"_Patria_," Tito Mattei's beautiful song of exile. She consented, with a
feeling of awe, as if acting in obedience to some higher compulsion. The
barge had paused, and the multitudinous plash of oars was hushed as she
began to sing:
"_Al mio ciel m'ha tolto il fato._"
["Fate has torn me from my own skies."]
The vagrant gondola had come nearer, and now it was drawn close up under
the bow of the barge, just on the edge of the throng of boats. The
Signorina scarcely needed to glance at the oarsman standing in the full
light of the lanterns, to know that it was no other than the exile whose
lament it had been given her to sing. Yet, as the song ceased for a
moment, while the strings played an interlude in full, strongly
vibrating chords, she looked involuntarily toward the figure whose
identity she was already so curiously aware of. The man made a movement
forward, resting on his oar, and, as their eyes met, she knew that he,
too, had recognised her. She turned away, as the song recommenced, but
the consciousness of what she had seen was vividly present with her. He
knew her, he knew that she was singing for him, that she was singing the
song of his exile.
A singular, almost fantastical exaltation took possession of the young
girl, an exaltation such as might have possessed itself of a priestess
of old, pouring a libation to the gods in behalf of some devout
suppliant. He had known her, this mysterious, homeless being that had
come floating across the waters to hear the song of his exile. A deep,
thrilling emotion lifted her on its crest, as the long, slow, elemental
rhythm of the ocean had lifted the frail shell of the gondola, far out
at the Porto del Lido, such a life-time ago. But now she did not shrink
from it, she was not disconcerted by it. She only sang on, with growing
passion and power. Everything small and personal seemed swept away. She
felt herself a human creature, singing the needs and aspirations of
another human creature. She was alive, she had come into her birthright.
This man, whose personality had so haunted and harassed her, was no
longer an enigma; she no longer commiserated him. What mattered poverty,
suffering, exile? To be alive was enough; to have _la patria_, or any
other great and high thought in the soul was infinitely more than any mere
presence or possession.
All this was coursing through her mind, and the spirit of it was
entering into her song, with an urgency and power that gave it a really
extraordinary dramatic force. The last words
"_Dolce patria e il cor con te,
Dolce patria e il cor con te!_"
rang out with an impassioned brilliancy of tone that took the listeners
by storm.
As the singer sank upon her seat, not spent by the effort, but rather
absorbed with the new thoughts and emotions that were crowding upon her,
the clapping of many hands sounded to her remote and meaningless, and
she did not even notice that the solitary gondola had slipped away.
Canti feared that she was really exhausted. "It is enough, Signorina,"
he said; "we will go home."
As the barge turned, the gondolas made way for it, and then they pressed
about it again, to offer more money and more. There was no longer any
need of passing the hat.
And May felt that she had finished, that it was enough. She sat very
still, the folds of the black lace almost covering her face, as they
rowed homeward to chorus after chorus of gay songs: "_La bella,
Napoli_," "_Funicoli funicola_," "_Margherita_." She experienced no
painful reaction; she was filled with an uplifting sense of successful
achievement. And her thoughts had turned almost immediately to the poor
Signora in whose behalf all this had been done.
They must have taken a great deal of money, May thought,--a hundred
francs,--perhaps more. Enough to purchase a long respite for the
over-worked singer. Perhaps by the time the poor thing was obliged to
sing again, she would have grown so strong and well, that her voice,
too, would be fresh and pure, and she would have the unspeakable joy of
singing because she could not help it.
May remembered the expression of the great Italian eyes, set in the
haggard face, as the woman had said to her: "The Madonna will bless you,
Signorina!" Yes, she had a soul, the poor Signora, hard-pressed and
starved, but a soul, all the same. May smiled softly to herself, almost
as Pauline might have done.
"_Funicoli funicola!_" the chorus was singing--the coloured lanterns
were bobbing with the stroke of the oars, and all the while the young
girl was passing in review the people she knew, and wondering to
discover how many of them were possessed of souls! There was Uncle Dan
and Pauline and Mrs. Daymond, and, surely Vittorio, with his fine, manly
spirit, and his childlike faith. They all had souls, each after his
kind; they all had a comprehension of something not visible and
material. What a wonderful thing life was! She could not grasp it yet,
but somehow, in some mysterious wise, the world was changed;--not the
moon-lit world of romance alone, but the great day-lighted world, where
people suffered and rejoiced and grew strong.
