IV

The Veronese did not paint that beautiful face the next morning as he

had planned; for the first time he had encountered difficulties. Slowly,

as he wended his way through the many turnings of the narrow calle to

Campo San Maurizio, carrying a beautiful Moorish box filled with the

pearly shells which the Venetians call "flowers of the Lido," and a

bouquet of aromatic carnations for the bambino, he recalled the figure

and speech of his Madonna, and they were not those of the maidens whom

one might encounter at the traghetto or in the Piazza; there had been a

dignity and self-forgetfulness in such perfect harmony with the face

that, at the moment, this had seemed entirely natural. But the tones

returned to him as he pondered, filled with a deeper melody than the

usual winning speech of the Venetian; with the grace of the soft dialect

there was a rare, unexpected quality, as if thought had formed the

undertone. He had never heard such a voice in the Piazza--it was rare

even in the palazzo; it was the voice of some sweet and gracious woman

with a soul too large for the world; it held a suggestion of peace and

convent bells and even-songs of nuns.

Then, still more passionately, the desire overcame him to paint that

face for his Madonna; he would never give it up! Yet this maiden was

not one of whom he could ask the favor that he craved, nor to whom he

could offer any return.

He had come to San Maurizio to take a gondola from the traghetto, partly

that he might be free to wander without comment wherever his search

should lead, partly because he was always ready for a chat with the

people; their experiences interested him, and he himself belonged by his

artist life, as by his sympathies, to all classes. Perhaps, too, he had

been moved with a vague hope that he might find the face he was seeking,

for he was used to fortunate happenings. But there were no waiting

Madonnas under the pergola, and the air of the early spring morning blew

chill from the Lido, almost with an intimation of failure to his

sensitive mood. He pushed aside an old _gransiere_, without the gift of

small coin that usually flowed so easily from his hand, for service

rendered or unrendered, as he impatiently questioned the gondoliers.

"One who knows Murano well!" he called.

There was an instant response from an old man almost past traghetto

service, but his age and probable garrulity commended him.

"I will take thee and thy gondola, since thou knowest Murano," said the

artist kindly; "but I must go swiftly, and I would not tax thee. Thou

shalt have thy fare, but I will pay for another gondolier also from the

traghetto; he must be young and lusty. Choose thou him--and hasten."

There was a babel of voices and a self-gratulatory proffer of lithe

forms, while the old gondolier turned undecidedly from one to another,

and the tottering gransiere ostentatiously protected the velvet mantle

of the artist as he sprang into the boat. With an impatient gesture the

Veronese indicated his choice, and they were soon on their way.

"Come hither, _vecchio mio_, and rest thine old bones; let the young one

work for us both," the padrone commanded, as he flung himself down among

the cushions. "Do they treat thee well at thy traghetto?"

"Eccellenza, yes; but I am scarce older than the others; it is the young

ones who make us trouble; they keep not the Mariegole, and it is only

the old one may depend upon."

"_Davvero_, the world is changed then! It used to be good to be young."

"Eccellenza, yes; when I myself was not old, and his excellency also had

no beard."

"If age and wisdom might be traded for the time of youthful pranks,"

said the Veronese with twinkling eyes, "I doubt if there were wisdom

enough left in Venice to cavil at the barter! Yet thou and I, having

wisdom thrust upon us by these same beards, if trouble come to thee, or

too soon they put thee at the gransiere service, we will remember this

day passed together."

"Eccellenza, thanks; the gransiere has not much beside his beard to keep

him warm, and the time draws near," the old man answered with pleasant

Venetian insouciance.

"Tell me," said the Veronese, turning to the younger man, "why do you

young fellows make Venice ring with your scandals? You are cutting off

your own 'liberties.'"

"Yes, signore." The gondolier hesitated, glancing doubtfully at the

artist's sumptuous attire, which might have indicated a state much

greater than he kept; for the Veronese was famed throughout Venice, in

quarters where he was better known, for an unfailing splendor of costume

which would have made him at all times a model for the pictures he loved

to paint. Recently, for bad conduct, the gondoliers had been gradually

forfeiting their licenses, or "liberties," as they were called in

Venice, and the thought crossed the young fellow's mind that this

splendid stranger was possibly one of those government officials who

were charged with the supervision of the confraternities of the

traghetti.

