“Some people do think these things,” I admitted.
“But do not all?” asked Brother Leo, incredulously.
“No, not all,” I confessed.
“Andiamo!” said Leo, rising resolutely. “Let us pray to the Madonna. What a vexation it must be to her and to all the blessed saints to watch the earth! It needs the patience of the Blessed One Himself, to bear it.”
In the Palazzo Giovanelli there is one of the loveliest of Giorgiones. It is called “His Family,” and it represents a beautiful nude woman with her child and her lover. It seemed to me an outrage that this young brother should know nothing of the world, of life. I was determined that he should see this picture. I think I expected Brother Leo to be shocked when he saw it. I know I was surprised that he looked at it—at the serene content of earth, its exquisite ultimate satisfaction—a long time. Then he said in an awed voice:
“It is so beautiful that it is strange any one in all the world can doubt the love of God who gave it.”
“Have you ever seen anything more beautiful; do you believe there is anything more beautiful?” I asked rather cruelly.
“Yes,” said Brother Leo, very quietly; “the love of God is more beautiful, only that cannot be painted.”
After that I showed him no more pictures, nor did I try to make him understand life. I had an idea that he understood it already rather better than I did.
When I took him back to the piazza, it was getting on toward sunset, and we sat at one of the little tables at Florian’s, where I drank coffee. We heard the band and watched the slow-moving, good-natured Venetian crowd, and the pigeons winging their perpetual flight.