it, and I lose my 
 faith, and resent injustice more than other 
 women, if the promise I have received is not 
 faithfully kept. But how can I allow myself 
 to talk in this way to you, my Lord, whom I 
 scarcely know ? I have done. Farewell, my 
 husband, grant me nine days to mourn your 
 brother." At this she slowly released her 
 hand from his and disappeared with the 
 tyrant. 
 
 Meanwhile, the band of priests had borne 
 away the corpse to place it 'upon a bier in 
 the palace chapel, and to bless it. 
 
The Äfonk's Wedding, ^5 
 
 Astorre was once more alone, in his for- 
 feited monk's dress, which now covered a 
 breast filled with repentance. A host of 
 servants who had listened, and sufficiently 
 comprehended the strange proceeding, ap- 
 proached their new master shyly, and in 
 submissive attitudes, being perplexed and 
 intimidated, less by the change of masters 
 than by the supposed sacrilege of the broken 
 vow, for the reading of the papal letter had 
 not reached their ears. But how could As- 
 torre force himself to grieve for the loss of 
 his father? He had recovered the strength 
 of his own will, and the suspicion had stolen 
 into his mind, nay, the maddening certainty 
 had overwhelmed him that the dying man 
 had taken unfair_ advantage of his pity and 
 deceived his simple faith. He discovered in 
 the despair of the old man the last resource 
 of cunning, and in his mad blasphemies, a 
 crafty purpose on the threshold of death. 
 He next turned his thoughts, with unwil- 
 lingness, even aversion, to the wife who had 
 fallen to him. The idea of loving her, not 
 from his own heart, but as his dead brother's 
 proxy, chimed in with his perverted monkish 
 
^^6 The Monk's Wedding, 
 
 reasoning, although his healthy honest na- 
 ture revolted against such a niggardly ex- 
 pedient. Now that he considered her his 
 ovv'n, he could not repress a certain amaze- 
 ment at his wife's having addressed him in 
 such concise terms, and at the frank, uncom- 
 promising honesty with which she adjusted 
 her claims. Truly a sturdier and more sub- 
 stantial being than the ideal woman of the 
 legend ! He had imagined women gentler. 
 
 Suddenly Astorre was reminded of the 
 contradiction between his monastic dress 
 and all these feelins^s and reflections. He 
 was ashamed of his cowl, and it grew irksome 
 to him. " Bring me worldly garments," he 
 ordered, and the officious servants hastened 
 to obey his wish. He was soon dressed in a 
 suit which had been his brother's ; they having 
 been about the same height. 
 
 At this moment his father's fool, named 
 Gocciola, threw himself at his feet, and 
 would do him homage, not, however, like the 
 others, to ask the continuance of his service, 
 but to pray for dismissal and permission to 
 change his profession ; he said he was weary 
 of the world, and it would ill become his gray 
 
The Monk's Wedding, ^/ 
 
 hair to go Into the next hfe in cap and bells. 
 Thus wailing and whining, he took posses- 
 sion of the monk's cast-off garments, which 
 the servants had not dared to touch. Then 
 his inconstant brain turned a complete somer- 
 sault, and he said greedily, " I think I'll wait 
 and eat Amarella once more before I bid .-f 
 farewell to the world and its delusions. We 
 shall not have to wait long here, I think, for 
 a wedding." And he licked the corners of 
 his mouth with his flabby tongue. Then 
 bending one knee before the Monk, he shook ^ 
 his bells and sprang away, dragging rope and 
 cowl behind him. 
 
 Amarella, or Amare, Dante explained, was ,. 
 the name given by the Paduans to their 
 wedding-cake, on account of its flavor of 
 bitter almonds, and also in graceful allusion 
 to the verb of the first conjugation. Here 
 he paused, and, shading brow and eyes with 'v \^ 
 his hand, was evidently considering how to 
 go on with the romance. 
 
 During the interim, the Majordomo of the 
 Prince, an Alsatian named Burcardo, with 
 measured steps, ceremonious bows, and pro- 
 fuse apologies for thus disturbing the enter- 
 
^8 The Monk's Wedding, 
 
 tainment, presented himself before Can- 
 o^rande to ask for commands about some do- 
 mestic matters. The Germans were in that 
 day no rare apparition at the GhibelUne 
 courts of Italy ; indeed they were sought and 
 preferred to the natives, because of their 
 honesty and quickness in apprehending cer- 
 emonies and customs. 
 
 When Dante raised his head again, he 
 saw the Alsatian, and heard the dire havoc 
 he was making among the Italian consonants, 
 which, while it amused the courtiers, offended 
 the sensitive ear of the poet. His eyes 
 lingered with evident pleasure on the two 
 young men, Ascanio and the mail-clad knight, 
 and at last, thoughtfully on the ladies, the 
 princess Diana, whose marble cheeks were 
 now suffused with a faint flush of animation, 
 and Antiope, the friend of Cangrande, a 
 pretty sprightly creature. He then con- 
 tinued: — 
 
 " Behind the city-castle of the Vicedomini 
 there formerly spread (though to-day the il- 
 lustrious race has so long been extinct, that 
 the plot of ground has w^holly changed its 
 character) a district of such extent as to fur- 
 
The Monk^s Wedding. ^p 
 
 nish pasturage for cattle, preserves for stag 
 and deer, ponds full of fish, deep shady woods 
 and sunny vineyards. On a brilliant morn- 
 ing, seven days after the funeral, the monk, 
 Astorre, was sitting in the dark shade of a 
 cedar, with his back against the trunk, and 
 the points of his shoes stretching out into 
 the burning sunlight. (This title of " Monk " 
 he retained among the Romans to the end 
 of his short pilgrimage upon earth.) He 
 was lying, rather than sitting, opposite a 
 fountain, where, from the mouth of a great 
 stone face, gushed a cool flood. As he was 
 dreaming or thinking, I know not which, 
 two young men, one in armor, the other in 
 a handsome travelling costume, sprang from 
 their dust-covered steeds, and- with rapid 
 steps crossed the hot, sunny square in front 
 of the palace. Ascanio and Germano, such 
 were the rider's names, were favorite^ of the 
 Governor, and had been youthful companions 
 of the monk, with whom, in brotherly fashion, 
 they had studied and played up to his fif- 
 teenth year, or the beginning of his novitiate. 
 Ezzelin had sent them with despatches to his 
 brother-in-law. Emperor Frederick. The two 
 
50 The Monk's Wedding. 
 
 were on their way back to the tyrant bearing 
 replies to important questions, and added to 
 these, the news of the day, and a copy, made 
 in the Imperial Chancery, of a pastoral letter 
 addressed to the Christian Clergy, wherein 
 the Holy Father accused the great-minded 
 Emperor, in the face of the world, of the 
 most utter godlessness. Although entrusted 
 with this portentous document, as well as 
 other weighty missives, the two could not 
 find it in their hearts to rush past the home 
 of their old play-fellow, which was directly 
 en ro2ite to the tyrant's castle, without stop- ^ 
 ping to offer him a word of sympathy. At 
 the last inn before reaching Padua, where, 
 without leaving the stirrup, they had let the 
 horses drink, they had heard from the gos- 
 siping landlord of the great city disaster and 
 the still greater city scandal, of the loss of 
 the wedding-barque, and the discarded cowl 
 of the monk with all the attendant circum- 
 stances, except that of uniting the hands of 
 Diana and Astorre, which had not yet been 
 made public. Indissoluble are the bonds 
 ^hich chain us to the companions of our 
 ^ childhood. Startled by the strange fate of 
 
The Monk's Wedding, 5/ 
 
 Astorre, the two could not rest until they 
 had beheld, with their own eyes, a friend 
 thus restored to the world and to them. 
 During many years they had seen the monk 
 only by chance in the street, where they 
 greeted him with a kindly but somewhat 
 distant bow made the deeper by a sincere 
 reverence. 
 
 Gocciola, whom they found in the court 
 of the palace munching a biscuit, as he sat 
 swinging his legs over a bit of wall, led them 
 into the garden. As they strolled along, the 
 fool entertained the gentlemen not with the 
 tragic fate of the house, but with his own 
 affairs, which seemed to him of more impor- 
 tance. He said that he was fervently striving 
 for a blessed end, and swallowed the rest of 
 the biscuit without chew^ing it with his loose 
 teeth, so that it all but choked him. The 
 grotesque faces he made up, together with 
 his maudlin talk about living in a cell, caused 
 Ascanio to break into such merry peals of 
 laughter as would have driven every cloud 
 out of the sky if the day had not revelled 
 for its own delio^ht in all the crlowinor colors. 
 
 Ascanio did not hesitate to banter the 
 
^2 The Monk's Wedding, 
 
 " Little Drop " in order the sooner to be rid 
 of this annoying mortal. " Poor fellow," he 
 began, " you will not gain the cell, for, be- 
 tween ourselves, the tyrant has cast longing 
 eyes on you. Let me tell you ; he has four 
 fools, the Stoic, the Epicurean, the Platonic 
 and the Skeptic, as he calls them. These 
 four, when the grave tyrant desires to unbend, 
 place themselves, at a sign from him, in the 
 four corners of a hall, on whose vaulted 
 ceiling the planets and heavenly constella- 
 tions are pictured. My Uncle in everyday 
 dress steps into the middle of the room, claps 
 his hands, and the philosophers with a skip 
 exchange corners. Day before yesterday, 
 the Stoic died weeping and moaning, for 
 the insatiable creature had devoured many 
 pounds of vermicelli. My Uncle hinted to 
 me, cursorily, that he thinks of replacing him 
 and will entreat the Monk, your new master, 
 to grant him you, as a contribution from his 
 inheritance. Oh, Gocciola ! so the matter 
 stands. Ezzelin is going to try to capture 
 you ! Who knows whether he may not be 
 right upon your heels at this moment '^. 
 This was in allusion to the ubiquity of the 
 
The Monk's Wedding. * jj 
 
 tyrant which kept the Paduans in a constant 
 state of alarm. Gocciola uttered a shriek, 
 as if the hand of the mighty one had fallen 
 upon his shoulder, looked around trembling, 
 and though there was nothing behind him 
 but his own little shadow, with chattering 
 teeth fled away to some hiding place. 
 
 " I erase the fools of Ezzelin," said Dante, '^^ 
 with a gesture of his hand, as if he held a 
 pen and were writing a romance, instead of 
 telling it. " This feature is untrue, Ascanio 
 lied. It is nowise conceivable that a nature 
 so serious and grand as Ezzelin's could have 
 found pleasure in feeding fools, or listening 
 to their silly chatter." This was a hit the 
 Florentine directed at his host, on whose 
 mantle Gocciola sat leering and grinning at 
 the poet. 
 
 Cangrande did not appear to heed it, but 
 secretly promised himself to pay Dante back, 
 with interest, at the first opportunity. ^ 
 
 Satisfied, and almost gaily, Dante con- 
 tinued his narration. 
 
 " Soon the friends discovered the uncowled 
 monk leaning against the trunk of a pine." 
 
ß4 ^'^^ Monk's Weddmg, 
 
 " A cedar, Dante," corrected the Princess, 
 who had listened with increasing attention. 
 "A cedar, sunning the tips of his feet. He 
 did not observe his guests coming up on 
 either side, so deeply was he absorbed in 
 his empty — or was it over-burdened.'^ — 
 thoughts. Ascanio stooped, picked a blade 
 of 2:rass and tickled the monk's nose until 
 he sneezed three times lustily. Astorre 
 warmly grasped the hands of his youthful 
 playfellows, and drew them left and right 
 down upon the grass beside him. " Now 
 what do you say to it all } " he asked in a 
 tone rather timid than defiant. " Well, first 
 my hearty praise of your prior and your 
 cloister " laughed Ascanio, " for keeping you 
 so fresh ; you look younger than either of us. 
 To be sure, the trig-fitting dress and smooth 
 chin may have some share in this rejuvena- 
 tion. Do you know that you are a handsome 
 man } Here, dropt under this huge cedar 
 you are like the first man, by God created 
 thirty years of age, as the learned assert, 
 and I," he went on with an artless expression, 
 as he saw the monk blush at his audacity, " I 
 am truly the last to blame you that you have 
 
The Monk's Wedding, 55 
 
 freed yourself from the monk's hood, for to 
 preserve his race is the instinct of every 
 Hving thing." 
 
 " It was not my wish, nor my voluntary 
 decision," the monk acknowledged truthfully. 
 " Reluctantly I yielded to the will of my 
 dying father." 
 
 " Really !" Ascanio said, and smiled. " Do 
 not tell this, Astorre, to an3^body but to us 
 who love you ; to others this lack of indepen- 
 dence would seem ridiculous. I pray you 
 take care, Astorre, that in developing the 
 man out of the monk you do not overstep 
 the boundaries of good taste. The difficult 
 transition should be made by delicate grada- 
 tions. Accept counsel ; travel a year, perhaps, 
 visit the Court of the Emperor ; messengers 
 are constantly running from thence to Padua 
 and back. Allow yourself to be sent by 
 Ezzelin to Palermo. You will there become 
 acquainted with tlie most perfect Knight, 
 and a man wholly free from prejudice. I 
 mean our Frederick the Second; and you 
 will there also be brought to understand 
 women, and wean yourself from the monkish 
 habit of either disparaging them too much, 
 
^6 The Monk's Wedding, 
 
 or idolizing them. The character of the 
 ruler colors court and city. Life here in 
 Padua under my uncle, the tyrant, has grown 
 wild, extravagant, arbitrary, and gives you a 
 false picture of the world. Palermo, when 
 under the most humane of all rulers, play 
 and earnest, duty and pleasure, loyalty and 
 fickleness, good faith and prudent mistrust, 
 mingle in just proportions, affords a vastly 
 truer picture. There, trifle away a twelve- 
 month, or share In a campaign, without 
 exposing yourself rashly. Keep your desti- 
 nation ever in view, but just remind yourself 
 of the way to manage horse and sabre; as a 
 boy you knew how to do it well. Keep 
 your gay brown eyes, which, by the torch of 
 Aurora, sparkle and glow since you left the 
 cloister, open on all sides, and return to us a 
 man able to command himself and others." 
 
 " He must marry a Swabian yonder at the 
 Emperor's court," added the mail-clad friend 
 good-naturedly. " They are more trustworthy 
 and honest than our women." " Will you be 
 silent ?" admonished Ascanio, " save me from 
 your heavy flaxen braids." But the monk 
 pressed Germano's right hand which he had 
 not let go. 
 
Tlie Monk's Wedding, ßy 
 
 " Frankly, Germano, what do you say 
 to all this?" "To what," said Germano 
 brusquely. " Why, to my new position ? " 
 
 " Astorre my friend," answered the mous- 
 tached youth, somewhat embarrassed, " when 
 a thing is done, one no longer asks for advice, 
 but simply defends the act ; if you must have 
 my opinion, however, see here, Astorre, vio- 
 lated faith, broken vows, desertion of one's 
 colors etc., to these things in Germany we 
 give harsh names. Of course, with 3'ou it 
 was something quite different, not to be 
 compared — then your dying father ! As- 
 torre, my friend, you have acted well, only 
 the contrary would have been better still. 
 This is my opinion," he concluded cor- 
 dially. 
 
 " Then if you had been here, you would 
 have refused me the hand of your sister, 
 Germano ? " 
 
 Germano looked as if a thunderbolt had 
 fallen at his feet. " The hand of my sister 
 Diana, who is now in mourning for your 
 brother } " " The same — she is my be- 
 trothed." " Ah ! glorious," cried the worldly- 
 wise Ascanio, and " Delightful," responded 
 
^8 The Mo7ik's Wedding, 
 
 Germano, " let me embrace thee brother, 
 brother-in-law," for the soldier, in spite of his 
 abruptness, had good manners. But he 
 suppressed a sigh. Heartily as he esteemed 
 his austere sister,^ he would have selected a 
 wholly different woman for the monk sitting 
 beside him. 
 
 So he twisted his moustache, and Ascanio 
 hastened to give the conversation a different 
 turn. " Astorre," said he, pleasantly, " we 
 must begin to get acquainted with each 
 other anew ; no less than fifteen contempla- 
 tive years in a cloister lie between our 
 childhood and to-day. Not that, in the 
 meantime, we have changed our natures, for 
 who does that ? but we have developed ; Ger- 
 mano, for instance, has gained fame and 
 glory on the battle-field as a warrior, yet we 
 have to accuse him of having become half- 
 German. He," and Ascanio doubled up his 
 arm as if pouring the contents of a whole 
 beaker down his throat, " afterward grows 
 melancholy, or quarrelsome. Then he de- 
 spises our sweet Italian and says boastfully 
 ' I shall speak German with you,' and growls 
 out the bearish sounds of a savage tongue. 
 
The Monk's Wedding. 5p 
 
 His servants turn pale, his creditors fly, and 
 our Paduan women turn their stately backs 
 upon him. This is perhaps why he has 
 remained a maiden knight like yourself 
 Astorre," and he laid his hand confidingly 
 on the monk's shoulder. 
 