And just as the barge came opposite the glittering lights of the
Piazzetta, beyond and above which the luminous shaft of the _campanile_
rose straight and white, tipped with its golden angel, the men began to
sing "_Santa Lucia_." And once more a voice rose above the others, fresh
and clear as ever:
"_Sul mare luccica
L'astro d'argento;
Placida e l'onda
Prospero il vento._"
And, as the bobbing lanterns disappeared down a black side-canal, the
ringing voice echoed still from out the darkness:
"_Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia!_"
XVIII
Search-Lights
"I should not so much mind if there should be no moon to-night," said
May, dipping her hand over the side of the boat, to feel the cool, soft
wash of the wave.
"Nothing could be lovelier than this," Pauline assented.
It was evening again and the girls had the gondola to themselves. They
were skirting the low shore of the Lido, fragrant with the breath of
new-mown hay, vocal with the chirp of crickets and the dull, rhythmic
thud of the waves upon the beach. The sky was overcast and the water was
dark, save just ahead, where the gondola light cast a pale reflection,
wavering softly from side to side, with the motion of the courtesying
prow. The twin towers of San Servolo, its massive buildings and sparse
lights, had been left behind, and now the gondola was approaching San
Lazzaro, wrapped in silence and shadow, like the good monks who pace its
quiet paths.
Neither of the girls had felt inclined to talk, yet their sense of
mutual companionship was peculiarly near and intimate. Both had been
absorbed in the memory of the same stirring scene, and though Pauline
had only viewed it from the outskirts she had divined something of the
nature of her sister's experience. She felt intuitively that it had been
more to the young girl than a gratification of vanity, or even a
revelation of her own power. And yet in their overt consideration of the
great event, they had dwelt, hitherto, more particularly upon its
practical aspects,--the reticence and courtesy of the band of musicians,
the really considerable sum of money taken, the hundred-franc piece
which had appeared in the receipts, and Uncle Dan's studied innocence in
connection therewith. The fact that May had escaped recognition had also
been regarded as cause for rejoicing.
May had been glad to find that, unknown to her, her sister had been
among the audience. Her presence seemed, in retrospective wise, to
sanction and sustain her action. If Pauline was there all was well.
As they glided tranquilly along the line of the fragrant shore, the
regular dip of the oar marking the passage of the seconds, like the
soft, lisping tick of certain pleasant old clocks, the nine-o'clock gun
roared its admonition from the deck of the "guardian of the port," and
the bells of San Lazzaro jangled sweetly on the night air. And then it
was that May roused to the need of speech.
"And you knew me at once?" she asked,--not for the first time indeed,
for that was a very vital question.
"Yes, I knew your voice, and when we came a little nearer I knew the way
you held your head."
"And you didn't mind?"
"No; I think, myself, it's rather strange that I did not. But it seemed
perfectly natural and right. I believe I took it all in from the first
moment--just how you had undertaken it for the sake of the poor Signora,
and how then you had forgotten the Signora and forgotten yourself."
They were silent again, while the gondola rounded San Lazzaro and turned
toward home.
"Do you know what I thought of while I was listening to you?" Pauline
asked, as the lights of the Riva appeared in their line of vision,
glimmering remotely on the shore and in the water. "Especially when you
were singing that glorious _Patria_? I thought of what Signor Firenzo
said about your voice, and of what you said yourself, that first day in
Venice,--about finding a soul here."
"You did?" May exclaimed; then, in a lower voice: "So did I!"
They had passed San Lazzaro, and San Servolo too was receding astern of
them before May spoke again.
"Pauline," she queried, presently, "did you see Nanni's gondola come up
from out the lagoon in front of us?"
"Yes, I saw it. How ghostly it was, with his solitary figure, and then
that tragic face of his in the light of the lanterns!"
Suddenly, as she spoke, a broad beam of white light swept the long line
of the Riva, and leapt to the point of the _campanile_, striking the
golden angel into instantaneous brilliancy.
"What's that?" cried Pauline, startled at the suddenness of the
apparition.
