The sun was high over Venice, gleaming on the blue lagoons that lightly
rippled under a southerly breeze, filling the vast square of Saint
Mark's with blinding light, casting deep shadows behind the church and
in the narrow alleys and canals to northward, about the Merceria. The
morning haze had long since blown away, and the outlines of the old
church and monastery on Saint George's island, and of the buildings on
the Guidecca, and on the low-lying Lido, were hard and clear against the
cloudless sky, mere designs cut out in rich colours, as if with a sharp
knife, and reared up against a background of violent light. In Venice
only the melancholy drenching rain of a winter's day brings rest to the
eye, when water meets water and sky is washed into sea and the city lies
soaking and dripping between two floods. But soon the wind shifts to the
northeast, out breaks the sun again, and all Venice is instantly in a
glare of light and colour and startling distinctness, like the sails and
rigging of a ship at sea on a clear day.
It was Sunday morning and high mass was over in Saint Mark's. The crowd
had streamed out of the central door, spreading like a bright fan over
the square, the men in gay costumes, red, green, blue, yellow, purple,
brown, and white, their legs particoloured in halves and quarters, so
that when looking at a group it was mere guesswork to match the pair
that belonged to one man; women in dresses of one tone, mostly rich and
dark, and often heavily embroidered, for no sumptuary laws could
effectually limit outward display, and the insolent vanity of an age
still almost mediaeval made it natural that the rich should attire
themselves as richly as they could, and that the poor should be despised
for wearing poor clothes.
Angelo Beroviero had a true Venetian's taste for splendour, but he was
also deeply imbued with the Venetian love of secrecy in all matters that
concerned his private life. When he bade Marietta accompany him to
Venice on that Sunday morning, he was equally anxious that she should be
as finely dressed as was becoming for the daughter of a wealthy citizen,
and that she should be in ignorance of the object of the trip. She was
not to know that Jacopo Contarini would be standing beside the second
column on the left, watching her with lazily critical eyes; she was
merely told that she and her father were to dine in the house of a
certain Messer Luigi Foscarini, Procurator of Saint Mark, who was an old
and valued friend, though a near connection of Alvise Trevisan, a rival
glass-maker of Murano. All this had been carefully planned in order that
during their absence Beroviero's house might be suitably prepared for
the solemn family meeting which was to take place late in the afternoon,
and at which her betrothal was to be announced, but of which Marietta
knew nothing. Her father counted upon surprising her and perhaps
dazzling her, so as to avoid all discussion and all possibility of
resistance on her part. She should see Contarini in the church, and
while still under the first impression of his beauty and magnificence,
she should be told before her assembled family that she was solemnly
bound to marry him in two months' time.
Beroviero never expected opposition in anything he wished to do, but he
had always heard that young girls could find a thousand reasons for not
marrying the man their parents chose for them, and he believed that he
could make all argument and hesitation impossible. Marietta doubtless
expected to have a week in which to make up her mind. She should have
five hours, and even that was too much, thought Beroviero. He would have
preferred to march her to the altar without any preliminaries and marry
her to Contarini without giving her a chance of seeing him before the
ceremony. After all, that was the custom of the day.
The fortunes of love were in his favour, for Marietta had spent three
miserably unhappy days and nights since she had last talked with Zorzi
in the garden. From that time he had avoided her moat carefully, never
coming out of the laboratory when she was under the tree with her work,
never raising his eyes to look at her when she came in and talked with
her father. When she entered the big room, he made a solemn bow and
occupied himself in the farthest corner so long as she remained. There
is a stage in which even the truest and purest love of boy and maiden
feeds on misunderstandings. In a burst of tears, and ashamed that she
should be seen crying, Marietta had bidden him go away; in the folly of
his young heart he took her at her word, and avoided her consistently.
He had been hurt by the words, but by a kind of unconscious selfishness
his pain helped him to do what he believed to be his duty.
And Marietta forgot that he had picked up the rose dropped by her in the
path, she forgot that she had seen him stand gazing up at her window,
with a look that could mean only love, she forgot how tenderly and
softly he had answered her in the garden; she only remembered that she
had done her utmost, and too much, to make him tell her that he loved
her, and in vain. She could not forgive him that, for even after three
days her cheeks burned fiercely whenever she thought of it. After that,
it mattered nothing what became of her, whether she were betrothed, or
whether she were married, or whether she went mad, or even whether she
died--that would be the best of all.
