After the death of the serving-man, Biancon, the name of the English
scientist and surgeon became known and revered amongst the persons
of his own profession in Venice. The poor man had died certainly
from the shock to the nerves, but that was of small moment. The
operation had been eminently successful, as science counts success.
It had been admirably performed, and had, as he had said to Veronica,
cleared up a doubt which could not, without a human subject, have
been satisfactorily dissipated. His skill, his manual dexterity, his
courage, were themes of universal praise, and more than one rich
person of the Veneto entreated his examination, and submitted to his
treatment.
Adrianis saw but little of him in the daytime, but most evenings in
_prima sera_ they met in the Palazzo Zaranegra. There Damer spoke
little, but he spoke with effect; and, when he was silent, it seemed
to the young mistress of the house that his silence was odiously
eloquent, for it appeared always to say to her: “What a mindless
creature you are! What a mindless creature you love!”
Sometimes it seemed to her to say more; to say across the length of
the lighted, perfumed, flower-filled salon, “And if I forbid your
mutual passion? If I prevent its fruition?”
Out of his presence she ridiculed these ideas, but in his presence
they were realities to her, and realities which alarmed and haunted
her.
“How I wish you had never brought him here—oh, how I wish it!” she
said once to Adrianis.
They were in the Piazza of St. Mark; it was late in the evening; the
gay summer crowd was all around them; the band was playing; the full
moon was above in all her glory; laughter and gay chatter mingled
with the lapping of the water and the splash of oars. In the blaze
of light under the colonnades people were supping and flirting and
jesting, as though they were still in the days of Goldoni.
“Are you not a little unjust to me?” said Adrianis, gently. “I could
not do otherwise, in common honesty, than tell you that it was not
I who had found your opals, and you wished to see and to thank the
person who had done so.”
“Oh, I know! I know!” she said, with an impatient sigh. “Such things
are always one’s own fault. But he killed Biancon, and his very
presence now is painful to me.”
“Tell him so.”
“I dare not.”
“Shall I tell him for you?”
She looked at him with the wistful, alarmed gaze of a frightened
child.
“Oh, no, no! He would be offended. He might quarrel with you. No!
Pray do not do that.”
“His anger has no terrors for me,” he said, with a smile. “But you
know what you wish is my law for silence as for speech.”
“Limonate? Fragolone? Gelate? Confetti?” sang a boy, pushing against
them with his tray of summer drinks, ices, fruits, and sweetmeats.
“Let us go; it is late; and the crowd grows noisy,” said her duenna.
Adrianis accompanied them to their gondola, which was in waiting
beyond the pillars. He did not venture to offer to accompany them,
for the hour was late, and the elder lady, herself a Zaranegra, was
rigid in her construction and observance of etiquette. He watched
the gondola drift away amongst the many others waiting there, and
then turned back to the piazza as the two Vulcans on the clock-tower
beat out on their anvil with their hammers the twelve strokes
of midnight. He saw amongst the crowd the pale and thoughtful
countenance of Damer. Had he heard what the young Countess had said
of him? It was impossible to tell from his expression; he was looking
up at the four bronze horses, as he sat, with an evening paper on his
knee, at one of the little tables, an untouched lemonade standing at
his elbow.
“I did not know you were here,” said Adrianis. “It is too frivolous a
scene for you. Are you longing to dissect the horses of St. Mark’s?”
Damer smiled slightly.
“I fear I should find their anatomy faulty. I am no artist, or art
critic either, or I should venture to say that I object to their
attitude. Arrested motion is a thing too momentary to perpetuate in
metal or in stone.”
Adrianis looked up at the rearing coursers.
“Surely we might as well object to the statue of Colleone because he
sits erect and motionless through centuries?”
“No, that is quite another matter. Colleone is at rest. The horses
yonder are leaping violently.”
“You are too subtle for me! I can only admire. I am an ignorant, you
know. Have you been here long?”
“Half an hour.”
Had he heard? Adrianis wondered. It was impossible to tell.
“I seldom see you now,” he added. “You have become very unsociable.”
