Zorzi sat on a low bench, blackened with age, against the whitewashed
wall of a small and dimly lighted room, which was little more than a
cell, but was in reality the place where prisoners waited immediately
before being taken into the presence of the Ten. It was not far from the
dreaded chamber in which the three Chiefs sometimes heard evidence given
under torture, the door was closed and two guards paced the narrow
corridor outside with regular and heavy steps, to which Zorzi listened
with a beating heart. He was not afraid, for he was not easily
frightened, but he knew that his whole future life was in the balance,
and he longed for the decisive moment to come. He had surrendered on the
previous day, and Beroviero had given a large bond for his appearance.
There were witnesses of all that had happened. There was the lieutenant
of the archers, with his six men, some of whom still showed traces of
their misadventure. There was Giovanni, whom the Governor had forced to
appear, much against his will, as the principal accuser by the letter
which had led to Zorzi's arrest, and the letter itself was in the hands
of the Council's secretary. But there was also Pasquale, who had seen
Zorzi go away quietly with the soldiers, and who could speak for his
character; and Angelo Beroviero was there to tell the truth as far as he
knew it.
But Zorzi was not to be confronted with any of these witnesses: neither
with the soldiers who would tell the Council strange stories of devils
with blue noses and fiery tails, nor with Giovanni, whose letter called
him a liar, a thief and an assassin, nor with Beroviero nor Pasquale.
The Council never allowed the accused man and the witnesses for or
against him to be before them at the same time, nor to hold any
communication while the trial lasted. That was a rule of their
procedure, but they were not by any means the mysterious body of malign
monsters which they have too often been represented to be, in an age
when no criminal trials could take place without torture.
Zorzi waited on his bench, listening to the tread of the guards. As many
trials occupied more than one day, his case would come up last of all,
and the witnesses would all be examined before he himself was called to
make his defence. He was nervous and anxious. Even while he was sitting
there, Giovanni might be finding out some new accusation against him or
the officer of archers might be accusing him of witchcraft and of having
a compact with the devil himself. He was innocent, but he had broken the
law, and no doubt many an innocent man had sat on that same bench before
him, who had never again returned to his home. It was not strange that
his lips should be parched, and that his heart should be beating like a
fuller's hammer.
At last the footsteps ceased, the key ground and creaked as it turned,
and the door was opened. Two tall guards stood looking at him, and one
of them motioned to him to come. He could never afterwards remember the
place through which he was made to pass, for the blood was throbbing in
his temples so that he could hardly see. A door was opened and closed
after him, and he was suddenly standing alone in the presence of the
Ten, feeling that he could not find a word to say if he were called upon
to speak.
A kindly voice broke the silence that seemed to have lasted many
minutes.
"Is this the person whom we are told is in league with Satan?"
It was the Doge himself who spoke, nodding his hoary head, as very old
men do, and looking at Zorzi's face with gentle eyes, almost colourless
from extreme age.
"This is the accused, your Highness," replied the secretary from his
desk, already holding in his hand Giovanni's letter.
Zorzi saw that the Council of Ten was much more numerous than its name
implied. The Councillors were between twenty and thirty, sitting in a
semicircle, against a carved wooden wainscot, on each side of the aged
Doge, Cristoforo Moro, who had yet one more year to live. There were
other persons present also, of whom one was the secretary, the rest
being apparently there to listen to the proceedings and to give advice
when they were called upon to do so.
In spite of the time of year, the Councillors were all splendidly robed
in the red velvet mantles, edged with ermine, and the velvet caps which
made up the state dress of all patricians alike, and the Doge wore his
peculiar cap and coronet of office. Zorzi had never seen such an
assembly of imposing and venerable men, some with long grey beards, some
close shaven, all grave, all thoughtful, all watching him with quietly
scrutinising eyes. He stood leaning a little on his stick, and he
breathed more freely since the dreaded moment was come at last.
Some one bade the secretary read the accusation, and Zorzi listened with
wonder and disgust to Giovanni's long epistle, mentally noting the
points which he might answer, and realising that if the law was to be
interpreted literally, he had undoubtedly rendered himself liable to
some penalty.
"What have you to say?" inquired the secretary, looking up from the
paper with a pair of small and piercing grey eyes. "The Supreme Council
will hear your defence."
"I can tell the truth," said Zorzi simply, and when he had spoken the
words he was surprised that his voice had not trembled.
"That is all the Supreme Council wishes to hear," answered the
secretary. "Speak on."
