The June night was dark and warm as Zorzi pushed off from the steps
before his master's house and guided his skiff through the canal,
scarcely moving the single oar, as the rising tide took his boat
silently along. It was not until he had passed the last of the
glass-houses on his right, and was already in the lagoon that separates
Murano from Venice, that he began to row, gently at first, for fear of
being heard by some one ashore, and then more quickly, swinging his oar
in the curved crutch with that skilful, serpentine stroke which is
neither rowing nor sculling, but which has all the advantages of both,
for it is swift and silent, and needs scarcely to be slackened even in a
channel so narrow that the boat itself can barely pass.
Now that he was away from the houses, the stars came out and he felt the
pleasant land breeze in his face, meeting the rising tide. Not a boat
was out upon the shallow lagoon but his own, not a sound came from the
town behind him; but as the flat bow of the skiff gently slapped the
water, it plashed and purled with every stroke of the oar, and a faint
murmur of voices in song was borne to him on the wind from the still
waking city.
He stood upright on the high stern of the shadowy craft, himself but a
moving shadow in the starlight, thrown forward now, and now once more
erect, in changing motion; and as he moved the same thought came back
and back again in a sort of halting and painful rhythm. He was out that
night on a bad errand, it said, helping to sell the life of the woman he
loved, and what he was doing could never be undone. Again and again the
words said themselves, the far-off voices said them, the lapping water
took them up and repeated them, the breeze whispered them quickly as it
passed, the oar pronounced them as it creaked softly in the crutch
rowlock, the stars spelled out the sentences in the sky, the lights of
Venice wrote them in the water in broken reflections. He was not alone
any more, for everything in heaven and earth was crying to him to go
back.
That was folly, and he knew it. The master who had trusted him would
drive him out of his house, and out of Venetian land and water, too, if
he chose, and he should never see Marietta again; and she would be
married to Contarini just as if Zorzi had taken the message. Besides, it
was the custom of the world everywhere, so far as he knew, that marriage
and money should be spoken of in the same breath, and there was no
reason why his master should make an exception and be different from
other men.
He could put some hindrance in the way, of course, if he chose to
interfere, for he could deliver the message wrong, and Contarini would
go to the church in the afternoon instead of in the morning. He smiled
grimly in the dark as he thought of the young nobleman waiting for an
hour or two beside the pillar, to be looked at by some one who never
came, then catching sight at last of some ugly old maid of forty,
protected by her servant, ogling him, while she said her prayers and
filling him with horror at the thought that she must be Marietta
Beroviero. All that might happen, but it must inevitably be found out,
the misunderstanding would be cleared away and the marriage would be
arranged after all.
He had rested on his oar to think, and now he struck it deep into the
black water and the skiff shot ahead. He would have a far better chance
of serving Marietta in the future if he obeyed his master and delivered
his message exactly; for he should see Contarini himself and judge of
him, in the first place, and that alone was worth much, and afterwards
there would be time enough for desperate resolutions. He hastened his
stroke, and when he ran under the shadow of the overhanging houses his
mood changed and he grew hopeful, as many young men do, out of sheer
curiosity as to what was before him, and out of the wish to meet
something or somebody that should put his own strength to the test.
It was not far now. With infinite caution he threaded the dark canals,
thanking fortune for the faint starlight that showed him the turnings.
Here and there a small oil lamp burned before the image of a saint; from
a narrow lane on one side, the light streamed across the water, and with
it came sounds of ringing glasses, and the tinkling of a lute, and
laughing voices; then it was dark again as his skiff shot by, and he
made haste, for he wished not to be seen.
Presently, and somewhat to his surprise, he saw a gondola before him in
a narrow place, rowed slowly by a man who seemed to be in black like
himself. He did not try to pass it, but kept a little astern, trying not
to attract attention and hoping that it would turn aside into another
canal. But it went steadily on before him, turning wherever he must
turn, till it stopped where he was to stop, at the water-gate of the
house of the Agnus Dei. Instantly he brought to in the shadow, with the
instinctive caution of every one who is used to the water. Gondolas were
few in those days and belonged only to the rich, who had just begun to
use them as a means of getting about quickly, much more convenient than
horses or mules; for when riding a man often had to go far out of his
way to reach a bridge, and there were many canals that had no bridle
path at all and where the wooden houses were built straight down into
the water as the stone ones are to-day. Zorzi peered through the
darkness and listened. The occupant of the gondola might be Contarini
himself, coming home. Whoever it was tapped softly upon the door, which
was instantly opened, but to Zorzi's surprise no light shone from the
entrance. All the house above was still and dark, and he could barely
make out by the starlight the piece of white marble bearing the
sculptured Agnus Dei whence the house takes its name. He knew that above
the high balcony there were graceful columns bearing pointed stone
arches, between which are the symbols of the four Evangelists; but he
could see nothing of them. Only on the balcony, he fancied he saw
something less dark than the wall or the sky, and which might be a
woman's dress.
