In the previous chapter I recorded the surprise I felt at Miss Trevor's
acceptance of Doctor Nikola's invitation to a gondola excursion. Almost
as suddenly as she had shown her fear of him, she had recovered her
tranquillity, and the result, as I have stated, was complete perplexity
on my part. With a united desire to reserve our energies for the
evening, we did not arrange a long excursion for that afternoon, but
contented ourselves with a visit to the church of SS. Giovanni e Paolo.
Miss Trevor was quite recovered by this time, and in very good spirits.
She and Glenbarth were on the most friendly terms, consequently my wife
was a most happy woman.
"Isn't it nice to see them together?" she whispered, as we crossed the
hall and went down the steps to our gondola. "They are suited to each
other almost as--well, if I really wanted to pay you a compliment, which
you don't deserve, I should say as we are. Do you notice how prettily
she gives him her hand so that he may help her into the boat?"
"I do," I answered grimly. "And it only shows the wickedness of the
girl. She is as capable of getting into the boat without assistance as
he is."
"And yet you help her yourself every time you get the chance," my wife
retorted. "I have observed you take the greatest care that she should
not fall, even when the step has been one of only a few inches, and I
have been left to get down by myself. Perhaps you cannot recall that day
at Capri?"
"I have the happiest recollections of it," I replied. "I helped her
quite half-a-dozen times."
"And yet you grudge that poor boy the opportunities that you yourself
were once so eager to enjoy. You cannot deny it."
"I am not going to attempt to deny it," I returned. "I _do_ grudge him
his chances. And why shouldn't I? Has she not the second prettiest
hands, and the second neatest ankle, in all Europe?"
My wife looked up at me with a suspicion of a smile hovering round her
mouth. When she does that her dimples are charming.
"And the neatest?" she inquired, as if she had not guessed. Women can do
that sort of thing with excellent effect.
"Lady Hatteras, may I help you into the gondola?" I said politely, and
for some reason, best known to herself, the reply appeared to satisfy
her.
Of one thing there could be no sort of doubt. Miss Trevor had taken a
decided liking to Glenbarth, and the young fellow's delight in her
company was more than equal to it. By my wife's orders I left them
together as much as possible during the afternoon, that is to say as far
as was consistent with the duties of an observant chaperon. For
instance, while we were in the right aisle of the church, examining the
mausoleum of the Doge, Pietro Mocenningo, and the statues of Lombardi,
they were in the choir proper, before the famous tomb of Andrea
Vendramin, considered by many to be the finest of its kind in Venice. As
we entered the choir, they departed into the left transept. I fancy,
however, Glenbarth must have been a little chagrined when she, playing
her hand according to the recognized rules, suggested that they should
turn back in search of us. Back they came accordingly, to be received by
my wife with a speech that still further revealed to me the duplicity of
women.
"You are two naughty children," she said, with fairly simulated wrath.
"Where on earth have you been? We have been looking for you
everywhere!"
"You are so slow," put in Miss Trevor, and then she added, without a
quaver in her voice or blush upon her cheek, "We dawdled about in order
to let you catch us up."
I thought it was time for me to interfere.
"Perhaps I should remind you young people that at the present moment you
are in a church," I said. "Would it not be as well, do you think, for
you to preserve those pretty little prevarications until you are in the
gondola? You will be able to quarrel in greater comfort there. It will
also give Phyllis time to collect her thoughts, and to prepare a new
indictment."
My wife treated me to a look that would have annihilated another man.
After that I washed my hands of them and turned to the copy of Titian's
_Martyrdom of Saint Peter_, which Victor Emmanuel had presented to the
church in place of the original, which had been destroyed. Later on we
made our way, by a long series of tortuous thoroughfares, to the piazza
of Saint Mark, where we intended to sit in front of Florian's _cafe_ and
watch the people until it was time for us to return and dress for
dinner.
As I have already said, Miss Trevor had all the afternoon been in the
best of spirits. Nothing could have been happier than her demeanour when
we left the church, yet when we reached the piazza everything was
changed. Apparently she was not really unhappy, nor did she look about
her in the frightened way that had struck me so unpleasantly on the
previous evening. It was only her manner that was strange. At first she
was silent, then, as if she were afraid we might notice it, she set
herself to talk as if she were so doing for mere talking's sake. Then,
without any apparent reason, she became as silent as a mouse once more.
