A Voyage Of Consolation, Sara Jeannette Duncan [ebook reader with highlighter .TXT] 📗

He Was Told,  Of Course,  How The Plain

Black Gondola Came To Be Enforced Through The Extravagance Of The Nobles

Who Ruined Themselves To Have Splendid Ones,  And How The Venetians

Scrupled To Depart From A Historic Mandate,  But He Considered This A

Feeble Argument,  Probably Perpetuated By Somebody Who Enjoyed A Monopoly

In Supplying Venice With Black Paint. "Circumstances Alter Cases," He

Declared. "If That Old Doge Knew That The P. And O. Was Going To Run

Direct Between Venice And Bombay Every Fortnight This Year,  He'D Tell

You To Turn Out Your Gondolas Silver-Gilt!"

 

Nevertheless,  As I Say,  The Senator'S Views Were Coldly Received,  With

One Exception. A Highly Picturesque And Intelligent Gondolier,  Whom The

Guide Sought To Convert To A Sense Of The Anachronism Of His Clothes In

Connection With His Calling,  Promised That If We Would Give Him A

Definite Engagement For Next Day,  He Would Appear Suitably Clad. The

Following Morning He Awaited Us With Honest Pride In His Sunday Apparel,

Which Included Violently Checked Trousers,  A Hard Felt Hat,  And A Large

Pink Tie. The Senator Paid Him Hurriedly And Handsomely And Dismissed

Him With As Little Injury To His Feelings As Was Possible Under The

Circumstances. "Tell Him," Said Poppa To The Guide,  "To Go Home And Take

Off Those Pants. And Tell Him,  Do You Understand,  To _Rush_!"

 

That Same Day,  In The Afternoon,  I Remember,  When We Were Disembarking

For An Ice At Florian'S,  Momma Directed Our Attention To Two Gentlemen

In An Approaching Gondola. "There'S Something About That Man," She Said

Impressively,  "I Mean The One In The Duster,  That Belongs To The Reign

Of Louis Philippe."

 

"There Is," I Responded; "We Saw Him Last In The Petit Trianon. It'S

Mr. Pabbley And Mr. Hinkson. Two More Transatlantic Fellow-Travellers.

Senator,  When We Meet Them Shall We Greet Them?"

 

The Senator Had A Moment Of Self-Expostulation.

 

"Well,  No," He Said,  "I Guess Not. I Don'T Suppose We Need Feel Obliged

To Keep Up The Acquaintance Of _Every_ American We Come Across In

Europe. It Would Take Us All Our Time. But I'D Like To Ask Him What Use

He Finds For A Duster In Venice."

 

"How I Wish The Misses Bingham Could Hear You," I Thought,  But One

Should Never Annoy One'S Parents Unnecessarily,  So I Kept My Reflections

To Myself.

 

Chapter 20

That Last Day In Venice We Went,  I Remember,  To The Lido. Nothing

Happened,  But I Don'T Like Leaving It Out,  Because It Was The Last Day,

And The Next Best Thing To Lingering In Venice Is Lingering On It. We

Went In a Steamboat,  Under Protest From Poppa,  Who Said It Might As Well

Be Coney Island Until We Got There,  When He Admitted Points Of

Difference,  And Agreed That If People Had To Come All The Way Out In

Gondolas,  Certain Existing Enterprises Might As Well Go Out Of Business.

The Steamer Was Full Of Venetians,  And We Saw That They Were Charming,

Though Momma Wishes It To Be Understood That The Modern Portia Wears Her

Bodice Cut Rather Too Low In The Neck And Gazes Much Too Softly At The

Modern Bassanio. Poppa And I Thought It Mere Amiability That Scorned To

Conceal Itself,  But Momma Referred To It Otherwise,  Admitting,  However,

That She Found It Fascinating To Watch.

 

We Seemed To Disembark At A Restaurant Permanent Among Flowing Waters,

So Prominent Was This Feature Of The Island,  But It Had Only A Roof,  And

Presently We Noticed A Little Grass And Some Bushes As Well. The Verdure

Had Quite A Novel Look,  And We Decided To Discourage The Casual Person

Who Wished To Sell Us Strange And Uncertified Shell Fish From A Basket

For Immediate Consumption,  And Follow It Up.

