The "Madonna del Sorriso" now lacked only the finishing touches upon the
exquisite central figure, which reached more nearly to the spiritual
ideal than anything that had ever come from the brush of the Veronese,
and already the Servite friars, in their long black robes and white
cowls, had visited the studio with suggestions many and fruitless,
serving only to arouse the artist's indignant protest and increase his
determination to image more perfectly the poetic vision that had been
vouchsafed to him.
"It hath not the beauty of the 'Venezia' in the palazzo," said one.
"And the church is dark," said another, "and the people like the red and
blue of the colors of the true Madonna."
"And a frate, of the Servi--since it hath been painted for the
convent--here--kneeling," suggested another, more timidly; for it was
known that the Veronese was not always docile in these days, since he
had become great.
"Nay, leave me," said the Veronese fiercely; "for this one thing I
_know_, and this will I paint, for the good of my soul, as mine art
shall prompt me and not otherwise. And if it please not him--Fra Paolo,
who hath given the order--I will bestow it elsewhere."
Then a friar habited like the others, who had stood apart and had not
spoken, came and threw back his cowl, dismissing the group with a
gesture. The features thus disclosed were unimportant, apart from the
domelike forehead, which might well belong to the most learned man of
his learned age; but Fra Paolo's face owed its distinction to the rare
impression it gave the beholder of invincible calm and self-mastery,
with a certain mysterious hint of power and a promise of unswervingness.
His gaze held no suggestion of concealment; yet for the deeper thoughts
that move the spirit of man, to those who knew him well his mild blue
eyes remained inscrutable, while his courtesy to all made one forget
that his words were few, and that of himself he had revealed nothing.
"It is well," he said, "to _know_ that we know. Serve faithfully the God
who gave the gift and take no counsel from men who know not."
Then he stood silent for a while before the picture, as if he would
learn its meaning, the artist watching anxiously, not guessing his
thought.
"The pious wish hath made the offering noble," he said at length, in
quiet, measured tones. "And for the face, it is holy--of the beauty that
God permits--yet I pretend no criticism, since Art is not of mine
understanding. I will not take the honor of the gift away from the
giver, though I had meant it otherwise."
After Fra Paolo had left the studio the Veronese was still studying his
picture, pleased and serious, feeling that this man, who was not an
artist, had comprehended the deepest mood in which he had ever
approached his art, when Marina entered.
"Fra Paolo hath found our offering worthy," he said very gravely; and
suddenly remembering that Marina had come for the last time, "Benedetto
hath need of me in the outer studio for some measurements," he said to
Marcantonio, "but I shall soon return. Do thou, meanwhile, show the
_damigella_ thy sketch."
She turned inquiringly toward Marcantonio, who placed it silently before
her. When he gathered courage to look at her she stood flushed and
trembling with clasped hands.
"Marina!" he cried.
She moved suddenly away from him, drawing herself up to her full height,
one hand slightly extended, as if to keep him from coming nearer; but
her face, as she turned it frankly to his, was lighted with a smile the
Veronese would never copy, and her eyes shone through her tears.
"Is it true, Marina?" he questioned radiantly, as he tried to seize her
hand.
But she still moved backward--not as if she were afraid, but as though
she would help him by a motion to understand.
"You have confessed me unawares," she said, "and shown me mine own
secret, which I knew not. It is not to confess nor deny."
"Yet you move away, Marina, as if you would not have it so."
"Because only the renunciation of it is for us," she answered firmly.
"For I am of the people, and you--of the Giustiniani!"
"As you shall also be!" he affirmed, undaunted.
"Marco, at Venice this is not easy!" The tone was a caress which she
made no effort to withhold, yet he dared not try again to touch her
hand; he already felt her strength.
"None the less, because it is not easy it shall be done. Reach me your
hand, Marina, to prove that you trust my vow."
He was not wont to crave favor so humbly, but a new reverence had
entered into his soul.
She hesitated for a moment, then her words came brokenly, yet with
dignity.
"Marco mio, not yet. Because I am of the people, and because the
others--your father and mother, who are of the nobles, and my father,
who is of the people--may not consent, we will make no vows until this
difficulty is conquered."
"They shall not keep us from it."
She shook her head sadly, but came no nearer. "Will Giustinian
Giustiniani ask a daughter of the people? But Girolamo Magagnati is not
less proud."
"I will return now with thee to Murano. Perhaps thy father will befriend
us."
"No, no; without their consent it would be useless. I think I shall not
tell him--it would be only a grief."
"Because it meaneth much to thee?" Marco questioned, luminous and
ungenerous.
She did not answer.
