



Produced by Charles Bowen, from scans obtained from The
Internet Archive.





Transcriber's notes:
1. This book is derived from the Web Archive,
http://www.archive.org/details/weirdtales05bealgoog.

2. The oe diphthong is represented by [oe].

3. Footnote references to volume I of this work are incorporated in the
note in order to provide easier reading.







                              WEIRD TALES



                                   BY
                           E. T. W. HOFFMANN



                   A NEW TRANSLATION FROM THE GERMAN



                       WITH A BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR



                         By J. T. BEALBY, B.A.
         FORMERLY SCHOLAR OF CORPUS CHRISTI COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE



                             IN TWO VOLUMES
                                VOL. II.



                                NEW YORK
                        CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
                                  1885






                                 TROW'S
                   PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY,
                                NEW YORK.




                         CONTENTS OF VOLUME II.


                                                              PAGE
THE DOGE AND DOGESS,

MASTER MARTIN THE COOPER,

MADEMOISELLE DE SCUDERI,

GAMBLER'S LUCK,

MASTER JOHANNES WACHT,

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES,




                          THE DOGE AND DOGESS[1]


This was the title that distinguished in the art-catalogue of the works
exhibited by the Berlin Academy of Arts in September, 1816, a picture
which came from the brush of the skilful clever Associate of the
Academy, C. Kolbe.[2] There was such a peculiar charm in the piece that
it attracted all observers. A Doge, richly and magnificently dressed,
and a Dogess at his side, as richly adorned with jewellery, are
stepping out on to a balustered balcony; _he_ is an old man, with a
grey beard and rusty red face, his features indicating a peculiar
blending of expressions, now revealing strength, now weakness, again
pride and arrogance, and again pure good-nature; _she_ is a young
woman, with a far-away look of yearning sadness and dreamy aspiration
not only in her eyes but also in her general bearing. Behind them is an
elderly lady and a man holding an open sun-shade. At one end of the
balcony is a young man blowing a conch-shaped horn, whilst in front of
it a richly decorated gondola, bearing the Venetian flag and having two
gondoliers, is rocking on the sea. In the background stretches the sea
itself studded with hundreds and hundreds of sails, whilst the towers
and palaces of magnificent Venice are seen rising out of its waves. To
the left is Saint Mark's, to the right, more in the front, San Giorgio
Maggiore. The following words were cut in the golden frame of the
picture.

            Ah! senza amare,
            Andare sul mare
            Col sposo del mare,
            Non puo consolare.

            To go on the sea
            With the spouse of the sea,
            When loveless I be,
            Is no comfort to me.

One day there arose before this picture a fruitless altercation as to
whether the artist really intended it for anything more than a mere
picture, that is, the temporary situation, sufficiently indicated by
the verse, of a decrepit old man who with all his splendour and
magnificence is unable to satisfy the desires of a heart filled with
yearning aspirations, or whether he intended to represent an actual
historical event. One after the other the visitors left the place,
tired of the discussion, so that at length there were only two men
left, both very good friends to the noble art of painting. "I can't
understand," said one of them, "how people can spoil all their
enjoyment by eternally hunting after some jejune interpretation or
explanation. Independently of the fact that I have a pretty accurate
notion of what the relations in life between this Doge and Dogess were,
I am more particularly struck by the subdued richness and power that
characterises the picture as a whole. Look at this flag with the winged
lions, how they flutter in the breeze as if they swayed the world. O
beautiful Venice!" He began to recite Turandot's[3] riddle of Lion of
the Adriatic, "_Dimmi, qual sia quella terribil fera_," &c. He had
hardly come to the end when a sonorous masculine voice broke in with
Calaf's[4] solution, "_Tu quadrupede fera_," &c. Unobserved by the
friends, a man of tall and noble appearance, his grey mantle thrown
picturesquely across his shoulder, had taken up a position behind them,
and was examining the picture with sparkling eyes. They got into
conversation, and the stranger said almost in atone of solemnity, "It
is indeed a singular mystery, how a picture often arises in the mind of
an artist, the figures of which, previously indistinguishable,
incorporate mist driving about in empty space, first seem to shape
themselves into vitality in his mind, and there seem to find their
home. Suddenly the picture connects itself with the past, or even with
the future, representing something that has really happened or that
will happen. Perhaps it was not known to Kolbe himself that the persons
he was representing in this picture are none other than the Doge Marino
Falieri[5] and his lady Annunciata."