In this mood Marietta entered the gondola and seated herself by her
father on Sunday morning. She wore an embroidered gown of olive green, a
little open at her dazzling throat, and a silk mantle of a darker tone
hung from her shoulders, to protect her from the sun rather than from
the air. Her russet hair was plaited in a thick flat braid, and brought
round her head like a broad coronet of red gold, and a point lace veil,
pinned upon it with stoat gold pins, hang down behind and was brought
forward carelessly upon one shoulder.
Beside her, Angelo Beroviero was splendid in dark red cloth and purple
silk. He was proud of his daughter, who was betrothed to the heir of a
great Venetian house, he was proud of his own achievements, of his
wealth, of the richly furnished gondola, of his two big young oarsmen in
quartered yellow and blue hose and snowy shirts, and of his liveried man
in blue and gold, who sat outside the low 'felse' on a little stool,
staff in hand, ready to attend upon his master and young mistress
whenever they should please to go on foot.
Marietta had got into the gondola without so much as glancing across the
canal to see whether Zorzi were standing there to see them push off, as
he often did when she and her father went out together. If he were
there, she meant to show him that she could be more indifferent than he;
if he were not, she would show herself that she did not care enough even
to look for him. But when the gondola was out of sight of the house she
wished she knew whether he had looked out or not.
Her father had told her that they were going to dine with the Procurator
Foscarini and his wife. The pair had one daughter, of Marietta's age,
and she was a cripple from birth. Marietta was fond of her, and it was a
relief to get away from Murano, even for half a day. The visit
explained well enough why her father had desired her to put on her best
gown and most valuable lace. She really had not the slightest idea that
anything more important was on foot.
Beroviero looked at her in silence as they sped along with the gently
rocking motion of the gondola, which is not exactly like any other
movement in the world. He had already noticed that she was paler than
usual, but the extraordinary whiteness of her skin made her pallor
becoming to her, and it was set off by the colour of her hair, as ivory
by rough gold. He wondered whether she had guessed whither he was taking
her.
"It is a long time since we were in Saint Mark's together," he said at
last.
"It must be more than a year," answered Marietta. "We pass it often, but
we hardly ever go in."
"It is early," observed Beroviero, speaking as indifferently as he
could. "When we left home it lacked an hour and a half of noon by the
dial. Shall we go into the church for a while?"
"If you like," replied Marietta mechanically.
Nothing made much difference that morning, but she knew that the high
mass would be over and that the church would be quiet and cool. It was
not at that time the cathedral of Venice, though it had always been the
church in which the doges worshipped in state.
They landed at the low steps in the Rio del Palazzo, and the servant
held out his bent elbow for Marietta to steady herself, though he knew
that she would not touch it, for she was light and sure-footed as a
fawn; but Beroviero leaned heavily on his man's arm. They came round
the Patriarch's palace into the open square, whence the crowd had nearly
all disappeared, dispersing in different directions. Just as they were
within sight of the great doors of the church, Beroviero saw a very tall
man in a purple silk mantle going in alone. It was Contarini, and
Beroviero drew a little sigh of relief. The intended bridegroom was
punctual, but Beroviero thought that he might have shown such anxiety to
see his bride as should have brought him to the door a few minutes
before the time.
Marietta had drawn her veil across her face, leaving only her eyes
uncovered, according to custom.
"It is hot," she complained.
"It will be cool in the church," answered her father. "Throw your veil
back, my dear--there is no one to see you."
"There is the sun," she said, for she had been taught that one of a
Venetian lady's chief beauties is her complexion.
"Well, well--there will be no sun in the church." And the old man
hurried her in, without bestowing a glance upon the bronze horses over
the door, to admire which he generally stopped a few moments in passing.
They entered the great church, and the servant went before them, dipped
his fingers in the basin and offered them holy water. They crossed
themselves, and Marietta bent one knee, looking towards the high altar.
A score of people were scattered about, kneeling and standing in the
nave.
Contarini was leaning against the second pillar on the left, and had
been watching the door when Marietta and her father entered. Beroviero
saw him at once, but led his daughter up the opposite side of the nave,
knelt down beside her a moment at the screen, then crossed and came down
the aisle, and at last turned into the nave again by the second pillar,
so as to come upon Contarini as it were unawares. This all seemed
necessary to him in order that Marietta should receive a very strong and
sudden impression, which should leave no doubt in her mind. Contarini
himself was too thoroughly Venetian not to understand what Beroviero was
doing, and when the two came upon him, he was drawn up to his full
height, one gloved hand holding his cap and resting on his hip; the
other, gloveless, and white as a woman's, was twisting his silky
mustache. Beroviero had manoeuvred so cleverly that Marietta almost
jostled the young patrician as she turned the pillar.
