Chapter II: Part 2

Under the leadership of Sir Thomas Wyatt, an insurrection took place, having for its nominal object the prevention of Mary's marriage with Philip of Spain; but it was joined by all the forces opposed to the crown. Courtenay shared in it because he hoped to wed Elizabeth, who would be made Queen on the deposition of Mary. Lord Guildford Dudley joined in it in the anticipation that his wife might once more mount the throne.

At first Wyatt carried everything before him. Mary was actually besieged in the Tower, which it was attempted to carry by force. Supported by Cuthbert, Lord Guildford led the assault, shouting, "Long live Queen Jane! Down with Renard and the See of Rome!" The attack had almost succeeded, when Dudley was struck from behind by Renard and taken prisoner.

Cuthbert only escaped by forcing himself through an aperture, and dropping into the moat, from where he managed to swim ashore. He made his way at once to Lady Jane, and related to her how the insurrection had collapsed, and how her husband had been taken prisoner. For her own safety Jane had no thought. She at once determined to seek out the queen, and beseech her to spare her husband.

Accompanied by Cuthbert, she presented herself at the Tower, and, obtaining an audience with Mary, flung herself at her feet.

"I am come to submit myself to your highness's mercy," she said, as soon as she could find utterance.

"Mercy?" exclaimed Mary scornfully. "You shall receive justice, but no mercy."

"I do not sue for myself," rejoined Jane, "but for my husband. I have come to offer myself for him. If your highness has any pity for me, extend it to him, and heap his faults on my head."

Queen Mary was deeply moved. Had not Gardiner intervened, she would undoubtedly have granted the request; but Gardiner suggested that the price of the pardon should be the public reconciliation of Lady Jane and her husband with the Church of Rome.

"I cannot," said Jane. "I will die for him, but I cannot destroy my soul alive."

_IV.--The Torture Chamber and the Block_

After a week's imprisonment, Cuthbert was closely questioned, and his answers being deemed unsatisfactory, he was ordered to be examined under torture. With fiendish delight Nightgall took him to the horrible chamber. There, the first thing that he saw was the tortured, mangled figure of Lord Dudley, covered from head to foot by a blood-coloured cloth.

"You here?" cried the ghastly, distorted figure. "Where is Jane? Has she fled? Has she escaped?"

"She has surrendered herself," replied Cholmondeley, "in the hope of obtaining your pardon."

"False hope! Delusive expectation!" exclaimed Dudley, in tones of anguish, as he was carried from the room. "She will share my fate. Oh God! I am her destroyer!"

Cholmondeley, as soon as his master had been borne away, was seized by the torturers and placed on the rack. He determined that not a sound should escape him, and though his whole frame seemed rent asunder, he bravely kept his resolve.

"Go on," cried Nightgall, as the torturers paused. "Turn the roller again."

Even as he spoke Cholmondeley fainted, and, finding that no answers could be extracted from him, he was taken back to his cell and flung upon a heap of straw. As he lay there, Nightgall, with diabolical cruelty, brought Cicely to his side, and bade her look on his nerveless arms and crippled limbs, and mockingly offered to set him free if Cicely would marry him of her own free will. When at Cuthbert's instigation she refused, he forced her away, shrieking for help.

Cuthbert sank once more into insensibility. He came to his senses again to find that men were chafing his limbs and bathing his temples, and that Renard was in his cell. At the Spaniard's order he was given a cup of wine, and the rest having withdrawn, Renard questioned him further.

While this examination was going on the cell door opened softly, and a masked figure appeared. It was Nightgall, who, bribed by De Noailles, had come to assassinate Renard. He flung himself on his intended victim, and was about to dispatch him with his poniard, when Cuthbert, summoning up all his strength, intervened.

Finding that he had two men to deal with instead of one, the gaoler sprang to his feet, and rushed from the dungeon. Renard followed him, furious with rage, and Cuthbert at once took advantage of the opportunity to escape.

After some search he discovered the whereabouts of Cicely, and together the lovers, happy once more at being united, if only for a short time, succeeded in finding their way out of the dungeons. As soon as they emerged into the open air they were arrested by the warders, and taken to the guard-room in the White Tower, where Cicely received a warm welcome from the three giants. There was no time to relate their adventures before Renard appeared, walking before a litter upon which was borne the mangled body of Nightgall, who, in his attempt to escape the Spaniard's sword, had been forced to jump from an embrasure of the White Tower.

The wretch was dying; but with his last breath he attempted to make some amends for all the evil he had done in his life. Bidding Cicely come to his side, he told her that she was the daughter of Alexia, whose real name was Lady Mountjoy, and he gave her papers, proving her right to the estates of her father, Sir Alberic Mountjoy, who had incurred the vengeance of Henry VIII.

Renard, grateful to Cholmondeley for saving his life, secured his pardon.

Cicely also returned to the side of Lady Jane Grey, and watched the splendid fortitude and unswerving courage with which her unfortunate mistress prepared for the scaffold. The day before her death her wish that Cicely and Cuthbert should be united was granted, and they were married in her presence by Master John Bradford, Prebendary of St. Paul's.

