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Title: Gondola days

Author: Francis Hopkinson Smith

Release date: August 31, 2023 [eBook #71528]

Language: English

Original publication: Boston: Houghton, Mifflin and Company,

1897

Credits: D A Alexander, David E. Brown, and the Online

Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GONDOLA

DAYS ***
 FICTION AND
TRAVEL
By F. Hopkinson
Smith.

TOM GROGAN. Illustrated.

12mo, gilt top, $1.50.
A GENTLEMAN
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OTHERS. 16mo, $1.25.
COLONEL CARTER OF
CARTERSVILLE. With 20
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and E. W. Kemble. 16mo,
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A DAY AT LAGUERRE’S,
AND OTHER DAYS.
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A WHITE UMBRELLA IN
MEXICO. Illustrated by the
author. 16mo, gilt top,
$1.50.
GONDOLA DAYS.
Illustrated, 12mo, $1.50.
WELL-WORN ROADS OF
SPAIN, HOLLAND, AND
ITALY, traveled by a
Painter in search of the
 Picturesque. With 16 full-
page phototype
reproductions of water-
color drawings, and text by
F. Hopkinson Smith,
profusely illustrated with
pen-and-ink sketches. A
Holiday volume. Folio, gilt
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THE SAME. Popular Edition.
Including some of the
illustrations of the above.
16mo, gilt top, $1.25.
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN &
CO.
Boston and New York.
GONDOLA DAYS
BACK OF THE RIALTO (PAGE 87)
 GONDOLA DAYS
BY F. HOPKINSON SMITH
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
BY THE AUTHOR