 Germano laughed heartily and answered, 
 pointing to Ascanio. " And he has found 
 his vocation, which is to be the perfect 
 courtier. " 
 
 " Here you are mistaken, Germano," re- 
 plied Ezzelin's favorite, " my aim has only 
 been to enjoy life, to be easy and gay." As 
 proof of this, he hailed the child of the gar- 
 dener, who was stealing by in the distance, 
 looking askance at her new master, the monk, 
 and bade her come nearer. The pretty 
 little thinsf bore on her lauo:hino^ head a 
 basket heaped up with figs and grapes, and 
 looked much more roguish than shy or 
 bashful. Ascanio sprang up, threw his left 
 arm round the maiden's slender waist, and 
 with his right pulled a bunch of grapes out 
 of her basket, trying at the same time to 
 kiss her full rosy lips. The coy maiden 
 blushed, but kept quite still for fear of spill- 
 
6o The Mojik's Weddmg, 
 
 ing her fruit. The monk, however, turned 
 from the gay courtier with displeasure, and 
 the little girl, frightened at his gesture, ran 
 off as fast as she could, strewing the path 
 behind her flying feet with the fruit. As- 
 canio, holding his own bunch of grapes in 
 his hand, stooped and picked up two others, 
 one of which he offered Germano, who 
 flung it contemptuously into the grass. The 
 good-natured fellow passed the other over 
 to the rnonk, who at first allowed it to lie 
 untouched, but after a while thoughtlessly 
 tasted one grape, and soon a second and a 
 third. 
 
 "A courtier" continued Ascanio, as, 
 amused at the prudery of the thirty-years 
 old monk, he threw himself down again be- 
 side him on the grass, " don't you believe it 
 Astorre ! believe exactly the contrary. I am 
 the only one who, quietly and in plain words, 
 can persuade my uncle not to become un- 
 merciful, and, while a ruler, to remain a man ! 
 
 " He is only just and true to himself," 
 added Germano. 
 
 " Oh, his justice, and the logic of his 
 deeds ! " said Ascanio sadly. " Padua is a feoff 
 
The Monk's Wedding, 6i 
 
 of the Empire ; Ezzelln is governor. Who- 
 ever is dissatisfied with him rebels against 
 the Empire ; and rebels, traitors must be — " 
 he could not bring his lips to utter it — 
 " horrible ! " he murmured. " And yet, to 
 speak out frankly, why can't we Italians 
 manage our own lives under this blue sky of 
 ours? Why, forever, this misty phantom of 
 the Empire stifling our breath '^. I speak 
 not for myself; my fate is bound up with 
 that of my uncle. If the Emperor dies — 
 whom God preserve! — all Italy, with cursing 
 and swearing, will overthrow the tyrant 
 Ezzelin and will strangle the nephew along 
 with him." Ascanio gazed at the luxurious 
 earth, the radiant heavens, and uttered a 
 sigh. 
 
 " Both of us," added Germano coolly, " but 
 not yet awhile; the governor, according to 
 prophecy, is to maintain his power firmly 
 for a long time to come. The learned Guido 
 Bonatti and Paul of Bagdad, who might 
 sweep the dust from the streets with his 
 long beard, although usually in passionate 
 contradiction to one another, have with 
 accord unriddled for him a new and cu- 
 
62 The Monk's Wedding, 
 
 rious constellation in the following manner. 
 Sooner, or later, a son of the peninsula is to 
 win undivided power over it, with the help 
 of a German Emperor, who for his part, is, 
 on the other side of the mountains to unite 
 all the Germans under the sway of one solid 
 Imperial Crown. Is Frederic this Emperor? 
 Is this king Ezzelin ? God alone can tell. 
 Who knows the time and the hour? but the 
 governor has staked our heads and his re- 
 nown upon \V,y 
 
 " A tissue of rationalism and blind delu- 
 sion," said Ascanio, annoyed, whilst the 
 monk heard, with amazement, of the might 
 of the stars, the unbridled ambition of the 
 ruler, and the all-engrossing rush and whirl 
 of worldly life. 
 
 The spectre of the cruelty of Ezzelin, 
 whom, in his innocence, he had looked upon 
 as incorporated justice, began also to alarm 
 him. 
 
 Ascanio responded to his doubts and fears 
 by ejaculating with emphasis, " That dark- 
 browed Guido and the bearded heathen, may 
 they both find a miserable end ! They mis- 
 lead my uncle, catering to his lusts and 
 
The Monk's Wedding, 6j 
 
 humors, whilst they persuade him that he is 
 only doing what is necessary. Have you 
 ever observed him, Germano? how at his 
 frugal meal he only colors the water in his 
 transparent crystal cup with three or four 
 drops of blood-red Sicilian ? how attentively 
 his eyes follow this blood as it slowly clouds 
 and permeates the pure stream? or how he 
 loves to close the lids of the dead, so that it 
 has become a courtesy to invite the governor 
 to a death-bed, as to a feast, and to commit 
 to him this last sad duty ? Ezzelin, my 
 Prince, do not, I pray thee become cruel ! " 
 exclaimed the youth, overcome by his 
 feelings 
 
 " No, I will not, my nephew," said a voice 
 behind him. It was Ezzelin, who had ap- 
 proached unseen, and though no listener, 
 had heard the last bitter supplication. 
 
 The three young men rose quickly and 
 greeted the ruler, who accepted a seat beside 
 them on the bank. His face was calm as 
 the mask at the fountain. 
 
 " You, niy messengers," he said, addressing 
 Ascanio and Germano,"how came it that 
 you sought out this man (he nodded lightly 
 to the monk) before me ? " 
 
6^ The Mo7ik's Wedding, 
 
 "He was our playfellow and he has met 
 with strange vicissitudes of late," said his 
 nephew by way of excuse, and Ezzelin let it 
 pass. He took the letters which Ascanio 
 handed to him on bended knee and, with the 
 exception of the Papal Bull, crowded them 
 all into the bosom of his dress. " See here," 
 said he, " the latest ; read it aloud, Ascanio, 
 your eyes are younger than mine." 
 
 Ascanio read the Apostolic letter, whilst 
 Ezzelin, burying his right hand in his beard) 
 listened with demoniac satisfaction. 
 
 The triple-crowned writer began by giving 
 the enlightened Emperor the name of " Apoc- 
 alyptic Monster." " This is nothing new," 
 said the tyrant, " I, too, was called by all 
 sorts of extravagant names until I admon- 
 ished the Pontifex that whoever had anything 
 to say to Ezzelin must henceforth upbraid 
 him in classic language. What name does 
 he give me this time.f^ I am curious to 
 know; hunt up the passage, Ascanio, in 
 which he reproaches my father-in-law for 
 his bad associate. Give it to me ! " He 
 seized the letter and soon found the place. 
 The Pope accused the Emperor of loving 
 
The Monk's Wedding, 6ß 
 
 the husband of his daughter, Ezzelin da Ro- 
 mano, the greatest criminal on the inhabited 
 globe. 
 
 " Correct," assented Ezzelin, and gave 
 Ascanio back the letter. " Now read to me 
 the sins of the Emperor, nephew," he said 
 smilinor. 
 
 Ascanio read on : " Frederic has said, three 
 imposters — Moses, Mahomet, and " — he hes- 
 itated — "had deceived the world." " Super- 
 ficial ! " exclaimed Ezzelin with a frown, 
 " they had their stars, but whether he said it 
 or not, the remark engraves itself, and out- 
 weighs for him who wears the tiara, an army 
 and a fleet ; — proceed ! " 
 
 Now followed a curious anecdote. " Fred- 
 eric, riding through a cornfield, had joked 
 with his attendants, and in blasphemous 
 allusion to the sacred bread, recited these 
 lines : — 
 
 As many Gods there are as ears of grain, 
 They quickly shoot aloft through sun and rain, 
 And wave their golden heads on hill and plain." 
 
 Ezzzelin thought a moment. " Curious ! " 
 he whispered. " My memory has preserved 
 this little verse somewhere. It is absolutely 
 
66 The Mo7tk's Weddi7tz> 
 
 at 
 
 authentic. The Emperor recited it to me, 
 with a merry laugh, as we were riding to- 
 gether in sight of the temple ruins of Enna, 
 throusfh those exuberant cornfields with 
 which the goddess Ceres has blessed Sicilian 
 soil. I remember it with the same clearness 
 that shone over the Isle on that summer day. 
 I am not the one, however, who repeated 
 this conceit to the Pontifex ; I am too grave 
 a man to do that. Who did it ? I appeal to 
 you. There were three of us and the third 
 — of this, too, I am as certain as of the 
 luminous sun above us (a beam fell straight 
 into the arbor) was Peter de Vinca, — the 
 inseparable companion of the Emperor. 
 May the pious Chancellor have feared for 
 his soul and relieved his conscience by a 
 letter to Rome ? Does a Saracen ride forth 
 to-day ? Yes ? Quick, Ascanio, I will dic- 
 tate a few lines." 
 
 Ascanio drew out a little tablet and 
 pencil, and, dropping upon his right knee, 
 used the left as a desk. " Illustrious Prince 
 and beloved father-in-law, one hurried word. 
 The little verse in the Bull (you have far too 
 much mind to repeat yourself) was heard 
 
The Mo7ik's Wedding. 6j 
 
 only by four ears, mine and those of your 
 Peter, a year ago, in the corniields of Enna, 
 at the time you called me to your court, and 
 I rode with you over the island. Have the 
 winds of heaven proved treacherous and 
 borne these lines to the Vicar of St. Peter? 
 If you love me and yourself, Prhice, rack 
 your Chancellor's brains for an answer." 
 
 " Bloody suggestion ! I will not wrue it, 
 my hand trembles," cried Ascanio, turning 
 jDale, and he threw his pencil away. 
 
 " Official duty," Germano said drily, picked 
 up the pencil and finished the letter which 
 he thrust under his helmet. "It will go off 
 to-day. As regards my simple self I never 
 liked this Capuan, he has a veiled look." 
 
 The monk Astorre shivered in spite of 
 the mid-day sun. After his peaceful cloister 
 life the suspicion and treachery of the world 
 seemed to him like the slippery coils of a 
 viper he was grasping in his hands. A stern 
 rebuke from Ezzelin, as he rose from his 
 stone seat banished his reverie. 
 
 " Say, monk, why do you bury yourself in 
 your castle. You have not left it since you 
 donned the world's garb. You shrink from 
 
68 The Monk's Wedding, 
 
 public opinion ? Face it boldly, it will yield, 
 but make a single attempt at flight and it 
 will hang upon your heels. Have you visi- 
 ted Diana ? The week of mourning is past. 
 I advise you to invite your kinsfolk and 
 marry Diana to-day." 
 
 '' Then be off with you to your remotest 
 castle," concluded Ascanio. 
 
 " I do not counsel this," said the tyrant, 
 "no fear, no flight. To-day be married and 
 to-morrow give the wedding feast with masks. 
 Valeter He departed, motioning Germane 
 to follow him." 
 
 " May I interrupt," asked Cangrande, who 
 had courteously waited until a pause came 
 in the narrative. 
 
 " You are Lord and Master " peevishly 
 replied the Florentine. 
 
 "Do you really impute to our immortal 
 Emperor that word ' impostor ' as applied to 
 three great souls 1 " 
 
 " Non ligneC 
 
 " I mean in your secret soul.^^ " 
 
 With a motion of the head Dante nega- 
 tived the question. 
 
 " And yet you have condemned him as 
 
The Monk's Wedding, 6g 
 
 being one of the ungodly, to the sixth circle 
 in your hell. How could you do this ? jus- 
 tify yourself." 
 
 '• Illustrissimo," replied the Florentine, 
 " the Commedia expresses the judgment and 
 sentence of this age, Vv^hich, whether justly 
 or unjustly, reads the most frightful blasphe- 
 mies on that sublime brow. It is not for me 
 to oppose the opinion of the pious, perhaps, 
 however, the Future will judge him quite 
 differently." 
 
 - " My Dante," said Cangrande, a second 
 time, " dost thou believe Petrus de Vinca in- 
 nocent of this crime against the Emperor ? " 
 
 "' Non ligiietr 
 
 " I mean in your inmost soul 1 " 
 
 Dante again shook his head. 
 
 "Yet you allow the traitor to affirm his 
 innocence in your Commedia." 
 
 " Prince, have I any right, in lack of actual 
 proof, to accuse one more son of this Italian 
 peninsula where we know of so much 
 double-dealing and knavery? " 
 
 " Dante, noble poet, you do not believe in 
 the guilt and you condemn ; you do believe 
 in the guilt and you absolve." He then in 
 
'JO The Monk's Wedding, 
 
 playful fashion attempted to go on himself 
 , with the story. " The monk and Ascanio left 
 the garden and entered the Hall." 
 
 But Dante caught the broken thread — 
 saying, " Not so — they mounted to a small 
 room in the tower ; the same which Astorre 
 had occupied, when a curly-haired boy, for 
 he could not at once accustom himself to the 
 large and magnificent rooms, now his own, 
 nor had he as yet touched any portion of the 
 golden hoard bequeathed to him. At a com- 
 manding gesture from Ascanio the stiff and 
 surly looking Major-domo Burcardo, followed 
 the two friends." 
 
 Cangrande's major-domo, who had returned 
 to the hall in order to listen to the story, 
 now found himself so faithfully mirrored in 
 it, that he deemed this misuse of his stately 
 person most unseemly, in fact, presumptions, 
 from the mouth of a stranger, to whom he had 
 given the simplest room imaginable in the 
 palace. What the others enjoyed as a joke 
 he resented as an insult with frowning brows 
 and angry glance. 
 
 The Florentine seemed to relish his indig- 
 i nation and went on with his tale. 
 
The Monk's Weddiiig, yi 
 
 "Worthy Sir," Ascanio addressed the Major- 
 domo (did I say he was by birth an Alsatian ?) 
 " how does one get married in Padua ? As- 
 torre and I find ourselves inexperienced in 
 this science." 
 
 The master of ceremonies struck an atti- 
 tude and gazed fixedly at his master without 
 deigning a look at Ascanio, who according 
 to his notion, had no right to demand any- 
 thing of him. 
 
 " Destiiigeiidum est " said he solemnly ; 
 "there are three distinct ceremonies to be 
 observed ; the wooing, the espousals, and the 
 wedding." 
 
 " Where does all this stand written down } " 
 enquired Ascanio laughing. 
 
 ''Ecce!'' replied the Majordomo as he 
 unfolded before them a big book which he 
 always carried about with him. " Here ! " 
 and he pointed with the first finger of his 
 left hand to the title. " The ceremonies of 
 Padua, collected after the most careful re- 
 searches for the pious use and benefit of all 
 respectable and honorable people by Messer 
 Godoscalco Burcardo." He turned over the 
 leaves and read. " Section ist. The Wooino:. 
 
12 The Monk's Wedding, 
 
 Paragraph ist. The earnest wooer brings 
 with him a friend of Hke position as legal 
 witness, and — " " By the superabundant 
 merits of my patron saint, spare us the ante 
 and post, the wooing and wedding. Serve 
 up your middle course. How are Espousals 
 conducted in Padua ? " 
 
 " In Batooa " crowed the irritated Alsatian, 
 whose barbarous pronunciation was exagger- 
 ated by his excitement, "for patrician sposa- 
 lizio the twelve noble families must be invited" 
 — he counted them over from memory — " ten 
 days beforehand, no earlier, no later, by the 
 Majordomo of the Bridegroom attended by 
 six servants. Before this assembly of nobles 
 the rings are exchanged. The guests drink 
 Cybrian and eat Am.arella." 
 
 ' " Heaven preserve our teeth," laughed 
 Ascanio, and snatching the book he read 
 through the names of the families, six of 
 which had been erased with broad strokes. 
 They had probably been involved in some 
 conspiracy against the tyrant and had thus 
 perished. 
 
 " Now listen, old man," commanded As- 
 canio, acting for the monk, who had sunk 
 
The Monk's Wedding. yj 
 
 into a chair, and, lost in thought, surrendered 
 himself to his friendly guardian. " Make 
 your rounds with the other six good-for- 
 nothings ' at once, this very hour, without 
 delay, do you understand ? and give the 
 invitations for this evening at vesper time." 
 
 " Ten days beforehand," repeated Messer 
 Burcardo, majestically, as if proclaiming an 
 Imperial law. 
 
 " To-day, and for to-day, obstinate fellow." 
 " Impossible," said the Majordomo quietly, 
 " would you change the course of the planets 
 and the seasons } " 
 
 " You rebel ! do you want your throat or- 
 namented with a rope, old man 1 " said 
 Ascanio with a peculiar smile. 
 
 This suiificed. Burcardo understood Ez- 
 zelin had commanded, and the stiff-necked 
 pedant yielded without grumbling; such an 
 iron rod did the tyrant hold over his people. 
 
 " But you are not to invite the two ladies 
 Canossa; Signora Olympia, and Signorina 
 Antiope." 
 
 " Why not these ? " and the monk suddenly 
 sprang to his feet as if touched by a magic 
 wand. The empty air took form and color 
 
7^ The Monk's Wedding. 
 
 and a picture rose before his fantasy the 
 bare outlines of which captivated his whole 
 soul. 
 
 " Because the Countess Olympia is a 
 fool, Astorre. Do you not know the poor 
 woman's history ? Ah ! you were at that 
 time in swathing bands, or, to speak more 
 properly, in the cowl. It was three years 
 ago when the leaves were sere and yellow." 
 
 *' No, 'twas in the summer, Ascanio " said 
 the monk, "the anniversary must be fast 
 approaching." 
 
 "You are rio-ht! Do von then know the 
 story } But how should you ? Count Ca- 
 nossa was suspected of having secret dealings 
 with the legate, was watched, seized and con- 
 demned. The Countess threw herself at the 
 feet of my uncle, but he wrapped himself in 
 unapproachable silence ; she then allowed 
 herself to be basely deceived by one of the 
 chamberlains who, for the sake of the money 
 he could make out of her, promised that the 
 Count should receive his pardon before the 
 block. This was not fulfilled, and when 
 they brought to her the Count, beheaded, 
 maddened by the sudden change from hope 
 
The Monk's Weddhig, 75 
 
 to despair, she flung herself out of the win- 
 dow, but marvellous to relate, apparently 
 suffered no injury except the spraining of 
 her foot. From that day to this, however, 
 her mind has been deranged.; If our natural 
 moods imperceptibly resolve themselves one 
 into another, as the light of day gradually 
 fades and is lost in the darkness of nig^ht, 
 hers, on the contrary, pass abruptly from 
 bright to dark, twelve times in twelve hours. 
 A prey to the bitterest unrest this miserable 
 woman hurries from her deserted city-palace 
 to her country house, and from there back 
 again to the city in a state of constant be- 
 wilderment. To-day she threatens to marry 
 her daughter to the son of a farmer, because 
 only in the humbler walks of life security 
 and peace is to be found ; to-morrow the 
 most aristocratic lover, (who, to be sure, 
 through fear of such a mother is not likely 
 to present himself,) is considered scarcely 
 grand enough." 
 
