Читать книгу The Royal Pawn of Venice - Mrs. Lawrence Turnbull - Страница 9

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These things took place in the spring of 1468; nor was it long before the ceremonial had been prescribed and the pageant had been made ready for the betrothal of the youthful Caterina; for the Senate could be as prompt in action as far-seeing in judgment when haste seemed wise; and other rulers were looking with no disfavor on the King of Cyprus in this matter of an alliance, for it was known that overtures had already been offered by the Court of Naples and by His Holiness of Rome for one of his own family who had claim to his protection.

While Venice was plunged in a turmoil of preparation, the Casa Cornaro gathered from all its palaces and surged up and down the grand stairway of the Marco Cornari, bringing counsel, gifts and glorification; the dowagers to the remotest branches, were much in evidence, refurbished, and coming in solemn state to testify their approval of an alliance so honorable to their house, with many wise worldly maxims and pious thanks to the Madonna.

There was no quiet anywhere within the palazzo, save deep down in the heart of the Lady Fiorenza, who had never been one with her family in worldly ambitions; and far below the giddy current of the day's happenings ran the ceaseless flow of the mother's wordless prayer, enfolding her child—pleading that that which was to come to her should make and keep her noble.

Resistance would have been vain, if only because she stood alone in her family circle; but the decision of the Senate was supreme—unquestionable and irrevocable; she stood alone indeed with only prayer to help her, and a great faith that because of it her child would be saved in the path of danger from which her love might not hold her feet. And so the day of the Betrothal dawned.

Ah, how the bells were ringing—Madre Beata! For such a festa as never had been in Venice! The hearts of the happy people throbbed to their rhythm, while each gave something to the splendor of the day—were it but the color of a mantle, or the grace of a jubilant motion, or the radiance of a beaming face—there was no festa in Venice of which the people had not its part.

They had been gathering since earliest dawn in the Piazza San Marco, arriving breathlessly in gondolas from the nearer points, in fishing boats with painted sails from the distant islands—hastening from their unsold wares in the market stalls near the wooden bridge of the Rialto to wait long hours for the pageant that no Venetian might miss. For never had there been such another, and there was not too much space where one might stand to see the glory and the beauty of it! Dio! but it was good to be born in Venice, where life was a festa!

Along the Riva their radiant, dark faces gleamed in the sunshine, where they stood in serried ranks, picturesque in all the brilliant coloring that their rustic wardrobes held in store for these days of festa; silken shawls that were heirlooms—strings of coral and amber and great Venetian beads of every tint, or an edge of old lace on the gala fazzuolo that many a noble lady might be proud to wear; everywhere there was color against the background of festive garlands and brilliant rugs decking the balconies of the palaces—a dazzling picture in the sunshine, under the blue of the Venetian sky.

Every window in the Piazza and the Piazzetta was thronged with spectators in gala robes, while under the arcades that stretched from San Marco to the ancient church of San Giminiano across the square, the people surged crowding and jubilant; climbing to the roofs and ledges of every building, the campanile, the churches, the columned palaces, leaving not a space where a man might stand save the avenue through the crowd which the soldiers kept free for the procession.

The bells were beginning to ring—Santa Maria! all the bells—a true jubilee!

Messer San Marco and San Tadoro were good to them to-day; how their golden images flashed in the sunshine on the columns! and the four great golden horses, in the dancing sunlight, seemed to quiver and prance among the frost-work of the arches of San Marco, while the gold and blue and scarlet of frieze and archivolt made a picture of delight.

The little ones shouted and babbled, were lifted high on their fathers' shoulders, or clamored with disappointed half-sobs down in the crowd which shut out all vision, beside the weary, expostulating mothers whose arms were filled with wee things who could not stand, and who had come early in the day—so early—in hope of a treat for the bambini.

They had carried them around the Piazza when they came in the early morning before the crowd—"Santa Vergine—wasn't that enough for them! to get a sight of all the grand balconies where the nobili were to be, with the garlands and the tapestries and the curtains of velvet and brocade, and the beautiful paintings, and the banners of San Marco, and the great golden horses in the Piazza—the wonderful golden horses—up so high, thou knowest, eh, Battista? What dost thou want more? Pazienza!"