Some one got out of the gondola and went in after speaking a few words
in a low tone, and the door was then shut without noise. The gondola
glided on, under the Baker's Bridge, but Zorzi could not see whether it
went further or not; he thought he heard the sound of the oar, as if it
were going away. Coming alongside the step, he knocked gently as the
last comer had done, and the door opened again. He had already made his
skiff fast to the step.
"Your business here?" asked a muffled voice out of the dark.
Zorzi felt that a number of persons were in the hall immediately behind
the speaker.
"For the Lord Jacopo Contarini," he answered. "I have a message and a
token to deliver."
"From whom?"
"I will tell that to his lordship," replied Zorzi.
"I am Contarini," replied the voice, and the speaker felt for Zorzi's
face in the darkness, and brought it near his ear.
"From Angelo," whispered Zorzi, so softly that Contarini only heard the
last word.
The door was now shut as noiselessly as before, but not by Contarini
himself. He still kept his hold on Zorzi's arm.
"The token," he whispered impatiently.
Zorzi pulled the little leathern bag out of his doublet, slipped the
string over his head and thrust the token into Contarini's hand. The
latter uttered a low exclamation of surprise.
"What is this?" he asked.
"The token," answered Zorzi.
He had scarcely spoken when he felt Contarini's arms round him, holding
him fast. He was wise enough to make no attempt to escape from them.
"Friends," said Contarini quickly, "the man who just came in is a spy. I
am holding him. Help me!"
It seemed to Zorzi that a hundred hands seized him in the dark; by the
arms, by the legs, by the body, by the head. He knew that resistance was
worse than useless. There were hands at his throat, too.
"Let us do nothing hastily," said Contarini's voice, close beside him.
"We must find out what he knows first. We can make him speak, I
daresay."
"We are not hangmen to torture a prisoner till he confesses," observed
some one in a quiet and rather indolent tone. "Strangle him quickly and
throw him into the canal. It is late already."
"No," answered Contarini. "Let us at least see his face. We may know
him. If you cry out," he said to Zorzi, "you will be killed instantly."
"Jacopo is right," said some one who had not spoken yet.
Almost at the same instant a door was opened and a broad bar of light
shot across the hall from an inner room. Zorzi was roughly dragged
towards it, and he saw that he was surrounded by about twenty masked
men. His face was held to the light, and Contarini's hold on his throat
relaxed.
"Not even a mask!" exclaimed Jacopo. "A fool, or a madman. Speak, man I
Who are you? Who sent you here?"
"My name is Zorzi," answered the glass-blower with difficulty, for he
had been almost choked. "My business is with the Lord Jacopo alone. It
is very private."
"I have no secrets from my friends," said Contarini. "Speak as if we
were alone."
"I have promised my master to deliver the message in secret. I will not
speak here."
"Strangle him and throw him out," suggested the man with the indolent
voice. "His master is the devil, I have no doubt. He can take the
message back with him."
Two or three laughed.
"These spies seldom hunt alone," remarked another. "While we are wasting
time a dozen more may be guarding the entrance to the house."
"I am no spy," said Zorzi.
"What are you, then?"
"A glass-worker of Murano."
Contarini's hands relaxed altogether, now, and he bent his ear to
Zorzi's lips.
"Whisper your message," he said quickly.
Zorzi obeyed.
"Angelo Beroviero bids you wait by the second pillar on the left in
Saint Mark's church, next Sunday morning, at one hour before noon, till
you shall see him, and in a week from that time you shall have an
answer; and be silent, if you would succeed."
"Very well," answered Contarini. "Friends," he said, standing erect, "it
is a message I have expected. The name of the man who sends it is
'Angelo'--you understand. It is not this fellow's fault that he came
here this evening."
"I suppose there is a woman in the case," said the indolent man. "We
will respect your secret. Put the poor devil out of his misery and let
us come to our business."
"Kill an innocent man!" exclaimed Contarini.
"Yes, since a word from him can send us all to die between the two red
columns."
"His master is powerful and rich," said Jacopo. "If the fellow does not
go back to-night, there will be trouble to-morrow, and since he was sent
to my house, the inquiry will begin here."
"That is true," said more than one voice, in a tone of hesitation.
