A NIGHT IN VENICE.
The solitary occupant of this railway-carriage was apparently reading;
but all the same he looked oftener at his watch than at his book. At
length he definitely shut the volume and placed it in his
travelling-bag. Then he let down the carriage-window, and looked out
into the night.
The heavens were clear and calm; the newly-risen moon was but a thin
crescent of silver; in the south a large planet was shining. All around
him, as it seemed, stretched a vast plain of water, as dark and silent
and serene as the overarching sky. Then, far ahead, he could catch a
glimpse of a pale line stretching across the watery plain--a curve of
the many-arched viaduct along which the train was thundering; and beyond
that again, and low down at the horizon, two or three minute and dusky
points of orange. These lights were the lights of Venice.
This traveller was not much hampered with luggage. When finally the
train was driven into the glare of the station, and the usual roar and
confusion began, he took his small bag in his hand and rapidly made his
way through the crowd; then out and down the broad stone steps, and into
a gondola. In a couple of minutes he was completely away from all that
glare and bustle and noise; nothing around him but darkness and an
absolute silence.
The city seemed as the City of the Dead. The tall and sombre buildings
on each side of the water-highway were masses of black--blackest of all
where they showed against the stars. The ear sought in vain for any
sound of human life; there was nothing but the lapping of the water
along the side of the boat, and the slow, monotonous plash of the oar.
Father and farther into the silence and the darkness; and now here and
there a window, close down to the water, and heavily barred with
rectangular bars of iron, shows a dull red light; but there is no sound,
nor any passing shadow within. The man who is standing by the
hearse-like cabin of the gondola observes and thinks. These black
buildings; the narrow and secret canals; the stillness of the night: are
they not suggestive enough--of revenge, a quick blow, and the silence of
the grave? And now, as the gondola still glides on, there is heard a
slow and distant tolling of bells. The Deed is done, then?--no longer
will the piteous hands be thrust out of the barred window--no longer
will the wild cry for help startle the passer-by in the night-time. And
now again, as the gondola goes on its way, another sound--still more
muffled and indistinct--the sound of a church organ, with the solemn
chanting of voices. Are they praying for the soul of the dead? The sound
becomes more and more distant; the gondola goes on its way.
The new-comer has no further time for these idle fancies. At the Rialto
bridge he stops the gondola, pays the man, and goes ashore. Then,
rapidly ascending the steps, he crosses the bridge, descends the other
side, and again jumps into a gondola. All this the work of a few
seconds.
But it was obvious he had been expected. He gave no instructions to the
two men in this second gondola. They instantly went to work, and with a
rapid and powerful stroke sent the boat along--with an occasional
warning cry as they swept by the entrance to one or other of the smaller
canals. Finally, they abruptly left the Grand Canal, close by the Corte
d'Appello, and shot into a narrow opening that seemed little more than a
slit between the buildings.
Here they had to go more cautiously; the orange light of their lamp
shining as they passed on the empty archways, and on the iron-barred
windows, and slimy steps. And always this strange silence in the dead or
sleeping city, and the monotonous plash of the oars, and the deep low
cry of "Sia premi!" or "Sia stali!" to give warning of their approach.
But, indeed, that warning was unnecessary; they were absolutely alone in
this labyrinth of gloomy water-ways.
At length they shot beneath a low bridge, and stopped at some steps
immediately beyond. Here one of the men, getting out, proceeded to act
as guide to the stranger. They had not far to go. They passed first of
all into a long, low, and foul-smelling archway, in the middle of which
was a narrow aperture protected by an iron gate. The man lit a candle,
opened the gate, and preceded his companion along a passage and up a
stone staircase. The atmosphere of the place was damp and sickly; the
staircase was not more than three feet in width; the feeble glimmer of
the candle did but little to dispel the darkness. Even that was
withdrawn; for the guide, having knocked thrice at a door, blew out the
candle, and retreated down-stairs.
"_The night is dark, brother._"
"_The dawn is near._"
Instantly the door was thrown open; the dark figure of a man was seen
against the light; he said, "Come in! come in!" and his hand was
outstretched. The stranger seemed greatly surprised.
