Farewell, Nikola

Title: Farewell, Nikola! Author: Guy Boothby * A Project Gutenberg
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Farewell, Nikola Guy Boothby

CHAPTER I.
WE were in Venice; Venice the silent and mysterious; the one
European city of which I never tire. My wife had not enjoyed good
health for some months past, and for this reason we had been wintering
in Southern Italy. After that we had come slowly north, spending a
month in Florence, and a fortnight in Rome en route, until we found
ourselves in Venice, occupying a suite of apartments at Galaghetti's
famous hotel overlooking the Grand Canal. Our party was a small one;

it consisted of my wife, her friend Gertrude Trevor, and myself,
Richard Hatteras, once of the South Sea Islands, but now of the New
Forest, Hampshire, England. It may account for our fondness of Venice
when I say that four years previous we had spent the greater part of our
honeymoon there. Whatever the cause may have been, however, there
could be no sort of doubt that the grand old city, with its palaces and
churches, its associations stretching back to long-forgotten centuries,
and its silent waterways, possessed a great fascination for us. We were
never tired of exploring it, finding something to interest us in even the
most out-of-the-way corners. In Miss Trevor we possessed a charming
companion, a vital necessity, as you will admit, when people travel
together. She was an uncommon girl in more ways than one; a girl, so it
seems to me, England alone is able to produce. She could not be
described as a pretty girl, but then the word "pretty" is one that
sometimes comes perilously near carrying contempt with it; one does
not speak of Venus de Medici as pretty, nor would one describe the
Apollo Belvedere as very nice-looking. That Miss Trevor was
exceedingly handsome would, I fancy, be generally admitted. At any
rate she would command attention wherever she might go, and that is
an advantage which few of us possess. Should a more detailed
description of her be necessary, I might add that she was tall and dark,
with black hair and large luminous eyes that haunted one, and were
suggestive of a southern ancestor. She was the daughter, and indeed the
only child, of the well-known Dean of Bedminster, and this was the
first time she had visited Italy, or that she had been abroad. The
wonders of the Art Country were all new to her, and in consequence
our wanderings were one long succession of delight. Every day added
some new pleasure to her experiences, while each night saw a
life-desire gratified.
In my humble opinion, to understand Italy properly one should not
presume to visit her until after the first blush of youth has departed, and
then only when one has prepared oneself to properly appreciate her
many beauties. Venice, above all others, is a city that must be taken
seriously. To come at a proper spirit of the place one must be in a
reverent mood. Cheap jokes and Cockney laughter are as unsuited to
the place, where Falieri yielded his life, as a downcast face would be in

Nice at carnival time. On the afternoon of the particular day from
which I date my story, we had been to the Island of Murano to pay a
visit to the famous glass factories of which it is the home. By the time
we reached Venice once more it was nearly sunset. Having something
like an hour to spare we made our way, at my wife's suggestion, to the
Florian cafe on the piazza of Saint Mark in order to watch the people.
As usual the place was crowded, and at first glance it looked as if we
should be unable to find sufficient vacant chairs. Fortune favoured us,
however, and when we had seated ourselves and I had ordered coffee,
we gave ourselves up to the enjoyment of what is perhaps one of the
most amusing scenes