GIUSIPPE ENCOUNTERS AN OLD FRIEND
It was scarcely a reality to Jean, to Hannah, or to Giusippe himself
when Uncle Bob actually set forth for France with the young Venetian as
a member of the party. Yet every one was pleased: Hannah because she
would not now need her foreign dictionaries; Jean because it was jolly
to have a companion her own age; and Giusippe because he felt that at
last he had friends who were to guide for him the future which had
loomed so darkly and so vaguely before him. Not a full week of the trip
to Paris had passed before Mr. Cabot declared that how he had
previously got on without that boy he did not understand. Giusippe had
such a wonderful way of making himself useful; not only did he see what
needed to be done, but he was quick to do it.
"His enthusiasm alone is worth the money I am paying for his railroad
fares and hotel bills!" ejaculated Uncle Bob to Hannah.
There certainly never was such a boy to take in everything around him,
and to remember what he saw. With mind alert for all that was to be
learned he tagged along at Mr. Cabot's heels drinking in and storing
away every scrap of history and of beauty which came across his path.
And in Paris he found much of both. The Invalides with the tomb of
Napoleon; Notre Dame with its odd gargoyles; the Arc de Triomphe; the
Bois; and the Champs-Elysees shaded by pink horse-chestnut trees--all
these sights were new and marvelous to the Italian lad. But it was
Versailles with its gardens that charmed him and Jean most.
The travelers arrived there on a Sunday, when the fountains were
playing, flowers blooming everywhere, and a gay crowd of sightseers
thronging the walks. It was like fairy-land. The great Neptune fountain
sent into the air a sheet of spray which was quickly caught up by the
sunlight and transformed into a misty rainbow. Within the palace, amid
old tapestries of battles and hunting scenes, and surrounded by
paintings and statues, were the famous early French mirrors of which
Giusippe had previously spoken.
Mr. Cabot pointed them out, half playfully, half seriously.
"Perhaps on further consideration I will leave them," returned the boy,
falling in with the spirit of the elder man's mood. "They seem to fit
the spaces, and I doubt if even our Venetian mirrors could look better
here."
"I think it might be just as well," answered Mr. Cabot. "Besides, you
must remember that those mirrors were not the only sort of glass the
French made. There were many enamel workers at Provençe as early as
1520, and later much cast glass instead of that which is blown came
from France. In fact, up to a hundred years ago the French held the
plate glass monopoly. Then England took up glass-making and cut into
the French market--the same old story of stealing the trade, you see.
In addition to other varieties of glass-making some of the finest and
most interesting of the old stained glass was made by the French
people, and can now be seen in the church of St. Denis, just out of
Paris, and at Sainte Chapelle which is within the city itself.
Fortunately the glass at St. Denis escaped the fury of the French
revolutionists, as it might not have done had it not been at a little
distance from Paris. There is also glass of much the same sort at
Poitiers, Bourges, and Rheims. Amiens, too, has wonderful glass
windows. I hope before we leave for home we shall have a peep at some
if not all of these."
"Isn't much beautiful French glass now made at Nancy, Mr. Cabot?"
Giusippe inquired.
"Yes, some of the finest comes from there."
"But didn't any other people beside the Venetians and the French make
glass, Uncle Bob?" asked Jean, much interested.
"Oh, yes. Almost every European nation has tried its hand at
glass-making. It is curious, too, to notice how each differs from the
others. The Bohemians, for instance, were famous glass-makers, and
their work, which primarily imitated that of the Venetians, is known
the world over."
"What sort of glass is it? Could I tell it if I should see it?"
"Well, for one thing they make beautiful wine glasses and goblets,
having stems of enclosed white and colored enamel tubes twisted
together with transparent glass, which look as if they had delicate
threads of color running through them. Then the Bohemians and the
Austrians make many great beakers or drinking glasses, steins, and
bowls with decorative coats of arms upon them in gold or in colored
enamel."
"Oh, I have seen things like that," Jean replied.
