A Golden Book of Venice | Page 7

about her, like
a suggestion of an aureole; and in the arbor, as in one of those homely
shrines which everywhere make part of the Venetian life, she seemed
aloof as some ideal of an earlier Christian age from the restless, voluble
group upon the tiny quay.
There were _facchini_--those doers of nondescript smallest services,

quarreling amiably to pass the time, springing forward for custom as
the gondolas neared the steps; _gransieri_--the licensed traghetto
beggars, ragged and picturesque, pushing past with their long, crooked
poles, under pretence of drawing the gondolas to shore; one or two
women from the islands, filling the moments with swift, declamatory
speech until the gondola of Giambattista or of Jacopo should close the
colloquy; an older peasant, tranquilly kneeling to the Madonna of the
traghetto, amid the clatter, while steaming greasy odors from her
housewifely basket of Venetian dainties mount slowly, like some
travesty of incense, and cloud the humble shrine. Two or three comers
swell the group from the recesses of the dark little shop behind, for no
other reason than that life is pleasant where so much is going on; and
some maiden, into whose life a dawning romance is just creeping,
confesses it with a brighter color as she hangs, half-timidly, her bunch
of tinselled flowers before the red lamp of the good little Madonna of
this _traghetto benedetto_, whose gondoliers are the bravest in all
Venice! Meanwhile the boatmen, coming, going, or waiting, keep up a
lively chatter.
And under the trellis, as if far removed, the sleeping child and Marina
of Murano bending over him a face glorified with its story of love and
compassion, are like a living Rafaello!
"The bambino is beautiful," said the artist, drawing nearer, but speaking
reverently, for he knew that he had found the face he had been seeking
for his Madonna for the altar of the Servi. "What doth he like, your
little one? For I am a friend to the _bambini_, and the poverina hath
pain to bear."
She was more beautiful still when she smiled and the anxiety died out
of her girlish face for a moment, in gratitude for the sympathy.
"Eccellenza, thanks," she answered simply; "he has a beautiful face.
Sometimes when he has flowers in his little hand he smiles and is quite
still."
But the radiant look passed swiftly with the remembrance of the pain
that would come to the child on waking, and she kissed the tiny fingers
that lay over the edge of her mantle with a movement of irrepressible
tenderness, lapsing at once into reverie; while the artist, full of the
enthusiasm of creation, stood dreaming of his picture. This Holy
Mother should be greater, more compassionate, nearer to the people

than any Madonna he had ever painted; for never had he noted in any
face before such a passion of love and pity. In that moment of stillness
the sunset lights, intensifying, cast a glow about her; the child,
half-waking, stretched up his tiny hand and touched her cheek with a
rare caress, and the light in her face was a radiance never to be
forgotten. The Veronese's wonderful Madonna del Sorriso leaped to
instant life; a smile full of the pathos of human suffering, tender in
comprehension, perfect in faith--this, which this moment of inspiration
had revealed to him, would he paint for the consolation of those who
should kneel before the altar of the Servi!
She was busy with the child, putting him gently on the ground as a
gondola approached; he, with his thought in intense realization, fixing
the peculiar beauty of these sunset clouds in his artist memory as sole
color-scheme of his picture; for this grave, sweet face, with its pale, fair
tones and profusion of soft brown hair, would not bear the vivid
draperies that the Veronese was wont to fashion--the mantle must be a
gray cloud, pink flushed, with delicate sunset borderings where it swept
away to shroud the child; the beauty of his creation should be in that
smile of exquisite compassion, and this wonderful sunset in which it
should glow forever!
It was a rare moment with the Veronese, in which he seemed lifted
above himself; the revelation of the face had seized him, translating
him into the poetic atmosphere which he rarely attained; the harmonies
of the vision were so perfect that they sufficed for the
over-sumptuousness of color and detail which were usually features of
his conceptions.
Some one called impatiently from the gondola in rude, quick tones, and
the artist woke from his reverie. The maiden lingered on the step for a
word of adieu to this stranger who wished to give the little one pleasure,
but she dared not disturb him, for he was some great signor--so she
interpreted his dress and