He retired and dressed himself in his best clothes. His cloth hose were of a dark wine colour, but were now a little loose for his legs. He looked at them affectionately as he examined them in the light. They recalled many cheerful hours and some proud moments; they remembered also the days when his little legs had not been so thin. Yet by pulling them up almost to the tearing point they lost in width what they gained in length, and made a very good appearance after all, for he secured them by an ingenious contrivance of belt and string. It was true that when he walked he felt as if he were being lifted from the floor by the back of his waistband, but that only made him feel a little taller than he was, and forced him to hold himself very straight, which was a distinct advantage.
Now in all this trouble it never occurred to him that his master was in any great danger or trouble, much less that he might have been killed in some mad adventure. Carlo Zeno had lived through such desperate perils again and again, that Omobono had formed the habit of believing him to be indestructible, if not invulnerable, and sure to fall on his feet whatever happened. The secretary only wished he would not choose to disappear on the very day when he had asked five friends to dine with him.
Omobono stood in his fine clean shirt and his wine-coloured hose, combing and smoothing his beard carefully with the help of a little mirror no bigger than the bottom of a tumbler. The glass was indeed so small that he could only get an impression of his whole face by moving the thing about, from his chin to his nose, from one cheek to the other, and from his forehead to his thin throat, round which he admired the neatly fitting line of the narrow linen collar. But this last effort required a good deal of squinting, for the point of his beard was in the way.
While he was thus engaged some one tapped at his door, and a small voice informed him that Kokóna Arethusa was now awake, and wished to see him instantly. Though the door was not opened by the speaker, Omobono hastily laid down his glass and his comb, and struggled into his tunic as if his life depended on his getting it on before he answered; for he was a very modest man, and the voice was a girl’s; moreover, he was aware that the device of belt and strings by which his hose were drawn up so very tightly must present a ridiculous appearance until covered by his over-garment; then, however, the effect would be excellent. So he got on his tunic as fast as he could, and then answered with the calmness of perfectly restored dignity through the closed door.
‘Tell the Kokóna that I am at her service,’ he said; ‘and that I shall be with her immediately.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the small voice, and he heard the girl’s retreating footsteps immediately after she had spoken.
A few moments later he was going up the stairs as fast as the tremendous tension of his hose would allow, and as he went he reflected with satisfaction that as major-duomo he could not by any possibility be called upon to sit down in the presence of his master’s guests.
One of the slave-girls ushered him into Zoë’s presence. The latter was seated on the edge of the divan, looking anxiously towards the door when he entered, and for the first time since she had been in the house he saw her face uncovered. It was very pale, and there were deep shadows under her eyes. Her beautiful brown hair was in wild disorder, too, and fell in a loosened tress upon one shoulder. The hand that rested on the edge of the divan strained upon a fold of the delicate silk carpet that covered the couch. She spoke as soon as Omobono appeared.
‘Have you heard from him?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Is he coming?’
It did not seem strange to the secretary that she should already know of Zeno’s absence, since no one in the house could think or talk of anything else. On his part he was resolved to maintain the calm dignity becoming to the major-duomo of a noble house.
‘The master will doubtless come home when he has finished the urgent business that called him away,’ he answered. ‘In his absence, it will be my duty to make excuses to his guests — —’
‘Are they coming? Have you not sent them word to stay away?’
Omobono smiled in a sort of superiorly humble way.
‘And what if the master should return just at the hour of dinner?’ he asked. ‘What would he say if I had ventured to take upon myself such a responsibility? The Kokóna does not know the master! Happily I have been in his service too long not to understand my duty. If it pleases him to come home, he will find that his friends have been entertained as he desired. If he does not come, he will be glad to learn afterwards that the proper excuses were offered to them for his unavoidable absence, and that they were treated with the honour due to their station.’
Zoë stared at the secretary, really amazed by his calmness, and almost reassured by his evident belief in Zeno’s safety. It was true that he knew nothing of the facts, and had not seen his master hanging by the end of a rope, fifty feet above the ground, within twelve hours. It would have been hard to imagine Omobono’s state of mind if he had spent the night as Zoë had. But nevertheless his assurance rested her, and restored a little of her confidence in Zeno’s good fortune. Of his courage and his strength she needed not to be reminded; but she knew well enough that unless chance were in his favour, he could never leave Blachernæ except to die.
‘Do you really think he is safe?’ Zoë asked, glad to hear the reassuring words, even in her own voice.
‘Of course, Kokóna — —’
But at this moment the sound of oars in the water, and of several voices talking together, came up through the open window from the landing below.
All Omobono’s excitement returned at the thought that he might not get down the stairs in time to receive the guests at the marble steps just as the boats came alongside. Without another word he turned and fled precipitately.
Zoë had heard the voices too, and had understood; and, in spite of her anxiety, a gentle smile at the secretary’s nervousness flitted across her tired face. The two slave-girls had run to the window to see who was coming, and as they had always been told not to show themselves at windows, they crouched down in the balcony and looked through the open-work of marble which formed the parapet.