"It is true that I am a Dalmatian," Zorzi said, "and by the laws of
Venice, I should not have learned the art of glass-blowing. I came to
Murano more than five years ago, being very poor, and Messer Angelo
Beroviero took me in, and let me take care of his private furnace, at
which he makes many experiments. In time, he trusted me, and when he
wished something made, to try the nature of the glass, he let me make
it, but not to sell such things. At first they were badly made, but I
loved the art, and in short time I grew to be skilful at it. So I
learnt. Sirs--I crave pardon, your Highness, and you lords of the
Supreme Council, that is all I have to tell. I love the glass, and I can
make light things of it in good design, because I love it, as the
painter loves his colours and the sculptor his marble. Give me glass,
and I will make coloured air of it, and gossamer and silk and lace. It
is all I know, it is my art, I live in it, I feel in it, I dream in it.
To my thoughts, and eyes and hands, it is what the love of a fair woman
is to the heart. While I can work and shape the things I see when I
close my eyes, the sun does, not move, the day has no time, winter no
clouds, and summer no heat. When I am hindered I am in exile and in
prison, and alone."
The Doge nodded his head in kindly approbation.
"The young man is a true artist," he said.
"All this," said one of the Chiefs of the Ten, "would be well if you
were a Venetian. But you are not, and the accusation says that you have
sold your works to the injury of born Venetians. What have you to say?"
"Sometimes my master has given me money for a beaker, or a plate, or a
bottle," answered Zorzi, in some trepidation, for this was the main
point. "But the things were then his own. How could that do harm to any
one, since no one can make what I can make, for the master's own use?
And once, the other day, as the Signor Giovanni's letter says there, he
persuaded me to take his piece of gold for a beaker he saw in my hand,
and I said that I would ask the master, when he came back, whether I
might keep the money or not; and besides, I left the piece of money on
the table in my master's laboratory, and the beaker in the annealing
oven, when they came to arrest me. That is the only work for which I
ever took money, except from the master himself."
"Why did the Greek captain Aristarchi beat the Governor's men, and carry
you away?" asked another of the Chiefs.
Zorzi was not surprised that the name of his rescuer should be known,
for the Ten were believed to possess universal intelligence.
"I do not know," he answered quite simply. "He did not tell me, while he
kept me with him. I had only seen him once before that night, on a day
when he came to treat with the master for a cargo of glass which he
never bought. I gave myself up to the archers, as I gave myself up to
your lordships, for I thought that I should have justice the sooner if I
sought it instead of trying to escape from it."
"Your Highness," said one of the oldest Councillors, addressing the
Doge, "is it not a pity that such a man as this, who is a good artist
and who speaks the truth, should be driven out of Venice, by a law that
was not meant to touch him? For indeed, the law exists and always will,
but it is meant to hinder strangers from coming to Murano and learning
the art in order to take it away with them, and this we can prevent. But
we surely desire to keep here all those who know how to practise it, for
the greater advantage of our commerce with other nations."
"That is the intention of our laws," assented the Doge.
"Your Highness! My lords!" cried Zorzi, who had taken courage from what
the Councillor had said, "if this law is not made for such as I am, I
entreat you to grant me your forgiveness if I have broken it, and make
it impossible for me to break it again. My lords, you have the power to
do what I ask. I beseech you that I may be permitted to work at my art
as if I were a Venetian, and even to keep fires in a small furnace of my
own, as other workmen may when they have saved money, that I may labour
to the honour of all glass-makers, and for the good reputation of
Murano. This is what I most humbly ask, imploring that it may be granted
to me, but always according to your good pleasure."
When he had spoken thus, asking all that was left for him to desire and
amazed at his own boldness, he was silent, and the Councillors began to
discuss the question among themselves. At a sign from the Chiefs the urn
into which the votes were cast was brought and set before the Doge; for
all was decided by ballot with coloured balls, and no man knew how his
neighbour voted.
"Have you anything more to say?" asked the secretary, again speaking to
Zorzi.
"I have said all, save to thank your Highness and your lordships with
all my heart," answered the Dalmatian.
"Withdraw, and await the decision of the Supreme Council."
Zorzi cast one more glance at the great half circle of venerable men, at
their velvet robes, at the carved wainscot, at the painted vault above,
and after making a low obeisance he found his way to the door, outside
which the guards were waiting. They took him back to a cell like the one
where he had already sat so long, but which was reached by another
passage, for everything in the palace was so disposed as to prevent the
possibility of one prisoner meeting another on his way to the tribunal
or coming from it; and for this reason the Bridge of Sighs, which was
then not yet built, was afterwards made to contain two separate
passages.
