University of Virginia Library

2. II.

It was toward midnight when the Mangia-foco entered the
Adige, and keeping its steady way between the low banks of the
river, made for the grass-grown and flowery canal which connects
its waters with the Po. Most of the passengers had yielded to
the drowsy influence of the night air, and, of the aristocratic
party on the larboard side, the young Marchesa alone was waking:
her friends had made couches of their cloaks and baggage, and
were reclining at her feet, while the artists, all except the Signor
Basil, were stretched fairly on the deck, their portfolios beneath
their heads, and the large hats covering their faces from the
powerful rays of the moon.

“Miladi does justice to the beauty of the night,” said the

waking artist, in a low and respectful tone, as he rose from
her feet with a cluster of tuberoses she had let fall from her
hand.

“It is indeed lovely, Signor pittore,” responded the Marchesa,
glancing at his portfolio, and receiving the flowers with a gracious
inclination; “have you touched Venice from the lagoon tonight?”

The Signor Basil opened his portfolio, and replied to the indirect
request of the lady by showing her a very indifferent sketch
of Venice from the island of St. Lazzaro. As if to escape from
the necessity of praising what had evidently disappointed her, she
turned the cartoon hastily, and exposed, on the sheet beneath,
the spirited and admirable outline of her own matchless features.

A slight start alone betrayed the surprise of the high-born lady,
and, raising the cartoon to examine it more closely, she said with
a smile, “You may easier tread on Titian's heels than Canaletti's.
Bezzuoli has painted me, and not so well. I will awake
the Marquis, and he shall purchase it of you.”

“Not for the wealth of the Medici, madam!” said the young
man, clasping his portfolio hastily, “pray, do not disturb monsignore!
The picture is dear to me!”

The Marchesa, looking into his face, with a glance around,
which the accomplished courtier before her read better than she
dreamed, drew her shawl over her blanched shoulders, and
settled herself to listen to the conversation of her new acquaintance.

“You would be less gracious if you were observed, proud
beauty,” thought Basil; “but, while you think the poor painter
may while away the tediousness of a vigil, he may feed his eyes
on your beauty as well.”

The Mangia-foco turned into the canal, threaded its lily-paved
waters for a mile or two, and then, putting forth upon the broad
bosom of the Po, went on her course against the stream, and,
with retarded pace, penetrated toward the sun-beloved heart of
Italy. And while the later hours performed their procession
with the stars, the Marchesa del Marmore leaned sleepless and
unfatigued against the railing, listening with mingled curiosity
and scorn to the passionate love-murmur of the enamored painter.
His hat was thrown aside, his fair and curling locks were flowing
in the night air, his form was bent earnestly but respectfully
toward her, and on his lip, with all its submissive tenderness,
there sat a shadow of something she could not define, but which
rebuked, ever and anon, as with the fierce regard of a noble, the
condescension she felt toward him as an artist.