The Veronese did not paint that beautiful face the next morning as he had planned; for the first time he had encountered difficulties. Slowly, as he wended his way through the many turnings of the narrow calle to Campo San Maurizio, carrying a beautiful Moorish box filled with the pearly shells which the Venetians call “flowers of the Lido,” and a bouquet of aromatic carnations for the bambino, he recalled the figure and speech of his Madonna, and they were not those of the maidens whom one might encounter at the traghetto or in the Piazza; there had been a dignity and self-forgetfulness in such perfect harmony with the face that, at the moment, this had seemed entirely natural. But the tones returned to him as he pondered, filled with a deeper melody than the usual winning speech of the Venetian; with the grace of the soft dialect there was a rare, unexpected quality, as if thought had formed the undertone. He had never heard such a voice in the Piazza it was rare even in the palazzo; it was the voice of some sweet and gracious woman with a soul too large for the world; it held a suggestion of peace and convent bells and even-songs of nuns.

Then, still more passionately, the desire overcame him to paint that face for his Madonna; he would never give it up! Yet this maiden was not one of whom he could ask the favor that he craved, nor to whom he could offer any return.

He had come to San Maurizio to take a gondola from the traghetto, partly that he might be free to wander without comment wherever his search should lead, partly because he was always ready for a chat with the people; their experiences interested him, and he himself belonged by his artist life, as by his sympathies, to all classes. Perhaps, too, he had been moved with a vague hope that he might find the face he was seeking, for he was used to fortunate happenings. But there were no waiting Madonnas under the pergola, and the air of the early spring morning blew chill from the Lido, almost with an intimation of failure to his sensitive mood. He pushed aside an old gransiere, without the gift of small coin that usually flowed so easily from his hand, for service rendered or unrendered, as he impatiently questioned the gondoliers.

“One who knows Murano well!” he called.

There was an instant response from an old man almost past traghetto service, but his age and probable garrulity commended him.

“I will take thee and thy gondola, since thou knowest Murano,” said the artist kindly; “but I must go swiftly, and I would not tax thee. Thou shalt have thy fare, but I will pay for another gondolier also from the traghetto; he must be young and lusty. Choose thou him and hasten.”

There was a babel of voices and a self-gratulatory proffer of lithe forms, while the old gondolier turned undecidedly from one to another, and the tottering gransiere ostentatiously protected the velvet mantle of the artist as he sprang into the boat. With an impatient gesture the Veronese indicated his choice, and they were soon on their way.

“Come hither, vecchio mio, and rest thine old bones; let the young one work for us both,” the padrone commanded, as he flung himself down among the cushions. “Do they treat thee well at thy traghetto?”

“Eccellenza, yes; but I am scarce older than the others; it is the young ones who make us trouble; they keep not the Mariegole, and it is only the old one may depend upon.”

“Davvero, the world is changed then! It used to be good to be young.”

“Eccellenza, yes; when I myself was not old, and his excellency also had no beard.”

“If age and wisdom might be traded for the time of youthful pranks,” said the Veronese with twinkling eyes, “I doubt if there were wisdom enough left in Venice to cavil at the barter! Yet thou and I, having wisdom thrust upon us by these same beards, if trouble come to thee, or too soon they put thee at the gransiere service, we will remember this day passed together.”

“Eccellenza, thanks; the gransiere has not much beside his beard to keep him warm, and the time draws near,” the old man answered with pleasant Venetian insouciance.

“Tell me,” said the Veronese, turning to the younger man, “why do you young fellows make Venice ring with your scandals? You are cutting off your own ‘liberties.’”

“Yes, signore.” The gondolier hesitated, glancing doubtfully at the artist’s sumptuous attire, which might have indicated a state much greater than he kept; for the Veronese was famed throughout Venice, in quarters where he was better known, for an unfailing splendor of costume which would have made him at all times a model for the pictures he loved to paint. Recently, for bad conduct, the gondoliers had been gradually forfeiting their licenses, or “liberties,” as they were called in Venice, and the thought crossed the young fellow’s mind that this splendid stranger was possibly one of those government officials who were charged with the supervision of the confraternities of the traghetti.

“It is the first time I have the honor of conducting his Excellency; he is perhaps of the Provveditori al Común?” These officials collected the government taxes and were viewed with jealous eyes by the gondoliers.

“Nay; I am Paolo Cagliari; I belong to a better craft. But please thyself, for there is much talk of this matter.”

