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CHAPTER I
Now it's nearing night on the first day of spring, and you could
see how loath day was to be going for even the short time until
the rising of the sun again. And though there was a chill on the
canals, yet there was great color to the sunset, the red of it on
the water ebbing into orange, and then to purple, and losing itself
in the olive pools near the mooring-ties. And a little wind came up
from the Greek islands, and now surged and fluttered, the way you'd
think a harper might be playing. You'd hear no sound, but the melody
was there. It was the rhythm of spring, that the old people recognize.
But the young people would know it was spring, too, by token of the
gaiety that was in the air. For nothing brings joy to the heart
like the coming of spring. The folk who do be blind all the rest
of the year, their eyes do open then, and a sunset takes them, and
the wee virgin flowers coming up between the stones, or the twitter
of a bird upon the bough. . .And young women do be preening themselves,
and young men do be singing, even they that have the voices of rooks.
There is something stirring in them that is stirring, in the ground,
with the bursting of the seeds. . .
And young Marco Polo threw down the quill in the counting house where
he was learning his trade. The night was coming on. He was only a
strip of a lad, and to lads the night is not rest from work, and the
quietness of sleeping, but gaming, and drinking, and courting young
women. Now, there were two women he might have gone to, and one was
a great Venetian lady, with hair the red of a queen's cloak, and a
great noble shape to her and great dignity. But with her he would
only be reciting verses or making grand, stilted compliments, the
like of those you would hear in a play. And while that seemed to
fit in with winter and candlelight, it was poor sport for spring.
The other one was a black, plump little gown-maker, a pleasant,
singing little woman, very affectionate, and very proud to have
one of the great Polos loving her. She was eager for kissing, and
always asking the lad to be careful of himself, to be putting his
cloak on, or to be sure and drink something warm when he got home
that night, for the air from the canals was chill. The great lady
was too much of the mind, and the little gown-maker was too much
of the body, either of them, to be pleasing young Marco on the first
night of spring.
Now, it is a queer thing will be pleasing a young man on the first
night of spring. The wandering foot itches, and the mind and body
are keen to follow. There is that inside a young man that makes the
hunting dog rise from the hearth on a moonlit night: "Begor! it's
myself'll take a turn through the fields on the chance of a bit of
coursing. A weasel, maybe, or an otter, would be out the night.
Or a hare itself. Ay, there would be sport for you! The hare
running hell-for-leather, and me after him over brake and dell.
Ay! Ay! Ay! A good hunt's a jewel! I'll take a stretch along
the road."
Or there is in him what does be troubling the birds, and they on
tropic islands. "Tweet-tweet," they grumble. "A grand place this
surely, and very comfortable for the winter. The palm-trees are
green, but I'd rather have the green of young grass. And the sea,
you ken, it becomes monotonous. Do you remember the peaches of
Champagne, wife, and the cherry-trees of Antrim? Do you remember
the farmer who was such a bad shot, and his wife with the red
petticoat? I'm feeling fine and strong in the wings, AVOURNEEN.
What do you say? Let's bundle and go!"
He wandered out with the discontent of the season on him. The sun
had dropped at last, and everywhere you'd see torches, and the image
of torches in the water. On the canals of the town great barges
moved. Everywhere were fine, noble shadows and the splashing of oars.
There was a great admiral's galley, ready to put to sea against Genoa.
There a big merchantman back from Africa. And along the canals went
all the people in the world, you'd think. Now it was a Frenchman,
all silks and satins and 'la-di-da, monsieur!' Or a Spaniard with a
pointed beard and long, lean legs and a long, lean sword. And now
it was a Greek courtesan, white as milk, sitting in her gondola as
on a throne. Here was a Muscovite, hairy, dirty, with fine fur and
fine jewels and teeth sharp as a dog's. And now an effeminate Greek
nobleman, languid as a bride. And here were Moorish captains,
Othello's men, great giants of black marble; and swarthy, hook-nosed
merchants of Palestine; and the squires of Crusaders -- pretty,
ringleted boys, swearing like demons. And here and there were
Scots and Irish mercenaries, kilted, sensitive folk, one moment
smiling at you and the next a knife in your gizzard.
And as he went through the courts there were whispers and laughter,
and occasionally a soft voice invited him to enter; but he smiled
and shook his head. Near the Canal de Mestre, which is close by
the Ghetto, he stopped by the wine-shop called The Prince of Bulgaria,
and he could hear great disputation. And some were speaking of
Baldwin II, and how he had no guts to have let Palaeologus take
Constantinople from him. And others were murmuring about Genoa.
"Mark us, they mean trouble, those dogs. Better wipe them off the
face of the earth now." And a group were discussing the chances of
raiding the Jewish Kingdom of the Yemen. "They've got temples there
roofed with gold.". . .And an Irish piper was playing on a little
silver set of pipes, and an Indian magician was doing great sleight
of hand. . .
"I'll go in and talk to the strange foreign people," said Marco Polo.
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