Marietta: A Maid of Venice by F. Marion Crawford (top ten ebook reader TXT) 📖

he might apply for help in his difficulty. In the first place there was Messer Luigi Foscarini, a Procurator of Saint Mark; but he had not been long in office, and he would probably not wish to be concerned in any matter which tended to oppose authority. And there was old Contarini, who was himself one of the Ten; Beroviero knew his character well and judged that he would not be lenient towards any one who had been forcibly rescued, no matter how innocent he might be. Moreover the law against foreigners who attempted to work in glass was in force, and very stringent. Contarini, like many over-wise men who have no control whatever over their own children, was always for excessive severity in all processes of the law. Beroviero thought of some others, but against each one he found some real objection.

Sitting in his chair after supper, he talked earnestly of the matter with Marietta, who sat opposite him with her work, by the large brass lamp. For the present he had almost forgotten the question of her marriage, for all his former affection for Zorzi had returned, with the conviction of his innocence, and the case was very urgent. That very night Zorzi might be found, and on the next morning he might be brought before the Ten to be examined. Marietta thought with terror of the awful tales Nella had told her about the little torture chamber behind the hall of the Council.

"Who is that Messer Zuan Venier, who came to see Zorzi?" asked Marietta suddenly.

"A young man who fought very bravely in the East, I believe," answered Beroviero. "His father was the Admiral of the Republic for some time."

"He has talked with Zorzi," said Marietta. "Pasquale said so. He must have liked him, of course; and none of the other patricians you have mentioned have ever seen him. Messer Zuan is not in office, and has nothing to lose. Perhaps he will be willing to use his influence with his father. If only the Ten could know the whole truth before Zorzi is brought before them, it would be very different."

Beroviero saw that there was some wisdom in applying to a younger man, like Zuan Venier, who had nothing at stake, and since Venier had come to visit him, there could be nothing strange in his returning the courtesy as soon as he conveniently could.

On the following morning therefore the master betook himself to Venice in his gondola. Pasquale was already gone in the skiff, on the errand entrusted to him. He had judged it best not to put on his Sunday clothes, nor his clean shirt, nor to waste time in improving his appearance at the barber's, for he had been shaved on Saturday night as usual and the week was not yet half over. Hidden in the bow of the little boat there lay his provision for the day, half a loaf of bread, a thick slice of cheese and two onions, with an earthen bottle of water. With these supplies the old sailor knew that he could roam the canals of Venice for twenty-four hours if he chose, and he also had some money in case it should seem wise to ply an acquaintance with a little strong wine in order to promote conversation.

The morning was sultry and a light haze hung over the islands at sunrise, which is by no means usual. Pasquale sniffed the air as he rowed himself through the narrow canals. There was a mingled smell of stagnant salt water, cabbage stalks, water-melons and wood smoke long unfamiliar to him, and reminding him pleasantly of his childhood. Wherever a bit of stone pier ran along by an open space, scores of olive-skinned boys were bathing, and as he passed they yelled at him and splashed him. Many a time he had done the same, long ago, and had sometimes got a sharp knock from the blade of an oar for his pains.

The high walls made brown shadows, that struck across the greenish water, shivering away to long streaks of broken light and shade, and trying to dance and rock themselves together for a moment before a passing boat disturbed them again. In the shade boats were moored, laden with fresh vegetables, and with jars of milk brought in from the islands and the mainland before dawn. From open windows, here and there, red-haired women with dark eyes looked down idly, and breathed the morning air for a few minutes before beginning their household work. The bells of Saint John and Saint Paul were ringing to low mass, and a few old women with black shawls over their heads, and wooden clogs on their feet, made a faint clattering as they straggled to the door.

It was long since Pasquale had been in Venice. He could not remember exactly how many years had passed, but the city had changed little, and still after many centuries there is but little and slow change. The ways and turnings were as familiar to him as ever, and would have been unforgotten if he had never taken the trouble to cross the lagoon again, to his dying day. The soft sounds, the violent colours, the splendid gloom of deep-arched halls that went straight from the great open door at the water's edge to the shadowy heart of the palace within; the boatmen polishing the metal work of their gondolas with brick dust and olive oil; the servants, still in rough working clothes, sweeping the steps, and trimming off the charred hemp-wicks of torches that had been used in the night; the single woman's voice far overhead that broke the silence of some narrow way, singing its song for sheer gladness of an idle heart; it was all as it used to be, and Pasquale had a dim consciousness that he loved it better than his dreary little den in Murano, and better than his Sunday walk as far as San Donato, when all the handsome women and pretty girls of the smaller people were laughing away the cool hours and showing off their little fineries. It was but a vague suggestion of a sentiment with him, and no more. He knew that he should starve if he came back to Venice, and what was the pleasant smell of the cabbage stalks and water-melons that it should compare with the security of daily bread and lodging, with some money to spare, and two suits of clothes every year, which his master gave him in return for keeping a single door shut?