"It's a search-light," May answered. "See! It comes from the man-of-war
over by Sant' Elisabetta. There! Look there!"
The light had dropped from the _campanile_, and now it shone full upon
the masts and rigging of an East Indiaman lying off San Giorgio
Maggiore. Each rope and spar stood out in the intense white light,
distinct as if cased in ice.
"_La luce elettrica_," Vittorio observed, unable to suppress his pride
in this new sensation furnished for the delectation of his Signorinas.
"Pauline," said May, with grave emphasis; "Nanni knew me."
"You are sure?"
"Perfectly. I saw it in his face,--and, besides, that is all he could
have meant by his message. You didn't hear that, did you?"
"No; and he left you a message?"
"Yes; when we landed at Quattro Fontane this morning, and found Mr.
Daymond there--did you notice that he seemed to have something to say
to me?"
"Yes;--I noticed."
"He wanted to tell me that he had been walking on the beach with Nanni,
and that Nanni had gone back to Milan and had left a message for me."
"And the message?"
"The message was,--'_addio e grazie!_' Don't you see? He was thanking me
for the singing. I think he knew that I was singing for him."
The light had sprung to the tower of San Giorgio, whose straight shaft
stood out in new intensity of martial red, its golden angel gleaming
like a belated echo of the angel of the _campanile_.
"Singing for him?" Pauline repeated, yet as if she already half
understood.
"Yes, the song of exile. It was just then that he came up. I'm sure he
knew that I was thinking of him as I sang, for there was a look in his
face that I shall never forget."
"Tell me why, dear."
"Yes; I will tell you why, though it's rather a long story," May
answered, yielding to an imperative need of confession. "I can't quite
account for it all, but, up to last night, I had always felt perplexed
and disturbed about the man. He made me feel a great many things I had
never felt before. It seemed to me as if I had never before known a
single thing about--anything real,--about any human creature but myself.
And yet I suppose the very reason why this haunted me so was because I
did not understand. I felt always that there was a mystery, something I
couldn't get hold of,--and you know how I do hate a mystery."
As May forced her thoughts to take shape, she felt that it was her own
mind rather than Pauline's that was being enlightened. It was as if
Pauline must understand,--as if it were Pauline who was making things
clear to her. Yet Pauline did not say a word. She only listened, her
head inclined a bit, her eyes intent and comprehending.
"I think," May went on, "I think it must have been something really high
and fine in him that made the sordidness of it all seem so intolerable.
I suppose it is as Uncle Dan says;--these things are a matter of race. I
think Nanni must have more than his share of the family inheritance. Did
you never feel it, Pauline?"
"Yes, there was certainly something impressive about him," Pauline
admitted.
"I'm glad you thought so, too. Well, do you know, Pauline, it came to me
last night like a revelation, that I had been all wrong and morbid about
it. I remembered how he had said to me, one day when I was talking to
him about coming back to Venice: 'You mistake me and my life,
Signorina.' It did not impress me so much at the time--something drove
it out of my head;--but, suddenly, as I saw his face last night, I
seemed to understand what he meant."
They were passing near two fishing-boats moored to a cluster of piles, a
single deck-light shining clear and steady, reflected in the water like
a long yellow finger. The men had deserted the boats and were swimming
somewhere out of sight in the darkness, their voices sounding curiously
near and distinct across the water.
"I suppose it was the song that touched him," May was saying. "It is
such a beautiful song, and the moment I began singing, I felt as if it
had been written expressly for him. Pauline, he had a look such as a man
might have who was facing a great renunciation, with the spirit of a
hero. And it came to me like a flash, that a man who could look like
that need not mind where he lived, or what his service was. And when I
heard to-day that he had gone back to his work, I was not at all
surprised, and I was not even sorry for him, as I should have been
yesterday. I felt as if I understood."
May had been speaking fast, with an eager, half questioning manner, as
if everything depended upon Pauline's agreeing with her. Now she paused,
and looked into her sister's face, close beside her in the dim light.
And Pauline returned her look with one that set her heart at rest.
"I think you have discovered something very deep and true," she said,
gently. "And it is one of those things that nobody can tell us, that we
must discover for ourselves. But, May," she added, after a moment's
reflection, "I don't believe we need think of the man's work as mean or
sordid. I should think it might be a very valuable sort of service that
he renders at the hospital. Do you remember that day, the first week we
were here, when we were waiting for the sacristan at the Madonna del
Orto, and a little girl on the quay fell down and hurt her arm?"
