“I should like to see it. It would be a splendid sight.”
“What if I got the worst of it?” asked Aristarchi, his vast mouth grinning at the idea.
“You?” Arisa laughed contemptuously. “The man is not born who could kill you. I am sure of it.”
“One very nearly succeeded, once upon a time,” said Aristarchi.
“One man? I do not believe it!”
“He chanced to be an executioner,” answered the Greek calmly, “and I had my hands tied behind me.”
“Tell me about it.”
Arisa bent down eagerly, for she loved to hear of his adventures, though he had his own way of narrating them which always made him out innocent of any evil intention.
“There is nothing to tell. It was in Naples. A woman betrayed me and they bound me in my sleep. In the morning I was condemned to death, thrown into a cart and dragged off to be hanged. I thought it was all over, for the cords were new, so that I could not break them. I tried hard enough! But even if I had broken loose, I could never have fought my way through the crowd alone. The noose was around my neck.”
He stopped, as if he had told everything.
“Go on!” said Arisa. “How did you escape? What an adventure!”
“One of my men saved me. He had a little learning, and could pass for a monk when he could get a cowl. He went out before it was daylight that morning, and exchanged clothes with a burly friar whom he met in a quiet place.”
“But how did the friar agree to that?” asked Arisa in surprise.
“He had nothing to say. He was dead,” answered Aristarchi.
“Do you mean to say that he chanced to find a dead friar lying in the road?” asked the Georgian.
“How should I know? I daresay the monk was alive when he met my man, and happened to die a few minutes afterwards — by mere chance. It was very fortunate, was it not?”
“Yes!” Arisa laughed softly. “But what did he do? Why did he take the trouble to dress the monk in his clothes?”
“In order to receive his dying confession, of course. I thought you would understand! And his dying confession was that he, Michael Pandos, a Greek robber, had killed the man for whose murder I was being hanged that morning. My man came just in time, for as the friar’s head was half shaved, as monks’ heads are, he had to shave the rest, as they do for coolness in the south, and he had only his knife with which to do it. But no one found that out, for he had been a barber, as he had been a monk and most other things. He looked very well in a cowl, and spoke Neapolitan. I did not know him when he came to the foot of the gallows, howling out that I was innocent.”
“Were you?” asked Arisa.
“Of course I was,” answered Aristarchi with conviction.
“Who was the man that had been killed?”
“I forget his name,” said the Greek. “He was a Neapolitan gentleman of great family, I believe. I forget the name. He had red hair.”
Arisa laughed and stroked Aristarchi’s big head. She thought she had made him betray himself.
“You had seen him then?” she said, with a question. “I suppose you happened to see him just before he died, as your man saw the monk.”
“Oh no!” answered Aristarchi, who was not to be so easily caught. “It was part of the dying confession. It was necessary to identify the murdered person. How should Michael Parados, the Greek robber, know the name of the gentleman he had killed? He gave a minute description of him. He said he had red hair.”
“You are not a Greek for nothing,” laughed Arisa.
“Did you ever hear of Odysseus?” asked Aristarchi.
“No. What should I know of your Greek gods? If you were a good Christian, you would not speak of them.”
“Odysseus was not a god,” answered Aristarchi, with a grin. “He was a good Christian. I have often thought that he must have been very like me. He was a great traveller and a tolerable sailor.”
“A pirate?” inquired Arisa.
“Oh no! He was a man of the most noble and upright character, incapable of deception! In fact he was very like me, and had nearly as many adventures. If you understood Greek, I would repeat some verses I know about him.”
“Should you love me more, if I understood Greek?” asked Arisa softly. “If I thought so, I would learn it.”
Aristarchi laughed roughly, so that she was almost afraid lest he should be heard far down in the house.
“Learn Greek? You? To make me like you better? You would be just as beautiful if you were altogether dumb! A man does not love a woman for what she can say to him, in any language.”
He turned up his face, and his rough hands drew her splendid head down to him, till he could kiss her. Then there was silence for a few minutes.
He shook his great shoulders at last.
“Everything else is a waste of time,” he said, as if speaking to himself.
Her head lay on the cushions now, and she watched him with half-closed eyes in the soft light, and now and then the thin embroideries that covered her neck and bosom rose and fell with a long, satisfied sigh. He rose to his feet and slowly paced the marble floor, up and down before her, as he would have paced the little poop-deck of his vessel.
“I am glad you told me about that glass-blower,” he said suddenly. “I have met him and talked with him, and I may meet him again. He is old Beroviero’s chief assistant. I fancy he is in love with the daughter.”
“In love with the girl whom Contarini is to marry?” asked Arisa, suddenly opening her eyes.
“Yes. I told you what I said to the old man in his private room — it was more like a brick-kiln than a rich man’s counting-house! While I was inside, the young man was talking to the girl under a tree. I saw them through a low window as I sat discussing business with Beroviero.”
“You could not hear what they said, I suppose.”