BOSTON AND NEW YORK

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN AND
COMPANY THE RIVERSIDE
PRESS CAMBRIDGE 1897
COPYRIGHT, 1897, BY F. HOPKINSON SMITH
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
NOTE
THE text of this volume is the same as that of “Venice of To-Day,”
recently published by the Henry T. Thomas Company, of New York,
as a subscription book, in large quarto and folio form, with over two
hundred illustrations by the Author, in color and in black and white.
PREFATORY
I HAVE made no attempt in these pages to review the
splendors of the past, or to probe the many vital questions
which concern the present, of this wondrous City of the
Sea. Neither have I ventured to discuss the marvels of her
architecture, the wealth of her literature and art, nor the growing
importance of her commerce and manufactures.
I have contented myself rather with the Venice that you see in the
sunlight of a summer’s day—the Venice that bewilders with her glory
when you land at her water-gate; that delights with her color when
you idle along the Riva; that intoxicates with her music as you lie in
your gondola adrift on the bosom of some breathless lagoon—the
Venice of mould-stained palace, quaint caffè and arching bridge; of
fragrant incense, cool, dim-lighted church, and noiseless priest; of
strong-armed men and graceful women—the Venice of light and life,
of sea and sky and melody.
No pen alone can tell this story. The pencil and the palette must lend
their touch when one would picture the wide sweep of her piazzas,
the abandon of her gardens, the charm of her canal and street life,
the happy indolence of her people, the faded sumptuousness of her
homes.
If I have given to Venice a prominent place among the cities of the
earth it is because in this selfish, materialistic, money-getting age, it
is a joy to live, if only for a day, where a song is more prized than a
soldo; where the poorest pauper laughingly shares his scanty crust;
where to be kind to a child is a habit, to be neglectful of old age a
shame; a city the relics of whose past are the lessons of our future;
whose every canvas, stone, and bronze bear witness to a grandeur,
luxury, and taste that took a thousand years of energy to perfect, and
will take a thousand years of neglect to destroy.
To every one of my art-loving countrymen this city should be a
Mecca; to know her thoroughly is to know all the beauty and
romance of five centuries.
F. H. S.
CONTENTS
An Arrival 1
Gondola Days 8
Along the Riva 28
The Piazza of San Marco 42
In an Old Garden 58
Among the Fishermen 85
A Gondola Race 101
Some Venetian Caffès 116
On the Hotel Steps 126
Open-Air Markets 136
On Rainy Days 145
Legacies of the Past 155
Life in the Streets 176
Night in Venice 197
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Back of the Rialto (see page 87) Frontispiece
The Gateless Posts of the Piazzetta 14
The One Whistler etched 26
Beyond San Rosario 58
The Catch of the Morning 90
A Little Hole in the Wall on the Via Garibaldi 116
Ponte Paglia ... next the Bridge of Sighs 136
The Fruit Market above the Rialto 140
Wide Palatial Staircases 160
Narrow Slits of Canals 186
San Giorgio stands on Tip-toe 198
AN ARRIVAL
OU really begin to arrive in Venice when you leave Milan.
Your train is hardly out of the station before you have
conjured up all the visions and traditions of your childhood:
great rows of white palaces running sheer into the water;
picture-book galleys reflected upside down in red lagoons; domes
and minarets, kiosks, towers, and steeples, queer-arched temples,
and the like.
As you speed on in the dusty train, your memory-fed imagination
takes new flights. You expect gold-encrusted barges, hung with
Persian carpets, rowed by slaves double-banked, and trailing rare
brocades in a sea of China-blue, to meet you at the water landing.
By the time you reach Verona your mental panorama makes another
turn. The very name suggests the gay lover of the bal masque, the
poisoned vial, and the calcium moonlight illuminating the wooden
tomb of the stage-set graveyard. You instinctively look around for the
fair Juliet and her nurse. There are half a dozen as pretty Veronese,
attended by their watchful duennas, going down by train to the City
by the Sea; but they do not satisfy you. You want one in a tight-fitting
white satin gown with flowing train, a diamond-studded girdle, and an
ostrich-plume fan. The nurse, too, must be stouter, and have a high-
keyed voice; be bent a little in the back, and shake her finger in a
threatening way, as in the old mezzotints you have seen of Mrs.
