\"Signore, one must live!\" the young fellow exclaimed, with a friendly shrug of his shoulders and a gleam of his white teeth; for it was easy to make friends with the genial artist. \"And between the governors and the provveditori one may scarce draw breath! One''''s bread and onions—\" he added, with a dramatic gesture of self-pity. \"It is not much to ask!\"
\" Altro ! Nonsense!\" the Veronese exclaimed, laughing, for the gondolier looked little like one who was suffering from hunger, as he stood swaying in keen enjoyment of the motion which showed his prowess, of the wind as it swept his bronzed cheek, of the talk which permitted him to exploit his grievances.
\"There is the High Mass, twice in the month; there is the Low Mass—every Monday, if you will believe me! There are the priests, for nothing —Santa Maria, they are not few! The first fare in the day?—always for the Madonna of the traghetto. This maledetto fare of the Madonna suffices for the Madonna''''s oil, I ask you? Ebbene non! There are the fines—and these, it must be confessed, might be fewer, for the saints are tired of keeping us out of mischief. And little there is for one''''s own madonna, if one would make gifts!\"
\"This, then, for thine own madonna,\" said the artist pleasantly, tossing him a considerable coin. \"And may she make thee wiser; for, by thine inventory, which it doth not harm thee to rehearse, thou hast a good memory.\"
\"Eccellenza, there is more, if you be not weary. There is the government tax; it takes long to gather—ask the gastaldo ! There are the soldiers for the navy; how many good men does that leave for the traghetto service? And a license is not little to buy for a poor barcariol who would be his own man; one pays three hundred lire —not less. Does it drop into one''''s hand with the first fare? One must belong to the Guilds—it is less robbery!\"
\"But for your gastaldo, your great man, for him it is much honor—\"
\"Eccellenza, believe it not. If the taxes are not there for the provveditori, it is the gastaldo who pays. When the money is little it is the gastaldo who pays much. And the toso—all his faults blamed on the traghetti! Ah, signore, for the gondolier it is a life—Santa Maria!\" He threw up his hands with a feint of being at a loss to convey its hardships.
\" Come non c''''è altro !\" said the Veronese, laughing; \"there is none like it.\"
\"Ebbene—va bene!\" the gondolier confessed, joining heartily in the merriment, his grievance, which was nevertheless a real one, infinitely lessened by confession.
Suddenly the old man rose and bowed his head, and both gondoliers crossed themselves. The Veronese also bared his head and made the sign of reverence, for they were passing the island of San Michele, toward which a mournful procession of boats, each with its torch and its banner of black, was slowly gliding, while back over the water echoed the dirge from those sobbing cellos. Here, where only the dead were sleeping, the sky was as blue and the sea as calm as if sorrow had never been born in the world.
Before them Murano, low-lying, scattered, was close at hand, the smoke of its daily activities tremulous over it, dimming the beauty of sky and sea.
\"His Excellency knows Murano? The Duomo, with its mosaics? Wonderful! there are none like them; and it is old—''''ma antica''''! And the stabilimenti?—it is glory enough for one island! Ah, the padrone wishes to visit the stabilimento Magagnati?\"
Paolo Cagliari had not known what he would do until the old man''''s suggestion seemed to make his vision less vaguely inaccessible, and before they reached the landing he had learned, by a judicious indifference which sharpened his companion''''s loquacity, that Messer Girolamo lived there alone with his daughter, who went about always with a bambino in her arms—the child of a dead sister.
There could be no doubt; yet, to keep the old man talking, he put the question, \"She is very beautiful, the donzella?\"
\"Eccellenza\"—with a pause and deprecatory movement of the shoulders—\" cosi —so-so—a little pale—like a saint—devote. For the poor? Good, gentile , the donzel of Messer Girolamo. Bella , with rosy colors? Non !\"
With the Venetians there could be no sharp distinction between the decorative and the fine arts, as the fine arts were employed by them without limit in their sumptuous decorations; and that which elsewhere would have been merely decorative they raised, by exquisite quality and finish, to a point which deserved to be termed art, without qualifications.
The Veronese, who had been knighted by the Doge, could scarcely go unrecognized to any art establishment in any quarter of Venice, and with unconcealed pleasure Girolamo bowed low before this master who had come to do him honor; displaying all that the initiated would hold most precious among his treasures—that design, faded and dim, almost unrecognizable, of those early mosaics of the Master Pietro—he held nothing back. It was a day of honor for his house, and the two were alone in his cabinet.
The Veronese had a gift of sympathy; his heart opened to those who loved art and had conquered difficulties in her service, and the talk flowed freely. \"I believe,\" he said, as together they laid away the parchment, \"that in our modern mosaics we should keep to the massive lines of these earlier models—greater dignity and simplicity in outline and coloring. It is a mistake to attempt to confound this art with painting.\"