Messer Marco Polo | Page 6

chill on the canals, yet there was

great color to the sunset, the red of it on the water ebbing into orange,
and then to purple, and losing itself in the olive pools near the
mooring-ties. And a little wind came up from the Greek islands, and
now surged and fluttered, the way you'd think a harper might be
playing. You'd hear no sound, but the melody was there. It was the
rhythm of spring, that the old people recognize.
But the young people would know it was spring, too, by token of the
gaiety that was in the air. For nothing brings joy to the heart like the
coming of spring. The folk who do be blind all the rest of the year, their
eyes do open then, and a sunset takes them, and the wee virgin flowers
coming up between the stones, or the twitter of a bird upon the
bough. . .And young women do be preening themselves, and young
men do be singing, even they that have the voices of rooks. There is
something stirring in them that is stirring, in the ground, with the
bursting of the seeds. . .
And young Marco Polo threw down the quill in the counting house
where he was learning his trade. The night was coming on. He was only
a strip of a lad, and to lads the night is not rest from work, and the
quietness of sleeping, but gaming, and drinking, and courting young
women. Now, there were two women he might have gone to, and one
was a great Venetian lady, with hair the red of a queen's cloak, and a
great noble shape to her and great dignity. But with her he would only
be reciting verses or making grand, stilted compliments, the like of
those you would hear in a play. And while that seemed to fit in with
winter and candlelight, it was poor sport for spring. The other one was
a black, plump little gown-maker, a pleasant, singing little woman, very
affectionate, and very proud to have one of the great Polos loving her.
She was eager for kissing, and always asking the lad to be careful of
himself, to be putting his cloak on, or to be sure and drink something
warm when he got home that night, for the air from the canals was chill.
The great lady was too much of the mind, and the little gown-maker
was too much of the body, either of them, to be pleasing young Marco
on the first night of spring.
Now, it is a queer thing will be pleasing a young man on the first night

of spring. The wandering foot itches, and the mind and body are keen
to follow. There is that inside a young man that makes the hunting dog
rise from the hearth on a moonlit night: "Begor! it's myself'll take a turn
through the fields on the chance of a bit of coursing. A weasel, maybe,
or an otter, would be out the night. Or a hare itself. Ay, there would be
sport for you! The hare running hell-for-leather, and me after him over
brake and dell. Ay! Ay! Ay! A good hunt's a jewel! I'll take a stretch
along the road."
Or there is in him what does be troubling the birds, and they on tropic
islands. "Tweet-tweet," they grumble. "A grand place this surely, and
very comfortable for the winter. The palm-trees are green, but I'd rather
have the green of young grass. And the sea, you ken, it becomes
monotonous. Do you remember the peaches of Champagne, wife, and
the cherry-trees of Antrim? Do you remember the farmer who was such
a bad shot, and his wife with the red petticoat? I'm feeling fine and
strong in the wings, AVOURNEEN. What do you say? Let's bundle
and go!"
He wandered out with the discontent of the season on him. The sun had
dropped at last, and everywhere you'd see torches, and the image of
torches in the water. On the canals of the town great barges moved.
Everywhere were fine, noble shadows and the splashing of oars. There
was a great admiral's galley, ready to put to sea against Genoa. There a
big merchantman back from Africa. And along the canals went all the
people in the world, you'd think. Now it was a Frenchman, all silks and
satins and 'la-di-da, monsieur!' Or a Spaniard with a pointed beard and
long, lean legs and a long, lean sword. And now it was a Greek
courtesan, white as milk, sitting in her gondola as on a throne. Here
was a Muscovite, hairy, dirty, with fine fur and fine jewels and teeth
sharp as a dog's. And now an effeminate Greek nobleman, languid as a
bride. And