The Hound of Florence

If so be thou art poor on this earth, thou must be a dog for one half of thy life; then mayest thou spend the other half as a man among men.

—The Hermit of Amiata

L
UCAS GRASSI STOLE OUT OF THE gloomy old house in the Tuchlauben without a word of farewell. Within the cramped walls of a building into which the sun but rarely shone, he was leaving his belongings and the last years of his boyhood. In the kitchen, the bedroom and the parlour, even in the windings of the steep familiar stairs, which he was now descending never to climb again, in the dark narrow passage along which he strode for the last time, he was leaving all he knew and loved on earth. In every nook and cranny of the place there were traces of his father which had kept the memory of the old man green and fresh; for he had never left these rooms altogether; his presence haunted them and stood beside his son with a semblance of life that was only slowly and hardly perceptibly fading away.

Whenever Lucas called to mind how his father's hands had rested on the table, or raised the window-bolt above it and then carefully stretched the parchment across the drawing-board, or how every morning he had seen him sit up in his bed in the recess, his pale calm face visible in the twilight of the room, his gentle voice uttering his first greeting and asking the first question before starting on a new day, he always felt that at any moment his father might come into the room through the low, rusty-black door.

But Lucas Grassi knew that all this was now at an end. He saw only too well that it was impossible for him to remain in the old place any longer, for he had not even the wherewithal to appease his hunger, much less to pay his arrears of rent. It seemed to him almost a stroke of luck that he had been able to find, near the Kärtner wall, a wretched attic which he had found no difficulty in renting for a mere song. But at that moment, as he stepped out into the street from the old house, he was conscious of a momentary feeling of pained astonishment to think that he was leaving his home, precisely as he had done so often—oh, how often!—before, but that now it was forever, without a word of farewell!

He was still very young, and did not know how frequently a man stands all unknowing on the threshold of a new life, his back to a past forever closed. He did not know that, at such important moments, the uninterrupted forward march of Fate leaves but little time for farewell, or that possibly it was all for the best that this should be so; nor was he aware that his momentary feeling of pained astonishment was in itself a leave-taking.

He wandered slowly and uncertainly along the Tuchlauben, caught up and borne along by the busy bustle of the day, ambling on, as every man does who has no goal, no hope, and is bowed down by care. The feeling of bitterness, which had oppressed him ever since his father's death, seemed to gnaw more sharply than ever at his heart. His ears were deaf to the sing-song of the street hawkers, or the warning shouts of the runners, who, clad in gorgeous liveries, spread commotion right and left as they dashed forward in front of the various coaches. He did not even notice the coaches as they rocked and rattled past.

On that day when Lucas Grassi set out to meet his destiny, there were doubtless many others in Vienna as poor as himself. But only a few felt their poverty as acutely as he did, as intolerable torture. At such moments, when his soul rose up in impotent revolt, he hated even the city itself, which, with its bastions and moats seemed, as it were, to hold him imprisoned in a dismal dungeon, and, flaunting its riches in his face, to torment and make mock of him. He hated the narrow pavements in the streets. Hemmed in on either side by houses gray with age, dark and tortuous, they seemed always to lead back to the same spot.

He longed to be off to the beautiful land of sunshine, which he fancied he remembered having seen in early childhood. Ever since he had been left alone in Vienna, his mind had been full of it, and the faint stirrings of a new feeling of home-sickness seemed to have invaded his heart. But what his imagination pictured was not a memory of something he had really seen so much as the visions his fancy fashioned from all his father had told him. His early childhood days had been reflected in his father's stories, as a bright landscape is mirrored in a glass globe. He saw gardens full of roses and lilies, rich green trees laden with golden fruit, and houses with hospitable wide-open doors beckoning the guest, their white walls gleaming like a bright smile amid the foliage. There were many other children, too, playing about in the meadows. The air was full of the plaintive songs of birds, borne on the soft summer breeze, and the warm rays of the kindly sun spread courage and good cheer all around. He could never remember how it all came about, but suddenly all these scenes vanished, his mother's form faded away, the gardens were swallowed up, and he was wandering over hill and dale by his father's side. True, it all seemed very long ago. He remembered that on their way they had sometimes been accompanied by strangers, and women he had never seen before took care of him; but they were mere shadows in his memory, and seemed to have no faces.

Towns, cornfields, valleys and wooded heights flashed past; he had no notion what or where they were. Sometimes the road ran along the banks of strange rivers. Although that journey was now nothing but a motley chain of pictures which for the most part had grown quite pale and faint, occasionally one of them would stand out distinctly, until the chain ended in the landscape that now surrounded him and over which leaden clouds so often lowered for days at a time.

As he looked back on his short life, he could not help thinking that from the very beginning it had been nothing more than a path leading from bright sunshine to impenetrable gloom, until at last this city had reared its walls about him, to crush him beneath their weight.

As he walked along the gloomy alley of the Kohlmarkt it occurred to him again that he might look up one of his father's old colleagues, and beg for food and work. But the thought, as ever, was distasteful to him. He knew but little of his father's fellow-craftsmen; they had come to the city to build and decorate the Palace of some great noble. One or two of them were sculptors like his father, others were painters. Lucas had already heard what most of them had to say to him. They told him that, though it was not his fault, he knew nothing, for the things to which they referred could not be learned in this country. The best thing was to return to his native land, whence all of them, including his father, had come, bringing their arts with them. Otherwise the only career open to him was that of an unskilled laborer. Work of this kind they undertook to find for him, so that for the time being at least he might be self-supporting. Lucas was in want of bread, but such work he scorned, revolting against it as an intolerable means for merely keeping body and soul together. If life depended on such wretched work it was not worth living. It was absurd for a man to humble himself to the level of the day-laborer for the sake of a crust of bread. His youth rose up in arms at the idea that there was no other way out. At all events he would remain resolute, and wait stubbornly for circumstances to force his hand. He would see how long he could hold out, before poverty and hunger succeeded in breaking him.