At last Monday, the twelfth of February, 1544, dawned, and Lady Jane Grey was led out to the scaffold. On the way she passed the headless corpse of Lord Guildford, being borne to the grave. Cicely accompanied the beautiful girl to the last. It was her hands that helped her to remove her attire and that tied the handkerchief over those eyes which were never to look on the world again.

Blindfolded, Jane groped for the block, crying, "What shall I do? Where is it?"

She was guided to the place, and, laying her head on the block, cried, "Lord--into Thy hands I commend my spirit!"

The axe then fell, and one of the fairest and wisest heads that ever sat on human shoulders fell also.

* * * * *

HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

The Improvisatore

Hans Christian Andersen was born at Odense, in Denmark, on
April 2, 1805, the son of a poor bootmaker. His life was full
of exciting incidents; his early years in particular
constitute a record of hard struggle, poverty and lack of
recognition. When nine he tried his hand at tragedy and
comedy, and was sent, after his father's death in 1819, to
Copenhagen, where he engaged in various occupations with
little success, until his talents attracted the attention of a
few influential personages, who provided him with the means
for continuing his studies. He won considerable reputation
with some early poems, and was quite well known to the public
before he entered the university in 1828. He next published a
satirical story, and after a journey in Italy, his famous
novel, "The Improvisatore," which gave him an opportunity for
a brilliant series of word-pictures describing the life and
character of the parts of Italy he had visited. Apart from his
world-famous fairy tales, by which he set no great store,
being ambitious of fame as a novelist, he wrote several
successful plays, epic poems and novels. His fairy tales have
been translated practically into every language. Hans Andersen
died at the age of seventy, in Copenhagen, on August 4, 1875.

_I.--A Boyhood in Rome_

My earliest recollections take me back to my tender youth, when I lived with my widowed mother in a little garret in a Roman square. She supported us by sewing and by the rent of a larger room, sublet to a young painter. On the house opposite there was an image of the Virgin, before which, when the evening bells rang, I and the neighbours' children used to kneel and sing in honour of the Mother of God and the Child Jesus. Once an English family stopped to listen; and the gentleman gave me a silver coin, "because of my fine voice," as my mother told me.

My mother's confessor, Fra Martino, always showed great kindness to me; and I spent many hours with him at the convent. It was through him that I became chorister in the Capuchin church, and was allowed to carry the great censer.

Before I was nine, I was chosen as one of the boys and girls who were to preach between Christmas and the New Year in the church of Ara Croeli, before the image of Jesus. I had no fear, and it seemed decided that I, of all children, gave most delight; but after me came a little girl of exquisitely delicate form, bright countenance, and so melodious a voice that even my mother, with all her pride of me, awarded her the palm, and declared that she was just like an angel. But I had often to repeat my speech at home, and then made up a new one describing the festival in the church, which was considered just as good.

One moonlit evening, on returning with my mother from a visit in Trastevere, we found a crowd in the Piazza di Trevi, listening to a man singing to a guitar--not songs like those which I had so often heard, but about things around him, of what we saw and heard, and we ourselves were in the song. My mother told me he was an improvisatore; and Federigo, our artist lodger, told me I should also improvise, for I was really a poet. And I tried it forthwith--singing about the foodshop over the way, with its attractively set out window and the haggling customers. I gained much applause; and from this time forth I turned everything into song.

My first visit to the country ended in a sad event, which was to shape the whole course of my life. It was in June, and my mother and her friend Mariuccia took me to see the famous flower fête at Genzano. We stayed the night at an inn, and in the morning joined the dense holiday crowd that moved over the carpet of flowers on the pavement of the main street. Suddenly there was a piercing cry--a pair of unmanageable horses rushed through. I was thrown down, and all was blackness. When I awoke, Mother of God, I lay with my head on Mariuccia's lap, beside the lifeless form of my mother, crushed by the carriage wheel! The occupant of the carriage, a gentleman of the Borghese family, had escaped with a shaking, and sent a servant in rich livery with a purse containing twenty scudi for the motherless child.

Mariuccia took me back to Rome; it was decided that her parents, who kept flocks in the Campagna--honest people to whom my twenty scudi would be wealth--should take charge of me. Thus, in the dreary Campagna, with honest Benedetto and kindly Domenica, I spent the summer and the early autumn in the ancient tomb which they had transformed into a hut. The first week it rained incessantly; then, with the sun, came the insufferable heat, increasing in intensity from day to day, from week to week. Even the buffaloes lay like dead masses upon the burnt-up grass, unless, excited to madness by the poison-stings of myriads of flies, that covered them as if they were carrion, they rushed in mad career to the Tiber to roll themselves in the yellow water.

One day, towards sunset, I was just opening the door to leave the hut, when a man darted in so suddenly that I was thrown down. With lightning speed he shut the door, and in a distressed tone uttered the name of the Madonna, when a violent blow shattered the door, and the whole opening was filled with the head of a fierce buffalo, whose body was tightly squeezed into the doorway. The stranger seized a gun from the wall, took aim, and shot the beast. The danger over, he lifted me from the ground, and said: "Blessed be Madonna! You have saved my life." He inquired about me. I was made to show him my abominable sketches upon bits of paper and to sing to him, and caused him astonishment at my improvising about the Madonna and himself and the buffalo. He finally asked Domenica to bring me next morning to see him at the Borghese Palace. He was the powerful prince himself, who had unwittingly been the cause of my poor mother's death!

