The Sultan clapped his hands three times: two slaves appeared from
opposite doors. One was a little ahead of the other, and as this one
approached, the Sultan with a single swing of the snickersnee snipped
off his head. This teaches us that obedience to our superiors is its
own reward. But the lesson was wholly lost on Gentile Bellini, for he
did not even remain to examine the severed head for art’s sake. The
thought that it might be his turn next was supreme, and he leaped
through a window, taking the sash with him. Making his way to the
docks he found a sailing vessel loading with fruit, bound for Venice.
A small purse of gold made the matter easy: the captain of the boat
secreted him, and in four days he was safely back in Saint Mark’s
giving thanks to God for his deliverance.

No, I didn’t say Gian was a rogue—I only told you what others say. I
am only a poor gondolier—why should I trouble myself about what great
folks do? I simply tell you what I hear—it may be so, and it may not.
God knows! There is that Pascale Salvini—he has a rival studio—and
when that Genoese, Christoforo Colombo, was here and made his
stopping-place at Bellini’s studio, Pascale told every one that
Colombo was a lunatic, and Bellini another, for encouraging him to
show his foolish maps and charts. Now, they do say that Colombo has
discovered a new world, and Italians are feeling troubled in
conscience because they did not fit him out with ships instead of
forcing him to go to Spain.

No, I didn’t say Bellini was a hypocrite—Pascale’s pupils say so, and
once they followed him over to Murano—three barca-loads and my gondola
beside. You see it was like this: Twice a week just after sundown, we
used to see Gian Bellini untie his boat from the landing there behind
the Doge’s palace, turn the prow, and beat out for Murano, with no