"It is the first time I have the honor of conducting his Excellency; he

is perhaps of the Provveditori al Comun?" These officials collected the

government taxes and were viewed with jealous eyes by the gondoliers.

"Nay; I am Paolo Cagliari; I belong to a better craft. But please

thyself, for there is much talk of this matter."

"Signore, one must live!" the young fellow exclaimed, with a friendly

shrug of his shoulders and a gleam of his white teeth; for it was easy

to make friends with the genial artist. "And between the governors and

the _provveditori_ one may scarce draw breath! One's bread and onions--"

he added, with a dramatic gesture of self-pity. "It is not much to ask!"

"_Altro_! Nonsense!" the Veronese exclaimed, laughing, for the gondolier

looked little like one who was suffering from hunger, as he stood

swaying in keen enjoyment of the motion which showed his prowess, of the

wind as it swept his bronzed cheek, of the talk which permitted him to

exploit his grievances.

"There is the High Mass, twice in the month; there is the Low

Mass--every Monday, if you will believe me! There are the priests, _for

nothing_--Santa Maria, they are not few! The first fare in the

day?--always for the Madonna of the traghetto. This _maledetto_ fare of

the Madonna suffices for the Madonna's oil, I ask you? Ebbene non! There

are the fines--and these, it must be confessed, might be fewer, for the

saints are tired of keeping us out of mischief. And little there is for

one's own madonna, if one would make gifts!"

"This, then, for thine own madonna," said the artist pleasantly, tossing

him a considerable coin. "And may she make thee wiser; for, by thine

inventory, which it doth not harm thee to rehearse, thou hast a good

memory."

"Eccellenza, there is more, if you be not weary. There is the government

tax; it takes long to gather--ask the _gastaldo_! There are the soldiers

for the navy; how many good men does that leave for the traghetto

service? And a license is not little to buy for a poor barcariol who

would be his own man; one pays three hundred _lire_--not less. Does it

drop into one's hand with the first fare? One must belong to the

Guilds--it is less robbery!"

"But for your gastaldo, your great man, for him it is much honor--"

"Eccellenza, believe it not. If the taxes are not there for the

provveditori, it is the gastaldo who pays. When the money is little it

is the gastaldo who pays much. And the toso--all his faults blamed on

the traghetti! Ah, signore, for the gondolier it is a life--Santa

Maria!" He threw up his hands with a feint of being at a loss to convey

its hardships.

"_Come non c'è altro_!" said the Veronese, laughing; "there is none like

it."

"Ebbene--va bene!" the gondolier confessed, joining heartily in the

merriment, his grievance, which was nevertheless a real one, infinitely

lessened by confession.

Suddenly the old man rose and bowed his head, and both gondoliers

crossed themselves. The Veronese also bared his head and made the sign

of reverence, for they were passing the island of San Michele, toward

which a mournful procession of boats, each with its torch and its banner

of black, was slowly gliding, while back over the water echoed the dirge

from those sobbing cellos. Here, where only the dead were sleeping, the

sky was as blue and the sea as calm as if sorrow had never been born in

the world.

Before them Murano, low-lying, scattered, was close at hand, the smoke

of its daily activities tremulous over it, dimming the beauty of sky and

sea.

"His Excellency knows Murano? The Duomo, with its mosaics? Wonderful!

there are none like them; and it is old--'ma antica'! And the

stabilimenti?--it is glory enough for one island! Ah, the padrone wishes

to visit the stabilimento Magagnati?"

Paolo Cagliari had not known what he would do until the old man's

suggestion seemed to make his vision less vaguely inaccessible, and

before they reached the landing he had learned, by a judicious

indifference which sharpened his companion's loquacity, that Messer

Girolamo lived there alone with his daughter, who went about always with

a bambino in her arms--the child of a dead sister.

There could be no doubt; yet, to keep the old man talking, he put the

question, "She is very beautiful, the donzella?"