The stranger paused, but the two friends urgently entreated him to
solve for them this riddle as he had solved that of the Lion of the
Adriatic. Whereupon he replied, "If you have patience, my inquisitive
sirs, I will at once explain the picture to you by telling you
Falieri's history. But have you patience? I shall be very
circumstantial, for I cannot speak otherwise of things which stand so
life-like before my eyes that I seem to have seen them myself. And that
may very well be the case, for all historians--amongst whom I happen to
be one--are properly a kind of talking ghost of past ages."

The friends accompanied the stranger into a retired room, when, without
further preamble, he began as follows:--

It is now a long time ago, and if I mistake not, it was in the month of
August, 1354, that the valiant Genoese captain, Paganino Doria[6] by
name, utterly routed the Venetians and took their town of Parenzo. And
his well-manned galleys were now cruising backwards and forwards in the
Lagune, close in front of Venice, like ravenous beasts of prey which,
goaded by hunger, roam restlessly up and down spying out where they may
most safely pounce upon their victims; and both people and seignory
were panic-stricken with fear. All the male population, liable to
military service, and everybody who could lift an arm, flew to their
weapons or seized an oar. The harbour of Saint Nicholas was the
gathering-place for the bands. Ships and trees were sunk, and chains
riveted to chains, to lock the harbour-mouth against the enemy. Whilst
there was heard the rattle of arms and the wild tumult of preparation,
and whilst the ponderous masses thundered down into the foaming sea, on
the Rialto the agents of the seignory were wiping the cold sweat from
their pale brows, and with troubled countenances and hoarse voices
offering almost fabulous percentage for ready money, for the straitened
republic was in want of this necessary also. Moreover, it was
determined by the inscrutable decree of Providence that just at this
period of extreme distress and anxiety, the faithful shepherd should be
taken away from his troubled flock. Completely borne down by the burden
of the public calamity, the Doge Andrea Dandolo[7] died; the people
called him the "dear good count" (_il caro contino_), because he was
always cordial and kind, and never crossed Saint Mark's Square without
speaking a word of comfort to those in need of good advice, or giving a
few sequins[8] to those who were in want of money. And as every blow is
wont to fall with double sharpness upon those who are discouraged by
misfortune, when at other times they would hardly have felt it at all,
so now, when the people heard the bells of Saint Mark's proclaim in
solemn muffled tones the death of their Duke, they were utterly undone
with sorrow and grief. Their support, their hope, was now gone, and
they would have to bend their necks to the Genoese yoke, they cried, in
despite of the fact that Dandolo's loss did not seem to have any very
counteractive effect upon the progress that was being made with all
necessary warlike preparations. The "dear good count" had loved to live
in peace and quietness, preferring to follow the wondrous courses of
the stars rather than the problematical complications of state policy;
he understood how to arrange a procession on Easter Day better than how
to lead an army.