Remembering what had happened that morning before breakfast, I did not
question her, nor did I attempt to rally her upon the subject. To have
done either would have been to have risked a recurrence of the
catastrophe we had so narrowly escaped earlier in the day. I accordingly
left her alone, and my wife, in the hope of distracting her attention,
entered upon an amusing argument with Glenbarth upon the evils attendant
upon excessive smoking, which was the young man's one, and, so far as I
knew, only failing. Unable to combat her assertions he appealed to me
for protection.
"Take my part, there's a good fellow," he said pathetically. "I am not
strong enough to stand against Lady Hatteras alone."
"No," I returned; "you must fight your own battles. When I see a chance
of having a little peace I like to grasp it. I am going to take Miss
Trevor to Maya's shop on the other side of the piazza, in search of new
photographs. We will leave you to quarrel in comfort here."
So saying Miss Trevor and I left them and made our way to the famous
shop, where I purchased for her a number of photographs, of which she
had expressed her admiration a few days before. After that we rejoined
my wife and Glenbarth and returned to our hotel for dinner.
Nikola, as you may remember, had arranged to call for us with his
gondola at half-past eight, and ten minutes before that time I suggested
that the ladies should prepare themselves for the excursion. I bade them
wrap up well, for I knew by experience that it is seldom warm upon the
water at night. When they had left us the Duke and I strolled into the
balcony.
"I hope to goodness Nikola won't frighten Miss Trevor this evening,"
said my companion, after we had been there a few moments. (I noticed
that he spoke with an anxiety that was by no means usual with him.) "She
is awfully sensitive, you know, and when he likes he can curdle the very
marrow in your bones. I shouldn't have liked her to have heard that
story he told us this morning. I suppose there is no fear of his
repeating it to-night?"
"I should not think so," I returned. "Nikola has more tact in his little
finger than you and I have in our whole bodies. He would be scarcely
likely to make such a mistake. No, I rather fancy that to-night we shall
see a new side of his character. For my own part I am prepared to
confess that I am looking forward to the excursion with a good deal of
pleasure."
"I am glad to hear it," Glenbarth replied, as I thought with a savour of
sarcasm in his voice. "I only hope you won't have reason to regret it."
This little speech set me thinking. Was it possible that Glenbarth was
jealous of Nikola? Surely he could not be foolish enough for that. That
Miss Trevor had made an impression upon him was apparent, but it was
full early for him to grow jealous, and particularly of such a man.
While I was thinking of this the ladies entered the room, and at the
same moment we heard Nikola's gondola draw up at the steps. I thought
Miss Trevor looked a little pale, but though still very quiet she was
more cheerful than she had been before dinner.
"Our guide has arrived," I remarked, as I closed the windows behind us.
"We had better go down to the hall. Miss Trevor, if you will accompany
me, the Duke will bring Phyllis. We must not keep Nikola waiting."
We accordingly left our apartments and proceeded down-stairs.
"I trust you are looking forward to your excursion, Miss Trevor?" I
said as we descended the stairs. "If I am not mistaken you will see
Venice to-night under circumstances such as you could never have dreamed
of before."
"I do not doubt it," she answered simply. "It will be a night to
remember."
Little did she guess how true her prophecy was destined to be. It was
indeed a night that every member of the party would remember all his, or
her, life long. When we had reached the hall, Nikola had just entered
it, and was in the act of sending up a servant to announce his arrival.
He shook hands with my wife, then with Miss Trevor, afterwards with
Glenbarth and myself. His hand was, as usual, as cold as ice and his
face was deathly pale. His tall, lithe figure was concealed by his
voluminous coat, but what was lost in one direction was compensated for
by the mystery that it imparted to his personality. For some reason I
thought of Mephistopheles as I looked at him, and in many ways the
illustration does not seem an altogether inapt one.
"Permit me to express the gratification I feel that you have consented
to allow me to be your guide this evening, Lady Hatteras," he said as he
conducted my wife towards the boat. "While it is an impertinence on my
part to imagine that I can add to your enjoyment of Venice, I fancy it
is, nevertheless, in my power to show you a side of the city with which
you are not as yet acquainted. The night being so beautiful, and
believing that you would wish to see all you can, I have brought a
gondola without a cabin. I trust I did not do wrong."
"I am sure it will be delightful," my wife answered. "It would have been
unendurable on such a beautiful evening to be cooped up in a close
cabin. Besides, we should have seen nothing."