Zorzi was very pale, but he held his head high, facing the light of the
tall wax candles on the table around which his captors were standing. He
was hopelessly at their mercy, for they were twenty to one; the door had
been shut and barred and the only window in the room was high above the
floor and covered by a thick curtain. He understood perfectly that, by
the accident of Angelo's name, "Angel" being the password of the
company, he had been accidentally admitted to the meeting of some secret
society, and from what had been said, he guessed that its object was a
conspiracy against the Republic. It was clear that in self-defence they
would most probably kill him, since they could not reasonably run the
risk of trusting their lives in his hands. They looked at each other, as
if silently debating what they should do.
"At first you suggested that we should torture him," sneered the
indolent man, "and now you tremble like a girl at the idea of killing
him! Listen to me, Jacopo; if you think that I will leave this house
while this fellow is alive, you are most egregiously mistaken."
He had drawn his dagger while he was speaking, and before he had
finished it was dangerously near Zorzi's throat. Contarini retired a
step as if not daring to defend the prisoner, whose assailant, in spite
of his careless and almost womanish tone, was clearly a man of action.
Zorzi looked fearlessly into the eyes that peered at him through the
holes in the mask.
"It is curious," observed the other. "He does not seem to be afraid. I
am sorry for you, my man, for you appear to be a fine fellow, and I like
your face, but we cannot possibly let you go out of the house alive."
"If you choose to trust me," said Zorzi calmly, "I will not betray you.
But of course it must seem safer for you to kill me. I quite
understand."
"If anything, he is cooler than Venier," observed one of the company.
"He does not believe that we are in earnest," said Contarini.
"I am," answered Venier. "Now, my man," he said, addressing Zorzi again,
"if there is anything I can do for you or your family after your death,
without risking my neck, I will do it with pleasure."
"I have no family, but I thank you for your offer. In return for your
courtesy, I warn you that my master's skiff is fast to the step of the
house. It might be recognised. When you have killed me, you had better
cast it off--it will drift away with the tide."
Venier, who had let the point of his long dagger rest against Zorzi's
collar, suddenly dropped it.
"Contarini," he said, "I take back what I said. It would be an
abominable shame to murder a man as brave as he is."
A murmur of approval came from all the company; but Contarini, whose
vacillating nature showed itself at every turn, was now inclined to take
the other side.
"He may ruin us all," he said. "One word--"
"It seems to me," interrupted a big man who had not yet spoken, and
whose beard was as black as his mask, "that we could make use of just
such a man as this, and of more like him if they are to be found."
"You are right," said Venier. "If he will take the oath, and bear the
tests, let him be one of us. My friend," he said to Zorzi, "you see how
it is. You have proved yourself a brave man, and if you are willing to
join our company we shall be glad to receive you among us. Do you
agree?"
"I must know what the purpose of your society is," answered Zorzi as
calmly as before.
"That is well said, my friend, and I like you the better for it. Now
listen to me. We are a brotherhood of gentlemen of Venice sworn together
to restore the original freedom of our city. That is our main purpose.
What Tiepolo and Faliero failed to do, we hope to accomplish. Are you
with us in that?"
"Sirs," answered Zorzi, "I am a Dalmatian by birth, and not a Venetian.
The Republic forbids me to learn the art of glass-working. I have
learned it. The Republic forbids me to set up a furnace of my own. I
hope to do so. I owe Venice neither allegiance nor gratitude. If your
revolution is to give freedom to art as well as to men, I am with you."
"We shall have freedom for all," said Venier. "We take, moreover, an
oath of fellowship which binds us to help each other in all
circumstances, to the utmost of our ability and fortune, within the
bounds of reason, to risk life and limb for each other's safety, and
most especially to respect the wives, the daughters and the betrothed
brides of all who belong to our fellowship. These are promises which
every true and honest man can make to his friends, and we agree that
whoso breaks any one of them, shall die by the hands of the company. And
by God in heaven, it were better that you should lose your life now,
before taking the oath, than that you should be false to it."
"I will take that oath, and keep it," said Zorzi.
"That is well. We have few signs and no ceremonies, but our promises
are binding, and the forfeit is a painful death--so painful that even
you might flinch before it. Indeed, we usually make some test of a man's
courage before receiving him among us, though most of us have known each
other since we were children. But you have shown us that you are
fearless and honourable, and we ask nothing more of you, except to take
the oath and then to keep it."
He turned to the company, still speaking in his languid way.
"If any man here knows good reason why this new companion should not be
one of us, let him show it now."
Then all were silent, and uncovered their heads, but they still kept
their masks on their faces. Zorzi stood out before them, and Venier was
close beside him.