_II.--In the School of Life_

The prince, his daughter Francesca, and her fiance Fabiani, overwhelmed me with kindness. The visit had to be frequently repeated; and I became quite accustomed to the splendours of the palazzo. Finally, Eccellenza decided to have me educated in the Jesuits' school; and I had to bid farewell to good Domenica and to enter upon my school life. New occupations engrossed me; new acquaintances presented themselves; the dramatic portion of my life began to unfold itself. Here years compress themselves together.

I became particularly attached to one of my school-fellows, Bernardo, a gay, almost dissolute son of a Roman senator. When he suddenly left school to join the Papal Guard the whole world seemed to me empty and deserted. One day I saw him pass my window on a prancing horse. I rushed out, but ran across the porter's wife of the Borghese Palace, who informed me that the young Eccellenza and her husband had just arrived. Would I not come to give them welcome? To the palace I went, was graciously received by Fabiani and Francesca, who brought me their little daughter Flaminia, the "little abbess," as she was called, having been destined from her birth for the life of a nun. The child had wonderfully bright eyes, and came towards me as though we were old acquaintances, laughing and chattering, and showing me her toys.

On my way back, early in the evening, as luck would have it, I almost ran into the arms of Bernardo. He was delighted to see me, told me of his merry life and adventures, and wanted to drag me into an artists' tavern to drink a bottle of wine. That was impossible for me, a Jesuits' pupil. I refused. As we walked on we met a crowd hustling an old Jew. A thick-set brute of a fellow wanted to force him to jump over a long stick, and everybody shouted, "Leap, Jew!" Bernardo sprang forth, snatched the stick out of the fellow's hand, brandished his sword, and cried in a strong, manly voice, "Leap yourself, or I shall cleave your head!" He made him jump, and jump again, and struck him lightly with the flat of his sword. The crowd veered round at once, laughed and applauded, the old Jew meanwhile making his escape. "Come," said I, when we were out of the crowd, "come! Let them say what they may, I will drink a bottle of wine with you. May we always be friends!"

I met Bernardo again some time after at the Vatican. His joy equalled mine, and he immediately plunged into confidences. One day, when straying into the Ghetto, he had encountered the old Jew of our adventure, bowing and scraping, and requesting the honour of receiving, him in his house. They entered; wine was brought to him by a dark Jewish maiden, of such beauty as to set his whole blood on fire. Since then he had vainly tried to see her. He visited the Jew's house on all sorts of pretexts, but his charmer remained invisible. He now made the amazing proposition that I should take up the study of Hebrew with the old Jew, and thus help him in this affair. I explained the utter impossibility of aiding him in a project of this nature. He was obviously offended; and when we parted he returned my warmth with chilly politeness.

We met but rarely after this meeting; Bernardo was always jovial and friendly, though not confidential, until, on the occasion of a dance at the Borghese Palace, when I asked him about the handsome Jewish maiden, he laughed. "I have found," he said, "another and tamer little golden bird. The other has flown out of the Ghetto--nay, even out of Rome!"

My patron's family left Rome; and I had to throw myself into the study for the examination that was to bring me the title of an abbé. With the advent of the carnival I had assumed the black dress and the short silk coat of an abbate, and had become a new and happier person. For the first time I took part in the jollities of the carnival, and at the end of the first day again came across Bernardo, who insisted upon taking me to the opera to hear a new prima donna who had turned everybody's heart at Naples. Rumour had not belied her. Her appearance was greeted with rapturous applause. Bernardo seized my arm; he had recognised in her his Jewish maiden, just as I was about to exclaim, "It is she!"--the lovely child who had preached that Christmas at Ara Coeli. There were endless calls for "Annunciata" when the curtain fell; flowers and garlands were thrown at her feet, and among them a little poem which I had written under the inspiration of her exquisite voice. With a crowd of enthusiasts, we hurried to the stage-door, took the horses from her carriage, and conducted her in triumph to her apartments.

Bernardo, who, bolder than I, had called on Annunciata, brought me to her the next day. She was friendly, brilliant in her conversation, and appeared deeply impressed with my improvisation on "Immortality"--the immortality first of eternal Rome, and then of the fair singer's art--to which I was pressed when Bernardo let out the secret of my gift.

"You have given me the sincerest pleasure," she said, and looked confidingly into my eyes. I ventured to kiss her hand. After that I saw her every day during the gay carnival, and was more and more captivated by her charm.

Annunciata left Rome on Ash Wednesday, and with her the brightness seemed to have gone completely out of my life, my only pleasure being the recollection of those happy days of the carnival.

_III.--Love and Adventure in Rome_

I saw Annunciata again when Rome had begun to fill with Easter visitors, and had the happiness of dining with her the same day. She told me that, although born in Spain, she had been, as a child, in Rome; that it was she who preached that day at Ara Coeli, "an orphan, who would have perished of hunger had not a despised Jew given it shelter and food until it could flutter forth over the wild, restless sea." Next day I showed her over the Borghese gallery; and on the day before Easter we drove out to see the procession which initiated the Easter festival, and in the evening to Monte Mario to see the illuminations of St. Peter's-- an unforgettable sight!

