University of Virginia Library

1. I.

As Don Ippolito passed down the long narrow
calle or footway leading from the Campo San
Stefano to the Grand Canal in Venice, he peered
anxiously about him: now turning for a backward
look up the calle, where there was no living thing
in sight but a cat on a garden gate; now running
a quick eye along the palace walls that rose vast on
either hand and notched the slender strip of blue
sky visible overhead with the lines of their jutting
balconies, chimneys, and cornices; and now glancing
toward the canal, where he could see the
noiseless black boats meeting and passing. There
was no sound in the calle save his own footfalls and
the harsh scream of a parrot that hung in the sunshine
in one of the loftiest windows; but the note
of a peasant crying pots of pinks and roses in the
campo came softened to Don Ippolito's sense, and
he heard the gondoliers as they hoarsely jested together
and gossiped, with the canal between them,
at the next gondola station.

The first tenderness of spring was in the air,
though down in that calle there was yet enough of

the wintry rawness to chill the tip of Don Ippolito's
sensitive nose, which he rubbed for comfort with a
handkerchief of dark blue calico, and polished for
ornament with a handkerchief of white linen. He
restored each to a different pocket in the sides of
the ecclesiastical talare, or gown, reaching almost
to his ankles, and then clutched the pocket in which
he had replaced the linen handkerchief, as if to
make sure that something he prized was safe within.
He paused abruptly, and, looking at the doors
he had passed, went back a few paces and stood before
one over which hung, slightly tilted forward,
an oval sign painted with the effigy of an eagle, a
bundle of arrows, and certain thunderbolts, and
bearing the legend, Consulate of the United
States, in neat characters. Don Ippolito gave a
quick sigh, hesitated a moment, and then seized the
bell-pull and jerked it so sharply that it seemed to
thrust out, like a part of the mechanism, the head
of an old serving-woman at the window above him.

“Who is there?” demanded this head.

“Friends,” answered Don Ippolito in a rich, sad
voice.

“And what do you command?” further asked
the old woman.

Don Ippolito paused, apparently searching for
his voice, before he inquired, “Is it here that the
Consul of America lives?”

“Precisely.”

“Is he perhaps at home?”

“I don't know. I will go ask him.”

“Do me that pleasure, dear,” said Don Ippolito,
and remained knotting his fingers before the closed
door. Presently the old woman returned, and
looking out long enough to say, “The consul is at
home,” drew some inner bolt by a wire running to
the lock, that let the door start open; then, waiting
to hear Don Ippolito close it again, she called out
from her height, “Favor me above.” He climbed
the dim stairway to the point where she stood, and
followed her to a door, which she flung open into
an apartment so brightly lit by a window looking
on the sunny canal, that he blinked as he entered.
“Signor Console,” said the old woman, “behold
the gentleman who desired to see you;” and at the
same time Don Ippolito, having removed his broad,
stiff, three-cornered hat, came forward and made a
beautiful bow. He had lost for the moment the
trepidation which had marked his approach to the
consulate, and bore himself with graceful dignity.

It was in the first year of the war, and from a
motive of patriotism common at that time, Mr.
Ferris (one of my many predecessors in office at
Venice) had just been crossing his two silken gondola
flags above the consular bookcase, where with
their gilt lance-headed staves, and their vivid stars
and stripes, they made a very pretty effect. He
filliped a little dust from his coat, and begged Don
Ippolito to be seated, with the air of putting even a
Venetian priest on a footing of equality with other

men under the folds of the national banner. Mr.
Ferris had the prejudice of all Italian sympathizers
against the priests; but for this he could hardly
have found anything in Don Ippolito to alarm dislike.
His face was a little thin, and the chin was
delicate; the nose had a fine, Dantesque curve, but
its final droop gave a melancholy cast to a countenance
expressive of a gentle and kindly spirit; the
eyes were large and dark and full of a dreamy
warmth. Don Ippolito's prevailing tint was that
transparent blueishness which comes from much
shaving of a heavy black beard; his forehead and
temples were marble white; he had a tonsure the
size of a dollar. He sat silent for a little space,
and softly questioned the consul's face with his
dreamy eyes. Apparently he could not gather
courage to speak of his business at once, for he
turned his gaze upon the window and said, “A
beautiful position, Signor Console.”

“Yes, it 's a pretty place,” answered Mr. Ferris,
warily.

“So much pleasanter here on the Canalazzo than
on the campos or the little canals.”

“Oh, without doubt.”

“Here there must be constant amusement in
watching the boats: great stir, great variety, great
life. And now the fine season commences, and the
Signor Console's countrymen will be coming to
Venice. Perhaps,” added Don Ippolito with a
polite dismay, and an air of sudden anxiety to

escape from his own purpose, “I may be disturbing
or detaining the Signor Console?”

