_ CHAPTER XXVIII
Venice was flooded with moonlight. The long line of palaces down the Canal Grande shone back from the breast of the water, starred with lights, repeated again and again in the rippling surface.
A ceaseless melody filled the air, braided of sounds familiar only to this magic city--echoes of laughter from balconies high in air, silvery tintinnabulations falling like drippings of water from speeding oars, franker bursts of merriment from the open windows of the palaces, low murmured tones of lovers in content from gliding gondolas, hoarse shouts of quick imperious orders from gondoliers to offending gondoliers, as they passed--apostrophes to liquid names of guardian saints, too melodious for denunciations, hurled back with triple expletives and forgotten the next moment in friendly parsiflage; here and there a strain of ordered music, in serenade, from a group of friendly gondolas swaying only with the tranquil movement of the water; or the mysterious tone of a violin, uttering a soul prayer meant for some single listener, which yet steals tremblingly forth upon the night air--more passionate, more beautiful and true than that other human voice which breaks the quiet of a neighboring calle with some monotonous love song of the people.
And far away, perhaps, in the quainter squares of the more primitive island villages--in Burano or Chioggia--before the Duomo, some reader lies at full length in the brilliant moonlight under the banner of San Marco, his "Boccaccio" open before him, repeating in a half-chant, monotonous and droning, some favorite tale from the well-worn pages to listeners who pause in groups in their evening stroll and linger until another story is begun; this time it is some strophe from the "Gerusalemme," to which a passing gondolier may chant the answering strain--for this is the very poem of the people, echoing familiarly from lip to lip, and tales from the Tasso are not seldom wrought into the ebony carvings of their barks. Meanwhile the younger men and maidens, on a neighboring fondamenta, keep step to the music of some strolling player who lives, content, on the trifling harvest of these moonlight festivities.
In the great Piazza of San Marco, with its hundreds of lights and its hurrying throng, life is gayer than in the day. Crowds come and go under the arcades, loiter at the tables closely set before the brilliant cafes, or stroll with laughter and snatches of song and free Venetian banter where there is less restraint, up and down the broad space of the Piazza, between the colonnade and the burnished Eastern magnificence of San Marco, beyond the reach of the yellow lamp flames--their laughing faces grotesque and weird in the white glare of the moon. But under the shadow of the Broglio and those great columns of the Ducal Palace there are only slow-moving figures here and there, wrapped in cloaks, and dark under the low, unlighted arches, talking in undertones which even the watchful Lion--so near, so cunning--does not always overhear.
But in the calles, half in moonlight and half in shadow, night wears a more poetic air of mystery and quiet; and if a fear but come in passing some dread spot of tragic memory, a gentle Virgin at every turning, with a dingy, flickering flame beneath her image, is waiting to grant her grace--for is not Venice the Virgin City? And on the splendid palaces in the broad canals the watching Madonna stands glorified in exquisite sculpture and cunningest blendings of color,--ofttimes a crown of light above her, or rays of stars, symbolic, beneath her feet,--casting her benediction far out on the water, which, ever in motion, repeats it in shimmering, widening circles--all-embracing--in which the stars of heaven shine, tangled and confused with these stars of a paradise in which earth has so large a part.
Yet in the glory and charm of this Venetian night how should there be space for sorrow or thought of care, or cause for the tears which brimmed the eyes of the Lady Marina, as she sat in her sculptured balcony at the bend of the Canal Grande, watching for the coming of Marcantonio, who lingered late at the Senate when every moment was precious to her!
Ever since her husband had left her she had sat with her little one gathered convulsively in her arms, showering upon him a tenderness so passionate and so unlike herself in its uncontrolled expression, that the child, wondering and afraid, was but half-beguiled by the rare treat of the music and the lights of the Canal Grande, and clamored for his nurse.
And now he was gone, with a kiss upon his sweet, round baby-mouth that was like a benediction and a dirge in which a whole heart of wild mother love sobbed itself out in renunciation--but to him it was only strange. And she herself had hushed the grieving quiver of his lip, and quickly filled his dimpled hands with flowers to win the farewell caress of that dancing smile which irradiated his face like an April sunbeam, parting the pink lips over a vision of pearly infant teeth.
Below, in the chapel, her maidens were decking it as for a festa with vines and blossoms which she and Marco had brought that day--that heavenly day--from the beautiful island of Sant' Elena, wandering alone, like rustic lovers, over the luxuriant flower-starred meadows and through the cloistered gardens of its ancient convent, lingering awhile in the chapel of the Giustiniani, while he rehearsed the deeds of those of his own name who slept there so tranquilly under their marble effigies--primate, ambassadors, statesmen, and generals; ay, and more than these--lovers, mothers, and little ones!
And now, while she sat alone in this holy moonlight, the voices of her maidens came in sounds of merriment through the fretted stonework of the great window, and a sweet odor of altar candles and incense mingled with the breath of the blossoms that was wafted up to her; for to-morrow, for the first time since her illness, there would be matins in the chapel of the palazzo, and Marcantonio had assured her that the new father confessor was much like Fra Francesco--coming, also, from the convent of the Servi, that he might seem nearer to her who had so loved the gentle confessor.
