The Story of Glass
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Sara Ware Bassett >> The Story of Glass
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"Yes, he is. I fancy he will decide so, too, when he finds all his sofa
cushions torn, and his shoes chewed up," chuckled Uncle Bob. "Let him
take his turn at it."
Beacon provided for, the remainder of the European plan seemed simple
enough. To be sure there was Hannah, who at first flatly refused to be
separated from the golden dome of the State House or from the Boston
"Evening Transcript." At last, however, after much persuasion she
consented to suffer these deprivations for the common good, and brought
herself to purchasing the necessary clothing for Jean and herself. To
these she added French, German and Italian dictionaries because, as she
explained: "We might get lost or parted from your Uncle Bob somehow,
and you never can tell what will happen in those heathen countries
where the poor people cannot speak English. How men and women can live
in places where they talk those dreadful languages and use that queer
money when they might come over here to Boston----"
"That's right, Hannah," agreed Uncle Bob, playfully urging her on.
"And all that strange weather! Why, I read only the other day that in
Italy they just have summer all the year round. So foolish! They never
get any snow at all--think of that! It is such a slack and lazy way to
do always to be wearing one set of things and never getting out any
winter flannels. I shouldn't know where I was if I didn't chalk off the
seasons by my house cleaning, preserving, getting out the furs, and
putting them away. I just know those Italians live without any system.
How could they be expected to have any when it's summer all the time?"
She sniffed scornfully.
In fact Hannah sniffed a good many times before the great ship which
was carrying them to Naples docked beneath the shadow of Vesuvius. The
staterooms she termed little coops, and the berths nothing more nor
less than shelves.
"When I go to bed, Mr. Bob, I feel exactly as if I was a sheet put away
in the linen closet."
Uncle Bob and Jean both laughed. Hannah kept them royally entertained.
"As for these clocks that strike every hour but the right one--I've
nothing to say," she went on. "If the captain prefers to ring two when
he means nine, well and good. He runs the ship and it is his lookout,
although I will say it is hard on the rest of us. He explains that it
has something to do with the watch--whose watch I don't know; his own,
I suppose. Evidently he has some queer way of telling time, some theory
he is free to work out when he is here in the middle of the ocean away
from land. Be glad, Jean, that you learned to tell time properly, and
that you live with people who are content to use the old method and do
not set themselves up to invent a system that is a puzzle to every one
but themselves."
Thus Hannah measured every new experience, applying to it the Beacon
Hill standard. If it conformed to what was done in Boston it was quite
correct, but if it varied in the least it was condemned as
"ridiculous."
To Jean, on the contrary, the voyage was one of unending delight. She
proved herself an excellent sailor, and was never tired of playing
shuffle-board on the deck or pacing to and fro with Uncle Bob in the
fresh breeze. And when at last Gibraltar was reached and she actually
beheld the coasts of Spain, Africa and Italy, her wonder grew until she
said she had to pinch herself to be sure she was alive and not
dreaming. It was a journey of marvels.
"I feel exactly as if I had gone down the rabbit hole with Alice," she
exclaimed, squeezing Uncle Bob's arm as they were disembarking at
Naples.
Uncle Bob was in such a hurry to reach Florence that the travelers did
not stay long in Naples--only long enough to visit the famous Aquarium
with its myriad of strange sea creatures, and to take a flying glimpse
of the Museum. It was at the latter place that Jean saw the celebrated
Naples Vase which, Uncle Bob told her, was found over a hundred years
ago in a tomb in Pompeii.
"It probably was made by very skilful Grecian workmen about the year 70
A. D. Think how wonderful it is that there were artists living many
thousands of years ago who knew how to make such a beautiful thing.
Look closely at it, Jean, for it is one of the art treasures of the
world."
Jean looked.
The vase, scarcely more than a foot in height, was of dark blue glass,
and had upon it in white a design of delicate Grecian figures.
"It was first made with a coating of white opaque glass entirely over
the blue," Uncle Bob explained. "Then the artist with extreme care and
some sharp instrument cut this beautiful picture of the harvest
gatherers. Notice, too, how the pattern is repeated on the handles. It
is a pity the base or foot of the vase is missing; it was probably of
gold and was doubtless stolen at some time. There is now made in
England a kind of pottery called Wedgwood, which has much this same
effect although, of course, it is far less perfectly fashioned."
"I'm glad I do not have this thing to dust," Hannah observed grimly.