He pushed out upon the Grand Canal, where as yet there were few boats and no gondolas at all, and soon he turned the corner of the Salute and rowed out slowly upon the Giudecca, where the merchant vessels lay at anchor, large and small, galliots and feluccas and many a broad 'trabacolo' from the Istrian coast, with huge spreading bows, and hawse ports painted scarlet like great red eyes. The old sailor's heart was gladdened by the sight of them, and as he rested on his single oar, he gently cursed the land, and all landlocked places, and rivers and fresh water, and all lakes and inland canals, and wished himself once more on the high seas with a stout vessel, a lazy captain, a dozen hard-fisted shipmates and a quarter of a century less to his account of years.

He had been dreaming a little, and now he bent to the oar again and sent the skiff quietly along by the pier, looking out for any idle seamen who might be led into conversation. Before long he spied a couple, sitting on the edge of the stones near some steps and fishing with long canes. He passed them, of course, without looking at them, lest they should suspect that he had come their way purposely, and he made the skiff fast by the stair, after which he sat down on a thwart and stared vacantly at things in general, being careful not to bestow a glance on the two men. Presently one of them caught a small fish, and Pasquale judged that the moment for scraping an acquaintance had begun. He turned his head and watched how the man unhooked the fish and dropped it flapping into a basket made of half-dried rushes.

"There are no whales in the canal," he observed. "There are not even tunny fish. But what there is, it seems that you know how to catch."

"I do what I can, according to my little skill," answered the man. "It passes the time, and then it is always something to eat with the bread."

"Yes," Pasquale answered. "A roasted fish on bread with a little oil is very savoury. As for passing the time, I suppose that you are looking for a ship."

"Of course," the man replied. "If we had a ship we should not be here fishing! It is a bad time of the year, you must know, for most of the Venetian vessels are at sea, and we do not care to ship with any Neapolitan captain who chances to have starved some of his crew to death!"

"I have heard of a rich Greek merchant captain who has been in Venice some time," observed Pasquale carelessly. "He will be looking out for a crew before long."

"Is Captain Aristarchi going to sea at last?" asked the man who had not spoken yet. "Or do you mean some other captain?"

"That is the name, I believe," said Pasquale. "It was an outlandish name like that. Do you ever see him about the docks? I saw him once, a piece of man, I tell you, with bones like a bull and a face like a bear."

"He is not often seen," answered the man who had spoken last. "That is his ship; over there, between the 'trabacolo' and the dismasted hulk."

"I see her," returned Pasquale at once. "A thorough Greek she is, too, by her looks, but well kept enough if she is only, waiting for a cargo, with two or three hands on board."

The men laughed a little at Pasquale's ignorance concerning the vessel.

"She has a full crew," said one. "She is always ready for sea at any moment, with provisions and water. No one can understand what the captain means, nor why he is here, nor why he is willing to pay twenty men for doing nothing."

"Does the captain live on board of her?" inquired Pasquale indifferently.

"Not he! He is amusing himself in Venice. He has hired a house by the month, not far from the Baker's Bridge, and there he has been living for a long time."

"He must be very rich," observed Pasquale, who had found out what he wished to know, but was too wise to let the conversation drop too abruptly. "From what you say, however, he needs no more hands on his vessel," he added.

"It is not for us," answered the man. "We will ship with a captain we know, and with shipmates from our own country, who are Christians and understand the compass."

This he said because all sea-going vessels did not carry a compass in those days.

"And until we can pick up a ship we like," added the other man, "we will live on bread and water, and if we can catch a fish now and then in the canal, so much the better."

Pasquale cast off the bit of line that moored his skiff, shipped his single oar, and with a parting word to the men, he pushed off.

"You are quite right!" he said. "Eh! A roast fish is a savoury thing."

They nodded to him and again became intent on their pastime. Pasquale rowed faster than before, and he passed close under the stern of the Greek vessel. The mate was leaning over the taffrail under the poop awning. He was dressed in baggy garments of spotless white, his big blue cap was stuck far back on his head, and his strong brown arms were bare to the elbow. He looked as broad as he was long.

"Is the captain on board, sir?" asked Pasquale, at a venture, but looking at the mate with interest.

He expected that he would answer the question in the negative, by sticking out his jaw and throwing his head a little backward. To his surprise the mate returned his gaze a moment, and then stood upright.

"Keep under the counter," he said in fairly good Italian. "I will go and see if the captain is in his cabin."

Pasquale waited, and in a few moments the mate returned, dropped a Jacob's ladder over the taffrail and made it fast on board. Pasquale hitched the painter of the skiff to the end that hung down, and went up easily enough in spite of his age and stiffened joints. He climbed over the rail and stood beside the mate. The instant his feet touched the white deck he wished