SOON after these things a little cloud began to arise in the serene firmament of Lady Erminia’s home life. Hitherto no son had ever given a widowed mother less uneasiness than Raymond had given his. But now a change was coming over him. It may have been the restlessness of his age. The boy was passing into the youth, fresh impulses were stirring his blood, setting “the old cheap joys” of childhood “in the scorned dust;” and with a new sense of strength there came a feverish desire to use it. He began to be irritable, sometimes even a little overbearing, in his intercourse with his mother, and fitful and quarrelsome amongst his young associates at the academy; though as yet such moods were but occasional, and his naturally sweet temper and genial disposition frequently asserted themselves, and won the victory.
Theodore’s influence saved him from some outbreaks; though it is doubtful whether it was good for him to be the confidant of a young man so greatly his senior, and in ability the acknowledged phœnix of the school. But his most pressing danger arose from the indulgence of a quite natural and generous impulse.
The death of the aged Doge had created such excitement in Venice, and awakened so strong a feeling of indignation against the ruling faction, that the Council of Ten found it advisable to forbid all discussion of the affair Foscari “on pain of death.” Yet Raymond, secure in his boyish frankness and fearlessness of consequences, persisted in discussing it, in season and out of season, at school and at home. He could not pass one of the Loridani, or their partizans, without a taunting allusion to it. He brought it even into his themes and exercitations, a weakness of which a Grecian of that day, bound to care much more for the age of Pericles than for his own, ought to have been ashamed.
This was neither prudent nor sale under the rule of the jealous Venetian Oligarchy. The State Inquisition had often taken note of smaller matters. Moreover, the Venetian institution of the hired bravo was beginning oven then to be useful to the unscrupulous, and terrible to the timid.
“You think,” Raymond’s mother remonstrated anxiously, “that because of your years you can say what you please with impunity. Do not flatter yourself. When the tongue is old enough to make mischief, the Ten may think the load old enough to answer for it. And even though the Signory might scorn your impertinences, the Loridani will not.”
Of course she never seriously believed that the government would proceed to extremities against so youthful an offender; but she took up a strong position in order the more effectually to frighten her son, a manœuvre which succeeded in this case no better than it usually does.
One day Raymond came rather late into the lecture hall of the academy, where an assembly of boys and young men were sitting in respectful silence under the infliction of a dissertation on the Greek particles―most things being taught by lectures in days when books were scarce and costly. He seated himself as usual beside Benedetto, and taking out his tablets as if to make notes of the lesson, wrote down, “I have seen her again.”
“In a dream,” muttered Theodore, and encouraged no more communications until the school had dispersed.
Then Raymond told him eagerly, “I have found out who she is at last; ―she is of the first quality. Her name is Viola. Frati is the surname by which her grandfather is known here, but it is only assumed to hide one far more illustrious. A Roman name, Theodore, not a Florentine, as I fancied. It is whispered that, in fact, she is no other than the orphan child of―”
Theodore, without ceremony, placed his hand on his friend’s lips. “Are you mad?” he said angrily; “will you risk driving that brave man, and that helpless girl, forth from their last refuge― sick and almost dying as he is― and flinging him, as a victim, into the jaws of the Pope? Destroy his incognito, and you make it impossible for the Ten to convive any longer at his stay here, as they are doing now, from motives of humanity, and perhaps too from a little jealousy of his Holiness.”
“I meant no harm,” said Raymond, abashed. “Only I thought you would like to know who she is.”
“Thank you!” said Theodore, briefly; and being a youth of uncommon reticence, he did not add, as he might have done, “I knew it all, and more, long ago.”
When Raymond came home that evening, his mother received him with a smile on her lips, but with eyes heavy and red with weeping. She told him nothing until he had partaken of his frugal evening meal, which he dispatched quickly and in silence, aware from her manner that something of importance had transpired during his absence.
Then she said abruptly, for she had no heart for delay or concealment, “Raymond, you are to go to Rome immediately.”
“To Rome, mother? that is joyful news indeed,” cried Raymond, almost springing from his seat. “But how? When was it settled? Who has arranged it all for us, and so quickly?”
