My Friend the Chauffeur
spiritual, enthusiastic; a famous bishop blessing his flock; some great
poet dreaming over a book--his own, perhaps, just finished; and so on,
all along the happy circle of writers, priests, scientists, soldiers,
artists. I felt as if I wanted to know them--those faithful friends of
all who love greatness, resting now in each others' excellent society,
their sole reflection those in the watery mirror.
But Prince Dalmar-Kalm thought himself of importance even in this king's
garden. "Did you get my letter?" he asked. "And do you forgive me?" he
said. "And will you trust me, and not be unkind, now that I've promised
to think of you only as a friend?" he persisted.
I didn't see why he should look upon me even as a friend; but a cat may
look at a king, if it doesn't fly up and scratch; so why not a prince at
an American girl? To save argument and not to be unchristian, I pledged
myself to some kind of superficial compact almost before I knew. When it
was done, it would have been too complicated to undo again; and so I let
it go.
XX
A CHAPTER IN FAIRYLAND
"Nobody can ever quite know Venice who goes by rail from Padua," said
the Chauffeulier to me, when we had started in the car. "The sixteen
miles of road between the two places is a link in Venetian history, and
you'll understand what I mean without any explanation as you pass
along."
This made me post my wits at the windows of my eyes, and tell them not
to dare sleep for an instant, lest I should disappoint expectations.
But, after all, the meaning I had to understand was not subtle, though
it was interesting.
The way was practically one long street of time-worn palaces and
handsome villas which had once been the summer retreats of the rich
Venetians; and I guessed it without being told. I guessed, too, that the
owners came no more or seldom; that they were not so rich as they had
been, or that, because of railways and automobiles, it was easier and
more amusing to go further afield. But what I didn't know without
telling was that the proprietors had been accustomed, in the good old
leisurely days, to step into their gondolas in front of their own
palaces in Venice and come up the Brenta to their summer homes without
setting foot to ground.
If I hadn't been told, too, that the Brenta was a river big in Venetian
history if not in size, I should have taken it for one of my favourite
canals, with its slow traffic of lazy barges, and its hundred canals
crossing it with long green arms that stretched north and south to the
horizon. But at Stra I must have respected it in any case; and it was
near Stra, also, that we passed the most important palace of any on that
strange, flat road. The very garden wall told that here was a house
which must have loomed large in historic eyes, and through magnificent
gateways we caught flashing glimpses of a noble building in a neglected
park.
"It belonged to the Pisani, a famous family of Venice," said the
Chauffeulier as we sailed by. "But Napoleon took it--as he took so many
other good things in this part of the world--and gave it to his stepson
Eugene Beauharnais."
"I've never thought about Napoleon in connection with Venice, somehow,"
I said.
"But you will, when your gondola takes you under the huge palace where
he lived," he answered.
"Talking of gondolas, I forgot to tell you what a nice plan the Prince
has for us," said Aunt Kathryn, with the air of breaking news. "As soon
as I mentioned at what time you had arranged to leave Padua, he said he
would telegraph to some dear friends of his at Venice, the Conte and
Contessa Corramini, to send their beautiful gondola to meet us at Mestre
(wherever that is) so that we needn't go into Venice by train across the
bridge. Isn't that lovely of him?"
No one would have answered if it hadn't been for Mr. Barrymore. He said
that it was a very good plan indeed, and would be pleasanter for us than
the one he had made, which he'd meant for a surprise. He had telegraphed
from Padua to the Hotel Britannia, where we would stay, ordering
gondolas to the tram-way station in Mestre to save our sneaking into
Venice by the back-door. Now those gondolas would do very well for our
luggage, while the party of five made the journey more luxuriously.
"Party of six, you mean, unless the Prince has had an accident," amended
Beechy.
"No; for I shan't be with you. I must drive the car to the garage at
Mestre, and see that she's all right. Moray'll be with you to arrange
everything at the Britannia, which you'll find one of the nicest places
in the world, and I'll come when I can. Now, here's the turning for
Mestre, and you must look for something interesting on the sky-line to
the right, before long."
I couldn't help being disappointed, because I'd wanted the Chauffeulier
to be with us when I saw Venice first; but I couldn't say that; and I'm
afraid he thought, as everybody was silent, that nobody cared.
There was nothing to show the turning to Mestre, except a small tablet
that we might easily have missed; and the road was laughably narrow,
running along a causeway with a deep ditch on either hand. Aunt Kathryn
was so afraid that a horse would come round one of the sharp bends
walking on its hind legs, that she was miserable, but I trusted Mr.
Barrymore and enjoyed the country--real country now, with no more
palaces, villas, or beautiful arcaded farmhouses.
The distance was hidden by long, waving grasses, over which the blue
line of the Corinthian Alps seemed to hover like a cloud. There was a
pungent smell of salt and of seaweed in the air, that meant the nearness
of the lagoon--and Venice. Then, suddenly, the "something" Mr. Barrymore
had told us to look for, grew out of the horizon--dim and mysterious,
yet not to be mistaken; hyacinth-blue streaks that were pinnacles and
campanili, bubbles that were domes, floating between the gold of the
sunset and the grey-green of the tall grass, for no water was visible
yet.
