Venice was flooded with moonlight. The long line of palaces down the
Canal Grande shone back from the breast of the water, starred with
lights, repeated again and again in the rippling surface.
A ceaseless melody filled the air, braided of sounds familiar only to
this magic city--echoes of laughter from balconies high in air, silvery
tintinnabulations falling like drippings of water from speeding oars,
franker bursts of merriment from the open windows of the palaces, low
murmured tones of lovers in content from gliding gondolas, hoarse shouts
of quick imperious orders from gondoliers to offending gondoliers, as
they passed--apostrophes to liquid names of guardian saints, too
melodious for denunciations, hurled back with triple expletives and
forgotten the next moment in friendly parsiflage; here and there a
strain of ordered music, in serenade, from a group of friendly gondolas
swaying only with the tranquil movement of the water; or the mysterious
tone of a violin, uttering a soul prayer meant for some single listener,
which yet steals tremblingly forth upon the night air--more passionate,
more beautiful and true than that other human voice which breaks the
quiet of a neighboring calle with some monotonous love song of the
people.
And far away, perhaps, in the quainter squares of the more primitive
island villages--in Burano or Chioggia--before the Duomo, some reader
lies at full length in the brilliant moonlight under the banner of San
Marco, his "Boccaccio" open before him, repeating in a half-chant,
monotonous and droning, some favorite tale from the well-worn pages to
listeners who pause in groups in their evening stroll and linger until
another story is begun; this time it is some strophe from the
"Gerusalemme," to which a passing gondolier may chant the answering
strain--for this is the very poem of the people, echoing familiarly from
lip to lip, and tales from the Tasso are not seldom wrought into the
ebony carvings of their barks. Meanwhile the younger men and maidens, on
a neighboring fondamenta, keep step to the music of some strolling
player who lives, content, on the trifling harvest of these moonlight
festivities.
In the great Piazza of San Marco, with its hundreds of lights and its
hurrying throng, life is gayer than in the day. Crowds come and go under
the arcades, loiter at the tables closely set before the brilliant
cafes, or stroll with laughter and snatches of song and free Venetian
banter where there is less restraint, up and down the broad space of the
Piazza, between the colonnade and the burnished Eastern magnificence of
San Marco, beyond the reach of the yellow lamp flames--their laughing
faces grotesque and weird in the white glare of the moon. But under the
shadow of the Broglio and those great columns of the Ducal Palace there
are only slow-moving figures here and there, wrapped in cloaks, and dark
under the low, unlighted arches, talking in undertones which even the
watchful Lion--so near, so cunning--does not always overhear.
But in the calles, half in moonlight and half in shadow, night wears a
more poetic air of mystery and quiet; and if a fear but come in passing
some dread spot of tragic memory, a gentle Virgin at every turning, with
a dingy, flickering flame beneath her image, is waiting to grant her
grace--for is not Venice the Virgin City? And on the splendid palaces in
the broad canals the watching Madonna stands glorified in exquisite
sculpture and cunningest blendings of color,--ofttimes a crown of light
above her, or rays of stars, symbolic, beneath her feet,--casting her
benediction far out on the water, which, ever in motion, repeats it in
shimmering, widening circles--all-embracing--in which the stars of
heaven shine, tangled and confused with these stars of a paradise in
which earth has so large a part.
Yet in the glory and charm of this Venetian night how should there be
space for sorrow or thought of care, or cause for the tears which
brimmed the eyes of the Lady Marina, as she sat in her sculptured
balcony at the bend of the Canal Grande, watching for the coming of
Marcantonio, who lingered late at the Senate when every moment was
precious to her!
Ever since her husband had left her she had sat with her little one
gathered convulsively in her arms, showering upon him a tenderness so
passionate and so unlike herself in its uncontrolled expression, that
the child, wondering and afraid, was but half-beguiled by the rare treat
of the music and the lights of the Canal Grande, and clamored for his
nurse.
And now he was gone, with a kiss upon his sweet, round baby-mouth that
was like a benediction and a dirge in which a whole heart of wild mother
love sobbed itself out in renunciation--but to him it was only strange.
And she herself had hushed the grieving quiver of his lip, and quickly
filled his dimpled hands with flowers to win the farewell caress of that
dancing smile which irradiated his face like an April sunbeam, parting
the pink lips over a vision of pearly infant teeth.
Below, in the chapel, her maidens were decking it as for a festa with
vines and blossoms which she and Marco had brought that day--that
heavenly day--from the beautiful island of Sant' Elenà, wandering alone,
like rustic lovers, over the luxuriant flower-starred meadows and
through the cloistered gardens of its ancient convent, lingering awhile
in the chapel of the Giustiniani, while he rehearsed the deeds of those
of his own name who slept there so tranquilly under their marble
effigies--primate, ambassadors, statesmen, and generals; ay, and more
than these--lovers, mothers, and little ones!
And now, while she sat alone in this holy moonlight, the voices of her
maidens came in sounds of merriment through the fretted stonework of the
great window, and a sweet odor of altar candles and incense mingled with
the breath of the blossoms that was wafted up to her; for to-morrow, for
the first time since her illness, there would be matins in the chapel
of the palazzo, and Marcantonio had assured her that the new father
confessor was much like Fra Francesco--coming, also, from the convent of
the Servi, that he might seem nearer to her who had so loved the gentle
confessor.