"Eccellenza"--with a pause and deprecatory movement of the

shoulders--"_cosi_--so-so--a little pale--like a saint--devote. For the

poor? Good, _gentile_, the donzel of Messer Girolamo. _Bella_, with rosy

colors? _Non_!"

With the Venetians there could be no sharp distinction between the

decorative and the fine arts, as the fine arts were employed by them

without limit in their sumptuous decorations; and that which elsewhere

would have been merely decorative they raised, by exquisite quality and

finish, to a point which deserved to be termed art, without

qualifications.

The Veronese, who had been knighted by the Doge, could scarcely go

unrecognized to any art establishment in any quarter of Venice, and with

unconcealed pleasure Girolamo bowed low before this master who had come

to do him honor; displaying all that the initiated would hold most

precious among his treasures--that design, faded and dim, almost

unrecognizable, of those early mosaics of the Master Pietro--he held

nothing back. It was a day of honor for his house, and the two were

alone in his cabinet.

The Veronese had a gift of sympathy; his heart opened to those who loved

art and had conquered difficulties in her service, and the talk flowed

freely. "I believe," he said, as together they laid away the parchment,

"that in our modern mosaics we should keep to the massive lines of these

earlier models--greater dignity and simplicity in outline and coloring.

It is a mistake to attempt to confound this art with painting."

"It is good, then, for our art, Messer Cavalière, that at San Donato,

our mother church, we workmen of Murano have our Lady in that old

Byzantine type; there is none earlier--nor in all Venice more perfect of

its time--and the setting is of marvelous richness and delicacy."

"It is most interesting," said the Veronese. "Sometimes a question has

come to me, if an artist cannot do the _all_, is he most the artist who

stops below his limitation or beyond it? A question of the earlier hint,

or the later realization."

"Between the mosaic and the painting, perhaps?" Girolamo questioned,

greatly interested.

"Nay, not between the arts, but of that which is possible to each. It is

not a Venetian question. Here all is warmth, color, beauty, joy; here

art is the expression of redundancy--it hath lost its symbolism."

"I know only Venice--the Greek and the Venetian types. But I have heard

that the Michelangelo was in himself a type?"

"He was a prophet," the Veronese answered reverently, "like the great

Florentine--a seer of visions; but at Rome only one understands why he

was born. He was a maker, creating mighty meanings under formlessness.

His great shapes seem each a mystery, wrestling with a message."

"I had thought there was none who equaled him in form--that he was even

as a sculptor in his painting."

"And it was even so. When I spake of 'formlessness' it was not the less,

but the more; as if, _before the visions had taken mortal shape, he,

being greater than men, saw them as spirits_."

"Never before have I talked with one who knew this master," said

Girolamo, "and it is a feast."

"Nay, I knew him not, for it was not easy to get speech with him, nor a

favor a young man might crave. But once I saw him at his work in San

Pietro, where he wrought most furiously and would take no payment--'for

the good of his soul,' he said, that he might end his life with a pious

work. The night was coming on, and already his candle was fastened to

his hat, that he might lose no time. They had brought him a little bread

and wine for his evening meal, for often he went not home when the mood

of work possessed him; and beside him was a writing of the man

Savonarola--this and the Holy Evangel and the 'Inferno' fashioned his

thoughts. He lived not long after that, for we were still in Rome when

they made for him that great funeral in Santa Croce of Florence, the

rumor of which is dear to artist hearts. He was great and lonely, and he

knew no joy; there hath been none like him."

"And the Tintoretto, at Santa Maria dell' Orto?"

"He, too, is a _furioso_, wonderful in form--and the Michelangelo had

not the coloring of our Jacopo. But the terror of the Tintoretto is very

terrible and very human. The Michelangelo fills a great gloom with

phantasms--they question--and one cannot escape."

"It hath been a morning of delights," Girolamo said with grave courtesy

when the talk had come to an end. "I thank the master for this honor."

"Nay," answered the knightly Veronese; "it is I who have received. And

more, yet more would I ask. I know not if in this chamber of treasures I

may leave the trifle which I came to bring for the bambino?" he added

with hesitation, as he placed upon the table his little inlaid box of

baubles and his bunch of spicy flowers. "Yet it was a promise."