 If Ascanio, in the midst of his talk, had 
 cast one hasty glance at Astorre he w^ould 
 have paused in amazement, for the monk's 
 face was positively transfigured with sym- 
 pathy and pity. 
 
y6 The Monk's Wedding, 
 
 But he went on heedless. " When the 
 tyrant at the chase rides past Olympia's 
 house, she rushes to the window and expects 
 to see him dismount at her threshold, and, 
 after this long and sufficient purification by 
 suffering, that he will graciously and kindly 
 conduct her back to court ; a thing he really 
 has not the faintest idea of ever doino-. 
 
 o 
 
 Another day, or perhaps, the very same day, 
 she imagines herself banished and perse- 
 cuted by Ezzelin, who simply does not 
 trouble himself about her. 
 
 " She believes herself impoverished, and 
 her estates, w^iich he has never meddled 
 with, confiscated. Thus, she burns and 
 freezes, flying from one extreme to another, 
 is not only distracted herself, but distracts 
 whoever she draws into the whirlpool of her 
 ideas, and is the cause of mischief, where the 
 people believe in her, since being only half 
 a fool, she says many caustic and witty 
 thino^s. To brins: her amonor sensible 
 people, or to a festival, is not to be thought 
 of. It is a miracle that her child Antiope, 
 whom she idolizes, and whose marriage is 
 the aim of all her fancies, has been able to 
 
The Monk's Weddmg, 77 
 
 retain her reason amid such bewildering cir- 
 cumstances, but the girl is in the bloom and 
 strength of youth, is pretty enough, and has 
 a sweet nature." So Ascanio rambled on 
 with his story. 
 
 Astorre was lost in dreams ! I say this 
 for what is the past but a dream .? All the 
 monk had experienced three years ago was 
 before his eyes. He saw a block, the execu- 
 tioner beside it, and he himself, as substitute 
 for a brother who was ill, waiting to admin- 
 ister the last pious sacrament and give spiri- 
 tual consolation to some poor sinner. The 
 prisoner, Count Canossa, at last appeared in 
 chains, but at the same time seeming far 
 from prepared to submit to his fate ; either 
 he fancied his pardon was at hand, now that 
 he stood before the block, or he loved life 
 and the sun, and abhorred the thought of 
 darkness and the o-rave. He treated the 
 monk rudely and refused to listen to his 
 prayers. A horrible struggle was impending 
 if he continued to resist, for he held his child 
 by the hand, who, unperceived by the 
 guards, had sprung to his side, and now 
 clung to him, fastening her expressive eyes, 
 
'j8 The Month's Wedding. 
 
 full of supplication, on the face of the monk. 
 The father drew the child close to his breast, 
 as if with this fresh young life to protect 
 himself from destruction, but was forced 
 down by the executioner and his head 
 pressed upon the block. 
 
 Then the child laid her little head beside 
 her father's. Did she hope to awaken the 
 sympathy of the executioner ? Did she hope 
 to encourage her father to endure the un- 
 avoidable? Was she trying to whisper the 
 name of a Saint in the ear of the unrecon- 
 ciled man ? Was she in her overflowing: 
 child-like love, without thought or considera- 
 tion, doing an unheard-of thing ? Would 
 she simply die with him ? 
 
 The vision grew so clear to the mental eye 
 of Astorreas to bring palpably before him, 
 in colors startlingly life-like, the two necks 
 lying side by side. The Count's brown and 
 sunburnt. The child's, white as snow, half- 
 hidden in her golden locks. The little neck 
 was slender and exquisitely formed. Astorre 
 shuddered, lest the falling axe, should mis- 
 take its victim, and was stirred to his in- 
 most soul, just as he had been two years 
 
The Monk's Wedding, 'jg 
 
 before, when the frightful scene actually 
 occurred, although he did not wholly lose 
 consciousness as at the time it happened ; 
 then he recovered his senses only after all 
 was over. 
 
 " Has my master any commands to give ! " 
 and the droning voice of the Majordomo 
 broke in upon his reverie — for this worthy 
 did not at all relish being under Ascanio s 
 orders. 
 
 " Burcardo," replied Astorre, in a gentle 
 voice — " do not forget to invite the two 
 ladies Canossa — mother and daughter. It 
 must not be said that the monk iTOores 
 those who are shunned and neglected by the 
 world. I recoo:nise the riorht of the unfortu- 
 nate woman (here the Majordomo assented 
 with an easy nod) to be invited and received 
 by me. In her condition it might mortify 
 her deeply to be thus overlooked." 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, leave her out " cried 
 Ascanio, "your betrothal is even now,^a wild 
 affair enough, and it is just such mad-cap 
 proceedings that excite half-crazy people. 
 Take my word for it, she will, as is her wont, 
 do something incredible, fling some unheard- 
 
8o The Mo7ik's Wedding, 
 
 of remark into the midst of the festivities, 
 which already interest the gossiping Pad- 
 uans sufficiently." 
 
 But Messer Burcardo, who believed in the 
 propriety of inviting the Canossa, in the 
 Assembly of the twelve, whether she was in 
 her senses or not, and also that his obedience 
 was due to the Vicedomini and nobody else, 
 bowed low before the monk and said as he 
 withdrew: "Your Lordship alone is to be 
 obeyed." 
 
 " Oh, Monk ! Monk ! " exclaimed Ascanio, 
 " to think of practising divine mercy in a 
 world where common kindness can scarcely 
 be exercised with impunity ! " 
 
 " Such is human nature," interposed Dante. 
 "A prophetic light sometimes reveals the 
 brink of an abyss, but our imagined clever- 
 ness steps in and with smiles and sophistries 
 persuades us there is no danger." 
 
 To allay his fears the light-hearted fellow 
 reasoned with himself in this wise. " What 
 in the world is this foolish woman to the 
 monk, in whose life she does not play the 
 slightest part 1 and after all if she gives us 
 
The Monk's Wedding, 8i 
 
 something to laugh at, a spice is added to 
 the Amerella ! " He had not the faintest 
 suspicion what was passing in the soul of 
 Astorre, and the monk would never have 
 committed any part of his tender secret to 
 this frivolous worldling. 
 
 Therefore Ascanio let well enough alone, 
 and remembering the other command of the 
 tyrant to instruct the monk in the ways of 
 the world enquired cheerily ; " Have you 
 thought of the wedding ring Astorre ? for 
 it stands written in the ' Ceremonies ' : section 
 second, paragraph so-and-so, " The rings 
 shall be exchanged." The monk replied 
 he would hunt up one among the family 
 jewels. 
 
 " No, indeed, Astorre," said Ascanio, " if 
 you take my advice you will buy your Diana 
 a new one. Who knows what stories may 
 be attached to a ring which has been used } 
 Leave the past entirely behind ! Moreover 
 you have now the best opportunity. Go, 
 and buy her a ring of the Florentine on the 
 bridge. Do you know the man ? — yet how 
 should you } Listen ! early this morning as I 
 was crossing the bridge on foot with Germano 
 
82 The Mo7ik's Wedding, 
 
 (the crowd was so thick that we had been 
 obHged to dismount and lead our horses) I 
 saw, my dear fellow, that at the weather- 
 beaten head of the pier a goldsmith had 
 opened his shop and all Padua was haggling 
 and chaffering over his jewels. And why 
 on the bridge, do you ask, Astorre, when 
 there are so many more convenient places ? 
 Because in Florence all the jew^elry shops 
 are on the Arno bridge. Then, (admire the 
 logic of fashion,) where should one buy his 
 jewelry if not of a Florentine and where 
 should a Florentine sell it if not on a bridge ? 
 He would never think of doing differently ; 
 if he does, his wares are always suspected of 
 being coarse and common, and in fact, he 
 himself of being no genuine Florentine. 
 But there's no mistake as to this man. He 
 has written in enormous letters over his 
 booth, " Niccolo Lippo dei Lippi, the gold- 
 smith, exiled from his home by one of those 
 corrupt and unjust decrees but too common 
 on the Arno. Come, Astorre, let us go to 
 the bridge." 
 
 Astorre did not refuse. He may himself 
 have felt the need of breaking the spell of 
 
The Monk's Wedding, 8j 
 
 isolation which had bound him to the house 
 ever since he threw off the monk's garb. 
 
 " Have you any money in your pocket ? " 
 asked Ascanio jokingly, " remember your 
 vow of poverty is broken and the Florentine 
 will charge you enough." The monk rapped 
 on a window-pane in the room of the house- 
 steward, conveniently situated on the lower 
 floor over which the young men were now 
 passing; the cunning face of the steward 
 instantly appeared (a Genoese, if I've been 
 rightly informed) and with a fawning bow 
 he reached his master a purse well-filled with 
 Byzantine gold. A servant then enveloped 
 the monk in a comfortable summer mantle 
 with a large hood. 
 
 Upon the street, Astorre drew the hood 
 deep over his face, less on account of the 
 burning rays of the sun, than from long 
 habit, and turning to his companion said 
 pleasantly, " Am I not to be trusted to go 
 alone on this small errand, Ascanio } Surely 
 to buy a simple gold ring is not beyond the 
 capacity of a monk, you'll risk me so far, a 
 rivederci when the vesper bell rings." As- 
 canio left him and called back over his 
 
8/f The MonJis Wedding, 
 
 shoulder " One, not two, Diana gives you 
 yours, remember that Astorre." ' Twas only 
 one of the many light bubbles which the 
 merry fellow blew into the air every day. 
 
 " If you ask me. Prince, why the monk 
 dismissed his friend, I answer, that he longed 
 to let the heavenly chords ring out clear and 
 full which the child martyr had awakened in 
 his soul." 
 
 Astorre had reached the bridge. Not- 
 withstanding the burning heat of the sun, it 
 was crowded with people, and from both 
 shores a double line of men and women 
 were passing before the shop of the Floren- 
 tine. The monk was not recognized under 
 his cloak, although now and again a ques- 
 tioning eye rested upon the uncovered part 
 of his face. Nobles and citizens pressed 
 around the booth. High-born dames alighted 
 from their chairs and consented to be 
 squeezed and jostled for the sake of buying 
 a pair of bracelets or a coronet qf the latest 
 pattern. By the ringing of a bell, the Flo- 
 rentine had announced everywhere that he 
 should close to-day after the Ave Maria, 
 He had never dreamed of doing anything 
 
The Monk's Wedding, 8^ 
 
 of the sort, but what does a lie cost a 
 Florentine ? 
 
 At last the monk stood before the booth, 
 closely hemmed in by the crowd. The be- 
 sieged trader who seemed to multiply himself 
 tenfold glanced at the monk and at once 
 detected his inexperience. " How can I 
 serve the cultivated taste of Eccellenza 1 " he 
 asked. " Give me a simple gold ring," 
 replied the monk. The merchant seized a 
 cup exquisitely wrought and covered with 
 reliefs in Florentine taste, and shaking the 
 bowl which contained more than a hundred 
 rin2:s offered it to Astorre. 
 
 The monk now found himself in a state 
 of painful embarassment, he had no idea of 
 the size of the finger on which he was to 
 put the ring and, taking up several, hesitated 
 whether to buy a large or a small one. The 
 Florentine could not repress a gibe, for it 
 was the fashioji on the Arno to add a sting 
 to every speech. " Does not Eccellenza 
 know the size of the finger he has pressed 
 so often .f^ " he enquired, with innocent mien, 
 yet, like the shrewd man he was, correcting 
 himself instantly as he remembered that 
 
S6 The Monk's Wedding, 
 
 most men preferred being thought knaves 
 than fools, gave Astorre two rings, a large 
 and a small one, which he contrived to slip 
 between the thumb and forefinger of the 
 monk: "for the Signor's two loves," he 
 whispered, bowing. 
 
 Before the monk, however, could manifest 
 his indignation at this impudent remark he 
 received a violent blow. It was the shoulder- 
 piece of ^ horse in armor, which struck him 
 so hard that he let the small ring fall to the 
 ofround. At the same moment the deafen- 
 ing blast of eight trumpets sounded in his 
 ears. The band of the governor's German 
 body-guard was riding in two lines of four 
 horses each over the bridge, shoving the 
 crowd in all directions and pressing the 
 people up against the stone parapet. 
 
 The old wooden planks of the bridge 
 wxre much worn, and, especially in the 
 middle, full of ruts, into one of which the 
 rinof fell, and rolled over to the other side. 
 Here a young maid named Isotta (or, as 
 they shorten the name in Padua, Sotte) 
 snatched up the sparkling thing, at the im- 
 minent risk of being trampled on by the 
 
The Monk's Wedding, 8y 
 
 horses. " A lucky ring ! " shouted the silly 
 girl and with childish glee forced it on to 
 the slender finger of her young mistress, 
 whom she was accompanying ; it was the 
 fourth finger of her left hand, which by its 
 delicate shape, seemed to her especially 
 worthy of this pretty ornament. In Padua, 
 as in Verona, if I am right, they wear the 
 betrothal-ring on the left hand. 
 
 The noble Signorina was aiihoyed at 
 Sotte's joke and yet somewhat amused by it. 
 She struggled hard to pull the strange ring 
 off again, but it resisted her efforts as if it 
 had been molded on. Suddenly the monk 
 stood before her in an attitude of joyful sur- 
 prise. He had laid his left hand over his 
 heart while his right was extended toward 
 her, for although she had attained the 
 bloom of maidenhood, by the exquisite deli- 
 cacy of her throat, and still more by the 
 beating of his own heart, he had recognized 
 the child whose tender head he last saw on 
 the block. 
 
 Whilst the young girl stood confused, 
 now lifting her questioning eyes to the 
 monk and then letting them fall upon the 
 
88 The Monk's Wedding. 
 
 refractory ring, Astorre hesitated to ask 
 her for it, still it had to be done. He 
 opened his lips ; " Signorina " he began and 
 felt himself in the embrace of two strong 
 mailed arms, which had taken possession of 
 him bodily. In a moment with the help of 
 another soldier he was seated astride an 
 impatient steed. " Let us see," laughed a 
 good-natured voice, " whether you have for- 
 gotten how to ride." It was Germane, at 
 the head of the German cohort, which the 
 Governor had ordered out for a review in the 
 plain near Padua. Meeting his brother-in- 
 law in this unexpected manner on the bridge 
 he had conceived the joke of mounting him 
 on one of the horses from w^hich a young 
 Swabian sprang off at his command. The 
 fiery steed, detecting instantly the change of 
 riders, made a couple of wild springs ; it 
 caused a stampede on the crowded bridge, 
 and Astorre, whose hood had fallen back, 
 and who, with difficulty kept hold of the 
 reins, was recognized by the startled people. 
 " The Monk ! The Monk ! " resounded from 
 all sides, but the martial troop had already 
 left the bridge and soon disappeared round 
 
The Monk's Wedding, <?p 
 
 the corner of the street. The Florentine, 
 who was left unpaid, rushed after him. He 
 had scarcely gone twenty steps, however, 
 when he turned back, afraid to leave his 
 wares under the slight protection of a small 
 boy, and besides, the cries of the multitude 
 warned him that he had to deal with some 
 one well known in the city who could be 
 easily hunted up. He had Astorre's palace 
 pointed out to him and presented himself 
 there that same day, the following, and the 
 day after. The two first days he could get 
 no answer to his questions, for the monk's 
 household v/as turned upside down, the 
 third he found the tyrant's seal affixed to the 
 closed door; this frightened the coward and 
 he went off without his pay. 
 
 Meanwhile the women, Antiope, the giddy 
 maid, and a third, who, separated from them 
 by the tumult on the bridge, had now re- 
 joined them, started off in an opposite 
 direction. This third was an odd-looking, 
 prematurely aged woman, with deeply fur- 
 rowed brow and gray bushy locks, She had 
 an excited air as she dragged her untidy, 
 but still aristocratic dress, through the dust 
 of the streets. 
 
go The Monk's Wedding, 
 
 With foolish exultation Sotte instantly 
 • related to the elderly lady, evidently the 
 mother of the damsel, the occurrence on the 
 bridge. Astorre, she also had recognized 
 him by the cries of the people. Astorre, 
 the monk, whose wooing was the talk of the 
 town, had surreptitiously rolled to the feet 
 of Antiope a gold ring, and when she, Sotte, 
 )y perceiving the hand of Fate, and the cun- 
 ning of the monk, had put the ring on the 
 dear girl's hand, the monk himself had stept 
 up to them and, when Antiope modestly 
 wished to return the ring, had laid his left 
 hand tenderly on his heart — here she imi- 
 tated the monk raising his right hand in 
 refusal, with a gesture which in all Italy 
 says, and signifies, " Keep it, my dear ! " 
 
 At last the astounded Antiope found a 
 chance to say a word for herself, and be- 
 sought her mother to pay no heed to Sotte's 
 nonsense, but in vain. Signora Olympia 
 raised her hands toward Heaven, and in the 
 open streets thanked St. Anthony with fer- 
 vor for having listened to her daily prayer, be- 
 yond all hopes or expectations, in that he had 
 bestowed upon her darling one of his own 
 
The Monk's Wedding, gi 
 
 sons, a well-born virtuous man. She accom- 
 panied all this with such extravagant gesticu- 
 lation that the passers-by laughed and tapped 
 their foreheads. The bewildered Antiope 
 tried in all conceivable ways to reason her 
 mother out of the delusion ; the elderly 
 Canossa refused to listen, and went on pas- 
 sionately building up her air-castle. 
 