Zoë rose to cross the room. In the first rush of memory that came with waking, she had almost forgotten that she had been hurt, and now she bit her lip as the pain shot down her right side. But she smiled almost instantly. She would rather have been hurt unawares by the man she loved, than that he should not have touched her at the very moment of going into danger. The memory of his crushing weight upon her for that instant was something she would not part with. Women know what that is. She thought how tenderly he would have stooped to kiss her, if he had known that she was lying there under the canvas. Instead, he had stepped upon her body; and it was almost better than a kiss, for that would have left nothing of itself; but now each movement that hurt her brought him close to her again.
She had received no real injury, but she limped as she walked to the window. Then she stood still just within it, where she could not see down to the steps below, but could talk with the slave-girls in a whisper. Doubtless, since Zeno had not wished her to be seen, she would not have shown herself; but she was quite conscious that she looked ill and tired, and by no means fit to face a rival who had been described to her as fresher than spring roses; so that the sacrifice was, after all, not so great as it might have been.
‘Tell me what you see,’ she said to the maids.
Lucilla turned up her sallow little face.
‘There are three,’ she answered. ‘There is a Venetian lord, and his lady, and a young lady. At least, I suppose she is young.’
‘Tell me what you see,’ she said to the maids.
‘I should think you could see that,’ Zoë said.
‘Her face is veiled,’ Lucilla replied, after peering down; ‘but I can see her hair. It is red, and she has a great deal of it.’
‘Red like Rustan’s wife’s hair?’ asked Zoë.
‘Oh no! It is red like a lady’s; for it is well dyed with the good khenna that comes from Alexandria. Now t
hey are getting out — the old lady first — she is fat — the secretary and her husband help her on each side. She is all wrapped in a long green silk mantle embroidered with red roses. She is like a dish of spinach in flames. How fat she is!’
Lucilla shook a little, as if she were laughing internally.
‘What does her daughter wear?’ asked Zoë.
‘A dark purple cloak, with a broad silver trimming.’
‘How hideous!’ exclaimed Zoë, for no particular reason.
‘The secretary bows to the ground,’ Lucilla said. ‘He is saying something.’
She stopped speaking, and all three listened. Zoë could hear Omobono’s voice quite distinctly.
‘By a most unfortunate circumstance,’ he was saying, ‘Messer Carlo Zeno was obliged to go out on very urgent business, and has not yet returned. I am his secretary and major-duomo, as your lordship may deign to remember. In my master’s absence I have the honour to welcome his guests, and to wait upon them.’
Sebastian Polo said something in answer to this fine speech; but in a low tone, and Zoë could not hear the words. Then a peculiarly disagreeable woman’s voice asked a question. Zoë thought it sounded like something between the croaking of many frogs and the clucking of an old hen. ‘We hope you will give us our dinner, whatever happens,’ said the lady, who seemed to be of a practical turn of mind.
‘Is that the girl’s voice?’ asked Zoë of Lucilla, in a whisper.
The maid shook her head.
‘The mother,’ she answered. ‘Now they are going in. I cannot hear what Omobono says, for he is leading the way. They are all gone.’
Zoë did not care who else came, and now that the moment was over she was much less disturbed by the fact that Giustina was under the same roof with her than she had expected to be. She did not believe that Zeno had ever kissed Giustina, and he had certainly never stepped on her.
She let her maids do what they would with her now, hardly noticing the skill they showed in helping her to move, and in smoothing away the pain she felt, as only the people of the East know how to do it. As she did not speak to them they dared not ask her questions about the master’s absence. They had left him with her when they had been sent away; they had slept till morning; when they awoke they had found Zoë lying on the divan asleep in her clothes, and the master had gone out of the house unseen and had not returned. That was as far as their knowledge went; but they were sure that she knew everything, and they hoped that if they pleased her even more than usual she would let fall some words of explanation, as mistresses sometimes do when their servants are particularly satisfactory. Most young women, when they are in a good humour, let their maids know what they have been doing; and as soon as they are cross the maids revenge themselves by telling the other servants everything. In this way the balance of power is maintained between the employer and the employed, like the hydrostatic equilibrium in the human body, which cannot be destroyed without bringing on a syncope.
But though Zoë felt very much less pain after Yulia and Lucilla had bathed her and rubbed her, and had gently pulled at all her joints till she felt supple and light again, she said nothing about Zeno; and though they dressed her so skilfully that she could not help smiling with pleasure when they showed her to herself in the large mirror they held up between them, yet she only thanked them kindly, and gave them each two spoonfuls of roseleaf preserve, which represented to them an almost heavenly delight, as she well knew, and which she herself did not at all despise. That was all, however; and they were a little disappointed, because she did not condescend to talk to them about the master’s disappearance, which was the greatest event that had happened since they had all three lived under Zeno’s roof.
