VIII

While the little Zuane was failing, Marcantonio, seeing Marina but

seldom, solaced himself in preparing a royal gift to offer to his mother

on the occasion of his own birthday fête. The idea had come to him that

night after the Veronese had touched his own faulty sketch into such

rounded life; besides, he had thought but one beautiful thought since he

had, as it were, been unconsciously brought to confession by that scene

in the studio. And Paolo Cagliari had been most kind in accepting his

commission with an enthusiasm which promised wonderful results. Great as

was his fame in those days,--and the Veronese never lived beyond his

fame,--still, as in his earlier years, he was eager for any new method

of proving the genius in which his own faith was as unbounded as his

capacity to achieve was vigorous and tireless. And the young noble's

unique fancy for a superb goblet of crystal _da Beroviero_, with a

miniature of Marina of Murano enlaced in exquisite gold borders and set

round with costly pearls--a trifle fit to offer to a princess--not only

pleased the artist's well-known taste for luxury, but seemed to him an

object worthy of his skill. In the kindness of his heart he would make

the lovely face so winning that the great lady should yield to the

prayer that had prompted the gift.

Among all the elaborate gift-pieces that had come from the workshops of

Murano, but one had as yet approached this, and it had been sent with

the homage of the Senate, by a retiring ambassador of "His Most

Christian Majesty," to the Queen of France, and it bore, from Titian's

hand, the portrait of her royal husband. This goblet, then, must surpass

that one in magnificence, for it was the Veronese's opportunity; and in

his soul, genial as it was, some sense of rivalry, born of Titian's

assumption of the highest place in Venetian art, would last forever, in

spite of the great master's manifest affection. The suggestion of the

pearls--an added touch--was indeed due to Paolo Cagliari's over-weening

sumptuousness, and the eager young lover was scarcely more anxious for

the completion of this gem, upon which his hope depended, than was the

great artist who already had all Venice at his feet.

"I shall need no sitting," the Veronese had said, when they were

planning for the work. "My picture is nearly completed, and it will

suffice. Nay, ask her not, my Marco; she is a devote--she will not

understand."

Marcantonio flushed like a boy. He knew it would be difficult to obtain

her consent, and for that very reason he must win it, for he was a true

knight.

"How shall I win my lady's favor," he cried hotly, "if I peril it by

lack of chivalry! There is no prouder maiden among the donne nobile on

the Canal Grande."

"_Altro! Altro_!" said the master quietly. "She also shall look down

from the balconies in the palazzo Giustiniani."

But when the young patrician told her glowingly of his wish to give his

mother, on his great day, the most beautiful gift in all the world, it

was hard to make her yield.

"It is not fitting," she answered quite simply.

"Yes, yes, Marina--since I love thee!"

"Ah, no; it is only sad." Her eyes filled with tears and she moved away,

so that he could not touch her hand.

"Trust me, Marina! The Veronese knows the world, and he says it is well.

It is this that shall win the consent of my mother, and she will conquer

my father. And in the Gran' Consiglio----"

He turned his eyes suddenly away from Marina lest she should trace the

faintest flicker of a doubt within them, as the vision rose before him

of that imperious body, so relentless in its decrees, so tenacious in

its traditions, so positive in its autocracy; but the threatened

invincibility of this force only nerved him to a resistance as

invincible, and he turned back to her with a flashing face, almost

before she had noticed the interruption.

"There also--in the Consiglio--it shall be arranged, and all will be

well."

And where two were ready for the end that should be gained the pleading

was not over-long, though the thought was very strange for this simple

maiden of Murano; so the precious painting was finished and in the hands

of the decorators. And meanwhile, during those days when Marina had been

watching the flickering of the little Zuane's pale flame of life and

there had been no spare moments for Marcantonio, he had tried to absorb

himself, as far as possible, in the preparation of this gift--since she

would not let him go to her--and he had come to regard it as the symbol

of success; for failure was never for an instant contemplated in his

vision of the future. There were pearls to be selected, one by one, in

visits innumerable to the Fondaco dei Turchi, where the finest of such

treasures were not secured at a first asking, and in these his mother

was a connoisseur; but there were many more anxious visits to Murano, to

be assured that no step in the fashioning of his gift was endangering

its perfection.

But even for the most impatient, time may not tarry indefinitely, and

the lagging moments had at last brought round that festa of San Marco

which meant so much for Venice, with its splendid pageants for the

Church, its festivities for the people, its fluttering of doves in the

Piazza, and of timid, eager maiden hearts, waiting in a sort of shy

assurance for that earliest Venetian love-token, the _boccolo_--the

rosebud which breathed the secret of many a young Venetian lover to his

_inamorata_ under those April skies, on the festa of this patron saint

of Venice.

And the next morning the stately lady of the Giustiniani stood quite

alone on the balcony of the great palace at the bend of the Canal

Grande, leaning upon her gold-embroidered cushions to watch the gondola

that was just landing at the step of the Piazzetta; the restless

movements of her tapering jeweled fingers were the only sign of an

emotion she rarely betrayed, though doubtless, under the faultless

dignity of her bearing, there were often currents of feeling and

thwartings hard to be endured.