As I went into the little inn to fetch some refreshment I found myself in the narrow passage face to face with Bernardo, pale, and with glowing eyes. He wildly seized my hand, and said: "I am not an assassin, Antonio; but fight with me you shall, or I shall become your murderer!"

I tried to calm him, but he forced a pistol into my hand. "She loves you," he whispered; "and you, in your vanity, will parade it before all the Roman people--before me!" He threw himself upon me. I thrust him back. I heard a report; my hand trembled. Bernardo lay before me in his blood. The people of the house rushed in, and with them Annunciata. I wanted to fling myself, in despair, upon Bernardo's body; but Annunciata lay on her knees beside him, trying to staunch the blood. "Save yourself!" she cried. But I, overcome by anguish, exclaimed: "I am innocent; the pistol went off by accident. Yes, Annunciata, we loved you. I would die for you, like he! Which of us was the dearer to you? Tell me whether you love me, and then I will escape." She bowed her head down to the dead. I heard her weeping, and saw her press her lips to Bernardo's brow. Then I heard voices shout "Fly, fly!" and, as by invisible hands, I was torn out of the house.

Like a madman I rushed through bushes and underwood until I reached the Tiber. Among the ruins of a tomb I came across three men sitting around a fire, to whom I explained that I wanted a boat to cross the river. They agreed to take me across; but I had better give them my money to keep for safety. I realised that I had fallen into the hands of robbers, gave them all I had, was tied on to a horse, and taken across the river, riding all night, until at dawn we reached a wild part of the mountains. They wanted to keep me for ransom, and dispatched one of their number to Rome to find out all he could about me. The man returned; and with a thankful heart I heard that Bernardo was only wounded and on the way to recovery.

My rough hosts having found out my gift, I was asked to sing to them; and once more my power of improvisation stood me in good stead. When I had finished, a wrinkled old woman, who seemed to be held in great reverence by the robbers, came towards me. "Thou hast sung thy ransom!" she exclaimed. "The sound of music is stronger than gold!" Yet I was detained six days, during which there were mysterious comings and goings. The old witch herself, who had made me write on a piece of paper the words "I travel to Naples" and my name, disappeared for a day, and came back with a letter, which she commanded me not to read then. Finally, in the midst of night, she led me out of the robbers' den and took me across a rocky path to a dumb peasant with an ass, which I was made to mount. She kissed my forehead and departed. When daylight broke I opened the letter, which contained a passport in my name, an order for five hundred scudi on a Naples bank, and the words "Bernardo is out of danger, but do not return to Rome for some months."

When I joined the high-road, I took carriage for Naples. Among my travelling companions was a portly, handsome, Neapolitan lady, with whom I became very friendly, and who invited me to her house. She was the wife of a Professor Maretti, and her name was Santa. The professor himself was a little half-famished looking man, full of learning, by the show of which he was in the habit of boring everybody who came near him. Santa made up for this by her liveliness and her warm interest in my affairs. Amid music and laughter I spent many happy hours in her house, made friends, and was encouraged to make my début as an improvisatore. I had written to Eccellenza a true account of the reason of my departure, and informed him of my future intentions; but his reply, which arrived after long delay, was a stunning blow to me. He was exceedingly annoyed, washed his hands of me, and wished me not on any account to connect his name with my public life.

_IV.--On the Road to Fame_

The bitterness of my misery was brought home to me with new force when I saw Bernardo at a gambling saloon in the company of a handsome woman of doubtful reputation. That Annunciata should have preferred this fickle man to me! My debut at San Carlo aroused great enthusiasm, and Santa, whom I saw next day in her snug heavily curtained room, seemed radiant with happiness at my success. She made me sit on a soft silken sofa, stroked my head, and spoke of my future. I kissed her hand, and looked into her dark eyes with a purity of soul and thought. She was greatly excited. I saw her bosom heave violently; she loosened a scarf to breathe more freely. "You are deserving of love," said she. "Soul and beauty are deserving of any woman's love!" She drew me towards her; her lips were like fire that flowed into my very soul!

Eternal Mother of God! The holy image, at that moment, fell down from the wall. It was no mere accident. "No, no!" I exclaimed, starting up. "Antonio," cried she, "kill me! kill me! but do not leave me!" But I rushed out of the house, determined never to set eyes upon Santa again. The sea air would cool me. I took a boat to Torre del Annunciata; and happiness gradually returned to me as I realised what danger I had escaped by the grace of the Virgin.

I joined the crowd watching the fiery stream of lava slowly descending towards the sea, when I heard somebody calling my name. It was Fabiani, who insisted on taking me at once to see Francesca. The welcome was hearty. There were no recriminations, although I resented for a while the tone of benevolent patronage adopted by my benefactors. I learnt that Bernardo had entered the King of Naples' service, and that Annunciata was shortly expected. An expedition was arranged to Pæstum and Capri; and Fabiani insisted upon my joining the party. He also undertook to write to his father-in-law on my behalf....

At Pæstum we found the abundance and luxuriance of Sicilian landscape; its Grecian temples and its poverty. We were surrounded by crowds of half-naked beggars. One young girl there was, a little away from the others, scarcely more than eleven years old, but lovely as the goddess of beauty. Modesty, soul, and a deep expression of suffering were expressed in her countenance. She was blind! I gave her a scudo. Her cheeks burned. She kissed my hand; and the touch seemed to go through my blood. The guide told us afterwards that her name was Lara, and that she generally sat in the Temple of Neptune.

