“It seems to be in order,” said Venier, politely smothering with his gloved hand the beginning of a yawn.
“I owe it to you, I am sure,” answered Zorzi, turning grateful eyes to him.
“No, I assure you,” said the patrician. “But I daresay it has made us all change our opinion of the Ten,” he added with a smile. “Good-bye. Let me come and see you at work at your own furnace before long. I have always wished to see glass blown.”
Without waiting for more, he walked quickly away, waving his hand after he had already turned.
It was noon when Zorzi had folded his patent carefully and hidden it in his bosom, and he and Beroviero and Pasquale went out of the busy gateway under the outer portico. Beroviero led the way to the right, and they passed Saint Mark’s in the blazing sun, and the Patriarch’s palace, and came to the shady landing, the very one at which the old man and his daughter had got out when they had come to the church to meet Contarini. The gondola was waiting there, and Beroviero pushed Zorzi gently before him.
“You are still lame,” he said. “Get in first and sit down.”
But Zorzi drew back, for a woman’s hand was suddenly thrust out of the little window of the ‘felse,’ with a quick gesture.
“There is a lady inside,” said Zorzi.
“Marietta is in the gondola,” answered Beroviero with a smile. “She would not stay at home. But there is room for us all. Get in, my son.”
NOTE
The story of Zorzi Ballarin and Marietta Beroviero is not mere fiction, and is told in several ways. The most common account of the circumstances assumes that Zorzi actually stole the secrets which Angelo Beroviero had received from Paolo Godi, and thereby forced Angelo to give him his daughter in marriage; but the learned Comm. C.A. Levi, director of the museum in Murano, where many works of Beroviero and Ballarin are preserved, has established the latter’s reputation for honourable dealing with regard to the precious secrets, in a pamphlet entitled “L’Arte del Vetro in Murano,” published in Venice, in 1895, to which I beg to refer the curious reader. I have used a novelist’s privilege in writing a story which does not pretend to be historical. I have taken eleven years from the date on which Giovanni Beroviero wrote his letter to the Podestà of Murano, and the letter itself, though similar in spirit to the original, is differently worded and covers somewhat different ground; I have also represented Zorzi as standing alone in his attempt to become an independent glass-blower, whereas Comm. Levi has discovered that he had two companions, who were Dalmatians, like himself. There is no foundation in tradition for the existence of Arisa the Georgian slave, but it is well known that beautiful Eastern slaves were bought and sold in Venice and in many other parts of Italy even at a much later date.
Cecilia
A STORY OF MODERN ROME
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII
CHAPTER XXVIII
The first edition
CHAPTER I
TWO MEN WERE sitting side by side on a stone bench in the forgotten garden of the Arcadian Society, in Rome; and it was in early spring, not long ago. Few people, Romans or strangers, ever find their way to that lonely and beautiful spot beyond the Tiber, niched in a hollow of the Janiculum below San Pietro in Montorio, where Beatrice Cenci sleeps. The Arcadians were men and women who loved poetry in an artificial time, took names of shepherds and shepherdesses, rhymed as best they could, met in pleasant places to recite their verses, and played that the world was young, and gentle, and sweet, and unpoisoned, just when it had declined to one of its recurring periods of vicious old age. The Society did not die with its times, and it still exists, less sprightly, less ready to mask in pastorals, but rhyming, meeting, and reciting verses now and then, in the old manner, though rarely in the old haunts. Even now fresh inscriptions in honour of the Arcadians are set into the stuccoed walls of the little terraced garden under the hill.
It is very peaceful there. Above, the concave wall of the small house of meeting looks down upon circular tiers of brick seats, and beyond these there are bushes and a little fountain. To the right and left, symmetrical walks lead down in two wide curves to the lower levels, where the water falls again into a basin in a shaded grotto, and rises the third time in another fountain. An ancient stone-pine tree springs straight upwards, spreading out lovely branches. There are bushes again and a magnolia, and a Japanese medlar, and there is moss. The stone mouldings of the fountains are rich with the green tints of time. The air is softly damp, smelling of leaves and flowers; there are corners into which the sunlight never shines, little mysteries of perpetual shade that are full of sadness in winter, but in summer repeat the fanciful confidences of a delicious and imaginary past.
The Sister who had let in the two visitors had left them to themselves, and had gone back to the little convent door; for she was the portress, and therefore a small judge of character in her way, and she understood that the two gentlemen were not like the other half-dozen strangers who came every year to see the garden, and went away after ten minutes, dropping half a franc into her hand for the Sisters, and not even lifting their hats to her as she let them out. These two evidently knew the place; they spoke to each other as intimate friends do; they had come to enjoy the peace and silence for an hour, and they would neither carry off the flowers from the magnolia tree, as some did, nor scrawl their names in pencil on the stucco. Therefore they might safely be left to their own leisure and will.
