Arethusa Page 2

  CHAPTER I

  Carlo Zeno, gentleman of Venice, ex-clerk, ex-gambler, ex-soldier offortune, ex-lay prebendary of Patras, ex-duellist, and ex-Greekgeneral, being about twenty-nine years of age, and having in his toughbody the scars of half-a-dozen wounds that would have killed anordinary man, had resolved to turn over a new leaf, had become amerchant, and was established in Constantinople in the year 1376.

  He had bought a house in the city itself because the merchants ofGenoa all dwelt in the town of Pera, on the other side of the GoldenHorn. A Venetian could not have lived in the same place with Genoese,for the air would have poisoned him, to a certainty; and besides, thesight of a Genoese face, the sound of the Genoese dialect, the smellof Genoese cookery, were all equally sickening to any one brought upin the lagoons. Genoa was not fit to be mentioned within hearing ofpolite Venetian ears, its very name was unspeakable by decent Venetianlips; and even to pronounce the syllables for purposes of business washorribly unlucky.

  Therefore Carlo Zeno and his friends had taken up their abode in theold city, amongst the Greeks and the Bokharians, the Jews and theCircassians, and they left the Genoese to themselves in Pera,pretending that they did not even exist. It was not always easy tokeep up the pretence, it is true, for Zeno had extremely good eyes andcould not help seeing those abominations of mankind on the other sideof the Golden Horn when he sat in his balcony on spring evenings; andhis only consolation was to dream of destroying them wholesale, ofhewing them in pieces by the hundred and the thousand, and of pilingup pyramids of their ugly grinning heads. Why were they Genoese? CarloZeno would rather have taken a box on the ear from Sultan Amurad, theTurk, over there in Asia Minor, than a civil word from the leastobjectionable of those utterly unspeakable monsters of Genoese.'Behold,' said Tertullian one day in scorn, 'how these Christians loveone another.' Matters had not improved in eleven hundred years, sincethat learned Doctor of the Church had departed this life, presumablyfor a more charitable world; but Carlo Zeno would have answered thatthe Genoese were no more Christians than mules, and much less so thanthe pigs, which are all under the special protection of the blessedSaint Anthony.

  At the very time, too, when my story begins, those obnoxious villainsof Genoa were on the successful side of a revolution; for they hadhelped Emperor Andronicus to imprison his father, Emperor John, in thetall Amena tower on the north side of the city, by the Golden Horn,and to lock up his two younger brothers in a separate dungeon. It wastrue that Emperor John had ordered Andronicus and his little son offive to be blinded with boiling vinegar, but Genoese money hadmiraculously converted the vinegar into bland white wine, and hadreduced the temperature from the boiling point to that of a healthfullotion, so that neither the boy nor the man were any the worse afterthe application than before; but Andronicus had resented the mereintention on the part of his father, and had avenged himself by takingthe Empire, such as it was, for the present, while reserving thedelight of murdering his parent and his brothers at a convenientseason in the future.

  All this was very well, no doubt, and Andronicus was undisputedEmperor for the time being, because the Genoese and Sultan Amurad werewilling that he should be; but Amurad had not always been his friend,and the Genoese had not always had the upper hand of the Venetians;the wind might change in a moment and a tempest might whirl him awayfrom the throne even more quickly than the fair breeze had wafted himtowards it.

  Zeno thought so too, and wondered whether it would please fate to makehim the spirit of the storm. He cared very little about Handsome John,as Paleologus was nicknamed, but he cared a great deal for a possiblechance of driving the Genoese out of Pera and of getting the island ofTenedos for the Venetian Republic.

  And now he had transacted the business of the day, and had dined on aroasted palamit, for it was a Friday and the palamit is the best fishthat swims, from the Dardanelles to the Black Sea; and Zeno would nomore have eaten meat on a day of abstinence than he would have satdown to table with a Genoese. He had been brought up to be achurchman, and though the attempt to make a priest of him had failedfor obvious reasons, he was constant in observing those little rulesand regulations which he had been taught to believe conducive tosalvation, seeing that he was of a rash temper, prone to seek danger,and never sure of coming home alive when it pleased him to walkabroad. He was not a quarrelsome man on his own account, but he had amost wonderful facility for taking up the quarrels of other people whoseemed to be in the right. The more hopeless the just case, or cause,the more certain it was that Carlo Zeno would take it up and fight forit as if it were his own.