“I was not aware that I was ever sociable. People much occupied
cannot be so. You see I have a newspaper and I do not read it; I have
a _bevanda_ and I do not drink it. I have seen the Contessa Zaranegra
and I have not spoken to her.”
It seemed that the reply, which was longer and more jesting than was
the wont of the speaker, was made with intention.
Adrianis was silent. He wished to tell Damer that his presence was
unwelcome to the lady of whom he spoke, but he hesitated; he was
afraid to compromise her, to seem to boast of some confidence from
her.
“Did you know,” he asked in a low tone, “that her poor serving man
would die under the knife?”
Damer gave him a cold, contemptuous glance.
“I do not speak on professional subjects to laymen,” he said, curtly.
“I do not ask you,” replied Adrianis, “from the professional point of
view. I ask you from that of humanity.”
“Humanity does not enter into the question,” said Damer, slightingly.
“I hope you will not regard it as offensive if I ask you to limit
yourself to speaking of what you understand.”
The blood rose into the cheek of Adrianis, and anger leapt to his
lips. He restrained it with effort from utterance. The boundless
scorn which Damer never scrupled to show for him was at times very
chafing and provocative.
“You know, yourself, nothing of sculpture, you admit,” he said,
controlling his personal feeling, “and yet you venture to criticise
the horses of Lysippus.”
“My criticism is sound, and they are not the horses of Lysippus.”
“They may not be. But my criticism is sound too, I think, on your
want of humanity towards poor Biancon.”
Damer cast an evil and disdainful glance at him.
“With regard,” he replied, “to the man Biancon, there could be no
question of either cruelty or kindness. These terms do not enter
into surgical vocabularies. You are well aware that on the stage no
actor could act who felt in any manner the real emotions of his part.
In like degree no surgeon could operate who was unnerved by what
you call ‘humanity’ with regard to his patient. There is no more of
feeling, or want of feeling, in the operator than in the actor. Is it
impossible for you to comprehend that? As for yourself, you do not
care the least for the dead facchino, you only care because a fair
woman who is dear to you has wept.”
He spoke with insolence, but with apparently entire indifference.
Adrianis coloured with displeasure and self-consciousness. It was
the first time that the name of the Countess Zaranegra had been
mentioned between them when out of her presence. It seemed to
him an intolerable presumption in Damer to speak of her. But he
scarcely knew how to reply. With a man of his own rank he would have
quarrelled in such a manner that a sabre duel on the pastures by the
Brenta river would have followed in the morning. But Damer was not
socially his equal, and was a man to whom a year before he had owed,
or had thought that he owed, his restoration to health and life.
“I should prefer that you left the name of that lady out of our
discourse,” he said, in a low tone but with hauteur. “In my world we
do not venture to speak of women whom we respect.”
Damer understood the reproof and the lesson so conveyed.
“I am not of your world,” he said, slightingly. “I have no such
pretensions. And women are to me but subjects of investigation, like
cats—in their bodies, I mean; of their minds and hearts I have no
knowledge. I leave such studies to Paul Bourget and you.”
Then he rose and walked away towards the end of the piazza, where the
opening of the goldsmiths’ street of the Merceria leads to the back
of the clock-tower and the network of narrow passages beyond it.
Adrianis did not detain him, but went himself to his gondola and was
taken the few yards which parted St. Mark’s from his hotel. Sometimes
he slept on board his yacht, but sometimes at the hotel, because
it was nearer to the Ca’ Zaranegra, which he could not see from
his windows, but which he knew were there on the bend of the canal
towards Rialto.
However, he reflected with consolation, in a week or two more
Veronica would go to her father’s villa in the mountains of the
Trentino, and she had given him to understand that she would tell
the duke to invite him. Thither it would be impossible for Damer to
go, even if he should desire to do so, which was improbable. For
Adrianis never suspected the existence of any passion in Damer
except the desire of command, the pleasure which the exercise of a
strong will over weaker ones gave him from its sense of intellectual
dominion.
The words of Damer seemed to him insolent; but he was used to his
insolence, and he did not attribute them to any other feeling than
that coldness of heart which was not new to him in the speaker.
