“An American did it, Signore, an American painter; he comes here every year; our son is his gondolier and shows him all the best places to paint, and takes him there when the light is good and keeps the people back so the artist can work—­you understand?  A shower came up just as his Excellency, the American, began on this, and it got wet and so he gave it to my son and he gave it to me.”

“What is the painter’s name?” I asked.  Enrico could not remember, but Mona Lisa said his name was Signore Hopsmithiziano, or something like that.

There were several little plaster images on the walls, and through the open door that led to the adjoining room I saw a sort of an improvised shrine, with various little votive offerings grouped about an unframed canvas.  The picture was a crude attempt at copying that grand figure in Titian’s “Assumption.”

“And who painted that?” I asked.

Enrico crossed himself in silence, and Mona Lisa’s subdued voice answered:  “Our other son did that.  He was only nineteen.  He was a mosaicist and was studying to be a painter; he was drowned at the Lido.”

The old woman made the sign of the cross, her lips moved, and a single big tear stood on her leathery cheek.  I changed the painful subject, and soon found excuse to slip away.  That evening as the darkness gathered and twinkling lights began to appear like fireflies, up and down the Grand Canal, I sat in a little balcony of my hotel watching the scene.  A serenading party, backing their boats out into the stream, had formed a small blockade, and in the group of gondolas that awaited the unraveling of the tangle I spied Enrico.  He had a single passenger, a lady in the inevitable black mantilla, holding in her hands the inevitable fan.  A second glance at the lady—­and sure enough! it was Mona Lisa.  I ran downstairs, stepped out across the moored line of gondolas, took up a hook, and reaching over gently pulled Enrico’s gondola over so I could step aboard.

Mona Lisa was crooning a plaintive love-song and her gondolier was coming in occasionally with bars of melodious bass.  I felt guilty for being about to break in upon such a sentimental little scene, and was going to retreat, but Enrico and Mona Lisa spied me and both gave a little cry of surprise and delight.

“Where have you been?” I asked—­“you fine old lovers!”

And then they explained that it was a Holy Day and they had been over to the Church of San Giorgio, and were now on their way to Santa Maria de’ Frari.

“It is a very special mass, by torchlight, and is for the repose of the soul of Titian, who is buried there.  You may never have an opportunity to see such a sight again—­come with us,” and Enrico held out his strong brown hand.

I stepped aboard, the boats opened out to the left and to the right, and we passed with that peculiar rippling sound, across the water that reflected the lights as of a myriad stars.