"Make the sign of the Cross," said Venier in a solemn tone, quite
different from his ordinary voice, "and repeat the words after me."
And Zorzi repeated them steadily and precisely, holding his hand
stretched out before him.
"In the name of the Holy Trinity, I promise and swear to give life and
fortune in the good cause of restoring the original liberty of the
people of Venice, obeying to that end the decisions of this honourable
society, and to bear all sufferings rather than betray it, or any of its
members. And I promise to help each one of my companions also in the
ordinary affairs of life, to the best of my ability and fortune, within
the bounds of reason, risking life and limb for the safety of each and
all. And I promise most especially to honour and respect the wives, the
daughters and the betrothed brides of all who belong to this fellowship,
and to defend them from harm and insult, even as my own mother. And if I
break any promise of this oath, may my flesh be torn from my limbs and
my limbs from my body, one by one, to be burned with fire and the ashes
thereof scattered abroad. Amen."
When Zorzi had said the last word, Venier grasped his hand, at the same
time taking off the mask he wore, and he looked into the young man's
face.
"I am Zuan Venier," he said, his indolent manner returning as he spoke.
"I am Jacopo Contarini," said the master of the house, offering his hand
next.
Zorzi looked first at one, and then at the other; the first was a very
pale young man, with bright blue eyes and delicate features that were
prematurely weary and even worn; Contarini was called the handsomest
Venetian of his day. Yet of the two, most men and women would have been
more attracted to Venier at first sight. For Contarini's silken beard
hardly concealed a weak and feminine mouth, with lips too red and too
curving for a man, and his soft brown eyes had an unmanly tendency to
look away while he was speaking. He was tall, broad shouldered, and well
proportioned, with beautiful hands and shapely feet, yet he did not give
an impression of strength, whereas Venier's languid manner, assumed as
it doubtless was, could not hide the restless energy that lay in his
lean frame.
One by one the other companions came up to Zorzi, took off their masks
and grasped his hand, and he heard their lips pronounce names famous in
Venetian history, Loredan, Mocenigo, Foscari and many others. But he saw
that not one of them all was over five-and-twenty years of age, and with
the keenness of the waif who had fought his own way in the world he
judged that these were not men who could overturn the great Republic and
build up a new government. Whatever they might prove to be in danger and
revolution, however, he had saved his life by casting his lot with
theirs, and he was profoundly grateful to them for having accepted him
as one of themselves. But for their generosity, his weighted body would
have been already lying at the bottom of the canal, and he was not just
now inclined to criticise the mental gifts of those would-be
conspirators who had so unexpectedly forgiven him for discovering their
secret meeting.
"Sirs," he said, when he had grasped the hand of each, "I hope that in
return for my life, for which I thank you, I may be of some service to
the cause of liberty, and to each of you in singular, though I have but
little hope of this, seeing that I am but an artist and you are all
patricians. I pray you, inform me by what sign I may know you if we
chance to meet outside this house, and how I may make myself known."
"We have little need of signs," answered Contarini, "for we meet often,
and we know each other well. But our password is 'the Angel'--meaning
the Angel that freed Saint Peter from his bonds, as we hope to free
Venice from hers, and the token we give is the grip of the hand we have
each given you."
Being thus instructed, Zorzi held his peace, for he felt that he was in
the presence of men far above him in station, in whose conversation it
would not be easy for him to join, and of whose daily lives he knew
nothing, except that most of them lived in palaces and many were the
sons of Councillors of the Ten, and of Senators, and Procurators and of
others high in office, whereat he wondered much. But presently, as the
excitement of what had happened wore off, and they sat about the table,
they began to speak of the news of the day, and especially of the unjust
and cruel acts of the Ten, each contributing some detail learned in his
own home or among intimate friends. Zorzi sat silent in his place,
listening, and he soon understood that as yet they had no definite plan
for bringing on a revolution, and that they knew nothing of the populace
upon whose support they reckoned, and of whom Zorzi knew much by
experience. Yet, though they told each other things which seemed foolish
to him, he said nothing on that first night, and all the time he watched
Contarini very closely, and listened with especial attention to what he
said, trying to discern his character and judge his understanding.
The splendid young Venetian was not displeased by Zorzi's attitude
towards him, and presently came and sat beside him.
"I should have explained to you," he said, "that as it would be
impossible for us to meet here without the knowledge of my servants, we
come together on pretence of playing games of chance. My father lives in
our palace near Saint Mark's, and I live here alone."
At this Foscari, the tall man with the black beard, looked at Contarini
and laughed a little. Contarini glanced at him and smiled with some
constraint.