  But now, if ever, he was peacefully inclined; for the palamit had beendone to a turn by the Dalmatian cook; the salad which had followed ithad been composed to his liking, with shredded red peppers, pickledolives, anchovies, and cardamom seeds, all mixed among the crisplettuce; and the draught of wine that had finished the meal hadgleamed in the Murano glass like spirit of gold, and the flavour ofit, as he had thoughtfully sipped it, had made him think of the scentthat still sunshine draws from fruit hanging on vine and tree. He satin a deep chair on his covered balcony, and was conscious that for themoment peace and privacy were almost as delightful as the best fightin the world. It would have been impossible to say more than that.

  The sun was low, for the spring days were not yet long, and the shadowof the city already fell across the deep blue water of the GoldenHorn. Zeno gazed down at the moving scene; his keen brown eyeswatched the boats gliding by and softened, for what he saw made himthink of Venice, the lagoons, and his home. Of all people, the mostincorrigible wanderer is generally the most hopelessly sentimentalabout his native place.

  Zeno had brown eyes that could soften like a woman's, but they weremuch more often keen and quick, turning suddenly to take in at aglance all that could be seen at all, until they fixed themselves witha piercing gaze on whatever interested their owner most for the timebeing,--his friend, or his adversary, his quarry if he were hunting, awoman's face or figure. He was not a big man, but he was thoroughlywell made and well put together, elastic, tough, and active. His smallbrown hands, compact and firm, seemed ready to seize or strike atinstant notice--the ideal hands of a fighting man. There was the sameready and fearless look in his clean-shaven face and small, energetichead, and when he moved his least motion betrayed the same gifts.Women did not think him handsome in those days, when the idea ofbeauty in man or woman alike was associated with fair or auburn hairand milk-white skin and cherry lips. In fact, Carlo Zeno hardly showedhis lips at all, his thick hair was almost black, and his complexionwas already as tanned and weather-stained as an old sailor's. But likemany men of action he was careful of his dress, and extremelyfastidious in his ways. In the ranks, the greatest dandies are oftenthe best soldiers, explain the fact as you will. Some officers saythat such men are far too vain to run away. Many a French noble whoperished on the scaffold in the revolution bestowed more of his lastmoments on his toilet than he devoted to his prayers, and died like ahero and a gentleman. There are defects, like vanity, which maysometimes pass for virtues. Carlo Zeno was one of those men whoseoutward appearance is little affected by what they do, on whom thedust and heat of travel seem to leave no trace; who are invariablyclean, neat, and fresh, the envy and despair of ordinary people. Hisdark-red velvet cap was always set on his thick hair at the sameangle, and its sheen was as speckless as if dust did not exist. Thenarrow miniver border of his wine-coloured cloth coat was never raggedor worn at the edges; the fine linen, gathered at his throat andwrists, never betrayed the least suspicion of dinginess; the mud ofConstantinople never clung to the soft Bulgarian leather of hiswell-made shoes.

  Just now, the latter were stuck out in front of him as he leaned backin his deep chair and stretched his legs, asking himself vaguelywhether he could be contented for any long time with the quiet life hewas leading.

  As if in answer to the question, his clerk and secretary, an importantlittle grey-bearded personage, appeared on the balcony at that verymoment with a letter in h
is hand.

  'From Venice, sir,' said Omobono--that was his name--'and by thehandwriting and the seal I judge it is written by Messer MarcoPesaro.'

  Zeno frowned and then smiled, as he generally did at themanifestations of Omobono's incorrigible curiosity. It was the onlydefect of a most excellent person who was indispensable to Zeno'sdaily life, and invaluable in his business. Omobono had the sad andgentle face of an honest man who has failed on his own account, butwhose excellent qualities are immensely serviceable to stronger men.

  Zeno took the letter and glanced towards the harbour, far to the rightof his house. Omobono made a short step backwards, but kept his eyesfixed on the paper.

  'No foreign vessel has anchored to-day,' said the merchant; 'whobrought this?'