“No. But I could see what they looked.” Aristarchi laughed at his own conceit. “The girl was doing some kind of work. The young man stood beside her, resting one hand against the tree. I could not see his face all the time, but I saw hers. She is in love with him. They were talking earnestly and she said something that had a strong effect upon him, for I saw that he stood a long time looking at the trunk of the tree, and saying nothing. What can you make of that, except that they are in love with each other?”
“That is strange,” said Arisa, “for it was he that brought the message to Contarini, bidding him go and see her in Saint Mark’s. That was how he chanced upon them, downstairs, at their last meeting.”
“How do you know it was that message, and not some other?”
“Contarini told me.”
“But if the boy loves her, as I am sure he does, why should he have delivered the message?” asked; the cunning Greek. “It would have been very easy for him to have named another hour, and Contarini would never have seen her. Besides, he had a fine chance then to send the future husband to Paradise! He needed only to name a quiet street, instead of the Church, and to appoint the hour at dusk. One, two and three in the back, the body to the canal, and the marriage would have been broken off.”
“Perhaps he does not wish it broken off,” suggested Arisa, taking an equally amiable but somewhat different point of view. “He cannot marry the girl, of course — but if she is once married and out of her father’s house, it will be different.”
“That is an idea,” assented Aristarchi. “Look at us two. It is very much the same position, and Contarini will be indifferent about her, which he is not, where you are concerned. Between the glass-blower and me, and his wife and you, he will not be a man to be envied. That is another reason for helping the marriage as much as we can.”
“What if the glass-blower makes her give him money?” asked the Georgian woman. “If she loves him she will give him everything she has, and he will take all he can get, of course.”
“Of course, if she had anything to give,” said Aristarchi. “But she will only have what you allow Contarini to give
her. The young man knows well enough that her dowry will all be paid to her husband on the day of the marriage. It does not matter, for if he is in love he will not care much about the money.”
“I hope he will be careful. Any one else may see him with her, as you did, and may warn old Contarini that his intended daughter-in-law is in love with a boy belonging to the glass-house. The marriage would be broken off at once if that happened.”
“That is true.”
So they talked together, judging Zorzi and Marietta according to their views of human nature, which they deduced chiefly from their experience of themselves. From time to time Arisa went and listened at the hole in the floor, and when she heard the guests beginning to take their leave she hid Aristarchi in the embrasure of a disused window that was concealed by a tapestry, and she went into the larger room and lay down among the cushions by the balcony. When Contarini came, a few minutes later, she seemed to have fallen asleep like a child, weary of waiting for him.
So far both she and Aristarchi looked upon Zorzi, who did not know of their existence, with a friendly eye, but their knowledge of his love for Marietta was in reality one more danger in his path. If at any future moment he seemed about to endanger the success of their plans, the strong Greek would soon find an opportunity of sending him to another world, as he had sent many another innocent enemy before. They themselves were safe enough for the present, and it was not likely that they would commit any indiscretion that might endanger their future flight. They had long ago determined what to do if Contarini should accidentally find Aristarchi in the house. Long before his body was found, they would both be on the high seas; few persons knew of Arisa’s existence, no one connected the Greek merchant captain in any way with Contarini, and no one guessed the sailing qualities of the unobtrusive vessel that lay in the Giudecca waiting for a cargo, but ballasted to do her best, and well stocked with provisions and water. The crew knew nothing, when other sailors asked when they were to sail; the men could only say that their captain was the owner of the vessel and was very hard to please in the matter of a cargo.
In one way or another the two were sure of gaining their end, as soon as they should have amassed a sufficient fortune to live in luxury somewhere in the far south.
A change in the situation was brought about by the appearance of Zuan Venier at the glass-house on the following morning. Indolent, tired of his existence, sick of what amused and interested his companions, but generous, true and kind-hearted, he had been sorry to hear that Zorzi had suffered by an accident, and he felt impelled to go and see whether the young fellow needed help. Venier did not remember that he had ever resisted an impulse in his life, though he took the greatest pains to hide the fact that he ever felt any. He perhaps did not realise that although he had done many foolish things, and some that a confessor would not have approved, he had never wished to do anything that was mean, or unkind, or that might give him an unfair advantage over others.
He fancied Zorzi alone, uncared for, perhaps obliged to work in spite of his lameness, and it occurred to him that he might help him in some way, though it was by no means clear what direction his help should take. He did not know that Beroviero was absent, and he intended to call for the old glass-maker. It would be easy to say that he was an old friend of Jacopo Contarini and wished to make the acquaintance of Marietta’s father before the wedding. He would probably have an opportunity of speaking to Zorzi without showing that he already knew him, and he trusted to Zorzi’s discretion to conceal the fact, for he was a good judge of men.
It turned out to be much easier to carry out his plan than he had expected.
“My name is Zuan Venier,” he said, in answer to Pasquale’s gruff inquiry.
Pasquale eyed him a moment through the bars, and immediately understood that he was not a person to be kicked into the canal or received with other similar amenities. The great name alone would have awed the old porter to something like civility, but he had seen the visitor’s face, and being quite as good a judge of humanity as Venier himself, he opened the door at once.