And while Girolamo listened in astonishment he told abruptly the story

of his meeting with Marina and the little one, unconsciously weaving his

thoughts into such a picture as he talked, that Girolamo recognized the

inspiration and was already won to plead his cause.

"This," continued the artist, unfolding a letter, "is the order which

hath been sent me by Fra Paolo Sarpi, of the convent of the Servi, a man

most wise and of high repute in Venice. 'The face,' this learned friar

sayeth, 'must be full of consolation and one to awaken holy thoughts.

And I, being not an artist' (which, because he is greater than so many

of his craft, he hath the grace to acknowledge!), 'have no other word to

say, save that it shall be noble and most spiritual, as befitteth our

religion.' And such a face till now, Messer Girolamo Magagnati--so

beautiful and holy--I have not found. But now it is a vision sent to me

from heaven, quite other than any picture I have ever dreamed, and I

will paint no other for this Madonna of the Servi. I also, like the

Angelo, would give my holiest work for the good of my soul; for the days

of man are numbered, though his blood be warm in his veins like wine! It

would be a pious act for the maiden; and if she will most graciously

consent, the picture shall be an offering for the altar of the chapel of

Consolation in the Servi."

"I will ask her," said the father simply, and felt no surprise at what

he had granted when he was left alone with his thoughts, for Paolo

Cagliari, because of a way he had that men could not resist, already

seemed to him a friend; for the rare mingling of knightly grace and

artistic enthusiasm, overcoming spasmodically the usual assertiveness of

his demeanor, seemed at such moments to mean more than when assumed by

those who were never passionate nor brusque, and his very incongruities

held a fascination for his friends.

V

Marina came often to the studio of the Veronese in San Samuele, while

the _Madonna del Sorriso_ grew slowly into life; it was not that most

perfect life of which the artist had dreamed, for hitherto beauty had

sufficed to him and he had never sought to burden his creations with

questions of the soul; but now the sadness of the unattainable that was

growing within him looked out of the wonderful eyes of the maiden on his

canvas, yet he tossed his brushes aside in discontent. "Her smile

eludeth me, though it hath the candor of a child's," the master cried.

Within his studio his pupils came and went, some earnest to follow in

the footsteps of the master, absorbed in their tasks; others, golden

youths, painting a little because Art was beautiful--not overcoming.

In the inner chamber, which was the artist's sanctum, were only the

Veronese and his brother Benedetto at work; his brother, who was

architect and sculptor too, was putting in the background of an

elaborate palace in a fine Venetian group upon which Paolo worked when

not occupied with his Madonna; and a favorite pupil, the young nobleman

Marcantonio Giustiniani, was in attendance upon the master. The lovely

girlish face, of a spiritual type rare in Venice, seemed to the young

patrician more beautiful than that of any of the noble, smiling ladies

who were waiting to be won by him, and in those hours of blissful

service he, too, made a study--crude and inartistic.

"Thy hand hath yet to learn its cunning," the master said, as in much

confusion, one morning when they were quite alone, his pupil revealed

his roughly executed head; "yet thou hast painted the soul! The heart

hath done it, Signorino mio, for thou art not yet an artist. There is no

other lady for Marcantonio Giustiniani; yet she comes not of a noble

house."

"She makes it noble!" cried the young fellow, flushing hotly, "for she

is like her face."

"Ay, for me and thee she is noble," said the Veronese compassionately,

for he loved the boy. "But for the noble Senator, thy father--of the

Council of the Ten--he will not find this maiden's name in the 'Libro

d'Oro.' I am sorry for thee."

"Master!" cried Marcantonio imploringly, "art thou with me?"

"Verily, but I can do naught for thee."

"Listen, then! One day the nobles shall find that name inscribed in the

'Libro d'Oro'; it shall be there, for mine shall suffice."

The master answered nothing, but bending over the sketch which his pupil

had made he caressed it, here and there, with loving touches of his

magic brush, while the young nobleman poured forth his vehement speech,

forgetting to watch the master's fingers.

