Part 16 (2/2)
”Sweetheart,” she said, ”you could awake me from the dead, I think. But we are living still, my Paul--waste we no more time, in dreams.”
They made haste, and were soon in the gondola on their way to the Piazza.
”Paul,” she said, with a wave of her hand which included all the beauty around, ”I am so glad you only see Venice now, when your eyes can take it in, sweetheart. At first it would have said almost nothing to you,” and she smiled playfully. ”In fact, my Paul would have spent most of his time in wondering how he could get exercise enough, there being so few places to walk in! He would have bought a n.i.g.g.e.r boy with a dish for his father, and some Venetian mirrors for his aunts, and perhaps--yes--a piece of Mr.
Jesurum's lace for his mother, and some blown gla.s.s for his friends. He would have walked through St. Mark's, and thought it was a tumble-down place, with uneven pavements, and he would have noticed there were a 'jolly lot of pigeons' in the square! Then he would have been captious with the food at his hotel, grumbled at the waiters, scolded poor Tompson--and left for Rome!”
”Oh! darling!” said Paul, laughing too, in spite of his protest. ”Surely, surely, I never was so bad as that--and yet I expect it is probably true.
How can I ever thank you enough for giving me eyes and an understanding?”
”There--there, beloved,” she said.
They walked through the Piazza; the pigeons amused Paul, and they stopped and bought corn for them, and fed the greedy creatures, ever ready for the unending largess of strangers. One or two, bolder than the rest, alighted on the lady's hat and shoulder, taking the corn from between her red lips, and Paul felt jealous even of the birds, and drew her on to see the Campanile, still standing then. They looked at it all, they looked at the lion, and finally they entered St. Mark's.
And here Paul held her arm, and gazed with bated breath. It was all so beautiful and wonderful, and new to his eyes. He had scarcely ever been in a Roman Catholic church before, and had not guessed at the gorgeous beauty of this half-Byzantine shrine. They hardly spoke. She did not weary him with details like a guide-book--that would be for his after-life visits--but now he must see it just as a glorious whole.
”They wors.h.i.+pped here, and endowed their temple with gold and jewels,” she whispered, ”and then they went into the Doge's Palace, and placed a word in the lion's mouth which meant death or destruction to their best friends! A wonderful people, those old Venetians! Sly and fierce--cruel and pa.s.sionate--but with ever a shrewd smile in their eye, even in their love-affairs. I often ask myself, Paul, if we are not too civilised, we of our time. We think too much of human suffering, and so we cultivate the nerves to suffer more, instead of hardening them. Picture to yourself, in my grandfather's boyhood we had still the serfs! I am of his day, though it is over--I have beaten Dmitry--”
Then she stopped speaking abruptly, as though aware she had localised her nation too much. A strange imperious expression came into her eyes as they met Paul's--almost of defiance.
Paul was moved. He began as if to speak, then he remembered his promise never to question her, and remained silent.
”Yes, my Paul--you have promised, you know,” she said. ”I am for you, your love--your love--but living or dead you must never seek to know more!”
”Ah!” he cried, ”you torture me when you speak like that. 'Living or dead.' My G.o.d! that means us both--we stand or fall together.”
”Dear one”--her voice fell softly into a note of intense earnestness--”while fate lets us be together--yes--living or dead--but if we must part, then either would be the cause of the death of the other by further seeking--never forget that, my beloved one. Listen”--her eyes took a sudden fierceness--”once I read your English book, 'The Lady and the Tiger.' You remember it, Paul? She must choose which she would give her lover to--death and the tiger, or to another and more beautiful woman.
One was left, you understand, to decide the end one's self. It caused question at the moment; some were for one choice, some for the other--but for me there was never any hesitation. I would give you to a thousand tigers sooner than to another woman--just as I would give my life a thousand times for your life, my lover.”
”Darling,” said Paul, ”and I for yours, my fierce, adorable Queen. But why should we speak of terrible things? Are we not happy today, and now, and have you not told me to live while we may?”
”Come!” she said, and they walked on down to the gondola again, and floated away out to the lagoon. But when they were there, far away from the world, she talked in a new strain of earnestness to Paul. He must promise to do something with his life--something useful and great in future years.
”You must not just drift, my Paul, like so many of your countrymen do. You must help to stem the tide of your nation's decadence, and be a strong man. For me, when I read now of England, it seems as if all the hereditary legislators--it is what you call your n.o.bles, eh?--these men have for their motto, like Louis XV., _Apres moi le deluge_--It will last my time.
Paul, wherever I am, it will give me joy for you to be strong and great, sweetheart. I shall know then I have not loved just a beautiful sh.e.l.l, whose mind I was able to light for a time. That is a sadness, Paul, perhaps the greatest of all, to see a soul one has illuminated and awakened to the highest point gradually slipping back to a browsing sheep, to live for _la cha.s.se_ alone, and horses, and dogs, with each day no higher aim than its own mean pleasure. Ah, Paul!” she continued with sudden pa.s.sion, ”I would rather you were dead--dead and cold with me, than I should have to feel you were growing a _rien du tout_--a thing who will go down into nothingness, and be forgotten by men!”
Her face was aflame with the _feu sacre_. The n.o.ble brow and line of her throat will ever remain in Paul's memory as a thing apart in womankind.
Who could have small or unworthy thoughts who had known her--this splendid lady?
And his wors.h.i.+p grew and grew.
CHAPTER XVII
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