 When the ladies reached the Canossa 
 palace they were met in the arched door-way 
 by a stiffly attired Majordomo followed by 
 six gorgeously dressed servants. Messer 
 Burcardo stept back respectfully to allow 
 Madonna Olympia to ascend the stairs first. 
 Entering one of the deserted halls he made 
 three measured bows, each one deeper than 
 the last, and bringing him a little nearer to 
 the ladies, when he said slowly and with 
 great solemnity : " lUustrissimi, Astorre 
 Vicedomini sends me to invite you most 
 humbly to his espousals this evening (he 
 repressed with bitterness " in ten days ") at 
 the ringing of the vesper bell." — 
 
 Dante paused. Abundance of material for 
 his romance lay before him but his severe 
 taste led him to wish to simplify and arrange 
 it. 
 
g2 The Moiik^s Wedding, 
 
 " My Dante," said Cangrande, " I admire 
 the strong clear-cut outlines with which you 
 have drawn your Florentines. Niccolo 
 Lippo dei Lippi was banished from Florence 
 by a corrupt and unrighteous decree, but 
 he himself is an extortioner, flatterer, liar, 
 scoffer, cheat and coward, all after the man- 
 ner of the Florentines. But this is only a 
 faint shower compared with that fiery rain 
 of denunciation which you have poured 
 down on your beloved city, only one last 
 drop of the gall and vinegar which you have 
 given to the Florentines in some parts 
 / of your Commedia. Let me tell you it is 
 ■ ignoble to defame one's birthplace and to 
 give your own mother cause to blush. It is 
 not becoming. It does not make a good 
 impression. 
 
 I will tell you of a puppet show which I 
 saw the other day, while going about dis- 
 guised among my people. You are perhaps 
 shocked to hear that I have such low taste 
 as to enjoy puppets and fools in my leisure 
 moments. Yet imagine yourself standing 
 with me before the little stage. What do 
 you see 1 A man and his wife quarreling. 
 
The Monk's Wedding, gj 
 
 He whips her and she weeps. A neighbor 
 puts his head in at the door, scolds the man, 
 rebukes him, in short, interferes. But lo! 
 the brave wife raises up against the intruder 
 and takes the part of her husband. " What 
 if it is my pleasure to be whipped," she sobs. 
 
 Even so, my Dante, a noble-spirited man 
 if ill-treated by his father-land still says 
 *' What if it is my pleasure to be whipped 1 " 
 
 Many young keen eyes were directed upon 
 the Florentine. He remained silent, with 
 bowed head. What was passing in his 
 mind no one knew, but wdien he raised his 
 face again his brow was sadder, his mouth 
 sterner and more severe. He listened. The 
 wind howled round the turrets of the castle 
 and blew open a loosely-fastened shutter in 
 the apartment where the party were sitting. 
 Monte Baldo had sent its first cold blast. 
 They saw the flakes whirling about in the 
 air lighted up by the fire on the hearth. The 
 poet gazed at the snow-storm, and his days, 
 which he felt were gliding away, seemed to 
 him like these white flakes, hunted and 
 driven through the air, lighted up only now 
 and then by an unsteady gleam. He shiv- 
 ered with cold.' 
 
g^ The Monk's Wedding, 
 
 And his sympathetic listeners reaHzed, as 
 he did, that no true home, but only the un- 
 certain favor of fickle patrons protected him 
 from the storms of winter which were sweep- 
 ing over fields and highways. All felt, but 
 none more than Cangrande, whose spirit 
 was indeed great and noble, — here sits a 
 homeless wanderer. 
 
 The Prince rose and shaking the fool 
 like a feather from his mantle, went up to 
 the exiled man and took him by the hand, 
 and as he gave him his own place near the 
 fire said, " This seat is yours, by right ! '* 
 Dante did not gainsay it. Cangrande him- 
 self took possession of the empty stool. 
 Here he could comfortably observe the two 
 ladies, between whom the wanderer through 
 the Inferno now sat. The firelight shone 
 upon him, and he continued his story as 
 follows : —T- 
 
 " While the vesper bells in Padua were 
 sounding, there assembled under the stately 
 rafters of the Vicedomini hall all the mem- 
 bers that remained of the twelve noble 
 families. They awaited the coming of the 
 master of the house. Diana stood beside 
 
The Monk's Wedding, P5 
 
 her father and brother. A low murmur of 
 talk went on. The men discussed gravely 
 the political effect of this union of two great 
 city families. The young people joked in 
 an undertone over the idea of a married 
 monk. The older ladies shuddered, in spite 
 of the Pope's letter, at the sacrilege, and 
 only those surrounded by growing daughters 
 were disposed to regard it in a milder light 
 and find excuses on the plea of the ex- 
 traordinary pressure of circumstances, or 
 the tender-heartedness of the monk. The 
 maidens were one and all aglow with expec- 
 tation. 
 
 The presence of Olympia Canossa caused 
 wonder and uneasiness, for she was showily 
 dressed, in regal style, as if prepared 
 to take a prominent part in the approach- 
 ing ceremony, and was now talking with 
 strange eagerness and volubility to her 
 daughter Antiope, who endeavoured, though 
 apparently in vain, to calm her by whispered 
 entreaties and caresses. Madonna Olympia 
 had already been considerably offended on 
 the stairs where, Messer Burcardo being 
 occupied with the reception of two other 
 
g6 ' The Moiik's Wedding. 
 
 noble families, they had been greeted by 
 Gocciola, holding most respectfully his new 
 scarlet cap with the silver bells in his hands. 
 She frightened or annoyed the other guests 
 by her extravagant gesticulations. The poor 
 creature was pointed at by everybody. No 
 one else in the monk's place would ever have 
 thought of inviting her, and they all felt sure 
 she would play them one of her mad pranks. 
 Messer Burcardo announced his lord. In 
 the afternoon Astorre having freed himself as 
 soon as possible, from Germano, had re- 
 turned to the bridge, where of course, neither 
 the ring nor the ladies were to be found. 
 He overvv'helmed himself with reproaches, al- 
 though in truth, chance only was to blame, and 
 in the hours whicTT remained to him before ves- 
 pers, he framed the resolve to behave more 
 circumspectly in future. Filled with this de- 
 termination he now entered the hall and stept 
 into the midst of the assembly. The con-, 
 sciousness of being the object of general atten- 
 tion and the constraint and demands of society 
 which he felt, so to speak, in the air, suggested 
 to him that the bare truth, strong and hateful 
 as it was, could not be spoken, but that he 
 
The Mo7ik's Wedding. gy 
 
 must give it a milder and more pleasing as- 
 pect. He instinctively struck the mean be- 
 tween truth and conventionality and spoke 
 as follows : — 
 
 " Noble friends and fellow kinsmen : death 
 has reaped a rich harvest among us Vicedom- 
 ini. As I stand before you clothed in black 
 I wear mourning for my father, three brothers 
 and three nephews. Set free by the church, 
 after mature deliberation and conscientious 
 weighing of the matter before God (here his 
 voice grew husky), I felt that I could not 
 disregard or leave unfulfilled the wish of a 
 dying father to perpetuate, his race. You 
 will judge this act of mine according to the 
 justice and clemency inherent in you and 
 either approve or condemn me. But in one 
 point you wdll all agree, that, considering my 
 past life it would have ill become me to hes- 
 itate and choose, and that only such a union 
 could be pleasing in the sight of God as 
 offered itself most naturally. 
 
 With whom could it seem more natural to 
 form a lasting bond, than with this young 
 widow to whom I am already united by my 
 inconsolable grief for the loss of my dear 
 
g8 The Monk's Wedding, 
 
 brother? Therefore I took this hand over 
 the deathbed of my dear father, as I take it 
 now," — he stepped up to Diana, led her into 
 the centre of the room, — " and I put on her 
 finger the betrothal ring." ^ ^^j ^<kJn,.^ 
 
 It was done. The ring fitted. Diana like- 
 wise put a ring on the monk's finger. " It 
 belonged to my mother," she said, " who was 
 a true and virtuous wife. I give thee a ring 
 which has kept troth." A ceremonious 
 murmur of congratulation, from all present, 
 closed the solemn act, and the aged Pizzi- 
 guerra, a hale, white-haired old man, for ava- 
 rice does not shorten one's existence, wept the 
 usual tear. 
 
 Madonna Olympia saw her dream castle 
 burst into flames and burn with crackling 
 timbers and falling pillars. She took one 
 step forward as if to convince herself that her 
 eyes were not deceiving her, then another, 
 becoming ever wilder, and now she stood 
 directly before Astorre and Diana, her gray 
 hair bristling, while mad words, like the cries 
 of an infuriated mob, poured from her lips. 
 
 " Wretch ! " she shrieked, " against the ring 
 on the finger of this lady protests another, 
 
The Monk's Wedding, gg 
 
 and the one which was first given." She 
 grasped Antiope, who had followed her with 
 increasing anxiety, drew her forward and 
 raised the young girl's hand as she said, 
 " This ring you put on the finger of my child 
 near the shop of the Florentine upon the 
 bridge not an hour ago : " for thus had she 
 shaped the facts in her disordered brain. 
 *' Infamous man ! Treacherous monk ! why 
 does not the earth open and swallow you ? 
 We will hang the porter of your cloister, who 
 snored over his pipe, and let you escape from 
 your cell. If you would follow your guilty 
 passions you might choose another prey than 
 an unjustly persecuted, lonely widow, and an 
 unprotected orphan. 
 
 The marble floor did not open, and the 
 poor unhappy woman, who thought she was 
 expressing her just indignation very mildly, 
 read in the eyes of the guests surrounding her 
 outright scorn, or pity of a wholly different 
 kind from that which she had expected. She 
 heard behind her whispered clearly the word 
 *' fool," and her rage burst out in crazy laugh, 
 ter. " Who is the fool here ? " she asked 
 with a scornful sneer ; " who, but a fool, 
 
100 The Monk's Wedding. 
 
 could choose so stupidly between these two ? 
 I make you judges, you Signors and all who 
 have eyes. Here is a charming little head 
 and the fresh beauty of youth " ; — the rest I 
 have forgotten — only this hint I remember 
 distinctly, that among the young men, more 
 than one might have been a rake. All 
 the youths — those who were virtuous and 
 those who were not — closed their eyes and 
 ears to the excited behaviour of a mother who 
 was trampling under foot the modesty and 
 reputation of the child that she had borne. 
 
 Everybody in the hall pitied Antiope, ex- 
 cept Diana who, though far from doubting 
 the monk's truth, felt a species of resentment 
 toward the beauty, so boldly paraded before 
 her bridegroom. 
 
 Antiope may have done wrong in keeping 
 the ring on her finger, perhaps she did it in 
 order not to irritate farther her already 
 distracted mother, and hoping the poor 
 woman when undeceived by the reality, 
 would, as usual, come down from her high 
 horse, and after a few resentful glances and 
 murmured words, resign herself to the inevi- 
 table; or perhaps the young Antiope had 
 
The Monk's Weddinor, joi 
 
 ^> 
 
 herself dipped a finger in the bubbhng fairy 
 spring. Was not the meeting on the bridge 
 strange indeed, and if she should be proved 
 to have been the monk's choice, would it be 
 more remarkable than the fate which had 
 torn him from the cloister? 
 
 But if this was the case she now suffered 
 a most cruel punishment. Her own mother 
 had soiled her fair fame by unlicensed speech. 
 
 A deep blush, and a still deeper, covered 
 her face and neck, then, in the general 
 silence she began to weep loud and bitterly. 
 
 At this even the gray-haired Atenad 
 stopped and listened. Then a frightful 
 pain seemed to convulse her face and her 
 rage increased. " And this other " she 
 shrieked, pointing to Diana, " this broad 
 piece of marble, scarcely hewed out of the 
 rough, this ill-made giantess, which the 
 Almighty Father formed when he was still 
 an apprentice just learning to knead the 
 dough, fie ! fie ! on this bungled clumsy body 
 without life and soul, for who could have 
 given her a soul.^^ her bastard mother, the 
 stupid Ossola } or that niggardly miser there } 
 Only with reluctance has he given her the 
 barest apology for one." 
 
102 The Monk's Wedding, 
 
 The old Pizziguerra stood perfectly un- 
 moved ; with the clear understanding of a 
 miser he did not forget whom he had before 
 him. But his daughter Diana forgot it. 
 Beside herself, at the rude insult offered her, 
 she frowned terribly, and clenched her hands, 
 but, when the crazy woman attacked her 
 parents, insulted her mother in the grave, 
 and held up her father to general contempt, 
 she lost all trace of self-control. 
 
 " Hound ! " she exclaimed, and struck An- 
 tiope in the face, for the loving and coura- 
 2:eous srirl had thrown herself before her 
 mother; Antiope uttered a cry which rang 
 through the hall and thrilled to the heart 
 every one present. 
 
 The w^heel in the head of the poor crazy 
 woman turned completely round. Her wild 
 fury changed into piteous wailing. " They 
 have beaten my child " she groaned, sank 
 upon her knees and sobbed, " is there no 
 longer any God in Heaven } " 
 
 With this the measure was full. It 
 
 ^ 'would have run over earlier, but that Fate 
 
 rushed on quicker than my tongue could 
 
 relate it, so quick indeed that neither the 
 
The Monk's Wedding. loj 
 
 monk, nor Germano standing close beside 
 her saw Diana's uplifted arm in time to 
 seize and restrain it. Ascanio grasped the 
 mad woman round the waist, one of his 
 friends took her by the feet and, scarcely- 
 resisting, she was carried out of the hall, put 
 into her chair, and taken home. 
 
 Diana and Antiope remained standing 
 face to face, one whiter than the other; 
 Diana, contrite and repentant after her 
 sudden fit of passion ; Antiope struggling 
 for words, — her lips moved, but no sound 
 escaped them. 
 
 If the -monk now seized Antiope's hand to 
 give his escort to her, who had been so mal- 
 treated by his betrothed wife, he only fulfilled 
 his chivalrous and hospitable duty. Every- 
 body understood this. Diana, too, must 
 surely desire to have the victim of her violence 
 withdrawn from her sight. After a little 
 while she departed with her father and brother, 
 and the assembled guests likewise left as 
 quickly as possible. 
 
 There came a sound from under the table 
 loaded with Cyprian wine and Amarella. A 
 fool's cap appeared and Gocciola crept on all 
 
104 ^^^^ Monk's Weddmg, 
 
 fours out of his agreeable hiding-place. In 
 his view the course things had taken was 
 only too delightful, since now he had full 
 freedom to gorge himself with Amarella, and 
 to empty one glass after another. Thus he 
 revelled for a time until he heard steps ap- 
 proaching. His first impulse was to fly, but 
 casting an angry look on the intruder he 
 deemed flight unnecessary. It was the 
 monk returning to his princely home joyous, 
 exultant, and quite as intoxicated as himself, 
 for the monk — " '' 
 
 " Loved Antiope," interrupted the Prince's 
 fair friend with a forced laugh. 
 
 " You have said it, lady," responded the 
 narrator in a tragic tone, *' he loved Antiope." 
 
 " Naturally." " How else .^ " " It must be 
 so ! " " 'Tis the usual way ! " resounded from 
 all sides. 
 
 "Softly, young people," murmured Dante. 
 *' No, 'tis not the usual way. Do you think 
 then that a love which implies the surrender 
 of life and soul is an everyday affair } And 
 do you really imagine that you have or are 
 t/ loving in this way t Undeceive yourselves. 
 Everyone talks of spirits but few have seen 
 
The Monis s Wedding. loß 
 
 them. I will give you an indisputable proof 
 of this. There is lying about in the house 
 here a much-read storybook. Skimming 
 through it I discovered amid plenty of rub- 
 bish one true word. " Love," says this book, 
 "is rare, and generally comes to a bad end." 
 Thus much Dante had said in all seriousness, 
 then he went on playfully. " Since you are 
 all so thoroughly versed in love, and especi- 
 ally since it does not fall within my province 
 to instruct the young from my worthless 
 head in such matters, I will pass by the 
 treacherous soliloquy of the monk and say 
 briefly that when the sensible Ascanio over- 
 heard it, he was alarmed and tried to reason 
 with him." 
 
 " Will you mutilate your touching romance 
 in this way, noble Dante .^ " said the excited 
 friend of the Prince, as she turned toward 
 the Florentine with imploring hands. "Pray, 
 let us hear what the monk says, that our 
 sympathy may be with him as we see him 
 turn from a rough to a delicate nature ; from 
 a cold and stormy heart, to one that is warm 
 and full of feeling." 
 
 " Yes, Florentine," interrupted the Prin- 
 
io6 The Monk's Weddings, 
 
 <b 
 
 cess with burning cheeks, "let your monk 
 speak that we may hear with amazement 
 how it was that Astorre, however inexperi- 
 enced, and easily duped, could have been 
 tempted to leave a noble woman for a wily 
 flirt ; for have you not perceived that Anti- 
 ope is a flirt ? You know women little, how- 
 ever. In truth I assure you," she raised her 
 powerful arm and rolled her fist — " that, I 
 too would have struck, not the poor crazy 
 woman, but, deliberatel}^ the cunning flirt, 
 who was determined at any cost to attract to 
 herself the attention of the monk," and she 
 struck the blow in the air. The friend of 
 the Prince trembled. 
 