There was a commotion on the Piazzetta; the first barge, heading the long procession from the Palazzo Cornaro in San Cassiano far up the Canal Grande, was coming in sight, bearing the brilliant Compagnia della Calza, the noble youths of the Company of the Hose, whose gilded duty it was to appear at State Ceremonials in all the extravagance of fantastic elegance with which Venice had decreed their costumes. A laughing, dainty company, they sprang ashore at the landing of the Piazzetta, doffing their jewelled caps to the admiring crowd with capricious grace and whimsical motions, like a flock of birds of paradise, in doublets of velvet and cloth of gold, with hair floating loose about their throats; with devices of fabulous birds—of stars flashing light—of mystic arabesques and hieroglyphs embroidered on their silken hose, in pearls and gold and precious stones:—truly a gay and frivolous company to be under the grave control of the Ten!

The people shouted with delight as they took their stand at the steps of the Piazzetta to receive the oncoming barges, for the "Calza" were the very darlings of their eyes, and never had they been more brilliant. With true Venetian comradery the crowd tossed them light banter on the names of their divisions, with pantomimic interpretation, in response to their sweeping salutations.

"Cortesi! saw one ever such courtesy!"

"San Marco keep you Immortali, for the grace of you!"

"Sempiterni!—everlasting—ay, to be young like that, with so much pleasure in life—Cielo!"

"And the gondolieri of the Sempiterni—do they live also forever? Signori Nobili, have you need of gondolieri?"

But it needed only a whimsical motion of the Calza to fasten all eyes on the Canal Grande, where to the gracious rhythm of countless strings and flutes, the barges of State were nearing the steps of the Piazzetta, bearing the standards of Venice and Cyprus—their prows garlanded with roses, their rowers wreathed with myrtle—banners and draperies of snow and silver floating in the breeze.

Far up the Canal Grande the gondolas of the nobles, waiting before their palaces, had glided into position as the procession swept down toward the Piazza—each gondola showing the colors of its casa, each fluttering a silken streamer in honor of Cyprus, each bearing its freight of crimson-garbed Senators and ladies in festal array.

A murmur of intense satisfaction broke from the excited crowd along the Riva, as the barges which bore the youthful bride and her newly-appointed suite floated nearer; the great festal barges carved with bas-reliefs from classic story, were all of white and silver, their sails of satin, plumed with roses, and from each prow the figure of a glorified swan flashed rosy light from eyes of ruby: and every rower in white and silver plying his silver oar, wore the arms of Cornaro blazoned on his sleeve, with a sash of the colors of Cyprus.

An opal light played over the group of the dainty maids of honor, yet each showed, for her only color, the arms of her ancient Venetian house wrought large upon the creamy fabric of her tunic, the threads of gold and gleam of jewels half lost within its folds as she walked: but the people looked for the heraldic devices and named them eagerly as, two by two, the maidens stepped on shore—Mocenigo—Giustiniani—Morosini—Dandolo—Contarini—a new name for every sweet young face—the King of Cyprus could add none fairer, nor no more noble arms to the court of his youthful Queen. The Senate had outdone itself in luxury of imagination.

"Ecco!" The low long-drawn sound of delight swept through the expectant throng like the rustle of the wind among the rushes, for here, at last, was La Caterina! and a very child she seemed as she stood surrounded by the escort of noble Matrons of Honor most sumptuously clad, whom Venice had appointed to act as sponsors in the ceremonial of the Adoption. She was like a snow-drop in a garden of exotics—so pale and fair and young, in her robes of filmy lace from the cushions of Burano—the great pearls of Janus rising and falling with the frightened throbbing of her breast. Her mother only stood beside her under the canopy—her hand clasping that of her child with a pressure which gradually steadied her to forget herself and to do her part mechanically, as she might be instructed: for, deep in the heart of the Lady Fiorenza that ceaseless prayer upheld her with a rare and noble dignity—it brought her calm for the drama she had not willed, and faith that for her child all would be well. She had pleaded with the Senate that on this day of deep import the barge of Caterina should not be without the benediction of its tutelary saint, since every gondola was wont to have its shrine; and behind them under the canopy, from a mass of roses on an altar of alabaster, rose a noble Madonna by Bellini, painted with exquisite grace—the votive picture which later kept within the Chapel of the Lady Fiorenza in the Palazzo Cornaro, the memory of this day.