Siddons or Peg Woffington. This pair of Dulcineas on the seat in
front, in silk dusters, with a lunch-basket and a box of sweets, are
too modern and commonplace for you, and will not do.
When you roll into Padua, and neither doge nor inquisitor in ermine
or black gown boards the train, you grow restless. A deadening
suspicion enters your mind. What if, after all, there should be no
Venice? Just as there is no Robinson Crusoe nor man Friday; no
stockade, nor little garden; no Shahrazad telling her stories far into
the Arabian night; no Santa Claus with reindeer; no Rip Van Winkle
haunted by queer little gnomes in fur caps. As this suspicion
deepens, the blood clogs in your veins, and a thousand shivers go
down your spine. You begin to fear that all these traditions of your
childhood, all these dreams and fancies, are like the thousand and
one other lies that have been told to and believed by you since the
days when you spelled out words in two syllables.
Upon leaving Mestre—the last station—you smell the salt air of the
Adriatic through the open car window. Instantly your hopes revive.
Craning your head far out, you catch a glimpse of a long, low,
monotonous bridge, and away off in the purple haze, the dreary
outline of a distant city. You sink back into your seat exhausted. Yes,
you knew it all the time. The whole thing is a swindle and a sham!
“All out for Venice,” says the guard, in French.
Half a dozen porters—well-dressed, civil-spoken porters, flat-capped
and numbered—seize your traps and help you from the train. You
look up. It is like all the rest of the depots since you left Paris—high,
dingy, besmoked, beraftered, beglazed, and be——! No, you are
past all that. You are not angry. You are merely broken-hearted.
Another idol of your childhood shattered; another coin that your soul
coveted, nailed to the wall of your experience—a counterfeit!
“This door to the gondolas,” says the porter. He is very polite. If he
were less so, you might make excuse to brain him on the way out.
The depot ends in a narrow passageway. It is the same old fraud—
custom-house officers on each side; man with a punch mutilating
tickets; rows of other men with brass medals on their arms the size
of apothecaries’ scales—hackmen, you think, with their whips
outside—licensed runners for the gondoliers, you learn afterward.
They are all shouting—all intent on carrying you off bodily. The
vulgar modern horde!
Soon you begin to breathe more easily. There is another door ahead,
framing a bit of blue sky. “At least, the sun shines here,” you say to
yourself. “Thank God for that much!”
“This way, Signore.”
One step, and you stand in the light. Now look! Below, at your very
feet, a great flight of marble steps drops down to the water’s edge.
Crowding these steps is a throng of gondoliers, porters, women with
fans and gay-colored gowns, priests, fruit-sellers, water-carriers, and
peddlers. At the edge, and away over as far as the beautiful marble
church, a flock of gondolas like black swans curve in and out.
Beyond stretches the double line of church and palace, bordering the
glistening highway. Over all is the soft golden haze, the shimmer, the
translucence of the Venetian summer sunset.
With your head in a whirl,—so intense is the surprise, so foreign to
your traditions and dreams the actuality,—you throw yourself on the
yielding cushions of a waiting gondola. A turn of the gondolier’s
wrist, and you dart into a narrow canal. Now the smells greet you—
damp, cool, low-tide smells. The palaces and warehouses shut out
the sky. On you go—under low bridges of marble, fringed with
people leaning listlessly over; around sharp corners, their red and
yellow bricks worn into ridges by thousands of rounding boats; past
open plazas crowded with the teeming life of the city. The shadows
deepen; the waters glint like flakes of broken gold-leaf. High up in an
opening you catch a glimpse of a tower, rose-pink in the fading light;
it is the Campanile. Farther on, you slip beneath an arch caught
between two palaces and held in mid-air. You look up, shuddering as
you trace the outlines of the fatal Bridge of Sighs. For a moment all
is dark. Then you glide into a sea of opal, of amethyst and sapphire.
The gondola stops near a small flight of stone steps protected by
huge poles striped with blue and red. Other gondolas are debarking.
A stout porter in gold lace steadies yours as you alight.
“Monsieur’s rooms are quite ready. They are over the garden; the
one with the balcony overhanging the water.”