At the corner, where the Kohlmarkt empties into the little square in front of St. Michael's Church, Lucas was suddenly brought to a standstill. The halberds of a troop of Imperial Bodyguards barred the way. Against this living fence a fairly large crowd of common people was already inquisitively pressing. Lucas quickly elbowed his way to the front. At once he surmised that some court pageant was about to take place; he loved the picturesque charm of these gorgeous and stately processions, and all unconsciously he also loved the vague yearning that such a spectacle kindled to flame in his breast.

Suddenly there was a flourish of trumpets, the clatter and beat of horses' hooves broke on the ear, and from the maze of houses concealing the gates of the Imperial Palace, a troop of cuirassiers poured forth in a shimmering array of color, advancing to the strains of a military band. Close upon their heels came two heavy state coaches, rocking on their high-strung springs, the horses prancing beneath their trappings, impatient to break into a trot. On their boxes the coachmen calmly held the reins, while from the small windows of the coaches proud, composed faces looked down disdainfully on the mob. After them there was a gap in the procession, and Lucas, who noticed that the Bodyguards in front of him were standing more stiffly than ever to attention, concluded that the principal figure of the pageant was about to appear. Then a double row of lithe, brightly clad runners dashed lightly forward, their waving, snow-white ostrich plumes giving them the appearance of actors performing a feat. The Bodyguards presented arms with their halberds and stood massed like pillars of stone as a glittering golden coach, drawn by six huge white horses, rattled into view. Their bits sparkled with foam; nobly they tossed their heads; their powerful white bodies gleamed in the sun.

Lucas gazed upon the scene with irresistible delight, listening to the comments of the crowd.

“It's the Archduke Ludwig who's being sent to Florence.”

“Yes, they say he has a weak chest and has to go to a sunny climate.”

“He's not going all that way for a bit of sunshine,” observed another with a laugh, “there's a marriage in the offing. . . .”

“Nonsense! He's going on a secret mission. . . .”

Still others whispered eagerly, “But we know all about Archduke Ludwig. . . . We don't need to be told what he's up to. . . . They're banishing him from Court!”—“To Florence?”—“I don't know about that . . . possibly to Florence!”

Florence!

The word sank into his heart, stirring him as it always did. He whispered it softly to himself. It hovered above him like a star of good fortune, it called to him with a cadence full of wondrous expectation and painful, urgent longing. He cast a rapid glance at the royal coach, hardly noticing the coachman or the four lackeys standing behind in their magnificent Spanish livery, like marble statues of slaves, fittings in human form, which stirred only when they were wanted.

Inside, deep in satin cushions, a slim young man in black velvet sat erect. His face was pale and drawn. Framed in ebony locks about his neck was the delicate down of some dusky fur. He held his head high and maintained a reserved and distant air, looking like some jewel locked up behind the clear crystal panes of his coach, to be gazed upon but not approached or touched.

“Why doesn't he drive straight out through the gates by the Burgbastei?” enquired one.

“He wants to say a
paternoster
at the Church of the Capucines before he leaves,” was one solemn explanation, while a third vouchsafed the opinion that the Burgtor was out of the question, as the road to the south left the city at the Kärntnertor.

Softly, dreamily, Lucas whispered the word “Florence.”

Close beside the Archduke's coach there ran a dog. Lucas suddenly caught sight of the animal and was filled with admiration. He was of a breed rarely seen in Vienna. Long-legged and very slim, with a long thin muzzle, he resembled a grayhound, though he was much bigger. His coat was long and curly and his bushy tail waved like a pennant in the breeze. His back gleamed like burnished gold, his flanks, chest and neck were silky white, while from brow to nose ran a narrow white streak between two patches of gold. Apparently he was of an exotic Russian breed, a prince of the hunting field. Lucas gazed intently at him, noting the noble grace of his slender legs as he haughtily trotted by, and observing that he kept close to the door of the coach glancing expectantly up at the crystal panes.

Slowly the coach rolled by. A troop of cuirassiers brought up the rear, followed by a string of heavily laden mule-wagons, rattling and bumping over the cobbles. Lucas did not wait to see the end of the procession. Suddenly turning away, reluctantly, he pushed through the crowd and made off in a different direction, as though he were in a hurry.

Shall I always remain a prisoner here? he asked himself. Shall I always go on living alone, helpless, poor, friendless, year in, year out until I die? Round the corner a crowd of wealthy idlers are making their way to Florence, and I can only stand and look on, rooted to the spot! They will drive there free as the wind, resting when they are weary, sleeping under the shade of the forest trees, or on the banks of silver streams, and one day they will be in Florence, they will be wandering about her streets, as if it were all a matter of course! And what will it mean to them—to be in Florence? Oh! I suppose they'll find it attractive and entertaining enough, and the climate most agreeable; but otherwise it will mean nothing! Absolutely nothing! What can they do there, which they could not do just as well here? Do they expect to find anything in Florence that they could not get just as easily in Vienna? And I must stay here—I, whose home is there, I who could find there the teachers I cannot obtain here. There I could learn all I want to learn—I could paint, model, draw, carve, and find out how stones and metals are worked, how. . . . Oh! I could learn everything, could see with my own eyes everything that good craftsmen have created there from time immemorial!