Ay, she had loved him, with a holy reverence, for his goodness and
gentleness and faith; for his inflexible grasp of duty, according to his
views of right; for his teachings, which she could understand and which
she believed the Holy Mother had taught him--for his self-denial and
suffering.
And now, for a few moments, she forgot herself--forgot to watch for
Marco, her thoughts busied with the sad tale of Fra Francesco, which
Piero, always _in viaggio_ for business of the Senate, had told her but
a few days before--news that had reached him from the frontier. The
gentle confessor had indeed completed his pilgrimage, barefooted, to
Rome, but had gained no favor with the Holy Father; having at first been
welcomed as a deserter from the enemy's camp, flattered, and plied with
questions, to which Fra Francesco gave no answers--wishing no harm to
Venice nor to any who sat in the councils of the Republic. Whereupon his
lodgings had been changed and all communications with the brothers of
the Servite chapel in Rome had been forbidden. And again, and more than
once, he had been brought forth to be questioned; and again there had
been nothing told of that which they sought, for they asked him of his
friends, and his heart was true. But it was told that he had used
strange words. "Each man is answerable to his own soul and to God for
that which he believeth. He answereth not for the faith of another
man--nor shall he bring danger upon his friend--who hath also his
conscience and God for judge of his faith and actions."
"But what of Fra Paolo?" he had been asked; "How doth he defend himself
for leading thus the cause of Venice against Rome?"
"Am I my brother's keeper?" the gentle Fra Francesco had answered; and
had said no more.
"Thou shalt at least show us how one may obtain speech with him, for the
furtherance of his soul's salvation--apart from the vigilance of the
Senate, and without suspicion in the convent that the message cometh
from Rome, else were it not received in that unholy city."
And in this also Fra Francesco was obdurate. And then, for disobedience
to authority, acknowledged lawful by his own submission, came
prison--wherein he languished, always obdurate,--and death,--perhaps
from discontent or homesickness, one knows not; or from failure of his
plans; or--there was a question of torture, but one knows not if it were
true.
"No, no, it was not true!" Marina had exclaimed, quivering, when Piero
had told her the story. "It is wicked to say these things--and they are
not true!"
But now, alone--apart from all the brightness about her, from every hope
of happiness except those few brief hours with Marco--she did not know
if it might not be true; her heart was too sad to deny any pain that had
been or that might be; but Fra Francesco's sad and gentle eyes seemed to
smile upon her through whatever distance might be between them--of
this, or of any other world--without reproach for those who had bidden
him suffer, and charging her to keep her faith.
"If it be true," she said, "the end of pain is reached, and he hath won
his happiness.--Why cometh not my Marco?"
A gondola of the Nicolotti detached itself from a group of serenaders
just above the palace, was caught for a few moments among the _pali_
before the Ca' Giustiniani, and then floated leisurely down toward the
Piazzetta. She noted it idly while she sat waiting for Marco, for in the
gondola there was a graceful figure, closely wrapped, clasping her
mantle yet more closely with a hand that was white and slender enough
for one of the nobility; yet the gondolier wore the black sash of the
Nicolotti with the great hat of a bravo shading his face. "It is some
intrigue," she said, almost unconsciously, in the midst of her sad
dreaming.
"Oh, Marco, thou art come! It hath been long without thee."
"The Senate is but just dismissed," he answered, smiling fondly at the
eagerness which gave to her pale face a passing flush of health. "But
why is the Lady Beata not with thee?" he questioned abruptly.
"She is in the chapel, making it fair with flowers."
"Thou knowest it, Marina?"
"She came to me with a question but a little while ago, when Marconino
was with me--and I wished to be alone. Marco, he was so beautiful! And
the day has been a dream; I wished for no one but for thee alone."
He held her hand in a mute caress, but with preoccupation, while his
eyes wandered back to the Piazzetta searchingly.
"It is strange," he muttered to himself, still watching from the end of
the balcony. "It was an echo of the Lady Beata's voice that startled me,
crossing the Piazzetta saying two words only--'In Padua.'"
Then rousing himself, he turned brightly to his wife. "Carina, I have
news for thee, for the time hath been momentous for us in Venice. Di
Gioiosa hath gone forward, these many days, with terms from Venice; and
soon, it is thought, there will be peace."
_Terms_ from Venice to Rome!--but the words did not move her from her
resolve to let no shadow of their difference mar the beauty of this
night.
She looked at him wearily. "It is ever the same," she said, "through
this long, dreary year--ever the same! Let us forget it all for this one
night. Let us talk together of our Marconino!"
And as if there had been no questions--no interdict--no pain--while the
night sounds died into silence and the moon withdrew her glamor and left
them alone to the solemn mystery of the starlight, they sat and talked
together of love and their little one and their hopes for him, and of
things that lie too deep for utterance--save by one to one--far into
that beautiful Venetian night, with the odor of flowers and incense
blown up to them on the breath of the sea.