Part 8

If you happen to have a _lira_ about you, and own besides a bushel basket, you can exchange the coin for that measure of peaches. Two _lire_ will load your gondola half full of melons; three _lire_ will pack it with grapes; four _lire_--well, you must get a larger boat.

When the boats are loaded at the orchards and poled through the grass-lined canals, reaching the open water of the lagoon, escaping the swarms of naked boys begging backsheesh of fruit from their cargoes, you will notice that each craft stops at a square box, covered by an awning and decorated with a flag, anchored out in the channel, or moored to a cluster of spiles. This is the Dogana of the lagoon, and every basket, crate, and box must be inspected and counted by the official in the flat cap with the tarnished gilt band, who commands this box of a boat, for each individual peach, plum, and pear must help pay its share of the public debt.

This floating custom-house is one of many beads, strung at intervals a mile apart, completely encircling Venice. It is safe to say that nothing that crows, bleats, or clucks, nothing that feeds, clothes, or is eaten, ever breaks through this charmed circle without leaving some portion of its value behind. This creditor takes its pound of flesh the moment it is due, and has never been known to wait.

Where the deep-water channels are shifting, and there is a possibility of some more knowing and perhaps less honest market craft slipping past in the night, a government deputy silently steals over the shallow lagoon in a rowboat, sleeping in his blanket, his hand on his musket, and rousing at the faintest sound of rowlock or sail. Almost hourly one of these night-hawks overhauls other strollers of the lagoon in the by-passages outside the city limits--some smuggler, with cargo carefully covered, or perhaps a pair of lovers in a gondola with too closely drawn _tenda_. There is no warning sound to the unwary; only the gurgle of a slowly-moving oar, then the muzzle of a breech-loader thrust in one’s eyes, behind which frowns an ugly, determined face, peering from out the folds of a heavy boat-cloak. It is the deputy’s way of asking for smuggled cigarettes, but it is so convincing a way as to admit of no discussion. Ever afterward the unfortunate victim, if he be of honest intent, cannot only detect a police-boat from a fishing yawl, but remembers also to keep a light burning in his lamp-socket forward, as evidence of his honesty.

When the cargoes of the market boats are inspected, the duties paid, and the passage made under Ponte Paglia, or through the many nameless canals if the approach is made from the Campo Santo side of the city, the boats swarm up to the fruit market above the Rialto, rounding up one after another, and discharging their contents like trucks at a station, the men piling the baskets in great mounds on the broad stone quay.

After the inhabitants have pounced upon these heaps and mounds and pyramids of baskets and crates, and have carried them away, the market is swept and scoured as clean as a china plate, not even a peach-pit being left to tell the tale of the morning. Then this greater market shrinks into the smaller one, the little fruit market of the Rialto, which is never closed, day or night.

This little market, or, rather, the broad street forming its area,--broad for this part of Venice,--is always piled high with the products of orchard, vineyard, and garden, shaded all day by huge awnings, so closely stretched that only the sharpest and most lance-like of sunbeams can cut their way into the coolness below. At night the market is lighted by flaring torches illumining the whole surrounding _campo_.

As for the other smaller stands and shops about the city, they are no less permanent fixtures, and keep equally bad hours. No matter how late you stroll down the Zattere or elbow your way along the Merceria, when every other place is closed, you will come upon a blazing lamp lighting up a heap of luscious fruit, in its season the comfort and sustenance of Venice.

Then there are the other markets--the wood market of the Giudecca, the fish market below the Rialto bridge, and the shops and stalls scattered throughout the city.

The wood market, a double row of boats moored in mid-stream and stretching up the broad waterway, is behind the Salute and the salt warehouses: great, heavy, Dutch-bowed boats, with anchor chains hanging from the open mouths of dolphins carved on the planking; long, sharp bowsprits, painted red, and great overhanging green rudder-sweeps swaying a rudder half as large as a barn door. Aft there is always an awning stretched to the mainmast, under which lies the captain, generally sound asleep.