The ruined temple made a mighty impression upon us; I was requested to improvise in these romantic surroundings. Deeply moved by my thoughts of the blind girl, I sang of the glories of Nature and art, and of the poor maiden from whom all this magnificence was concealed. When we left the temple, I lagged behind, and, looking around, I saw Lara on her knees, her hands clasped together. She had heard my song! It smote me to the soul. I saw her pressing my scudo to her lips and smile; I grew quite warm at the sight of it, and pressed a hot kiss upon her forehead. With a thrilling cry she sprang up like a terrified deer, and was gone. I felt as if I had committed a sin, and sadly joined my party.

Amalfi, Capri--I drank the intoxicating beauty of it all. Then I was prevailed upon to return to Rome with Fabiani and Francesca. We spent a day at Naples, where I found two letters waiting for me. The first was a brief note to this effect: "A faithful heart, which intends honourably and kindly towards you, expects you this evening." It gave an address, but no name--merely "Your old friend." The second was from the same hand, and read: "Come, Antonio! The terror of the last unfortunate moment of our parting is now well over. Come quickly! Delay not a moment in coming!" The letters were obviously from Santa.

My mind was made up not to see her again. We left for Rome....

The Palazzo Borghese was now my home. Eccellenza received me with the greatest kindness, but all the family continued to use the old teaching tone and depreciating mode of treatment. Thus six years went by; but somehow my protectors did not realise that I was no longer a boy, and my dependence gave them the right to make them let me feel the bitterness of my position. Even my talent as poet and improvisatore was by no means taken seriously at the palace.

Happiness was brought into my life once more by Flaminia, "the little abbess," who came home to have her last glimpse of the world before taking the veil. She had grown tall and pale of complexion, with an expression of wonderful gentleness in her features. She recalled our early friendship, when she used to sit on my knee and make me draw pictures for her and tell her stories. From her, at any rate, I suffered no humiliation, and from day to day our friendship grew closer. I told her about Bernardo and Annunciata, and about Lara, who became inexpressibly dear to her. I also endeavoured to make her reconsider her decision to take the veil and immure herself for life; but her whole education and inclination tended towards that goal. At last the day itself came--a day of great solemnity and state. Flaminia was dead and buried--and Elizabeth the nun, the bride of Heaven, arose from the bier!

_V.--The Sorrowful Wayfarer_

In my sadness of heart I thought of my childhood and old Domenica, whom I had not seen for many months. I went out to the Campagna. Domenica had died six months back! When I returned I was seized by a violent fever, from which I recovered but slowly. It was six months after Flaminia had taken the veil that the doctor allowed me to go out.

My first walk was to the grey convent where she now passed her monotonous days. Every evening I returned, and often I stood gazing at her prison and thinking of Flaminia as I used to know her. One evening Fabiani found me thus, and made me follow him home. He spoke to me with unusual solemnity in his voice, but with great kindness. I was ill. Travelling, change of scene, would do me good. I was to move about for a year, and then return to show what the world had made of me.

I went to Venice. Dreary, sad and quiet seemed to me the Queen of the Adriatic. In the gently swaying gondola I thought with bitterness of Annunciata. I felt a grudge even against innocent, pious Flaminia, who preferred the convent to my strong, brotherly love. Then my thoughts floated between Lara, the image of beauty, and Santa, the daughter of sin.

One day I took a boat to the Lido to breathe the fresh air of the sea. On the beach I came across Poggio, a young Venetian nobleman with whom I had made friends; and as a storm hung threatening in the sky I decided to accept his invitation for dinner. We watched the fury of the storm from the window, and then joined a crowd of women and children anxiously watching a fishing boat out at sea. Before our very eyes the boat was swallowed by the waves, and with aching hearts we witnessed the prayers, shrieks, and despair of the anxious watchers whose husbands and fathers perished thus within their sight.

Next evening there was a reception at my banker's. The storm became a topic of conversation; and Poggio related the death of the fishermen, trying to enlist sympathy for the poor survivors. But nobody seemed to understand his intention. Then I was asked to improvise. I was quickly determined. "I know of an emotion," I exclaimed, "which awakens supreme happiness in everybody, and I have the power of exciting it in every heart. But this art cannot be given, it must be purchased. He who gives most will be most deeply initiated." Money and jewels were quickly forthcoming; and I began to sing of the proud sea and the bold mariners and fishermen. I described what I had seen; and my art succeeded where Poggio's words had failed. A tumult of applause arose. A young lady sank at my feet, seized my hand, and with her beautiful, tear-filled eyes gave me a look of intense gratitude, which agitated me in strange fashion. Then she withdrew as if in horror at what she had done.

Poggio afterwards told me that she was the queen of beauty in Venice, the podestà's niece, adored by everybody, but known by few, since the podestà's house was most exclusive, and received but few guests. He accounted me the luckiest of mortals when he heard that I had received an invitation from the podestà, and would have a chance of improving my acquaintance with Maria, his beautiful niece. I was received as if I had been a beloved relative. Something in Maria's expression recalled to me the blind beggar-girl Lara; but Maria had eyes with a singularly dark glance of fire. I became a daily visitor at the podestà's house, and spent many happy hours in Maria's company. Her intellect and charm of character captivated me as much as her beauty.