Contarini drew back with quick grace and a slight inclination of his
body, and then pretended the utmost surprise on seeing his valued friend
Messer Angelo Beroviero.
"My most dear sir!" he exclaimed. "This is indeed good fortune!"
"Mine, Messer Jacopo!" returned Beroviero with equally well-feigned
astonishment.
Marietta had looked Contarini full in the face before she had time to
draw her veil across her own. She stepped back and placed herself behind
her father, protected as it were by their serving-man, who stood beside
her with his staff. She understood instantly that the magnificent
patrician was the man of whom her father had spoken as her future
husband. Seen, as she had seen him, in the glowing church, in the most
splendid surroundings that could be imagined, he was certainly a man at
whom any woman would look twice, even out of curiosity, and through her
veil Marietta looked again, till she saw his soft brown eyes
scrutinising her appearance; then she turned quickly away, for she had
looked long enough. She saw that a woman in black was kneeling by the
next pillar, watching her intently with a sort of cold stare that almost
made her shudder. Yet the woman was exceedingly beautiful. It was easy
to see that, though the dark veil hid half her face and its folds
concealed most of her figure. The mysterious, almond-shaped eyes were
those of another race, the marble cheek was more perfectly modelled and
turned than an Italian's, the curling golden hair was more glorious than
any Venetian's. Arisa had come to see her master's bride, and he knew
that she was there looking on. Why should he care? It was a bargain, and
he was not going to give up Arisa and the house of the Agnus Dei because
he meant to marry the rich glass-blower's daughter.
Marietta imagined no connection between the woman and the man, who thus
insolently came to the same place to look at her, pretending not to know
one another; and when she looked back at Contarini she felt a miserable
little thrill of vanity as she noticed that he was looking fixedly at
her, and that his eyes did not wander to the face of that other woman,
who was so much more beautiful than herself. Perhaps, after all, he
would really prefer her to that matchless creature close beside her!
Nothing mattered, of course, since Zorzi did not love her, but after all
it was flattering to be admired by Jacopo Contarini, who could choose
his wife where he pleased, through the whole world.
It all happened in a few seconds. The two men exchanged a few words, to
which she paid no attention, and took leave of each other with great
ceremony and much bowing on both sides. When her father turned at last,
Marietta was already walking towards the door, the servant by her left
side. Beroviero had scarcely joined her when she started a little, and
laid her hand upon his arm.
"The Greek merchant!" she whispered.
Beroviero looked where she was looking. By the first pillar, gazing
intently at Arisa's kneeling figure, stood Aristarchi, his hands folded
over his broad chest, his shaggy head bent forward, his sturdy legs a
little apart. He, too, had come to see the promised bride, and to be a
witness of the bargain whereby he also was to be enriched.
As Marietta came out of the church, she covered her face closely and
drew her silk mantle quite round her, bending her head a little. The
servant walked a few paces in front.
"You have seen your future husband, my child," said Beroviero.
"I suppose that the young noble was Messer Jacopo Contarini," answered
Marietta coldly.
"You are hard to please, if you are not satisfied with my choice for
you," observed her father.
To this Marietta said nothing. She only bent her head a little lower,
looking down as she trod delicately over the hot and dusty ground.
"And you are a most ungrateful daughter," continued Beroviero, "if you
do not appreciate my kindness and liberality of mind in allowing you to
see him before you are formally betrothed."
"Perhaps he is even more pleased by your liberality of mind than I could
possibly be," retorted the young girl with unbending coldness. "He has
probably not seen many Venetian girls of our class face to face and
unveiled. He is to be congratulated on his good fortune!"
"By my faith!" exclaimed Beroviero, "it is hard to satisfy you!"
"I have asked nothing."
"Do you mean to say that you have any objections to allege against such
a marriage?"
"Have I said that I should oppose it? One may obey without enthusiasm."
She laughed coldly.
"Like the unprofitable servant! I had expected something more of you, my
child. I have been at infinite pains and I am making great sacrifices to
procure you a suitable husband, and there are scores of noble girls in
Venice who would give ten years of their lives to marry Jacopo
Contarini! And you say that you obey my commands without enthusiasm!
