II

There had been, on lines of further or different speculation, a

young Englishman to luncheon, and the young Englishman had proved

“sympathetic”; so that when it was a question afterwards of some of the

more hidden treasures, the browner depths of the old churches, the case

became one for mutual guidance and gratitude--for a small afternoon tour

and the wait of a pair of friends in the warm little _campi_, at locked

doors for which the nearest urchin had scurried off to fetch the keeper

of the key. There are few brown depths to-day into which the light of

the hotels doesn’t shine, and few hidden treasures about which

pages enough, doubtless, haven’t already been printed: my business,

accordingly, let me hasten to say, is not now with the fond renewal of

any discovery--at least in the order of impressions most usual.

Your discovery may be, for that matter, renewed every week; the only

essential is the good luck--which a fair amount of practice has taught

you to count upon-of not finding, for the particular occasion, other

discoverers in the field. Then, in the quiet corner, with the closed

door--then in the presence of the picture and of your companion’s

sensible emotion--not only the original happy moment, but everything

else, is renewed. Yet once again it can all come back. The old custode,

shuffling about in the dimness, jerks away, to make sure of his tip, the

old curtain that isn’t much more modern than the wonderful work itself.

He does his best to create light where light can never be; but you have

your practised groping gaze, and in guiding the young eyes of your less

confident associate, moreover, you feel you possess the treasure. These

are the refined pleasures that Venice has still to give, these odd happy

passages of communication and response.

But the point of my reminiscence is that there were other communications

that day, as there were certainly other responses. I have forgotten

exactly what it was we were looking for--without much success--when we

met the three Sisters. Nothing requires more care, as a long knowledge

of Venice works in, than not to lose the useful faculty of getting lost.

I had so successfully done my best to preserve it that I could at that

moment conscientiously profess an absence of any suspicion of where we

might be. It proved enough that, wherever we were, we were where the

three sisters found us. This was on a little bridge near a big campo,

and a part of the charm of the matter was the theory that it was very

much out of the way. They took us promptly in hand--they were

only walking over to San Marco to match some coloured wool for the

manufacture of such belated cushions as still bloom with purple and

green in the long leisures of old palaces; and that mild errand could

easily open a parenthesis. The obscure church we had feebly imagined

we were looking for proved, if I am not mistaken, that of the sisters’

parish; as to which I have but a confused recollection of a large grey

void and of admiring for the first time a fine work of art of which I

have now quite lost the identity. This was the effect of the charming

beneficence of the three sisters, who presently were to give our

adventure a turn in the emotion of which everything that had preceded

seemed as nothing. It actually strikes me even as a little dim to have

been told by them, as we all fared together, that a certain low, wide

house, in a small square as to which I found myself without particular

association, had been in the far-off time the residence of George Sand.

And yet this was a fact that, though I could then only feel it must

be for another day, would in a different connection have set me richly

reconstructing.

Madame Sand’s famous Venetian year has been of late immensely in the

air--a tub of soiled linen which the muse of history, rolling her

sleeves well up, has not even yet quite ceased energetically and

publicly to wash. The house in question must have been the house

to which the wonderful lady betook herself when, in 1834, after the

dramatic exit of Alfred de Musset, she enjoyed that remarkable period

of rest and refreshment with the so long silent, the but recently

rediscovered, reported, extinguished, Doctor Pagello. As an old

Sandist--not exactly indeed of the _première heure_, but of the fine

high noon and golden afternoon of the great career--I had been, though I

confess too inactively, curious as to a few points in the topography of

the eminent adventure to which I here allude; but had never got beyond

the little public fact, in itself always a bit of a thrill to the

Sandist, that the present Hotel Danieli had been the scene of its first

remarkable stages. I am not sure indeed that the curiosity I speak

of has not at last, in my breast, yielded to another form of

wonderment--truly to the rather rueful question of why we have so

continued to concern ourselves, and why the fond observer of the

footprints of genius is likely so to continue, with a body of

discussion, neither in itself and in its day, nor in its preserved and

attested records, at all positively edifying. The answer to such an

inquiry would doubtless reward patience, but I fear we can now glance at

its possibilities only long enough to say that interesting persons--so

they be of a sufficiently approved and established interest--render

in some degree interesting whatever happens to them, and give it an

importance even when very little else (as in the case I refer to) may

have operated to give it a dignity. Which is where I leave the issue of

further identifications.

For the three sisters, in the kindest way in the world, had asked us if

we already knew their sequestered home and whether, in case we didn’t,

we should be at all amused to see it. My own acquaintance with them,

though not of recent origin, had hitherto lacked this enhancement, at

which we both now grasped with the full instinct, indescribable enough,

of what it was likely to give. But how, for that matter, either, can I

find the right expression of what was to remain with us of this episode?

It is the fault of the sad-eyed old witch of Venice that she so easily

puts more into things that can pass under the common names that do for

them elsewhere. Too much for a rough sketch was to be seen and felt

in the home of the three sisters, and in the delightful and slightly

pathetic deviation of their doing us so simply and freely the honours

of it. What was most immediately marked was their resigned cosmopolite

state, the effacement of old conventional lines by foreign contact and

example; by the action, too, of causes full of a special interest,

but not to be emphasised perhaps--granted indeed they be named at

all--without a certain sadness of sympathy. If “style,” in Venice, sits

among ruins, let us always lighten our tread when we pay her a visit.

Our steps were in fact, I am happy to think, almost soft enough for a

death-chamber as we stood in the big, vague _sala_ of the three sisters,

spectators of their simplified state and their beautiful blighted rooms,

the memories, the portraits, the shrunken relics of nine Doges. If I

wanted a first chapter it was here made to my hand; the painter of life

and manners, as he glanced about, could only sigh--as he so frequently

has to--over the vision of so much more truth than he can use. What on

earth is the need to “invent,” in the midst of tragedy and comedy that

never cease? Why, with the subject itself, all round, so inimitable,

condemn the picture to the silliness of trying not to be aware of it?

The charming lonely girls, carrying so simply their great name and

fallen fortunes, the despoiled _decaduta_ house, the unfailing Italian

grace, the space so out of scale with actual needs, the absence of

books, the presence of ennui, the sense of the length of the hours and

the shortness of everything else--all this was a matter not only for a

second chapter and a third, but for a whole volume, a _dénoûment_ and a

sequel.

This time, unmistakably, it _was_ the last--Wordsworth’s stately

“shade of that which once was great”; and it was _almost_ as if our

distinguished young friends had consented to pass away slowly in order

to treat us to the vision. Ends are only ends in truth, for the painter

of pictures, when they are more or less conscious and prolonged. One

of the sisters had been to London, whence she had brought back the

impression of having seen at the British Museum a room exclusively

filled with books and documents devoted to the commemoration of her

family. She must also then have encountered at the National Gallery

the exquisite specimen of an early Venetian master in which one of her

ancestors, then head of the State, kneels with so sweet a dignity before

the Virgin and Child. She was perhaps old enough, none the less, to have

seen this precious work taken down from the wall of the room in which

we sat and--on terms so far too easy--carried away for ever; and not

too young, at all events, to have been present, now and then, when her

candid elders, enlightened too late as to what their sacrifice might

really have done for them, looked at each other with the pale hush of

the irreparable. We let ourselves note that these were matters to put a

great deal of old, old history into sweet young Venetian faces.