Part 35 (1/2)

”A picture does not need mind. But, to be worth anything, beauty it must have.”

”I don't know; a picture is a sort of companion. One of those pictures would not be that; you might as well have a beautiful idiot.”

”Ah, but a _picture_ is silent,” replied Blake.

Claudia laughed. ”You are incorrigible.” Then, going back to her first subject, ”I wish Mrs. Lenox would come here more,” she said.

”You think she needs this enriching process you have suggested?”

”In one way--yes. All this beauty here in Venice is so much to her husband; while she--is forever with that child!”

”But she does not keep him from the beauty.”

”No; but she might make it so much more to him if she would.”

”Why don't you suggest it to her?”

”There is no use. She does not understand me, I think. We speak a different language.”

”That may be. But I fancy she understands you.”

”Perhaps she does,” answered Claudia, with the untroubled frankness which was one of her noticeable traits. She spoke as though she thought, indeed, that Claudia Marcy's nature was a thing which Mrs. Lenox, or any one, might observe. Claudia rather admired her nature. It was not perfect, of course, but at least it was large in its boundaries, and above the usual feminine pettinesses; she felt a calm pride in that. She was silent for a while. The first sunset ray had now been joined by others, and together they had lighted up one-half of the choir-dome; its gold was all awake and glistening superbly, and the great mosaic figure enthroned there began to glow with a solemn, mysterious life.

”Men should not marry until they are at least thirty, I think,” resumed Claudia; ”and especially those of the imaginative or artistic temperament. Three-quarters of the incongruous marriages one sees were made when the husband was very young. It is not the wife's fault; at the time of the marriage she is generally the superior, the generous one; the benefit is conferred by her. But--she does not advance, and he does.”

”What would you propose in the way of--of an amelioration?” asked her listener.

”There can, of course, be no amelioration in actual cases. But there might be a prevention. I think that a law could be pa.s.sed--such as now exists, for instance, against the marriage of minors. If a man could not marry until he was thirty or older, he would at that time naturally select a wife who was ten years or so his junior rather than one of his own age.”

”And the women of thirty?”

”They would be already married to the men of fifty, you know.”

Here a figure emerging from the heavy red-brown shadows of the north aisle, and seeming to bring some of them with it, as it advanced, crossed the billowy pavement, and stopped before them. It was Mr. Lenox.

He took a seat on the other side of Blake, and they talked for a while of the way the chocolate-hued walls met the gold of the domes solidly, without shading, and of the total absence of white--two of the marked features of the rich interior of the old pirate cathedral. At length Blake rose, giving up his place beside Miss Marcy to the younger man. ”I think we have still a half-hour before that jailer of a janitor jangles his keys,” she said.

”Yes; but for the men of fifty it is time to be going,” answered Blake.

”They take cold rather easily, you know, those poor fellows of fifty.”

He went away. Claudia and Lenox remained until the keys jangled.

Every day the weather and the water-city grew more divinely fair. June began. And now even Mrs. Marcy saw no objection to their utilizing the moonlight, and no longer spoke of ”wraps.” The evenings were haunted by music; everybody seemed to be floating about singing or touching guitars. The effect of the mingled light and shadows across the fronts of the palaces was enchanting; they could not say enough in its praise.

”Still, do you know sometimes I would give it all for the fresh odor of the fields at home, in the country, and the old scent of lilacs,” said Mrs. Lenox.

”Do you care for lilacs?” said Claudia. ”If you had said roses--”

”No, I mean lilacs--the simple country lilacs. And I want to see some currant bushes, too; yes, and even an old wooden garden fence,” replied Mrs. Lenox, laughing, but nevertheless as if she meant what she said.

She went with them only that once in the evening, for when she reached home she found that the little boy had been wakeful, and that he had refused to go to sleep again because she was not there. After this the others went without her in a gondola holding four. At last, although the moonlight lingers longer in Venice than anywhere else, there was, for that month at least, no more. Yet still the evening air was delicious, and the music did not cease; the effect of the shadows was even more marvellous than the mingled light and shade had been. They continued to go out and float about for an hour or two in the warm, peopled darkness. They went also, but by daylight, to Torcello, and this time Theocritus was of the party. During half of the day he was more despotic than he had ever been, but later he seemed very tired; he slept in his aunt's arms all the way home. Once she made an effort to transfer him to her husband, as the weight of his little m.u.f.fled figure lay heavily on her slender arm; but Theocritus was awake immediately, and began to beat off his uncle's hands with all his might.