Massimilla Doni | Page 6

Honoré de Balzac

magnates of the Republic crowded up the steps kissed by the waters;
when its halls and gallery were full of a throng of intriguers or their
dupes; when the great banqueting-hall, filled with merry feasters, and
the upper balconies furnished with musicians, seemed to harbor all
Venice coming and going on the great staircase that rang with laughter.
The chisels of the greatest artists of many centuries had sculptured the
bronze brackets supporting long-necked or pot-bellied Chinese vases,
and the candelabra for a thousand tapers. Every country had furnished
some contribution to the splendor that decked the walls and ceilings.
But now the panels were stripped of the handsome hangings, the
melancholy ceilings were speechless and sad. No Turkey carpets, no
lustres bright with flowers, no statues, no pictures, no more joy, no
money--the great means to enjoyment! Venice, the London of the
Middle Ages, was falling stone by stone, man by man. The ominous
green weed which the sea washes and kisses at the foot of every palace,
was in the Prince's eyes, a black fringe hung by nature as an omen of
death.
And finally, a great English poet had rushed down on Venice like a
raven on a corpse, to croak out in lyric poetry--the first and last
utterance of social man--the burden of a de profundis. English poetry!
Flung in the face of the city that had given birth to Italian poetry! Poor
Venice!
Conceive, then, of the young man's amazement when roused from such
meditations by Carmagnola's cry:
"Serenissimo, the palazzo is on fire, or the old Doges have risen from
their tombs! There are lights in the windows of the upper floor!"
Prince Emilio fancied that his dream was realized by the touch of a
magic wand. It was dusk, and the old gondolier could by tying up his
gondola to the top step, help his young master to land without being
seen by the bustling servants in the palazzo, some of whom were

buzzing about the landing-place like bees at the door of a hive. Emilio
stole into the great hall, whence rose the finest flight of stairs in all
Venice, up which he lightly ran to investigate the cause of this strange
bustle.
A whole tribe of workmen were hurriedly completing the furnishing
and redecoration of the palace. The first floor, worthy of the antique
glories of Venice, displayed to Emilio's waking eyes the magnificence
of which he had just been dreaming, and the fairy had exercised
admirable taste. Splendor worthy of a parvenu sovereign was to be seen
even in the smallest details. Emilio wandered about without remark
from anybody, and surprise followed on surprise.
Curious, then, to know what was going forward on the second floor, he
went up, and found everything finished. The unknown laborers,
commissioned by a wizard to revive the marvels of the Arabian nights
in behalf of an impoverished Italian prince, were exchanging some
inferior articles of furniture brought in for the nonce. Prince Emilio
made his way into the bedroom, which smiled on him like a shell just
deserted by Venus. The room was so charmingly pretty, so daintily
smart, so full of elegant contrivance, that he straightway seated himself
in an armchair of gilt wood, in front of which a most appetizing cold
supper stood ready, and, without more ado, proceeded to eat.
"In all the world there is no one but Massimilla who would have
thought of this surprise," thought he. "She heard that I was now a
prince; Duke Cataneo is perhaps dead, and has left her his fortune; she
is twice as rich as she was; she will marry me----"
And he ate in a way that would have roused the envy of an invalid
Croesus, if he could have seen him; and he drank floods of capital port
wine.
"Now I understand the knowing little air she put on as she said, 'Till
this evening!' Perhaps she means to come and break the spell. What a
fine bed! and in the bed-place such a pretty lamp! Quite a Florentine
idea!"
There are some strongly blended natures on which extremes of joy or
of grief have a soporific effect. Now on a youth so compounded that he
could idealize his mistress to the point of ceasing to think of her as a
woman, this sudden incursion of wealth had the effect of a dose of
opium. When the Prince had drunk the whole of the bottle of port,

eaten half a fish and some portion of a French pate, he felt an
irresistible longing for bed. Perhaps he was suffering from a double
intoxication. So he pulled off the counterpane, opened the bed,
undressed in a pretty dressing-room, and lay down to meditate on
destiny.
"I forgot poor Carmagnola," said he; "but my
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