_VI.--A Marriage in Venice_

One evening I strayed into a wretched little theatre, where one of Mercadante's operas was being performed. How can I describe my feelings when in one of the singers--a slight, ordinary figure, with a thin, sharp countenance and deeply sunken eyes, in a poor dress, and with a poorer voice, but still with surprising grace of manner--I recognised Annunciata? With aching heart I left the theatre, and ascertained Annunciata's address. She lived in a miserable garret. She turned deathly pale when she recognised me, and implored me to leave her. "I come as a friend, as a brother," I said. "You have been ill, Annunciata!" Then she told me of her illness, four years back, which robbed her of her youth, her voice, her money, her friends. She implored me, with a pitiful voice, to leave her. I could not speak. I pressed her hand to my lips, stammered, "I come--I come again!" and left her.

Next day I called again, and found Annunciata had left, no one knew whither.

It was a month later that Maria handed me a letter, which had been given to her for me by a dying person who had sent for her. The letter was from Annunciata, who was no more. It told me of her happiness at having seen me once more--told me that she had always loved me; that her pain at having to part from me had made her conceal her face on what she then believed to be Bernardo's dead body; told me that it was she who had sent me those two letters in Naples, who had believed my love was dead, since I left for Rome without sending her a reply. It told me of her illness, her years of poverty, and her undying love. And then she wished me happiness with, as she had been told, the most beautiful and the noblest maid in Venice for my bride! ...

In travel I sought forgetfulness and consolation. I went to Padua, Verona, Milan; but heaviness did not leave my heart. Then came an irrepressible longing to be back in Venice, to see Maria--a foreboding of some new misfortune. I hastened back to Venice. The podestà received me kindly; but when I inquired after Maria, he seemed to me to become grave, as he told me she had gone to Padua on a short visit. During supper I fell into a swoon, followed by a violent fever in which I had visions of Maria dead, laid out before an altar. Then it was Lara I saw on the bier, and I loudly called her by name. Then everything became bright; a hand passed softly over my head. I awoke, and found Maria and her aunt by my bedside.

"Lara, Maria, hear me!" I cried. "It is no dream. You have heard my voice at Pæstum. You know it again! I feel it. I love you; I have always loved you!"

"I have loved you, too," she said, kneeling by my side and seizing my hand. "I have loved you from the day when the sun burnt your kiss into my forehead--loved you with the intuition of the blind!"

I then learnt that Maria--my Lara--had been cured of her blindness by a great specialist in Naples, the podestà's brother, who, touched by her beauty and purity, had her educated, and adopted her as his own child. On his death his sister took her to Venice, where she found a new home in the podestà's palace.

* * * * *

APULEIUS

The Golden Ass

Apuleius was born about 125 A.D., at Madaura, in Africa.
After studying at Athens, he practised as an advocate at Rome,
and then wandered about Northern Africa, lecturing on
philosophy and rhetoric. At Tripoli he was charged with having
won by witchcraft the love of a rich widow who had left him
her wealth. But he was acquitted after delivering an
interesting defence, included among his extant works. He then
settled in Carthage, where he died at an advanced age. Poor
Apuleius! His good fame was darkened by the success of an
amusing romance, "The Golden Ass," which he wrote, by way of
recreation, at Rome. He related the story of the adventures
which befell a young Greek nobleman who, by an extreme
curiosity in regard to witchcraft, got changed into a donkey.
It was an age of wild superstition and foolish credulity; and
his readers confused the author of "The Golden Ass" with the
hero of it. Apuleius was credited with a series of impossible
exploits, which he had not even invented. For his work is
merely a Latin adaptation of a lost Greek romance by Lucius of
Patras. But Apuleius deserves our gratitude for preserving a
unique specimen of the lighter literature of the ancient
Greeks, together with the beautiful folk-tale of Cupid and
Psyche.

_I.--Lucius Sets Out on His Wonderful Adventures_

I set out from Corinth in a fever of excitement and expectation, riding my horse so hard that it fell lame; so I had to do the remainder of the journey on foot. My heart was filled with joy and terror as I entered the town of Hypata.

"Here I am, at last," I cried, "in Thessaly! Thessaly, the land of magic and witchcraft, famous through the world for its marvels and enchantments!"

Carried away by my desire after strange and mystic knowledge, I gazed around with wonder and disquietude. Nothing in this marvellous city, I thought to myself, is really what it seems to be. The stones I stumbled over appeared to be living creatures petrified by magic. I fancied that the trees in the gardens and the birds that sang in their branches were men that had been transformed by Thessalian witches. The very statues seemed as if they were about to walk; every wall had ears; and I looked up into the blue, cloudless sky, expecting to hear oracles.

Entering the market place, I passed close to a noble lady who was walking with a crowd of servants in her train.

"By Hercules!" she cried. "It's Lucius!" I hung back, confused and blushing, and Byrrhena, for it was she, said to one of her companions:

"It's Salvia's boy! Isn't he the image of his modest, beautiful mother? Young, tall and fair, with just her bright, grey-blue eyes, and her alert glance. A Plutarch every bit of him! Lucius, don't you remember your kinswoman, Byrrhena? Why, I brought you up with my own hands!"