"Yes, we have some of those ornamental goblets at home in the
dining-room. They are very rich and handsome. Beside these varieties
the Bohemians have of late revived the making of old white opaque glass
with colored enamel figures on it. But engraved glass is one of the
kinds for which Bohemia is chiefly celebrated. Even very skilful glass
engravers can be had there for little money. They cut fine, delicate
designs upon the glass with a lathe. Some of this is white, but much of
it is of deep red or blue with the pattern engraved on it in white.
Such glass is made in two layers, the outer one being cut away so to
leave the design upon the surface underneath."
"Wasn't it the Bohemians who invented cut glass?" Giusippe asked.
"No. Sometimes people say so, but this is not true. The fact is that
there chanced to be a glass cutter so skilful that he was appointed
lapidary to Rudolph the Second; he had a workshop at Prague, but though
he did some very wonderful glass cutting, which gained him much fame,
he did not invent the art. It was, by the way, one of his workmen who
later migrated to Nuremburg and carried the secret of glass-cutting to
Germany."
"Isn't it queer how one country learned of another?" reflected Jean.
"Yes, and it is especially interesting when we see how hard each tried
not to teach his neighbor anything. There always was somebody, just as
there always is now, who could not keep still and went and told," Mr.
Cabot said. "And while we are speaking of the different kinds of glass
we must not forget to mention the dark red ruby glass perfected in 1680
by Kunckel, the director of the Potsdam glass works, for it is a very
ingenious invention. The deep color is obtained by putting a thin layer
of gold between the white glass and the coating of red."
"What else did the Germans make?" queried Giusippe.
"Well, the Germans, like the other nations, turned out glass which was
suggestive of their people. And that, by the by, is a fact you must
notice when seeing the work of so many different countries. Observe how
the art of each reflects the characteristics of those who made it.
Italy gave us fragile, dainty glass famous for its airy beauty and
delicacy; Germany, on the other hand, fashions a far more massive,
rough, and heavier product--large flasks, steins and goblets, some of
which are even clumsy; all are substantial and useful, however, and
have the big cordial spirit of fellowship so characteristic of the
German people. These glasses are decorated in large flat designs less
choice, perhaps, than are the Bohemian. The shape of the German goblets
and drinking glasses differs, too, from those made in Italy. They are
less graceful, less dainty. Instead you will find throughout Germany
tall cylindrical shafts, tankards, and steins adorned with massive
eagles or colored coats of arms; often, moreover, both the Bohemians
and the Germans use pictorial designs showing processions of soldiers,
battle scenes, or cavalry charges such as would appeal to nations whose
military life has long been one of the leading interests of their
people."
"Tell me, Mr. Cabot," inquired Giusippe eagerly, "did you ever see one
of the German puzzle cups?"
"Yes, several of them. In the British Museum there are several of the
windmill variety."
"What is a puzzle cup, Uncle Bob?" demanded Jean.
"Why, a puzzle or wager cup, as they are sometimes called, was an
ingenious invention of the Germans during their early days of
glass-making. The kind I speak of is a large inverted goblet which has
on top a small silver windmill. The wager was to set the fans
revolving, turn the glass right side up, and then fill and drain it
before the mill stopped turning. Such wagers were very popular in those
olden days and are interesting as relics of a mediæval and far-away
period in history."
So intently had Mr. Cabot and the others been talking that they had
stopped in the center of the room and it was while they were standing
there that a party of tourists entered from the hallway. Foremost among
them was an American girl who carried in her hand a much worn Baedeker.
As her eye swept over the tapestries covering the walls her glance fell
upon Giusippe.
Instantly she started and with parted lips stepped forward; then she
paused.
"It cannot be!" Mr. Cabot heard her murmur.
At the same moment, however, Giusippe had seen her.
"The beautiful señorita!" he cried. "My lady of Venice!"
He was beside her in an instant.
"Giusippe! Giusippe!" exclaimed the girl. "Can it really be you?"
"Yes, yes, señorita! It is I. Ah, that I should see you again! What a
joy it is. Surely four or five years must have passed since first you
came to paint in Venice."
"Fully that, my little Giusippe. It is five years this June. You have a
good memory."
"How could I forget you, señorita; and the pictures, and your kindness!
But I have left Venice, you see. Yes. Even now I am on my way to
America."
