A Word Only A Word, Volume 4.

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A WORD, ONLY A WORD

By Georg Ebers

Volume 4.

CHAPTER XXI.

The admiral's ship, which bore King Philip's ambassador to Venice,
reached its destination safely, though it had encountered many severe
storms on the voyage, during which Ulrich was the only passenger, who
amid the rolling and pitching of the vessel, remained as well as an old
sailor.

But, on the other hand his peace of mind was greatly impaired, and any
one who had watched him leaning over the ship's bulwark, gazing into the
sea, or pacing up and down with restless bearing and gloomy eyes, would
scarcely have suspected that this reserved, irritable youth, who was only
too often under the dominion of melancholy moods, had won only a short
time before a noble human heart, and was on the way to the realization of
his boldest dreams, the fulfilment of his most ardent wishes.

How differently he had hoped to enter "the Paradise of Art!"

Never had he been so free, so vigorous, so rich, as in the dawn of the
day, at whose close he was to unite Isabella's life with his own--and
now--now!

He had expected to wander through Italy from place to place as
untrammelled, gay, and free as the birds in the air; he had desired to
see, admire, en joy, and after becoming familiar with all the great
artists, choose a new master among them. Sophonisba's home was to have
become his, and it had never entered his mind to limit the period of his
enjoyment and study on the sacred soil.

How differently his life must now be ordered! Until he went on board of
the ship in Valencia, the thought of calling a girl so good, sensible and
loving as Isabella his own, rejoiced and inspired him, but during the
solitary hours a sea-voyage so lavishly bestows, a strange transformation
in his feelings occurred.

The wider became the watery expanse between him and Spain, the farther
receded Isabella's memory, the less alluring and delightful grew the
thought of possessing her hand.

He now told himself that, before the fatal hour, he had rejoiced at the
anticipation of escaping her pedantic criticism, and when he looked
forward to the future and saw himself, handsome Ulrich Navarrete, whose
superior height filled the smaller Castilians with envy, walking through
the streets with his tiny wife, and perceived the smiles of the people
they met, he was seized with fierce indignation against himself and his
hard fate.

He felt fettered like the galley-slaves, whose chains rattled and
clanked, as they pulled at the oars in the ship's waist. At other times
he could not help recalling her large, beautiful, love-beaming eyes, her
soft, red lips, and yearningly confess that it would have been sweet to
hold her in his arms and kiss her, and, since he had forever lost his
Ruth, he could find no more faithful, sensible, tender wife than she.

But what should he, the student, the wandering disciple of Art, do with a
bride, a wife? The best and fairest of her sex would now have seemed to
him an impediment, a wearisome clog. The thought of being obliged to
accomplish some fixed task within a certain time, and then be subjected
to an examination, curbed his enjoyment, oppressed, angered him.

Grey mists gathered more and more densely over the sunny land, for which
he had longed with such passionate ardor, and it seemed as if in that
luckless hour, he had been faithless to the "word,"--had deprived himself
of its assistance forever.

He often felt tempted to send Coello his ducats and tell him he had been
hasty, and cherished no desire to wed his daughter; but perhaps that
would break the heart of the poor, dear little thing, who loved him so
tenderly! He would be no dishonorable ingrate, but bear the consequences
of his own recklessness.

Perhaps some miracle would happen in Italy, Art's own domain. Perhaps
the sublime goddess would again take him to her heart, and exert on him
also the power Sophonisba had so fervently praised.

The ambassador and his secretary, de Soto, thought Ulrich an unsocial
dreamer; but nevertheless, after they reached Venice, the latter invited
him to share his lodgings, for Don Juan had requested him to interest
himself in the young artist.

What could be the matter with the handsome fellow? The secretary tried
to question him, but Ulrich did not betray what troubled him, only
alluding in general terms to a great anxiety that burdened his mind.

"But the time is now coming when the poorest of the poor, the most
miserable of all forsaken mortals, cast aside their griefs!" cried de
Soto. "Day after to morrow the joyous Carnival season will begin! Hold
up your head, young man! Cast your sorrows into the Grand Canal, and
until Ash-Wednesday, imagine that heaven has fallen upon earth!"