The object now was to elect a Doge who, endowed at one and the same
time with the valour and genius of a war captain, and with skill in
statecraft, should save Venice, now tottering on her foundations, from
the threatening power of her bold and ever-bolder enemy. But when the
senators assembled there was none but what had a gloomy face, hopeless
looks, and head bent earthwards and resting on his supporting hand.
Where were they to find a man who could seize the unguided helm and
direct the bark of the state aright? At last the oldest of the
councillors, called Marino Bodoeri, lifted up his voice and said, "You
will not find him here around us, or amongst us; direct your eyes to
Avignon, upon Marino Falieri, whom we sent to congratulate Pope
Innocent[9] on his elevation to the Papal dignity; he can find better
work to do now; he's the man for us; let us choose him Doge to stem
this current of adversity. You will urge by way of objection that he is
now almost eighty years old, that his hair and beard are white as
silver, that his blithe appearance, fiery eye, and the deep red of his
nose and cheeks are to be ascribed, as his traducers maintain, to good
Cyprus wine rather than to energy of character; but heed not that.
Remember what conspicuous bravery this Marino Falieri showed as admiral
of the fleet in the Black Sea, and bear in mind the great services
which prevailed with the Procurators of Saint Mark to invest this
Falieri with the rich countship of Valdemarino." Thus highly did
Bodoeri extol Falieri's virtues; and he had a ready answer for all
objections, so that at length all voices were unanimous in electing
Falieri. Several, however, still continued to allude to his hot,
passionate temper, his ambition, and his self-will; but they were met
with the reply: "And it is exactly because all these have gone from the
old man, that we choose the _grey-beard_ Falieri and not the _youth_
Falieri." And these censuring voices were completely silenced when the
people, learning upon whom the choice had fallen, greeted it with the
loudest and most extravagant demonstrations of delight. Do we not know
that in such dangerous times, in times of such tension and unrest, any
resolution that really is a resolution is accepted as an inspiration
from Heaven? Thus it came to pass that the "dear good count" and all
his gentleness and piety were forgotten, and every one cried, "By Saint
Mark, this Marino ought long ago to have been our Doge, and then we
should not have yon arrogant Doria before our very doors." And crippled
soldiers painfully lifted up their wounded arms and cried, "That is
Falieri who beat the Morbassan[10]--the valiant captain whose
victorious banners waved in the Black Sea." Wherever a knot of people
gathered, there was one amongst them telling of Falieri's heroic deeds;
and, as though Doria were already defeated, the air rang with wild
shouts of triumph. An additional reason for this was that Nicolo
Pisani[11] who, Heaven knows why! instead of going to meet Doria with
his fleet, had coolly sailed away to Sardinia,[12] was now returned.
Doria withdrew from the Lagune; and what was really due to the approach
of Pisani's fleet was ascribed to the formidable name of Marino
Falieri. Then the people and the seignory were seized by a kind of
frantic ecstasy that such an auspicious choice had been made; and as an
uncommon way of testifying the same, it was determined to welcome the
newly elected Doge as if he were a messenger from heaven bringing
honour, victory, and abundance of riches. Twelve nobles, each
accompanied by a numerous retinue in rich dresses, had been sent by the
Seignory to Verona, where the ambassadors of the Republic were again to
announce to Falieri, on his arrival, with all due ceremony, his
elevation to the supreme office in the state. Then fifteen richly
decorated vessels of state, equipped by the Podesta[13] of Chioggia,
and under the command of his own son Taddeo Giustiniani, took the Doge
and his attendant company on board at Chiozza; and now they moved on
like the triumphal procession of a most mighty and victorious monarch
to St. Clement's, where the Bucentaur[14] was awaiting the Doge.

At this very moment, namely, when Marino Falieri was about to set foot
on board the Bucentaur,--and that was on the evening of the 3d of
October about sunset--a poor unfortunate man lay stretched at full
length on the hard marble pavement in front of the Customhouse. A few
rags of striped linen, of a colour now no longer recognisable, the
remains of what apparently had once been a sailor's dress, such as was
worn by the very poorest of the people--porters and assistant oarsmen,
hung about his lean starved body. There was not a trace of a shirt to
be seen, except the poor fellow's own skin, which peeped through his
rags almost everywhere, and was so white and delicate that the very
noblest need not have been shy or ashamed of it Accordingly, his
leanness only served to display more fully the perfect proportions
of his well-knit frame. A careful scrutiny of the unfortunate's
light-chestnut hair, now hanging all tangled and dishevelled about his
exquisitely beautiful forehead, his blue eyes dimmed with extreme
misery, his Roman nose, his fine formed lips--he seemed to be not more
than twenty years old at the most--inevitably suggested that he was of
good birth, and had by some adverse turn of fortune been thrown amongst
the meanest classes of the people.

