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Page 71
[Illustration: RAPHAEL. ACADEMY, BOLOGNA.
SAINT CECILIA.]
They tarried long before Francia's paintings and the _St. Cecilia_. Mr.
Sumner told them to note the more subtle _motif_ of Raphael's picture;
the superior grace of the figures, their careful distribution, and the
fine scheme of color; the sympathetic look in St. John's face; the
grandly meditative St. Paul.
"I have a theory of my own about the meaning of this picture," said
Bettina. "I thought it out one day when I was studying the photograph. I
know it is always said, in descriptions of it, that all are listening to
the music of the angels, but I do not think any of them save St. Cecilia
hear the music of the angelic choir. She hears it, because she has so
longed for it,--so striven to produce the highest music on earth. But
the others are only moved by their sympathy with her. See the wistful
look on St. John's face, and St. Augustine's also. And St. Paul is lost
in wondering thought at St. Cecilia's emotion. And Mary Magdalene is
asking us to look at her and try to understand her rapt upward look."
"I do not know," said Mr. Sumner, with a soft look in his eyes, "why you
should not have your own private interpretation of the picture, dear
'Lady Betty';" and he smiled at Malcom as he used the latter's favorite
appellation for Bettina.
Chapter XVIII.
In Venice.
_From the land we went
As to a floating city--steering in,
And gliding up her streets as in a dream
By many a pile in more than eastern pride,
Of old the residence of merchant-kings:
The fronts of some, tho' time had shattered them,
Still gleaming with the richest hues of art,
As though the wealth within them had run o'er._
--ROGERS.
[Illustration: SAN MARCO, VENICE.]
Just after sunset the following evening they approached Venice. The long
black train glided along above a sea flushed with purple and crimson and
gold. Like a mirage the fair city--Longfellow's "white water-lily,
cradled and caressed"--arose, lifting her spires--those "filaments of
gold"--above the waters.
"Can it be real?" murmured Bettina. "It seems as if all must fade away
before we reach it."
But in a few minutes the _facchini_ seized their hand-luggage, and they
alighted as at any commonplace railway-station. But oh! the revelation
when they went out upon the platform, up to which, not carriages, but
gondolas were drawn, and from which stretched, not a dusty pavement, but
the same gold and crimson and purple of sky reflected in the waters at
their feet.
"Is it true that we are mortal beings still on the earth, and that we
are seeking merely a hotel?" exclaimed Malcom, as they floated on
between two skies to the music of lapping oars. "Madge, you ought to
have some poetry to fit this."
"I know enough verses about Venice," replied Margery, whose eyes were
dancing with joyous excitement, and who was trailing her little hot hand
through the cool water, "but nothing fits. Nothing can fit; for who
could ever put into words the beauty of all this?"
By and by they left the Grand Canal, passed through narrower ones, with
such high walls on either side that twilight rapidly succeeded the
sunset glow; floated beneath the Bridge of Sighs, and were at the steps
of their hotel.
The next few days were devoted wholly to drinking in the spirit of
Venice. Mr. Sumner hired gondolas which should be at the service of his
party during the month they were to spend there, and morning, noon, and
night found them revelling in this delight. They went to San Marco in
early morning and late afternoon; fed the pigeons in the Piazza; ate
ice-cream under its Colonnade; went to the Lido, and floated along the
Grand Canal beside the music and beneath the moonlight for hours at
night, and longed to be there until the morning.
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