She was thinking of her boy with a great and sudden tenderness, now that

the moment had come in which she would be less to him and the world of

men must be more, as from the distance she saw the gondola touch the

landing and watched him until he passed out of sight, after pausing with

his father for a moment before the great columns of San Marco and San

Teodoro, looking up perhaps with a keener sense of the dread scenes they

had witnessed than had ever before possessed him, though the sunshine

streamed brilliantly over the water and life seemed full of promise for

this only son of the Ca' Giustiniani, on his way to take the oath of

"Silence and Allegiance to the Republic," as a "_Nobile di Gran'

Consiglio_."

Marcantonio had entered the gondola gaily, with a full, pleasurable

sense of the beauty of life, and well content with that portion which

had fallen to his lot; for he was easily affected, and the air of the

palace was full of the excitement of his fête. The only forebodings that

shadowed his sunshine were connected with Marina and the gift which he

should offer to his mother upon his return from the Ducal Palace. But

the day was one to banish every hint of failure, making him more

conscious of his power than he had ever been before, and he felt himself

floating toward attainment--whatever the difficulties might be. But with

his first step upon the Piazzetta he forgot the glory of the sunshine

flashing over the blue waters, and a sudden sense of fate possessed him,

as his father made an almost imperceptible pause in his grave progress

toward the Ducal Palace, and with the slightest possible movement of

his hand seemed to direct his son's attention to the great granite

columns which bore the emblems of the patron saints of Venice.

A hundred times, in crossing the Piazzetta, Marcantonio had been vaguely

aware of them as appropriate emblems of barbaric force and splendor and

allegoric Christian allegiance; but suddenly they stood to him for

historic records--the echoes of dread deeds avenged there rolled forth

from the space between the columns, and the jeweled eyes of the terrible

winged Lion flashed defiance upon any who questioned, in the remotest

way, the will or the act of the Republic. He glanced toward the elder

man, some deprecatory comment rising to his lips as he strove to

dissipate the symbolic mood which was surely possessing him, for he felt

himself uncomfortably conscious of the meaning wrought into the very

stones about him, and to-day this over-mastering assertion of

Venice--always Venice dominant--was oppressive.

But his father, apparently unaware of Marcantonio's turbulent

sensations, wore his usual reserved and dignified mien; even the motion

he had seemed to make before the columns in the Piazzetta was probably

only due to Marcantonio's imagination, and the young fellow's light

rejoinder passed unuttered, intensifying his discomfort. He realized

that he was not searching for this symbolism with a poet's appreciation,

nor as an archaeologist delighting in curios, but as a son of the

Republic--to gather her history and her purpose, to make himself one

with her, to put himself under her yoke--and in his heart he rebelled.

Yet it was he, this time, who paused, undeniably, before the great

window on the Piazzetta. The sun streamed in broad flashes of light over

the soft rose-tinted walls of the palazzo and over the splendid balcony

from which the Doge was wont to view the processions and fêtes of the

Republic; the richly sculptured decorations detached themselves at once

in allegory, the figures all leading up to Venice enthroned, holding out

to the world her proud motto, "Fortis, justa, trono furias, mare sub

pede pono." (Strong, just, I put the furies beneath my throne and the

sea beneath my foot.) He walked on under a spell, feeling that the coils

were tightening around him; he was a noble, but not free; yet he would

not have surrendered his opportunities for the freer life of the people

who had no part in the Consiglio.

He quickened his pace that the moment of irresolution might be the

sooner over.

"Wait!" his father commanded, as Marcantonio would have entered the

palace gate; "haste ill befits thy grave and dignified purpose. Before

thou enterest the Consiglio I would have thee reverently mark how, at

the palace gate, Justice sits enthroned on high, between the Lions of

St. Mark, while Courage, Prudence, Hope, and Charity wait upon her."

"And below," answered Marcantonio, because he could think of nothing

else to say, and because he knew every angle and carving of the palace

from the aesthetic point of view better than his father did; "below is

the Doge Foscari, kneeling very reverently to our noble Lion."

His father slowly scanned him with his inscrutable gaze, but answered

nothing, and they passed under the magnificent Porta della Carta quite

silently. Under the deep shadow of the gateway the business of the Ducal

Palace was already progressing. Secretaries at their desks were

preparing papers for discussion, while their assistants came and went

with messages from the various departments of the great body of workers

within the palace; they were too absorbed to look up as this Chief of

the Ten passed them, so oblivious were they of anything but their duty

that the stir about them left them serene and undisturbed, not even

penetrating the realm of their consciousness.

"There is no more learned nor devoted body of scribes in the world,"

said Giustinian, with pride; "they have not a thought beyond their

papers, and most wonderfully do they sift and prepare them for the

Council, working often far into the night."

"It is machinery, not life!" Marcantonio exclaimed, hastening beyond the

portal.