"Once in the annals of the Republic there is noted such a marriage; a

daughter of Murano, of the house of Beroviero--nay, not so beautiful as

Marina--wedded with one of our noblest names; and the children, by

decree of the Senate, were written every one in the 'Libro d'Oro.'"

"_This_ have I done for thee!" said the master, moving away from the

sketch and disclosing it to the young fellow, who gazed at it in silent

amazement. "Only the eyes have I not touched," the Veronese explained;

"for thou hast made them more soulful than even unto me they seemed, and

thus have I read thy secret."

"Maestro mio!" cried Marcantonio at length, in ecstasy; "none among us

may learn the marvel of thine art!"

"I have but touched thy sketch with the power that mine art could give,"

the master answered, well pleased. "Yet it is thou who hast read the

secret of the face that was not revealed to me."

"We were speaking of the 'Libro d'Oro,'" the young patrician interrupted

eagerly.

"It may be so, I know not," the Veronese answered indifferently, for he

himself was not written in that noble chronicle. "My art deals little

with these cumbrous records of the Republic."

"Thou art wrong to scorn them, caro maestro, for in them is chronicled

the glory of Venice."

"The saying doeth honor--from a pupil to his master!" the artist burst

forth with his quick, uncontrollable temper. "The Tablets of Stone were

reserved for the highest dignity of the Law; and in that Sala dei Capi,

where at this moment sits Giustinian Giustiniani--one of the chosen

three of the Council of the Ten--my name is written largely with mine

own hand, as artists write their names, _above_ the heads of rulers for

all coming time to see! The _Avvogadori_ do not keep my 'Libro d'Oro';

the entrance to it is by divine right!"

He flung his brushes fiercely aside, in one of those moods that seemed

all unwarranted in comparison with the slightness of the

provocation--moods that alternated with the lovable, genial, generous

impulses of an artist soul, overwhelming in energy and great in

friendship; yet jealous, to a degree a lesser nature could scarcely

pardon, of anything that seemed to touch upon his province as an artist

and the claims of art to highest honor.

* * * * *

The day was drawing near when Marcantonio Giustiniani, the only son of

Giustinian Giustiniani, a noble of the Senate and of the Council of the

Ten, should present himself before the _Avvocato del Comun_ to claim

admission to the Great Council as a noble, born in lawful wedlock, of

noble parents, inscribed in the Golden Book.

To the young fellow himself this twenty-fifth anniversary of his birth,

when, by Venetian law, the ceremony must take place, approached with

needlessly rapid footsteps; he was not yet ready for the duties it would

bring, so much more did he incline to that measure of boyish freedom

which had thus far been his, so unwilling was he to renounce his longing

for some form of art life--the impulse to which fretted him almost

unbearably, in view of the political career which opened mercilessly

before him, threatening every dearer project.

Not that he felt himself born to be an artist--Paolo Cagliari laughed at

his studies while he encouraged his coming to the studio, telling him

that for one who had not chosen Art for his mistress the drawings were

"well enough"; and from the Veronese the words were consoling. His

mother had been afraid of this taste for art, which, for a short time,

had exercised such sway over his fancy, stimulated by his _culte_ for

the beautiful, that he had plead with her to win his father's consent

for an art life. Yet he had himself acquiesced in her quiet but

inflexible showing of the futility of attempting such an overturning of

Giustiniani traditions, though he still went with dangerous frequency to

the studio of the Veronese, to which she had procured him entrance upon

his promise that he would not seriously consider that impossible

possibility at which he had hinted. There had been mention of Pordenone

and of Aretino, with a certain cool scorn that was worse than censure,

and as convincing, there was the Titian, than whom, in art and

sumptuousness, one could not be greater; but, even for him, Cavalière of

France, there was no place in the Consiglio!

Not that Marcantonio would voluntarily have relinquished his hereditary

place in the state, his possible part in its glory--the dream which came

to all young noblemen of the portrait in that splendid Sala di Consiglio

of his own face grown venerable, wearing the ermine and the ducal

coronet, in token of that supremacy so dear to each Venetian heart, but

jealously held by every noble of the Republic within confines which

lessened with each succession, until the crown was assumed in trembling

and ignominious restriction--if with external pomp and honor that might

befit a king.

