and it was the daily row back and forth from the Lido that gave him
that face of bronze. Folks said he ate no meat and drank no wine, and
that his food was simply ripe figs in the season, with coarse rye
bread and nuts.

Then there was that funny old hunchback, a hundred years old at least,
and stone-deaf, who took care of the gondola, spending the whole day,
waiting for his master, washing the trim, graceful, blue-black boat,
arranging the awning with the white cords and tassels, and polishing
the little brass lions at the sides. People tried to question the old
hunchback, but he gave no secrets away. The master always stood up
behind and rowed; while down on the cushions rode the hunchback, the
guest of honor.

There stood the master erect, plying the oar, his long black robe
tucked up under the dark blue sash that exactly matched the color of
the gondola. The man’s motto might have been, “Ich Dien,” or that
passage of Scripture, “He that is greatest among you shall be your
servant.” Suspended around his neck by a slender chain was a bronze
medal, presented by vote of the Signoria when the great picture of
“The Transfiguration” was unveiled. If this medal had been a crucifix,
and you had met the wearer in San Marco, one glance at the finely
chiseled features, the black cap and the flowing robe and you would
have said at once the man was a priest, Vicar-General of some
important diocese. But seeing him standing erect on the stern of a
gondola, the wind caressing the dark gray hair, you would have been
perplexed until your gondolier explained in serious undertone that you
had just passed “the greatest Painter in all Venice, Gian, the
Master.”