MARIA'S BIRTHDAY
Andrea was so possessed with his idea that he ran every step of the way
home that afternoon, climbed up the narrow dark stairs, two steps at a
time, and burst upon his mother in such excitement that she feared some
misfortune had befallen the children.
"What is it?" she cried, looking up from the stiff porridge she was mixing,
"are you hurt?--and Maria--where is she?"
"Nothing has happened," was the breathless answer; "that is, nothing
dreadful, and Maria is behind with Paolo. It is only--" his dark cheeks
flushed. "It is only that he has promised me a pigeon of my own!"
"Is that all?" Greatly relieved, his mother turned again to the polenta.
[Footnote: Cake, or thick porridge made of maize.] What a child he was, to
be sure, to be so pleased at the idea of the possession of a pigeon!
"But, madre," he protested, "I am going to train it to carry messages.
There's no knowing what _my_ pigeon will do!"
"Si! Si!" She replied absently as she turned to see if the charcoal was
right for the baking.
It was a mean little house, at least so it would seem to most American
children--just three rooms overlooking one of the side canals, and over
a fish shop. It was built of brick (no one knew, how long ago), and was
wedged in between others, of exactly the same type.
But it was home, and whatever else it lacked, it had a front window, with
shutters, and a balcony with an iron railing, and when tucked up in their
beds at night, in the tiny dark alcove, the children could hear the soft
swish of the water against the embankment.
In spite of the window, even the best room was never very light, and only
an occasional streak of sunshine found its way in, but on those rare
occasions it fell upon the choicest treasure of the home, a rude colored
print of the Virgin, in a modest shrine, hung with gilded fringe. On the
shelf above, Luisa took care to see that a lamp was ever burning, and on
the table before it stood always a tiny vase of fresh flowers. What matter,
that the carpet was old, and the furniture worn, the Virgin's shrine was
there!
Unconsciously, the children trod gently in this room, and their
laughter was subdued, but in the kitchen--ah, there, their spirits were
unrestrained.
Maria was not long behind her brother, but the scampi,[Footnote: Fish.]
were already frying in the pan, before Giovanni, in his working shirt,
appeared in the doorway, hungry and ready for his dinner.
"Padre! Padre!" cried Andrea; "only guess--the pet I am to have!" Then,
with scarcely an instant's pause, he went on, in a shrill voice, "A pigeon,
padre, isn't that--GREAT?"
"Well, well!" Giovanni answered, taking his seat at the head of the table,
"and so you are to have a pigeon for a pet. I might have guessed anything
else--a parrot, a little singing bird, or perhaps, a couple of grilli
[Footnote: Crickets.] in a tiny cage, but a pigeon! Why, you play with them
all day long on St. Mark's Square."
"But that is not like having one of one's own," the boy protested.
He made a gesture of disgust. "A parrot, a singing bird, a couple of
grilli! What was his father thinking of?" and in another moment he was
explaining how he would train his bird to be a carrier pigeon, and how
bright its eyes would be, and how strong its wings, until his father
laughed and declared himself convinced that it would be the most wonderful
thing in all the world to own a pigeon.
The fish had quite disappeared from the platter when Giovanni again spoke:
"To-morrow is the Sabbath, and it is the little Maria's birthday--what say
you?"--he addressed himself particularly to Luisa--"shall we go to the
Lido?"
To the Lido! The children's eyes sparkled. There was nothing they loved
more to do than to play on the sand at the Lido.
"Si!" Luisa answered with ready acquiescence; "and on the way let us spend
a little time at the Accademia--it has been long since I have seen the
pictures of the great Titian and even Maria is quite old enough."
So it was settled, and the children talked of nothing else the rest of the
evening, dropping off to sleep without once giving a thought to the lapping
of the water.
When they woke, it was late; their mother had been up for a long time,
getting everything ready for the day's excursion. Already the lunch-basket
was packed, and as soon as the children were dressed and the breakfast
eaten, it was time to start.
At first, Andrea walked with his mother, insisting upon carrying
the basket, but after a little his arms became weary and, without
expostulation, he allowed his father to take it from him, while he ran
joyfully ahead, eager to catch a glimpse of the bronze horses, and dabble
his fingers a few moments in the well with the bathing pigeons.