The men were friends, as the portress had guessed; they were very unlike, and their unlikeness was in part the reason of their friendship. The one was squarely built, of average height, a man of action at every point, with bold blue eyes that could be piercing, a rugged Roman head, prominent at the brows, short reddish hair and pointed beard, great jaw and cheek-bones, a tanned and freckled skin. He sat leaning back, one leg crossed over the other, the knee that was upper-most pressing against the stout stick he held across it, and the big veins swelled on his hands and wrists. He was a sailor, and a born fighting man; and in ten years of service he had managed to find himself in every affair that had concerned Italy in the remotest degree, in Africa, in China, and elsewhere. He was now at home on leave, expecting immediate promotion. He bore a historical name; he was called Lamberto Lamberti.
His companion sat with folded arms and bent head, a rather dark young man with deep-set grey eyes that often looked black, a thoughtful face, a grave mouth that could smile suddenly and almost strangely, with a child’s sweet frankness, and yet with a look that was tender and human — the smile of a man who understands the meaning of life and yet does not despise it. Most people would have taken him for a man of leisure, probably given to reading or the cultivation of some artistic taste. Guido d’Este was one of those Italians who are content to survive from a very beautiful past without joining the frantic rush for a very problematic future. But there was more in him than a love of books and a knowledge of pictures; for he was a dreamer, and there are dreams better worth dreaming than many deeds are worth the doing.
“I sometimes wonder what would have happened to you and me,” he said, after there had been a long pause, “if we had been obliged to live each other’s lives.”
“We should both have been bored to extinction,” answered Lamberti, without hesitating.
He was very glad that he was not condemned to the life of a naval officer, to the perpetual motion of active service, to the narrow quarters of a lieutenant on a modern man-of-war, to the daily companionship of a dozen or eighteen other officers with whom he could certainly not have an idea in common. It would be a detestable thing to be sent at a moment’s notice from one end of the world to the other, from heat to cold, from cold to heat, through all sorts of weather, only to be a part of an organisation, a wheel in a machine, a pawn in some one’s game of chess. He had been on board a line-of-battle ship once to see his friend off, and had mentally noted the discomfort. There was nothing in the cabin but a bunk built over a chest of drawers, a narrow transom, a wash-stand that disappeared into a recess when pushed back, an exiguous table fastened to a bulkhead, and one camp-stool. There was no particular means of ventilation, and the place smelt of cold iron, paint, and soft soap. Yet his friend had been about to live at least six months in this cell, which would have been condemned as too narrow in an ordinarily well-managed prison.
Nevertheless, it would be pleasant in itself, no doubt, to be a living part of what most men only read about, to really know what fighting meant, to be one of the few who are invariably chosen first for missions of danger and difficulty. Besides, Guido d’Este was just now in a very difficult situation, which might become dangerous, and from which he saw no immediate means of escape; and, for once in his life, he almost envied his friend his simple career, in which nothing seemed to be required of a man but courage and obedience.
“I suppose I should be bored,” he said again, after a short and thoughtful pause, “but I would rather be bored than live the life I am living.”
The sailor looked at him sharply a moment, and instantly understood that Guido had brought him to the little garden in order to tell him something of importance without risk of interruption.
“Have you had more trouble with that horrible old woman?” he asked roughly.
“Yes. She is draining the life out of me. She will ruin me in the end.”
Guido did not look up as he spoke, and he slowly tapped the hard earth with the toe of his shoe. He felt very helpless, and he shook his head over his misfortunes, which seemed great.
“That comes of being connected with royalty,” said Lamberti, in the same rough tone.
“Is it my fault?” asked Guido, with a melancholy smile.
The sailor snorted discontentedly, and changed his position.
“What can I do?” he asked presently. “Tell me.”
“Nothing.”
“If I were only rich!”
“My dear friend,” said Guido, “she demands a million of francs!”
“There are men who have fifty. Would a hundred thousand francs be of any use?”
“Not the least. Besides, that is all you have.”
“What would that matter?” asked Lamberti.
Guido looked up at last, for he knew that the words were true and earnest.
“Thank you,” he answered. “I know you would do that for me. But it would not be of any use. Things have gone too far.”
“Shall I go to her and talk the matter over? I believe I could frighten her into justice. After all, she has no legal claim upon you.”
Guido shook his head.
“That is not the question,” he answered. “She never pretends that her right is legal, for it is not. On the contrary, she says it is a question of honour, that I have lost her money for her in speculations, and that I am bound to restore it to her. It is true that I only did with it exactly what she wished, and what she insisted that I should do, against my own judgment. She knows that.”
“But then, I do not see—”
“She also knows that I cannot prove it,” interrupted Guido, “and as she is perfectly unscrupulous, she will use everything against me to make out that I have deliberately cheated her out of the money.”
“But it cannot make so much difference to her, after all,” objected Lamberti. “She must have an immense fortune somewhere.”