The hall is full of people (it is the Britannia, the best hotel in Venice),
grouped about the tables, chatting or reading, sipping coffee or
eating ices. Beyond, from an open door, comes the perfume of
flowers. You pass out, cross a garden, cool and fresh in the
darkening shadows, and enter a small room opening on a staircase.
You walk up and through the cosy apartments, push back a folding
glass door, and step out upon a balcony of marble.
How still it all is! Only the plash of the water about the bows of the
gondolas, and the little waves snapping at the water-steps. Even the
groups of people around the small iron tables below, partly hidden by
the bloom of oleanders, talk in half-heard whispers.
You look about you,—the stillness filling your soul, the soft air
embracing you,—out over the blossoms of the oleanders, across the
shimmering water, beyond the beautiful dome of the Salute, glowing
like a huge pearl in the clear evening light. No, it is not the Venice of
your childhood; not the dream of your youth. It is softer, more
mellow, more restful, more exquisite in its harmonies.
Suddenly a strain of music breaks upon your ear—a soft, low strain.
Nearer it comes, nearer. You lean forward over the marble rail to
catch its meaning. Far away across the surface of the beautiful sea
floats a tiny boat. Every swing of the oar leaves in its wake a
quivering thread of gold. Now it rounds the great red buoy, and is lost
behind the sails of a lazy lugger drifting with the tide. Then the whole
broad water rings with the melody. In another instant it is beneath
you—the singer standing, holding his hat for your pennies; the
chorus seated, with upturned, expectant faces.
Into the empty hat you pour all your store of small coins, your eyes
full of tears.
GONDOLA DAYS
HAT first morning in Venice! It is the summer, of course—
never the winter. This beautiful bride of the sea is loveliest
when bright skies bend tenderly over her, when white mists
fall softly around her, and the lagoons about her feet are
sheets of burnished silver: when the red oleanders thrust their
blossoms exultingly above the low, crumbling walls: when the black
hoods of winter felsi are laid by at the traghetti, and gondolas flaunt
their white awnings: when the melon-boats, with lifeless sails, drift
lazily by, and the shrill cry of the fruit vender floats over the water:
when the air is steeped, permeated, soaked through and through
with floods of sunlight—quivering, brilliant, radiant; sunlight that
blazes from out a sky of pearl and opal and sapphire; sunlight that
drenches every old palace with liquid amber, kissing every moulding
awake, and soothing every shadow to sleep; sunlight that caresses
and does not scorch, that dazzles and does not blind, that illumines,
irradiates, makes glorious, every sail and tower and dome, from the
instant the great god of the east shakes the dripping waters of the
Adriatic from his face until he sinks behind the purple hills of Padua.
These mornings, then! How your heart warms and your blood tingles
when you remember that first one in Venice—your first day in a
gondola!
You recall that you were leaning upon your balcony overlooking the
garden when you caught sight of your gondolier; the gondolier whom
Joseph, prince among porters, had engaged for you the night of your
arrival.
On that first morning you were just out of your bed. In fact, you had
hardly been in it all night. You had fallen asleep in a whirl of
contending emotions. Half a dozen times you had been up and out
on this balcony, suddenly aroused by the passing of some music-
boat filling the night with a melody that seemed a thousand fold more
enchanting because of your sudden awakening,—the radiant moon,
and the glistening water beneath. I say you were out again upon this
same balcony overlooking the oleanders, the magnolias, and the
palms. You heard the tinkling of spoons in the cups below, and knew
that some earlier riser was taking his coffee in the dense shrubbery;
but it made no impression upon you. Your eye was fixed on the
beautiful dome of the Salute opposite; on the bronze goddess of the
Dogana waving her veil in the soft air; on the group of lighters
moored to the quay, their red and yellow sails aglow; on the noble
tower of San Giorgio, sharp-cut against the glory of the east.
Now you catch a waving hand and the lifting of a cap on the gravel
walk below. “At what hour will the Signore want the gondola?”
You remember the face, brown and sunny, the eyes laughing, the
curve of the black mustache, and how the wavy short hair curled