 Cangrande, who never took his eyes off 
 the two ladies sitting opposite him, admired 
 this display of passion on the part of his 
 Princess. He found her, at that moment, 
 incomparably more beautiful than the deli- 
 cate little rival he had given her ; the high- 
 est and deepest feelings only come to full 
 expression in a strong body and powerful 
 soul. 
 
 Dante, on his side, smiled, for the first 
 and only time during this evening, as he saw 
 
The Monk's Wedding. loj 
 
 the two ladies contending so sharply over 
 the action of his story. He even conde- 
 scended to a touch of raillery. 
 
 " Princesses," said he, " what do you de- 
 mand of me? Soliloquy is irrational: Does 
 a wise man ever talk to himself ? " 
 
 A saucy, curly-haired page now started up 
 from behind a chair and cried: " How little, 
 great Master, are you aware of what you 
 have asserted ! Know, Dante, that nobody 
 talks more earnestly and volubly to himself 
 than you. To such a degree indeed that you 
 not only overlook stupid boys like myself, 
 but, let even beauty pass disregarded." 
 
 " Really," replied Dante, " where was that 
 and when } " " Yesterday upon the bridge," 
 said the boy, smiling. " You were leaning 
 upon its stone railing. The charming Lucre- 
 zia Nani passed by, almost touching your 
 toga. We boys followed, admiring her, and 
 two fiery soldiers hurried on to catch one 
 glance from her soft eyes. She, however, 
 sought yours, for not everyone has wandered 
 at will through the Inferno. But you were 
 watching the waves in the river, and mur- 
 muring something to yourself." 
 
io8 The Monk's Wedding, 
 
 " I was sending a greeting to the far ocean. 
 The waves were more beautiful than the 
 maiden. Let us return to the two fools. 
 And by all the Muses interrupt me no more, 
 else midnioht will find me still in the midst 
 of the story." 
 
 "When the monk after leading Antiope 
 home re-entered his hall — I forgot to say 
 that he had not met Ascanio, although his 
 friend had gone the same way in convey- 
 ing Madonna Olympia to her castle — but as 
 soon as Ascanio had committed the lady into 
 the hands of her servants he had hastened 
 to his uncle, the tyrant, that he might retail 
 to him the whole affair as the last joke. 
 He would ten times rather any day inform 
 Ezzelin of a city scandal than of a conspiracy. 
 I know not whether the monk really was as 
 handsome as Ascanio painted him, but I see 
 him enter his hall radiant with the flush of 
 youth and as if borne onward by the zephyrs 
 with flying feet that skimmed the ground. 
 His eyes are full of sunlight and he murmurs 
 rapturous words. Gocciola who had drunk 
 a great deal of Cyprian wine likewise felt 
 
The Monies Wedding, log 
 
 happy and rejuvenated, under his feet also 
 the marble floor resolved itself into a white 
 cloud. He felt an unconquerable thirst to 
 catch the words as they fell from Astorre 's 
 fresh lips and began to measure the length 
 of the hall beside him, half-striding, half- 
 skipping, the fool's sceptre under his arm. 
 f/ " The loving head, once offered for the 
 father, has again made a sacrifice of itself for 
 the mother," murmured Astorre, " Those deli- 
 cate cheeks, how they tingled under the 
 insult ! the poor abused maiden, how her 
 cries wrung all our hearts ! Has she ever 
 been out of my thoughts since she lay on 
 the block .^ She has dwelt in my soul. 
 She has accompanied me, present everywhere, 
 floating through my prayers, beaming in my 
 cell, her head upon my pillow. The darling 
 head with the slender little white neck, did 
 I not see it even beside that »of St. Paul ! 
 
 " Of St. Paul } " giggled the fool " of the 
 St. Paul in our altar picture, with the rough 
 black hair, and the red neck on the low 
 broad block and the executioner's axe over 
 it } " Gocciola sometimes performed his 
 devotions in the Franciscan church. 
 
no The Monk's Wedding, 
 
 The monk nodded. " When I gazed at it 
 long the axe seemed to quiver and I shud- 
 dered. Have I not confessed this to the 
 prior '^. " 
 
 " And what did the prior say '^. " enquired 
 Gocciola. 
 
 " My son '' said he, " what you saw was a 
 child heralding the triumphant procession of 
 the heavenly hosts. Fear not ; to that ambro- 
 sial neck, no harm can come." 
 
 " But " insinuated the wicked fool, " the 
 child has grown up. So high ! " He raised 
 his hand, then bringing it gradually down 
 nearly to the ground, grinned, " and the 
 cowl of your lordship has dropt so low." 
 
 Vulgarity could not touch the monk. 
 From Antiope's hand he had caught a 
 creative spark which now began to glow in 
 his veins, at first mildly and tenderly, but 
 soon more and more fiercely until it over- 
 mastered him completely and obliterated all 
 considerations. " Praised be the Lord 
 Almighty " he burst out joyfully, " who has 
 created man and woman." 
 
 " Eve ? " asked the fool. 
 
 " Antiope " replied the monk. 
 
The Monk's Wedding. iii 
 
 " And the other one, the tall one, what will 
 you do with her? Will you send her 
 a-begging ? " and Gocciola wiped his eyes. 
 
 "What other?" asked the monk. "Is 
 there any other beside Antiope ? " 
 
 This was too much even for the fool. He 
 stared at the monk with open mouth, but 
 was suddenly seized by a hand on his collar, 
 dragged toward the door and dropped on the 
 pavement. The same hand was then laid on 
 Astorre's shoulder. " Wake up, dreamer ! " 
 cried Ascanio, who had returned and heard 
 the monk's last ecstatic speech. He drew 
 the enthusiast down upon the window-seat, 
 looked him straight in the eyes, and said, 
 " Astorre you are out of your senses." 
 
 The monk at first lowered his eyes before 
 this searching look, as if blinded by it, then 
 for a moment met it with his own, full of 
 rapture and said in a quiet tone, " Do you 
 wonder? " 
 
 " As little as I would at the kindling of a 
 flame," replied Ascanio. " Since however, 
 you are not a blind element but a reason and 
 a will, trample out the flame else it will con- 
 sume you and all Padua. Must a child of 
 
112 The Monk's Wedding, 
 
 the world teach you the Divine and Human 
 law ? You are betrothed. This ring on 
 your finger declares it. If you, having first 
 broken your vow, now break your engage- 
 ment, you war against custom, duty, honor, 
 and the peace of the city* If you do not 
 quickly and heroically draw out of your heart 
 the arrow of the blind god, it will kill you, 
 Antiope, and a few others, who may chance 
 to be in its way. Astorre ! Astorre! " 
 
 Ascanio's merry lips were astonished at 
 the great and earnest words, which, in the 
 anguish of his heart, he gave them to utter. 
 " Thy good name Astorre," he added half 
 jokingly, "brays like a trumpet, calling thee 
 to fight against thyself." 
 
 Astorre mastered himself. " They have 
 given me a philter," he exclaimed. " I rave, 
 I am crazy. Ascanio, I give myself into thy 
 power, — Chain me ! " 
 
 " I will chain you to Diana," said Ascanio, 
 " follow me that we may find her." 
 
 " Was it not Diana who struck Antiope ? " 
 asked the monk. 
 
 " Oh, you have dreamed the whole thing, 
 you were out of your senses. Come, I con- 
 
The Monk's Wedding, irj 
 
 jure you, nay, command you. I take you by 
 force and lead you." 
 
 If Ascanio had wished to chase away the 
 ugly truth, the clinking sound of Germano's 
 heels upon the floor brought it all back. 
 With resolute face Diana's brother came up 
 to the monk and seized his hand saying: 
 " A disturbed feast, brother-in-law. My sister 
 sends me — no, I deceive you — she did not 
 send me for she has locked herself up in her 
 chamber and there she sits bemoaning and 
 cursing her violence ; to-day we are drowned 
 in women's tears. She loves thee, but can- ^ 
 not bring it over her lips to say so, it is in 
 our family, I cannot say such things either. 
 She has never for an instant doubted thee. 
 The explanation is simple — You have by 
 accident lost a ring, or flung it away, if it 
 was yours, which the little Canossa (what is 
 her name), Antiope, had on her finger. The 
 crazy mother found it and spun this yarn 
 about it. Antiope is, of course, as innocent 
 as a new-born babe, of the whole affair, — 
 who says otherwise must answer to me." 
 
 " Not I," cried Astorre. " Antiope is pure 
 as an angel. The ring rolled to her feet by 
 
114 ^^^ Monk's Wedding, 
 
 chance," and he went on with hurried words 
 to explain the matter. 
 
 " But, my sister's action, can you find no 
 excuse forthat, Astorre? " pleaded Germano. 
 " The blood rushed to her head and she did 
 not see whom she had before her. She 
 meant to strike the mad woman who had in- 
 sulted her parents, and hit instead this dear 
 innocent oirl. She must be restored to 
 honor and respect before God and man. 
 Let this be my duty, brother-in-law, — I am 
 her brother — it is simple." 
 
 "You speak with assurance, Germano, but 
 your meaning is not clear. What do you 
 .propose? How will you make amends to 
 the poor girl 1 " asked Ascanio. 
 
 " It is simple," repeated Germano. " I will 
 offer Antiope Canossa my hand, and will 
 make her my wife." 
 
 Ascanio put his hand to his brow. The 
 proposal almost stunned him. As he rapidly 
 considered and looked at it more closely, 
 the heroic resource did not seem to him so 
 bad, but he cast an anxious look at the 
 monk. Astorre, master of himself once more 
 maintained absolute silence and listened at- 
 
The Monk's Weddiiig. iiß 
 
 tentively. The soldier's fine sense of honor, 
 with his directness, seemed to echo and re- 
 echo Hke a clear call through the desert of 
 his soul. 
 
 " Thus I can hit two birds with one stone, 
 Brother-in-law," explained Germano. " The 
 maiden is reinstated in her honor and chas- 
 tity. I should like to see who would whisper 
 behind my wife's back, and I make peace be- 
 tween you two married people. Diana no 
 longer needs to feel ashamed and mortified 
 before you, or before herself, and is at the 
 same time thoroughly cured of her violent 
 temper. She is cured of it for life, I assure 
 you." 
 
 Astorre pressed his hand. " You are a 
 brave honest man," he said. The determi- 
 nation to overcome his own earthly, or 
 heavenly passion strengthened in him. Yet 
 this resolve was not free, and this virtue not 
 unselfish, for it was attached to a dangerous 
 sophism, viz : — "as I embrace an unloved 
 woman, Antiope will be embraced by an un- 
 loved man, who marries her off-hand to make 
 reparation for another's fault ; penance and 
 renunciation are everywhere in the world as 
 in the cloister." 
 
Ii6 The Monk's Wedding, 
 
 " What must be done, I propose shall not 
 be delayed," urged Germano, " else she will 
 toss about all night without sleep," (I do not 
 know whether he meant Diana, or Antiope). 
 "Brother-in-law, go with me as witness, we 
 will do it in proper form." 
 
 " No, no," cried Ascanio, frightened, " not 
 Astorre : take me ! " 
 
 Germano shook his head, " Ascanio, my 
 friend, you are not suited for this. You are 
 not a sufficiently grave witness in affairs of 
 marriage. Moreover, my brother, Astorre 
 would not let anybody else woo for me. It 
 is indeed to a great extent his own matter. 
 Is it not Astorre '^. " The monk bowed. " Pre- 
 pare then directly, Brother-in-law. Make your- 
 self fine. Throw a gold chain over your 
 dress." 
 
 " And," said Ascanio, with a forced laugh, 
 "as you pass through the court dip your 
 head in the fountain." 
 
 " But you, Germano, are in such warlike 
 armor ! is it suited for wooing ? " 
 
 " It is long since I have been out of armor, 
 and it becomes me. Why are you looking 
 at me, with such scrutiny, from head to foot, 
 Ascanio ? " 
 
The Monk's Wedding. iiy 
 
 " I am asking myself whence this mailed 
 knight derives his assurance that he will not 
 be pitched into the moat together with his 
 scaling ladder ? " 
 
 " There can be no question in this case," 
 tranquilly opined Germano "will she, insulted 
 and beaten, as she has been, refuse the hand 
 of a knight ? If so, she is a greater fool than 
 her mother — that is clear as the sun, As- 
 canio. Come, Astorre ! " 
 
 Whilst with folded arms the friend thus 
 left behind reflected on the new turn things 
 had taken, questioning whether it led to a 
 play-ground for happy children or to the 
 Campo Santo, his young companions walked 
 across the piazza w^hich divided them from 
 tha. Canossa palace. 
 
 The cloudless day was dying in a sunset 
 of molten gold, and the Ave was ringing. 
 The monk repeated to himself the usual 
 prayer, and the chimes of the cloister, which 
 stood somewhat high, prolonged the familiar 
 sound by a few sad peaceful strokes after the 
 city bells were hushed. The monk was con- 
 scious of sharing in the universal peace. 
 
 Just then his eyes were attracted to the 
 
Ii8 The Monk's Wedding, 
 
 face of his friend and rested on his weather- 
 hardened features. They were lighted up 
 with the joy of duty fulfilled beyond question, 
 but more still by the unconscious, or uncon- 
 sciously manifest happiness at reaching the 
 port of a blessed island under sails filled 
 with the breath of honor and of chivalrous 
 action. " The sweet innocent ! " sighed the 
 soldier ! 
 
 With the speed of lightning the idea shot 
 through Astorre's brain that Diana's brother 
 deceived himself if he thought he was act- 
 insf from disinterested motives. On the 
 contrary Germano loved Antiope, and was 
 his rival. He felt a sharp pang, and then one 
 still sharper, until he could have shrieked, 
 and a whole nest of furious snakes seemed 
 writhing and raging in his bosom. May 
 God protect us all, both men and women, 
 from jealousy ! It is the most insidious of 
 the passions, and who suffers it is more 
 damned than any inhabitant of hell. 
 
 With suffocating heart and a face tortured 
 by dismay the monk followed the self- 
 confident wooer up the steps of the palace 
 they had now reached. It was empty and 
 
The Monk's Weddii. 
 
 
 iig 
 
 deserted. Madonna Olympia had probably 
 locked herself into her own room. There 
 were no attendants and all the doors in the 
 main part of the hall stood open. They 
 walked on unannounced through a long 
 suite of already darkening apartments. 
 Upon the threshold of the last room they 
 stopped, for the young Antiope was sitting at 
 the window. 
 
 Her outline In the trefoil arch was pen- 
 cilled against the brilliant evening sky. 
 Her unbound hair rose like a crown of 
 thorns above her brow while her lano^uishino- 
 half-opened lips seemed to drink in the 
 amber air. The stricken maiden, wearied 
 out by the pressure of shame she had suf- 
 fered, rested with closed eyes and arms hang- 
 ing listlessly, but in the stillness of her heart 
 she rejoiced and welcomed the shameful 
 treatment for had it not united her forever 
 to Astorre ? And is not the highest, purest 
 love kindled to-day, and has it not ever been, 
 by the deepest pity ? Who can withstand 
 the sight of beauty when suffering unjustly t 
 I -mean no blasphemy, but was not the 
 Divine One also beaten, and we kiss his 
 stripes and wounds. 
 
120 The Mojtk's Weddmg, 
 
 Antiope did not ask if Astorre loved her. 
 ^ She knew it. She had no doubts, and in- 
 deed was more assured of this than of the 
 breath she drew, although she had not 
 exchanged a syllable with Astorre from the 
 first step of the way until they reached her 
 house. Their hands were not more firmly 
 clasped at last than from the first. They be- 
 longed together. Their spirits met as easily 
 as two airy flames, and yet, at the moment of 
 parting, seemed harder to separate than roots 
 which by the growth of years had become 
 firmly entwined together. 
 
 Antiope was trespassing on foreign prop- 
 erty, and had robbed Diana, but with a 
 guileless soul, for she had no longer any con 
 science, or even self-consciousness. Padua, 
 that with its towers, lay spread out before 
 her in full sight; her mother, the monk's 
 betrothal, Diana, the entire world, all had 
 vanished ; she saw nothing but the vault of 
 heaven filled with lio-ht and love. 
 
 Astorre struggled with himself from the 
 first to the last step of the staircase, and 
 thought he had gained the victory. " I will 
 complete the sacrifice," he boasted to himself, 
 
The Moii/cs Wedding, 121 
 
 and will stand by Germano during his 
 wooing. On the topmost stair he invoked 
 all the Saints, especially St. Francis the 
 master of self-conquest. He clutched his 
 breast, and believed by heavenly aid, that, 
 strong as Hercules, he had strangled the 
 serpents. But the Saint, with the four 
 stigmas, turned a deaf ear to his faithless 
 disciple, who had forsworn rope and cowl. 
 
 Germano, in the meantime, was sketching 
 out his speech, but could get no farther 
 than the two arguments which dawned upon 
 him at the outset. He was, however, full of 
 splendid courage, had often addressed his 
 Germans, before a cavalry encounter and 
 would not now allow himself to be daunted by 
 a maiden. Only this waiting was unbearable. 
 He clanked his sword. 
 
 Antiope started, looked up, rose quickly and 
 stood with her back toward the window, turn- 
 ing a face full of wonder and sadness upon 
 the two men who were bowing before her. 
 