I remembered Byrrhena very well, and loved her. But I did not want to meet her just then. However, I went with her to her house, a beautiful building of fine marble, containing some exquisite statuary.

"You will stay here, my dear Lucius, won't you?" she said.

I then told her that I had come to Hypata to see Milo and his wife Pamphila. My friend Demeas of Corinth had given me a letter of introduction.

"Don't you know that Pamphila is a witch?" she cried. "Do not go near her, my child, or she will practise her wicked arts on you. It is just handsome young men like you that she enchants and destroys."

Far from being terrified by Byrrhena's warning, I was delighted with it. I longed to become an apprentice to a witch as powerful as Pamphila. With a hasty excuse I left the house and set out to find Milo. Neither he nor Pamphila was in when I called. But their maid who opened the door, was such a pretty wench that I did not regret their absence. Fotis, as she was called, was a graceful, sprightly little thing, with the loveliest hair I ever saw. I liked the way it fell in soft puffs on her neck, and rested on her neat linen tunic.

It was a case of love at first sight with both of us. But before I began to ask her about Pamphila, Milo returned. He welcomed me very warmly, and put the best room in his house at my disposal, and desired me to stay to dinner. But in spite of my ardent curiosity, I was, I must confess, rather afraid of meeting his wife. So I said that my kinswoman Byrrhena had already engaged me to dine with her.

On arriving at Byrrhena's mansion I was surprised to find that a splendid banquet had been prepared, and that all the best people in Hypata were present. We reclined on couches of ivory, covered with golden drapery, and a throng of lovely girls served us with exquisite dishes; while pretty curly-headed boys brought the wine round in goblets of gold and amber.

When the lights were brought in, the talk became freer and gayer; everybody was bent on laughing and making his neighbours laugh.

"We are, you see, preparing for the great festival to-morrow," Byrrhena said to me. "Hypata is the only city that keeps the feast of the god of laughter. You must come, and invent some pleasantry to propitiate the merriest of all deities."

"By Hercules!" I replied. "If the laughing god will only lend me inspiration to-night, I will do my best to entertain the townspeople to-morrow."

_II.--The Feast of the God of Laughter_

It was the jolliest banquet I was ever at. Even in Corinth we did not do the thing so well. It was not until I got into the open air, and set out for Milo's house, that I knew how much wine I had taken. But though I was rather unsteady on my feet, I retained my presence of mind. I reached the house, and suddenly three great burly fellows sprang up, and battered furiously at the door. They were clearly robbers of the most desperate type, and I drew my sword, and, as they came at me one by one, I plunged it swiftly into their bodies. Fotis was aroused, and opened the door, and I entered, utterly worn out by the struggle, and went at once to bed and to sleep.

Early in the morning I was awakened by a great clamour. A throng of people burst into my bedroom, and two lictors arrested me, and dragged me to the forum. But as they took me through the streets and squares, everybody turned out to see me, and the crowd grew so great that the forum was not large enough to hold the people, and I was led to the theatre.

There the lictors pushed me down through the proscenium, as though I were a victim for sacrifice, and put me in the centre of the orchestra.

"Citizens," said the prefect of the watch, "as I was going on my rounds late last night, I saw this ferocious young foreigner, sword in hand, slashing and stabbing three inoffensive creatures. When I arrived they were lying dead upon the ground. Their murderer, overwhelmed by his terrible crime, fled into a house, and hid there, hoping, no doubt, to escape in the morning. Men of Hypata, you do not allow your own fellow-townsmen to commit murder with impunity. Shall, then, this savage, brutal alien avoid the consequences of his fearful crime?"

For some time I could not reply. The suddenness of the whole thing terrified me, and it was with a voice broken with sobs that I at last managed to make my defence.

"They were robbers," I cried, "robbers of the most desperate and vilest character! I caught them breaking into the house of my friend Milo, your esteemed fellowtownsman, oh, citizens of Hypata! There were three of them--three great, rough, burly rascals, each more than a match for a mere boy like myself. Yet I managed to kill them; and I think I deserve praise at your hands, and not censure, for my public-spirited action."

Here I stopped, for I saw that all the vast multitude of people was laughing at me. And what grieved me most was to see my kinswoman Byrrhena and my host Milo among my mockers. The senior magistrate ordered the wheel and other instruments of torture to be brought forth.

"I cannot believe a mere boy like this could have slain three great strong men single-handed," he said. "He must have had accomplices, and we must torture him until he reveals the names of his partners in this most dastardly crime. But, first of all, let him look upon the bodies of the men he has foully murdered. Perhaps that will melt his hard, savage nature."

The lictors then led me to the bier, and forced me to uncover the bodies. Ye gods! The corpses were merely three inflated wine-skins, and I observed that they were cut in the very spots in which I thought I had wounded the robbers. I had, indeed, invented a pleasantry for the festival of the god of laughter! The townspeople laughed with the inextinguishable laughter of the Olympian deities. They climbed up to the roof to get a good look at me; they swarmed up the pillars; they clung to the statues; they hung from the windows at the risk of their lives; all shouting at me in wild jollity.