To all interference in, or interrogation concerning, his scientific
or surgical actions and purposes the Englishman had always replied
with the same refusal to permit those whom he called laymen to judge
either the deeds or the motives of his priesthood. It was precisely
the same kind of arrogance and of inflexible secrecy to which
Adrianis had been used in the ecclesiastics who had been set over
him in his boyhood; the same refusal to be interrogated, the same
mystic and unexplained claim of superiority and infallibility.
“If he would only go away!” thought Adrianis, as his gondola glided
over the few hundred yards.
For the next few days he and Damer did not meet; he had arranged an
excursion to Chioggia, and another to Grado, in which small cruises
the Countess Zaranegra and other ladies were on board his schooner.
It was beautiful weather; the sea was smooth and smiling; all that
wealth could do to make the little voyages delightful was done, and
he hoped in the course of them to have some opportunity to force from
the lady of his thoughts some definite assurance of her acceptance
of his love. In this hope he was disappointed.
Damer was not on board the yacht; but as she saw, over the distant
water as they sailed away from Venice, the foundry flames and factory
smoke of the Fondamenti, where his tower stood, she shuddered in the
hot midsummer noon. It seemed as if even from that distance the eyes
of the strange Englishman could see her and lay silence on her lips
and terror on her heart. It was but a morbid fancy; she knew that;
but she could not shake off the impression. Even when far out on the
sunlit green waves of the Adriatic, when Venice had long dropped away
out of sight, the chilliness and oppression of the hallucination
remained with her.
Although she and every one else knew that the water-fêtes were
solely in her honour and for her pleasure, she continued to accept
the homage but to stop short of any actual and decisive words on her
own part. Adrianis believed that her heart was his, and he could
see nothing in the circumstances of either of them which need cause
so much hesitation and doubt. Each was free, each young; each might
run to meet happiness half-way, as children run to catch a ripe
fruit before it has time to fall to earth, and pluck it, warm with
sunlight, or pause, and let it drop ungathered. The position troubled
and galled him, but his nature was sanguine and his temper optimistic.
Adrianis returned to the city, not wholly discouraged, but vexed and
impatient of continual probation and uncertainty.
If he could not persuade her to promise herself to him in Venice he
would follow her to the hills above Goritz, and there decide his
fate. He had little doubt that he would succeed before the summer
should have wholly fled.
“It is getting too warm here; let us go to the mountains,” said her
companion.
“In a few days,” she answered. But the days passed, the weeks passed,
the temperature grew higher, and she still did not move; and Adrianis
stayed also, living chiefly on board his yacht, and Damer still
delayed his departure, passing most of his time behind bolted doors
in his two chambers on the Fondamenti.
What harm could he do? What harm should he do? He was going to the
German university; he would pass out of her existence with the
steamship which should bear him from the Giudecca to Trieste; he
would vanish in the cold, grim, dark north, and she would remain in
the sunshine and laughter and mirth of the south. They had nothing
in common: could have nothing. He belonged to his ghastly pursuits,
his sickening experiments, his merciless ambitions, and she belonged
to herself—and another. So she told herself a hundred times, and out
of his presence her reasoning served to reassure her. But whenever
she saw him a vague, dull fear turned her heart cold. She felt as
helpless as the blythe bird feels when suddenly in the flowering
meadow, where it has made its nest, it sees a snake come gliding
through the grass. The bird trembles, but does not fly away; dares
not fly away. So she dared not dismiss this man from her house, and
had not courage to go herself out of the city, out of reach from
his magnetism. Her nerves felt the same cold terror as was felt by
those of the Venetian brides who were borne away from the feasting
on Castello by the brown arms of the Moorish sea-ravishers. She
endeavoured to conceal what she felt, for she was ashamed of her own
groundless and harmless fears, but they dulled for her the gaiety,
the mirth, the beauty of the summer cruise on the emerald seas.
“You play with your happiness,” said her duenna, angrily, to her.
“I do not play, indeed,” she answered, seriously. “We will go to the
hills the day after to-morrow.”
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