"Yes; I remember,--and how quickly Nanni sprang ashore and picked her
up."
"Well;--do you know, May, there was something in the way he bent over
the little thing and examined her arm to see if it were really hurt,
that impressed me very much. His touch was so gentle, and there was so
much intelligence in the way he did it, that I have thought, ever since,
what a blessing it must be to have such a man about in a hospital."
"Yes," said May, thoughtfully,--"perhaps that is why he chooses that
life. That would explain a great deal. I am glad you reminded me of it,
Pauline,"--and again she reached her arm over the side of the boat, and
let the cool water slip through her fingers, watching the little ripple
they made upon the surface. "Perhaps that was what Mr. Daymond meant
when he said he had had a talk with Nanni, and he did not think that I
need have any more anxiety about him,--that he was doing the work he
could do best, and that he was happy in doing it."
"And you had told Mr. Daymond, before that, that you were disturbed
about it?" Pauline asked, with a swift, uncontrollable contraction of
the heart.
"Yes; we had a talk about Nanni the evening of the illumination.
Pauline," May exclaimed, with a sudden change of tone, "what a waste it
is that that nice fellow hasn't any sisters!"
"Who? Mr. Daymond?"
"Yes; he would make such a perfect brother. He is so dear, and good,
and--_unromantic_!"
As the words fell, crisp and incisive on the still night air, their
point and meaning piercing like finely tempered steel to Pauline's
innermost consciousness, the search-light flashed out again, striking
full upon the Salute. For a fleeting instant the glorious dome curved
white and luminous against a lowering sky, vanishing again as the light
was withdrawn. Pauline caught her breath, and the blood raced through
her veins. She was startled, she assured herself, by the suddenness of
the flash.
When she spoke, her voice was tranquil as ever, yet curiously shot
through with feeling.
"If Geoffry Daymond told you that," she said, "I think you may feel
satisfied."
"I do," May answered, noting with surprise that her sister had given
Geoffry Daymond his full name;--it was not Pauline's way. "Yes, I do,"
she repeated, "it is a great relief."
It was only for a moment that Pauline's interest in her sister's story
had wavered. She had listened, and with unerring comprehension, thanks
to which she had not been misled as another might have been.
"There comes the moon out of the clouds," she exclaimed. "Take us where
we can see the moon, Vittorio."
"Si, Signorina."
They had come opposite the Salute, and now the prow of the gondola
turned in at the narrow _rio_ that runs between the great church and the
lovely old Abbazia of San Gregorio. There were deserted gondolas and
other craft moored at one side of the little canal, and as they pushed
their way past them, the oar lapped the water with the peculiar sound it
makes in passing through a restricted passage. They glided under a low
bridge, beyond which the moon appeared, just issuing from a bank of
cloud, and, a moment later, they had floated out into the Giudecca,
among the tall black hulls of the shipping lying there at anchor.
"How good and genuine the moon looks after those search-lights!" May
exclaimed, with a sigh of satisfaction.
"Yes, but they were a wonderful sight," Pauline maintained.
"Perhaps so; but they were artificial, and one does like things to be
natural."
They had rowed the length of the Giudecca, watching the moon's
vicissitudes among the clouds, and now they had once more turned toward
home, making their way through one of the prettiest _rios_ of the
Tolentini quarter.
"I suppose," Pauline remarked, as they came out upon the Grand Canal,
"that, in a deep sense, artificial things,--of the good kind,--are just
as natural as things we have no control over. I suppose we get our
search-lights from Nature, only in a more round-about way."
"Perhaps we do," May replied; adding, with apparent irrelevance, "and
I'm not sure that I should be willing to have missed it."
* * * * *
That same evening, in the fever ward of a Milan hospital, two figures
were standing beside a narrow cot in earnest consultation. The patient
was a child of ten. The little face had the look of many another little
fever-stricken face, but the hair that lay tossed upon the pillow was of
exceptional beauty.
"Can we save her, Signor Dottore?" It was the nun who spoke.
"We must," the doctor answered, with quiet emphasis.
