He had not
dreamed that he could ever say, while strength yet remained to think and
plan, "The house of Magagnati has touched its height, and others may
come forward to do the rest for Venice."
And the secret lay so near--scarcely eluding him!
It was no mere empty jealousy, nor trivial wish for fame, nor greed of
recompense--of which he had enough--that forced the veins out on the
strong forehead of this master-worker, as he struggled with this
question of surrendering all for his daughter's peace. It was the art in
which his ancestors had taken the lead from the earliest industrial
triumphs of the Republic--an art in which Venice stood first--and in his
simple belief it was not less to their glory than the work of a Titian
or a Sansovino. In this field he wrought whole-hearted, with the passion
of an artist who has achieved, and his place and part in the Republic,
as in life, was bounded for him by his art. "To stand with folded
hands--always, hereafter, to be unnecessary to Venice!"
How should one who had not been born in Venice ever guess the strange
fascination of that magic city for her sons, or dream with what a
passion the blood of generations of Venetian ancestry surged in one's
veins, compelling patriotism, so that it was not possible to do aught
with one's gifts and life that did not enhance the greatness of so fair
a kingdom! It was the wonderful secret of the empire of Venice that here
the pride of self was counted only as a factor in the superior pride of
her dominion.
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