"Well you may be, Hannah," Uncle Bob retorted, "for the vase is worth
thousands of dollars. There are in the world several very famous glass
vases--this is one; the Auldjo Vase, also from Pompeii and now in the
British Museum, is another; and the Portland Vase, which is there too,
makes a third. The design on the Portland Vase is considered even finer
than this. We shall see it and I will tell you its history when we get
to London."
What weren't they to see!
Jean's head was a jumble of fairy anticipations--of Crown Jewels,
palaces, gondolas, famous pictures, and scenes of undreamed of beauty.
The Tower of London merged itself with visions of Napoleon's Tomb,
while in and out of her mind flitted fragmentary pictures of Notre Dame
and the Vatican. Everything seemed so old!
"At first I stood with my mouth open when I was told things were built,
or dug up, or made hundreds of years ago," laughed Jean. "But now I
find I am growing fussy, and unless a thing is thousands of years old
it scarcely seems worth looking at. How horribly new they must think us
in America! Even Bunker Hill and the State House, Hannah, are very
modern," she added teasingly.
"Now, Jean, if this trip to Europe is going to make you turn up your
nose at your native land the best thing you can do is to face round and
go straight back home," was Hannah's severe reply.
"There, there, you dear old thing! Don't worry. I love my America, but
you should have learned by this time that I never can resist seeing you
bristle. But even you, bigoted as you are, must admit that a great deal
seems to have happened in the world before we on the other side of the
sea were alive at all."
"Much of it," observed Hannah with dignity, "was nothing to be proud
of, and it's as well they kept it on this side of the ocean."
From Naples Uncle Bob whirled his bewildered charges to Rome and then
to Florence, and while he was busy transacting business Hannah and Jean
were put in charge of a courier and taken to see so many pictures and
churches that Hannah begged never to be shown another masterpiece or
another spire so long as she lived.
"Bless your heart, Mr. Bob, if you were to lean the Sistine Madonna
right up against the table in my room I wouldn't turn my head to look
at it. And as for churches--I wouldn't accept Westminster Abbey as a
gift. Tell 'em not to urge it on me, for I wouldn't take it even if I
could get it through the customs free of duty. The things I'd like best
at this very minute would be an east wind and some baked beans."
But when they reached Venice and saw their first gondola even Hannah
was forced to admit that it far outshone the Boston swan-boats. The
travelers arrived late at night, and on passing through the station
came out on a broad platform where, instead of cabs and cars,
numberless gondolas floated, illumined by twinkling lights.
"Oh!" murmured Jean in a hushed whisper.
It was indeed a beautiful sight. Before them a stretch of water flooded
by the full moon wandered off into a multitude of tiny canals shut in
on either side by murky dwellings of stone or brick. In and out of
these dim little avenues plied boatmen who shouted a warning in shrill
Italian as they rounded the turns.
Uncle Bob lost no time in summoning a gondolier, and soon the party
were being swept along by the sturdy strokes of a swarthy Venetian who,
Hannah declared in an undertone, looked like nothing so much as a
full-fledged brigand. She could not be persuaded to take her hand off
her luggage, but sat clutching it with all her strength until she
arrived at the hotel. Jean, on the other hand, was too excited by the
novelty of the scene to know or care what the boatman looked like. Her
one fear seemed to be that if she went to bed and allowed herself to
fall asleep the wonderful water streets might vanish forever. It took
all Uncle Bob's pleading to make her close her eyes. At last, however,
she did and when she opened them in the morning her very first thought
was to fly to the window and see if the canals were still there.
No, it was not a dream!
There were the moving gondolas, the narrow water streets, and the
glorious dome of Del Salute directly opposite across the sparkling
expanse of the Grand Canal.
Jean suppressed a cry of delight, and scurried into her clothes.
"Now, Uncle Bob," she announced at breakfast, "I want to go straight
out in a gondola the minute I have finished my chocolate and rolls. I
think I am pretty good to stop for them at all. I want to go and stay
until noon. May I?"
"Well, let me think a second, little girl," replied Uncle Bob. "I am
afraid I must run over to the bankers' directly after breakfast, so I
won't be able to start right away; I can, however, take you later."
Then as he saw Jean's face fall he added, "You and Hannah may go early
if you like and come back for me at eleven. How will that do?"
"It will do beautifully only I wish you could be with us. How shall we
know how to get a boatman, or tell him where to take us? I am sure I
couldn't, and Hannah's Italian is not very good, although," with a
mischievous smile, "I suppose she could use her dictionary."