When you board one of these floating wood-yards, and, rousing the Signor Capitano, beg permission to spread your sketch-awning on the forward deck out of everybody’s way, you will not only get the best point of view from which to paint the exquisite domes and towers of the beautiful _Santa Maria della Salute_, but, if you sit all day at work, with the deck wet and cool beneath your feet, and listen to the barter and sale going on around, you will become familiar with the workings of the market itself. You will find all these boats loaded under and above deck with sticks of wood cut about the size of an axe-handle, tied in bundles that can be tucked under one’s arm. These are sold over the ship’s side to the peddlers, who boat them off to their shops ashore. All day long these hucksters come and go, some for a boat-load, some for a hundred bundles, some for only one. When the purchase is important, and the count reaches, say, an even hundred, there is always a squabble over the tally. The captain, of course, counts, and so does the mate, and so does the buyer. As soon as the controversy reaches the point where there is nothing left but to brain the captain with one of his own fagots, he gives in, and throws an extra bundle into the boat, however honest may have been the count before. The instantaneous good-humor developed all around at the concession is only possible among a people who quarrel as easily as they sing.

Wood is really almost the only fuel in Venice. Coal is too costly, and the means of utilizing it too complicated. What is wanted is a handful of embers over which to boil a pot of coffee or warm a soup, a little fire at a time, and as little as possible, for, unlike many another commodity, fuel is a bugbear of economy to the Venetian. He rarely worries over his rent; it is his wood-bill that keeps him awake nights.

Above the fruit market near the Rialto is the new fish market, a modern horror of cast iron and ribbed glass. (Oh, if the polluting touch of so-called modern progress could only be kept away from this rarest of cities!) Here are piled and hung and spread out the endless varieties of fish and sea foods from the lagoons and the deep waters beyond; great halibut, with bellies of Japanese porcelain, millions of minnows, like heaps of wet opals with shavings of pearl, crabs, _fulpe_, mussels, and the spoils of the marshes. Outside, along the canal, are ranged the market boats, with their noses flattened against the stone quay, their sails clewed up, freeing the decks, the crews bending under huge baskets.

Fish is the natural flesh-food of the Venetian, fresh every morning, and at a price for even the poorest. If there is not money enough for a clean slice cut through the girth of a sea-monster, for a broil, less than a _soldo_ will buy a handful of little nondescripts like fat spiders, for soup, or a pint of pebble-like mussels with which to savor a stew.

ON RAINY DAYS

THE wind blows east! All night long the thunder of the surf, breaking along the Lido, has reverberated through the deserted streets and abandoned canals of Venice.

From your window you see the fair goddess of the Dogana, tired out with the whirling winds, clinging in despair to the golden ball--her sail flying westward, her eyes strained in search of the lost sun. You see, too, the shallow lagoons, all ashy pale, crawling and shivering in the keen air, their little waves flying shoreward as if for shelter.

Out beyond San Giorgio, the fishing-boats are tethered to the spiles, their decks swept by fierce dashes of rain, their masts rocking wearily. Nearer in, this side the island, two gondolas with drenched _felsi_, manned by figures muffled in oilskins, fight every inch of the way to the Molo; they hug in mid-stream the big P. and O. steamer lying sullen and deserted, her landing-ladder hanging useless, the puffs of white steam beaten flat against her red smoke-stacks. Across the deserted canal the domes of the Salute glisten like burnished silver in the white light of the gale, and beyond these, tatters of gray cloud-rack scud in from the sea. Along the quays of the Dogana the stevedores huddle in groups beneath the sheltering arches, watching the half-loaded boats surge and jar in the ground-swell of the incoming sea. In the garden at your very feet lie the bruised blossoms of the oleanders, their storm-beaten branches hanging over the wall, fagged out with the battle of the night. Even the drenched tables under the dripping arbors are strewn with wind-swept leaves, and the overturned chairs are splashed with sand.

All the light, all the color, all the rest and charm and loveliness of Venice, are dead. All the tea-rose, sun-warmed marble, all the soft purples of shifting shadows, all the pearly light of summer cloud and the silver shimmer of the ever-changing, million-tinted sea, are gone. Only cold, gray stone and dull, yellow water, reflecting leaden skies, and black-stained columns and water-soaked steps! Only brown sails, wet, colorless gondolas and disheartened, baffled pigeons! To-day the wind blows east!