"Sir Lucius," the magistrate then said to me, "we are not ignorant of your dignity and your rank. The noble family to which you belong is famous throughout Greece. So do not take this pleasantry in honour of the joyful god of laughter as an insult. In return for your excellent services at this great festival, the city of Hypata has decreed that your statue shall be cast in bronze and erected in a place of honour."

By this time I had recovered somewhat of my good humour. But knowing how mercilessly I should be teased at the banquet Byrrhena wished to give in celebration of my exploits, I went quickly home with Milo, and after supping with him, retired at a very early hour to my bed-chamber.

_III.--Lucius Becomes an Ass_

In the middle of the night I heard a knock at my door. I opened it, and in came pretty Fotis, looking a picture of misery.

"I can't sleep without telling you everything," she said. "I was the cause of all the trouble that befell you to-day. As my mistress was coming from the baths yesterday, she saw a handsome young gentleman having his hair cut by a barber. Seized with a wild passion for him, she ordered me to get some of his hair. But the barber saw me and drove me away. I knew I should get a cruel whipping if I returned empty-handed. Close by was a man shaving some wine-bags of goat-skin; the hair was soft and yellow like the young gentleman's, so I took some of it to Pamphila. You know my mistress is a terrible witch, so you can guess what happened. She rose up in the night, and burnt the hair in her magic cauldron. As it burnt, the wine-bags from which it was taken felt the compulsion of the spell. They became like human beings. Rushing out into the street, they hurled themselves against the door of our house, as Pamphila expected the young gentleman would do. You came up--just a little intoxicated, eh?--and committed the horrible crime of bag-slaughter."

"Now, don't make fun of me, Fotis," I said. "This is a serious matter, this witchcraft. What is Pamphila doing to-night? I have come here to learn magic, and I am very anxious to see her practising her strange arts."

"Come, then, and look," said Fotis.

We crept to the room where Pamphila was, and peeped through a chink in the door. The witch undressed herself, and then took some boxes of ointment out of a casket, and opened one box and smeared herself with the stuff it contained. In the twinkling of an eye, feathers sprouted out of her skin, and she changed into an owl, and flew out of the window.

"She has gone after that handsome young gentleman," said Fotis. "I have to wait here all night until she returns, and then give her a lotion of aniseed and laurel-leaves to restore her to her proper shape."

"Why, my dear Fotis," I exclaimed, in intense admiration, "you know as much about witchcraft as your mistress! Come, practise on me! Get me some of that ointment and change me into a bird. Oh, how I should like to fly!"

After some hesitation she entered the room, and took a box out of the casket. I stripped myself and smeared the ointment over my body. But never a feather appeared! Every hair on me changed into a bristle; my hands turned into hoofed forefeet; a tail grew out of my backbone; my face lengthened; and I found, to my horror, that I had become an ass.

"Oh, ye gods," said Fotis, "I've taken the wrong box! But no great harm's done, dear Lucius. I know the antidote. I'll get you some roses to crunch, and you will be restored to your proper shape."

Fotis, however, dared not go at once into the garden, lest Pamphila should suddenly return and find me. So she told me to go and wait in the stable until daybreak, and then she would gather some roses for me. But when I got into the stable I wished I had waited outside. My own horse and an ass belonging to Milo conceived a strange dislike to me. They fell upon me with great fury, and bit me and kicked me, and made such a clamour that the groom came to see whatever was the matter. He found me standing on my hind legs trying to reach the garland of roses which he had placed on the shrine of the goddess Epona in the middle of the stable.

"What a sacrilegious brute!" he cried, falling upon me savagely. "Attacking the shrine of the divinity who guards over horses! I'll lame you, that I will!"

As he was belabouring me with a great cudgel, a band of fierce men armed with swords and carrying lighted torches appeared. At the sight of them the groom fled in terror.

"Help! Help! Robbers!" I heard Milo and Fotis cry.

But before the groom was able to fetch the watch, the robbers forced their way into the house, and broke open Milo's strongbox. Then they loaded me and the horse and the ass with the stolen wealth, and drove us out into the mountains. Unused to the heavy burden laid on me, I went rather slowly. This enraged the robbers, and they beat me until I was well-nigh dead. But at last I saw a sight which filled me with the wildest joy. We passed a noble country house, surrounded by a garden of sweet-smelling roses. I rushed open-mouthed upon the flowers. But just as I strained my curling lips towards them, I stopped. If I changed myself into a man the robbers would kill me, either as a wizard, or out of fear that I would inform against them! So I left the roses untouched, and in the evening we came to the cave in the mountains where the robbers dwelt, and there, to my delight, I was relieved of my grievous load.

Soon afterwards another band of robbers arrived, carrying a young and lovely maid arrayed as a bride. Her beautiful features were pale, and wet with tears, and she tore her hair and her garments. "Take this girl," said the robbers to the old woman who waited upon them, "and comfort her. Tell her she's in no danger. Her people are rich, and will soon ransom her."

Charite, for such was the name of the beautiful bride, fell weeping into one of the old women's arms.

"They tore me away from Tlepolemus," she said, "when he was about to enter my bridal chamber. Our house was decked with laurel, and the bridal-song was being sung, when a band of swordsmen entered with drawn swords, and carried me off. Now I shall never see my bridegroom again."