By this time we were on the steps, at the foot of which the gondola in
question, a large one of its class, was lying. As soon as we had boarded
her the gondolier bent to his oar, the boat shot out into the stream,
and the excursion, which, as I have said, we were each of us to remember
all our lives, had commenced. If I shut my eyes now I can recall the
whole scene: the still moonlit waters of the canal, the houses on one
side of which were brilliantly illuminated by the moon, the other being
entirely in the shadow. When we were in mid-stream a boat decorated with
lanterns passed us. It contained a merry party, whose progress was
enlivened by the strains of the invariable _Finiculi Finicula_. The
words and the tune ring in my memory even now. Years before we had grown
heartily sick of the song, now however it possessed a charm that was
quite its own.
"How pretty it is," remarked my wife and Miss Trevor almost
simultaneously. And the former added, "I could never have believed that
it possessed such a wealth of tenderness."
"Might it not be the association that is responsible?" put in Nikola
gravely. "You have probably heard that song at some time when you have
been so happy that all the world has seemed the same. Hearing it
to-night has unconsciously recalled that association, and _Finiculi
Finicula_, once so despised, immediately becomes a melody that touches
your heart-strings, and so wins for itself a place in your regard that
it can never altogether lose."
We had crossed the canal by this time; the gondola with the singers
proceeding towards the Rialto bridge. The echo of the music still
lingered in our ears, and seemed the sweeter by the reason of the
distance that separated us from it. Turning to the gondolier, who in the
moonlight presented a picturesque figure in the stern of the boat,
Nikola said something in Italian. The boat's head was immediately turned
in the direction of a side-street, and a moment later we entered it. It
is not my intention, nor would it be possible for me, to attempt to
furnish you with a definite description of the route we followed. In the
daytime I flatter myself that I have a knowledge of the Venice of the
tourist; if you were to give me a pencil and paper I believe I should be
able to draw a rough outline of the city, and to place St. Mark's
Cathedral, Galaghetti's Hotel, the Rialto bridge, the Arsenal, and
certainly the railway station, in something like their proper positions.
But at night, when I have left the Grand Canal, the city becomes a
sealed book to me. On this particular evening every street, when once we
had left the fashionable quarter behind us, seemed alike. There was the
same darkness, the same silence, and the same reflection of the lights
in the water. Occasionally we happened upon places where business was
still being transacted, and where the noise of voices smote the air with
a vehemence that was like sacrilege. A few moments would then elapse,
and then we were plunged into a silence that was almost unearthly. All
this time Nikola kept us continually interested. Here was a house with a
history as old as Venice itself; there the home of a famous painter;
yonder the birthplace of a poet or a soldier, who had fought his way to
fame by pen or by sword. On one side of the street was the first
dwelling of one who had been a plebeian and had died a Doge; while on
the other side was that of a man who had given his life to save his
friend. Nor were Nikola's illustrations confined to the past alone. Men
whose names were household words to us had preceded us, and had seen
Venice as we were seeing it now. Of each he could tell us something we
had never heard before. It was the perfect mastery of his subject, like
that of a man who plays upon an instrument of which he has made a
lifelong study, that astonished us. He could rouse in our hearts such
emotions as he pleased; could induce us to pity at one moment, and to
loathing at the next; could make us see the city with his eyes, and in a
measure to love it with his own love. That Nikola _did_ entertain a deep
affection for it was as certain as his knowledge of its history.
"I think I may say now," he said, when we had been absent from the hotel
for upwards of an hour, "that I have furnished you with a superficial
idea of the city. Let me attempt after this to show you something of its
inner life. That it will repay you I think you will admit when you have
seen it."
Once more he gave the gondolier an order. Without a word the man entered
a narrow street on the right, then turned to the left, after which to
the right again. What were we going to see next? That it would be
something interesting I had not the least doubt. Presently the gondolier
made an indescribable movement with his oar, the first signal that he
was about to stop. With two strokes he brought the boat alongside the
steps, and Nikola, who was the first to spring out, assisted the ladies
to alight. We were now in a portion of Venice with which I was entirely
unacquainted. The houses were old and lofty, though sadly fallen to
decay. Where shops existed business was still being carried on, but the
majority of the owners of the houses in the neighbourhood appeared to be
early birds, for no lights were visible in their dwellings. Once or
twice men approached us and stared insolently at the ladies of our
party. One of these, more impertinent than his companions, placed his
hand upon Miss Trevor's arm. In a second, without any apparent effort,
Nikola had laid him upon his back.
"Do not be afraid, Miss Trevor," he said; "the fellow has only forgotten
himself for a moment."