Oh! blue sea, that washes the lagunes, oh! mast-thronged Lido, oh!
palace of the Doges, that chains the eye, as well as the backward gazing,
mind, oh! dome of St. Mark, in thy incomparable garb of gold and
paintings, oh! ye steeds and other divine works of bronze, ye noble
palaces, for which the still surface of the placid water serves as a
mirror, thou square of St. Mark, where, clad in velvet, silk and gold,
the richest and freest of all races display their magnificence, with just
pride! Thou harbor, thou forest of masts, thou countless fleet of
stately galleys, which bind one quarter of the globe to another,
inspiring terror, compelling obedience, and gaining boundless treasures
by peaceful voyages and with shining blades. Oh! thou Rialto, where gold
is stored, as wheat and rye are elsewhere;--ye proud nobles, ye fair
dames with luxuriant tresses, whose raven hue pleases ye not, and which
ye dye as bright golden as the glittering zechins ye squander with such
small, yet lavish hands! Oh! Venice, Queen of the sea, mother of
riches, throne of power, hall of fame, temple of art, who could escape
thy spell!

What wanton Spring is to the earth, thy carnival season is to thee! It
transforms the magnificence of color of the lagune-city into a dazzling
radiance, the smiles to Olympic laughter, the love-whispers to exultant
songs, the noisy, busy life of the mighty commercial city into a mad
whirlpool, which draws everything into its circle, and releases nothing
it has once seized.

De Soto urged and pushed the youth, who had already lost his mental
equipoise, into the midst of the gulf, ere he had found the right
current.

On the barges, amid the throngs in the streets, at banquets, in ball-
rooms, at the gaming-table, everywhere, the young, golden-haired,
superbly-dressed artist, who was on intimate terms with the Spanish
king's ambassador, attracted the attention of men, and the eyes,
curiosity and admiration of the women; though people as yet knew not
whence he came.

He chose the tallest and most stately of the slender dames of Venice
to lead in the dance, or through the throng of masks and citizens
intoxicated with the mirth of the carnival. Whithersoever he led the
fairest followed.

He wished to enjoy the respite before execution. To forget--to forget--
to indemnify himself for future seasons of sacrifice, dulness, self-
conquest, torment.

Poor little Isabella! Your lover sought to enjoy the sensation of
showing himself to the crowd with the stateliest woman in the company on
his arm! And you, Ulrich, how did you feel when people exclaimed behind
you: "A splendid pair! Look at that couple!"

Amid this ecstasy, he needed no helping word, neither "fortune" nor "art;
"without any magic spell he flew from pleasure to pleasure, through every
changing scene, thinking only of the present and asking no questions
about the future.

Like one possessed he plunged into passion's wild whirl. From the
embrace of beautiful arms he rushed to the gaming-table, where the ducats
he flung down soon became a pile of gold; the zechins filled his purse to
overflowing.

The quickly-won treasure melted like snow in the sun, and returned again
like stray doves to their open cote.

The works of art were only enjoyed with drunken eyes--yet, once more the
gracious word exerted its wondrous power on the misguided youth.

On Shrove-Tuesday, the ambassador took Ulrich to the great Titian.

He stood face to face with the mighty monarch of colors, listened to
gracious words from his lips, and saw the nonogenarian, whose tall figure
was scarcely bowed, receive the king's gifts.

Never, never, to the close of his existence could he forget that face!

The features were as delicately and as clearly outlined, as if cut with
an engraver's chisel from hard metal; but pallid, bloodless, untinged by
the faintest trace of color. The long, silver-white beard of the tall
venerable painter flowed in thick waves over his breast, and the eyes,
with which he scanned Ulrich, were those of a vigorous, keen-sighted man.
His voice did not sound harsh, but sad and melancholy; deep sorrow
shadowed his glance, and stamped itself upon the mouth of him, whose
thin, aged hand still ensnared the senses easily and surely with gay
symphonies of color!

The youth answered the distinguished Master's questions with trembling
lips, and when Titian invited him to share his meal, and Ulrich, seated
at the lower end of the table in the brilliant banqueting-hall, was told
by his neighbors with what great men he was permitted to eat, he felt so
timid, small, and insignificant, that he scarcely ventured to touch the
goblets and delicious viands the servants offered.

He looked and listened; distinguishing his old master's name, and hearing
him praised without stint as a portrait-painter. He was questioned about
him, and gave confused answers.

Then the guests rose.

The February sun was shining into the lofty window, where Titian seated
himself to talk more gaily than before with Paolo Cagliari, Veronese, and
other great artists and nobles.

Again Ulrich heard Moor mentioned. Then the old man, from whom the youth
had not averted his eyes for an instant, beckoned, and Cagliari called
him, saying that he, the gallant Antonio Moor's pupil, must now show what
he could do; the Master, Titian, would give him a task.