The little ones cried and struggled down among the crowd, seeing nothing, and conscious from the chorus of ecstatic exclamations that they were missing a golden moment.

"Pace! Yes, they are coming: she is there—the Regina. Every one of you shall see—every one. Pazienza! Some one will hold the bimbo who sleeps? Then I could lift Tonino and Maria. Mille Grazie!"

A dozen sympathetic arms had instantly offered in response to this appeal, for the good-natured Venetian crowd adored festas—they also—and it would be a pity of pities that the bambini should miss it, and this one was like heaven!

"Ah, but she is beautiful, the bride—beautiful as an angel: and young—young like my Teresina! And to be a queen—Santa Maria!—she who was like the other daughters of the nobili on the Canal Grande! Ah, but life is wonderful for them—the nobili—but Messer San Marco is gentile to make this festa for Venice!" The recollection of their own little part in the festa came with a patient sigh.

"It is our Caro Maestro Giovanni Bellini who hath fashioned it all they say—the garlands, the barges—the costumes—he talked with their Excellencies, the Signoria."

The rumor went round, for the Maestro was the honest pride of Venice.

"It is he, verily, who hath painted our Blessed Lady for the barca of the Lady Caterina; for Madonna Fiorenza is almost a saint—and devote——! She hath the heart of a carità within her."

"They come now from the palazzo of the Cornaro," cried the little peasant-mother eagerly. "Hearest thou, my bimbo?" She moved the restless hands to and fro, the round eyes following the motion. "Clap thy hands for the Regina—thou too, give thy greeting; thou wilt remember it when thou art old. May the holy Madonna bless her!"

The shouts to which Caterina landed were deafening: the children screamed for very ecstasy.

The lagoon, from the Riva far out toward the islands was a dense mass of floating craft of the poorer sort, for below the Piazza there had been no restriction, and the waters were crowded with islanders—old people grateful for this nearness to the pageant, with a chance of separation from the standing, jostling crowd, and proud of lending the color of their pennons and painted sails for their share of the glory of the day. If one could see nothing, it was good to be there to hear the shouting—one would understand the better when Tonio should be taking his bit of supper and free to talk—for he was no good to his old mother now, with watching the tacking and the people. And one might as well be dead as to stay far off in Burano on a day like this! Cielo, but the bells and the shouting were divine! It made one young again.

"A king, thou sayest? Who is the king that the child is going to marry? What is he like, Tonio? I cannot see so far."

"Not there? Holy Mother, but it is a strange wedding! There would have been the gossip of all the islands to answer if there hadn't been two to a wedding when I was young. But the Signori Nobili must have everything after their own new fashions. And to miss his own sposalizio! San Marco is not good to him—he'll never see another half so fine. Is she so young as they say—like Maria, there?"

"Ah, to be Signori just for to-day!" sighed the little peasant-mother in the crowd, as the dazzling cortège passed out of sight into the golden glooms of San Marco. "To go with the nobili into the Duomo where one may behold the Pala d'Oro and the wonderful golden candlesticks which the Serenissimo hath given—to see the Serenissimo take her for the Daughter of the Republic—wonder of wonders! And then to the Palazzo Ducale for the Betrothal—Pazienza, one must wait; they will come again later, my bambini. Ah, but the beauty of it!" For the brave little woman was weary, and there was nothing like enthusiasm for keeping up one's courage, "and Heaven alone knew where Zorzi was with the barca!"

The crowd relaxed and grew restless, losing some of the gaiety of its temper when a weary neighbor settled back a little too roughly on a fellow-shoulder, or the babies who had been put down on the ground to rest lost the last sweet morsels they had been munching and clamored in vain for more—too much excited by the unusual noises and happenings to deign to notice the brothers of the next size who were busily turning somersaults in their behalf.