So saying he approached the man, who scrambled to his feet, and
addressed him in a low voice.
"No, no, your excellency," the rascal whined; "for the pity of the
blessed saints. Had I known it was you I would not have dared."
Nikola said something in a whisper to him; what it was I have not the
least idea, but its effect was certainly excellent, for the man slunk
away without another word.
After this little incident we continued our walk without further
opposition, took several turnings, and at last found ourselves standing
before a low doorway. That it was closely barred on the inside was
evident from the sounds that followed when, in response to Nikola's
knocks, some one commenced to open it. Presently an old man looked out.
At first he seemed surprised to see us, but when his eyes fell upon
Nikola all was changed. With a low bow he invited him, in Russian, to
enter.
Crossing the threshold we found ourselves in a church of the smallest
possible description. By the dim light a priest could be seen
officiating at the high altar, and there were possibly a dozen
worshippers present. There was an air of secrecy about it all, the
light, the voices, and the precautions taken to prevent a stranger
entering, that appealed to my curiosity. As we turned to leave the
building the little man who had admitted us crept up to Nikola's side
and said something in a low voice to him. Nikola replied, and at the
same time patted the man affectionately upon the shoulder. Then with the
same obsequious respect the latter opened the door once more, and
permitted us to pass out, quickly barring it behind us afterwards
however.
"You have seen many churches during your stay in Venice, Lady Hatteras,"
Nikola remarked, as we made our way back towards the gondola, "I doubt
very much, however, whether you have ever entered a stranger place of
worship than that."
"I know that I have not," my wife replied. "Pray who were the people we
saw there? And why was so much secrecy observed?"
"Because nearly all the poor souls you saw there are either suspected or
wanted by the Russian Government. They are fugitives from injustice, if
I may so express it, and it is for that reason that they are compelled
to worship, as well as live, in hiding."
"But who are they?"
"Nihilists," Nikola answered. "A poor, hot-headed lot of people, who,
seeing their country drifting in a wrong direction, have taken it into
their heads to try and remedy matters by drastic measures. Finding their
efforts hopeless, their properties confiscated, and they themselves in
danger of death, or exile, which is worse, they have fled from Russia.
Some of them, the richest, manage to get to England, some come to
Venice, but knowing that the Italian police will turn them out _sans
ceremonie_ if they discover them, they are compelled to remain in hiding
until they are in a position to proceed elsewhere."
"And you help them?" asked Miss Trevor in a strange voice, as if his
answer were a foregone conclusion.
"What makes you think that?" Nikola inquired.
"Because the doorkeeper knew you, and you spoke so kindly to him."
"The poor fellow has a son," Nikola replied; "a hot-headed young rascal
who has got into trouble in Moscow. If he is caught he will without
doubt go to Siberia for the rest of his life. But he will _not_ be
caught."
Once more Miss Trevor spoke as if with authority, and in the same hushed
voice.
"You have saved him?"
"He _has_ been saved," Nikola replied. "He left for America this
morning. The old fellow was merely expressing to me the gratification he
felt at having got him out of such a difficulty. Now, here is our
gondola. Let us get into it. We still have much to see, and time is not
standing still with us."
Once more we took our places, and once more the gondola proceeded on its
way. To furnish you with a complete _resume_ of all we saw would take
too long, and would occupy too great a space. Let it suffice that we
visited places, the mere existence of which I had never heard of before.
One thing impressed me throughout. Wherever we went Nikola was known,
and not only known, but feared and respected. His face was a key that
opened every lock, and in his company the ladies were as safe, in the
roughest parts of Venice, as if they had been surrounded by a troop of
soldiery. When we had seen all that he was able to show us it was nearly
midnight, and time for us to be getting back to our hotel.
"I trust I have not tired you?" he said, as the ladies took their places
in the gondola for the last time.
"Not in the least," both answered at once, and I fancy my wife spoke not
only for herself but also for Miss Trevor when she continued, "we have
spent a most delightful evening."
"You must not praise the performance until the epilogue is spoken,"
Nikola answered. "I have still one more item on my programme."
As he said this the gondola drew up at some steps, where a solitary
figure was standing, apparently waiting for us. He wore a cloak and
carried a somewhat bulky object in his hand. As soon as the boat came
alongside Nikola sprang out and approached him. To our surprise he
helped him into the gondola and placed him in the stern.
"To-night, Luigi," he said, "you must sing your best for the honour of
the city."
