by Ouida
On the morrow, when it was known through Venice that the rich and generous Countess Zaranegra had lost her jewels, all the best divers hurried to the place where the opals had dropped, and worked sedulously from daybreak to find it, sailors and fishermen and boatmen all joining in the search, in hope to merit the reward she promised. But no one of them succeeded. Their efforts were useless. The tenacious water would not yield up its prey. The opals were gone, like spindrift.
II.
THE winter came and went, wrapping Venice in its mists, driving the sea-birds into the inland canals, making the pigeons sit ruffled and sad on the parapets of the palaces, and leaving many a gondolier unemployed, to warm his hands over little fires of driftwood under the snow-sprinkled rafters and naked vine-branches of his traghetto.
The gondoliers of the Ca’ Zaranegra were more fortunate; they could sit round the great bronze brazier in the hall of their lady’s house, and the gondola was laid up high and dry to await the spring, and their wages were paid with regularity and liberality by the silent and austere major-domo who reigned in the forsaken palace, for their lady was away on warmer shores than the wind-beaten, surge-drowned, sea-walls of their city.
The winter was hard; snow lay long on the Istrian hills and on the Paduan pastures; there was ice on the rigging of the Greek brigs in the Giudecca, and the huge ocean steamers from the east looked like uncouth prehistoric beasts, black and gigantic, as they loomed through the fogs, moving slowly towards the docks under cautious pilotage. There were laughter and warmth in the theatres, and the sounds of music came from The gondoliers of the Ca’ Zaranegra were more fortunate; they could sit round the great bronze brazier in the hall of their lady’s house.... Their wages were paid with regularity and liberality by the silent and austere major-domo. some of the palaces; but in the Calle, in the fishermen’s quarters, on the islands, on board the poor rough sailing craft, and amongst the maritime population generally, there were great suffering and much want; and by the bar of Malomocco and off the coast of Chioggia there were wrecks which strewed the waters with broken timbers and dashed drowning sailors like seaweed on to the wooden piles. Stout boats were broken like shells, and strong seafaring men were washed to and fro like driftword. But the frail opal necklace of the Countess Zaranegra was safe in the midst of the strife; it had fallen into a hollow in a sunken pile and lay there, unharmed, whilst above it the stormy tides rose and fell, and the winds churned the cream of the surf. There it lay, all through the rough winter weather, whilst the silvery gulls died of hunger, and the sea swallows were hurled by the hurricane on to the lanterns of lighthouses and against the timbers of vessels.
It weathered many storms, this frail toy, made to lie on the warm breasts of women, whilst the storm kings drew down to their death the bread-winners for whom wife and children vainly prayed on shore, and the daring mariners for whom the deep had had no terrors.
In the hollow of the old oak pile the opals remained all winter long, lying like bird’s eggs in a nest, whilst the restless waters washed and swirled above its sanctuary. The worn stump of the wood had kept its place for centuries, and many a corpse had drifted past it outward to the sea in days when the white marbles of St. Mark’s city had run red with blood. It had once been the base of a sea-shrine, of a Madonna of the waters to whom the boatmen passing had invoked the Stella Maris Virgine so dear to fishermen and sailors.
But the painted shrine had long disappeared, and only the piece of timber, down underneath the waters, rooted in the sand amongst the ribbon weed and mussels, had had power to resist the forces of tide and tempest.
All the winter long the old wood kept the opals safe and sound. When the cold passed, and the blasts from the Dolomite glaciers softened, and the orchards of the fruit islands were in bud, the opals were still in their hollow, covered from the sea by the bend of the wood above them, so that, though often wet, they were never washed away.
