A Golden Book of Venice | Page 8

bearing--and she was only a maiden of
Murano.
He was still under the spell of his great moment, and he was in the
presence of one who should help him to make it immortal; he
uncovered his head with a motion of courtly deference he did not often
assume as he started forward over the rough planks of the traghetto.
"Signora, where shall I bring the flowers to make the little one smile?"

"To Murano, near the Stabilimento Magagnati, Eccellenza," she
answered without hesitation, lifting the baby in her arms to escape the
rough help of the gondolier, who reached forward to hasten his
stumbling movements.
And so they floated off from the traghetto--the Madonna that was to be,
into the deepening twilight, while the Veronese, a splendid and
incongruous figure amid these lowly surroundings, leaned against the
paltry column that supported the shrine, wrapped in a delicious reverie
of creation; for he was unused to failure and he had no doubts, though
he had not yet proffered his request.
"To-morrow," he said, "I will paint that face!"
* * * * *
"By our Lady of Murano!" the gondolier cried suddenly. "He spoke to
thee like a queen--and it was Paolo Cagliari! What did he want with
thee?"
"Not me, Piero; it was the child. He wished to give him flowers. I knew
he must be great to care thus for our 'bimbo.' It was really he--the
Veronese?"
"The child! Santa Maria! He is not too much like a cherub that the great
painter should notice him!"
The baby threw out his little clenched fist, striking against the
protecting arms that held him closer, his face drawn with sudden pain;
for a moment he fought against Marina, and then, the spasm over,
settled wearily to sleep in her arms.
"Poverino!" said the gondolier softly, while Marina crooned over him
an Ave Maria, and the gondola glided noiselessly to its cadence.
"Piero," she said, looking up with eyes full of tears, "sometimes I think
I cannot bear it! He needs thy prayers as well as mine--wilt thou not ask
our Lady of San Donato to be kinder to him? And I have seen to-day,
on the Rialto, a beautiful lamp, with angels' heads. Thou shouldst make
an offering----"
The gondolier shook his head and shrugged his shoulders; he had little
faith or reverence. "I will say my aves, _poveriello_," he promised;
"but the lamps are already too many in San Donato. And for the
bambino, I will go not only once, but twice this year to confession--the
laws of our traghetto ask not so much, since once is enough. But thou
art even stricter with thy rules for me."

She did not answer, and they floated on in silence.
"To-morrow," said Piero at length, "there is festa in San Pietro di
Castello."
She moved uneasily, and her beautiful face lost its softness.
"It is nothing to me," she answered shortly.
"It is a pretty festa, and Messer Magagnati should take thee. By our
Lady of Castello, there are others who will go!"
"It would be better for the bambino," he persisted sullenly, as she did
not answer him. His voice was not the pleasanter now that its positive
tone was changed to a coaxing one.
"One is enough, Piero," she said. "And for the festa of San Pietro in
Castello--never, never name it to me!"
"Santa Maria!" her companion ejaculated under his breath; "it is the
women, the gentle _donzelle_, who are hard!"
He stood, tall, handsome, well-made, swaying lightly with the motion
of the gondola, which seemed to float as in a dream to the ripple and
lap of the water; the blue of his shirt had changed to gray in the twilight,
the black cap and sash of the "Nicolotti" accentuated the lines of the
strong, lithe figure as he sprang forward on the sloping foot-rest of his
gondola with that perfect grace and ease which proved him master of a
craft whose every motion is a harmony. If he were proud of belonging
to the Nicolotti, that most powerful faction of the populace, he knew
that they were regarded by the government as the aristocrats of the
people.
Marina arranged the child's covering in silence, and stooped her face
wistfully to touch his cheek, but she did not turn her head to look at the
man behind her.
"L'amor zè fato per chi lo sa fare,"
he sang in the low, slow chant of the familiar folk-song, the rhythm
blending perfectly with the movement of the boat in which these two
were faring. His voice was pleasanter in singing, and song is almost a
needful expression of the content of motion in Venice--the necessary
complement of life to the gondolier, a song might mean nothing more.
But Piero sang