A shudder ran through his frame; cold drops of perspiration, extorted by
fear, stood on his brow.

The old man now invited him to accompany his nephew to the studio.
Daylight would last an hour longer. He might paint a Jew; no usurer nor
dealer in clothes, but one of the noble race of prophets, disciples,
apostles.

Ulrich stood before the easel.

For the first time after a long period he again called upon the "word,"
and did so fervently, with all his heart. His beloved dead, who in the
tumult of carnival mirth had vanished from his memory, again rose before
his mind, among them the doctor, who gazed rebukingly at him with his
clear, thoughtful eyes.

Like an inspiration a thought darted through the youth's brain. He could
and would paint Costa, his friend and teacher, Ruth's father.

The portrait he had drawn when a boy appeared before his memory, feature
for feature. A red pencil lay close at hand.

Sketching the outlines with a few hasty strokes, he seized the brush, and
while hurriedly guiding it and mixing the colors, he saw in fancy Costa
standing before him, asking him to paint his portrait.

Ulrich had never forgotten the mild expression of the eyes, the smile
hovering about the delicate lips, and now delineated them as well as he
could. The moments slipped by, and the portrait gained roundness and
life. The youth stepped back to see what it still needed, and once more
called upon the "word" from the inmost depths of his heart; at the same
instant the door opened, and leaning on a younger painter, Titian, with
several other artists, entered the studio.

He looked at the picture, then at Ulrich, and said with an approving
smile: "See, see! Not too much of the Jew, and a perfect apostle! A
Paul, or with longer hair and a little more youthful aspect, an admirable
St. John. Well done, well done! my son!"

Well done, well done! These words from Titian had ennobled his work;
they echoed loudly in his soul, and the measure of his bliss threatened
to overflow, when no less a personage than the famous Paolo Veronese,
invited him to come to his studio as a pupil on Saturday.

Enraptured, animated by fresh hope, he threw himself into his gondola.

Everyone had left the palace, where he lodged with de Soto. Who would
remain at home on the evening of Shrove-Tuesday?

The lonely rooms grew too confined for him.

Quiet days would begin early the next morning, and on Saturday a new,
fruitful life in the service of the only true word, Art, divine Art,
would commence for him. He would enjoy this one more evening of pleasure,
this night of joy; drain it to the dregs. He fancied he had won a
right that day to taste every bliss earth could give.

Torches, pitch-pans and lamps made the square of St. Mark's as bright as
day, and the maskers crowded upon its smooth pavement as if it were the
floor of an immense ball-room.

Intoxicating music, loud laughter, low, tender whispers, sweet odors from
the floating tresses of fair women bewildered Ulrich's senses, already
confused by success and joy. He boldly accosted every one, and if he
suspected that a fair face was concealed under a mask, drew nearer,
touched the strings of a lute, that hung by a purple ribbon round his
neck, and in the notes of a tender song besought love.

Many a wave of the fan rewarded, many an angry glance from men's dark
eyes rebuked the bold wooer. A magnificent woman of queenly height now
passed, leaning on the arm of a richly-dressed cavalier.

Was not that the fair Claudia, who a short time before had lost enormous
sums at the gaming-table in the name of the rich Grimani, and who had
invited Ulrich to visit her later, during Lent?

It was, he could not be mistaken, and now followed the pair like a
shadow, growing bolder and bolder the more angrily the cavalier rebuffed
him with wrathful glances and harsh words; for the lady did not cease to
signify that she recognized him and enjoyed his playing. But the
nobleman was not disposed to endure this offensive sport. Pausing in the
middle of the square, he released his arm with a contemptuous gesture,
saying: "The lute-player, or I, my fair one; you can decide----"

The Venetian laughed loudly, laid her hand on Ulrich's arm and said: "The
rest of the Shrove-Tuesday night shall be yours, my merry singer."

Ulrich joined in her gayety, and taking the lute from his neck, offered
it to the cavalier, with a defiant gesture, exclaiming:

"It's at your disposal, Mask; we have changed parts. But please hold it
firmer than you held your lady." High play went on in the gaming hall;
Claudia was lucky with the artist's gold.

At midnight the banker laid down the cards. It was Ash-Wednesday, the
hall must be cleared; the quiet Lenten season had begun.

The players withdrew into the adjoining rooms, among them the much-envied
couple.

Claudia threw herself upon a couch; Ulrich left her to procure a gondola.