When the tide turns flood, the waters of the lagoon, driven by the high wind, begin to rise. Up along the Molo, where the gondolas land their passengers, the gondoliers have taken away their wooden steps. Now the sea is level with the top stone of the pavement, and there are yet two hours to high water. All about the caffès under the Library, the men stand in groups, sheltered from the driving rain by the heavy canvas awnings laid flat against the door columns. Every few minutes some one consults his watch, peering anxiously out to sea. A waiter serving coffee says, in an undertone, that it is twelve years since the women went to San Marco in boats; then the water rose to the sacristy floor.

Under the arcades and between the columns of the Doges’ Palace is packed a dense mass of people, watching the angry, lawless sea. Wagers are freely laid that unless the wind shifts the church itself will be flooded at high water. The gondoliers are making fast their unused _felsi_, lashing them to the iron lamp-posts. Along the Molo the boats themselves, lashed fore and aft to the slender poles, are rocking restlessly to and fro.

Suddenly a loud cheer breaks from the throng nearest the water’s edge, and a great, surging wave dashes across the flat stone and spreads quickly in widening circles of yellow foam over the marble flagging of the Piazzetta. Then another and another, bubbling between the iron tables and chairs of the caffès, swashing around the bases of the columns, and so on like a mill-race, up and around the _Loggietta_ of the Campanile, and on into the Piazza with a rush. A wild shout goes up from the caffès and arcades. The waiters run quickly hither and thither, heaping up the chairs and tables. The shop-men are closing their shutters and catching up their goods. The windows of the _Procuratie_ are filled with faces overjoyed at the sight. Troops of boys, breechless almost to their suspender buttons, are splashing about in glee. The sea is on the rampage. The bridegroom is in search of the bride. This time the Adriatic has come to wed the city. Another hour with the wind east, and only the altar steps of San Marco will suffice for the ceremony!

Another shout comes from the Piazzetta. There is a great waving of hands and hats. Windows are thrown open everywhere. The pigeons sweep in circles; never in the memory of their oldest inhabitant has there been such a sight. In the excitement of the hour a crippled beggar slips from a bench and is half-drowned on the sidewalk.

Another and a louder roar, and a gondola rowed by a man in tarpaulins floats past the Campanile, moves majestically up the flood, and grounds on the lower steps of San Marco. The boys plunge in and push, the women laugh and clap their hands.

From the steps of the arcade of the Library, men with bared thighs are carrying the shop-girls to the entrance of the Merceria under the clock tower. Some of the women are venturing alone, their shoes and stockings held above their heads. Farther down, near the corner column of the Doges’ Palace, a big woman, her feet and ankles straight out, is breaking the back of a little man who struggles along hip-deep, followed by the laughter of the whole Piazzetta.

In the _campo_ fronting the church of San Moisè, a little square hemmed around by high buildings, the sea, having overflowed the sewers, is spurting small geysers through the cracks in the pavement; thumping and pounding a nest of gondolas moored under the bridge.

Out on the Piazzetta a group of men, barelegged and bareheaded, are constructing a wooden bridge from the higher steps of the arcade of the Library to the equally high steps surrounding the base of the column of Saint Theodore, and so on to the corner column of the Doges’ Palace. They are led by a young fellow wearing a discarded fatigue-cap, his trousers tied around his ankles. The only dry spot about him is the lighted end of a cigarette. This is Vittorio--up from the _Via Garibaldi_--out on a lark. He and his fellows--Luigi and the rest--have splashed along the Riva with all the gusto of a pack of boys reveling in an October snow. They have been soaking wet since daylight, and propose to remain so until it stops raining. The building of the bridge was an inspiration of Vittorio, and in five minutes every loose plank about the _traghetto_ is caught up and thrown together, until a perilous staging is erected. Upon this Luigi dances and pirouettes to prove its absolute stability. When it topples over with the second passenger, carrying with it a fat priest in purple robe and shovel hat, who is late for the service and must reach the Riva, Luigi roars with laughter, stands his Reverence on his feet, and, before he can protest, has hoisted him aback and plunged knee-deep into the flood.

