The Press. (Stafford Springs, Conn.) 1883-1935, 1905-08-09
THE MIRROR OF FATE
A VENETIAN LEGEND OF THE DAYS
OF THE DOGES.

Story of the Beauty Who Was 1ntOxt-
Gated with the Vision of Her Own
LOvelfness and the Statue I'm the
Church of San GiOrEis N1aggtOre.
Here is a legend which heard in
Venice. l offer it to all among you
who are fond of solitude and silence
offer it to you as 1 would offer
flower which has blossomed amid SOM
Der shadows ON a sleeping lagoon:
Ghita Gherardini was the niece Of the
doge. Poets whose names we have for
gotten, but who were renowned at that
time, had composed innumerable songs
in her honor. They praised in them the
tresses of the young girl, black as night,
in which pearls cleaned like milk
white stars. They also sang about the
radiance Of her dark violet eyes and
about the two roses which formed her
lips. In truth, Ghita Gherardini was
very beautiful. She had, however, lis
tened too earnestly to the passionate
words of the singers, and an immense
pride took possession Of her young soul.
One night she heard beneath her win
dow the yearning sob of a lutte. Stand
ii
page was singing to her. Tender was
the music, and the water and the dark
ness added something to the sweetness
of the strains and to the passion in the
voice Of the singer. The young page
was clarifying her as the most radiant
among all women,
Ghita heard him, and a delightful
tremor ran through her. Without wait
ing to light the torches, which had gone
out, she took her mirror and ran to the
window, through which the moonlight
shone into her room. Thereupon in this
mysterious light she saw that she was
strangely beautiful; that her beauty
was indeed almost supernatural. The
moonlight revealed her pale and trans
parent, like the princess of a poem.
Intoxicated with her charms, she let
the seductive mirror slip from her
hand, and sigh of admiration and Of
ecstasy escaped her as she cried:
II am beautiful! 1 am beautiful
Thenceforth Ghita Gherardini spent
all her time marveling at her own beau
ty. She did not desire to fall in love,
for she fancied that there was no man
living who was worthy of her. Those
songs which had no words of praise for
her eyes and her hair she treated with
contempt, and to the mysteries Of reli-
gion she never gave thought.
She went to high mass solely for the
purpose Of being seen by the people
and Of being fattered by them as they
whispered to one another about her.
The restless eyes were never turned
toward the altar.
She thought of nothing save her own
triumphant beauty and of the jewels
which set it off in sumptuous fashion.
One day Ghita Gherardini slipped q
little mirror beside the first page of
her mass book, which had been deli
cately Illuminated by a pious artist.
And while her attitude of devotion edi-
fed the multitude she studied her face
enshrined in the book Of prayer.
The doge's niece had forgotten that
the Creator alone Is worthy of wor-
ship and not any of his creatures. She
had also forgotten that pride is an
abominable sin-aye, perhaps the most
perilOus Of all sins-since 1t was the
cause Of the rebellion of the archan-
gels and the downfall Of Lucifer.
One day Ghita Gherardini was in
tently studying her face in the little
mirror between the holy leaves of her
mass book, and suddenly she uttered a
loud cry of terror. Through the large
building it rang, drowning the solemn
voice Of the priest, the responses of the
congregation and the sonorous MUIR
muir Of the organ. And straightway
the doge's niece fell to the ground in
q faint. She had seen reflected in the
guilty mirror. the sacrilegious mirror,
not her own countenance, but that Of
Death.
There is today in the Church Of San
Giorgis Maggiore, where this miracle
was accomplished, the statue Of a wo-
man, who Is seated and looking at her.
self in a mirror. Very beautiful is
this woman, as beautiful as Ghita
Gherardini was formerly. The story
goes that this statue is the work of a
famous sculptor, but the people be-
lieve-and their legends contain a
good deal of truth-that it was once
Ghita Gherardini herself and that her
body was turned into stone by the ter
rible vision.
To all those who love the silence of
dead cities offer this legend. found
it at Venice as one occasionally finds a
flower which has blossomed amid SOM
Der shadows on a sleeping lagoon
Helene de Zuylen de Nyevelt in Euro
pean Edition New York Herald.