As soon as he was gone, she was surrounded by a motley throng of suitors.

How the beautiful woman's dark eyes sparkled, how the gems on her full
neck and dazzling arms glittered, how readily she uttered a witty
repartee to each gay sally.

"Claudia unaccompanied!" cried a young noble. "The strangest sight at
this remarkable carnival!"

"I am fasting," she answered gaily; "and now that I long for meagre food,
you come! What a lucky chance!"

"Heavy Grimani has also become a very light man, with your assistance."

"That's why he flew away. Suppose you follow him?"

"Gladly, gladly, if you will accompany me."

"Excuse me to-day; there comes my knight."

Ulrich had remained absent a long time, but Claudia had not noticed it.
Now he bowed to the gentlemen, offered her his arm, and as they descended
the staircase, whispered: "The mask who escorted you just now detained
me;--and there....see, they are picking him up down there in the court-
yard.--He attacked me...."

"You have--you...."

"'They came to his assistance immediately. He barred my way with his
unsheathed blade."

Claudia hastily drew her hand from the artist's arm, exclaiming in a low,
anxious tone: "Go, go, unhappy man, whoever you may be! It was Luigi
Grimani; it was a Grimani! You are lost, if they find you. Go, if you
love your life, go at once!"

So ended the Shrove-Tuesday, which had begun so gloriously for the young
artist. Titian's "well done" no longer sounded cheerfully in his ears,
the "go, go," of the venal woman echoed all the more loudly.

De Soto was waiting for him, to repeat to him the high praise he had
heard bestowed upon his art-test at Titian's; but Ulrich heard nothing,
for he gave the secretary no time to speak, and the latter could only
echo the beautiful Claudia's "go, go!" and then smooth the way for his
flight.

When the morning of Ash-Wednesday dawned cool and misty, Venice lay
behind the young artist. Unpursued, but without finding rest or
satisfaction, he went to Parma, Bologna, Pisa, Florence.

Grimani's death burdened his conscience but lightly. Duelling was a
battle in miniature, to kill one's foe no crime, but a victory. Far
different anxieties tortured him.

Venice, whither the "word" had led him, from which he had hoped and
expected everything, was lost to him, and with it Titian's favor and
Cagliari's instruction.

He began to doubt himself, his future, the sublime word and its magic
spell. The greater the works which the traveller's eyes beheld, the more
insignificant he felt, the more pitiful his own powers, his own skill
appeared.

"Draw, draw!" advised every master to whom he applied, as soon as he had
seen his work. The great men, to whom he offered himself as a pupil,
required years of persevering study. But his time was limited, for the
misguided youth's faithful German heart held firmly to one resolve; he
must present himself to Coello at the end of the appointed time. The
happiness of his life was forfeited, but no one should obtain the right
to call him faithless to his word, or a scoundrel.

In Florence he heard Sebastiano Filippi--who had been a pupil of Michael
Angelo-praised as a good drawer; so he sought him in Ferrara and found
him ready to teach him what he still lacked. But the works of the new
master did not please him. The youth, accustomed to Moor's wonderful
clearness, Titian's brilliant hues, found Filippi's pictures indistinct,
as if veiled by grey mists. Yet he forced himself to remain with him for
months, for he was really remarkably skilful in drawing, and his studio
never lacked nude models; he needed them for the preliminary studies for
his "Day of Judgment."

Without satisfaction, without pleasure in the wearisome work, without
love for the sickly master, who held aloof from any social intercourse
with him when the hours of labor were over, he felt discontented, bored,
disenchanted.

In the evening he sought diversion at the gaming-table, and fortune
favored him here as it had done in Venice. His purse overflowed with
zechins; but with the red gold, Art withdrew from him her powerful ally,
necessity, the pressing need of gaining a livelihood by the exertion of
his own strength.

He spent the hours appointed for study like a careless lover, and worked
without inclination, without pleasure, without ardor, yet with visible
increase of skill.

In gambling he forgot what tortured him, it stirred his blood, dispelled
weariness; the gold was nothing to him.

The lion's share of his gains he loaned to broken gamblers, without
expectation of return, gave to starving artists, or flung with lavish
hand to beggars.

So the months in Ferrara glided by, and when the allotted time was over,
he took leave of Sebastiano Filippi without regret. He returned by sea
to Spain, and arrived in Madrid richer than he had gone away, but with
impoverished confidence in his own powers, and doubting the omnipotence
of Art.