about his neck and struggled out from under his cap. He has on
another suit, newly starched and snow-white; a loose shirt, a wide
collar trimmed with blue, and duck trousers. Around his waist is a
wide blue sash, the ends hanging to his knees. About his throat is a
loose silk scarf—so loose that you note the broad, manly chest, the
muscles of the neck half concealed by the cross-barred boating-shirt
covering the brown skin.
There is a cheeriness, a breeziness, a spring about this young fellow
that inspires you. As you look down into his face you feel that he is
part of the air, of the sunshine, of the perfume of the oleanders. He
belongs to everything about him, and everything belongs to him. His
costume, his manner, the very way he holds his hat, show you at a
glance that while for the time being he is your servant, he is, in many
things deeply coveted by you, greatly your master. If you had his
chest and his forearm, his sunny temper, his perfect digestion and
contentment, you could easily spare one half of your world’s
belongings in payment. When you have lived a month with him and
have caught the spirit of the man, you will forget all about these
several relations of servant and master. The six francs a day that you
pay him will seem only your own contribution to the support of the
gondola; his share being his services. When you have spent half the
night at the Lido, he swimming at your side, or have rowed all the
way to Torcello, or have heard early mass at San Rosario, away up
the Giudecca, he kneeling before you, his hat on the cool pavement
next your own, you will begin to lose sight even of the francs, and
want to own gondola and all yourself, that you may make him guest
and thus discharge somewhat the ever-increasing obligation of
hospitality under which he places you. Soon you will begin to realize
that despite your belongings—wealth to this gondolier beyond his
wildest dreams—he in reality is the richer of the two. He has
inherited all this glory of palace, sea, and sky, from the day of his
birth, and can live in it every hour in the year, with no fast-ebbing
letter-of-credit nor near-approaching sailing day to sadden his soul or
poison the cup of his pleasure. When your fatal day comes and your
trunk is packed, he will stand at the water-stairs of the station, hat in
hand, the tears in his eyes, and when one of the demons of the
master-spirit of the age—Hurry—has tightened its grip upon you and
you are whirled out and across the great iron bridge, and you begin
once more the life that now you loathe, even before you have
reached Mestre—if your gondolier is like my own gondolier, Espero
—my Espero Gorgoni, whom I love—you would find him on his
knees in the church next the station, whispering a prayer for your
safe journey across the sea, and spending one of your miserable
francs for some blessed candles to burn until you reached home.
But you have not answered your gondolier, who stands with
upturned eyes on the graveled walk below.
“At what hour will the Signore want the gondola?”
You awake from your reverie. Now! as soon as you swallow your
coffee. Ten minutes later you bear your weight on Giorgio’s bent
elbow and step into his boat.
It is like nothing else of its kind your feet have ever touched—so
yielding and yet so firm; so shallow and yet so stanch; so light, so
buoyant, and so welcoming to peace and rest and comfort.
How daintily it sits the water! How like a knowing swan it bends its
head, the iron blade of the bow, and glides out upon the bosom of
the Grand Canal! You stop for a moment, noting the long, narrow
body, blue-black and silver in the morning light, as graceful in its
curves as a bird; the white awning amidships draped at sides and
back, the softly-yielding, morocco-covered seat, all cushions and silk
fringes, and the silken cords curbing quaint lions of polished brass.
Beyond and aft stands your gondolier, with easy, graceful swing
bending to his oar. You stoop down, part the curtains, and sink into
the cushions. Suddenly an air of dignified importance steals over
you. Never in your whole life have you been so magnificently carried
about. Four-in-hands, commodores’ gigs, landaus in triumphant
processions with white horses and plumes, seem tame and
commonplace. Here is a whole barge, galleon, Bucentaur, all to
yourself; noiseless, alert, subservient to your airiest whim, obedient
to the lightest touch. You float between earth and sky. You feel like a
potentate out for an airing, housed like a Rajah, served like
Cleopatra, and rowed like a Doge. You command space and
dominate the elements.