Meanwhile Omobono was playing his part of major-duomo downstairs, and had installed the guests at the table set for them in the large hall looking over the Golden Horn. After Polo and his wife, another Venetian merchant had arrived, the rich old banker Marin Cornèr, long established in Constantinople, and a friend of Sebastian Polo. The fifth person invited did not appear, so that two seats were vacant, the sixth being Zeno’s own; and behind his high carved chair Omobono installed himself, to direct the servants, quite an imposing figure in his dark purple tunic and the handsome silver chain, which he had put on to-day to indicate his high office in the establishment. Poor Omobono! He little dreamt of what was in store for him that day.
The three older guests were moderately sorry that Zeno was not present. In their several ways they were all a little afraid of their eccentric countryman, about whom the most wild tales were told. Though in truth he was extremely punctual in meeting his financial engagements, both Sebastian Polo and Marin Cornèr had always felt a little nervous about doing business with a young man who was known to have kept an army at bay for a whole winter, who was reported to have slain at least a hundred Turks with his own hand, and whose brown eyes gleamed like a tiger’s at the mere mention of a fight. It would be so extremely awkward if, instead of meeting a bill that fell due, he should appear at Cornèr’s bank armed to the teeth and demand the contents of the strong box. On the whole the two elderly merchants ate with a better appetite in his absence.
But Giustina was inconsolable, and the good things did not appeal to her, neither the fresh sturgeon’s roe from the Black Sea, nor the noble palamit, nor the delicate quails, nor even the roasted peacock, whose magnificent tail rose out of a vast silver dish like a rainbow with spots on it.
She was a big, sleepy creature with quantities of handsomely dyed hair, as Lucilla had told Zoë. She had large and regular features, a perfectly colourless white skin, and a discontented mouth. She often turned her eyes to see what was going on, without turning her head at all, as if she were too lazy to make even that small effort. Her hands were well shaped, but heavy in the fingers, and they looked like new marble, too white to be interesting, too cold to touch.
She was terribly disappointed and deeply offended by what seemed to her a deliberate insult; for she did not believe a word of Omobono’s polite apology. The truth was that Zeno had only invited the party because her mother had invited herself in the hope of bringing him to the point of offering to marry Giustina. As a matter of fact nothing had ever been farther from his thoughts. Sebastian Polo, urged by his wife, had entered into the closest relations of business with Zeno, and had again and again given him a share in transactions that had been extraordinarily profitable. He had rendered it necessary for Zeno to see him often, and had made it easy by his constant hospitality; in these things lay the whole secret of Zeno’s visits to his house. But seeing that matters did not take a matrimonial direction as quickly as she had expected, Polo’s wife had adopted a course which she intended to make decisive; she had asked herself and her daughter to dine with Zeno. From this to hinting that he had compromised Giustina, and thence to extracting an offer of marriage, would be easy steps, familiar to every enterprising mother, since the beginning of the matrimonial ages. And that was a long time ago — even before Solomon’s day, when the horseleech’s two daughters cried, ‘Give, give!’ Zeno’s value as a possible husband lay less in his fortune than in his very magnificent connections at home, and in the fact that the Emperor Charles had been his godfather and afterwards his friend and patron.
Giustina understood her thoughtful parent’s policy; she was therefore unhappy, and would eat no peacock, a circumstance which greatly distressed Omobono. Happily for him, the young woman’s abstention was fully compensated by the readiness of the elder guests to partake of what she obstinately refused, even to something like repletion.
While they ate, they talked; that is to say, Sebastian Polo and Marin Cornèr compared opinions on business matters such as the value of Persian silks, Greek wines, and white slaves, without giving away to each other the least thread of information that could be turned into money. And Polo’s wife, who had an eye to the main chance, croaked a few words now and then, encouraging Cornèr to talk more freely of his affairs; perhaps, thought s
he, he might betray the secret of his wonderful success in obtaining from the Caucasus certain priceless furs which no merchant but he had ever been able to get. But though the fat dame lured him on to talk and made signs to have his glass filled again and again with Chian wine, and though the colours of a most beautiful sunset began to creep up his thin nose and his high cheek bones, as the rich evening light climbs in the western sky, Marin Cornèr’s speech was as quiet and clear as ever, and what he said was, if anything, a trifle more cautious than before.
And meanwhile Giustina stared across her empty plate at the boats on the Golden Horn, and nursed her wrath against the man she wished to marry.
‘My child,’ croaked her mother, ‘we fully understand your disappointment. But you should make an effort to be cheerful, if only for the sake of Messer Marin Cornèr, your father’s valued friend.’
‘I beg you to excuse my dulness, Madam,’ answered the daughter dutifully, and with all the ceremony that children were taught to use in addressing their parents. ‘I shall endeavour to obey you.’
‘Come, come, Donna Giustina!’ cried Cornèr. ‘We will drink your health and happiness in this good — —’
The sentence remained unfinished, and his lips did not close; as he set down the untasted wine, his eyes fixed themselves on a point between Omobono and Polo, and the sunset effects faded from his nose, leaving a grey twilight behind.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 1181