 " Be comforted Antiope Canossa," said 
 Germano, addressing her. " I bring with 
 me as legal witness this man Astorre Vice- 
 domini, whom they call the monk, the spouse 
 
J 
 
 122 The Monk's Wedding, 
 
 of my sister Diana ; I have come to ask you, 
 as you are without a father, and with such a 
 mother, to give yourself to me as my wife. 
 My sister has forgotten her true self in her 
 treatment of you," — he would not use a 
 stronger term, and thus compromise Diana, 
 whom he revered — "and I, her brother, am 
 here to offer restitution for the wrong my 
 sister has done. Diana with Astorre, you 
 with me ; by this means will you two 
 women be brought together again, and per- 
 suaded to join hands in loving friendship." 
 
 The sensitive spirit of the monk was 
 stung by this rude speech, which placed the 
 aggressor on equal footing with the aggrieved 
 one, or was it a viper writhing in his breast } 
 He whispered to the soldier, " Germano, one 
 does not woo in this way." 
 
 His companion heard it, and at the same 
 time receiving no response from Antiope, 
 lost his temper. He felt that he ought to be 
 more gentle, yet spoke even more brusquely 
 than at first, " without a father and having 
 such a mother," he repeated, "you need a 
 manly protector. You might have learned 
 this to-day, Signorina. You cannot wish to 
 
The Monk's Wedding. 12 j 
 
 be a second time mortified and abused before 
 all Padua. Give yourself to me, as you are, 
 and I will protect you from the crown of 
 your head to the soles of your feet." 
 
 Germano was thinking of his armor. 
 
 Astorre found this proposal revolting. He 
 thought Germano treated Antiope as if she 
 were his battle-prize, or did a snake hiss 
 once more in his breast } " This is not the 
 way to woo, Germano," he gasped. The 
 soldier turned and replied, " If you under- 
 stand it better, woo for me brother-in-law," 
 and he stept aside to give him his place. 
 
 Then Astorre approached and, bending his 
 knee, raised his hands w^ith the palms clasped 
 while with wistful face he gazed at the 
 delicate head on the pale gold background. 
 Does Love find words ? Silence seemed to 
 fill the darkening room. 
 
 Finally Antiope whispered " For whom dost 
 thou woo, Astorre } " " For this man here, 
 for my brother Germano," came from his 
 pale lips. Then she hid her face in her 
 hands. 
 
 Germano lost all patience. " I shall speak 
 plainly with her," he burst out. " In two 
 
 / 
 
12^ The Monk's Wedding, 
 
 words, Antiope Canossa, will you be my wife 
 or not ? " 
 
 Antiope moved her little head gently and 
 softly, but it was in distinct refusal. 
 
 " Well, I have my answer " said Germano, 
 drily, " Come brother-in-law," and he quitted 
 the hall with as firm a step as he had entered 
 it. The monk, however, did not follow him. 
 
 Astorre remained in his supplicating 
 attitude, then, trembling, seized Antiope's 
 quivering hands and drew them away from 
 her face. Which mouth sought the other I 
 know not, for it had become perfectly dark 
 in the room; it was so still also that if their 
 ears had not been filled with sounds of rap- 
 turous joy the lovers might have heard the 
 prayers murmured in an adjoining apartment. 
 Next to Antiope's room, though some steps 
 below it, was the home chapel, and on the 
 morrow the third anniversary of the death of 
 Count Canossa was there to be solemnized. 
 Immediately after the city bells tolled the 
 hour of midnight, masses for his soul were to 
 be read in presence of the widov/ and 
 orphaned child. The priest was already on 
 the spot waiting for his assistants. 
 
The Monk's Wedding. ' 12^ 
 
 As little as the subterranean murmur did 
 they hear the shuffling of Madonna Olympia's 
 slippers, who was seeking her daughter and 
 now by the scant light of the house-lantern, 
 which she bore in her hand, was quietly and 
 earnestly \vatchino^ the lovers. That the 
 boldest lie of an extravagant imagination 
 had become a fact before her eyes, in these 
 tenderly entwined forms, did not astonish 
 Madonna Olympia, nor on the other hand 
 did she feel any revenge toward Diana. 
 She was not revelling in the bitter pangs 
 now in store for the haughty Pizziguerra. 
 Her simple motherly joy at seeing her child 
 justly valued and loved overpowered every 
 other emotion. 
 
 When at last, struck by a sharp beam from 
 her lantern, the two looked up surprised, 
 she asked in a tender natural voice, " Astorre 
 Vicedomini, do you love Antiope Canossa.f'" 
 
 " Beyond all else," w^as his reply. " And 
 will defend her t " " Against a world," he 
 cried boldly. " That is right," she said 
 graciously, " but you mean it honestly, do 
 you not.^ You will not disown her, as you 
 have done Diana .^^ You are not fooling me ! 
 
120 The Monk's Wedding, 
 
 You will not make a poor distracted creature, 
 as they call me, more unhappy ? You will 
 not leave my little girl again to be disgraced ? 
 You will not seek for excuses or delays ? 
 You will give certainty to my eyes and like 
 brave knis^ht and o^ood Christian lead her at 
 once to the altar. Nor have you far to go, 
 for a priest (do you hear that murmur ?) is 
 kneeling at tliis moment in the chapel down 
 there." 
 
 And she opened a low door behind which 
 a few steep stairs led down into the sanctuary. 
 Astorre turned his head ; under the rough 
 vault before a small altar, by the flicker- 
 ing light of candles, a bare-footed monk 
 was praying, who in age and stature re- 
 minded him of himself, and who also wore 
 the rope and cowl of the order of St. Francis. 
 
 I believe that this bare-footed friar must 
 have been sent by Providence to kneel and 
 pray here exactly at this hour in order to 
 warn and frighten Astorre for the last time, 
 but in his burning veins the medicine turned 
 to poison. At sight of this representative of 
 'J his former life a spirit of defiance and a 
 determination to free himself from rules and 
 restrictions took possession of him. 
 
The Monk's Wedding, 12^ 
 
 " At one leap I set myself free from my 
 first vow," he said, derisively, " and saw the 
 barriers fall beneath me, why not do so with 
 the second ? My saints have not sustained 
 me in my hour of trial, perhaps they will save 
 and defend the sinner ; " and the bewildered 
 man, clasping Antiope in his arms, bore 
 rather than led her down the steps. 
 
 Madonna Olympia, who after *a brief inter- 
 val of reason relapsed into madness, had 
 slammed the heavy door behind the monk 
 and her child, as if it were a trap in which 
 to catch her prey, and was now stopping 
 herself to listen at the key-hole. 
 
 What she saw no one knows." It was said 
 later that Astorre, with drawn sword, had 
 threatened and overpowered the Franciscan. 
 This is impossible, for Astorre never girded 
 on a sword in his life. It may be nearer 
 true, sad to say, that the monk was corrupt 
 and that the purse Astorre took with him 
 when he went to buy the wedding-ring for 
 Diana wandered into the pocket of the 
 cowled brother. 
 
 But that at first the priest refused, that 
 the two monks wrestled with one another, and 
 
128 The Monk's Wedding, 
 
 that the ponderous vault hid a direful scene, 
 this I read in the convulsed and terrified face 
 of the listener. Donna Olympia understood 
 that a crime of some sort was being com- 
 mitted and that she, as the inciter and 
 accomplice of the same, had exposed herself 
 to the power of the law, and the revenge of 
 the woman who was betrayed. Being al- 
 ready overwrought by the return of the day 
 on which her husband had been beheaded, 
 she imagined that her own crazy head was 
 likewise doomed to the block. She fancied 
 she heard the step of Ezzelin approaching 
 and fled screaming " Help ! Murder ! " 
 
 The distracted woman rushed to the 
 entrance hall where a window looked out 
 upon the narrow inner court. " My mule ! 
 My chair ! " she cried in the same breath, 
 and her servants, laughing at the double 
 command, since the mule was for the 
 country and the chair for the town, came 
 slowly and leisurely out of a corner, where 
 they had been drinking and gambling by the 
 light of one poor lantern. An old groom 
 who alone remained faithful to his unhappy 
 mistress saddled two mules and led them 
 
The Monk's Wedding. 12g 
 
 through the gate up to the vestibule of the 
 palace, which opened upon a little street. 
 He had many a time before accompanied 
 Donna Olympia on some crazy errand. The 
 others followed with the chair, laughing and 
 cracking jokes. 
 
 Hurrying down the steps the madwoman 
 ran against Ascanio, who, uneasy at hearing 
 no further tidings, had come in person to 
 find out what was going on. 
 
 " Has anything happened to Signora.'^ " he 
 asked eagerly. 
 
 " Yes, a misfortune," she croaked hoarsely, 
 like a flying raven, and springing upon her 
 beast spurred it with crazy heels and disap- 
 peared in the darkness. 
 
 Ascanio groped his way through the dark 
 chambers until he reached Antiope's room, 
 which was still lighted by the lamp Madonna 
 Olympia had left standing there. As he 
 looked around, the door of the house-chapel 
 opened, and two happy spirits ascended 
 from the depths. The strong-hearted man 
 beean to tremble. " Astorre, hast thou 
 married her 1 " he asked. The fatal word as 
 it echoed and re-echoed through the lofty 
 
1^0 The MonMs Weddmg. 
 
 vault sounded like the last trump. " And 
 hast Diana's ring on thy finger ? " 
 
 Astorre wrenched it off and flung it 
 away. 
 
 Ascanio flew to the open window through 
 which the ring had vanished. " It has fallen 
 into a crevice between the stones," said some 
 one from the street below. Ascanio recog- 
 nized turbans and helmets. They were the 
 governor's body-guard who had begun their 
 nightly round. 
 
 " One word with you Abu Mahommed," 
 cried he, quickly resolved, to a white-haired 
 old man who politely replied, " Thy wish is 
 my command ! " and with two other Saracens 
 instantly disappeared in the gate-way to the 
 palace. 
 
 Abu Mahommed al Tabib not only 
 watched over the safety of the streets but 
 likewise had entrance into all the houses in 
 order to take under custody traitors to the 
 Empire, or those whom the Governor re- 
 garded as such. Emperor Frederic had sent 
 him as a present to his son-in-law the Tyrant, 
 that he mio^ht organize for him a Saracen 
 body-guard, and he had remained as their 
 
The Monk's Wedding, ijr 
 
 chief in Padua. Abu Mahommed had a 
 fine presence and winning manners. He 
 sympathized with the grief of a family from 
 which he was obHged to take one of its 
 members to the prison, or the block, and 
 comforted the afflicted, in his broken Italian, 
 by quoting proverbs from the Arab poets. 
 I suspect that he owed his nickname, " al 
 Tabib " which means " the physician," even 
 if -he may have possessed some chirurgical 
 knowledge, first and foremost to certain 
 ways that reminded one of a kind physician ; 
 encouraging gestures, soothing words, as for 
 example, " it does not hurt," " it is quickly 
 over," with vdiich the disciples of Galen are 
 accustomed to preface painful operations. 
 In short, Abu Mahommed handled his 
 tragical duty with tenderness and, at the time 
 of my story, was far from being a hated person- 
 ality in Padua, despite his severe and bitter 
 office. Later when the tyrant found a pleas- 
 ure in torturing the bodies of men (a thing 
 which you cannot believe, Cangrande), Abu 
 Mahommed left him and returned to his 
 kind-hearted Emperor. 
 
 Upon the threshold of the chamber Abu 
 
1^2 The Monk's Wedding, 
 
 Mahommed motioned to his three attendants 
 to stop. The German who bore the torch, a 
 defiant-looking fellow, did not wait long 
 however. To-day, at the vesper hour he had 
 accompanied Germano to the palace of the 
 Vicedomini and the latter had said to him> 
 laughingly, " Leave me now, I am going to 
 espouse my dear sister Diana to the monk." 
 The German knew his commander's sister 
 and had a sort of quiet admiration for her 
 with her stately figure, and honest eyes. 
 When now he saw the monk, by whose side 
 he rode at mid-day, hand in hand with a 
 delicate little woman, who compared with the 
 magnificent stature of Diana, seemed like a 
 doll, he suspected breach of faith, flung his 
 burning torch angrily upon the stone floor, 
 from which one of the Saracens carefully 
 picked it up, and hurried off to acquaint 
 Germano with the monk's treason. 
 
 Ascanio, divining the German's intention, 
 begged Abu Mahommed to call him back, 
 but he refused. " He would not obey," he 
 said meekly, " and he is quite capable of 
 slaughtering two or three of my attendants. 
 In what other way can I serve you, Signor 1 
 
The Monk^s Wedding, ijj 
 
 Shall I imprison these blushing young 
 people ? " 
 
 "Astorre, they will separate us," shrieked 
 Antiope, and sought refuge in the arms of 
 the monk. The crime at the altar, although 
 committed with a guileless soul, had robbed 
 her of her natural courage. The monk on 
 the other hand, emboldened and inspired by 
 his guilty act, took one step toward the 
 Saracen, and snatched his sword from its 
 sheath. " Carefully, boy, you might cut 
 yourself ! " said Abu Mahommed good- 
 naturedly. 
 
 " Let me tell you Abu," explained Ascanio, 
 " this frantic man is my friend, and was for 
 many years the monk Astorre, whom you 
 surely must have seen in the streets of 
 Padua. His own father cheated him out of 
 his cloister vows and betrothed him to a 
 woman he did not love. A few hours ago 
 he exchanged rings with her, and now, as 
 you see him here, he is the husband of 
 another." 
 
 " Fate," interposed the Saracen gently. 
 
 " And the betrayed one " continued As- 
 canio, " is Diana Pizziguerra, Germano's 
 
k 
 
 jj^ The Monk's Wedduig. 
 
 sister. You know Germano ; he is trustful 
 and confiding by nature, but when he finds 
 that he has been deceived, the blood rushes 
 to his eyes and he kills." 
 
 " Naturally," assented Abu Mahommed, 
 " He is on his mother's side a German, and 
 they are children of the truth." 
 
 " Advise me, Saracen ! I know of but 
 one recourse, perhaps a means of salvation, 
 which is to bring the case before the Gover- 
 nor. Ezzelin shall judge. Meanwhile, let 
 your people keep guard over the monk in 
 his own strong castle. I hasten to my uncle. 
 But you, Abu Mahommed, take this lady to 
 the Countess Cunizza, sister of the governor, 
 the pious and much-beloved Domina, who 
 for several weeks has had her court here. 
 Take the pretty sinner, I trust her to your 
 gray hair! " 
 
 ''You may," said Mahommed, as if to 
 reassure him. 
 
 At this Antiope clung to the monk, 
 crying even more piteously than at first. 
 " They will separate me from you. Do not 
 leave me Astorre, not for an hour, not for a 
 moment, or I shall die ! " The monk lifted 
 his sword. 
 
The Monk's Wedding. ijß 
 
 Ascanio, who abhorred all violence, turned 
 appealingly to the Saracen. With fatherly 
 eyes the old man gazed at the lovers. " Oh 
 let the poor shades cling together," he said 
 in a soft tone, " do not begrudge the poor 
 loving butterflies this one hour," — either he' 
 was a philosopher and held life as an empty 
 show, or he suspected that they would indeed 
 be shades on the morrow through the con- 
 demnation of Ezzelin. 
 
 Ascanio, who never doubted the substan- 
 tial reality of things, was fully alive to the 
 second meaning, and, kind and tender hearted 
 fellow as he was, hesitated to tear the lov- 
 ing ones asunder. 
 
 " Astorre," he asked, " do you kno\v me } " 
 
 "You were my friend," answered the 
 monk. 
 
 " And am so still, you have no truer." 
 
 " Oh, do not separate me from her," said 
 the monk, in such an imploring tone that 
 Ascanio could not withstand it. 
 
 " Well, then, remain together until you 
 must appear before your judge." He then 
 whispered something to Abu Mahommed. 
 
 .The Saracen approached the monk and 
 
u 
 
 Ij6 The Mo7tk*s Wedding, 
 
 gently took the sword away from him, 
 loosening his grasp finger by finger, and 
 dropped it back into its scabbard. Then he 
 stepped to the window and beckoned to his 
 troop. The Saracens immediately took pos- 
 session of Madonna Olympia's chair wdiich 
 had been left in the vestibule and brought it 
 to the door for Antiope. 
 
 Through a dark narrow court the hurried 
 procession now moved onward. Antiope 
 first, borne by four Saracens, at her side the 
 monk and Ascanio, then the whole' tu-^aned 
 band, Abu Mahommed bringing up the rear. 
 
 They pursued their way across a small 
 square, and passed a dimly-lighted church 
 and as they were entering a dark lane on 
 the other side of it, ran violently against a 
 procession followed by an enormous crowd 
 of people. A tumult arose. " Room for 
 the Sposina," the people cried. Choir-boys 
 brought out of the church long candles, 
 whose flickering flames they protected with 
 their hands. The dim yellow light revealed 
 a litter and a bier. The Sposina was a 
 young plebeian bride who had died suddenly ; 
 they were bearing her corpse to the grave. 
 
The Monk's Wedding, ijy 
 
 Antiope sprang from her chair, and the 
 assembled people recognized the monk, who 
 threw his arms protectingly around her, 
 while they knew he had been betrothed this 
 very day to Diana Pizziguerra. Abu Ma- 
 hommed, however, commanded order, and it 
 was soon restored, so that without further 
 adventure they reached the palace. 
 
 Astorre and Antiope were received by the 
 servants with looks of astonishment. They 
 quickly entered the door-way and vanished 
 without bidding farewell even to Abu Ma- 
 hommed and Ascanio. The latter wrapt 
 himself in his cloak, and accompanied the 
 Saracen a few steps further, as he made his 
 nightly round of the castle where he was on 
 guard, counting its gates, and measuring 
 with his eyes the height of the walls. 
 
 " An eventful day," said Ascanio. " A 
 blessed night," answered the Saracen looking 
 at the star-sown heavens. 
 