The young man replied in an undertone, and then the gondola passed down
a by-street and a moment later we were back in the Grand Canal. There
was not a breath of air, and the moon shone full and clear upon the
placid water. Never had Venice appeared more beautiful. Away to the
right was the piazza, with the Cathedral of Saint Mark; on our left were
the shadows of the islands. The silence of Venice, and there is no
silence in the world like it, lay upon everything. The only sound to be
heard was the dripping of the water from the gondolier's oar as it rose
and fell in rhythmic motion. Then the musician drew his fingers across
the strings of his guitar, and after a little prelude commenced to sing.
The song he had chosen was the _Salve d'amora_ from _Faust_, surely one
of the most delightful melodies that has ever occurred to the brain of a
musician. Before he had sung a dozen bars we were entranced. Though not
a strong tenor his voice was one of the most perfect I have ever heard.
It was of the purest quality, so rich and sweet that the greatest
connoisseur could not tire of it. The beauty of the evening, the silence
of the lagoon, and the perfectness of the surroundings, helped it to
appeal to us as no music had ever done before. It was a significant
proof of the effect produced upon us, that when he ceased not one of us
spoke for some moments. Our hearts were too full for words. By the time
we had recovered ourselves the gondola had drawn up at the steps of the
hotel, and we had disembarked. The Duke and I desired to reward the
musician; Nikola however begged us to do nothing of the kind.
"He sings to-night to please me," he said. "It would hurt him beyond
words were you to offer him any other reward."
After that there was nothing more to be said, except to thank him in the
best Italian we could muster for the treat he had given us.
"Why on earth does he not try his fortune upon the stage?" asked my
wife, when we had disembarked from the gondola and had assembled on the
steps. "With such a voice he might achieve a European reputation."
"Alas," answered Nikola, "he will never do that. Did you notice his
infirmity?"
Phyllis replied that she had not observed anything extraordinary about
him.
"The poor fellow is blind," Nikola answered very quietly. "He is a
singing-bird shut up always in the dark. And now, good-night. I have
trespassed too long upon your time already."
He bowed low to the ladies, shook hands with the Duke and myself, and
then, before we had time to thank him for the delightful evening he had
given us, was in his gondola once more and out in mid-stream. We watched
him until he had disappeared in the direction of the Rio del Consiglio,
after we entered the hotel and made our way to our own sitting-room.
"I cannot say when I have enjoyed myself so much," said my wife, as we
stood talking together before bidding each other good-night.
"It has been delightful," said Glenbarth, whose little attack of
jealousy seemed to have quite left him. "Have you enjoyed it, Hatteras?"
I said something in reply, I cannot remember what, but I recollect that,
as I did so, I glanced at Miss Trevor's face. It was still very pale,
but her eyes shone with extraordinary brilliance.
"I hope you have had a pleasant evening," I said to her a few moments
later, when we were alone together.
"Yes, I think I can say that I have," she answered, with a far-away look
upon her face. "The music was exquisite. The thought of it haunts me
still."
Then, having bade me good-night, she went off with my wife, leaving me
to attempt to understand why she had replied as she had done.
"And what do you think of it, my friend?" I inquired of Glenbarth, when
we had taken our cigars out into the balcony.
"I am extremely glad we went," he returned quickly. "There can be no
doubt that you were right when you said that it would show us Nikola's
character in a new light. Did you notice with what respect he was
treated by everybody we met, and how anxious they were not to run the
risk of offending him?"
"Of course I noticed it, and you may be sure I drew my own conclusions
from it," I replied.
"And those conclusions were?"
"That Nikola's character is even more inexplicable than before."
After that we smoked in silence for some time. At last I rose and tossed
what remained of my cigar over the rails into the dark waters below.
"It is getting late," I said. "Don't you think we had better bid each
other good-night?"
"Perhaps we had, and yet I don't feel a bit tired."
"Are you quite sure that you have had a pleasant day?"
"Quite sure," he said, with a laugh. "The only thing I regret is having
heard that wretched story this morning. Do you recall the gusto with
which Nikola related it?"
I replied in the affirmative, and asked him his reason for referring to
it now.
"Because I could not help thinking of it this evening, when his voice
was so pleasant and his manner so kind. When I picture him going back
to that house to-night, to that dreadful room, to sleep alone in that
great building, it fairly makes me shudder. Good-night, old fellow. You
have treated me royally to-day; I could scarcely have had more
sensations compressed into my waking hours if I'd been a king."