"I will arrange everything with a gondolier before I leave for the
bankers'," Uncle Bob answered. "Now I must be running along. Suppose
the gondola is here at half-past nine."
"The earlier the better," cried Jean.
Promptly at the hour set the gondola glided up to the steps of the
Grand Canal Hotel where Jean and Hannah were waiting. It was an
unusually beautiful gondola, with scarlet curtains and a gilded prow
carved in the shape of a woman's head.
Jean sprang forward, all eagerness, her eyes on the magic apparition.
Then suddenly her foot slipped on the slime left by the tide on the
marble step, and she would have fallen into the water had not a young
boy, with rare presence of mind, leaped forward and caught her.
Another moment and Hannah, white with fright, had the girl in her arms.
"Oh, my dear child!" she wailed. "My precious lamb! Thank goodness, you
are safe. Think if you'd been drowned before you had had a chance to
see Venice at all! But you are quite safe now, honey. Don't be
frightened. Young man," and she turned to the boy, "that was a good
deed of yours. What is your name? But there--how silly to be asking him
when he can't understand a word I'm saying. I forgot no one could
understand anything in this queer, upside-down town where the streets
are water when they ought to be land."
To her utter astonishment, however, the boy answered in English, which,
although slightly broken, was perfectly intelligible.
"My name is Giusippe Cicone."
"Say it again," demanded Hannah. "Say it more slowly."
"Giusippe Cicone."
"Giusippe," echoed Hannah, "Giusippe Cicone. There! Giusippe Cicone. I
got it better that time. Giusippe Cicone. Now I have it! Well, Master
Giusippe Cicone, it was very good of you to save this little lady from
a ducking in your canal which, if I may be permitted to say so, is not
as clean as it might be. We are very much obliged to you, and here is
some money to pay you for being so quick."
The boy shook his head.
"I could not take money for saving the senorita from the water,"
protested he proudly. "I was glad to do it. I could not take pay."
"Well, I thank you very much," Jean ventured shyly.
He helped Hannah and the girl into the waiting gondola and then stood
on the steps shading his eyes with his brown hand as the gondolier made
his way to the oar.
"Perhaps you can tell us where we can find you if we should want to see
you again," called Hannah as the distance between them widened.
"Certainly. I am at Murano." He pointed across the lagoon to a distant
island.
"Murano?"
"Yes, I work there. Every one knows me at the glass works."
[Illustration: "EVERY ONE KNOWS ME AT THE GLASS WORKS"]
He waved his hand and was soon lost to sight.
"I do wonder who he is," speculated Jean, who had now quite recovered
from her fright and could smile at the memory of the episode. "And how
strange that he understood English!"
"I don't call it strange," Hannah responded. "English is the only
sensible language, and probably this boy realizes it. I think it speaks
well for his discrimination."
"Anyway, he was a gentleman not to take the money; and yet he looked
poor," reflected the girl.
"One may be a gentleman despite poverty, thank goodness," Hannah said.
"Your uncle will probably insist upon hunting him up and thanking him.
I can't see, Jean, how you came to slip that way. Wasn't the boatman
holding on to you?" and for the tenth time every detail of the disaster
had to be gone over.
"Well, all I can say is that if anything had happened to you I never
should have dared show my face to your Uncle Bob. And think of your
Uncle Tom at home--he would have things to say! They would both blame
me even if it was not my fault," sighed Hannah.
"Of course it wasn't your fault. How could you possibly be to blame if
I was so heedless as to rush ahead without looking where I was going?
I'm always doing that, Hannah; you know I am. I am always in such a
hurry to enjoy the things I like that I never can wait a moment. This
is a good lesson for me. I just hope the salt water won't spoil my new
tan shoes. Come! Let us talk of something pleasanter. Isn't it too
perfectly lovely out here? Look back at the shore and see how St.
Mark's and the Campanile stand out. I know those already, because I
remember seeing pictures of them in my geography. Oh, I am so glad we
are here! I am sure we shall have a wonderful time in Venice even if I
did begin by nearly drowning myself in the canal."
"It is all very well to laugh about it now," Hannah answered solemnly,
"but it was no laughing matter when it happened--no laughing matter!"