The great courtyard, under the wonderful blue of the sky, was aglow with

color; the palace façades, broken into irregular carvings, seemed to

hold the sunshine in their creamy surfaces; the superb wells of green

bronze, magnificently wrought and dimmed as yet by little

weather-staining, offered a treasury of luminous points. Here, in the

early morning, the women of the neighborhood gathered with their

water-jars, but now the court was filled with those who had business in

the Ducal Palace--red-robed senators and members of the Consiglio

talking in knots; a councillor in his violet gown, a group of

merchant-princes in black robes, enriched with costly furs and relieved

by massive gold chains, absorbed in discussion of some practical details

for the better ordering of the _Fondachi_, those storehouses and marts

for foreign trade peculiar to Venice; some grave attorney, more soberly

arrayed, making haste toward the gloom of the secretary's corner; a

sprinkling of friars on ecclesiastical business, of gondoliers in the

varied liveries of the senators waiting their masters' call; here and

there a figure less in keeping with the magnificence around him, too

full of his trouble to be abashed, going to ask for justice at the

Doge's feet--the heart of Venice was pulsing in the court, and under the

arches came the gleam and shimmer of the sea. Up and down the splendid

stairway that opened immediately from the Porta della Carta the

Venetians came and went--nobles old and young; the people, bringing

wrongs to be adjusted, or favors to be granted, or some secret message

for the terrible _Bocca di Leone_; the people, rich and poor, in

continuous tread upon this Giant Stairway, guarded by the gods of war

and of the sea; the winged Lion enthroned above, just over the landing

where the elected noble dons the rank of _Serenissimo_--this

kaleidoscopic epitome of the life of the Republic was bewildering.

"How was it possible that all these people could take part in it without

emotion?" the young patrician asked himself, forgetting that in this

familiar scene the emotion only was new for him.

At the head of the landing on the Giant Stairway the Senator arrested

his son with a gesture of command. "Welcome," he said, "to the

Consiglio, Marcantonio Giustiniani. Thou wilt not forget that thou

comest of a house which has held honors in Church and State. May this

day be memorable for Venice and for thee!"

The influences of their surroundings were strong upon them both; but the

young fellow, in his bounding life, craved something more than this

formal induction into the official life of his sumptuous state--he

longed to feel the human throb beneath it, that the sense of its weight

might be lifted; but he could not find his voice until they had passed

through the loggia and reached the chambers of the _Avvogadori_, where

sat the keepers of the Golden Book.

He stretched out his hand wistfully and touched the elder man.

"Father!" he cried, in a voice not well controlled. And again, more

steadily, though no answer came, "Father, I will not forget!"

The finding of his name among the birth records of the nobles of Venice,

the registration witnessed by the three solemn Avvogadori,--those

officers of the law whose rulings in their department were

inexorable,--the act of confirmation before the Imperial Senate,

whither, in grave procession, they immediately fared, preceded by the

sacred "Libro d'Oro," upon which the oath of allegiance was sworn with

bended knee--the ceremony was soon over, and Marcantonio stood enrolled

among the ruling body of the great Republic.

As they returned through the splendid halls of the palace, Giustinian

paused frequently to exchange a greeting with some old senator who came

forward to welcome the young noble to the grave circle of rulers, and

they were followed with glances of interest as they passed through the

Piazza. For it was whispered in the _Broglio_ that there were

reasons--valid and patriotic, as were all the arguments of Venice--for

the fact that no member of that ancient and loyal house had worn the

highest honor of the state. "_The Ca' Giustiniani was too old, too

wealthy, too influential--too much a part of Venice itself_."

"Like the Orseoli!" said Morosini Morosini, who was a friend of the

Giustiniani, and who, like many another strong-brained Venetian, knew

the taste of unsatisfied longings, yet kept a brave heart for the

records of the Republic. And as he spoke there came to some of them who

knew their annals well a stinging memory of the tale--which was no

legend--of that pathetic group in their island sanctuary--the brothers

who were left, after the death of Otto, the exiled Doge, and of Orso,

the noble bishop-prince, all of the house of Orseoli, who, with their

abbess-sister Felicia, were wounded to the heart because for the crime

of too great love and service the jealous and unrequiting Senate had

banished them forever from the Venice so loyally served--had decreed the

extinction of a family to whom, as Doge and Patriarch, the Republic owed

the wisest and most self-sacrificing of her rulers!

"Nay," said another speaker quickly, a friend to Morosini the

historian--for the Broglio had been known to have a voice as well as

ears, and the subject was a dangerous one, not honorable to

Venice--"Nay, there are no Orseoli. But it is for honor to the

Giustiniani that none hath been chosen for the Serenissimo. He is

strong, grave, and very silent; but most wise in council, most prudent

in resource. He is needed among the _Savii_."

"And the coronation oath hath grown over straight since the days of the

Michieli," responded Morosini. "The Giustinian is not a man for our

_promissione_ which, verily, fitteth ill with the dignity of our

Prince--a man of spirit may well find it hard to assume the beretta

under such restrictions!"