“Messer Benedetto has been here today. I expected his clerk or messenger, for our moneys are due, and he has never let the quarter-day pass yet; but he came himself. When our business was finished, he inquired kindly for you, praised your abilities and your progress, asked if it were not your intention to go soon to Rome for the completion of your studies, and spoke of the new Pope’s signal partiality. for noble Greek youths, and great kindness to them. I said you were still very young. He answered significantly, that you were a man in understanding, though a boy in years. I spoke of next year―and then, Raymond, the truth came out. He recommended that you should go at once, and offered, most obligingly, any advances of money that might be necessary or convenient, with letters of credit upon Rome, and introductions that might be useful to you. I thanked him, but objected to hasty arrangements; and, in fact, showed that I was at a loss to understand the meaning of this insistence. And then he said plainly, that the air of Venice did not agree with you.”
This was the formula, at once courteous and peremptory, by which the Inquisitors were wont privately to intimate to a foreigner that his further residence in the Republic was undesirable.
So after all they had condescended to notice Raymond’s boyish bravado! He was half flattered, half frightened at the perilous distinction.
His mother went on― “Benedetto wished to spar& us as far as possible. Therefore he charged himself with the task of privately communicating the opinion of their Excellencies to me, merely assuring them that the hint should be duly given, and taken.”
“Then we go next week―really next week?”
“You go.”
Raymond’s wondering eyes sought his mother’s face. Its expression of sorrowful determination explained the ominous word; and a torrent of inquiry, expostulation, entreaty, broke from his young eager lips. No one should part him from his mother. He would not listen to such a proposition, and he ought not. They should stay or go together; she should come with him to Rome, or he would stay in Venice, and let the Council of Ten and the Inquisitors do their worst.
“Be still and listen to me, my son,” said the Lady Erminia, when the storm had spent itself a little. “Were I to go with thee to Rome, it would take all our slender resources, and more, to enable me to maintain a fitting position there, as thy noble father’s widow and thy mother. I must either beggar or disgrace thee. With the help of our Lady and the saints, I will do neither. But I can furnish thee forth―through the kindness of Benedetto, and the sale of the jewels that remain to us―after such a fashion that no blush need veil thy face amidst Orsinis and Colonnas at the court of the Pope. They say his Holiness is a patron of lemming, and thou art learned for thy years. Use thy opportunities well; push thy fortunes; remember who thou art―the heir to noble memories and a noble name, but the child of a ruined house, who has to be the architect of his own fortunes. ―What! weeping at thy age? I am ashamed of thee, child. Nay, I will not hear another word. Understand at once, that it is simply waste of breath to seek to change my determination. I love thee too well to listen to thee now. The thing is settled, and thou wilt thank me for it hereafter. I will pray for thee here, and do thou work for me and for thyself in Rome. Of course Manuel goes with thee. One servant at least is indispensable. Now fetch me thy gold and silver buckles, thy laces, and thy ribbons. I must see what there is to keep and what to buy.”
Raymond, vanquished by his mother’s strength of will, went into the next room to obey her, and to hide his tears―tears for which her shame was greatly misplaced. Had he quietly consented to her sacrifice, she might rather have blushed for him. But she had no relenting thoughts― no compassion for her own loneliness and desolation when the light of her eyes should be gone from her. She only pondered how, in the absence of Raymond and Manuel, she could live on a trust and a slice of watermelon, and send him the more, that he might go bravely amongst his young companions in the academy, and at the court of his Holiness. Pity that a course of action may be at the same time nobly unselfish and sadly mistaken!
An unexpected ally appeared, however, on Raymond’s side of the controversy. The artist Giacomo knocked at the door requesting admittance. Having saluted the lady with great reverence, and at her invitation taken a seat, he explained the cause of his coming.
“Messer Benedetto,” he said, “gave me a commission today to select from the glass works some rare and costly piece of crystal as a present to one of the cardinals whom he wishes to oblige. He said that your Excellency intended honoring his gift, and doubling its value by being its bearer.”
“Yes, Master Giacomo, he spoke to me also on the subject. My son will bear it, and is glad to oblige Messer Benedetto. And you―is there any matter in which he could serve you in the capital of the world? I know him well enough to promise for him, if there be.”