CHAPTER III
GIUSIPPE TELLS A STORY
When Uncle Bob heard of Jean's adventure he lost no time, you may be
sure, in hunting up Giusippe Cicone. A note was sent to Murano asking
that the lad call at the hotel; and as the following day chanced to be
a festa day the glass works were closed and Giusippe presented himself
directly after breakfast. He was neatly although poorly clothed, and
had he had no other claim to Mr. Cabot's good will than his frank face
that would have won him a welcome. Perhaps added to Uncle Bob's
gratitude there was, too, a measure of the artist's joy in the
beautiful; for Giusippe was handsome. Thick brown hair clustered about
the well-formed head; his eyes were of soft hazel; and into his round
olive cheek was steeped the rich crimson of the southern sun. More than
all this, he was a well bred lad--manly, courteous, and proud. When Mr.
Cabot began to thank him for his service to Jean the boy made light of
what he had done and once more refused to accept any reward.
Uncle Bob's curiosity was aroused.
Never before had he met an Italian who would not take money when it was
offered him.
"Perhaps you would be willing, young man, to tell us more about
yourself," said he at last. "You work in the glass factory, you say.
Have you been long there?"
Giusippe smiled, showing two rows of dazzling white teeth.
"So long, senor, that I cannot remember when I was not there. And
before me was my father, and my grandfather; and before that his
father; and so on back for years and years. There was always a Cicone
at Murano. For you must know, senor, that glass-making has ever been
the great art of Venice. When paintings began to take the place of the
glass mosaics then came the height of fame for Venetian glass. For you
will remember that for many years before artists could paint people
made pictures out of bits of glass, and in this way represented to
those who had no books scenes from the Bible or from history. Then
wonderful painters were born in Italy and they crowded out the mosaic
makers, who had previously decorated the churches, palaces, and public
buildings. The making of glass mosaics died out and it was then that
the Venetian artisans turned their attention and their skill to the
making of other glass things--beads, mirrors, drinking cups, and
ornaments. In fact," went on Giusippe, "there soon became so many glass
houses in Venice that the Great Council feared a terrible fire might
sweep the island, and in 1291, with the exception of a few factories
for small articles, all the glass houses were banished to the island of
Murano a mile distant where, if fire came, no destruction could be done
to the city of Venice itself. Those factories which were allowed to
remain had to have a space of fifteen paces around them. By the decree
of the Council the other glass houses were torn down."
"And it was thus that your great-great-great-great-great-grandfather
was driven to Murano, was it?" queried Mr. Cabot.
"Yes. He was a member of the guild of bead-makers. For you know,
senor, that in those days workmen were banded together in guilds,
and kept the mysteries of their trade to themselves. The precious
secret was handed down from father to son. So it was with my
great-great-great-great-great-grandfather."
Giusippe drew himself up.
"Oh, it was a grand thing to be a glass-maker in those days, senor!"
continued the boy, his eyes glowing. "The members of the guilds were so
honored in Venice that they were considered equal in birth to the
noblest families. They were gentlemen. A titled woman felt only pride
in uniting herself with a glass-maker's family."
"Perhaps that is what your great-great-great-great-great-grandmother
did," Jean said, half aloud.
"Yes, senorita," was Giusippe's simple answer. "And they say, too, she
was beautiful. My ancestor was of the _pater-nostereri_; he was a maker
of beads for rosaries. Then there were the _margaritai_, who made small
beads; and the _fuppialume_, who made large blown beads. Each man was a
skilled artist, you see, and did some one special thing. The _phiolari_
made vases, cups, and glass for windows; the _cristallai_ optical
glass; and the _specchiai_ mirrors. No strangers were allowed to visit
the glass works, and all apprentices must pass a rigid examination not
only as to their skill, but as to their previous personal history. In
1495 the glass houses at Murano extended for a mile along a single
street and the great furnaces roared night and day, so you can imagine
how much glass was made on the island."
"My!" gasped Jean breathlessly.
"Absolute loyalty to the art was demanded of every man engaged in it,"
Giusippe said. "And you can see, senor, that this was necessary. Any
workman carrying the secrets elsewhere was first warned to return to
Venice; then, if he refused, his nearest relative was imprisoned; if he
still refused to obey he was tracked down and killed. Often glass-makers
were found in Padua, Ravenna, and other places stabbed through the
heart, and the word _Traitor_ was fastened to the dagger."
Jean shuddered.
"Do not tremble, senorita," Giusippe said. "It was a just punishment.