 

Dicky Was Of Opinion That We Might Arrive At The Vegetable Gardens Of

Venice,  But In This We Were Disappointed. We Came Instead To A

Street-Car,  And Half A Mile Of Arbour,  And All The Venetians Pleasurably

Preparing To Take Carriage Exercise. The Horses Seemed To Like The Idea

Of Giving It To Them,  They Were Quite Light-Hearted,  One Of Them

Actually Pawed. They Were The Only Horses In Venice,  They Felt Their

Dignity And Their Responsibility In a Way Foreign To Animals In The

Public Service,  Anywhere Else In The World. Personally We Would Have

Preferred To Walk To The Other End Of The Arbour,  But It Would Have

Seemed A Slight,  And,  As The Senator Said,  We Weren'T In Venice To Hurt

Anybody'S Feelings That Belonged There. It Would Have Been Extravagant

Too,  Since The Steamboat Ticket Included The Drive At The End. So We

Struggled Anxiously For Good Places,  And Proceeded To The Other Side

With Much Circumstance,  Enjoying Ourselves As Hard As Possible. Dicky

Said He Never Had Such A Good Time; But That Was Because He Had

Exhausted Venice And His Patience,  And Was Going On To Verona Next Day.

 

The Arbour And The Grass And The Street-Car Track Ended Sharply And All

Together At A Raised Wooden Walk That Led Across The Sand To A Pavilion

Hanging Over The Adriatic,  And Here We Sat And Watched Other Venetians

Disporting Themselves In The Water Below. They Were Glorious Creatures,

And They Disported Themselves Nobly,  Keeping So Well In View Of The

Pavilion And Such A Steady Eye Upon The Spectators That Poppa Had An

Impulsive Desire To Feed Them With Macaroons. He Decided Not To; You

Never Could Tell,  He Said,  What Might Be Considered A Liberty By

Foreigners; But He Had A Hard Struggle With The Temptation,  The Aquatic

Accomplishments We Saw Were So Deserving Of Reward. I Had The Misfortune

To Lose A Little Pink Rose Overboard,  As It Were,  And Dicky Looked

Seriously Annoyed When An Amphibious Young Venetian Caught It Between

His Lips. I Don'T Know Why; He Was One Of The Most Attractive On View,

But I Have Often Noticed Turkish Tendencies In dicky Where His

Country-Women Are Concerned. We Came Away Almost Immediately After,  So

That Rose Will Bloom In My Memory,  Until I Forget About It,  Among

Romances That Might Have Been.

 

Strolling Back,  We Bought A Venetian Secret For A Sou Or Two,  A

Beautiful Little Secret,  I Wonder Who First Found It Out. A Picturesque

And Fishy Smelling Person In a Soft Felt Hat Sold It To Us--A Pair Of

Tiny Dainty Dried Sea-Horses,  "_MèRe_" And "_PèRe_" He Called Them. And

There,  All In The Curving Poise Of Their Little Heads And The Twist Of

Their Little Tails,  Was Revealed Half The Art Of Venice,  And We Saw How

The First Glass Worker Came To Be Told To Make A Sea Green Dragon

Climbing Over An Amber Yellow Bowl,  And Where The Gondola Borrowed Its

Grace. They Moved Us To Unanimous Enthusiasm,  And We Utterly Refused To

Let Dicky Put One In His Button-Hole.

 

It Is Looking Back Upon Venice,  Too,  That I See The Paternal Figure Of

The Senator Nourishing The People With Octopuses. This May Seem

Improbable,  But It Is Strictly True. They Were Small Octopuses,  Not

Nearly Large Enough To Kill Anybody While They Were Alive,  Though Boiled

And Pickled They Looked Very Deadly. Pink In colour,  They Stood In a

Barrel Near The Entrance,  I Remember,  Of Jesurum'S,  And Attracted The

Senator'S Inquiring Eye. When The Guide Said They Were For Human

Consumption Poppa Looked At Him Suspiciously And Offered Him One. He Ate

It With A Promptness And Artistic Despatch That Fascinated Us All,

Gathering It Up By Its Limp Long Legs And Taking Bites Out Of It,  As If

It Were An Apple. A One-Eyed Man Who Hooked Pausing Gondolas Up To The

Slippery Steps Offered To Show How It Should Be Done,  And Other

Performers,  All Skilled,  Seemed To Rise From The Stones Of The Pavement.