  'The captain of a Venetian ship, sir, which is anchored outside,before the Port of Theodosius.'

  Zeno nodded carelessly as he cut the string. The letter was written onstrong cotton paper from Padua, folded six times and secured bytwisted hemp threads, of which the final knot had been squeezed intored wax and flattened under a heavy seal. Omobono watched his employerquietly, hoping to learn that he had rightly guessed thecorrespondent's name. Zeno, intent on reading, paid no attention tothe secretary, who gradually edged nearer until he could almost makeout the words.

  This was what Zeno read, in very long sentences and in the Venetiandialect:--

  MOST BELOVED AND HONOURED FRIEND--I despatch this writing by the opportunity of Sebastian Corner's good ship, sailing to-morrow, with the help of God, for Constantinople with a cargo of Florence cloth, Dalmatian linen, crossbows, Venetian lace, straw hats, and blind nightingales. May the Lord preserve the vessel, the crew, and the cargo from those unmentionable dogs of Genoese, and bring all safely to the end of the voyage within two months. The cloth, lace, and straw hats are mine, the rest of the cargo belongs to Sebastian Corner, except the nightingales, which are a gift from the Most Serene Republic to his majesty the Emperor, together with the man who takes care of the birds. What I say of my share in the cargo, most noble friend, is not as in the way of boasting myself a wealthy merchant, for indeed I am by no means rich, though by my constant industry, my sleepless watchfulness, and my honest dealing I have saved a crust of bread. Nay, I say it rather because I come with a request to you, and in order that you may know that there will be money due to me in Constantinople for the sale of this cargo, through the house of Marin Corner, the brother of Sebastian, who will pay you on your demand, most beloved and honoured friend, the sum of three hundred gold ducats. For I feel sure that you will undertake the business I ask, for love of me and a commission of a lira of piccoli for each ducat. I desire, in fact, that you will buy for me the most handsome slave that can be had for the money I offer, or even, if the girl were surpassingly beautiful, for three hundred and fifty ducats. The truth is, most noble friend, that my wife, who is, as you know, ten years older than I, and impeded by rheumatisms, is in need of a youthful and accomplished companion to help her to pass the time, and as I have always made it my duty and my business to fulfil and even, as in the present case, to anticipate her wishes, I am willing to spend this large sum of money for the sole purpose of pleasing her. Moreover I turn to you, most dear sir and friend, well knowing that your kindness is only matched by your fine taste. My wife would, I am sure, prefer as a companion a girl with fine natural hair, either quite black or very fair, the red auburn colour being so common here as to make one almost wish that women would not dye their hair at all. My dear and honoured friend, the teeth are a very important matter; pray give your most particular attention to their whiteness and regularity, for my wife is very fastidious. And also, I entreat you, choose a slave with small ankles, not larger than you can span with your thumb and middle finger. My wife will care less about a very small waist, though if it be naturally slender it is certainly a point of beauty. In all this, dearest sir, employ for love of me those gifts of discernment with which heaven has so richly endowed you, and I trust you will consider the commission a fair one. Sebastian Corner, who is an old man, will take charge of the slave and bring her to Venice, if you will only see that she is properly protected and fed until he is ready to sail, and this at the usual rate. I have also agreed with him that she is not to be lodged in the common cabin with the other female slaves whom he will bring from the Black Sea on his own account, but separately and with better food, lest she should grow unpleasingly thin. Yet it is understood that his regular slave-master is to be responsible for her protection, and will watch over her behaviour during the voyage. This, my most worthy, dear and honourable sir and friend, is the commission which I beg you to undertake; and in this and all your other affairs I pray that the hand of Providence, the intercession of the saints, and the wisdom of the one hundred and eighteen Nicene fathers may be always with you. From Venice. Marco Pesaro to the most noble patrician, Carlo Zeno, his friend. The fourteenth day of March in the year 1376.

  Zeno smiled repeatedly as he read the letter, but he did not look uptill he had finished it. His eyes met those of his secretary, who wasnow much nearer than before.

  'Omobono,' said Zeno gravely, 'curiosity is unbecoming in a man ofyour years. With your grey beard and solemn air you are as prying andcurious as a girl.'

  Omobono looked contritely at his folded hands and moved the left oneslowly within the right.

