Massimilla Doni

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"A happy form of misfortune!" said he. "The ancients, who were not
such fools as might be inferred from their crystal heaven and their
ideas on physics, symbolized in the fable of Ixion the power which
nullifies the body and makes the spirit lord of all."

Vendramin and the doctor presently met Genovese, and with him the
fantastic Capraja. The melomaniac was anxious to learn the real cause
of the tenor's _fiasco_. Genovese, the question being put to him,
talked fast, like all men who can intoxicate themselves by the
ebullition of ideas suggested to them by a passion.

"Yes, signori, I love her, I worship her with a frenzy of which I
never believed myself capable, now that I am tired of women. Women
play the mischief with art. Pleasure and work cannot be carried on
together. Clara fancies that I was jealous of her success, that I
wanted to hinder her triumph at Venice; but I was clapping in the
side-scenes, and shouted _Diva_ louder than any one in the house."

"But even that," said Cataneo, joining them, "does not explain why,
from being a divine singer, you should have become one of the most
execrable performers who ever piped air through his larynx, giving
none of the charm even which enchants and bewitches us."

"I!" said the singer. "I a bad singer! I who am the equal of the
greatest performers!"

By this time, the doctor and Vendramin, Capraja, Cataneo, and Genovese
had made their way to the piazzetta. It was midnight. The glittering
bay, outlined by the churches of San Giorgio and San Paulo at the end
of the Giudecca, and the beginning of the Grand Canal, that opens so
mysteriously under the _Dogana_ and the church of Santa Maria della
Salute, lay glorious and still. The moon shone on the barques along
the Riva de' Schiavoni. The waters of Venice, where there is no tide,
looked as if they were alive, dancing with a myriad spangles. Never
had a singer a more splendid stage.

Genovese, with an emphatic flourish, seemed to call Heaven and Earth
to witness; and then, with no accompaniment but the lapping waves, he
sang _Ombra adorata_, Crescentini's great air. The song, rising up
between the statues of San Teodoro and San Giorgio, in the heart of
sleeping Venice lighted by the moon, the words, in such strange
harmony with the scene, and the melancholy passion of the singer, held
the Italians and the Frenchman spellbound.

At the very first notes, Vendramin's face was wet with tears. Capraja
stood as motionless as one of the statues in the ducal palace. Cataneo
seemed moved to some feeling. The Frenchman, taken by surprise, was
meditative, like a man of science in the presence of a phenomenon that
upsets all his fundamental axioms. These four minds, all so different,
whose hopes were so small, who believed in nothing for themselves or
after themselves, who regarded their own existence as that of a
transient and a fortuitous being,--like the little life of a plant or
a beetle,--had a glimpse of Heaven. Never did music more truly merit
the epithet divine. The consoling notes, as they were poured out,
enveloped their souls in soft and soothing airs. On these vapors,
almost visible, as it seemed to the listeners, like the marble shapes
about them in the silver moonlight, angels sat whose wings, devoutly
waving, expressed adoration and love. The simple, artless melody
penetrated to the soul as with a beam of light. It was a holy passion!

But the singer's vanity roused them from their emotion with a terrible
shock.

"Now, am I a bad singer?" he exclaimed, as he ended.

His audience only regretted that the instrument was not a thing of
Heaven. This angelic song was then no more than the outcome of a man's
offended vanity! The singer felt nothing, thought nothing, of the
pious sentiments and divine images he could create in others,--no
more, in fact, than Paganini's violin knows what the player makes it
utter. What they had seen in fancy was Venice lifting its shroud and
singing--and it was merely the result of a tenor's _fiasco_!

"Can you guess the meaning of such a phenomenon?" the Frenchman asked
of Capraja, wishing to make him talk, as the Duchess had spoken of him
as a profound thinker.

"What phenomenon?" said Capraja.

"Genovese--who is admirable in the absence of la Tinti, and when he
sings with her is a braying ass."

"He obeys an occult law of which one of your chemists might perhaps
give you the mathematical formula, and which the next century will no
doubt express in a statement full of _x_, _a_, and _b_, mixed up with
little algebraic signs, bars, and quirks that give me the colic; for
the finest conceptions of mathematics do not add much to the sum total
of our enjoyment.

"When an artist is so unfortunate as to be full of the passion he
wishes to express, he cannot depict it because he is the thing itself
instead of its image. Art is the work of the brain, not of the heart.
When you are possessed by a subject you are a slave, not a master; you
are like a king besieged by his people. Too keen a feeling, at the
moment when you want to represent that feeling, causes an insurrection
of the senses against the governing faculty."

