My Friend the Chauffeur
have the bag washed. I would keep it exactly as it was, put sacredly
away in some box, in memory of this night.
XXI
A CHAPTER OF STRANGE SPELLS
"Never since Anne Boleyn has a woman so lost her head over a man with a
title as Mamma over Prince Dalmar-Kalm," said Beechy, after our week at
Venice was half spent. And I wished that, in fair exchange, he would
lose his over Aunt Kathryn instead of wasting time on me, and casting
his shadow on beautiful days.
Roses and lilies appeared on my writing-desk; they were from him.
Specimens of Venetian sweets (crystallized fruits stuck on sticks, like
fat martyrs) adorned large platters on the table by the window--gifts
from the Prince. If I admired the little gargoylish sea-horses, or the
foolish shell ornaments at the Lido, I was sure to find some when I came
home. And the man hinted in whispers that the attentions of the Comte
and Contessa were for me.
All this was annoying though he put it on the grounds of friendship; and
I didn't like the Corraminis, although their influence opened doors that
would otherwise have been closed. Through them we saw the Comte de
Bardi's wonderful Japanese collection of the Palazzo Vendramin, the
finest in the world; through them we had glimpses of the treasures in
more than one old palace; they gave us a picnic dinner in their lighted
gondola, on the lagoon, with many elaborate courses cooked in
chafing-dishes, which the gondoliers served. They took us to Chioggia on
their steam yacht which--it seemed--they must let half the year to
afford the use of it the other half.
The "County" (as Aunt Kathryn pronounces him) must have been handsome
before his good looks were ravaged by small-pox. As it is, Beechy
compares his dark face to a "plum cake, from which somebody has picked
out all the plums;" and the black eyes, deep set in this scarred mask,
gaze out of it with sinister effect. Yet his manner is perfect, witty,
and gracious. He speaks English fluently, and might be of any age
between thirty-five and fifty. As for the Contessa, she has the profile
of a Boadicea (with which I could never feel thoroughly at home if it
were mine) and the walk of a bewitched table, so stout she is, and so
square. Her principal efforts at conversation with me were in praise of
Prince Dalmar-Kalm, so I scarcely appreciated them. Indeed, the
Corraminis repelled me, and I was glad to spare all their distinguished
society to Aunt Kathryn.
Each day in Venice (not counting the hours spent with them and the
Prince) was more wonderful, it seemed, than the day before.
First among my pictures was San Marco, which I went out to see alone
early in the morning, but met Mr. Barrymore as I inquired my way. I
could have wished for that, though I wouldn't have dreamed of asking him
to take me. As we went through the narrow streets of charming shops, we
played at not thinking of what was to come. Then, Mr. Barrymore said
suddenly, "Now you may look." So I did look, and there it was, the
wonder of wonders, more like a stupendous crown of jewels than a church.
Like a queen's diadem, it gleamed in the grey-white Piazza, under the
burning azure dome of the sky.
"Oh, we've found the key of the rainbow, and come close to it!" I cried.
"What a marvel! Can human beings really have made it, or did it make
itself as gems form in the rocks, and coral under the sea?"
"The cornice does look as if it were the spray of the sea, tossing up
precious stones from buried treasures beneath the waves," he answered.
"But you're right. We've got the key of the rainbow, and we can go in."
I walked beside him, awe-struck, as if I were passing under a spell.
There could be no other building so beautiful in the world, and it was
harder than ever to realize that man had created it. The golden mosaic
of the domed roof, arching above the purple-brown of the alabaster
walls, was like sunrise boiling over the massed clouds of a dark
horizon. Light seemed generated by the glitter of that mosaic; and the
small white windows of the dome gained such luminous blues and pale gold
glints, from sky without and opal gleams within, that they were changed
to stars. The pavement was opaline, too, with a thousand elusive tints
and jewelled colours, waving like the sea. It was all I could do not to
touch Mr. Barrymore's arm or hand for sympathy.
We didn't speak as we passed out. I was almost glad when the spell was
broken by the striking of the great, blue clock opposite San Marco, and
the slow procession of the life-size mechanical figures which only open
their secret door on fete days, such as this chanced to be.
Watching the stiff saints go through their genuflexions put me in a good
mood for an introduction to the pigeons, which I longed to have for
friends--strange little stately ruffling things, almost as mechanical in
their strut as the figures of the clock; so metallic, too, in their
lustre, that I could have believed them made of painted iron.
Some wore short grey Eton jackets, with white blouses showing behind;
these were the ladies, and their faces were as different as possible
from those of their lovers. So were the dainty little coral feet, for
alas! the masculine shoes were the pinker and prettier; and the males,
even the baby ones, were absurdly like English judges in wigs and gowns.
It was charming to watch the developments of pigeon love-stories on that
blue-and-gold day, which was my first in the Grand Piazza of San Marco.
How the lady would patter away, and pretend she didn't know that a
rising young judge had his eye upon her! But she would pause and feign
to examine a grain of corn, which I or some one else had thrown, just
long enough to give him a chance of preening his feathers before her,
spreading out his tail, and generally cataloguing his perfections. She
would pretend that this demonstration had no effect upon her heart, that
she'd seen a dozen pigeons within an hour handsomer than he; but the
instant a rival belle chanced (only it wasn't chance really) to hop that
way and offer outrageous inducements to flirtation, she decided that,
after all, he was worth having--and, alas! sometimes decided too late.