“No,” said Mr. Ferris; “I am quite at leisure
for the present. In what can I have the honor of
serving you?”

Don Ippolito heaved a long, ineffectual sigh, and
taking his linen handkerchief from his pocket,
wiped his forehead with it, and rolled it upon his
knee. He looked at the door, and all round the
room, and then rose and drew near the consul, who
had officially seated himself at his desk.

“I suppose that the Signor Console gives passports?”
he asked.

“Sometimes,” replied Mr. Ferris, with a clouding
face.

Don Ippolito seemed to note the gathering distrust
and to be helpless against it. He continued
hastily: “Could the Signor Console give a passport
for America... to me?”

“Are you an American citizen?” demanded the
consul in the voice of a man whose suspicions are
fully roused.

“American citizen?”

“Yes; subject of the American republic.”

“No, surely; I have not that happiness. I am
an Austrian subject,” returned Don Ippolito a little
bitterly, as if the last words were an unpleasant
morsel in the mouth.

“Then I can't give you a passport,” said Mr.
Ferris, somewhat more gently. “You know,” he

explained, “that no government can give passports
to foreign subjects. That would be an unheard-of
thing.”

“But I thought that to go to America an American
passport would be needed.”

“In America,” returned the consul, with proud
compassion, “they don't care a fig for passports.
You go and you come, and nobody meddles. To be
sure,” he faltered, “just now, on account of the
secessionists, they do require you to show a passport
at New York; but,” he continued more boldly,
“American passports are usually for Europe; and
besides, all the American passports in the world
would n't get you over the frontier at Peschiera.
You must have a passport from the Austrian Lieutenancy
of Venice,”

Don Ippolito nodded his head softly several times,
and said, “Precisely,” and then added with an indescribable
weariness, “Patience! Signor Console,
I ask your pardon for the trouble I have given,” and
he made the consul another low bow.

Whether Mr. Ferris's curiosity was piqued, and
feeling himself on the safe side of his visitor he
meant to know why he had come on such an errand,
or whether he had some kindlier motive, he could
hardly have told himself, but he said, “I 'm very
sorry. Perhaps there is something else in which I
could be of use to you.”

“Ah, I hardly know,” cried Don Ippolito. “I
really had a kind of hope in coming to your excellency”

“I am not an excellency,” interrupted Mr. Ferris,
conscientiously.

“Many excuses! But now it seems a mere bestiality.
I was so ignorant about the other matter
that doubtless I am also quite deluded in this.”

“As to that, of course I can't say,” answered Mr.
Ferris, “but I hope not.”

“Why, listen, signore!” said Don Ippolito, placing
his hand over that pocket in which he kept his
linen handkerchief. “I had something that it had
come into my head to offer your honored government
for its advantage in this deplorable rebellion.”

“Oh,” responded Mr. Ferris with a falling countenance.
He had received so many offers of help
for his honored government from sympathizing foreigners.
Hardly a week passed but a sabre came
clanking up his dim staircase with a Herr Graf or
a Herr Baron attached, who appeared in the spotless
panoply of his Austrian captaincy or lieutenancy,
to accept from the consul a brigadier-generalship in
the Federal armies, on condition that the consul
would pay his expenses to Washington, or at least
assure him of an exalted post and reimbursement of
all outlays from President Lincoln as soon as he arrived.
They were beautiful men, with the complexion
of blonde girls; their uniforms fitted like
kid gloves; the pale blue, or pure white, or huzzar
black of their coats was ravishingly set off by their
red or gold trimmings; and they were hard to
make understand that brigadiers of American birth

swarmed at Washington, and that if they went
thither, they must go as soldiers of fortune at their
own risk. But they were very polite; they begged
pardon when they knocked their scabbards against
the consul's furniture, at the door they each made
him a magnificent obeisance, said “Servus!” in
their great voices, and were shown out by the old
Marina, abhorrent of their uniforms and doubtful of
the consul's political sympathies. Only yesterday
she had called him up at an unwonted hour to receive
the visit of a courtly gentleman who addressed
him as Monsieur le Ministre, and offered him at a
bargain ten thousand stand of probably obsolescent
muskets belonging to the late Duke of Parma.
Shabby, hungry, incapable exiles of all nations, religions,
and politics beset him for places of honor
and emolument in the service of the Union; revolutionists
out of business, and the minions of banished
despots, were alike willing to be fed, clothed, and
dispatched to Washington with swords consecrated
to the perpetuity of the republic.