"On such evenings," he continued, "I admit my guests myself, and they
wear masks when they come, for though my servants are dismissed to their
quarters, and would certainly not betray me for a dice-player, they
might let drop the names of my friends if they saw them from an upper
window."
At this juncture Zorzi heard the rattling of dice, and looking down the
table he saw that two of the company were already throwing against each
other. In a few minutes he found himself sitting alone near Zuan Venier,
all the others having either begun to play themselves, or being engaged
in wagering on the play of others.
"And you, sir?" inquired Zorzi of his neighbour.
"I am tired of games of chance," answered the pale nobleman wearily.
"But our host says it is a mere pretence, to hide the purpose of these
meetings."
"It is more than that," said Venier with a contemptuous smile. "Do you
play?"
"I am a poor artist, sir. I cannot."
"Ah, I had forgotten. That is very interesting. But pray do not call me
'sir' nor use any formality, unless we meet in public. At the 'Sign of
the Angel' we are all brothers. Yes--yes--of course! You are a poor
artist. When I expected to be obliged to cut your throat awhile ago, I
really hoped that I might be able to fulfil some last wish of yours."
"I appreciated your goodness." Zorzi laughed a little nervously, now
that the danger was over.
"I meant it, my friend, I do assure you. And I mean it now. One
advantage of the fellowship is that one may offer to help a brother in
any way without insulting him. I am not as rich as I was--I was too fond
of those things once"--he pointed to the dice--"but if my purse can
serve you, such as it is, I hope you will use it rather than that of
another."
It was impossible to be offended, sensitive though Zorzi was.
"I thank you heartily," he answered.
"It would be a curiosity to see money do good for once," said Venier,
languidly looking towards the players. "Contarini is losing again," he
remarked.
"Does he generally lose much at play?" Zorzi asked, trying to seem
indifferent.
Venier laughed softly.
"It is proverbial, 'to lose like Jacopo Contarini'!" he answered.
"Tell me, I beg of you, are all the meetings of the brotherhood like
this one?"
"In what way?" asked Venier indifferently.
"Do you merely tell each other the news of the day, and then play at
dice all night?"
"Some play cards." Venier laughed scornfully. "This is only the third of
our secret sittings, I believe, but many of us meet elsewhere, during
the day."
"Our host said that the society made a pretence of play in order to
conspire against the State," said Zorzi. "It seems to me that this is
making a pretence of conspiracy, with the chance of death on the
scaffold, for the sake of dice-playing."
"To tell the truth, I think so too," answered the patrician, leaning
back in his chair and looking thoughtfully at the young glass-blower.
"It is more interesting to break a law when you may lose your head for
it than if you only risk a fine or a year's banishment. I daresay that
seems complicated to you."
Zorzi laughed.
"If it is only for the sake of the danger," he said, "why not go and
fight the Turks?"
"I have tried to do my share of that," replied Venier quietly. "So have
some of the others."
"Contarini?" asked Zorzi.
"No. I believe he has never seen any fighting."
While the two were talking the play had proceeded steadily, and almost
in silence. Contarini had lost heavily at first and had then won back
his losses and twice as much more.
"That does not happen often," he said, pushing away the dice and leaning
back.
Zorzi watched him. The yellow light of the wax candles fell softly upon
his silky beard and too perfect features, and made splendid shadows in
the scarlet silk of his coat, and flashed in the precious ruby of the
ring he wore on his white hand. He seemed a true incarnation of his
magnificent city, a century before the rest of all Italy in luxury, in
extravagance, in the art of wasteful trifling with great things which is
a rich man's way of loving art itself; and there were many others of the
company who were of the same stamp as he, but whose faces had no
interest for Zorzi compared with Contarini's. Beside him they were but
ordinary men in the presence of a young god.
No woman could resist such a man as that, thought the poor waif. It
would be enough that Marietta's eyes should rest on him one moment, next
Sunday, when he should be standing by the great pillar in the church,
and her fate would be sealed then and there, irrevocably. It was not
because she was only a glass-maker's daughter, brought up in Murano.
What girl who was human would hesitate to accept such a husband?
Contarini might choose his wife as he pleased, among the noblest and
most beautiful in Italy. One or both of two reasons would explain why
his choice had fallen upon Marietta. It was possible that he had seen
her, and Zorzi firmly believed that no man could see her without loving
her; and Angelo Beroviero might have offered such an immense dowry for
the alliance as to tempt Jacopo's father. No one knew how rich old
Angelo was since he had returned from Florence and Naples, and many said
that he possessed the secret of making gold; but Zorzi knew better than
that.