That same afternoon Mr. Barrymore took me to the little church of San
Giorgio degli Schiavoni to see the exquisite Carpaccios, because he was
of opinion that Aunt Kathryn and Beechy would prefer to go shopping.
Yet, after all, who should appear there but Beechy and Sir Ralph!
Beechy thought the dragon a delightful beast, with a remarkable eye for
the picturesque, judging from the way in which he had arranged the
remains of his victims; and she was sorry for him, dragged into the
market-place, so pitifully shrunken, beaten, and mortified was he. She
wanted to live in all the mediaeval castles of the picture-backgrounds,
and was of opinion that the basilisk's real intentions had been
misunderstood by the general public of his day. "I should love to have
such a comic, trotty beast to lead about in Central Park," said she.
"Why the octopi that the people cook and sell in the streets here now,
are ever so much horrider. One might run away from them, if you like.
Loathsome creatures! I do draw the line at an animal whose face you
can't tell from its--er--waist. And only think of _eating_ them! I'd a
good deal rather eat a basilisk."
Beechy was also convinced--before she crossed the Bridge of Sighs--that
many people, especially Americans, would pay large sums or even commit
crimes, in order to be put in prison at Venice. "Such a lovely
situation," she argued, "and lots of historical associations too." But
afterwards, when she had seen where Marino Faliero lay, and the young
Foscari, she was inclined to change her mind. "Still," she said, "it
would be an experience; and if you couldn't afford to stop at a hotel,
it might be worth trying, if you didn't have to do anything very bad,
and were sure of getting a cell on the canal."
Neither Beechy nor Aunt Kathryn cared much for the churches or the
pictures, so they and Sir Ralph bargained for Venetian point or the lace
of Burano, or went to the glass makers', or had tea at the Lido with the
Corraminis, while Mr. Barrymore took me to the Frari, the Miracoli, and
other churches that he loved best, or wandered with me among the
glorious company of artists at the Accademia, and in the Doges' Palace.
But Beechy did join in my admiration and respect (mingled with a kind of
wondering pity) for the noble army of marble lions in Venice.
Oh, those poor, splendid lions! How sad they look, how bitter is the
expression of their ponderous faces. Especially am I haunted by the
left-hand lion in the Piazza degli Lioni, hard by San Marco. What can
have happened to him, that he should be so despairing? Whatever it was,
he has never got over it, but has concentrated his whole being in one,
eight-century-long howl ever since. He is the most impressive of the
tribe; but there are many others, big and little, all gloomy, sitting
about in Piazzas, or exposed for sale in shops, or squatting on the
railings of balconies. When I think of that fair city in the sea, I
shall often want to run back and try to comfort some of those lions.
Beechy was with me in this; and as for Aunt Kathryn, even the flattering
attentions of the Corraminis did not please her more than our experience
at the antiquaries', which we owed to Mr. Barrymore.
We hadn't been in Venice for twenty-four hours before we saw that the
Chauffeulier knew the place almost as if he had been born there. He was
even well up in the queer, soft Venetian _patois_, with hardly a
consonant left in it, so well up that he announced himself capable of
bandying words and measuring swords with the curiosity-shop keepers, if
we liked to "collect anything."
At first Aunt Kathryn thought that she wouldn't bother; there would be
too much trouble with the custom house at home; but, when Beechy
happened to say what a rare thing a marble well-head or a garden statue
five hundred years old would be considered in Denver, she weakened, and
fell.
The idea popped into Beechy's head just as our gondola (it was towards
the end of our week in Venice) was gliding by a beautiful, shabby old
palace in a side canal.
A canopy of grape-vines, heavy with hanging clusters of emeralds and
here and there an amethyst, shadowed a carved water-gate. Under the
jade-green water gleamed the yellow marble of the steps, waving with
seaweed like mermaids' hair; and in the dim interior behind the open
doors there were vague gleams of gilded chairs, pale glints of statuary,
and rich streaks of colour made by priests' vestments or old altar
hangings.
"I don't believe even Mrs. Potter Adriance has got anything like this in
her house, though they call it so elegant," remarked Beechy.
That speech was to Aunt Kathryn what valerian is to a pussy cat; for
Mrs. Potter Adriance (as I've often heard since I made acquaintance with
my relations) is the leader of Denver society, and is supposed once to
have said with a certain emphasis: "_Who_ are the Kidders?"
"Perhaps I'll just step in and see what they've got here," said Aunt
Kathryn.
"It isn't a cheap place," replied Mr. Barrymore. "This man knows how to
charge. If you want any marbles, he has some fine ones; but for other
things I'll take you somewhere else, where I promise you shall be amused
and not cheated."
"I think our yard at home is big enough for two or three statues; and a
marble well-head and a sundial would be lovely," exclaimed Aunt Kathryn.
"We'll look at some," said Mr. Barrymore, motioning to the gondolier.
"But now, unless you're to pay six times what everything's worth, you
must put yourselves in my hands. Remember, you don't care to glance
either at statues, well-heads, or sun-dials."