But one day, when the peach and pear and plum trees had in turn burst into blossom on the isles, and the flocks of gulls who had survived the stress of famine and frost had returned to their feeding-places on the outer lagoons, a large iron ship coming from the Black Sea gave a rude shock in passing to the old oak pile; the top of it under the blow parted and fell asunder; the necklace was washed out of its hiding-place, and, carried in the heavy trough of the steamer’s path, was floated nearer to the isles, farther from the city. It became entangled with some algae, and, rocked on the weed as on a little raft, was borne to and fro by a strong wind rushing from the north-east, and so was driven round past San Cristoforo and Burano, and was finally carried ashore up the creeks into the long grasses and reeds beneath the Devil’s Bridge at Torcello. The yellow water iris was then flowering, and two little reed warblers were nesting amongst the flags, as the opals were drifted up under some hemlock leaves and there rested.
“I think they are eggs, but they are all strung together,” said the warbler to his mate.
“They look more like the spawn of a fish,” said the little winged lady, with scorn.
A water-rat came up and smelt at them, then went away disdainfully; they were not good to eat. For birds and beasts do not care for jewels: it is only humanity, which thinks itself superior to them, which sees any value in stones, and calls such toys precious.
III.
THE devil is credited with building many bridges on the earth; it is hard to know why he should have done so, since waters however wide cannot possibly have been an obstacle in his own path.
But Devil’s Bridges there are, from the Hebrides to the Isles of Greece; the Devil’s Bridge at Torcello has been so called from the height and breadth of its one arch, but there is nothing diabolic or infernal in its appearance; it is of old brick made beautiful in its hues by age, and has many seeding grasses and weeds growing in its crevices. Its banks are rich in grass; in flags, in sea lavender, and about it grow hazel trees and pear trees.
There is nowhere in the world any grass richer than that of Torcello, and forget-me - nots, honeysuckle, and wild roses grow down to the water’s edge and around the hoary stones of the deserted isle.
“What a God-forgotten place!” said a young man as he sprang from a boat on to the bank by the bridge.
“Torcello was the mother of Venice; the daughter has slain her,” replied an older man as he laid down his oars in the boat, and prepared to follow his companion.
His foot trod amongst the hemlock leaves and was entangled by them; he stooped, and his eyes, which were very keen, caught sight of the string of opals.
“A woman’s necklace!” he said, as he drew it out from under the salt seaweed, and the dewy dock leaves. It was discoloured, and had sand and mud on it, and bore little traces of its former beauty; but he recognised that it was a jewel of worth; he perceived, even dulled as they were, that the stones were opals.
“What have you there?” cried the younger man from above on the bank. “The skull of an Archimandrite?”
The other threw the necklace up on to the grass.
“You would have been a fitter finder of a woman’s collar than I am.”
“Opals! The stones of sorrow!” said the younger man, gravely, as he raised it and brushed off the sand. “It has been beautiful,” he added. “It will be so again. It is not really hurt, only a little bruised and tarnished.”
The necklace interested him; he examined it minutely as the sun shone on the links of dimmed gold. It awakened in him an image of the woman who might have possessed and worn it.
“What will you do with it?” he said to his companion, who had mounted on to the bank after securing the boat.
“What does one always do with things found? Send them to the police, I believe.”
“Oh you Goth!” said the younger. “Let us spend our lives in discovering the owner.”
“You can spend yours so if you like, Prince. Mine is already in bond to a severer mistress.”
“Lend me your glass,” said the younger man; the glass wa
s of strong magnifying power; when it was handed to him he looked through it at some little marks on the back of the clasp of the opal collar. “Zaranegra 1770,” he read aloud. “Zaranegra is a Venetian name.” There was an inscription so minute that to the unaided eye it was invisible; through the glass it was possible to read it. It was this:
NINA DELLA LUCEDIA
CONTESSA ZARANEGRA
Capo d Anno
1770.
“Zaranegra!” repeated the younger man. “That is a Venetian name. Lucedia is a name of the Marches of Ancona. There is a Ca’ Zaranegra on the Grand Canal. It is next to the Loredàn. You admired its Moorish windows on the second storey this morning. Carlo Zaranegra died young; he left a widow who is only twenty now. She is a daughter of the Duke of Monfalcone; a family of the Trentino, but pure Italians in blood. Their place is in the mountains above Gorizia. It must be she who owns this necklace, an heirloom probably.”