Giacomo made suitable acknowledgments. “Since you are so condescending, noble lady,” he answered, “I will tell you of a matter that lies heavy on my heart, trusting to your discretion and to that of my young lord, your son. I must presume on your Excellency’s goodness so far as to begin with a few personal details. My father was a Genoese, but my mother was a daughter of Venice, and a member of one of the families who guard jealously from generation to generation the secrets of our art―the art of working in glass and crystal. I had consequently the much-valued right of initiation, but I neither liked the work, nor prospered in it. It was far otherwise with my young brother, to whom I filled a father’s place, as we were early left orphans.
He was soon known as the most promising apprentice of his time, and when he grew older he signalized himself by two or three inventions, adding brilliancy to the colors which are our pride and glory. But―I scarce know how―he awakened the jealousy of his fellow-craftsmen, and was at, length accused of what is, in their eyes, the most unpardonable of all sins divulging the secrets of the craft. He fled, and, unhappily, without bidding me, farewell, or informing me of his destination. From that day to this have I never heard from him, or of him, and I know not whether he be living or dead. My father’s name was Salvi, but my mother was a Morgagna, of a family well known here amongst the workers in glass. My brother may have adopted either name, or indeed any other that may have taken his fancy or suited his interest. Wherever he is―if he lives―he no doubt maintains himself by the art of which he is a master. It is just possible that the new Pope, who is said to be a prince of much taste, and a connoisseur in articles of vertu, and who is about to furnish a splendid residence for himself, might attract to his service a craftsman so skilled in a rare and difficult art. If therefore, your Excellency would make a few inquiries in Rome, you would lay your servant under the deepest obligation.”
The Lady Erminia promised readily for her son, only stipulating that Giacomo should furnish him with the information necessary for identifying the wanderer.
This the painter promised gratefully, adding however, “Do not let my young lord give himself trouble, for while I would neglect no chance that offers, I think my brother more likely to be found in the South of France than in any part of Italy. I have lately heard of a company of glassworkers established there by the king in the mountains of Foix. Messer Benedetto, always kind and helpful, has promised to set inquiries on foot for me in that quarter. It only remains for me to ask what day your Excellency proposes to set out, that I may have the vase for his Eminence duly prepared and packed.”
“My son and his servant propose leaving this next Wednesday, the feast of St. Perpetua.”
“If your Excellency follows them later, and more leisurely, it seems better to me to entrust an article so fragile and costly to the care of your escort.”
“I am not going at all, Giacomo.”
“Indeed!” The painter looked surprised, but said no more.
“My son will do better without me, and for me the journey would be costly and laborious.” The last word was a mere blind. She thought nothing of toil where Raymond’s interests were concerned; but she was reciting a lesson, saying first to Giacomo what she meant to say to everyone on the subject.
Those who hold habitual converse with “things not seen” have sometimes an insight even into things seen which goes beyond worldly wisdom. They think clearly, and they tell what they think with calm and modest fearlessness. It appeared to the humble artist that the great lady before him was doing wrong, and he spared not to tell her so.
“Most noble lady,” he said, with intense earnestness, “do you know what Rome is? The capital of the world it is true; but also the wickedest city in it. The residence of his Holiness; but the home also of spendthrifts, beggars, assassins. A city where the turbulent nobles are forever flying at each other’s throats, and making their castles dens of rapine, licentiousness, and lawlessness.”
“My good friend, you speak strongly. What of the Church? Does his Holiness, do their Eminences the Cardinals count for nothing?”
Giacomo mechanically looked about him for his tools: and not finding them seemed a little disconcerted. It would have been a great relief to his feelings at this stage of the discussion to saw vigorously through a piece of wood.
“I have nothing to say of the Church,” he answered; “the world of course would be worse without it. I believe his Holiness, our new Pope, is a magnificent gentleman―learned, courteous, liberal. If Greek MSS.―if fair frescoes, and bas-reliefs―if pillars of marble and Corinthian capitals could make sinful men pure, Rome might become the city of the saints once more. But they cannot. One may have all these, and prize them, and love to look on them, and yet be no nearer God and Heaven. One may keep all the rules of grammar and rhetoric and break the Ten Commandments. Little comfort to you, lady, should your noble and gifted son grow to manhood a phœnix of learning and ability, a favorite of Popes and princes―and lose his soul hereafter.”
