Penelope's Postscripts

  IV

  CASA ROSA, _May_ 20.

  One of the pleasantest sights to be noted from our windows at breakfasttime is Angelo making ready our private gondola for the day. Angelohimself is not attractive to the eye by reason of the silliest possiblehat for a man of forty-five whose hair is slightly grey. It is a whitestraw sailor, with a turned-up brim, a blue ribbon encircling the crown,and a white elastic under the chin; such a hat as you would expect to seecrowning the flaxen curls of mother’s darling boy of four.

  I love to look at the gondola, with its solemn caracoling like that of apossible water-horse, of which the arched neck is the graceful _ferro_.This is a strange, weird, beautiful thing when the black gondola sways alittle from side to side in the moonlight. Angelo keeps ours polished sothat it shines like silver in the morning sun, and he has an exquisiteconscientiousness in rubbing every trace of brass about his preciouscraft. He has a little box under the prow full of bottles and brushesand rags. The cushions are laid on the bank of the canal; the pieces ofcarpet are taken out, shaken, and brushed, and the narrow strips are laidover the curved wood ends of the gondola to keep the sun from crackingthem. The _felze_, or cabin, is freed of all dust, the tiny four-leggedstools and the carved chair are wiped off, and occasionally a thin coatof black paint is needed here and there, and a touching-up of the goldlines which relieve the sombreness. The last thing to be done is topolish the vases and run back into the garden for nosegays, and whenthese are disposed in their niches on each side of the _felze_, Angelowaves his infantile hat gaily to us at the window, and smiles hisreadiness to be off.

  On other mornings we watch the loading and unloading of grain. There aremany small boats always in view, their orange sails patched with allsorts of emblems and designs in a still deeper colour, and day beforeyesterday a large ship appeared at our windows and attached itself to ourvery doorsteps, much to the wrath of Salemina, who finds the poetry ofexistence much disturbed under the new conditions. All is life andmotion now. The men are stripped naked to the waist, with brighthandkerchiefs on their heads, and, in many cases, others tied over theirmouths. Each has a thick wisp of short twine strings tucked into hiswaistband. The bags are weighed by one, who takes out or puts in ashovelful of grain, as the case may be. Then the carrier ties up his bagwith one of the twine strings, two other men lift it to his shoulder,while a boy removes a pierced piece of copper from a long wire and givesit to him, this copper being handed in turn to still another man, whoapparently keeps the account. This not uninteresting, indeed, but sordidand monotonous operation began before eight yesterday morning and evenearlier to-day, obliging Salemina to decline strawberries and eat herbreakfast with her back to the window.

  This afternoon at four the injured lady departed on a tour in MissPalett’s gondola. Miss Palett is a water-colourist who has lived inVenice for five years and speaks the language “like a native.” (You arefamiliar with the phrase, and perhaps familiar, too, with the native likewhom they speak.)

  Returning after tea, Salemina was observed to radiate a kind of subduedtriumph, which proved on investigation to be due to the fact that she hadmet the _comandante_ of the offending ship and that he had gallantlypromised to remove it without delay. I cannot help feeling that theproper time for departure had come; but this destroys the story and robsthe _comandante_ of his reputation for chivalry.

  As Miss Palett’s gondola neared the grain-ship, Salemina, it seems, spiedthe commanding officer pacing the deck.

  “See,” she said to her companion, “there is a gang-plank from the side ofthe ship to that small flat-boat. We could perfectly well step from ourgondola to the flat-boat and then go up and ask politely if we may beallowed to examine the interesting grain-ship. While you areinterviewing the first officer about the foreign countries he has seen, Iwill ask the _comandante_ if he will kindly tie his boat a little fartherdown on the island. No, that won’t do, for he may not speak English; weshould have an awkward scene, and I should defeat my own purposes. Youare so fluent in Italian, suppose you call upon him with my card and letme stay in the gondola.”

  “What shall I say to the man?” objected Miss Palett.

  “Oh, there’s plenty to say,” returned Salemina. “Tell him that Penelopeand I came over from the hotel on the Grand Canal only that we might haveperfect quiet. Tell him that if I had not unpacked my largest trunk, Ishould not stay an instant longer. Tell him that his great, bulky shipruins the view; that it hides the most beautiful church and part of theDoge’s Palace. Tell him that I might as well have stayed at home andbuilt a cottage on the dock in Boston Harbour. Tell him that hissteam-whistles, his anchor-droppings, and his constant loadings orunloadings give us headache. Tell him that seven or eight of hissailormen brought clean garments and scrubbing brushes and took theirbath at our front entrance. Tell him that one of them, almost absolutelynude, instead of running away to put on more clothing, offered me his armto assist me into the gondola.”

  Miss Palett demurred at the subject-matter of some of these remarks, andaffirmed that she could not translate others into proper Italian. Shetherefore proposed that Salemina should write a few dignified protests onher visiting-card, and her own part would be to instruct the man in theflat-boat to deliver it at once to his superior officer. The_comandante_ spoke no English,—of that fact the sailorman in theflat-boat was certain,—but as the gondola moved away, the ladies couldsee the great man pondering over the little piece of pasteboard, and itwas plain that he was impressed. Herein lies perhaps a seed of truth.The really great thing triumphs over all obstacles, and reaches thecommon mind and heart in some way, delivering its message we know nothow.

  Salemina’s card teemed with interesting information, at least to theinitiated. Her surname was in itself a passport into the best society.To be an X— was enough of itself, but her Christian name was one peculiarto the most aristocratic and influential branch of the X—s. Her mother’smaiden name, engraved at full length in the middle, established the factthat Mr. X— had not married beneath him, but that she was the child ofunblemished lineage on both sides. Her place of residence was the onlyone possible to the possessor of three such names, and as if theseadvantages were not enough, the street and number proved that Salemina’sfamily undoubtedly possessed wealth; for the small numbers, andespecially the odd numbers, on that particular street, could be flauntedonly by people of fortune.

  You have now all the facts in your possession, and I can only add thatthe ship weighed anchor at twilight, so Salemina again gazed upon theDoge’s Palace and slept tranquilly.