“Take it to her,” said the finder of it, with indifference. “I cede you my rights.”
The younger laughed.
“Ah! who knows what they may become?”
“Whatever they may become they are yours. I do not appreciate that kind of reward.”
“Really?” said the younger man. “If so I pity you!”
“Nay, I pity you,” said the elder.
The young man still stood with the opals in his hands; with a wisp of grass he had cleared the sand in a measure off them; the pearly softness and the roseate flame of the stones began to show here and there; two alone of their number were missing.
“Come,” said his companion, with impatience. “Put that broken rubbish in your pocket and let us go and see the Cathedral and S. Fosca, for it will soon grow dark.”
They walked along the dyke of turf which traverses the isle, past the low fruit trees and the humble cabins of the few peasants who dwell there; the grass was long and full of ox-eyed daisies, and purple loosestrife, and pink campion. They soon reached the green and quiet place where the sacred buildings of S. Maria and S. Fosca, stand in the solitude of field and sea.
They entered first of all the old church of S. Fosca. The younger man went straight to the altar with uncovered head and knelt before it, a soft and serious look upon his face as his lips moved-
The elder cast a glance, contemptuous and derisive, on him, and turned to look at the five arcades, with their columns, so precious to those who understand the laws of architecture.
He was learned in many things, and architecture and archaeology were the studies which were to him pastimes, in the rare hours of recreation which he allowed himself.
“Have you prayed to find the mistress of the opals?” he said to the younger man who, risen from his knees, approached him, a red light of the late afternoon slanting in from an upper window in the apse and falling on his bright hair and beautiful classic face.
The young man coloured.
“I prayed that the stones may bring us no evil,” he said, with ingenuous simplicity. “Laugh as you will, a prayer can never do harm, and you know opals are stones of sorrow.”
“I know you are a credulous child — a superstitious peasant — though you are twenty-four years old and have royal and noble blood in your veins.”
“If you had not saved my life I would throw you into the sea,” replied the other, half in jest half in anger. “Leave my faiths alone. Lead your own barren life as you choose, but do not cut down flowers in the garden of others,”
“Life is truly a garden for you,” said the elder man, with a touch of envy in the tone of his voice.
It was dusk in S. Fosca for the day was far advanced, and the sun was setting without beyond the world of waters.
Two peasant women were saying their aves before low burning lamps. The scent of the grass and the smell of the sea came in through the open door. A cat walked noiselessly across the altar. As the church was now so it had been a thousand years earlier.
“Does this place say nothing to you?” asked the younger man.
“Nothing,” replied the other. “What should it say?”
IV.
WHEN the young Sicilian prince, Lionello Adrianis, head of an ancient Hispano-Italian family, had met with a hunting accident, and the tusks of an old boar had brought him near to death, an English surgeon, by name Frederic Damer, who was then in Palermo, did for him what none of the Italian surgeons dared to do, and, so far as the phrase can ever be correct of human action, saved his life. A year had passed since then; the splendid vitality of the Sicilian had returned to all its natural vigour; he was only twenty-four years of age and naturally strong as a young oak in the woods of Etna. But he had a mother who loved him, and was anxious; she begged the Englishman to remain awhile near him; the Sicilian laughed but submitted; he and Damer had travelled together in Egypt and India during several months, and were now about in another month to part company; the Sicilian to return to his own people, the Englishman to occupy a chair of physiology in a town of northern Europe.
Their lives had been briefly united by accident and would have parted in peace: a collar of opals was by chance washed up amongst the flags and burdocks of Torcello and the shape of their fate was altered.
With such trifles do the gods play when they stake the lives of men on the game.
Damer was the son of a country physician, but his father had been poor, the family numerous and he, a third son, had beer sent out into the world with only his education as his capital. He practised surgery to live; he practised physiology to reach through it that power and celebrity for which his nature craved and his mental capacity fitted him. But at every step his narrow means galled and fretted him, and he had been a demonstrator, an assistant, a professor in schools, when his vast ability and rerentless will fitted him for the position of a Helmholtz or a Virchow in that new priesthood which has arisen to claim the rule of mankind, and sacrifices to itself all sentient races.