"Might we not convince ourselves of this by some further experiment?"
said the doctor.

"Cataneo, you might bring your tenor and the prima donna together
again," said Capraja to his friend.

"Well, gentlemen," said the Duke, "come to sup with me. We ought to
reconcile the tenor and la Clarina; otherwise the season will be
ruined in Venice."

The invitation was accepted.

"Gondoliers!" called Cataneo.

"One minute," said Vendramin. "Memmi is waiting for me at Florian's; I
cannot leave him to himself. We must make him tipsy to-night, or he
will kill himself to-morrow."

"_Corpo santo!_" exclaimed the Duke. "I must keep that young fellow
alive, for the happiness and future prospects of my race. I will
invite him, too."

They all went back to Florian's, where the assembled crowd were
holding an eager and stormy discussion to which the tenor's arrival
put an end. In one corner, near a window looking out on the colonnade,
gloomy, with a fixed gaze and rigid attitude, Emilio was a dismal
image of despair.

"That crazy fellow," said the physician, in French, to Vendramin,
"does not know what he wants. Here is a man who can make of a
Massimilla Doni a being apart from the rest of creation, possessing
her in heaven, amid ideal splendor such as no power on earth can make
real. He can behold his mistress for ever sublime and pure, can always
hear within him what we have just heard on the seashore; can always
live in the light of a pair of eyes which create for him the warm and
golden glow that surrounds the Virgin in Titian's Assumption,--after
Raphael had invented it or had it revealed to him for the
Transfiguration,--and this man only longs to smirch the poem.

"By my advice he must needs combine his sensual joys and his heavenly
adoration in one woman. In short, like all the rest of us, he will
have a mistress. He had a divinity, and the wretched creature insists
on her being a female! I assure you, monsieur, he is resigning heaven.
I will not answer for it that he may not ultimately die of despair.

"O ye women's faces, delicately outlined in a pure and radiant oval,
reminding us of those creations of art where it has most successfully
competed with nature! Divine feet that cannot walk, slender forms that
an earthly breeze would break, shapes too frail ever to conceive,
virgins that we dreamed of as we grew out of childhood, admired in
secret, and adored without hope, veiled in the beams of some
unwearying desire,--maids whom we may never see again, but whose smile
remains supreme in our life, what hog of Epicurus could insist on
dragging you down to the mire of this earth!

"The sun, monsieur, gives light and heat to the world, only because it
is at a distance of thirty-three millions of leagues. Get nearer to
it, and science warns you that it is not really hot or luminous,--for
science is of some use," he added, looking at Capraja.

"Not so bad for a Frenchman and a doctor," said Capraja, patting the
foreigner on the shoulder. "You have in those words explained the
thing which Europeans least understand in all Dante: his Beatrice.
Yes, Beatrice, that ideal figure, the queen of the poet's fancies,
chosen above all the elect, consecrated with tears, deified by memory,
and for ever young in the presence of ineffectual desire!"

"Prince," said the Duke to Emilio, "come and sup with me. You cannot
refuse the poor Neapolitan whom you have robbed both of his wife and
of his mistress."

This broad Neapolitan jest, spoken with an aristocratic good manner,
made Emilio smile; he allowed the Duke to take his arm and lead him
away.

Cataneo had already sent a messenger to his house from the cafe.

As the Palazzo Memmi was on the Grand Canal, not far from Santa Maria
della Salute, the way thither on foot was round by the Rialto, or it
could be reached in a gondola. The four guests would not separate and
preferred to walk; the Duke's infirmities obliged him to get into his
gondola.

At about two in the morning anybody passing the Memmi palace would
have seen light pouring out of every window across the Grand Canal,
and have heard the delightful overture to _Semiramide_ performed at
the foot of the steps by the orchestra of the _Fenice_, as a serenade
to la Tinti.

The company were at supper in the second floor gallery. From the
balcony la Tinti in return sang Almavida's _Buona sera_ from _Il
Barbiere_, while the Duke's steward distributed payment from his
master to the poor artists and bid them to dinner the next day, such
civilities as are expected of grand signors who protect singers, and
of fine ladies who protect tenors and basses. In these cases there is
nothing for it but to marry all the _corps de theatre_.

Cataneo did things handsomely; he was the manager's banker, and this
season was costing him two thousand crowns.

He had had all the palace furnished, had imported a French cook, and
wines of all lands. So the supper was a regal entertainment.