The crowd yell and cheer, Vittorio holding his sides with laughter, until the dry flagging of the palace opposite is reached, and the reverend gentleman, all smiles and benedictions, glides like a turtle down Luigi’s back.

But the tramps from the _Via Garibaldi_ are not satisfied. Luigi and Vittorio and little stumpy Appo, who can carry a sack of salt as easily as a pail of water, now fall into line, offering their broad backs for other passengers, Vittorio taking up a collection in his hat, the others wading about, pouncing down upon derelict oars, barrels, bits of plank, and the débris of the wrecked bridge. When no more _soldi_ for ferry-tolls are forthcoming, and no more Venetians, male or female, can be found reckless or hurried enough to intrust their precious bodies to Luigi’s shoulders, the gang falls to work on a fresh bridge. This Vittorio has discovered hidden away in the recesses of the Library cellars, where it has lain since the last time the Old Man of the Sea came bounding over the Molo wall. There are saw-horses for support, and long planks with rusty irons fastened to each end, and braces, and cross-pieces. All these are put up, and the bridge made entirely practicable, within half an hour. Then the people cross and recross, while the silent gendarmes look on with good-natured and lazy indifference. One very grateful passenger drops a few _soldi_ into Vittorio’s water-soaked fatigue-cap. Another, less generous, pushes him to one side, crowding some luckless fellow, who jumps overboard up to his knees to save himself from total immersion, the girls screaming with assumed fright, Vittorio coaxing and pleading, and Luigi laughing louder than ever.

At this moment a steamboat from the Lido attempts to make fast to her wharf, some hundreds of feet down the Molo. As the landing-planks are afloat and the whole dock awash, the women and children under the awnings of the after-deck, although within ten feet of the solid stone wall, are as much at sea as if they were off the Lido. Vittorio and his mates take in the situation at a glance, and are alongside in an instant. Within five minutes a plank is lashed to a wharf-pile, a rope bridge is constructed, and Vittorio begins passing the children along, one by one, dropping them over Luigi’s shoulders, who stands knee-deep on the dock. Then the women are picked up bodily, the men follow astride the shoulders of the others, and the impatient boat moves off to her next landing-place up the Giudecca.

By this time hundreds of people from all over the city are pouring into the Piazza, despite the driving rain and gusts of wind. They move in a solid mass along the higher arcades of the Library and the Palace. They crawl upon the steps of the columns and the sockets of the flag-staffs; they cling to the rail and pavement of the _Loggietta_--wherever a footing can be gained above the water-line. To a Venetian nothing is so fascinating as a spectacle of any kind, but it has been many a day since the Old Man of the Sea played the principal rôle himself!

There is no weeping or wailing about wet cellars and damp basements, no anxiety over damaged furniture and water-soaked carpets. All Venetian basements are damp; it is their normal condition. If the water runs in, it will run out again. They have known this Old Sea King for centuries, and they know every whim in his head. As long as the _Murazzi_ hold--the great stone dykes breasting the Adriatic outside the lagoons--Venice is safe. To-morrow the blessed sun will shine again, and the warm air will dry up the last vestige of the night’s frolic.

Suddenly the wind changes. The rain ceases. Light is breaking in the west. The weather-vane on the Campanile glows and flashes. Now a flood of sunshine bursts forth from a halo of lemon-colored sky. The joyous pigeons glint like flakes of gold. Then a shout comes from the Molo. The sea is falling! The gondolier who has dared the centre of the Piazza springs to his oar, strips off his oilskins, throws them into his boat, and plunges overboard waist-deep, seizing his gondola by the bow. The boys dash in on either side. Now for the Molo! The crowd breaks into cheers. On it goes, grounding near the _Porta della Carta_, bumping over the stone flagging; afloat again, the boatmen from the Molo leaping in to meet it; then a rush, a cheer, and the endangered gondola clears the coping of the wall and is safe at her moorings.