"What, you, Calabressa!" he exclaimed. "Your time has not yet expired!"
"What, no? My faith, I have made it expire!" said the other, airily, and
introducing a rather badly pronounced French word or two into his
Italian. "But come in, come in; take a seat. You are early; you may have
to wait."
He was an odd-looking person, this tall, thin, elderly man, with the
flowing yellow-white hair and the albino eyes. There was a semi-military
look about his braided coat; but, on the other hand, he wore the cap of
a German student--of purple velvet, with a narrow leather peak. He
seemed to be proud of his appearance. He had a gay manner.
"Yes, I am escaped. Ah, how fine it is! You walk about all day as you
please; you smoke cigarettes; you have your coffee; you go to look at
the young English ladies who come to feed the pigeons in the place."
He raised two fingers to his lips, and blew a kiss to all the world.
"Such complexions! A wild rose in every cheek! But listen, now; this is
not about an English young lady. I go up to the Church of St.
Mark--besides the bronze horses. I am enjoying the air, when I hear a
sound; I turn; over there I see open windows; ah! the figure in the
white dressing-gown! It is the _diva_ herself. They play the _Barbiere_
to-night, and she is practicing as she dusts her room. _Una voce poco
fa_--it thrills all through the square. She puts the ornaments on the
mantel-piece straight. _Lo giurai, la vincero!_--she goes to the mirror
and makes the most beautiful attitude. Ah, what a spectacle--the black
hair all down--the white dressing-gown--_In sono docile_"--and again he
kissed his two fingers. Then he said,
"But now, you. You do not look one day older. And how is Natalie?"
"Natalie is well, I believe," said the other, gravely.
"You are a strange man. You have not a soft heart for the pretty
creatures of the world; you are implacable. The little Natalushka, then;
how is she?"
"The little Natalushka is grown big now; she is quite a woman."
"A woman! She will marry an Englishman, and become very rich: is not
that so?"
"Natalie--I mean, Natalushka will not marry," said the other coldly.
"She knows she is very useful to me. She knows I have no other."
"_Maintenant_: the business--how goes that?"
"Elsewhere, well; in England, not quite so well," said Ferdinand Lind.
"But what can you expect? The English think they have no need of
co-operation, except to get their groceries cheap. Why, everything is
done in the open air there. If a scoundrel gets a lash too many in
prison, you have it before Parliament next week. If a school-boy is
kicked by his master, you have all the newspapers in the country ablaze.
The newspapers govern England. A penny journal has more power than the
commander-in-chief."
"Then why do you remain in England?"
"It is the safest for me, personally. Then there is most to be done
there. Again, it is the head-quarters of money. Do you see, Calabressa?
One must have money, or one cannot work."
The albino-looking man lit a cigarette.
"You despair, then, of England? No, you never despair."
"There is a prospect. The Southern Englishman is apathetic; he is
interested only, as I have said, in getting his tea and sugar cheap.
But the Northern Englishman is vigorous. The trades' associations in the
North are vast, powerful, wealthy; but they are suspicious of anything
foreign. Members join us; the associations will not. But what do you
think of this, Calabressa: if one were to have the assistance of an
Englishman whose father was one of the great iron-masters; whose name is
well known in the north; who has a large fortune, and a strong will?"
"You have got such a man?"
"Not yet. He is only a Friend. But if I do not misjudge him, he will be
a Companion soon. He is a man after my own heart; once with us, all the
powers of the earth will not turn him back."
"And his fortune?"
"He will help us with that also, no doubt."
"But how did it occur to Providence to furnish you with an assistant so
admirably equipped?"
"Do you mean how did I chance to find him? Through a young English
lord--an amiable youth, who is a great friend of Natalie's--of
Natalushka's. Why, he has joined us, too--"
"An English milord!"
"Yes; but it is merely from poetical sympathy. He is pleasant and
warm-hearted, but to us not valuable; and he is poor."
At this moment a bell rung, apparently in the adjoining apartment.
Calabressa jumped from his chair, and hastened to a door on his left,
which he opened. A _portiere_ prevented anything being seen in the
chamber beyond.