The Prince, seated next la Tinti, was keenly alive, all through the
meal, to what poets in every language call the darts of love. The
transcendental vision of Massimilla was eclipsed, just as the idea of
God is sometimes hidden by clouds of doubt in the consciousness of
solitary thinkers. Clarina thought herself the happiest woman in the
world as she perceived Emilio was in love with her. Confident of
retaining him, her joy was reflected in her features, her beauty was
so dazzling that the men, as they lifted their glasses, could not
resist bowing to her with instinctive admiration.

"The Duchess is not to compare with la Tinti," said the Frenchman,
forgetting his theory under the fire of the Sicilian's eyes.

The tenor ate and drank languidly; he seemed to care only to identify
himself with the prima donna's life, and had lost the hearty sense of
enjoyment which is characteristic of Italian men singers.

"Come, signorina," said the Duke, with an imploring glance at Clarina,
"and you, _caro prima uomo_," he added to Genovese, "unite your voices
in one perfect sound. Let us have the C of _Qual portento_, when light
appears in the oratorio we have just heard, to convince my old friend
Capraja of the superiority of unison to any embellishment."

"I will carry her off from that Prince she is in love with; for she
adores him--it stares me in the face!" said Genovese to himself.

What was the amazement of the guests who had heard Genovese out of
doors, when he began to bray, to coo, mew, squeal, gargle, bellow,
thunder, bark, shriek, even produce sounds which could only be
described as a hoarse rattle,--in short, go through an
incomprehensible farce, while his face was transfigured with rapturous
expression like that of a martyr, as painted by Zurbaran or Murillo,
Titian or Raphael. The general shout of laughter changed to almost
tragical gravity when they saw that Genovese was in utter earnest. La
Tinti understood that her companion was in love with her, and had
spoken the truth on the stage, the land of falsehood.

"_Poverino!_" she murmured, stroking the Prince's hand under the
table.

"By all that is holy!" cried Capraja, "will you tell me what score you
are reading at this moment--murdering Rossini? Pray inform us what you
are thinking about, what demon is struggling in your throat."

"A demon!" cried Genovese, "say rather the god of music. My eyes, like
those of Saint-Cecilia, can see angels, who, pointing with their
fingers, guide me along the lines of the score which is written in
notes of fire, and I am trying to keep up with them. PER DIO! do you
not understand? The feeling that inspires me has passed into my being;
it fills my heart and my lungs; my soul and throat have but one life.

"Have you never, in a dream, listened to the most glorious strains,
the ideas of unknown composers who have made use of pure sound as
nature has hidden it in all things,--sound which we call forth, more
or less perfectly, by the instruments we employ to produce masses of
various color; but which in those dream-concerts are heard free from
the imperfections of the performers who cannot be all feeling, all
soul? And I, I give you that perfection, and you abuse me!

"You are as mad at the pit of the _Fenice_, who hissed me! I scorned
the vulgar crowd for not being able to mount with me to the heights
whence we reign over art, and I appeal to men of mark, to a Frenchman
--Why, he is gone!"

"Half an hour ago," said Vendramin.

"That is a pity. He, perhaps, would have understood me, since
Italians, lovers of art, do not--"

"On you go!" said Capraja, with a smile, and tapping lightly on the
tenor's head. "Ride off on the divine Ariosto's hippogriff; hunt down
your radiant chimera, musical visionary as you are!"

In point of fact, all the others, believing that Genovese was drunk,
let him talk without listening to him. Capraja alone had understood
the case put by the French physician.



While the wine of Cyprus was loosening every tongue, and each one was
prancing on his favorite hobby, the doctor, in a gondola, was waiting
for the Duchess, having sent her a note written by Vendramin.
Massimilla appeared in her night wrapper, so much had she been alarmed
by the tone of the Prince's farewell, and so startled by the hopes
held out by the letter.

"Madame," said the Frenchman, as he placed her in a seat and desired
the gondoliers to start, "at this moment Prince Emilio's life is in
danger, and you alone can save him."

"What is to be done?" she asked.

"Ah! Can you resign yourself to play a degrading part--in spite of the
noblest face to be seen in Italy? Can you drop from the blue sky where
you dwell, into the bed of a courtesan? In short, can you, an angel of
refinement, of pure and spotless beauty, condescend to imagine what
the love must be of a Tinti--in her room, and so effectually as to
deceive the ardor of Emilio, who is indeed too drunk to be very
clear-sighted?"

"Is that all?" said she, with a smile that betrayed to the Frenchman a
side he had not as yet perceived of the delightful nature of an
Italian woman in love. "I will out-do la Tinti, if need be, to save my
friend's life."