Half an hour later the little children in their white summer dresses, the warm sunshine in their faces, are playing in the seaweed that strews the pavements of the Piazzetta.

LEGACIES OF THE PAST

“WILL you have the kindness to present Professor Croisac’s profound adoration to the Contessa Albrizzi, and say that he humbly begs permission to conduct his friend, a most distinguished painter, through the noble salons of her _palazzo_?”

It was the Professor, standing bareheaded on the landing-steps of the entrance to the Palazzo Albrizzi, the one lonely glove breaking the rounded outline of his well-brushed hat. He was talking to a portly Italian who did duty as Cerberus. As for myself, I was tucked back under the _tenda_, awaiting the result of the conference, Espero smiling at the old fellow’s elaborate address and manners.

The porter bowed low, and explained, with much earnestness, that the _Illustrissima_ was then sojourning at her country-seat in the Tyrol; adding that, despite this fact, the whole palace, including the garden and its connecting bridge, from the courtyard to the roof, was completely at the service of the _Signor Professore_.

“And all for two _lire_,” whispered Espero, to whom the old gentleman was a constant source of amusement, and who could never quite understand why most of his talking was done with his back bent at right angles to his slender legs. So we followed the porter up the stone staircase, around its many turns, to the grand hall above, with its rich pictures panelled on the walls, and so on through the various rooms of white stucco and old gold brocades, to the grand salon, the one with the famous ceiling.

The night before, over a glass of Torino vermouth at Florian’s, the Professor had insisted that I should not live another day until he had piloted me through all those relics of the past, illustrative of an age in Venice as sumptuous as it was artistic.

First of all I must see the gorgeous ceilings of the Albrizzi; then the curious vine-covered bridge leading out of the Contessa’s boudoir to a garden across the narrow canal, as secluded as the groves of Eden before Adam stepped into them. Then I must examine the grand Palazzo Rezzonico, begun by Longhena in 1680, and completed sixty years later by Massari; once the home of Pope Clement XIII., and again made immortal as sheltering the room in which Browning had breathed his last. There, too, was the Barbaro, with its great flight of stone steps sweeping up and around two sides of a court to the picturesque entrance on the second floor,--the Barbaro, with its exquisite salon, by far the most beautiful in Europe. There was the Palazzo Pisani, built in the fifteenth century, its galleries still hung with Venetian mirrors; and the Palazzo Pesaro, designed by this same Longhena in 1679, the home of an illustrious line of Venetian nobles from Leonardo Pesaro down to the Doge Giovanni, with its uncanny row of grotesque heads of boars, bulls, and curious beasts studded along the water-table of the first story, a hand’s touch from your gondola, so grotesque and quaint that each one looked like a nightmare solidified into stone. There were also the Dandolo, where lived the great Doge Enrico Dandolo, the conqueror of Constantinople,--conqueror at ninety-seven years of age; the Farsetti, where Canova studied, in his time an academy; the Barbarigo, where Titian once held court; the Mocenigo, where Byron lived; not to mention the veritable home of the veritable Desdemona, including the identical balcony where Othello breathed his love.

All these I must see, and more. More in out-of-the-way churches like _San Giorgio della Schiavoni_, with the Carpaccios that are still as brilliant as when the great painter laid down his brush. More in the Gesuati up the Zattere, with its exquisite Tiepolos. Infinitely more in the school of San Rocco, especially behind the altars and under the choir-loft; in the Frari next door, and in a dozen other picturesque churches; and away out to Torcello, the mother of Venice, with its one temple,--the earliest of Venetian cathedrals,--its theatre-like rows of seats, and the ancient slate shutters swinging on huge hinges of stone.

But to return to the Professor, who is still gazing up into the exquisite ceiling of the salon of the Contessa, pointing out to me the boldness and beauty of the design, a white sheet drawn taut at the four corners by four heroic nude figures, its drooping folds patted up against the ceiling proper by a flutter of life-sized, winged cupids flying in the air, in high relief, or half smothered in its folds.