"To America? Oh, Giusippe, Giusippe! And that is why you have discarded
your faded blouse, and the red tie which you wore knotted round your
throat. Alas! I am almost sorry. And yet you look very nice," she added
kindly. "But to leave Venice!"
"It is best," Giusippe explained gently. "I have my way to make, and I
can do it better in your country, my señorita."
"Perhaps. Still, I am sorry to have you leave your home. It is like
taking sea shells away from the sands of the shore."
"And yet you would want me to be a man and succeed in life. Think how
you yourself worked for success."
"I know. And it was you who brought it to me, Giusippe. The portrait I
painted of you was exhibited in America and when I later sold it to an
art dealer there it brought me a little fortune; but the fame it
brought was best of all." The girl put her hand softly on the lad's
shoulder.
"Oh, señorita, how glad I am!"
"I had a feeling that you would bring me luck the morning when I first
saw you in the square near St. Mark's. Do you remember? And how you
stood watching me paint? Do you recall how we got to talking and how I
asked if I might do the portrait of you? You laughed when I suggested
it! And then you came to the hotel evenings when you were free, and I
sketched in the picture. It seems but yesterday. In the meantime you
entertained me by telling me of Venice and its history. What a little
fellow you were to know so much!" The girl smiled down at him. "And now
let me hear of yourself. What of your parents?"
"Alas, señorita, they have died. I am now quite alone in the world. It
is for that that I felt I must leave Venice. It is sad to be alone,
señorita."
"So it is, Giusippe. No one knows that better than I." Impulsively she
slipped a hand into the small Venetian's. "But I must not take you from
your friends. See, we have kept them waiting a long time."
"I want you to meet them, señorita. They are from your country, and
they have been kind to me."
"Then surely I must meet them."
With a shy gesture the boy led her forward.
"Miss Cartright is from New York, Mr. Cabot," said Giusippe simply.
"Long ago when I was a little lad I knew her in Venice, and she was
good to me and to my parents."
[Illustration: "I KNEW HER IN VENICE"]
"It was five years ago," added Miss Cartright. "I went there to paint."
"And little Giusippe, perhaps, made your stay as delightful as he has
made ours," Mr. Cabot said.
"Yes. I was all by myself, and knew no one in Venice. Furthermore, I
spoke only a word or two of Italian. Giusippe was a great comfort. He
kept me from being lonesome."
"And you are now staying in Paris?" questioned Mr. Cabot.
"Yes, I have been here with friends studying for nearly a year; but I
am soon to return home. And now, before I leave you, I want to hear all
about Giusippe's plans. What is he to do?"
Little by little the story was told. Mr. Cabot began it and continued
it until Giusippe, who thought him too modest, finished the tale.
"You see, señorita, Mr. Cabot, Miss Jean, and good Hannah will not
themselves tell you how kind they have been, so I myself must tell it,"
said the boy. "And now I go with them to find a position in America
that by hard work I may some time be able to repay them for their
goodness to me."
Miss Cartright nodded thoughtfully.
At last she said:
"If you should come to New York I want to see you, Giusippe. There
might be something I could do to help you. Anyway, I should want to
have a glimpse of you. And if you do not come and Mr. Cabot does,
perhaps, since he knows how fond of you I am and how much I am
interested in your welfare, he will come and tell me how you are
getting on."
She drew from her purse a card which she handed to the lad.
"Perhaps I'd better take it, Giusippe," Mr. Cabot said in a low tone.
"It might get lost."
Then there was a confusion of farewells, and the girl rejoined her
friends, who had gone through into the next room.
It was not until she was well out of ear-shot that any one spoke. Then
Jean, who had been silent throughout the entire interview, exclaimed:
"Oh, isn't she beautiful! Isn't she the very loveliest lady you ever
saw, Giusippe?"
And Giusippe, answering in voluble English mixed with Italian, extolled
not only the fairness but the goodness of his goddess.
Even Hannah agreed that the American girl was charming, but regretted
that she had not come from Boston instead of New York.
Uncle Bob alone was silent. Turning the white card in his fingers he
stood absently looking at the door through which Miss Ethel Cartright
had passed.