But he wanted time; he wanted liberty to choose his own life or enjoy

his restlessness, and he realized the more keenly, from the sense of

power that was so chafed in the curbing, that he was too young to be

forced into such ruthless service; and he could not but acquiesce the

less fervently because it was not open to him to _give_ himself, since

the claim of Venice was absolute and resistance was a crime.

But with quite other sentiments the preparations for the fête were

progressing in that ancient family of Giustiniani, where the day was

awaited with an impatience which increased the fervor and the pomp of

preparation, but was not otherwise manifested in any sign of undignified

eagerness. No house in Venice had held this right for more generations;

no house was princelier in its bearing, nor more superbly republican! No

member of that Supreme Council was more esteemed than the stern

Giustinian, who had been again and again elected to the most important

missions of the state; no _donna nobile_ of all the Venetians was

prouder, more highly born, more beautiful, nor more coldly gracious than

the mother of Marcantonio.

In such an environment there was but one career possible for the only

son of the house, who had been carefully trained, according to the

traditions that made culture for the young Venetian of those days; he

had even attended courses of those philosophical conferences which had

become the fashion since the sittings of the famous Council of Trent,

and which had been conducted in various convents by distinguished

professors from Padua and Bologna, and even by some of the learned men

of Rome; it was a species of amusement creditable for a young

nobleman--it would quicken the reasoning powers and give more subtlety

in debate, when government problems should later absorb his gifts.

But if, like other golden youth of his time, he was like a Greek in

possession of their liquid tongue and in a mastery of oratory that

filled the soul of Giustinian Giustiniani with satisfaction, the young

patrician himself had acquired this learning, less with a thought of one

day shining in the Senate than because it pleased him as a touch of

finish. He was, in some sort, a reaction from the proud and typical

Venetian so ably represented by the elder Giustinian, who claimed

unchallenged descent from the Emperor Justinian, upheld by the

traditions of that long line of ancestry and by the memory of many

honorable offices most honorably discharged by numerous members of his

house. Marcantonio, on the contrary, was handsome, winning,

pleasure-loving--after an innocent fashion, which brought some sneers

from his compeers, the gay "company of the hose;" but he thought life

not made for pain, nor ugliness, nor hardness of any sort; he was bred

to luxury, yet his intellectual inheritance made learning easy for him;

he was many sided and vacillating, an exquisite in taste and the science

of trifles. His affectionate nature, repressed and chilled, refused

absolute subjection to that purpose which the elder Giustinian held

relentlessly before him; he wished to live for himself a little, and not

wholly for Venice. He was an embodiment of that late time of Venetian

culture when its magnificence, its artistic and intellectual development

had touched their height, and the hint of decadence shadowed its

splendor with a pathos unguessed except by the thoughtful few.

He had dabbled a little in costly manuscripts--a taste for an exquisite

in those days, when Venice was the envy of the world for the marvels of

her press; and already he possessed a volume or two, for his cabinet,

from the atelier of Aldus Manutius--that famous edition of Aristotle,

the first ever printed in Greek, with the Aldine mark of anchor and

dolphin on the title-page. But a volume more precious still, with its

dainty finish and piquant history, conferred distinction, it was said,

among the literati, upon its youthful owner; this was no less a treasure

than that first copy of "Le Cose Volgare di Messer Francesco Petrarca,"

most exquisitely printed in type modeled after the poet's own elegant

handwriting, and the volume had been superintended by many learned

heads,--awaited with impatience, as a triumph for its makers,--and

thought a thing rare enough to be offered, like a jewel, to the learned

and illustrious lady, Isabella of Mantua. Marcantonio was no pedant, but

these treasures simply had their place in the richly painted cabinet,

beside many other bits of exquisite workmanship, because rare things in

every art were beautiful to our dilettante, and possessions of all kinds

came to him easily.

