



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