“She is a miser, in spite of that sudden attack of the gaming fever. Money is the only passion of her life.”
“Possibly, though I doubt it. There is Monsieur Leroy, you know.”
Lamberti spoke the name with contempt, but Guido said nothing, for, after all, the high and mighty lady about whom they were talking was his father’s sister, and he preferred not to talk scandal about her, even with his intimate friend.
“If matters grow worse,” said Lamberti, “there are at least the worthless securities in her name, to prove that you acted for her.”
“You are mistaken. That is the worst of it. Everything was done in my name, for she would not let her own appear. She used to give me the money in cash, telling me exactly what to do with it, and I brought her the broker’s accounts.”
“I daresay she made you sign receipts for the sums she gave you,” laughed Lamberti.
“Yes, she did.”
Lamberti sat up suddenly and stared at his friend. Such folly was hardly to be believed.
“She is capable of saying that she lent you the money on your promise!” he cried.
“That is exactly what she threatens to do,” answered Guido d’Este, dejectedly. “As I cannot possibly pay it, she can force me to do one of two things.”
“What things?”
“Either to disappear from honourable society and begin life somewhere else, or else to make an end of myself. And she will do it. I have felt for more than a year that she means to ruin me.”
Lamberti set his teeth, and stared at the stone-pine. If Guido had not been just the man he was, sensitive to morbidness where his honour was concerned, the situation might have seemed less desperate. If his aunt, her Serene Highness the Princess Anatolie, had not been a monster of avarice, selfishness, and vindictiveness, there would perhaps have been some hope of moving her. As it was, matters looked ill, and to make them worse there was the well-known fact that Guido had formerly played high and had lost considerable sums at cards. It would be easy to make society believe that he had paid his debts, which had always been promptly settled, with money which the Princess had intrusted to him for investment.
“What possible object can she have in ruining you?” asked Lamberti, presently.
“I cannot guess,” Guido answered after another short pause. “I have little enough left as it is, except the bare chance of inheriting something, some day, from my brother, who likes me about as much as my aunt does, and is not bound to leave me a penny.”
“But, after all,” argued Lamberti, “you are the only heir left to either of them.”
“I suppose so,” assented Guido in an uncertain tone.
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing — it does not matter. Of course,” he continued quietly, “this may go on for some time, but it can only end in one way, sooner or later. I shall be lucky if I am only reduced to starvation.”
“You might marry an heiress,” suggested Lamberti, as a last resource.
“And pay my aunt out of my wife’s fortune? No. I will not do that.”
“Of course not. But I should think that if ever an honest man could be tempted to do such a thing, it would be in some such case as yours.”
“Perhaps to save his father from ruin, or his mother from starvation,” said Guido. “I could understand it then; but not to save himself. Besides, no heiress in our world would marry me, for I have nothing to offer.”
Lamberti smiled incredulously. He was not a cynic, because he believed in action; but his faith in the disinterested simplicity of mankind was not strong. He had also some experience of the world, and was quite ready to admit that a marriageable heiress might fairly expect an equivalent for the fortune she was to bring her husband. Yet he wholly rejected the statement that Guido d’Este had nothing of social value to offer, merely because he was now a poor man and had never been a very rich on
e. Guido had neither lands nor money, and bore no title, it was true; and could but just live like a gentleman on the small allowance that was paid him yearly according to his father’s will. But there was no secret about his birth, and he was closely related to several of the reigning houses of Europe. His father had been one of the minor sovereigns dethroned in the revolutions of the nineteenth century; late in life, a widower, the ex-king had married a beautiful young girl of no great family, who had died in giving birth to Guido. The marriage had of course been morganatic, though perfectly legal, and Guido neither bore the name of his father’s royal race, nor could he ever lay claim to the succession, in the utterly improbable event of a restoration. But he was half brother to the childless man, nearly forty years older than himself, whose faithful friends still called him “your Majesty” in private; he was nephew to the extremely authentic Princess Anatolie, and he was first cousin to at least one king who had held his own. In the eyes of an heiress in search of social position as an equivalent for her millions, all this would more than compensate for the fact that his visiting card bore the somewhat romantic and unlikely name, “Guido d’Este,” without any title or explanation whatever.
But apart from the sordid consideration of values to be given and received, Guido was young, good-looking if not handsome, and rather better gifted than most men; he had reached the age of twenty-seven without having what society is pleased to call a past — in other words without ever having been the chief actor in a social tragedy, comedy, or farce; and finally, though he had once been fond of cards, he had now entirely given up play. If he had been a little richer, he could almost have passed for a model young man in the eyes of the exacting and prudent parent of marriageable daughters. Judging from the Princess Anatolie, it was probable that he resembled his mother’s family more than his father’s.
For all these reasons his friend thought that, if he chose, he might easily find an heiress who would marry him with enthusiasm; but, being his friend, Lamberti was very glad that he rejected the idea.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 1013