KIRSKI.
To this pale student from the Reading-room of the British Museum, as he
stands on a bridge crossing one of the smaller canals, surely the scene
around him must seem one fitted to gladden the heart; for it is Venice
at mid-day, in glowing sunlight: the warm cream-white fronts of the
marble palaces and casemented houses, the tall campanili with their
golden tips, the vast and glittering domes of the churches, all rising
fair and dream-like into the intense dark-blue of a cloudless sky. How
the hot sunlight brings out all the beautiful color of the place--the
richly laden fruit-stalls in the Riva dei Schiavoni; the russet and
saffron sails of the vessels; the canal-boats coming in to the steps
with huge open tuns of purple wine to be ladled out with copper buckets;
and then all around the shining, twinkling plain of the green-hued sea,
catching here and there a reflection from the softly red walls of San
Giorgio and the steel-gray gleaming domes of Santa Maria della Salute.
Then the passers-by: these are not like the dusky ghosts that wander
through the pale-blue mists of Bloomsbury. Here comes a buxom
water-carrier, in her orange petticoat and sage-green shawl, who has the
two copper cans at the end of the long piece of wood poised on her
shoulders, pretty nearly filled to the brim. Then a couple of the gayer
gondoliers in white and blue, with fancy waist-belts, and rings in their
ears. A procession of black-garbed monks wends slowly along; they have
come from the silence of the Armenian convent over there at the horizon.
Some wandering minstrels shoot their gondola into the mouth of the
canal, and strike up a gay waltz, while they watch the shaded balconies
above. Here is a Lascar ashore from the big steamer that is to start for
Alexandria on the morrow. A company of soldiers, with blue coats, canvas
trousers, and white gaiters, half march and half trot along to the
quick, crackling music of the buglers. A swarthy-visaged maiden, with
the calm brow of a Madonna, appears in the twilight of a balcony, with a
packet of maize in her hand, and in a minute or two she is surrounded
with a cloud of pigeons. Then this beggar--a child of eight or
ten--red-haired and blue-eyed: surely she has stepped out of one of
Titian's pictures? She whines and whimpers her prayers to him; but there
is something in her look that he has seen elsewhere. It belongs to
another century.
From these reveries Mr. Gathorne Edwards was aroused by some one tapping
him on the shoulder. It was Calabressa.
"My dear Monsieur Edouarts," said he, in a low voice--for the red-haired
little beggar was still standing there expectant--"he has gone over to
the shipping-place. We must follow later on. Meanwhile, regard this
letter that has just been forwarded to me. Ah, you English do not forget
your promises!"
Edwards threw a piece of money to the child, who passed on. Then he
took the letter and read it. It was in French.
* * * * *
"Dear Calabressa,--I want you to tell me what you have done with Yakov
Kirski. They seem unwilling to say here, and I do not choose to inquire
further. But I undertook to look after him, and I understood he was
getting on very well, and now you have carried him off. I hope it is
with no intention of allowing him to go back to Russia, where he will
simply make an attempt at murder, and fall into the hands of the police.
Do not let the poor devil go and make a fool of himself. If you want
money to send him back to England, show this letter, or forward it to
Messrs. ----, who will give you what you want.
"Your friend, George Brand.
"P.S.--I have seen your beautiful caged little bird. I can say no more
at present, but that she shall not suffer through any neglect of mine."
* * * * *
"What is that about the caged bird?" said Edwards.
"Ah, the caged bird?" said Calabressa. "The caged bird?--do you see,
that is a metaphor. It is nothing; one makes one's little joke. But I
was saying, my dear friend, that you English do not promise, and then
forget. No; he says, 'I will befriend this poor devil of a Kirski;' and
here he comes inquiring after him. Now I must answer the letter; you
will accompany me, Monsieur Edouarts? Ten minutes in my little room, and
it is done."
So the two walked away together. This Edwards who now accompanied
Calabressa was a man of about thirty, who looked younger; tall, fair,
with a slight stoop, a large forehead, and blue eyes that stared
near-sightedly through spectacles. The ordinary expression of his face
was grave even to melancholy, but his occasional smile was humorous, and
when he laughed the laugh was soft and light like that of a child. His
knowledge of modern languages was considered to be almost unrivalled,
though he had travelled but little.
When, in this little room, Calabressa had at length finished his letter
and dusted it over with sand, he was not at all loath to show it to this
master of modern speech. Calabressa was proud of his French; and if he
would himself have acknowledged that it was perhaps here and there of
doubtful idiom and of phonetic spelling, would he not have claimed for
it that it was fluent, incisive, and ornate?