As remarked, the youth lay in front of the pillars of the Custom-house,
his head resting on his right arm, and his eyes riveted in a vacant
stare upon the sea, without movement or change of posture. An observer
might well have fancied that he was devoid of life, or that death had
fixed him there whilst turning him into an image of stone, had not a
deep sigh escaped him from time to time, as if wrung from him by
unutterable pain. And they were in fact occasioned by the pain of his
left arm, which had apparently been seriously wounded, and was lying
stretched out on the pavement, wrapped up in bloody rags.

All labour had ceased; the hum of trade was no longer heard; all
Venice, in thousands of boats and gondolas, was gone out to meet the
much-lauded Falieri. Hence it was that the unhappy youth was sighing
away his pain in utter helplessness. But just as his weary head fell
back upon the pavement, and he seemed on the point of fainting, a
hoarse and very querulous voice cried several times in succession,
"Antonio, my dear Antonio." At length Antonio painfully raised
himself partly up; and, turning his head towards the pillars of the
Custom-house, whence the voice seemed to proceed, he replied very
faintly, and in a scarce intelligible voice, "Who is calling me? Who
has come to cast my dead body into the sea, for it will soon be all
over with me." Then a little shrivelled wrinkled crone came up panting
and coughing, hobbling along by the aid of her staff; she approached
the wounded youth, and squatting down beside him, she burst out into a
most repulsive chuckling and laughing. "You foolish child, you foolish
child," whispered the old woman, "are you going to perish here--will
you stay here to die, while a golden fortune is waiting for you? Look
yonder, look yonder at yon blazing fire in the west; there are sequins
for you! But you must eat, dear Antonio, eat and drink; for it's only
hunger which has made you fall down here on this cold pavement. Your
arm is now quite well again, yes, that it is." Antonio recognised in
the old crone the singular beggar-woman who was generally to be seen on
the steps of the Franciscan Church, chuckling to herself and laughing,
and soliciting alms from the worshippers; he himself, urged by some
inward inexplicable propensity, had often thrown her a hard-earned
penny, which he had not had to spare. "Leave me, leave me in peace, you
insane old woman," he said; "but you are right, it is hunger more than
my wound which has made me weak and miserable; for three days I have
not earned a farthing. I wanted to go over to the monastery[15] and see
if I could get a spoonful or two of the soup that is made for invalids;
but all my companions have gone; there is not one to have compassion
upon me and take me in his _barca_;[16] and now I have fallen down
here, and shall, I expect, never get up again." "Hi! hi! hi! hi!"
chuckled the old woman; "why do you begin to despair so soon? Why lose
heart so quickly? You are thirsty and hungry, but I can help you. Here
are a few fine dried fish which I bought only to-day in the Mint; here
is lemon-juice and a piece of nice white bread; eat, my son; and then
we will look at the wounded arm." And the old woman proceeded to bring
forth fish, bread, and lemon juice from the bag which hung like a hood
down her back, and also projected right above her bent head. As soon as
Antonio had moistened his parched and burning lips with the cool drink,
he felt the pangs of hunger return with double fury, and he greedily
devoured the bread and the fish.

Meanwhile the old woman was busy unwrapping the rags from his wounded
arm, and it was found that, though it was badly crushed, the wound was
progressing favourably towards healing. The old woman took a salve out
of a little box and warmed it with the breath of her mouth, and as she
rubbed it on the wound she asked, "But who then has given you such a
nasty blow, my poor boy?" Antonio was so refreshed and charged anew
with vital energy that he had raised himself completely up; his eyes
flashed, and he shook his doubled fist above his head, crying, "Oh!
that rascal Nicolo; he tried to maim me, because he envies me every
wretched penny that any generous hand bestows upon me. You know, old
dame, that I barely managed to hold body and soul together by helping
to carry bales of goods from ships and freight-boats to the _depot_
of the Germans, the so-called Fontego[17]--of course you know the