"Venice!" I whispered; but though Beechy and Aunt Kathryn each cried:
"Oh, there it is! _I_ saw it first!" they were so absorbed in a
discussion as to what the Prince's friends ought to be called, and they
soon lost interest in the vision.
"Conte! It's like Condy's Fluid!" said Beechy. "I won't call him
'Conte.' I should laugh in his face. If plain Count isn't good enough
for him, and Countess for her, I shall just say 'You'--so there!"
Soon we saw a great star-shaped fortress as we ran into a town, which
was Mestre; and at the same time we lost shadow-Venice. Passing a
charming villa set back behind an avenue of cypresses and plane trees
that gave an effect of dappling moonlight even in full day, some one in
the tall gateway waved his hand.
"By Jove, it's Leo Bari, the artist!" exclaimed Sir Ralph. "I forgot his
people lived here. I know him well; he comes to the Riviera to paint. Do
slow down, Terry."
So "Terry" slowed down, and a handsome, slim young man ran up, greeting
Sir Ralph gaily in English. He was introduced to us, and his sister, a
lovely Italian girl with Titian hair, was invited to leave the becoming
background of the gateway to make our acquaintance.
They were interested in the details of our tour, especially when they
heard that, after a week in Venice, we were going into Dalmatia.
"Why, I'm going down to Ragusa to paint," said he. "I've been before,
but this time I take my sister Beatrice. She paints too. We go by the
Austrian Lloyd to-morrow. Perhaps we see you there?"
"Have you ever been down as far as Cattaro?" asked Aunt Kathryn, from
whose tongue the names of Dalmatian towns fall trippingly, since she
"acquired" a castle and a title there.
"Oh, yes, and to Montenegro," replied the artist.
"And do you remember the houses of the neighbourhood?" went on Aunt
Kathryn.
"It is already but two years I was there, so a house would have to be
young for me not to remember," replied the young man, unconscious of the
funny little twist of his English.
"I am thinking of a very old house; Slosh--er--the Castle of Hrvoya.
Have you seen it?"
"Ah, that old ruin!" exclaimed the artist. "I seen it, yes. But there is
not more much Schloss Hrvoya to see, only the rock for it to stand."
Poor Aunt Kathryn! I was sorry for her. But she bore the blow well, and,
after all, it's the title, not the castle for which she cares
most--that, and the right to smear everything with crowns.
"Perhaps I'll ask you to paint Hrvoya for me some day," she said. But
afterwards, when we had bidden the handsome brother and sister _au
revoir_, she remarked that she was afraid Mr. Bari hadn't an artistic
eye.
The good-byes said, we swept through the picturesque town to make up for
lost time, and presently encountered a little electric tram running
seaward on a causeway. We followed over a grass-grown road, and suddenly
found Venice again, so near that we could actually distinguish one
building from another. Beyond a broad stretch of water the dream city
floated on the sea.
"Look; I did this for _you_, so that you would go into Venice in a way
worthy of yourself," the Prince murmured in my ear, when the car had
stopped, joining his which was waiting. He waved his hand towards a
wonderful gondola, with a gesture such as Aladdin's Genie might have
used to indicate the magic palace. The glossy black coat of the
swan-like thing brought out the full value of the rich gold ornaments. A
long piece of drapery trailed into the water behind, and two gondoliers,
like bronze statues dressed in dark blue, crimson, and white, stood up
tall and erect against a background of golden sea and sky.
They helped us in, hat in hand; and not the Chauffeulier's absence nor
the Prince's presence could spoil for me the experience that followed.
Sunk deep in springy cushions, I half sat, half lay, while the bronze
statues swayed against the gold, softly plying their long oars, and
wafting me--_me_--to Venice.
I felt as if I were moving from the wings of a vast theatre onto the
stage to play a heroine's part. Evening bells, chanting a paen to the
sunset, floated across the wide water faint as spirit-chimes, and they
were the _leitmotif_ for my entrance.
"What a shame to be in motoring things!" I said to Beechy. "Women should
have special gondola dresses; I see that already--a different one each
day. I should like to have a deep crimson gown and a pale green
one--lilac too, perhaps, and sunrise-pink, all made picturesquely, not
in any stiff modern way."
"The costume of your Sisterhood would be pretty in a gondola," Beechy
answered. And again that coldness fell upon me which I always feel at a
reminder, intentional or unintentional, of the future. But the chill was
gone in a moment--lost in the luminous air, which had a strange
brilliancy, as if reflected from a stupendous mirror. I had never seen
anything even remotely resembling it before. It was as though we were
living inside a great opal, like flies in amber. And it seemed that in a
world so wonderful everything one did, or looked, or thought, ought to
be wonderful too, lest it should be out of tune with all surrounding
beauty.
Sea and sky were of one colour, except that the sea appeared to be on
fire underneath its glassy surface. The violet sky was strewn with blown
rose-petals and golden feathers; the tiny waves were of violet ruffled
with rose and gold, and spattered with jewelled sparks which might be
flashes from a Doge's vanished ring.
In the distance, sails of big ships were beaten into gold leaf by the
sinking sun; and nearer, there were other sails bright as flowers--a sea
picture-gallery of Madonnas, of arrow-wounded hearts, of martyred
saints, or bright-robed earthly ladies.
We were rowing straight into the sunset, straight into fairy-land, and I