"My valued friend, it is not permitted me to answer your questions in
precise terms; but he to whom you have had the goodness to extend your
bountiful protection is well and safe, and under my own care. No; he
goes not back to Russia. His thoughts are different; his madness travels
in other directions; it is no longer revenge, it is adoration and
gratitude that his heart holds. And you, can you not guess who has
worked the miracle? Think of this: you have a poor wretch who is
distracted by injuries and suffering; he goes away alone into Europe; he
is buffeted about with the winds of hunger and thirst and cold: he
cannot speak; he is like a dog--a wild beast that people drive away from
their door. And all at once some one addresses him in gentle tones: it
is the voice of an angel to him! You plough and harrow the poor wretch's
heart with suffering and contempt and hopelessness, until it is a
desert, a wilderness; but some one, by accident, one day drops a seed of
kindness into it, and behold! the beautiful flower of love springing up,
and all the man's life going into it! Can you understand--you who ought
to understand? Were you not present when the bewildered, starved, hunted
creature heard that gentle voice of pity, like an angel speaking from
heaven? And if the beautiful girl, who will be the idol of my thoughts
through my remaining years, if she does not know that she has rescued a
human soul from despair, you will tell her--tell her from me, from
Calabressa. What would not Kirski do for her? you might well ask. The
patient regards the physician who has cured him with gratitude: this is
more that gratitude, it is worship. What she has preserved she owns; he
would give his life to her, to you, to any one whom she regards with
affection. For myself, I do not say such things; but she may count on me
also, while one has yet life.
"I am yours, and hers, Calabressa."
* * * * *
The letter was handed to Gathorne Edwards with a proud air; and he read
it, and handed it back.
"This man Kirski is not so much of a savage as you imagine," he said.
"He learns quickly, and forgets nothing. He can repeat all the articles
of membership; but it is No. 5 that he is particularly fond of. You have
not heard him go over it, Calabressa?"
"I? No. He does not waste my time that way."
"His pronunciation," continued the younger man, with a smile, "is rather
like the cracking of dry twigs. 'Article 5. Whatever punishment may be
decreed against any Officer, Companion, or Friend of the Society may be
vicariously borne by any other Officer, Companion, or Friend who of his
own full and free consent acts as substitute; the original offender
becoming thereby redeemed, acquitted, and released.' And then he
invariably adds: 'Why not make me of some use? To myself my life is
nothing.'"
At this moment there was a tapping at the door.
"It is himself," said Edwards.
"Enter!" Calabressa called out.
The man who now came into the room was a very different looking person
from the wild, unkempt creature who had confronted Natalie Lind in
Curzon Street. The voluminous red beard and mustache had been cropped;
he wore the clothes of a decent workman, with a foreign touch here and
there; he was submissive and docile in look.
"Well, where have you been, my friend?" Calabressa said to him in
Italian.
Kirski glanced at Gathorne Edwards, and began to speak to him in
Russian.
"Will you explain for me, little father? I have been to many churches."
"The police will not suspect him if he goes there," said Calabressa,
laughing.
"And to the shops in the Piazza San Marco, where the pictures are of the
saints."
"Well?"
"Little father, I can find no one of the saints so beautiful as that one
in England that the Master Calabressa knows."
Calabressa laughed again.
"Allons, mon grand enfant! Tell him that if it is only a likeness he is
hunting for, I can show him one."
With that he took out from his breast-pocket a small pocket book, opened
it, found a certain photograph, and put it on the table, shoving it over
toward Kirski. The dim-eyed Russian did not dare to touch it; but he
stooped over it, and he put one trembling hand on each side of it, as if
he would concentrate the light, and gazed at this portrait of Natalie
Lind until he could see nothing at all for the tears that came into his
eyes. Then he rose abruptly, and said something rapidly to Edwards.
"He says, 'Take it away, or you will make me a thief. It is worth more
than all the diamonds in the world.'"
Calabressa did not laugh this time. He regarded the man with a look in
which there was as much pity as curiosity.
"The poor devil!" he said. "Tell him I will ask the beautiful saint whom
he worships so to send him a portrait of herself with her own hands. I
will. She will do as much as that for her friend Calabressa."
This had scarcely been translated to Kirski when, in his sudden
gratitude, he caught Calabressa's hand and kissed it.
"Tell him, also," Calabressa said, good-naturedly, "that if he is hungry
before dinner-time there is sausage and bread and beer in the cupboard.
But he must not stir out till we come back. Allons, mon bon camarade!"
Calabressa lit another cigarette, and the two companions sallied forth.
They stepped into a gondola, and presently they were being borne swiftly
over the plain of light-green water. By-and-by they plunged into a
varied and picturesque mass of shipping, and touched land again in front
of a series of stores. The gondola was ordered to await their return.