"Has the summons been answered?" a voice asked, from the other side.
"Yes, sir," said Calabressa. "Brother Lind is here."
"That is well."
The door was again shut, and Calabressa resumed his seat.
"Brother Lind," said he, in a low voice, though he leaned back in his
chair, and still preserved that gay manner, "I suppose you do not know
why you have been summoned?"
"Not I."
"_Bien._ But suppose one were to guess? Suppose there is a gentleman
somewhere about who has been carrying his outraging of one's common
notions of decency just a little too far? Suppose it is necessary to
make an example? You may be noble, and have great wealth, and honor, and
smiles from beautiful women; but if some night you find a little bit of
steel getting into your heart, or if some morning you find your coffee
as you drink it burn all the way down until you can feel it burn no
more--what then? You must bid good-bye to your mistresses, and to your
gold plates and feasts, and your fountains spouting perfumes, and all
your titles; is not that so?"
"But who is it?" said Lind, suddenly bending forward.
The other regarded him for a moment, playfully.
"What if I were to mention the '_Starving Cardinal_?'"
"Zaccatelli!" exclaimed Lind, with a ghastly pallor appearing for a
moment in the powerful iron-gray face.
Calabressa only laughed.
"Oh yes, it is beautiful to have all these fine things. And the unhappy
devils who are forced to pawn their last sticks of furniture at the
Monte di Pieta, rather than have their children starve when bread is
dear; how it must gratify them to think of his Eminence seizing the
funds of that flourishing institution to buy up the whole of the grain
in the Papal States! What an admirable speculation! How kind to the
poor, on the part of the Secretary to the Vicar of Christ! What!--do you
think because I am a cardinal I am not to make a profit in corn? I tell
you those people have no business to be miserable--they have no business
to go and pawn their things; if I am allowed to speculate with the
funds, why not? _Allons donc!_--It is a devilish fine world, merry
gentlemen!"
"But--but why have they summoned me?" Lind said, in the same low voice.
"Who knows?" said the other, lightly. "I do not. Come, tell me more
about the little Natalushka. Ah, do I not remember the little minx, when
she came in, after dinner, among all those men, with her '_Eljen a
haza_!' What has she grown to? what has she become?"
"Natalie is a good girl," said her father; but he was thinking of other
things.
"Beautiful?"
"Some would say so."
"But not like the English young ladies?"
"Not at all."
"I thought not. I remember the black-eyed little one--with her pride in
Batthyany, and her hatred in Gorgey, and all the rest of it. The little
Empress!--with her proud eyes, and her black eyelashes. Do you remember
at Dunkirk, when old Anton Pepczinski met her for the first time?
'_Little Natalushka, if I wait for you, will you marry me when you grow
up?_" Then the quick answer, "_I am not to be called any longer by my
nursery name; but if you will fight for my country, I will marry you
when I grow up._'"
Light-hearted as this man Calabressa was, having escaped from prison,
and eagerly inclined for chatter, after so long a spell of enforced
silence, he could not fail to perceive that his companion was hardly
listening to him.
"Mais, mon frere, a quoi bon le regarder?" he said, peevishly. "If it
must come, it will come. Or is it the poor cardinal you pity? That was a
good name they invented for him, anyway--_il cardinale affamatore_."
Again the bell rung, and Ferdinand Lind started. When he turned to the
door, it was with a look on his face of some anxiety and apprehension--a
look but rarely seen there. Then the _portiere_ was drawn aside to let
some one come through: at the same moment Lind caught a brief glimpse of
a number of men sitting round a small table.
The person who now appeared, and whom Lind saluted with great respect,
was a little, sallow-complexioned man, with an intensely black beard and
mustache, and a worn expression of face. He returned Lind's salutation
gravely, and said,
"Brother, the Council thank you for your prompt answer to the summons.
Meanwhile, nothing is decided. You will attend here to-morrow night."
"At what hour, Brother Granaglia?"
"Ten. You will now be conveyed back to the Rialto steps; from thence you
can get to your hotel."
Lind bowed acquiescence; and the stranger passed again through the
_portiere_ and disappeared.