“I have here,” said Don Ippolito, too intent upon
showing whatever it was he had to note the change
in the consul's mood, “the model of a weapon of my
contrivance, which I thought the government of the
North could employ successfully in cases where its
batteries were in danger of capture by the Spaniards.”

“Spaniards? Spaniards? We have no war with
Spain!” cried the consul.

“Yes, yes, I know,” Don Ippolito made haste to
explain, “but those of South America being Spanish
by descent” —

“But we are not fighting the South Americans.
We are fighting our own Southern States, I am
sorry to say.”

“Oh! Many excuses. I am afraid I don't understand,”
said Don Ippolito meekly; whereupon
Mr. Ferris enlightened him in a formula (of which
he was beginning to be weary) against Europeans,
misconception of the American situation. Don Ippolito
nodded his head contritely, and when Mr.
Ferris had ended, he was so much abashed that he
made no motion to show his invention till the other
added, “But no matter; I suppose the contrivance
would work as well against the Southerners as the
South Americans. Let me see it, please;” and
then Don Ippolito, with a gratified smile, drew from
his pocket the neatly finished model of a breech-loading
cannon.

“You perceive, Signor Console,” he said with
new dignity, “that this is nothing very new as a
breech-loader, though I ask you to observe this little
improvement for restoring the breech to its place,
which is original. The grand feature of my invention,
however, is this secret chamber in the breech,
which is intended to hold an explosive of high potency,
with a fuse coming out below. The gunner,
finding his piece in danger, ignites this fuse, and
takes refuge in flight. At the moment the enemy

seizes the gun the contents of the secret chamber
explode, demolishing the piece and destroying its
captors.”

The dreamy warmth in Don Ippolito's deep eyes
kindled to a flame; a dark red glowed in his thin
cheeks; he drew a box from the folds of his drapery
and took snuff in a great whiff, as if inhaling the
sulphurous fumes of battle, or titillating his nostrils
with grains of gunpowder. He was at least in full
enjoyment of the poetic power of his invention, and
no doubt had before his eyes a vivid picture of a
score of secessionists surprised and blown to atoms
in the very moment of triumph. “Behold, Signor
Console!” he said.

“It 's certainly very curious,” said Mr. Ferris,
turning the fearful toy over in his hand, and admiring
the neat workmanship of it. “Did you
make this model yourself?”

“Surely,” answered the priest, with a joyous
pride; “I have no money to spend upon artisans;
and besides, as you might infer, signore, I am not
very well seen by my superiors and associates on
account of these little amusements of mine; so I
keep them as much as I can to myself.” Don Ippolito
laughed nervously, and then fell silent with his
eyes intent upon the consul's face. “What do you
think, signore?” he presently resumed. “If this
invention were brought to the notice of your generous
government, would it not patronize my labors?
I have read that America is the land of enterprises.

Who knows but your government might invite me
to take service under it in some capacity in which
I could employ those little gifts that Heaven” —
He paused again, apparently puzzled by the compassionate
smile on the consul's lips. “But tell me,
signore, how this invention appears to you.”

“Have you had any practical experience in gunnery?”
asked Mr. Ferris.

“Why, certainly not.”

“Neither have I,” continued Mr. Ferris, “but I
was wondering whether the explosive in this secret
chamber would not become so heated by the frequent
discharges of the piece as to go off prematurely
sometimes, and kill our own artillerymen instead
of waiting for the secessionists?”

Don Ippolito's countenance fell, and a dull
shame displaced the exultation that had glowed in
it. His head sunk on his breast, and he made no
attempt at reply, so that it was again Mr. Ferris
who spoke. “You see, I don't really know anything
more of the matter than you do, and I don't
undertake to say whether your invention is disabled
by the possibility I suggest or not. Have n't you
any acquaintances among the military, to whom
you could show your model?”

“No,” answered Don Ippolito, coldly, “I don't
consort with the military. Besides, what would be
thought of a priest,” he asked with a bitter stress
on the word, “who exhibited such an invention as
that to an officer of our paternal government?”

“I suppose it would certainly surprise the lieutenant-governor
somewhat,” said Mr. Ferris with a
laugh. “May I ask,” he pursued after an interval,
“whether you have occupied yourself with
other inventions?”

“I have attempted a great many,” replied Don
Ippolito in a tone of dejection.

“Are they all of this warlike temper?” pursued
the consul.