As for Maria, she was most conscious of the fact that she was six years
old, and with shining eyes walked carefully by her mother's side. She wore
a string of gay beads about her neck (a birthday gift from her father) and
red tassels dangled bewitchingly from the tops of her new shoes.
It was only a ten-minutes walk from St. Mark's to the Accademia, and after
a number of turns through one narrow calle after another, they came to the
bridge that led directly to the entrance.
Maria was awed at the imposing doorway, but Andrea, boylike, marched in
unabashed, and, after a cursory glance in various directions, declared
himself ready to leave. He would far rather be outdoors and could scarcely
wait to get on to the Lido.
"Not so soon, my lad, there is much that you should see." And, taking him
by the hand, Giovanni led him into a great room with two immense pictures.
One was the Assumption of the Virgin by the great Titian and before it even
restless Andrea was stilled, feeling a little of the spell that has made of
this place a world shrine for all lovers of art--the wonderful figure of
the Virgin, in billowy robes, rising to heaven, while countless angels,
each one seeming more adorable than the other, seem to bear her up in her
glad flight.
"Listen," Luisa whispered, "do you not hear them singing 'Halleleujah'?"
There were other pictures in the same room, and one especially that
interested Andrea. It was Tintoretto's Miracle of St. Mark, and he listened
attentively as his father told the story:
How a certain pious slave, forbidden to visit and venerate the house of St.
Mark, disobeyed the command and went, notwithstanding. His master, angered,
ordered that the poor fellow's eyes be put out. But lo, a miracle stayed
the hands of those who were sent to carry out the cruel sentence. The slave
was freed, and his master converted.
Then Luisa led Maria into another room, saying:
"Here is the picture I most wanted you to see, for you are named for the
blessed Virgin. Have you not heard how, when Mary was scarcely more than a
child, she was taken to the temple and consecrated to the service of the
church?"
Maria shook her head; her childish heart was full; and with solemn eyes she
looked long and earnestly at the little girl, with tightly braided hair,
slowly mounting the long flight of steps to the high priest who, though he
seemed stern and austere, held out his hand in kindly greeting.
Long Maria lingered, noticing every detail, the blue dress, the lighted
taper, the halo round the head, and she was loath to leave, even when her
father came to the door, and her mother said gently:
"Come, we must be off, if we would be at the Lido for our lunch."
Soon they were in the steamer which chugged so merrily that Andrea forgot
all about the pictures he had seen in his interest in watching the wheels
go around and the white foam in the vessel's wake, but Maria sat in a kind
of dream until they reached the landing.
Then, in the hurry that ensued and the many distractions on the shore, the
picture of the brave little girl, for the time, faded from her mind, and
she, too, gave herself up with undisguised pleasure to the fascinations of
the Lido.
It is a strip of shore extending along the mouth of the Lagoon and forming
a bulwark of Venice against the Adriatic. It was here that the wedding
ceremony was performed in the long ago, and the view is most beautiful from
this point.
They sat on a bench in front of the Aquarium to eat their luncheon, and the
children could scarcely wait to finish, they were so eager to press their
noses against the glass and watch the funny creatures swimming in the
tanks. Maria clapped her hands and declared the best of all were the
sea-horses--"Cavalli marini," she called them.
Then, what a glorious afternoon they had on the smooth beach, hunting for
shells and digging in the sand. How Andrea laughed when his father took him
away out and let the breakers roll over him. Then Maria, holding tight to
her brother's hand, who still seemed much bigger and stronger, even if this
was her birthday, ventured far into the waves.
Much too quickly the happy hours sped, and before they knew it it was six
o'clock.
All the way home on the steamer Andrea held tightly to the dried starfish
he had found on the sand, while Maria was the happiest child in Venice,
with a brooch made from the pearl shell of the Lido, which Luisa called
"fior di mare," or flower of the sea.
As they stumbled sleepily across the Square in the darkening twilight,
holding fast to the hands of their mother and father, their ears failed to
catch the faint cheep of a baby bird in distress, and they reached home
entirely unaware of the tragedy that had happened in pigeon-land.