In Adrianis he saw all the powers of youth and of wealth concentrated in one who merely used them for a careless enjoyment and a thoughtless good nature, which seemed, to himself, as senseless as the dance in the sun of an amorous negro.
Adrianis and the whole of his family had shown him the utmost gratitude, liberality, and consideration, and the young prince bore from him good-humouredly sarcasms and satires which he would not have supported from an emperor; but Damer in his turn felt for the Sicilian and his people nothing but the contempt of the great intellect for the uncultured mind, the irritation of the wise man who sees a child gaily making a kite to divert itself out of the parchments of a treatise in an unknown tongue which, studied, might have yielded up to the student the secret of perished creeds and of lost nations. There is no pride so arrogant, no supremacy so unbending, as those of the intellect. It may stand, like Belisarius, a beggar at the gate; but like Belisarius it deems itself the superior of all the crowds who drop their alms to it, and while it stretches out its hand to them its lips curse them.
V.
THEY went, without visiting the basilica, back to Venice in the twilight which deepened into night as they drew near the city; the moon was high and the air still. They dined in the spacious rooms set aside in the hotel for the young prince. When the dinner was over Adrianis rose.
“Will you come?” he asked.
“Where?” asked Damer.
“To the Ca’ Zaranegra,” he replied, with a boyish laugh.
“Not I,” replied Damer.
“A rivederci, then,” said Adrianis.
But he lingered a moment.
“It will not be fair to you,” he said, “for me to take the credit of having found this necklace.”
“Whatever honour there may be in the salvage I cede it, I tell you, willingly.”
“Of course I shall tell her that it was you.”
“There is no need to do so; I am not a squire of dames. She will prefer a Sicilian Prince to a plain man of science. However, you must find the lady first. The true owner lies under some mossgro
wn slab in some chapel crypt, no doubt.”
“Why will you speak of death? I hate it.”
“Hate it as you may it will overtake you. Alexander hated it, but still! When we shall have found the secret of life we may perhaps find the antidote to death. But that time is not yet.”
He looked at his companion as he spoke, and thought what he did not speak:
“Yes; strong as you are, and young as you are, and fortunate as you are, you too will die like the pauper and the cripple and the beggar!”
The reflection gratified him; for of the youth, of the beauty, of the fortune, he was envious, and with all his scorn of higher intellect he despised the childlike, happy, amorous temperament, and the uncultured mind which went with them.
“If I had only his wealth,” he thought often. “Or if he only had my knowledge!”
“When we shall have penetrated the secret of life we shall perhaps be able to defy death,” repeated Adrianis. “What use would that be? You would soon have the world so full that there would be no standing room; and what would you do with the choking multitudes?”
“I never knew you so logical,” said the elder man, contemptuously. “But have no fear. We are far enough off the discovery; when it is made it will remain in the hands of the wise. The immortality of fools will never be contemplated by science.”
“The wise will not refuse to sell the secret to the wealthy fools,” thought his companion, but he forbore to say so. He was generous of temper, and knew that his companion had both wisdom and poverty.
A few seconds later the splash of the canal water beneath the balcony told the other that the gondola was moving.
“What a child!” thought Damer, with impatient contempt; he turned up the light of his reading lamp, opened a number of the French Journal de Physiologie, and began to read, not heeding the beauty of the moonlit marbles of the Salvatore in front of him, or listening to the song from Mignon which a sweetvoiced lad was singing in a boat below. He read on thus in solitude for three hours; the great tapestried and gilded room behind him, the gliding water below; the beautiful church in front of his balcony, the laughter, the music, the swish of oars, the thrill of lutes and guitars, all the evening movement on the canal as the crowds went to and fro the Piazza, not disturbing him from his studies of which every now and then he made a note in pencil in a pocket-book.