UR balconies lay as close together as two peas in a pod. I used to tell myself sometimes that it would be the easiest thing in the world to step across the intervening balustrade of marble and to sit at the feet of Bianca. But then—I did not know her, and even in Italy there is a law which sanctifies other people’s balconies.
I did not know Bianca, certainly; she was an utter stranger to me. It is true hat there were days when we sat long, interchanging those fugitive messages which only a great sympathy can compel the eyes to speak. Then I would say as plainly as possible, “You are a pretty child, worthy of this Venice which gave you birth.” She in turn would drop the needles from her hands to answer mutely, “I am perfectly aware of that, but we are strangers.” At other times she would turn her back upon the house of Caldogno where I lodged, and never once the long day through remember that an Englishman had come to the Rio do San Lorenzo. Those were the moments when I decided that Bianca’s hair was red and that her age was twenty.
I had been in Venice a month, sent there by a far-seeing editor in London to describe for him the precise circumstances under which Orso Cicogna, the tool of Crispi, was to be assassinated by the workmen of the Arsenal. The errand was not a little remarkable, insomuch as Orso was still alive and very active in reforming those abuses which Rome declared were spoiling the four thousand five hundred workmen in the ship-building yards. But we knew that such a state of things could not last. Your Italian laborer accepts no mean in politics. If he be in accord with you, he will rend the air with vivas. If he differ from you, there is the stiletto. In this case his difference of opinion with the agent of the Government was so pronounced that it did not require a deep prophetic insight to foretell the result. We were sorry for Orso—that was all. We had his obituary notices ready, so to speak; and I was sent to Venice to round off the corners, being reminded by my editor that time is money.
This is a sentiment which has always seemed to me wrong to the point of exasperation. Time which is money is no time at all. Sitting upon my balcony, with Bianca's dark eyes flashing upon me ever and anon like a welcome search-light from the sea, I found it an absurd conclusion. And, after all, I could not hasten things at the Arsenal. Impossible for me to urge upon the four thousand five hundred malcontents the necessity of despatching their enemy quickly in order that I might finish my article and return to London; futile to assure my chief in answer to his repeated question, What are you doing? that I was sitting at the feet of Bianca. Love's labor lost can be of no possible interest to your news editor—unless it be lost in the Divorce Court.
Bianca used to come out on her balcony at ten o'clock in the morning. I do not care to be forestalled by a woman: and for that reason alone was ever at my own window at a quarter before the hour. A mere observer might have thought our mute courtesies ridiculous. She with her knitting, I with my books and letters—we bowed gravely and took our places, Had Bianca chosen the evening hour for so pleasant an occupation, it is possible that we should have bridged the distance between the balconies more swiftly. As it was, I waited a month for the occasion, owed it at last to the wind: to a life-giving sweet breeze of spring, making little waves lap against the side of the house, casting blossoms from the gardens upon the pure air, above all blowing a paper from the hand of Bianca straight upon my balcony. Admirable wind. We were discussing the world and each other before the minute-hand upon my watch had come around again.
“A hundred thanks, Signore.”
“Por nolta. I thank the breeze, signorina.”
“You are staying long in Venice, Signore?”
“As long as my friends, new and old, remain here, signorina.”
“You love my city?”
“Oh, signorina, can you ask me that—when I am talking to you?”
She blushed deeply, the color showing even under her rich dark skin. In that moment I altered my opinion about Bianca's hair. It was not red, but auburn. And her age could not ha been more than eighteen.
“Love Venice!” I continued presently, seeing that she had no word of answer to my compliment. “Is not that to love all the color of life, to know all the joy of life, to be carried out of the world to the islands of rest? Indeed, I love Venice beyond any city I have seen, and could be very content, Signorina, to live and die here.”
She shook her head doubtingly.