You see the Council of Ten felt that the prosperity of the Venetians
depended upon keeping their art away from all the outside world which
was so eager to learn it. All knew the penalty for disloyalty. The
decree read:
"'_If any workman conveys his art to a strange country to the
detriment of the Republic he shall be sent an order to return to
Venice. Failing to obey his nearest of kin shall be imprisoned. If
he still persists in remaining abroad and plying his art an
emissary shall be charged to kill him._'
"In this way the secrets of glass-making were kept in Venice and the
Republic soon became famous and prosperous. As the reputation of the
Venetian glass-makers spread an immense trade was established. My
grandfather has often told me of the great numbers of beads which were
sent everywhere throughout the East--sometimes to Africa and even to
India. In 1764 twenty-two great furnaces were kept busy supplying the
beads that were demanded. Frequently, they say, as many as forty-four
thousand barrels were turned out in a single week."
"Why, I should think that everybody in the world would have been
covered with beads!" Jean exclaimed, smiling.
"Ah, I can tell you something stranger than that, senorita. So popular
did Venetian glass of every variety become that a foreign prince
created a great sensation by appearing in Paris with curls of finely
spun black glass."
Jean and Uncle Bob laughed merrily.
"I think myself he was silly," Giusippe declared, echoing their
amusement. "He, however, was not alone in his admiration for the
beautiful and ingenious workmanship of the people of my country, for
even as far back as 1400 Richard the Second of England gave permission
to our Venetian merchants to sell glass aboard their galleys, duty
free; and King Henry the Eighth owned as many as four or five hundred
Venetian drinking goblets, vases, dishes, and plates, some of which,
they say, are still in the British Museum."
"We must see them when we go to London, mustn't we, Uncle Bob?" cried
Jean eagerly.
"We surely must. All this is very interesting, Giusippe. You do well to
remember so much of your country's history," said Mr. Cabot.
"I am proud of it, senor. Besides I have heard it many, many times. My
people were never tired of telling over and over the story of the old
days; the golden days of Venice, my father called them. The Republic
might have retained its fame much longer had not some of our countrymen
been persuaded to go to other lands and sell their secrets for gold. It
was thus that the art of making mirrors was taken into France and
Germany."
"Tell us about it, Giusippe," pleaded Jean.
"Why, as I think I told you, the Venetians began to make mirrors as
early as 1300. Of course, senorita, they were crude affairs--not at all
like the fine ones of to-day, but to people who had nothing better they
were marvels. And indeed they were both clever and beautiful. For you
must remember that ages ago there was no such thing as a looking-glass.
Men and women could only see their reflections in streams, pools, and
fountains. Then the Egyptians, Greeks, and Romans began to make mirrors
of burnished metal, using bits of brass or bronze often beautifully
decorated on the back with classic Grecian figures. Rich women carried
such mirrors fastened to their girdles or sometimes instead had them
fitted into small, shallow boxes of carved ivory; sometimes too the
mirror was set in a case of gold, silver, enamel, or ebony with
intricate decoration on the outside. That was the first of
mirror-making."
"How curious!"
"Later the Venetians experimented and began backing pieces of glass
with mercury or tin. The surface was first covered with tinfoil and
then rubbed down until smooth; then the whole was coated with
quicksilver, which formed an amalgam with the tin. It does no harm to
tell you about it now, senorita," added Giusippe a little sadly, "for
every one knows. This process was slow and unsatisfactory, but it was
the best the workmen then knew. These mirrors they set in elaborate
frames of glass, silver, carved wood, mother-of-pearl, coral, tarsi, or
into frames of painted wood. Some of them were sent by Venetian nobles
as gifts to kings and queens of other countries; often they were
purchased by royalties themselves. You can see many in the museums of
France, Germany, or England."
"We will hunt them up, Jean," Uncle Bob declared.
"I'd love to see them," replied the girl.
"My father has told me that there were frequent quarrels between the
glass-makers and the mirror-framers because, you see, the framers
wanted to learn the secret of making the mirrors, and the mirror-makers
were jealous of the skill of the framers and feared the frame would be
more beautiful than the mirror itself and so overshadow it. Then in
1600 the French stole from our people the secret of mirror-making and
began turning out mirrors not only as good, but in some respects better
than the Venetian ones."
"Oh, Giusippe, how did they steal the secret?" Jean cried. "How
dreadful!"
"It was through the treachery of our own countrymen, senorita,"
Giusippe confessed. "Yes, sorry as I am to say so, it was our own
fault. The French, you see, as well as the Venetians, had long been
experimenting with glass-making and since it was considered there, as
here, an art, many penniless Huguenot gentlemen who had lost their
fortunes took it up; for one might be a glass-maker and still retain
his noble rank. Such was Bernard Palissy----"
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