It seemed a long time before the tread of guards ceased again and the
door was opened, and Zorzi rose as quickly as he could when he saw that
it was the secretary of the Ten who entered, carrying in his hand a
document which had a seal attached to it.
"Your prayer is granted," said the man with the sharp grey eyes. "By
this patent the Supreme Council permits you to set up a glass-maker's
furnace of your own in Murano, and confers upon you all the privileges
of a born glass-blower, and promises you especial protection if any one
shall attempt to interfere with your rights."
Zorzi took the precious parchment eagerly, and he felt the hot blood
rushing to his face as he tried to thank the secretary. But in a moment
the busy personage was gone, after speaking a word to the guards, and
Zorzi heard the rustling of his silk gown in the corridor.
"You are free, sir," said one of the guards very civilly, and holding
the door open.
Zorzi went out in a dream, finding his way he knew not how, as he
received a word of direction here and there from soldiers who guarded
the staircases. When he was aware of outer things he was standing under
the portico that surrounds the courtyard of the ducal palace. The broad
parchment was unrolled in his hands and his eyes were puzzling over the
Latin words and the unfamiliar abbreviations; on one side of him stood
old Beroviero, reading over his shoulder with absorbed interest, and on
the other was Zuan Venier, glancing at the document with the careless
certainty of one who knows what to expect. Two steps away Pasquale
stood, in his best clothes and his clean shirt, for he had been one of
the witnesses, and he was firmly planted on his bowed legs, his long
arms hanging down by his sides; his little red eyes were fixed on
Zorzi's face, his ugly jaw was set like a mastiff's, and his
extraordinary face seemed cut in two by a monstrous smile of delight.
"It seems to be in order," said Venier, politely smothering with his
gloved hand the beginning of a yawn.
"I owe it to you, I am sure," answered Zorzi, turning grateful eyes to
him.
"No, I assure you," said the patrician. "But I daresay it has made us
all change our opinion of the Ten," he added with a smile. "Good-bye.
Let me come and see you at work at your own furnace before long. I have
always wished to see glass blown."
Without waiting for more, he walked quickly away, waving his hand after
he had already turned.
It was noon when Zorzi had folded his patent carefully and hidden it in
his bosom, and he and Beroviero and Pasquale went out of the busy
gateway under the outer portico. Beroviero led the way to the right, and
they passed Saint Mark's in the blazing sun, and the Patriarch's palace,
and came to the shady landing, the very one at which the old man and his
daughter had got out when they had come to the church to meet Contarini.
The gondola was waiting there, and Beroviero pushed Zorzi gently before
him.
"You are still lame," he said. "Get in first and sit down."
But Zorzi drew back, for a woman's hand was suddenly thrust out of the
little window of the 'felse,' with a quick gesture.
"There is a lady inside," said Zorzi.
"Marietta is in the gondola," answered Beroviero with a smile. "She
would not stay at home. But there is room for us all. Get in, my son."
NOTE
The story of Zorzi Ballarin and Marietta Beroviero is not mere fiction,
and is told in several ways. The most common account of the
circumstances assumes that Zorzi actually stole the secrets which Angelo
Beroviero had received from Paolo Godi, and thereby forced Angelo to
give him his daughter in marriage; but the learned Comm. C.A. Levi,
director of the museum in Murano, where many works of Beroviero and
Ballarin are preserved, has established the latter's reputation for
honourable dealing with regard to the precious secrets, in a pamphlet
entitled "L'Arte del Vetro in Murano," published in Venice, in 1895, to
which I beg to refer the curious reader. I have used a novelist's
privilege in writing a story which does not pretend to be historical. I
have taken eleven years from the date on which Giovanni Beroviero wrote
his letter to the Podestà of Murano, and the letter itself, though
similar in spirit to the original, is differently worded and covers
somewhat different ground; I have also represented Zorzi as standing
alone in his attempt to become an independent glass-blower, whereas
Comm. Levi has discovered that he had two companions, who were
Dalmatians, like himself. There is no foundation in tradition for the
existence of Arisa the Georgian slave, but it is well known that
beautiful Eastern slaves were bought and sold in Venice and in many
other parts of Italy even at a much later date.