You are an ungrateful--"
"No, I am not!" interrupted Marietta firmly. "I would rather not marry
at all--"
"Not marry!" repeated Beroviero, interrupting her in a tone of profound
stupefaction, and standing still in the sun as he spoke. "Why--what is
the matter?"
"Is it so strange that I should be contented with my girl's life?" asked
Marietta. "Should I not be ungrateful indeed, if I wished to leave you
and become the wife of a man I have just seen for the first time?"
"You use most extraordinary arguments, my dear," replied Beroviero,
quite at a loss for a suitable retort. "Of course, I have done my best
to make you happy."
He paused, for she had placed him in the awkward position of being angry
because she did not wish to leave him.
"I really do not know what to say," he added, after a moment's
reflection.
"Perhaps there is nothing to be said," answered Marietta, in a tone of
irritating superiority, for she certainly had the best of the
discussion.
They had reached the gondola by this time, and as the servant sat within
hearing at the open door of the 'felse,' they could not continue talking
about such a matter. Beroviero was glad of it, for he regarded the
affair as settled, and considered that it should be hastened to its
conclusion without any further reasoning about it. If he had sent word
to young Contarini that the answer should be given him in a week, that
was merely an imaginary formality invented to cover his own dignity,
since he had so far derogated from it as to allow the young man to see
Marietta. In reality the marriage had been determined and settled
between Beroviero and Contarini's father before anything had been said
to either of the young people. The meeting in the church might have been
dispensed with, if the patrician had been able to answer with certainty
for his wild son's conduct. Jacopo had demanded it, and his father was
so anxious for the marriage that he had communicated the request to
Beroviero. The latter, always for his dignity's sake, had pretended to
refuse, and had then secretly arranged the matter for Jacopo, as has
been seen, without old Contarini's knowledge.
Marietta leaned back under the cool, dark 'felse,' and her hands lay
idly in her lap. She felt that she was helpless, because she was
indifferent, and that she could even now have changed the course of her
destiny if she had cared to make the effort. There was no reason for
making any. She did not believe that she had really loved Zorzi after
all, and if she had, it seemed to-day quite impossible that she should
ever have married him. He was nothing but a waif, a half-nameless
servant, a stranger predestined to a poor and obscure life. As she
inwardly repeated some of these considerations, she felt a little thrust
of remorse for trying to look down on him as impossibly far below her
own station, and a small voice told her that he was an artist, and that
if he had chanced to be born in Venice he would have been as good as her
brothers.
The future stretched out before her in a sort of dull magnificence that
did not in the least appeal to her simple nature. She could not tell why
she had despised Jacopo Contarini from the moment she looked into his
beautiful eyes. Happily women are not expected to explain why they
sometimes judge rightly at first sight, when a wise man is absurdly
deceived. Marietta did not understand Jacopo, and she easily fancied
that because her own character was the stronger she should rule him as
easily as she managed Nella. It did not occur to her that he was already
under the domination of another woman, who might prove to be quite as
strong as she. What she saw was the weakness in his eyes and mouth. With
such a man, she thought, there was little to fear; but there was nothing
to love. If she asked, he would give, if she opposed him, he would
surrender, if she lost her temper and commanded, he would obey with
petulant docility. She should be obliged to take refuge in vanity in
order to get any satisfaction out of her life, and she was not naturally
vain. The luxuries of those days were familiar to her from her
childhood. Though she had not lived in a palace, she had been brought up
in a house that was not unlike one, she ate off silver plates and drank
from glasses that were masterpieces of her father's art, she had coffers
full of silks and satins, and fine linen embroidered with gold thread,
there was always gold and silver in her little wallet-purse when she
wanted anything or wished to give to the poor, she was waited on by a
maid of her own like any fine lady of Venice, and there were a score of
idle servants in a house where there were only two masters--there was
nothing which Contarini could give her that would be more than a little
useless exaggeration of what she had already. She had no particular
desire to show herself unveiled to the world, as married women did, and
she was not especially attracted by the idea of becoming one of them.
She had been brought up alone, she had acquired tastes which other women
had not, and which would no longer be satisfied in her married life, she
loved the glass-house, she delighted in taking a blow-pipe herself and
making small objects which she decorated as she pleased, she felt a
lively interest in her father's experiments, she enjoyed the atmosphere
of his wisdom though it was occasionally disturbed by the foolish little
storms of his hot temper. And until now, she had liked to be often with
Zorzi.