Calabressa passed without question through the lower floor of this
particular building, where the people were busy with barrels of flour,
and led the way up-stairs until he stopped at a certain door. He knocked
thrice and entered. There was a small, dark man seated at a table,
apparently engaged with some bills of lading.
"You are punctual, Brother Calabressa."
"Your time is valuable, Brother Granaglia. Let me present to you my
comrade Signor Edouarts, of whom I wrote to you."
The sallow-faced little man with the tired look bowed courteously,
begged his guests to be seated, and pushed toward them a box of
cigarettes.
"Now, my Calabressa," said he, "to the point. As you guess, I am pressed
for time. Seven days hence will find me in Moscow."
"In Moscow!" exclaimed Calabressa. "You dare not!"
Granaglia waved his hand a couple of inches.
"Do not protest. It may be your turn to-morrow. And my good friend
Calabressa would find Moscow just about as dangerous for him as for me."
"Monsieur le Secretaire, I have no wish to try. But to the point, as you
say. May one ask how it stands with Zaccatelli?"
Granaglia glanced at the Englishman.
"Of course he knows everything," Calabressa explained instantly. "How
otherwise should I have brought him with me?"
"Well, Zaccatelli has received his warning."
"Who carried it?"
"I."
"You! You are the devil! You thrust your head into the lion's den!"
The black-eyed, worn-faced little man seemed pleased. An odd, dry smile
appeared about the thin lips.
"It needed no courage at all, friend Calabressa. His Eminence knows who
we are, no one better. The courage was his. It is not a pleasant thing
when you are told that within a certain given time you will be a dead
man; but Zaccatelli did not blanch; no, he was very polite to me. He
paid us compliments. We were not like the others, Calabressa. We were
good citizens and Christians; even his Holiness might be induced to lend
an ear; why should not the Church and we be friends?"
Calabressa burst out laughing.
"Surely evil days have fallen on the Pope, Brother Granaglia, when one
of his own Cardinals proposes that he should at last countenance a
secret society. But his Eminence was mad with fear--was it not so? He
wanted to win you over with promises, eh? Idle words, and no more. He
feeds you on wind, and sends you away, and returns to his mistresses and
his wines and his fountains of perfume?"
"Not quite so," said the other, with the same dry smile, "His Eminence,
as I say to you, knows as well as any one in Europe who and what we are,
and what is our power. The day after I called on him with my little
message, what does he do--of his own free-will, mind you--but send back
the daughter of old De Bedros to her home, with a pledge to her father
that she shall have a dowry of ten thousand lire when she marries. The
father is pleased, the daughter is not. She sits and cries. She talks of
herself getting at him with a stiletto."
He took a cigarette, and accepted a light from Calabressa.
"Further," he continued, "his Eminence is so kind as to propose to give
the Council an annual subsidy from his own purse of thirty thousand
lire."
"Thirty thousand lire!" Calabressa exclaimed.
But at this point even Granaglia began to laugh.
"Yes, yes, my friend," he said, apparently apostrophizing the absent
Cardinal. "You know, then, who we are, and you do not wish to give up
all pleasures. No; we are to become the good boy among secret societies;
we are to have the blessing of the Pope; we are to fight Prince Bismarck
for you. Prince Bismarck has all his knights and his castles on the
board; but what are they against an angelic host of bishops and some
millions of common pawns? Prince Bismarck wishes to plunge Europe again
into war. The church with this tremendous engine within reach, says, No.
Do you wish to find eight men--eight men, at the least--out of every
company of every regiment in all your _corps d'armee_ throw down their
rifles at the first onset of battle? You will shoot them for mutiny? My
dear fellow, you cannot, the enemy is upon you. With eight men out of
each company throwing down their weapons, and determined either to
desert or die, how on earth can you fight at all? Well, then, good
Bismarck, you had better make your peace with the Church, and rescind
those Falk laws. What do you think of that scheme, Calabressa? It was
ingenious, was it not, to have come into the head of a man under
sentence of death?"
"But the thirty thousand lire, Brother Granaglia. It is a tremendous
bribe."
"The Council does not accept bribes, Brother Calabressa," said the
other, coldly,
"It is decided, then, that the decree remains to be executed?"
"I know nothing to the contrary. But if you wish to know for certain,
you must seek the Council. They are at Naples."
He pulled an ink-bottle before him, and made a motion with his
forefinger.
"You understand?"
"Yes, yes," Calabressa answered. "And I will go on to Naples, Brother
Granaglia; for I have with me one who I think will carry out the wishes
of the Council effectively, so far as his Eminence the Cardinal is
concerned."
"Who is he?" said the other, but with no great interest.
"Yakov Kirski. He is a Russian."