The Grecian lady quailed somewhat before these bold words. Her conscience was not quite at rest. The question often arose within her, had she imperiled her child’s soul by inducing him to join the Latin Church? So direly had formalism eaten into her heart that the sin of partaking of an unleavened wafer seemed far greater in her eyes than the sin of forgetting God, and living without reference to His will and word. Yet it was something that she believed in the loss of the soul as a terrible possibility; though she was not quite certain that it would outweigh the gain of the whole world, and was in midnight darkness as to how souls are lost―or saved.
She said, with a humility not very usual to her, “I know but little―I may make mistakes. Everyone does sometimes. But I am doing the best I can for my son. After all, were I to remain by his side, there is little in which I could change or influence him. The child must grow into the man. What manner of man God and the saints know, and they alone. Chance and fate must do the rest.”
“Chance and fate, noble lady!” Giacomo repeated, with a mournful shake of the head. After a pause he added, “Your Excellency’s words make me think of the Aventurine, which is one of the noblest triumphs of the glass workers’ art.”
“I never remember to have seen it.”
“It is rare and precious; because exceeding costly. Certain chemicals of great price and difficult to obtain are combined with marvelous care and skill, but I know neither what they are, nor how they are compounded, for those who understand the secret guard it as their lives. Yet all their art and all their pains cannot give them an assured result. Their treasure must be placed in a furnace hermetically sealed, and left there for hours unseen―untouched. Fate and chance must do their work in silence and in darkness. When the appointed hour has struck, the workman breaks the seal with a beating heart. It is an even chance whether he find a dull brown masa, fit only to be trodden under foot in a pavement of mosaic, or whether the glitter of ten thousand jewels shines upon his ravished sight, as the crowning glory of his art stands perfected before him. Something after this fashion, lady, as it seems to me, are you dealing with your noble and gifted son―your priceless treasure―sending him alone into the furnace of temptation, into that great city where the world’s fiery heart beats and burns evermore.”
The lady mused a space. Then she said, “I understand you. Be it so; I must take the chance. But you are a good man, Master Giacomo. Pray for my son.”
On the eve of Raymond’s departure, Giacomo, with unwonted excitement and elation of manner, accosted Manuel, and entreated him to induce his lady and her son to honor the glassworks with a brief visit, that they might see the present intended for the cardinal, before it was packed with the care and skill that only professional hands could be trusted to bestow.
Manuel doubted they could spare the time, and rather made light of the matter, as he did, on principle, of all the arts and manufactures upon which the Latina prided themselves. But as the painter begged for so trifling a favor with an earnestness which to him seemed quite unaccountable, he promised to mention the subject to his mistress. Somewhat to his surprise, she consented at once, and Raymond was delighted to accompany her.
With deep respect of manner, but without uttering a word, Giacomo escorted them to the room where the craftsmen were proudly exhibiting their masterpiece. The magnificent vase of crystal shone and glittered in the sunbeams, as if all the treasures of the mines of Golconda had been heaped together into one dazzling structure by some magic of the genii. Yet it was not its splendor so much as its artistic beauty that would have given it value in the trained eye of a connoisseur. The stem, the handles, the curiously wrought ornaments round the base and sides, seemed formed out of some rare precious stone, or rather out of some mixture of many jewels, fused into a mass of surpassing luster and brilliancy.
“That is Aventurine,” said Giacomo in a whisper to the Lady Erminia, while Raymond was frankly expressing his wonder and delight.
“Well has it prospered,” returned the Grecian lady, while a smile, rare with her, kindled her sorrowful eyes and relaxed the lines of her anxious face.
“Noble lady, I take it for an augury,” Giacomo answered, as his eyes turned from the glittering crystal to the graceful figure of the boy who was standing before it rapt in admiration. He did not add, as he might have done, that all the time the Aventurine was in the furnace, he had knelt in prayer for a successful issue.
“I, too, accept the augury,” the Lady Erminia answered. “May such be the result of my Aventurine!”
“Amen, noble lady. Not chance or fate, but God, grant thee the desire of thy heart.”