He stooped and lifted in his hand one of the disordered tresses. It was
neither blonde nor auburn, but pure gold, the lovely gold that sometimes
shines in the heart of the sunset. Even the nun felt the beauty of it.
"Did you ever see such hair as that?" she asked.
He laid the tress back upon the pillow, very gently, and, looking into
the quiet eyes of the Sister, he answered:
"_Never but once._"
XIX
"Decus et Praesidium"
The search-lights of that evening's talk had betrayed more to Pauline
Beverly than the transitory trouble of her sister's mind. In vain did
she try to dwell only upon what May had told her, upon the awakening of
imagination and feeling that had been revealed in the clear depths of
that singularly limpid nature. Unlike as the sisters were, they were yet
of closely kindred fibre, and no one but Pauline could have so clearly
apprehended or so justly gauged the true significance of the experience
which the young girl herself had found so perplexing. Yet because
Pauline so well understood it, the thought of it did not wholly possess
her mind, and she could not escape an unwilling cognizance of something
deeper and far more disquieting, that she had caught a glimpse of in her
own soul.
There was nothing of the repellent reserve in Pauline's character which
makes itself evident to the chance acquaintance. If she was innately
reticent, it was in a deep, still wise, to the exclusion sometimes of
her own consciousness,--and it was this inner reticence that had been
violated.
In the succeeding hours of the night, her mind recurred many times to
that sudden vision of the Salute dome, flashing, white and luminous,
upon a shadowy background. It had been the apparition of an instant, and
yet it was so clearly imaged on her brain, even now, that every
slightest detail stood out in her memory, distinct as in the light of
day. And simultaneously with that, a search-light had flashed upon the
hidden places of her own soul, and she had had a vision which she knew
that no veil of reserve, impenetrable though it might be, could annul.
The night had fallen upon the Salute and wrapped it from sight, but was
it the less real for that?
In the first dawning light, she got up, and, throwing on a loose gown of
soft, pink cashmere, she stepped out upon the balcony to get a breath of
air. She did not look toward the Salute; something withheld her from
doing so, as if it had involved a self-betrayal which she shrank from.
She turned, instead, to the east, where, rising pale, but distinct,
against the faint rosy flush of the sky, was the tower and dome of San
Pietro di Castello. A single star still pricked through the deepening
colour, but, as she looked, it vanished. The dip of an oar, that sound
that never ceases, night nor day, on the great thoroughfare of Venice,
reached her ear, and a bird chirped in the garden. Each suggestion came
to her, isolated and delicately individualised: the star, the oar-dip,
the bird-note. She felt herself played upon, like a passive instrument,
as if a light hand had just touched one vibrating string and another,
careless of definite melody.
The colour in the east deepened to a wonderful rose, against which the
tower and dome of San Pietro stood out in purest dove-colour, and more
birds chirped, and one burst into a little gush of song. Pauline,
standing on her high balcony, wrapped in the soft cashmere whose rosy
colour seemed a reflection of the dawn, felt herself in some peculiar
sense a partaker in that exquisite awakening; and, in truth, the
surface of the water was not more sensitive to the growing wonder than
the delicately expressive face, turned still to the east. Not until the
sun had fairly risen, and swept the colour from the face of the sky, did
she look toward the Salute. There it stood, beautiful and strong and
invulnerable, but behind it were dark rain-clouds, heaped high and
threatening.
Then Pauline moved away, with a feeling of assured strength and peace.
She could not account for it, she could not have defined it; she only
felt as if she had come face to face with a great experience, whether of
joy or sorrow she could not tell,--but whatever its countenance she felt
serenely ready to meet it.
She slept a deep, peaceful sleep after that, nor did her mind misgive
her when she awoke again, to find that those threatening clouds had
taken possession of the sky, and were drenching the world with rain.
They went to the Belle Arti that morning, Pauline and May and Uncle Dan,
their faithful squire. Vittorio took them there in the hooded gondola,
himself radiant in a new "impermeable" hat and coat, which gave him the
appearance of a gigantic wet seal, swaying genially on its supple tail.
As they looked out from the shelter of the _felze_, more impermeable
than many rubber coats, May observed that it was a terrible waste of
opportunities to go about in a _felze_ with a mere uncle and sister.