Venier explained that he wished to pay his respects to Messer Angelo Beroviero, being an old friend of Messer Jacopo Contarini. Learning that the master was absent on a journey, he asked whether there were any one within to whom he could deliver a message. He had heard, he said, that the master had a trusted assistant, a certain Zorzi. Pasquale answered that Zorzi was in the laboratory, and led the way.
Zorzi was greatly surprised, but as Venier had anticipated, he said nothing before Pasquale which could show that he had met his visitor before. Venier made a courteous inclination of the head, and the porter disappeared immediately.
“I heard that you had been hurt,” said Venier, when they were alone. “I came to see whether I could do anything for you. Can I?”
Zorzi was touched by the kind words, spoken so quietly and sincerely, for it was only lately that any one except Marietta had shown him a little consideration. He had not forgotten how his master had taken leave of him, and the unexpected friendliness of old Pasquale after his accident had made a difference in his life; but of all men he had ever met, Venier was the one whom he had instinctively desired for a friend.
“Have you come over from Venice on purpose to see me?” he asked, in something like wonder.
“Yes,” answered Venier with a smile. “Why are you surprised?”
“Because it is so good of you.”
“You have solemnly sworn to do as much for me, and for all the companions of our society,” returned Venier, still smiling. “We are to help each other under all circumstances, as far as we can, you know. You are standing, and it must tire you, with those crutches. Shall we sit down? Tell me quite frankly, is there anything I can do for you?”
“Nothing you could ever do could make me more grateful than I am to you for coming,” answered Zorzi sincerely.
Venier took the crutches from his hands and helped him to sit on the bench.
“You are very kind,” Zorzi said.
Venier sat down beside him and asked him all manner of questions about his accident, and how it had happened. Zorzi had no reason for concealing the truth from him.
“They all hate me here,” he said. “It happened like an accident, but the man made it happen. I do not think that he intended to maim me for life, but he meant to hurt me badly, and he did. There was not a man or a boy in the furnace room who did not understand, for no workman ever yet let his blow-pipe slip from his hand in swinging a piece. But I do not wish to make matters worse, and I have said that I believed it was an accident.”
“I should like to come across the man who did it,” said Venier, his eyes growing hard and steely.
“When I tried to hop to the furnace on one leg to save myself from falling, one of the men cried out that I was a dancer, and laughed. I hear that the name has stuck to me among the workmen. I am called the ‘Ballarin.’”
The ignoble meanness of Zorzi’s tormentors roused Venier’s generous blood.
“You will yet be their master,” he said. “You will some day have a furnace of your own, and they will fawn to you. Your nickname will be better than their names in a few years!”
“I hope so,” answered Zorzi.
“I know it,” said the other, with an energy that would have surprised those who only knew the listless young nobleman whom nothing could amuse or interest.
He did not stay very long, and when he went away he said nothing about coming again. Zorzi went with him to the door. He had asked the Dalmatian to tell old Beroviero of his visit. Pasquale, who had never done such a thing in his life, actually went out upon the footway to the steps and steadied the gondola by the gunwale while Venier got in.
Giovanni Beroviero saw Venier come out, for it was near noon, and he had just come back from his own glass-house and was standing in the shadow of his father’s doorway, slowly fanning himself with his large cap before he went upstairs, for it had been very hot in the sun. He did not know Zuan Ven
ier by sight, but there was no mistaking the Venetian’s high station, and he was surprised to see that the nobleman was evidently on good terns with Zorzi.
CHAPTER XIV
ZORZI HAD NOT left the glass-house since he had been hurt, but he foresaw that he might be obliged to leave the laboratory for an hour or more, now that he was better. He could walk, with one crutch and a stick, resting a little on the injured foot, and he felt sure that in a few days he should be able to walk with the stick alone. He had the certainty that he was lame for life, and now and then, when it was dusk and he sat under the plane-tree, meditating upon the uncertain future, he felt a keen pang at the thought that he might never again walk without limping; for he had been light and agile, and very swift of foot as a boy.
He fancied that Marietta would pity him, but not as she had pitied him at first. There would be a little feeling of repulsion for the cripple, mixed with her compassion for the man. It was true that, as matters were going now, he might not see her often again, and he was quite sure that he had no right to think of loving her. Zuan Venier’s visit had recalled very clearly the obligations by which he had solemnly bound himself, and which he honestly meant to fulfil; and apart from them, when he tried to reason about his love, he could make it seem absurd enough that he should dream of winning Marietta for his wife.
But love itself does not argue. At first it is seen far off, like a beautiful bird of rare plumage, among flowers, on a morning in spring; it comes nearer, it is timid, it advances, it recedes, it poises on swiftly beating wings, it soars out of sight, but suddenly it is nearer than before; it changes shapes, and grows vast and terrible, till its flight is like the rushing of the whirlwind; then all is calm again, and in the stillness a sweet voice sings the chant of peace or the melancholy dirge of an endless regret; it is no longer the dove, nor the eagle, nor the storm that leaves ruin in its track — it is everything, it is life, it is the world itself, for ever and time without end, for good or evil, for such happiness as may pass all understanding, if God will, and if not, for undying sorrow.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 997