Poppa Invited Them All,  By Pantomime,  To Walk Up And Have An Octopus,

And When The Crowd Began To Gather From The Side Alleys,  And The

Enthusiasm Grew Too Promiscuous,  He Bought The Barrel Outright And

Watched The Carnival From The Middle Of The Canal. He Often Speaks Of

His Enjoyment Of The Venetian Octopus,  Eaten In cold Blood,  Without

Pepper,  Salt,  Or Vinegar; And The Effect,  When I Am Not There,  Is

Awe-Stricken.

 

Next Morning We Took A Gondola For The Station,  And Slipped Through The

Gold And Opal Silence Of The Dawn On The Canals Away From Venice. No

One Was Up But The Sun,  Who Did As He Liked With The FaçAdes And The

Bridges In The Water,  And Made Strange Lovelinesses In Narrow Darkling

Places,  And Showed Us Things In The _Calli_ That We Did Not Know Were In

The World. The Senator Was Really Depressing Until He Gradually

Lightened His Spirits By Working Out A Scheme For A Direct Line Of

Steamships Between Venice And New York,  To Be Based On An Agreement With

The Venetian Municipality As To Garments Of Legitimate Gaiety For The

Gondoliers,  The Re-Nomination Of An Annual Doge,  Who Should Be Compelled

To Wear His Robes Whenever He Went Out Of Doors,  And The Yearly

Resurrection Of The Ancient Ceremony Of Marrying Venice To The Adriatic,

During The Months Of July And August,  When The Tide Of Tourist Traffic

Sets Across The Atlantic. "We Should Get Every School Ma'Am In The

Union,  To Begin With," Said Poppa Confidently,  And By The Time We

Reached Verona He Had Floated The Company,  Launched The First Ship,

Arrived In Venice With Full Orchestral Accompaniment,  And Dined The

Imitation Doge--If He Couldn'T Get Umberto And Crispi--Upon Clam Chowder

And Canvas-Backs To The Solemn Strains Of Hail Columbia Played Up And

Down The Grand Canal. "If It _Could_ Be Worked," Said Poppa As We

Descended Upon The Platform,  "I'D Like To Have The Pope Telephone Us A

Blessing On The Banquet."

 

Chapter 21

It Was The Middle Of The Afternoon,  And Momma,  Having Spent The Morning

Among The Tombs Of The Scaligeri,  Was Lying Down. The Scaligeri Somehow

Had Got On Her Nerves; There Were So Many Of Them,  And The Panoply Of

Their Individual Bones Was So Imposing.

 

"Daughter," She Had Said To Me On The Way Back To The Hotel,  "If You

Point Out Another Thing To Me I'Ll Slap You." In That Frame Of Mind It

Was Always Best To Let Momma Lie Down. The Senator Had Letters To Write;

I Think He Wanted To Communicate His Venetian Steamship Idea To A Man In

Minneapolis. Dicky Had Already Been Round To The Hotel Di Londres--We

Were At The Colomba--And Had Found Nothing,  So When He Asked Me To Come

Out For A Walk I Prepared To Be Steeped In despondency. An Unsuccessful

Love Affair Is A Severe Test Of Friendship; But I Went.

 

It Was As I Expected. Having Secured A Spectator To Wreak His Gloom

Upon,  Mr. Dod Proceeded To Make The Most Of The Opportunity. He Put His

Hat On Recklessly,  And Thrust His Hands Into His Pa--His Trouser

Pockets. We Were In a Strange Town,  But He Fastened His Eyes Moodily

Upon The Pavement,  As If Nothing Else Were Worth Considering. As We

Strolled Into The Piazza Bra,  I Saw Him Gradually And Furtively Turn Up

His Coat-Collar,  At Which I Felt Obliged To Protest.

 

"Look Here,  Dicky," I Said,  "Unrequited Affection Is,  Doubtless,  Very

Trying,  But You'Re Too Much Of An Advertisement. The Veronese Are

Beginning To Stare At You; Their Sorcerers Will Presently Follow You

About With Their Patent