"And you will thus fuse into one two kinds of love, which he sees as
distinct--divided by a mountain of poetic fancy, that will melt away
like the snow on a glacier under the beams of the midsummer sun."

"I shall be eternally your debtor," said the Duchess, gravely.

When the French doctor returned to the gallery, where the orgy had by
this time assumed the stamp of Venetian frenzy, he had a look of
satisfaction which the Prince, absorbed by la Tinti, failed to
observe; he was promising himself a repetition of the intoxicating
delights he had known. La Tinti, a true Sicilian, was floating on the
tide of a fantastic passion on the point of being gratified.

The doctor whispered a few words to Vendramin, and la Tinti was
uneasy.

"What are you plotting?" she inquired of the Prince's friend.

"Are you kind-hearted?" said the doctor in her ear, with the sternness
of an operator.

The words pierced to her comprehension like a dagger-thrust to her
heart.

"It is to save Emilio's life," added Vendramin.

"Come here," said the doctor to Clarina.

The hapless singer rose and went to the other end of the table where,
between Vendramin and the Frenchman, she looked like a criminal
between the confessor and the executioner.

She struggled for a long time, but yielded at last for love of Emilio.

The doctor's last words were:

"And you must cure Genovese!"

She spoke a word to the tenor as she went round the table. She
returned to the Prince, put her arm round his neck and kissed his hair
with an expression of despair which struck Vendramin and the
Frenchman, the only two who had their wits about them, then she
vanished into her room. Emilio, seeing Genovese leave the table, while
Cataneo and Capraja were absorbed in a long musical discussion, stole
to the door of the bedroom, lifted the curtain, and slipped in, like
an eel into the mud.

"But you see, Cataneo," said Capraja, "you have exacted the last drop
of physical enjoyment, and there you are, hanging on a wire like a
cardboard harlequin, patterned with scars, and never moving unless the
string is pulled of a perfect unison."

"And you, Capraja, who have squeezed ideas dry, are not you in the
same predicament? Do you not live riding the hobby of a _cadenza_?"

"I? I possess the whole world!" cried Capraja, with a sovereign
gesture of his hand.

"And I have devoured it!" replied the Duke.

They observed that the physician and Vendramin were gone, and that
they were alone.



Next morning, after a night of perfect happiness, the Prince's sleep
was disturbed by a dream. He felt on his heart the trickle of pearls,
dropped there by an angel; he woke, and found himself bathed in the
tears of Massimilla Doni. He was lying in her arms, and she gazed at
him as he slept.

That evening, at the _Fenice_,--though la Tinti had not allowed him to
rise till two in the afternoon, which is said to be very bad for a
tenor voice,--Genovese sang divinely in his part in _Semiramide_. He
was recalled with la Tinti, fresh crowns were given, the pit was wild
with delight; the tenor no longer attempted to charm the prima donna
by angelic methods.

Vendramin was the only person whom the doctor could not cure. Love for
a country that has ceased to be is a love beyond curing. The young
Venetian, by dint of living in his thirteenth century republic, and in
the arms of that pernicious courtesan called opium, when he found
himself in the work-a-day world to which reaction brought him,
succumbed, pitied and regretted by his friends.

No, how shall the end of this adventure be told--for it is too
disastrously domestic. A word will be enough for the worshipers of the
ideal.

The Duchess was expecting an infant.

The Peris, the naiads, the fairies, the sylphs of ancient legend, the
Muses of Greece, the Marble Virgins of the Certosa at Pavia, the Day
and Night of Michael Angelo, the little Angels which Bellini was the
first to put at the foot of his Church pictures, and which Raphael
painted so divinely in his Virgin with the Donor, and the Madonna who
shivers at Dresden, the lovely Maidens by Orcagna in the Church of
San-Michele, at Florence, the celestial choir round the tomb in
Saint-Sebaldus, at Nuremberg, the Virgins of the Duomo, at Milan, the
whole population of a hundred Gothic Cathedrals, all the race of beings
who burst their mould to visit you, great imaginative artists--all these
angelic and disembodied maidens gathered round Massimilla's bed, and
wept!



PARIS, May 25th, 1839.



ADDENDUM

The following personages appear in other stories of the Human Comedy.

Cane, Marco-Facino
Facino Cane

Tinti, Clarina
Albert Savarus

Varese, Emilio Memmi, Prince of
Gambara

Varese, Princess of
Gambara

Vendramini, Marco
Facino Cane

Victorine
Lost Illusions
Letters of Two Brides
Gaudissart II