But it would not be long before the procession came again; for the last of the sumptuous nobles who made this holiday for the people had disappeared under the portico of San Marco.

The bells were chiming now in soft low undertones, a very ripple of sound—like the breath of the summer-breeze upon the sea—stilling the shrill voices of the people in the Piazza, calming the exuberance of their motions. For it was a signal. They knew that within the Duomo, before the great altar where slept their patron-saint, ablaze now with lights and the marvel of the Pala d'Oro which was not for the sight of the eyes save on days of a festa like this, the child of the Cornaro was waiting to be made the Daughter of Venice.

And now—for the bells were silent—in the magnificent storied chamber of the Gran Consiglio, where so many momentous questions of state had been discussed, in the presence of the Serenissimo, the Signoria, the Senate and the Forty Noble Matrons, a new leaf was to be added to the story of the Republic, and thither the feeble old Doge led the Daughter of Venice with the brilliant assemblage who had witnessed the ceremony of the Adoption in the Duomo.

Caterina had moved through the splendid pageant of the morning as in a dream, still too much a child to comprehend the responsibilities it portended—too much in awe of the distinguished company assembled to do her honor to be conscious of any feeling but unwonted timidity. But the tottering footsteps of the old man who held her hand as he led her through the Porta della Carta into the Ducal Palace, awoke her inborn sense of pity, and it was she who upheld him with her strong, young, vital clasp, recovering her own perfect poise in the act of giving help.

The Ambassador Mastachelli was waiting with his suite, and the signing of the parchment which bore the seals of Venice and of Cyprus was the trifle of a moment. A circlet of rubies—the sign of the promise—had been consecrated by the saintly Patriarch, Lorenzo Giustiniani, and the Lady Fiorenza took comfort from the look in his noble face as he bent over Caterina to give the benediction. She would seek his aid in the training of the young betrothed for her life on that distant island.

But now—at last—the hour was the people's once more, for the Serenissimo stood on the balcony above the portal of San Marco, between the great golden horses, with the Daughter of Venice beside him—the sunlight irradiating her white robes and beautiful, girlish face.

"Caterina—Regina—Figlia di Venezia—Nostra Venezia!" A great cry rent the air; it came from thousands of hearts and thrilled her own to its core, and the first, great emotion of her young life swept through her, transforming and wholly possessing her.

A mist swam before her and her heart throbbed as if it would break: she dimly saw innumerable faces leaning to her from roofs and balconies and windows, and below in the great Piazza, the dense mass of the people with faces offering love and homage, lifting their children to clap their tiny hands for her—it was wonderful—beautiful—had the Madonna, indeed, given her so much!

The mist cleared before her eyes and each face, to the remotest corners of the Piazza stood out individualized, while a sudden great love of humanity was born within her. "She would pray to make her people happy—she would be something to the poor and suffering ones of her distant land of Cyprus—the Holy Mother would teach her——"

It was the supreme moment that does not come to all, yet when it comes holds the making or the marring of a life—as the lightning gleams for an instant only through a rift of cloud, awe-inspiring and too luminous to be forgotten. To Caterina, on the verge of womanhood, it came with the force of a prophetic vision, giving her sight of the tie between a queen and her people—it was like the strong mother-love of a great woman—all-embracing; the splendor of the pageant, the personal homage had no longer part in the exaltation of that great moment—it was the real beneath it all that stirred her soul. She lost herself in the emotion, seeking only for expression; she opened her arms wide to them as if she would embrace them all, turning on every side to smile her heart out to them—tossing kisses to the children who clapped their eager hands for her—scattering sunshine with that rare magnetic power which is the most wondrous gift that Heaven can bestow.

"Simpatica!" the responsive people cried with glowing faces. "Angiola!—Tanto Simpatica!"

The Lady Fiorenza standing where she could see the face of her child gave thanks for the vision, with joyful tears.

"This hast thou granted her, Madonna mia Beatissima, for a wedding gift!"