"Yet it is thou who hast read the
secret of the face that was not revealed to me."
"We were speaking of the 'Libro d'Oro,'" the young patrician interrupted
eagerly.
"It may be so, I know not," the Veronese answered indifferently, for he
himself was not written in that noble chronicle. "My art deals little
with these cumbrous records of the Republic."
"Thou art wrong to scorn them, caro maestro, for in them is chronicled
the glory of Venice."
"The saying doeth honor--from a pupil to his master!" the artist burst
forth with his quick, uncontrollable temper. "The Tablets of Stone were
reserved for the highest dignity of the Law; and in that Sala dei Capi,
where at this moment sits Giustinian Giustiniani--one of the chosen
three of the Council of the Ten--my name is written largely with mine
own hand, as artists write their names, _above_ the heads of rulers for
all coming time to see! The _Avvogadori_ do not keep my 'Libro d'Oro';
the entrance to it is by divine right!"
He flung his brushes fiercely aside, in one of those moods that seemed
all unwarranted in comparison with the slightness of the
provocation--moods that alternated with the lovable, genial, generous
impulses of an artist soul, overwhelming in energy and great in
friendship; yet jealous, to a degree a lesser nature could scarcely
pardon, of anything that seemed to touch upon his province as an artist
and the claims of art to highest honor.
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