He burst out with a tremendous, “By Jove!” that broke that fresh morning
stillness once for all, and faintly echoed into silence among those
tombs. “By Jove!”
His imagination had at once risen to the solemn grandeur of the event,
as an event; but the sharp significance of death did not penetrate the
armour of that enthusiastic youthfulness. “What a pity!” he exclaimed
nicely; but he could not get the iridescent vision of Venice out of his
head, nor the problems of his canvas. He continued painting--what else
could he do?--and then, after a few moments, he said eagerly, “I wish I
was in London!”
“Me too!” I said.
Probably most of the thousands of Englishmen in Italy had the same wish.
*****
I departed from the church. The chanting had ceased; the guides were
still talking business, but the beggars had begun to whine.
In the dining-room of the hotel there was absolute silence. A lady near
the door, with an Italian newspaper over her coffee-cup, who had never
spoken to me before, and would probably never speak to me again, said:
“I suppose you’ve heard about--”
“Yes,” I said.