書(shū)蟲(chóng)2級(jí)《陷坑與鐘擺》密會(huì)

The Meeting

How well I remember that meeting! I was in Venice, that city of dark secrets and silent waters. It was midnight, and the midsummer air was hot and still, the canals silent and empty.

I was coming home in a gondola along the Grand Canal when I heard a sudden scream – a woman's scream. I jumped up, and the boatman turned my gondola to go under the Bridge of Sighs and past the great house of the Mentoni family. Lights were on in all the windows, and people were running down the steps to the water. The canal was suddenly as light as day.

What has happened?' I called out.

A child fell from its mother's arms,' came the answer. 'From a high window of the house.'

I stopped to watch, full of fear for the child. Already people were swimming in the water, calling, shouting, looking everywhere.

At the doorway to the palace stood the child's young mother, the Marchesa di Mentoni, the loveliest woman in all of Venice.

She stood alone. But she was not looking into the water for her lost child. She was staring across the canal at the building opposite. Why? I asked myself. What could she see there, in the dark corners of that old building? Or was she afraid to look into the canal, afraid to see the dead body of her child in the dark waters?

On the steps behind the Marchesa, higher up, stood her old husband, Mentoni himself, the head of the rich and famous Mentoni family. He gave orders to the servants who were looking for his child, but he looked bored, bored to death.

Then, from one of the dark corners outside the building opposite, a man stepped into the light and immediately jumped into the canal.

A minute later, he stood next to the Marchesa with the living, breathing child in his arms. The light from the windows fell on his face, and everyone could see him.

The young man stood next to the Marchesa with the child in his arms.

He was a very famous young man – as beautiful as a Greek god, with his black eyes, and his wild black hair. We were not close friends, but I knew him a little, from my time in Venice.

He did not speak. And to my great surprise the Marchesa did not take her child in her arms and hold him close. Other hands took the child and carried him away, into the house. And the Marchesa? Her eyes were wet with tears, and her hands were shaking.

Then old Mentoni turned and went into the house. The Marchesa took the young man's hand in both of hers, and stared into his face. Her eyes were dark with terror, and her face as white as the moonlight that danced on the waters of the canal.

She spoke softly, hurriedly, the tears running down that wild, white face. Below the steps, in my gondola, I heard every word.

You have won,' she said, 'you have won... and you are right... there is only one answer... we cannot go on... we agreed the way, and now the time has come... we shall meet... one hour after sunrise...'

Everyone went away, lights went out, and my young friend now stood alone on the steps. He was white-faced and shaking. He looked around and saw me, and remembered me at once.

There were no other boats on the canal at that time, so I took him home in my gondola. We talked of unimportant things, and then he asked me to visit him the next morning.

Come at sunrise,' he said. 'Yes, at sunrise! Not a minute later. Please!'

I thought his words were a little strange, but they were not the first strange words on that strange night.

I agreed to go, and arrived at sunrise. His apartment was in one of those very old buildings which look down on the Grand Canal, near the Rialto Bridge. The rooms were large, and full of beautiful things from Italy, Greece, Egypt... There were pictures, furniture, carpets, things made of black stone, and red stone, of glass, of gold, of silver... Soft music was playing somewhere, and the early morning sunlight danced in through the windows.

There was too much to look at, too much light, too many colours, too many beautiful things. I stared around in silent surprise, and my young friend laughed.

Oh, I am sorry for laughing,' he said. 'But you look so surprised! And sometimes a man must laugh or die. How wonderful to die laughing, don't you agree?'

He half-fell into a low chair, still laughing in that strange way.

I have other apartments,' he went on, 'but none like this one. You are one of the very few people who have seen it. Come – I have some famous pictures here. You must see them.'

He wanted to show me everything. He was tired, but also excited. And perhaps afraid too. I could not be sure. But something was worrying him. Sometimes he stopped speaking in the middle of a sentence and listened. To what? The sound of another visitor on the stairs? To words inside his head?

During one of these silent moments, I turned away and saw a book of Italian songs on a small table. The open page was wet with new tears. And on the opposite, empty page, written in English and in my young friend's handwriting, were these lines:

You were my sun, my moon, my stars,

My life I gave to you.

We danced by day, we sang by night,

A love so sweet and true.

Now all my days I spend in darkness,

The fire of life is cold,

I see no more your quick bright smile,

Your hand I cannot hold.

They took you from our English clouds

To a blue Italian sky,

To marry an old man, rich in gold,

And now my heart will die.

Under these lines were written a place and date. The place was London. This surprised me, because when I first met him in Venice, I asked him, 'When you were living in London, did you ever meet the Marchesa di Mentoni? She lived in that city for some years before she married.'

To this he replied, 'I have never been to London.'

For a rich young Englishman I thought this was strange, but I thought little of it at the time.

He did not see me with this book, and now turned to me again.

One more picture to see,' he said. 'Come.'

He took me to a small room. There was just one picture in it – a portrait of the Marchesa di Mentoni.

She stood, smiling down at us, as beautiful as ever, her dark eyes full of life.

My young friend stood, staring at the portrait for a long time. Then, at last, he said, 'Come, let's drink!'

My young friend stood, staring at the portrait for a long time.

He went away to find wine, and I turned back to the book of Italian songs on the little table. Perhaps there were answers to these mysteries about my friend in this book. I turned the pages, and found, hidden at the back of the book, part of a letter. It was in a woman's handwriting.

... You say that you love me, more than the world, more than life itself. But how much is that? How can I be sure? Will you do this for me? Will you save from death my child –my child, by him?

If you do this, then I will know that your words are true. And I will take your hand for one last time... We shall go together through that last door...

I heard a sound, and closed the book hurriedly. My friend came back into the room, carrying two large silver goblets, full to the top with wine. He gave one to me.

It is early, but let's drink,' he said again. At that moment a clock sounded the hour. 'One hour after sunrise,' he said softly. 'Yes, it is early. But what does it matter? Let us drink to the sun, yes, the sun!'

He drank his goblet of wine very quickly.

To dreams,' he said. 'All my life I have dreamed. I have made myself a home of dreams, here in the heart of Venice. Where could be better?' He put his empty goblet down on the table. 'And now I am ready for the land of real dreams. Soon, I shall be there...'

All my life I have dreamed...'

He stopped and listened – but to what, I did not know. Then he lifted his head and said:

Wait for me there! I will be sure

　To meet you at that last dark door.

On the last word he fell into a chair, and his eyes closed.

At the same moment there were feet on the stairs, and a loud knocking at the door. A young servant from the Mentoni house ran into the room.

The Marchesa! I come from the Marchesa!' the boy cried.'Poison! She has taken poison! She is dead!'

I ran to the chair and tried to wake my young friend, to tell him this strange and terrible news.

But he did not move. His hand was cold to my touch, and his face white and still.

He, too, was dead.

I fell back against the table in terror, and my hand touched my friend's wine goblet, which stood there. It was now blackened inside, and from it came a sweet, sickly smell – the smell of poison.

And in a second I understood everything.