There lay the golden necklace presented by Henry III. of France to a

Giustinian who had been one of the young nobles set apart for the

household of the king, when on his visit to Venice; and beside it a

curious volume of songs, all in honor of France and of the king,

entitled "Il Magno Enrico III., difensore di Santa Chiesa, di Francia è

di Polonia Re christianissimo." Here was also preserved that still more

curious allegorical drama which had been given at the grand fête at the

Ducal Palace in honor of this over-adulated monarch. It was natural that

some of these literary curiosities, of which the visit of Henry III. had

been prolific, should have remained in possession of the masters of the

palace which had been tendered for his residence. The volume, bound in

azure velvet, embroidered with golden fleurs-de-lis and seeded with

pearls, lay open at the page "Chapter in which the Most Holy Catholic

Religion is introduced conversing with the most Christian, most powerful

and most holy Henry III., the most glorious King of France and Poland."

The noble lady Laura Giustiniani, who looked with pride upon these

costly trifles of the cabinet of Marcantonio, was a Venetian in every

throb of her patrician veins--first a patriot and then a mother--she

earnestly coveted for her son that he should render vast services to the

state, receive in his early years the Patriarch's blessing upon his

alliance with some ancient Venetian house, and close his noble career

with the Doge's coronet. She admitted reluctantly to herself, although

she would never have confessed it openly, that in these latter days of

the Republic the ermine was not likely to be offered to one so stern and

masterful as her husband; while she also knew, and the knowledge held

its compensation, that Giustinian Giustiniani could not be spared from

the Councils of his government. She knew her history well, and she

realized that the days of the Michieli and Orseoli were over, and that

the supreme honor was no longer for the strong but for the pliant; this

had made her the more willing that her son should partake of the facile

and gracious mood of this time of Renaissance, and had led her to shape

his education more in consonance with his natural tastes than with her

own views of fitness for a Venetian noble. She knew that this was

weakness for a Giustinian; but it was hard to see the noble line pass

down through the centuries without that coveted sign of honor--the

minikin Lion of San Marco, the mighty symbol--carved upon their palaces.

Meanwhile, for a suitable alliance there were already schemes on foot,

and mothers of noble young Venetian ladies paid frequent court to the

stately Lady Laura in her palace on the Canal Grande; and fathers, in

the Senate, in moments of unbending, discussed the probability of the

immediate rise of the young Giustinian upon his admission to the

Consiglio--he was competent and not positive, gracious and no fool, he

could be made to see the wisdom of other people's opinions, which, with

the elder Giustinian, was unheard of!

Among the maidens who should grace the banquet to be given on

Marcantonio's birthnight, more than one had sat for hours in some high

balcony of her palace, preparing for Venetian belle-ship with a patience

worthy of a better cause--her long locks, mysteriously treated,

streaming over the broad brim of the great, crownless hat which

protected her fair face, while the sun bestowed its last touch of beauty

in bleaching the dark tresses to that rich, red, burnished gold which

the Venetians prized.

The young patrician was already esteemed a connoisseur in the most

exquisite industries of Venice, and the Lady Laura had confided to her

son the ordering of a set of goblets of _girasole_ for the banquet--a

new opalescent glass, with iridescent borderings, such as had never yet

been seen at any Venetian fête.

Thus the gondola of the Giustiniani floated for long hours before the

famous establishment of Girolamo Magagnati, so delicate and intricate

was the work that had been ordered from him; and the gondoliers,

meanwhile, in their splendid liveries, held converse with other

gondoliers in lazily drifting barks, with hatchments of other noble

houses embroidered on their sleeves; and their tones were strident and

quarrelsome, or self-complacent and patronizing, as the quality of the

silken sashes which displayed the color of their house was heavier or

poorer than their own.

One boasts of the lantern, all of brass, "Wrought by Messer Alessandro

Leopardi--'come no c'è altro!'--there is no other like it--which he, the

favored gondolier, has been burnishing for the banquet of the Dandolo,

to which he shall that night convey the noble lady of the Giustiniani!"