"Thou dost verily make too much of the nobles and the people, Marina; we
are all Venetians."
"Venice is of the sea and of the land--not like other cities; and the
Venetian people is not one, but twain; my father hath often said it.
Some other day, perhaps--I do not know--if it is needful for the
picture, I may come again. Will you tell the maestro? I think he is our
friend, and he will understand."
He would have followed her, but she waved him back.
The day had a melancholy cast in the narrow waterways of Murano, where
clouds of smoke, dense and constant, rose from hundreds of
glass-workers' chimneys, dimming the reflections in the lagoon and
obscuring that wonderful coloring of sky which is nowhere so radiant as
at Venice.
Beyond the bridge, which the ubiquitous Lion guards with menacing,
uplifted paw, beyond the Piazzetta of San Pietro where the acacia trees
are growing, down by the main canal, where the breath comes freer--for
it is broader than the one where the gondolas from the great houses of
Venice gather and float lazily; past the line of low, whitewashed
cottages bordering the narrow foot-path on either side, over the little
wooden bridge that spans the lagoon, fifty feet across from bank to bank
with its ugly traghetto at the farther end, a figure was often seen
wending, with a child held in tender mother fashion, to the campo of the
"Matrice," the mother church of San Donate.
To-day when Marina had returned from Venice she had caught the little
Zuane to her breast with such a passion of tenderness that he looked up
into her face with startled eyes; hers were brimming with smiles and
tears, and with that wise child-knowledge, which is not granted to
earth's learned ones, he put up his tiny hand with a wan smile and
stroked her cheek.
"We will go to San Donato, Zuanino mio," she said caressingly, as he
nestled closer, "and I have _thee_, my bimbo!"
She put the little one gently down as they entered the triangular field
where the grass grew green and long--whiteness of sand gleaming in
irregular patches between the clumps of coarse blades; but to her this
poor turf was something precious associated with that island sanctuary,
restful and strange, and she drew a long breath with a sense of
suppressed pleasure; for sometimes the water, with its shimmering,
uncertain surfaces, wearied her, and unconsciously she craved something
more positive.
The child, with uncertain steps, tottered toward the standard of San
Marco, which floated proudly from the staff that rose from the rude
stone pillar in the center of the campo, where other little ones were
playing; in the corner by the well groups of women, from the cottages
that bounded the campo on one side, were waiting to draw water for the
evening meal, putting down their jugs and going first into the Duomo to
say an ave, that the good Madonna might bless the cup.
A few feet only from the Duomo the campanile drew her vision skyward;
the film of smoke was lighter here, and the sky seemed nearer--bluer.
She turned to her little charge with a beaming face--her moods were so
easily wrought upon by phases of nature, but slowly moved by personal
influences. "See'st thou, bimbo, how it is beautiful here by the Duomo?"
But the little fellow, in one of his sudden spasms of pain, was
striking the air impotently with small, clenched fists, frightening the
children who were gathering around him, joining in his cries.
Her caress and passionate forgiveness were always ready for the paroxysm
in which she was violently pushed away and combated with struggling feet
and hands, before came the period of exhaustion in which he nestled
close, panting from weakness. Then she carried him into the church,
where, kneeling before the Mother of Sorrows, whose outstretched hands
seemed to touch her own in responsive sympathy and gift of calm, she
prayed and wept.
"O Holy Mater Dolorosa! Why need the children suffer?--they are so
tender and so dear!"
She knelt with loving, protecting arms folded close about the little
form now breathing softly and at rest, while an agony of questioning
filled her prayer to that beseeching Mater Dolorosa, who, wrapped in the
clinging folds of her long blue robe, still leaned forward from the
marble background of the apse, compassionate for the suffering ones of
earth, with imploring hands and ceaseless dropping tears, symbol of love
abounding--a symbol, too, of the dignity of those who suffer and are
pure in heart.
This sanctuary was almost a home to the maiden, who came hither to
praise or question, for life was full of enigmas. Here, too, where she
came from duty and deep devotion, with an intricate sensitiveness of
conscience which often rendered her unintelligible to her confessor, she
lingered for delight. For the tracery on the arches--the color, the
wonderful delicacy of the sculpture--were of that time when art was
suggestive and faint, in tint and meaning, like a dream, and its message
was always spiritual.
"It is not Thou, O Christ," she said, "who willest pain; but thy
children, who are not always loving!"
For in her reverie she was comforted by that vision of a legendary time
when the Holy Mother had stood, beautiful, compassionate, and
commanding, in this field of flaming scarlet lilies; when a great
emperor had obeyed her bidding, and San Donato, the Duomo of Murano, had
arisen as a refuge for the sorrowing.