“No,” said Don Ippolito, blushing a little,
“they are nearly all of peaceful intention. It was
the wish to produce something of utility which set
me about this cannon. Those good friends of mine
who have done me the honor of looking at my attempts
had blamed me for the uselessness of my
inventions; they allowed that they were ingenious,
but they said that even if they could be put in operation,
they would not be what the world cared for.
Perhaps they were right. I know very little of the
world,” concluded the priest, sadly. He had risen
to go, yet seemed not quite able to do so; there was
no more to say, but if he had come to the consul
with high hopes, it might well have unnerved him
to have all end so blankly. He drew a long, sibilant
breath between his shut teeth, nodded to himself
thrice, and turning to Mr. Ferris with a melancholy
bow, said, “Signor Console, I thank you
infinitely for your kindness, I beg your pardon for
the disturbance, and I take my leave.”

“I am sorry,” said Mr. Ferris. “Let us see

each other again. In regard to the inventions, —
well, you must have patience.” He dropped into
some proverbial phrases which the obliging Latin
tongues supply so abundantly for the races who
must often talk when they do not feel like thinking,
and he gave a start when Don Ippolito replied in
English, “Yes, but hope deferred maketh the heart
sick.”

It was not that it was so uncommon to have
Italians innocently come out with their whole slender
stock of English to him, for the sake of practice,
as they told him; but there were peculiarities in
Don Ippolito's accent for which he could not account.
“What,” he exclaimed, “do you know
English?”

“I have studied it a little, by my myself,”
answered Don Ippolito, pleased to have his English
recognized, and then lapsing into the safety of
Italian, he added, “And I had also the help of an
English ecclesiastic who sojourned some months in
Venice, last year, for his health, and who used to
read with me and teach me the pronunciation. He
was from Dublin, this ecclesiastic.”

“Oh!” said Mr. Ferris, with relief, “I see;”
and he perceived that what had puzzled him in Don
Ippolito's English was a fine brogue superimposed
upon his Italian accent.

“For some time I have had this idea of going to
America, and I thought that the first thing to do
was to equip myself with the language.”

“Um!” said Mr. Ferris, “that was practical, at
any rate,” and he mused awhile. By and by he
continued, more kindly than he had yet spoken, “I
wish I could ask you to sit down again; but I have
an engagement which I must make haste to keep.
Are you going out through the campo? Pray wait
a minute, and I will walk with you.”

Mr. Ferris went into another room, through the
open door of which Don Ippolito saw the paraphernalia
of a painter's studio: an easel with a half-finished
picture on it; a chair with a palette and
brushes, and crushed and twisted tubes of colors; a
lay figure in one corner; on the walls scraps of
stamped leather, rags of tapestry, desultory sketches
on paper.

Mr. Ferris came out again, brushing his hat.

“The Signor Console amuses himself with painting,
I see,” said Don Ippolito courteously.

“Not at all,” replied Mr. Ferris, putting on his
gloves; “I am a painter by profession, and I amuse
myself with consuling;”[1] and as so open a matter
needed no explanation, he said no more about it.
Nor is it quite necessary to tell how, as he was one

day painting in New York, it occurred to him to
make use of a Congressional friend, and ask for
some Italian consulate, he did not care which. That
of Venice happened to be vacant: the income was
a few hundred dollars; as no one else wanted it,
no question was made of Mr. Ferris's fitness for
the post, and he presently found himself possessed
of a commission requesting the Emperor of Austria
to permit him to enjoy and exercise the office of
consul of the ports of the Lombardo-Venetian kingdom,
to which the President of the United States
appointed him from a special trust in his abilities
and integrity. He proceeded at once to his post
of duty, called upon the ship's chandler with whom
they had been left, for the consular archives, and
began to paint some Venetian subjects.

He and Don Ippolito quitted the Consulate together,
leaving Marina to digest with her noonday
porridge the wonder that he should be walking
amicably forth with a priest. The same spectacle
was presented to the gaze of the campo, where they
paused in friendly converse, and were seen to part
with many politenesses by the doctors of the neighborhood,
lounging away their leisure, as the Venetian
fashion is, at the local pharmacy.

The apothecary eraned forward over his counter,
and peered through the open door. “What is that
blessed Consul of America doing with a priest?”

“The Consul of America with a priest?” demanded
a grave old man, a physician with a beautiful

silvery beard, and a most reverend and senatorial
presence, but one of the worst tongues in Venice.
“Oh!” he added, with a laugh, after scrutiny of
the two through his glasses, “it 's that crack-brain
Don Ippolito Rondinelli. He is n't priest enough
to hurt the consul. Perhaps he 's been selling him
a perpetual motion for the use of his government,
which needs something of the kind just now. Or
maybe he 's been posing to him for a picture. He
would make a very pretty Joseph, give him Potiphar's
wife in the background,” said the doctor, who
if not maligned would have needed much more to
make a Joseph of him.