CHAPTER XXII.

Ulrich again stood before the Alcazar, and recalled the hour when, a poor
lad, just escaped from prison, he had been harshly rebuffed by the same
porter, who now humbly saluted the young gentleman attired in costly
velvet.

And yet how gladly he would have crossed this threshold poor as in those
days, but free and with a soul full of enthusiasm and hope; how joyfully
he would have effaced from his life the years that lay between that time
and the present.

He dreaded meeting the Coellos; nothing but honor urged him to present
himself to them.

Yes--and if the old man rejected him?--so much the better!

The old cheerful confusion reigned in the studio. He had a long time to
wait there, and then heard through several doors Senora Petra's scolding
voice and her husband's angry replies.

At last Coello came to him and after greeting him, first formally, then
cordially, and enquiring about his health and experiences, he shrugged
his shoulders, saying:

"My wife does not wish you to see Isabella again before the trial. You
must show what you can do, of course; but I..... you look well and
apparently have collected reales. Or is it true," and he moved his hand
as if shaking a dice-box. "He who wins is a good fellow, but we want no
more to do with such people here! You find me the same as of old, and
you have returned at the right time, that is something. De Soto has told
me about your quarrel in Venice. The great masters were pleased with you
and this, you Hotspur, you forfeited! Ferrara for Venice! A poor
exchange. Filippi--understands drawing; but otherwise.... Michael
Angelo's pupil! Does he still write on his back? Every monk is God's
servant, but in how few does the Lord dwell! What have you drawn with
Sebastiano?"

Ulrich answered these questions in a subdued tone; and Coello listened
with only partial attention, for he heard his wife telling the duenna
Catalina in an adjoining room what she thought of her husband's conduct.
She did so very loudly, for she wished to be overheard by him and Ulrich.
But she was not to obtain her purpose, for Coello suddenly interrupted
the returned travellers story, saying:

"This is getting beyond endurance. If she does her utmost, you shall see
Isabella. A welcome, a grasp of the hand, nothing more. Poor young
lovers! If only it did not require such a confounded number of things to
live....Well, we will see!"

As soon as the artist had entered the adjoining room, a new and more
violent quarrel arose there, but, though Senora Petra finally called a
fainting-fit to her aid, her husband remained firm, and at last returned
to the studio with Isabella.

Ulrich had awaited her, as a criminal expects his sentence. Now she
stood before him led by her father's hand-and he, he struck his forehead
with his fist, closed his eyes and opened them again to look at her--to
gaze as if he beheld a wondrous apparition. Then feeling as if he should
die of shame, grief, and joyful surprise, he stood spellbound, and knew
not what to do, save to extend both hands to her, or what to say, save
I....I--I," then with a sudden change of tone exclaimed like a madman:

"You don't know! I am not.... Give me time, master. Here, here, girl,
you must, you shall, all must not be over!"

He had opened his arms wide, and now hastily approached her with the
eager look of the gambler, who has staked his last penny on a card.

Coello's daughter did not obey.

She was no longer little, unassuming Belita; here stood no child, but a
beautiful, blooming maiden. In eighteen months her figure had gained
height; anxious yearning and constant contention with her mother had
wasted her superabundance of flesh; her face had become oval, her bearing
self-possessed. Her large, clear eyes now showed their full beauty, her
half-developed features had acquired exquisite symmetry, and her raven-
black hair floated, like a shining ornament, around her pale, charming
face.

"Happy will be the man, who is permitted to call this woman his own!"
cried a voice in the youth's breast, but another voice whispered "Lost,
lost, forfeited, trifled away!"

Why did she not obey his call? Why did she not rush into his open arms?
Why, why?

He clenched his fists, bit his lips, for she did not stir, except to
press closely to her father's side.

This handsome, splendidly-dressed gentleman, with the pointed beard,
deep-set eyes, and stern, gloomy gaze, was an entirely different person
from the gay enthusiastic follower of art, for whom her awakening heart
had first throbbed more quickly; this was not the future master, who
stood before her mind as a glorious favorite of fortune and the muse,
transfigured by joyous creation and lofty success--this defiant giant
did not look like an artist. No, no; yonder man no longer resembled the
Ulrich, to whom, in the happiest hour of her life, she had so willingly,
almost too willingly, offered her pure lips.

Isabella's young heart contracted with a chill, yet she saw that he
longed for her; she knew, could not deny, that she had bound herself to
him body and soul, and yet--yet, she would so gladly have loved him.

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