  'Alas, sir,' he answered, 'I know it. I would that these hands heldbut a thousandth part of what my eyes have seen.'

  'They would be rich if they did,' observed Zeno bluntly. 'It isfortunate that with your uncommon taste for other men's affairs youcan at least keep something to yourself. Since you have no doubtmastered the contents of this letter as well as I----'

  The good man protested.

  'Indeed, sir, how could I have read a single word at this distance?Try for yourself, sir, for your eyes are far younger and better thanmine.'

  'Younger,' answered Zeno, 'but hardly better. And now send forBarlaam, the Syrian merchant, and bid him come quickly, for he may dobusiness with me before the sun sets.'

  'He will not do business to-day,' answered Omobono. 'This is Friday,which the Muslemin keep holy.'

  'So much the worse for Barlaam. He will miss a good bargain. Send forAbraham of Smyrna, the Jewish caravan-broker.'

  'He will not do business either,' said Omobono, 'for to-morrow isSabbath, and Shabbes begins on Friday evening.'

  'In the name of the blessed Mark our Evangelist, then send me someChristian, for Sunday cannot begin on Friday, even in Constantinople.'

  'There is Rustan Karaboghazji, the Bokharian,' suggested Omobono.

  Zeno looked sharply at the secretary.

  'The slave-dealer?' he enquired.

  Omobono nodded, but he reddened a little, poor man, and looked down athis hands again, for he had betrayed himself, after protesting that heknew nothing of the contents of the letter. Zeno laughed gaily.

  'You are a good man, Omobono,' he said. 'You could not deceive achild. Do you happen to have heard that Rustan has what Messer Marcowants?'

  But Omobono shook his head and grew still redder.

  'Indeed, sir,--I--I do not know what your friend wants--I onlyguessed----'

  'A very good guess, Omobono. If I could guess the future as you canthe present, I should be a rich man. Yes, send for Rustan. I believehe will do better for me than the Jew or the Mohammedan.'

  'They say here that it takes ten Jews to cheat a Greek, and ten Greeksto cheat a Bokharian, sir,' said Omobono.

  'To say nothing of those Genoese swine who cheat the whole EasternEmpire! What chance have we poor Venetians in such a place?'

  'May heaven send the Genoese the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah, and thehalter of Judas Iscariot!' prayed Omobono very devoutly.
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  'By all means,' returned Zeno, 'I hope so. Now send for theBokharian.'

  Omobono bowed and left the balcony, and his employer leaned back inhis chair again, still holding the folded paper in his hand. Hisexpressive face wore a look of amusement for a while, but presently itturned into something more like good-natured contempt, as his thoughtswent back from his secretary's last speech, to Marco Pesaro and hisletter.

  This Pesaro was a fat little man of forty, who had married a richwidow ten years older than himself. Carlo Zeno had known him wellbefore he had been married, a boon companion, a jolly good-for-nothingwho loved the society of younger men, and did them no good by exampleor precept. His father and mother had both perished in the greatplague that raged in the year when Zeno was born, and Marco had beenbrought up by two old aunts who doted on him. The result usual in suchcases had followed in due time; he had spent his own fortune and whathe inherited from his aunts, who died conveniently, and when nearforty he had found himself penniless, a poor relation of a greatfamily, none the worse in health for nearly a quarter of a century ofgaiety and feasting, and in temper much inclined to lead the same lifefor at least another twenty years. The heart was young yet, the round,pink face was absurdly youthful still, but the purse was in a state ofpermanent collapse, without any prospect of recovery. Then Marco soldeverything he had, down to the sword which he had never drawn, and thejewelled dagger which had never done any worse damage than to cut thestring of a love-letter; he sold his last silver spoons, his silverdrinking-cup and the gold chain and ball from his cloak, and with theproceeds he gave a dozen of his friends one last farewell feast. Then,on the following day, his spirit broken and resigned to his fate, heoffered himself to the very rich, elderly, and devout widow who hadbeen making eyes at him for six months, and he was promptly accepted.With some of her money he engaged in the Eastern trade, renounced thefollies of his youth, and became a respectable merchant.