THE GATELESS POSTS OF THE PIAZZETTA

But Giorgio is leaning on his oar, millions of diamonds dripping from
its blade.
“Where now, Signore?”
Anywhere, so he keeps in the sunlight. To the Piazza, perhaps, and
then around San Giorgio with its red tower and noble façade, and
later, when the shadows lengthen, away down to the Public Garden,
and home again in the twilight by way of the Giudecca.
This gondola-landing of the Piazza, the most important of the cab-
stands in Venice, is the stepping-stone—a wet and ooze-covered
stone—to the heart of the city. Really the heart, for the very life of
every canal, campo, and street, courses through it in unending flow
all the livelong day and night, from the earliest blush of dawn to the
earliest blush of dawn again; no one ever seems to go to bed in
Venice. Along and near the edge of this landing stand the richest
examples of Venetian architecture. First, the Royal Gardens of the
king’s palace, with its balustrade of marble and broad flight of water-
steps; then the Library, with its cresting of statues, white against the
sky; then the two noble columns, the gateless posts of the Piazzetta,
bearing Saint Theodore and the Lion of Venice; and beyond, past the
edge of San Marco, the clock tower and the three great flag-staffs;
then the Palace of the Doges, that masterwork of the fifteenth
century; then the Prison, with a glimpse of the Bridge of Sighs,
caught in mid-air; then the great cimeter-sweep of the Riva, its point
lost in the fringe of trees shading the Public Garden; and then, over
all, as you look up, the noble Campanile, the wonderful bell-tower of
San Marco, unadorned, simple, majestic—up, up, into the still air, its
gilded angel, life-size, with outstretched wings flashing in the
morning sun, a mere dot of gold against the blue.
Before you touch the lower steps of the water-stairs, your eye falls
upon an old man with bared head. He holds a long staff studded with
bad coins, having a hook at one end. With this in one hand he
steadies your gondola, with the other he holds out his hat. He is an
aged gondolier, too old now to row. He knows you, the poor fellow,
and he knows your kind. How many such enthusiasts has he helped
to alight! And he knows Giorgio too, and remembers when, like him,
he bent his oar with the best. You drop a penny into his wrinkled
hand, catch his grateful thanks, and join the throng. The arcades
under the Library are full of people smoking and sipping coffee. How
delicious the aroma and the pungent smell of tobacco! In the shadow
of the Doges’ Palace groups idle and talk—a little denser in spots
where some artist has his easel up, or some pretty, dainty child is
feeding the pigeons.
A moment more and you are in the Piazza of San Marco; the grand
piazza of the doges, with its thousands of square feet of white
pavement blazing in the sun, framed on three sides by marble
palaces, dominated by the noblest campanile on the globe, and
enriched, glorified, made inexpressibly precious and unique by that
jewel in marble, in porphyry, in verd antique and bronze, that despair
of architects of to-day, that delight of the artists of all time—the most
sacred, the Church of San Marco.
In and out this great quadrangle whirl the pigeons, the pigeons of
Dandolo, up into the soft clouds, the light flashing from their throats;
sifting down in showers on gilded cross and rounded dome; clinging
to intricate carvings, over and under the gold-crowned heads of
saints in stone and bronze; across the baking plaza in flurries of gray
and black; resting like a swarm of flies, only to startle, mass, and
swirl again. Pets of the state, these birds, since the siege of Candia,
when the great Admiral Dandolo’s chief bearer of dispatches, the
ancestor of one of these same white-throated doves, brought the
good news to Venice the day the admiral’s victorious banner was
thrown to the breeze, and the Grand Council, sitting in state, first
learned the tidings from the soft plumage of its wings.
At one end, fronting the church, stand the three great flag-poles, the
same you saw at the landing, socketed in bronze, exquisitely
modeled and chased, bearing the banners of Candia, Cyprus, and
the Morea—kingdoms conquered by the state—all three in a row,
presenting arms to the power that overthrew them, and forever
dipping their colors to the glory of its past.
Here, too, in this noble square, under your very feet, what
solemnities, what historic fêtes, what conspiracies! Here for
centuries has been held the priestly pageant of Corpus Christi,
aflame with lanterns and flambeaux. Here eleven centuries ago blind
old Dandolo received the Crusader chiefs of France. Here the
splendid nuptials of Francesco Foscari were celebrated by a
tournament, witnessed by thirty thousand people, and lasting ten
days. Here the conspiracies of Tiepolo and Faliero were crushed—
Venetian against Venetian the only time in a thousand years. And
here Italy suffered her crowning indignity, the occupation by the
French under the newly-fledged warrior who unlimbered his cannon
at the door of the holy church, pushed the four bronze horses from
their pedestals over the sacred entrance—the horses of Constantine,
wrought by Lysippus the Greek,—despoiled the noble church of its
silver lamps, robbed the ancient column of its winged lion, and then,
after a campaign unprecedented in its brilliancy, unexampled in the
humiliation and degradation it entailed upon a people who for ten
centuries had known no power outside of Venice, planted in the
centre of this same noble square, with an irony as bitter as it was
cruel, the “Tree of Liberty,” at which was burned, on the 4th of June,