“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 “così 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.”

“It is good, then, for our art, Messer Cavaliere, that at San Donato, our mother church, we workmen of Murano have our Lady in that old Byzantine type; there is none earlier nor in all Venice more perfect of its time and the setting is of marvelous richness and delicacy.”

“It is most interesting,” said the Veronese. “Sometimes a question has come to me, if an artist cannot do the all, is he most the artist who stops below his limitation or beyond it? A question of the earlier hint, or the later realization.”

“Between the mosaic and the painting, perhaps?” Girolamo questioned, greatly interested.

“Nay, not between the arts, but of that which is possible to each. It is not a Venetian question. Here all is warmth, color, beauty, joy; here art is the expression of redundancy it hath lost its symbolism.”

“I know only Venice the Greek and the Venetian types. But I have heard that the Michelangelo was in himself a type?”

“He was a prophet,” the Veronese answered reverently, “like the great Florentine a seer of visions; but at Rome only one understands why he was born. He was a maker, creating mighty meanings under formlessness. His great shapes seem each a mystery, wrestling with a message.”

“I had thought there was none who equaled him in form that he was even as a sculptor in his painting.”

“And it was even so. When I spake of ‘formlessness’ it was not the less, but the more; as if, before the visions had taken mortal shape, he, being greater than men, saw them as spirits.”

“Never before have I talked with one who knew this master,” said Girolamo, “and it is a feast.”

“Nay, I knew him not, for it was not easy to get speech with him, nor a favor a young man might crave. But once I saw him at his work in San Pietro, where he wrought most furiously and would take no payment ’for the good of his soul,’ he said, that he might end his life with a pious work. The night was coming on, and already his candle was fastened to his hat, that he might lose no time. They had brought him a little bread and wine for his evening meal, for often he went not home when the mood of work possessed him; and beside him was a writing of the man Savonarola this and the Holy Evangel and the ‘Inferno’ fashioned his thoughts. He lived not long after that, for we were still in Rome when they made for him that great funeral in Santa Croce of Florence, the rumor of which is dear to artist hearts. He was great and lonely, and he knew no joy; there hath been none like him.”

“And the Tintoretto, at Santa Maria dell’ Orto?”

“He, too, is a furioso, wonderful in form and the Michelangelo had not the coloring of our Jacopo. But the terror of the Tintoretto is very terrible and very human. The Michelangelo fills a great gloom with phantasms they question and one cannot escape.”

“It hath been a morning of delights,” Girolamo said with grave courtesy when the talk had come to an end. “I thank the master for this honor.”

“Nay,” answered the knightly Veronese; “it is I who have received. And more, yet more would I ask. I know not if in this chamber of treasures I may leave the trifle which I came to bring for the bambino?” he added with hesitation, as he placed upon the table his little inlaid box of baubles and his bunch of spicy flowers. “Yet it was a promise.”

And while Girolamo listened in astonishment he told abruptly the story of his meeting with Marina and the little one, unconsciously weaving his thoughts into such a picture as he talked, that Girolamo recognized the inspiration and was already won to plead his cause.

“This,” continued the artist, unfolding a letter, “is the order which hath been sent me by Fra Paolo Sarpi, of the convent of the Servi, a man most wise and of high repute in Venice. ‘The face,’ this learned friar sayeth, ’must be full of consolation and one to awaken holy thoughts. And I, being not an artist’ (which, because he is greater than so many of his craft, he hath the grace to acknowledge!), ’have no other word to say, save that it shall be noble and most spiritual, as befitteth our religion.’ And such a face till now, Messer Girolamo Magagnati so beautiful and holy I have not found. But now it is a vision sent to me from heaven, quite other than any picture I have ever dreamed, and I will paint no other for this Madonna of the Servi. I also, like the Angelo, would give my holiest work for the good of my soul; for the days of man are numbered, though his blood be warm in his veins like wine! It would be a pious act for the maiden; and if she will most graciously consent, the picture shall be an offering for the altar of the chapel of Consolation in the Servi.”

“I will ask her,” said the father simply, and felt no surprise at what he had granted when he was left alone with his thoughts, for Paolo Cagliari, because of a way he had that men could not resist, already seemed to him a friend; for the rare mingling of knightly grace and artistic enthusiasm, overcoming spasmodically the usual assertiveness of his demeanor, seemed at such moments to mean more than when assumed by those who were never passionate nor brusque, and his very incongruities held a fascination for his friends.