Was there ever a true lyric
poet who did not at least once in his early days believe himself the
victim of a heartless woman? And though long afterwards fate may have
brought him face to face with the tragedy of unhappy love, fierce with
passion and terrible with violent death, can he ever quite forget the
fancied sufferings of first youth, the stab of a thoughtless girl's
first unkind word, the sickening chill he felt under her first cold
look? And what would first love be, if young men and maidens came to it
with all the reason and cool self-judgment that long living brings?
Zorzi sought consolation in his art, and as soon as he could stand and
move about with his crutches he threw his whole pent-up energy into his
work. The accidental discovery of the red glass had unexpectedly given
him an empty crucible with which to make an experiment of his own, and
while the materials were fusing he attempted to obtain the new colour in
the other two, by dropping pieces of copper into each regardless of the
master's instructions. To his inexpressible disappointment he completely
failed in this, and the glass he produced was of the commonest tint.
Then he grew reckless; he removed the two crucibles that had contained
what had been made according to Beroviero's theories until he had added
the copper, and he began afresh according to his own belief.
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