1797, the insignia of the ancient republic.
And yet, notwithstanding all her vicissitudes, the Venice of to-day is
still the Venice of her glorious past, the Venice of Dandolo, Foscari,
and Faliero. The actors are long since dead, but the stage-setting is
the same; the same sun, the same air, the same sky over all. The
beautiful dome of the Salute still dominates the Grand Canal. The
great plaza is still perfect in all its proportions and in all that made up
its beauty and splendor. The Campanile still raises its head,
glistening in the morning light. High over all still flash and swoop the
pigeons of Venice—the pigeons of Dandolo—now black as cinders,
now flakes of gold in the yellow light. The doors of the sacred church
are still open; the people pass in and out. Under the marble arcades,
where the soldiers of the army of France stacked their arms, to-day
sit hundreds of free Venetians, with their wives and sweethearts,
sipping their ices and coffee; the great orchestra, the king’s band,
filling the air with its music.
When you ask what magician has wrought this change, let the old
guide answer as once he answered me when, crossing the Piazza
and uncovering his head, he pointed to a stone and said, in his soft
Italian:—
“Here, Signore,—just here, where the great Napoleon burnt our flag,
—the noble republic of our fathers, under our good King and his
royal spouse, was born anew.”
But you cannot stay. You will return and study the Piazza to-morrow;
not now. The air intoxicates you. The sunlight is in your blood; your
cheeks burn; you look out and over the Grand Canal—molten silver
in the shimmer of the morning. Below, near the Public Garden,
beyond San Giorgio, like a cluster of butterflies, hovers a fleet of
Chioggia fishing-boats, becalmed in the channel. Off the Riva, near
Danieli’s, lies the Trieste steamer, just arrived, a swarm of gondolas
and barcos about her landing-ladders; the yellow smoke of her
funnel drifting lazily. Farther away, on the golden ball of the Dogana,
the bronze Goddess of the Wind poises light as air, her face aflame,
her whirling sail bent with the passing breeze.
You resolve to stop no more; only to float, loll on your cushions,
watch the gulls circle, and the slow sweep of the oars of the luggers.
You would throw open—wide open—the great swinging gates of
your soul. You not only would enjoy, you would absorb, drink in, fill
yourself to the brim.
For hours you drift about. There is plenty of time to-morrow for the
churches and palaces and caffès. To-day you want only the salt air in
your face, the splash and gurgle of the water at the bow, and the low
song that Giorgio sings to himself as he bends to his blade.
Soon you dart into a cool canal, skirt along an old wall, water stained
and worn, and rest at a low step. Giorgio springs out, twists a cord
around an iron ring, and disappears through an archway framing a
garden abloom with flowering vines.
It is high noon. Now for your midday luncheon!
You have had all sorts of breakfasts offered you in your wanderings:
On white-winged yachts, with the decks scoured clean, the brass
glistening, the awning overhead. In the wilderness, lying on balsam
boughs, the smell of the bacon and crisping trout filling the bark
slant, the blue smoke wreathing the tall pines. In the gardens of
Sunny Spain—one you remember at Granada, hugging the great
wall of the Alhambra—you see the table now with its heap of fruit
and flowers, and can hear the guitar of the gypsy behind the
pomegranate. Along the shore of the beautiful bay of Matanzas,
where the hidalgo who had watched you paint swept down in his
volante and carried you off to his oranges and omelette. At St.
Cloud, along the Seine, with the noiseless waiter in the seedy dress
suit and necktie of the night before. But the filet and melon! Yes, you
would go again. I say you have had all sorts of breakfasts out of
doors in your time, but never yet in a gondola.
A few minutes later Giorgio pushes aside the vines. He carries a
basket covered with a white cloth. This he lays at your feet on the
floor of the boat. You catch sight of the top of a siphon and a flagon
of wine: do not hurry, wait till he serves it. But not here, where
anybody might come; farther down, where the oleanders hang over
the wall, their blossoms in the water, and where the air blows cool
between the overhanging palaces.
Later Giorgio draws all the curtains except the side next the
oleanders, steps aft and fetches a board, which he rests on the little
side seats in front of your lounging-cushions. On this board he
spreads the cloth, and then the seltzer and Chianti, the big glass of
powdered ice and the little hard Venetian rolls. (By the bye, do you
know that there is only one form of primitive roll, the world over?)
Then come the cheese, the Gorgonzola—active, alert Gorgonzola,
all green spots—wrapped in a leaf; a rough-jacketed melon, with
some figs and peaches. Last of all, away down in the bottom of the
basket, there is a dish of macaroni garnished with peppers. You do
not want any meat. If you did you would not get it. Some time when
you are out on the canal, or up the Giudecca, you might get a fish
freshly broiled from a passing cook-boat serving the watermen—a
sort of floating kitchen for those who are too poor for a fire of their
own—but never meat.
Giorgio serves you as daintily as would a woman; unfolding the
cheese, splitting the rolls, parting the melon into crescents, flecking
off each seed with his knife: and last, the coffee from the little copper
coffee-pot, and the thin cakes of sugar, in the thick, unbreakable,
dumpy little cups.