Ay, she had loved him, with a holy reverence, for his goodness and gentleness and faith; for his inflexible grasp of duty, according to his views of right; for his teachings, which she could understand and which she believed the Holy Mother had taught him--for his self-denial and suffering.
And now, for a few moments, she forgot herself--forgot to watch for Marco, her thoughts busied with the sad tale of Fra Francesco, which Piero, always
in viaggio for business of the Senate, had told her but a few days before--news that had reached him from the frontier. The gentle confessor had indeed completed his pilgrimage, barefooted, to Rome, but had gained no favor with the Holy Father; having at first been welcomed as a deserter from the enemy's camp, flattered, and plied with questions, to which Fra Francesco gave no answers--wishing no harm to Venice nor to any who sat in the councils of the Republic. Whereupon his lodgings had been changed and all communications with the brothers of the Servite chapel in Rome had been forbidden. And again, and more than once, he had been brought forth to be questioned; and again there had been nothing told of that which they sought, for they asked him of his friends, and his heart was true. But it was told that he had used strange words. "Each man is answerable to his own soul and to God for that which he believeth. He answereth not for the faith of another man--nor shall he bring danger upon his friend--who hath also his conscience and God for judge of his faith and actions."
"But what of Fra Paolo?" he had been asked; "How doth he defend himself for leading thus the cause of Venice against Rome?"
"Am I my brother's keeper?" the gentle Fra Francesco had answered; and had said no more.
"Thou shalt at least show us how one may obtain speech with him, for the furtherance of his soul's salvation--apart from the vigilance of the Senate, and without suspicion in the convent that the message cometh from Rome, else were it not received in that unholy city."
And in this also Fra Francesco was obdurate. And then, for disobedience to authority, acknowledged lawful by his own submission, came prison--wherein he languished, always obdurate,--and death,--perhaps from discontent or homesickness, one knows not; or from failure of his plans; or--there was a question of torture, but one knows not if it were true.
"No, no, it was not true!" Marina had exclaimed, quivering, when Piero had told her the story. "It is wicked to say these things--and they are not true!"
But now, alone--apart from all the brightness about her, from every hope of happiness except those few brief hours with Marco--she did not know if it might not be true; her heart was too sad to deny any pain that had been or that might be; but Fra Francesco's sad and gentle eyes seemed to smile upon her through whatever distance might be between them--of this, or of any other world--without reproach for those who had bidden him suffer, and charging her to keep her faith.
"If it be true," she said, "the end of pain is reached, and he hath won his happiness.--Why cometh not my Marco?"
A gondola of the Nicolotti detached itself from a group of serenaders just above the palace, was caught for a few moments among the
pali before the Ca' Giustiniani, and then floated leisurely down toward the Piazzetta. She noted it idly while she sat waiting for Marco, for in the gondola there was a graceful figure, closely wrapped, clasping her mantle yet more closely with a hand that was white and slender enough for one of the nobility; yet the gondolier wore the black sash of the Nicolotti with the great hat of a bravo shading his face. "It is some intrigue," she said, almost unconsciously, in the midst of her sad dreaming.
"Oh, Marco, thou art come! It hath been long without thee."
"The Senate is but just dismissed," he answered, smiling fondly at the eagerness which gave to her pale face a passing flush of health. "But why is the Lady Beata not with thee?" he questioned abruptly.
"She is in the chapel, making it fair with flowers."
"Thou knowest it, Marina?"
"She came to me with a question but a little while ago, when Marconino was with me--and I wished to be alone. Marco, he was so beautiful! And the day has been a dream; I wished for no one but for thee alone."
He held her hand in a mute caress, but with preoccupation, while his eyes wandered back to the Piazzetta searchingly.
"It is strange," he muttered to himself, still watching from the end of the balcony. "It was an echo of the Lady Beata's voice that startled me, crossing the Piazzetta saying two words only--'In Padua.'"
Then rousing himself, he turned brightly to his wife. "Carina, I have news for thee, for the time hath been momentous for us in Venice. Di Gioiosa hath gone forward, these many days, with terms from Venice; and soon, it is thought, there will be peace."
Terms from Venice to Rome!--but the words did not move her from her resolve to let no shadow of their difference mar the beauty of this night.
She looked at him wearily. "It is ever the same," she said, "through this long, dreary year--ever the same! Let us forget it all for this one night. Let us talk together of our Marconino!"
And as if there had been no questions--no interdict--no pain--while the night sounds died into silence and the moon withdrew her glamor and left them alone to the solemn mystery of the starlight, they sat and talked together of love and their little one and their hopes for him, and of things that lie too deep for utterance--save by one to one--far into that beautiful Venetian night, with the odor of flowers and incense blown up to them on the breath of the sea. _