 The eternal lights, whether ruling human 
 fate or not, moved on according to their own 
 silent laws, until Aurora with flaming torch 
 kindled a new day, the last Astorre and 
 Antiope were ever to see. 
 
Ij8 The Monk's Wedding. 
 
 In the early morning hour, the tyrant and 
 his nephew looked down through a little 
 round window in his tower upon the square 
 beneath. It was filled with an excited mul- 
 titude, and the busy hum of voices rose like 
 the surge of ocean-billows. 
 
 The news of the encounter of Antiope's 
 chair with the bier yesterday evening, and 
 the excitement it caused had flown through 
 the city with the speed of lightning. All 
 heads, waking or dreaming, were occupied 
 with nothing but the monk and his wedding ; 
 — not only had he sacreligiously broken his 
 vows to heaven, but now his earthly ones as 
 well ; he had betrayed his bride, flung his ring 
 away, and with rashly-kindled passion wooed 
 another, a fifteen year old maiden, just 
 budding into life. The tyrant, who would 
 countenance no illegal proceedings, ordered 
 the house, in which the two sinners were 
 concealed, to be guarded by his Saracens ; he 
 meant to-day to bring to judgment the mis- 
 deeds of the two aristocrats ; — for the young 
 Antiope was a Canossa ; — to restore the 
 chaste Diana to her rightful position, and, 
 lest the virtue of his people should suffer 
 
The Monk's Wedding. ijg 
 
 through the bad example of their nobles, to 
 throw the bloody heads of the misdoers out 
 of the window. 
 
 The tyrant, while he fixed his eyes on the 
 seething crowd below, listened to Ascanio's 
 account of what happened yesterday. The 
 love of the two young people did not move 
 him at all, but the incident of the ring 
 struck him as a new manifestation of Fate« 
 " I blame you for not having torn them apart 
 at once. I approve your having put them 
 under arrest. The betrothal with Diana is 
 legal. The Sacrament, forced by the sword, 
 or bought with the purse, is null and void. 
 The priest who allowed himself to be fright- 
 ened or bribed, deserves the gallows, and if 
 caught will swing. Once more, why did not 
 you step between the untutored boy and the 
 child ? Why did you not wrench an ecstatic 
 fool out of the arms of a poor bewildered 
 maiden ? You gave her to him ! Now they 
 are man and wife." 
 
 Ascanio, who, after a good night's sleep 
 had regained his light-heartedness, concealed 
 a smile. " Ha, Epicurean ! " said Ezzelin 
 reproachfully. But in a coaxing tone As- 
 
1^0 The Monk's Wedding. 
 
 canio answered, " It is done, my illustrious 
 uncle, and now if you will only take the case 
 into your powerful hands everything will be 
 righted. I have summoned both parties. 
 If you have the will, Ezzelin, by your firm 
 judicious hand this knot is easily untied. 
 Love is a spendthrift ; and avarice knows not 
 honor. The enamoured monk will gladly 
 fling to the base miser, old Pizziguerra, what- 
 ever sum of money he desires. Germano 
 will draw his sword ; no doubt, you must bid 
 him thrust it back into its scabbard. He is 
 your man! He will gnash his teeth but he 
 will obey." 
 
 " I ask myself," said Ezzelin, " whether I 
 do right to defend the monk from the 
 sword of Germano. Is Astorre to be allowed 
 to live ? Can he live, having flung aside the 
 sandal of the monk, and trodden the newly- 
 donned shoe of the knight in the mire re- 
 solving the Cantus firmus of the monastery 
 into the yell of a vulgar street-song? I 
 may do my best to lengthen out the exist- 
 ence of this vacillating, worthless man, but 
 \/ can I ward off his fate? If Astorre is des- 
 tined to die by the hand of Germano I 
 
The Monk's Wcddmg, i^r 
 
 may command the latter to lower his sword, 
 yet the former will run upon it. I know 
 this ; I have experienced it ; " and he fell to 
 brooding. 
 
 Ascanio turned his face ax'C^ay. He knew 
 a cruel history, 
 
 The tyrant had once besieged and taken 
 a castle wehere the rebels, w^io had held 
 out against him, were all condemned to the 
 sword. One of the soldiers was appointed 
 to execute this command. Among the first 
 to receive the death-stroke knelt a beautiful 
 boy, whose features attracted the tyrant. 
 Ezzelin detected in them a resemblance to 
 his own, and inquired of the youth his name 
 and origin. He proved to be the son of a 
 woman whom Ezzelin had loved and wronged 
 years before. He pardoned the condemned. 
 The boy, excited, urged on by his own curi- 
 osity, and perhaps by the envious taunts of 
 those who had lost their sons or relations by 
 this bloody sentence, did not rest until he 
 had solved the mystery of his preference. 
 He is said to have drawn the dagger 
 against his own mother and thus obliged her 
 to confess the wretched secret. The dis- 
 
1^2 The Monk's Wedding, 
 
 closure of his illegitimacy poisoned his 
 young soul. He conspired anew against the 
 tyrant, fell upon him in the street, and was 
 cut down by the same soldier who had before 
 lifted the sword to kill him, and now hap- 
 pened to be the first to come to Ezzelin's 
 rescue. 
 
 Ezzelin, whilst reflecting on the fate of 
 his son, dropped his head and covered his 
 face with his right hand. Then he raised it 
 slowly and asked, " But what is to become of 
 Diana .^ " 
 
 Ascanio shrugged his shoulders. " Diana 
 was born under an evil star," he said. " She 
 has had to resign two husbands, one to the 
 Brenta, the other to a more lovely woman ; 
 and added to all this her miserly father ! 
 She must retire into a convent, — what else 
 remains for her } " 
 
 At this moment a tumult arose in the 
 square below, — murmurs, threats, curses 
 were heard on all sides ; irritated individuals 
 shouted and yelled, but just as the single 
 voices seemed about to unite in the one 
 hideous cry, " Death to the Monk ! " the 
 fury of the mob changed singularly, and only 
 
The Monk's Wedding, /^j 
 
 a long-drawn note of admiration and amaze- 
 ment, and " Ah ! Ah ! how beautiful she is ! " 
 passed from mouth to mouth. Through the 
 window the tyrant and Ascanio could 
 comfortably watch this scene. Saracens on 
 slender Arab steeds surrounded the monk 
 Astorre, and his young wife, both borne 
 along by mules. The new Vicedomini rode 
 veiled, but when the thousand hands of the 
 people were raised in violence to attack the 
 monk, her husband, she threw her arms pas- 
 sionately around him. The hasty movement 
 tore her veil. It was not alone the charm 1 
 of her face, nor the youthful beauty of her 
 figure, which had disarmed the crowd ; but 
 the full play of her spirit, the unreserved 
 feeling, the living inspiration, which trans- 
 ported every one, as it had the monk the 
 day before, who now moved on like a triumph- 
 ant victor with his spoils, fearing nothing, and 
 with the air of one who bore a charmed life._^ 
 
 Ezzelin observed this conquest of beauty 
 almost with contempt, but turned with 
 interest toward a second procession which 
 was entering the square from the other side. 
 Three nobles, accompanied like Astorre, by 
 
144 '^^^ Monk's Wedding, 
 
 a large number of people, were making their 
 way through the crowd. Conspicuous among 
 them rose the snow-white head of the old 
 Pizziguerra, on his left Germano. The 
 wrath of the soldier-knight yesterday had 
 been terrible, when his German brought him 
 the news of Astorre's treachery. He w^as 
 rushing forward to take instant revenge 
 when he was met and restrained by the 
 Saracen who brought him the summons to 
 appear at the palace of the governor early on 
 the following morning. He was then obliged 
 to tell his sister of the monk's crime, which 
 he would have preferred to conceal from her 
 until after he had avenged the wrong. She 
 had received the tidings with perfect com- 
 posure, and now rode on her father's right, 
 the same as ever, save that her stately head 
 was bowed one shade lower by the heavy 
 thought it bore. 
 
 The crowd that a minute ago would have 
 proclaimed with a sort of wrathful triumph 
 the coming of the injured one to claim her 
 rights, now, dazzled by the beauty of Antiope, 
 comprehending, but at the same time forgiv- 
 ing the treachery of the monk, contented 
 
The Mo7ik's Wedding. i^f^ 
 
 themselves with sympathetic murmurs, such 
 as — "the poor soul, always unfortunate, 
 always sacrificed ! " 
 
 The five now entered the bare hall where 
 the tyrant was sitting in a chair raised a few 
 steps above the ground. The contending 
 parties respectfully took their places oppo- 
 site each other; here Pizziguerra and a 
 little at one side the grand form of Diana, 
 there the monk and Antiope with hands 
 locked together. Ascanio leaned against 
 the high chair of the tyrant, as if he would 
 take an impartial position between his two 
 old comrades. 
 
 " Signors," began Ezzelin, " I shall not 
 treat your case as a state affair, where breach 
 of faith is treason, and this treason a capital 
 offense, but simply as a family matter. In 
 fact the Pizziguerra, the Vicedomini and the 
 Canossa are of as noble blood as myself, only 
 the favor of his august majesty has made me 
 governor over these your lands." Ezzelin 
 bowed his. head in recognition of the higher 
 power; he could not uncover it, for he was 
 accustomed to go bare-headed through all 
 kinds of wind and weather, except when 
 
1^6 The Monk's Wedding, 
 
 forced to don the warrior's helmet. " Thus 
 we twelve noble families form a great house- 
 hold to which I belong in virtue of one of 
 my maternal ancestors. But we are sadly 
 reduced in numbers through the blind folly 
 and wicked mutiny of some members against 
 the highest worldly authority. If you sym- 
 pathize with me we shall spare and preserve 
 the few still belonging to us. On this 
 ground I restrain the revenge of the Pizzi- 
 guerra against Astorre Vicedomini, although 
 I call it in its innermost nature a just one. 
 If you " and he turned to the three Pizzi- 
 guerra, " do not approve of my leniency, 
 consider this one thing. I, Ezzelin da 
 Romano, am the first and therefore the chief 
 cause of all this misfortune. Had I not on 
 a certain day, and at a certain hour, ridden 
 along the banks of the Brenta, Diana would 
 now be properly married, and this man still 
 murmuring his breviary. Had I not ordered 
 my Germans to muster on a certain day and 
 at a certain hour Germano would not have 
 given the monk such an untimely ride, and 
 the ring on the hand of this lady beside him, 
 rolled to her by his evil demon" — ("by my 
 
The Monk^s Wedding. i^j 
 
 good genius " joyfully interposed the monk) 
 would have been drawn off her finster as^ain 
 Therefore Signors, help me to unravel and 
 smooth out this intricate matter, for, if you in- 
 sist on stern justice I must first and foremost 
 condemn myself. 
 
 This extraordinary speech did not put the 
 old Pizziguerra out of countenance and when 
 the tyrant turning to him said, " My noble 
 lord you are the complainant,'" he replied 
 briefly, " Eccellenza, Astorre Vicedomini be- 
 trothed himself publicly and in the regular 
 form to my child Diana, and then without 
 Diana's having offended him in an)' way, 
 broke his engagement. This inexcusable? 
 illegal, sacriligious deed, weighs heavily, and 
 demands, if not blood, which your Grace 
 does not wish to shed, a heavy penalt}^" and 
 he made the gestures of a shopkeeper piling 
 weight upon weight into his scales. 
 
 " Without Diana's having offended him ? " 
 repeated the tyrant. "It seems to me she 
 did offend. Had she not an insane woman 
 before her? Yet Diana reviled and struck. 
 Diana gives way to violent passion when 
 she thinks her rights infringed." 
 
1^8 The Monk's Wedding, 
 
 Diana nodded and said, " You speak the 
 truth, EzzeHn ! " 
 
 " And this it was," continued the tyrant, 
 " which turned Astorre's heart away from her, 
 he saw in her a barbarian." 
 
 " No, my Prince," contradicted the monk, 
 insulting the betrayed one afresh, " I never 
 looked at Diana, I only saw the sweet face 
 which received the blow, and my whole soul 
 was moved to pity and love." 
 
 The tyrant shrugged his shoulders. " You 
 see, Pizziguerra," he smiled, " the monk is 
 like a maiden who for the first time has 
 tasted strong wine and behaves accordingly. 
 But we are old sober people ; we must con- 
 trive some settlement of this affair." 
 
 Pizziguerra answered, " Much, Ezzelin, 
 would I do to please you, because of your 
 great service,to Padua. Yet can the insulted 
 honor of our house be propitiated otherwise 
 than with the sword 'I " Thus speaking 
 Diana's father made a stately flourish with 
 his arm which somehow ended in a move- 
 ment very like that of a man who holds out 
 his hand to be filled. 
 
 " Astorre, make an offer ! " said the gov- 
 
The Monk's Weddmg. i^g 
 
 ernor with the double meaning, " either of 
 your hand, or your money and lands." 
 
 " My Prince," and the monk now turned 
 frankly and nobly to the tyrant, " if you call 
 me unstable, or bereft of my senses, I cannot 
 blame you, for a powerful God whom I denied, 
 because I did not suspect his existence, has 
 taken his revenge and completely over- 
 powered me. Even now he drives me like a 
 storm-wind whirling my mantle over my 
 head. Must my happiness — oh, beggarly 
 word ! — must the highest boon of my life be 
 paid for with my life ? I accept it and find 
 the price all too low. But if I may live, and 
 live with her, I will not haggle," and he 
 added with a blissful smile, " take my entire 
 fortune, Pizziguerra ? " 
 
 " My friend," pursued the tyrant, " I will 
 assume the guardianship of this spendthrift- 
 lover. Let me negotiate with you, Pizzi- 
 guerra. You hear that he has given me full 
 power to do so. What do you say to the 
 mines of the Vicedomini ? " 
 
 The old man preserved a decent silence, 
 but his eyes which were near together glis- 
 tened like two diamonds. 
 
1^0 The Monk's Wedding, 
 
 *' Take my pearl fisheries also," cried 
 Astorre, but Ascanio came gliding down the 
 steps and closed his mouth with his hand. 
 
 " Noble Pizziguerra, take the mines," said 
 Ezzelin persuasively, " I know the honor of 
 your house is beyond everything and is not 
 to be bought at any price, but I know like- 
 wise that you are a good Paduan and will 
 stretch a point for the peace of your city." 
 
 The old man remained obstinately silent. 
 
 " Take the mine he offers, and let him 
 keep his own mine of joy ! " urged Ezzelin, 
 who enjoyed a play upon words. 
 
 " The mines and the fisheries ? " asked the 
 old man as if hearing with difficulty. 
 
 " The mines, I said, and nothing else. 
 They yield many thousand pounds annually. 
 If you should demand more, Pizziguerra, I 
 should feel myself deceived in you and you 
 would certainly expose yourself to the hate- 
 ful suspicion of chaffering over your honor." 
 
 The old miser was afraid of the tyrant, and 
 since he dared not demand any more, gulped 
 down his vexation and extended to the monk 
 his withered hand. *' We must have it in 
 writing," he said, " since life is uncertain." 
 
The Monk's Weddijig, i^i 
 
 He drew from his girdle-pocket a small 
 account book and pencil, scratched with 
 trembling fingers a rough draft of the title 
 deed and gave it to the monk to sign. This 
 done, he bowed before the governor and 
 because of his feeble health begged to be 
 excused, although one of the twelve, from 
 attending the monk's marriage-feast. 
 
 Germano had stood beside his father 
 burning with rage. Now he unfastened one 
 of his iron gloves and would have flung it 
 into the monk's face had not a commanding 
 gesture of the tyrant's bidden him halt. 
 
 " Son, will you break the public peace ? " 
 interposed the old Pizziguerra. " My word 
 given, includes and guarantees yours. Obey 
 or be cursed. I will disinherit you ! " he 
 threatened. 
 
 Germano laughed. " Attend to your own 
 dirty bargains, father," he replied contemptu- 
 ously. "Yet surely you, Ezzelin, Lord of 
 Padua, will not hinder me. It is my manly 
 right and a private affair. If I refuse obedi- 
 ence to the Emperor, and to thee, his gover- 
 nor, have me beheaded : but with your sense 
 of justice you will not hinder me from 
 
Tj2 The Monk's Weddmg, 
 
 throttling this monk who has fooled and 
 deceived me and my sister. If falsehood is 
 to go unpunished who would wish to live ? 
 This earth is a place too small for the monk 
 and me to inhabit together. He will under- 
 stand this himself when he comes to his 
 senses." 
 
 " Germano, ' said Ezzelin, " I am thy 
 commander-in-chief. Tomorrow the trumpet 
 may sum.mon us to the battle-field. Thou 
 belongest not alone to thyself or to thy 
 family, but to the Empire." 
 
 ST' Germano made no answer. He re-fastened 
 his glove. Then he exclaimed, " In old 
 times, among the blind heathen, there was 
 a god who avenged breaches of faith. I 
 don't think this has changed with the ring, 
 ing of church bells. To Him I commit my 
 cause ! and he ended by lifting his hands 
 
 j fervently to heaven. 
 
 " Then it is in good hands," and Ezzelin 
 smiled. "This evening the wedding is to be 
 celebrated with masks in the Vicedomini 
 palace, according to custom. I give the 
 feast and invite you Germano and Diana. 
 Not in armor, Germano, with short sword ! " 
 
The Mo7ik^s Wedding, ißj 
 
 *' Cruel," groaned the soldier. "Come, 
 father, how can you longer make a spectacle 
 of our disgrace ?" And he dragged the old 
 man away with him. 
 
 " And you Diana ? " asked Ezzelin, as he 
 saw that she alone and the newly-married 
 pair were still before his judgement seat. 
 " Do you not accompany your father and 
 brother ? " " If you will permit me," said 
 she, " I have a word to say to this lady," 
 and overlooking the monk, fastened her eyes 
 upon Antiope. 
 