"It is less beautiful," retorts a gondolier of the house of Mocenigo,

the fringes of his sash of rose sweeping the bridge of his gondola as it

moves forward, slightly tilting on its side, with a quick, disdainful

motion called forth by proper Mocenigo pride--so pliant are these barks

of Venice to the moods of the gondolier. "It is less beautiful--by the

Holy Madonna of San Castello!--than the lantern of wrought iron with the

jewels of _rubino_ that Messer Girolamo Magagnati makes this day, by

order of the Eccellentissimo Andrea Mocenigo, with the jewels of the

fine glass of Murano that shall be like roses flashing in the night!"

And he has sworn so great an oath, by that most ancient Madonna of

Castello, and so well has he vindicated the honor and splendor of his

house in thus early appropriating this recent glory of Venetian

workmanship in its own family emblem, that there is no present need of

distance between him and his rival, and resting upon his oar, as he

stands with a proud and graceful bearing of victory, he allows the

gondola to glide back into position with the lapping of the water.

For the gondoliers of the house of Giustiniani are unfolding, with

quick, ringing, jubilant voices, vast confidential tales of the fêtes

that are in preparation for the marriage of the young noble of the

Council, their master, of which this banquet is only the precursor. "For

of course there will be a _sposalizia_! Santa Maria! there is no room on

the Canal Grande for the gondolas that come to the palazzo--from every

_casa_ in the 'Libro d'Oro'--to win the favor of the donna nobile of the

Giustiniani, for some bella donzella who shall be chosen for their young

master--who is like a prince, and will end one day in being Doge! Santa

Maria di Castello, he does not wait that day to scatter his golden

coins!"

If that question of "sposalizia" is not imminent there is truth enough

for any Venetian conscience in the story of the ranks of princely

gondolas at the bend of the Canal Grande, on the days when the donna

nobile of the Giustiniani gives welcome to her guests--princely gondolas

they are, with _felzes_ of brocaded and embroidered stuffs, the

framework inlaid with ivory and mother of pearl, with metal fittings

curiously wrought, and all that bravery of pomp so dear to the Venetian

heart, which calls forth surly decrees from those stern Signori of the

Council--the much unloved "Provveditori alle Pompe," the sumptuary

officers of this superb Republic.

Meanwhile, in this narrow water-street, sunk a few feet below the paved

foot path that stretches to the doors of the dwellings, there are sudden

grumbling movements among the retainers of the patrician families, as

they steer their gorgeous gondolas from side to side, to avoid

humiliating contact with that slow procession of barges bringing produce

from the island gardens of Mazzorbo, there are other barges laden with

great, white wooden tubs of water from Fusina, fresh and very needful to

these cities of the sea, and the dark hulks of barks curiously entangled

with nets and masts and unwieldy tackle of sailor and fisher, show

flashes of brilliant color as the water plays through the netted baskets

swinging low against their sides, while the sunlight glances back from

the gold and silver glory of the scales of living fish, crowded and

palpitating within their meshes.

The fisherfolk who guide these barks are gray and gnomelike in their

coloring, tanned by sky and sea and ceaseless atmospheres of fish, into

a neutral tint,--less vivid in hues of skin and hair, with eyes less

brilliant, with less vivacity and charm of bearing than the gay

Venetians,--but they are the descendants of those island tribes from

which the commerce and greatness of Venice issued; there is almost a

show of stateliness in the aggravating slowness with which their heavily

freighted barks proceed, serenely occupying the best of the narrow

waterway. They are not envious of the hangers-on of those palaces of the

nobles, these free fisherfolk of the islands; they have only haughty

stares for the servile set of gondoliers in lacings of gold and

scarlet--who are not nobles nor fishers, nor people of the soil--and

they pass them silently, with much ostentation of taking all the

gondoliers of Murano into the friendliness of their jests and curses, as

the barges touch and clash with some swiftly gliding gondolier of their

own rank, who wears no bravery or armorial bearings.

Their homes--long, low, white-washed cottages--spread along the main

channel and reach in lessening, dotted lines far off into the sea, where

other islands lie in friendly nearness; but the Bridge, with the Lions

of St. Mark on archivolt and parapet--the invariable official signet of

Venetian dominion--stretches between that simpler quarter and this,

which holds the great houses of Murano, whose masters, a sort of _petite

noblesse_, have made their names illustrious by marvelous inventions in

that exquisite industry in which Venice has no rival.