  It was affluence, it was luxury, but it was slavery and he knew it,and accepted the fact at first with much philosophy. Surely, he saidto himself, a good cook and a good cellar, with a fine house at SanCassian, and a virtuous, if elderly, wife ought to satisfy any man offorty. The rest was but vanity. Could anything be more absurd, at hisage, than to go on for ever playing the butterfly--such an elderlybutterfly!--from one pair of bright eyes to another?

  But he had counted without the fact that the butterfly is the finaldevelopment of its genus and cannot turn into anything else. It mustbe a butterfly to the end. Poor Marco soon found that his heart was assusceptible as ever, and could beat like a boy's on very slightprovocation, but that unfortunately it was never his rich wife whoprovoked it to such unseemly and lively action. Yet her facial angleinspired him with a terror even greater than the attraction of apretty face and a well-turned figure. She had a way of setting herthin lips over her prominent teeth which at the same time stretchedthe skin upon the bridge of her hooked nose while she looked at himfrom under her half-closed lids, that made his blood run cold, robbedthe richest sauce of its delicious flavour, and turned the wine ofSamos to vinegar in his glass. Daily, she grew older, sharper, moreirritable; and daily, too, the heart of Marco Pesaro seemed to growyounger and the more to crave the companionship of a mate much youngerstill, or at least the near presence of those outward, visible, andtangible gifts of the gods, such as a deep warm eye, and a soft whitehand, with which man has always associated the heart of woman.

  Zeno guessed all this and the rest too; the letter he had receivedneeded no further explanation, and for old acquaintance's sake he hadno objection to executing the commission Marco had thrust upon him.

  And now, all you who stop and gather round the story-teller in thisworld's great bazaar, to listen, if his tale please you, and to findfault with him if it does not, you cry out that if Carlo Zeno wasreally the hero history describes him to have been, he would have beenvery, very grieved at being asked to do anything so inhuman as to buya pretty slave abroad to be sent home to a friend, even though thelatter protested that the girl was to be trained as a companion forhis wife. He would have been grieved and angry, he would have torn theletter to shreds, and would either not have answered it at all, orwould have written to tell Pesaro that he was a brute, that men andwomen are all free and equal, and that to buy and sell them is hightreason against the majesty of the rights of men.

  But to those protests and outcries the story-teller has many answersready. In the first place, no one had even dreamt of the rights of menin 1376; and secondly, the trade in white slaves was almost asprofitable to Venice then as it is in 1906 to certain great states thestory-teller could name, with the advantage that there was nohypocritical secret about it, and that it was provided for ininternational treaties, in spite of the Pope, who said it was wrong;and thirdly, heroes are heroes for ever in respect of their heroicdeeds, but in their daily lives they are very much like the other menof their class and time, as you will soon learn if you read the lifeof Bayard, 'without fear or reproach,' written by his FaithfulServitor; for the faithful one set down some doings of the virtuousknight which a modern biographer would have altogether left out, butwhich were no more a 'reproach' to a man in the year 1500, thangetting drunk was a 'reproach' in 1700, or than stealing anything overa million is a 'reproach' to-day; fourthly and lastly, if Zeno hadvirtuously refused to buy a slave for Marco Pesaro, there would havebeen no story to tell, and this seems an excellent argument to thestory-teller himself.

  Zeno's thoughts soon wandered from Pesaro and the letter, and followedthe old thread of life in Venice, till it led his soul through thelabyrinth of daily existence far out into the dreamland beyond; andthe place of his dreams was a calm and resplendent water, wherestately palaces rose through vapours of purple and gold against anevening sky. Over the lagoon came music of old chimes from SanGiorgio, and the deeper bells of Venice answered back again; at theinstant the sunset breeze floated off the land and breathed into thedyed sails of the Istrians without a sound, so that the boats began tomove by magic, gliding out one by one with a soft, low rush, heardonly for a moment, as of a woman's hand drawn across silk.

  The mere thought of Venice called up the vision of her before theinward eye of his heart; for he loved his native city better than hehad ever loved any woman yet, and much better than his own life. Whenhe could think of Venice, until the broad expanse of the lagoon seemedto spread itself over the deeper and darker waters of the Golden Horn,and when he could fancy himself at home, he was supremely and calmlyhappy, and would not have changed his dream for any reality except itsown.