That was past, of course, but the rest remained, and it was much to
sacrifice for the sake of becoming a Contarini, and living on the Grand
Canal with a man she should always despise.
It was clearly not the idea of marriage that surprised or repelled her,
not even of a marriage with a man she did not know and had seen but
once. Girls were brought up to regard marriage as the greatest thing in
life, as the natural goal to which all their girlhood should tend, and
at the same time they were taught from childhood that it was all to be
arranged for them, and that they would in due course grow fond of the
man their parents chose for them. Until Marietta had begun to love
Zorzi, she had accepted all these things quite naturally, as a part of
every woman's life, and it would have seemed as absurd, and perhaps as
impossible, to rebel against them as to repudiate the religion in which
she had been born. Such beliefs turn into prejudices, and assert
themselves as soon as whatever momentarily retards them is removed. By
the time the gondola drew alongside of the steps of the Foscarini
palace, Marietta was convinced that there was nothing for her but to
submit to her fate.
"Then I am to be married in two months?" she said, in a tone of
interrogation, and regardless of the servant.
Beroviero bent his head in answer and smiled kindly; for after all, he
was grateful to her for accepting his decision so quietly. But Marietta
was very pale after she had spoken, for the audible words somehow made
it all seem dreadfully real, and out of the shadows of the great
entrance hall that opened upon the canal she could fancy Zorzi's face
looking at her sadly and reproachfully. The bargain was made, and the
woman he loved was sold for life. For one moment, instinctive womanhood
felt the accursed humiliation, and the flushing blood rose in the girl's
cool cheeks.
She would have blushed deeper had she guessed who had been witnesses of
her first meeting with Contarini, and old Beroviero's temper would have
broken out furiously if he could have imagined that the Greek pirate who
had somehow miraculously escaped the hangman in Naples had been
contemplating with satisfaction the progress of the marriage
negotiations, sure that he himself should before long be enjoying the
better part of Marietta's rich dowry. If the old man could have had
vision of Jacopo's life, and could have suddenly known what the
beautiful woman in black was to the patrician, Contarini's chance of
going home alive that day would have been small indeed, for Beroviero
might have strangled him where he stood, and perhaps Aristarchi would
have discreetly turned his back while he was doing it. For a few minutes
they had all been very near together, the deceivers and the deceived,
and it was not likely that they should ever all be so near again.
Contarini had never seen the Greek, and Arisa was not aware that he was
in the church. When Beroviero and Marietta were gone, Jacopo turned his
back on the slave for a moment as if he meant to walk further up the
church. Aristarchi watched them both, for in spite of all he did not
quite trust the Georgian woman, and he had never seen her alone with
Jacopo when she was unaware of his own presence. Yet he was afraid to go
nearer, now, lest Arisa should accidentally see him and betray by her
manner that she knew him.
Jacopo turned suddenly, when he judged that he could leave the church
without overtaking Beroviero, and he walked quietly down the nave. He
passed close to Arisa, and Aristarchi guessed that their eyes met for a
moment. He almost fancied that Contarini's lips moved, and he was sure
that he smiled. But that was all, and Arisa remained on her knees, not
even turning her head a little as her lover went by.
"Not so ugly after all," Contarini had said, under his breath, and the
careless smile went with the words.
Arisa's lip curled contemptuously as she heard. She had drawn back her
veil, her face was raised, as if she were sending up a prayer to heaven,
and the light fell full upon the magnificent whiteness of her throat,
that showed in strong relief against the black velvet and lace. She
needed no other answer to what he said, but in the scorn of her curving
mouth, which seemed all meant for Marietta, there was contempt for him,
too, that would have cut him to the quick of his vanity.
Aristarchi walked deliberately by the pillar to the aisle, as he passed,
and listened for the flapping of the heavy leathern curtain at the door.
Then he stole nearer to the place where Arisa was still kneeling, and
came noiselessly behind her and leaned against the column, and watched
her, not caring if he surprised her now.
But she did not turn round. Listening intently, Aristarchi heard a soft
quick whispering, and he saw that it was punctuated by a very slight
occasional movement of her head.
He had not believed her when she had told him that she said her prayers
at night, but she was undoubtedly praying now, and Aristarchi watched
her with interest, as he might have looked at some rare foreign animal
whose habits he did not understand. She was very intently bent on what
she was saying, for he stayed there some time, scarcely breathing,
before he turned away and disappeared in the shadows with noiseless
steps.