cross-legged playing the biggest mandolin you ever saw in your life.

That is genius, you know, the ability to get some one else to do the
work, and then capture the ducats and the honors for yourself. Of
course, Gian knows how to lure the boys on—something has to be done in
order to hold them. Gian buys a picture from them now and then; his
studio is full of their work—better than he can do. Oh, he knows a
good thing when he sees it. These pictures will be valuable some day,
and he gets them at his own price. It was Antonello of Messina who
introduced oil-painting into Venice. Before that they mixed their
paints with water, milk or wine. But when Antonello came along with
his dark, lustrous pictures, he set all artistic Venice astir. Gian
Bellini discovered the secret, they say, by feigning to be a gentleman
and going to the newcomer and sitting for his picture. He it was who
discovered that Antonello mixed his colors with oil. Oho!

Of course, not all of the pictures in his studio are painted by the
boys: some are painted by that old Dutchman what’s-his-name—oh, yes,
Durer, Alberto Durer of Nuremberg. Two Nuremberg painters were in that
very gondola last week just where you sit—they are here in Venice now,
taking lessons from Gian, they said. Gian was up there to Nuremberg
and lived a month with Durer—they worked together, drank beer
together, I suppose, and caroused. Gian is very strict about what he
does in Venice, but you can never tell what a man will do when he is
away from home. The Germans are a roystering lot—but they do say they
can paint. Me? I have never been up there—and do not want to go,
either—there are no canals there. To be sure, they print books in
Nuremberg. It was up there somewhere that they invented type, a lazy
scheme to do away with writing. They are a thrifty lot—those
Germans—they give me my fare and a penny more, just a single penny,