 Antiope, whose hand had all this time 
 rested in that of the monk, followed the 
 whole proceeding with deep interest, and 
 though a passive spectator evinced a series 
 of lively emotions. Now she blushed with a 
 young wife's first love, then she turned pale 
 with a feeling of guilt as she discovered 
 under Ezzelin's smile and gracious words 
 his real condemnation of them. One mo- 
 ment she exulted like a child escaping 
 punishment, and the next showed a dawning 
 consciousness of her dignity as the wife of 
 the new Vicedomini. But when Diana 
 addressed her she cast a shy inimical look at 
 her powerful rival. 
 
i^^ The Monk's Weddijig, 
 
 Diana, however, was not to be turned 
 aside. "See here Antiope, my finger bears 
 your husband's ring;" she stretched it out, 
 " This you must not forget. I am not super- 
 stitious as most people, but in your place I 
 confess it would disturb my peace of mind. 
 Deeply as you have sinned against me I 
 will nevertheless be good and merciful to 
 you. According to custom this evening your 
 marriao^e is to be celebrated with masks. I 
 shall appear to you. Come repentant and 
 humbly to draw this ring yourself from my 
 finger." 
 
 Antiope uttered a cry of fear and clung 
 to her husband, where protected by his arms 
 she said excitedly, " I am to humble myself, 
 what do you bid me Astorre ? My honor is 
 thine, I am no longer aught but thy prop- 
 erty, thy heart, thy breath of life, thy soul. 
 If thou allow or command it, then — " 
 
 Astorre tenderly soothed his wife, and 
 turning to Diana said, " She will do it. May 
 her humility and mine propitiate thee. Be 
 our guest this evening and remain friendly 
 to my house." He next addressed Ezzelin 
 respectfully thanking him for his judgment 
 
The Monk's Wedding. 755 
 
 and his favor, bowed and led his wife away. 
 But upon the threshold he stopped an instant 
 to inquire of Diana, " In what costume will 
 you appear among us to-night that we may 
 recognize you and show you honor ? " 
 
 She smiled contemptuously and again 
 speaking to Antiope, " I shall come as that 
 which I call myself and which I am. The 
 untouched, the maidenly," she said proudly. 
 Then she repeated, " Antiope remember, 
 come humbly and repentant." 
 
 "You mean it honestly, Diana? You 
 have no covert design ? questioned the 
 tyrant when the Pizziguerra was left alone 
 with him. 
 
 " None," she replied, disdaining further 
 protestation. 
 
 " And what will become of you, Diana 1 " 
 he asked. " Ezzelin," she answered bitterly, 
 "before this thy judgment-seat, my father 
 has bartered away our honor and right to 
 revenge for a few lumps of metal. I am not 
 worthy to have the sun shine on me. The 
 cell alone remains for such as I am ! " And 
 she left the hall. 
 
 " Most excellent uncle," said Ascanio 
 
1^6 The Monk's Wedding, 
 
 joyfully. You have united the happiest pair 
 in Padua, and converted a tragic drama into 
 a charming idyl, with which I shall enter- 
 tain my children and grand-children at our 
 hearth fire when I am a venerable old man." 
 
 " My nephew ! composer of idyls ! " said the 
 tyrant with a dash of raillery as he stepped to 
 the* window to look down upon the square 
 where the crowd still lingered in feverish 
 curiosity. Ezzelin had given directions to 
 have those leaving the palace before him let 
 out by the back door. 
 
 •' Paduans," he said in a powerful tone, 
 (the multitude were silent as the desert) I 
 have examined the matter. It was intricate 
 and there was fault on both sides. I have 
 pardoned it, for I am always inclined to 
 mercy when the majesty of the Empire is 
 not concerned. This evening the wedding 
 of Astorre Vicedomini and Antiope Canossa 
 will be celebrated, with masks. I, Ezzelin, 
 give the feast and invite you all. May you 
 enjoy it. I am the host. To you belong 
 street and tavern. But let no one enter, or 
 in any wise endanger the palace of the 
 Vicedomini, else by my hand — and now 
 
The Mo7ik's Wedding. ißy 
 
 return each of you quietly to his home if you 
 love me." 
 
 An indistinct murmur arose, it rippled 
 and ran. " How they love you ! " joked 
 Ascanio. 
 
 Dante paused for breath, then with rapid 
 sentences concluded his story. 
 
 The trial being over at mid-day the tyrant 
 rode forth to visit a remote castle which was 
 in process of rebuilding. He desired and 
 intended to return to Padua early in the 
 evening that he might see Antiope humili- 
 ate herself before Diana. 
 
 Contrary to all will and foresight, however, 
 he was detained. A Saracen came galloping 
 after him into the court-yard of the castle, 
 breathless and covered with dust, to deliver 
 a letter by the Emperor's own hand which 
 required immediate answer. The matter 
 was of importance. A short time before, 
 Ezzelin had fallen upon an Imperial strong- 
 hold at Ferrara, in the night, the com- 
 mander of which, a Sicilian, his keen eye sus- 
 pected of being a traitor. Ezzelin had taken 
 the citadel and put the hypocritical Imperial 
 governor in chains. Now the Hohenstaufen 
 
1^8 The Monk's Wedding, 
 
 demanded the reason for this clever but daring 
 infringement on his authority. With his left 
 hand pressed upon his thinking brow Ezze- 
 lin's right glided swiftly over the parchment 
 as his stylus went on from first to second and 
 from second to third. He discussed radi- 
 cally, with his illustrious father-in-law, the 
 aim and possibilities involved in a campaign 
 at that moment impending, or at least 
 planned. Thus the hours sped away and it 
 was only when he remounted his horse that 
 he knew from the aspect of the heavens — 
 for the stars were all out in fullest brilliancy 
 — that it would be impossible to reach Padua 
 before midnight. Leaving his retinue far 
 behind, like a spirit he flew oyer the nightly 
 plain. But he chose his way and rode 
 cautiously round a small ditch over which 
 the bold horseman on any other day would 
 have thought it play to leap; he would not 
 risk the chance of a fall from the horse 
 which might detain him. Again he spurred 
 on his steed and the racer stretched himself 
 out, but Padua's lights did not yet glimmer 
 through the darkness. 
 
 Before the great city castle of the Vice- 
 
The Monk's Weddmg. i^g 
 
 domini, even as the twilight melted into the 
 dark of evening the intoxicated people had 
 assembled. Scenes of wanton, unbridled 
 mirth alternated with more innocent sport 
 on this not very large piazza. A wild pas- 
 sionate merriment, a species of bacchanalian 
 hilarity, seemed fermenting in the dense 
 crowed to W'hich the youths from the High 
 School added an element of wit and derision. 
 The tumult was now interrupted by a long- 
 drawn-out Cantilene, or kind of litany, such 
 as our country-people used to sing. It was 
 a procession of peasants, old and young, 
 from one of the numerous villages belonging 
 to the Vicedomini. These poor people, 
 who, in their isolation, had heard nothing of 
 the monk's return to the w^orld, but only 
 through uncertain rumor of the espousals of 
 the heir, had started before sunrise with the 
 customary wedding-gifts and after a long 
 day's travel over the dusty highway had just 
 reached their destination. They held to- 
 gether and wound their way slowly through 
 the seething mass of the people in the square \ 
 here a curly-haired boy with golden honey^ 
 comb, there a shy, proud maiden bearing 
 
i6o The Monk's Wedding, 
 
 tenderly on her arms a bleating lamb, decked 
 out with ribbons. All longed for a sight of 
 their new master. 
 
 Little by little they now disappeared in 
 the arched eii^rance, where to the right and 
 left the torches flaring in the iron rings 
 contended with the last clear light of day. 
 Ascanio, usually so pleasant and friendly, 
 as manager of the feast, issued his commands 
 from the doorway, yelling and screaming in 
 a most excited manner. 
 
 From hour to hour the mischievous dis- 
 position of the people increased, and to such 
 a pitch, that when, at last, the distinguished 
 masqueraders appeared they were pushed 
 and jostled in every direction without the 
 slightest respect for their rank. The torches 
 were snatched from the hands of their atten- 
 dants and trodden out on the stone pavement, 
 the ladies separated from their manly escorts 
 and wantonly insulted, with no fear of a 
 dagger-stroke, such as on any other evening 
 would instantly have requited such audacity. 
 
 Especially one tall figure in the guise of a 
 Diana had to struggle against a dense ring 
 of low ecclesiastics and schoolboys. A lean 
 
The Malik's Weddhio-, i6i 
 
 <=> 
 
 haggard man was parading his mythological 
 knowledge. " Thou art not Diana," he said 
 in a nasal tone, " but quite another person. I 
 recognize thee. Here sits thy little dove ! " 
 and he pointed to the silver crescent over 
 the brow of the goddess. She, however, 
 w^as not gracious like Aphrodite, but harsh 
 like Artemis. 
 
 " Away swine," she said, vexed. " I am a 
 true goddess, and abhor ecclesiastics." " Coo, 
 Coo, Coo," said the man and in trying to 
 touch her, uttered a frightful shriek and fell 
 back, and moaning raised his hand. It was 
 pierced through and through, and streaming 
 with blood. The wrathful maiden had put 
 her hand to the quiver at her back. She 
 had stolen it from her brother and with one 
 of his sharp finely cut arrows now chastised 
 the loathsome hand. 
 
 Already, however, the attention of the mob 
 was diverted by another spectacle quite as 
 shocking, if not so bloody. The lowest and 
 worst portion of the population of the town, 
 pick-pockets, cut-throats, beggars and vaga- 
 bonds of every description were yelling, 
 whistling, dancing, joking and sneering in 
 
102 The Mo7ik's Weddmg, 
 
 front and behind of a most grotesque-looking 
 pair. A large, wild-looking woman, not with- 
 out some remnants of beauty was arm in 
 arm with a drunken monk in a tattered 
 cowl. This was the cloister brother Sera- 
 pion, who, spurred on by Astorre's example 
 had escaped from his cell by night and for a 
 week had been grovelling in the slums of 
 the city. The crowd halted before a lighted 
 corner of the palace and in a shrill voice and 
 with gesticulations of a public crier the 
 woman vociferated, " Know all men by these 
 presents that soon the monk Astorre will 
 slumber beside his wife Antiope." Hoarse 
 extravagant laughter attended this announce- 
 ment. 
 
 Gocciola's cap and bells now appeared at 
 the open turret-window. " Good woman, be 
 still ! " said the fool in a whining voice, " you 
 wound my educated feelings, and insult my 
 sense of shame." 
 
 " Good fool," replied the impudent thing, 
 "don't let this offend you. We give the 
 proper name to what the aristocrats do. 
 We put the labels on the apothecary's boxes." 
 
 " By my seven deadly sins," cried Serapion, 
 
The Monk's Wedding, i6j 
 
 exultingly, " so we do ; until midnight the 
 marriage of my dear brother shall be pro- 
 claimed and sung out in all the squares of 
 Padua. Forward ! March ! Hey-dey ! " and 
 he lifted his naked leg with the sandal, out 
 of the heap of rags, which was all that 
 remained of his soiled monastic dress. 
 
 These beastly pranks, added to the infuri- 
 ated voices mingling in the crowd, beat like 
 a storm upon the outer walls of the gloomy 
 castle whose windows and apartments opened 
 for the most part on the inner court. 
 
 In a quiet, secluded chamber Antiope was 
 being dressed and adorned with flowers by 
 her maids, Sotte and one other, whilst Astorre 
 was receiving, at the top of the stairs, the 
 endless swarm of guests. 
 
 " Sotte," whispered the bride to her serv- 
 ant who was braiding her hair, " you re- 
 semble me, and are just about my size, 
 exchange clothes with me if you love me. 
 Go and draw the ring from her finger re- 
 pentant and humbly." Bow before the 
 Pizziguerra, with arms crossed, like the 
 veriest slave. Fall upon your knees. Throw 
 yourself on the ground. Make a show of 
 
lö/j. The Monk's Wedding, 
 
 the most abject contrition, and pain. Only 
 take from her the ring. I will reward you 
 for this service royally. Take all the jewels 
 I possess," she said imploringly. This temp- 
 tation the vain Sotte could not withstand. 
 
 Astorre, who turned aside a moment from 
 his duty as host to visit his beloved, found 
 the two women exchanging dresses in the 
 chamber. He instantly divined their inten- 
 tion " No, No, Antiope, you must not slip 
 through it in this way," he said. " Our word 
 must be kept. I ask it of your love. I com- 
 mand it ! " and even as he hoped to soften 
 the severe word with a kiss and a caress, he 
 was torn away by Ascanio who hastened to 
 explain that his peasants wished to offer him 
 in person their gifts, and without delay, in 
 order that they might start on their home- 
 ward journey in the cool of the night. When 
 Antiope looked round in order to return her 
 husband's kiss, she kissed the empty air. 
 
 She now hastily completed her toilet. 
 Even the frivolous Sotte was frightened at 
 the pallor of the face reflected in the glass. 
 There was no sign of life in it save the 
 terror in the eyes, and the glistening of the 
 
The Monk's Wedding, i6^ 
 
 firmly-set teeth. A red stripe, caused by 
 Diana's blow, was visible upon her white 
 brow. 
 
 When at last arrayed, Astorre's wife rose 
 with beating pulse and throbbing temples,, 
 and leaving her safe chamber hurried through 
 the halls to find Diana. She was urged on 
 by the excitement of both hope and fear. 
 She would fly back jubilantly, after she had 
 recovered the ring, to meet her husband 
 whom she wished to spare the sight of her 
 humiliation. 
 
 Soon among the masqueraders she distin- 
 guished the conspicuous figure of the Goddess 
 of the Chase, recognized her enemy and 
 followed, as with measured steps, she passed 
 through the main hall and retired into one 
 of the dimly-lighted small side rooms. It 
 seemed the Goddess desired not public 
 humiliation, but lowliness of heart. 
 
 Quickly Antiope bowed before Diana, and 
 forced her lips to utter, " Will you give me 
 the ring ? " while she touched the powerful 
 finger. 
 
 " Humbly and penitently ? " asked Diana. 
 " How else 1 " the unhappy child said fever- 
 
Ly' 
 
 1 66 The Monk's Weddings 
 
 ishly. " But you trifle with me ; cruelly — 
 you have doubled up your finger ! " 
 
 Whether Antiope imagined it, or whether 
 Diana really was trifling with her, a finger 
 is so easily curved ! Cangrande, you have 
 accused me of injustice. I will not decide. 
 
 Enough ! the Vicedomini raised her wil- 
 lowy figure and with flaming eyes fixed on 
 the severe face of Diana cried out, " Will 
 you torture a wife, maiden ? " Then she 
 bent down again and tried with both hands 
 to pull the ring off her finger. Like a flash 
 of lightening a sharp pain went through her. 
 The avenging Diana, while surrendering to 
 her the left hand, had with the right drawn 
 an arrow from her quiver and plunged it 
 into Antiope's heart. She swayed first to 
 the left, then to the right, turned a little and 
 fell with the arrow still deep in her warm 
 flesh. 
 
 The monk, who, after bidding farewell to 
 his rustic "guests, hastened back and eagerly 
 sought his wife, found her lifeless. With a 
 shriek of horror he threw himself upon her 
 and drew the arrow from her side, a stream 
 of blood followed. Astorre dropped sense- 
 less. 
 
The Mo7ik's Wedding, i6j 
 
 When he recovered from his swoon Ger- 
 man© was standing over him with crossed 
 arms. " Are you the murderer ? " asked the 
 monk. " I murder no women," repHed the 
 other, sadly. " It is my sister who has de- 
 manded justice! " 
 
 Astorre groped for the arrow and found 
 it. Springing up with a bound and grasp- 
 ing the long weapon with the bloody point 
 he fell in blind rage upon his old playfellow. 
 The warrior shuddered slightly before the 
 ghastly figure in black with dishevelled hair 
 and crimson-stained arrow in his hand. 
 
 He retreated a step. Drawing the short 
 sword which in place of armour he was 
 »wearing and warding off the arrow with it, he 
 said compassionately, " Go back to your 
 cloister, Astorre, which you should never 
 have left." 
 
 Suddenly he perceived the tyrant, who, 
 followed by the entire company, was just 
 entering the door opposite to them. 
 
 Ezzelin stretched out his right hand and 
 commanded peace. Germano dutifully low 
 ered his weapon before his Chief. The 
 infuriated monk seized the moment and 
 
i68 ' The Monk's Wedding. 
 
 plunged the arrow into the breast of the 
 knight whose eyes were directed toward 
 Ezzelin. But he also met his death pierced 
 by the soldier's sword which had been raised 
 again with the speed of lightning. 
 
 Germano sank to the ground. The monk, 
 supported by Ascanio, made a few tottering 
 steps toward his wife and laying himself by 
 her side, mouth to mouth, expired. 
 
 The wedding-guests gathered about the 
 husband and wife. Ezzelin gazed upon 
 them for a moment then knelt upon one 
 knee and closed first Antiope's and then 
 Astorre's eyes. In the hush, through the 
 open windows came the sound of revelry. 
 Out of the darkness was heard the words, 
 " Now slumbers the monk Astorre beside his 
 wife Antiope," and a distant shout of laughter. 
 
 Dante arose. " I have paid for my place by 
 the fire," he said, " and will now seek the bless- 
 ing of sleep. May the God of Peace be with 
 
The Monk's Wedding, i6g 
 
 you ! " He turned and stepped toward the 
 door, which the page had opened. All eyes 
 followed him, as by the dim light of a 
 flickering torch, he slowly ascended the 
 
 ^0 
 
 staircase. 
 
 
 THE END. 
 
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