The Via Garibaldi is astir to-day. From the Ponte Veneta Marina, next
the caffè of the same name--it is but a step--to the big iron gates of
the Public Gardens, is a moving throng of Venetians, their chatter
filling the soft September air. Flags are waving--all kinds of flags,
and of all colors; gay lanterns of quaint patterns are festooned from
window to window; old velvets and rare stuffs, some in rags and tatters,
so often have they been used, stream out from the balconies crowded with
pretty Venetians shading their faces with their parasols as they watch
the crowds below. In and out of this mass of holiday-makers move the
pedlers crying their wares, some selling figs, their scales of polished
brass jingling as they walk; some with gay handkerchiefs and scarfs
draped about their trays; here and there one stands beside a tripod
holding a big earthen dish filled with _fulpi_--miniature devil-fish
about as big as a toad--so ugly that no man, however hungry, except,
perhaps, a Venetian, dares swallow one with his eyes open.
Along this stretch of waving flags, gay-colored lanterns, and joyous
people, are two places where the throngs are thickest. One is the Caffè
Veneta Marina, its door within a cigarette's toss of the first step of
the curving bridge of the same name, and the other is the Caffè Beneto,
a smaller caffè farther down the wide street--wide for Venice. The Caffè
Veneta Marina contains but a single room level with the street, and on
gala days its tables and chairs are pushed quite out upon the marble
flags. The Caffè Beneto runs through to the waters of the Grand Canal
and opens on a veranda fitted with a short flight of steps at which the
gondolas often land their passengers.
These two caffès are the headquarters of two opposing factions of
gondoliers, enemies for centuries, since the founding of their guild, in
fact--the Nicolletti, whose caps in the old days were black, and the
Castellani, whose caps were red. The first were publicans, renowned for
their prowess with the oar, but rough and outspoken, boastful in
victory, bitter in defeat. The second were aristocrats, serving the Doge
and often of great service to the State--men distinguished for their
courtesy as well as for their courage. These attributes have followed
these two guilds down to the present day.
Every year when the leaves of the sycamores in the Public Gardens fade
into brown gold, and the great dome of the Salute, glistening like a
huge pink pearl, looms above the soft September haze that blurs the
water line, these two guilds--the Nicolletti and Castellani--meet in
combat, each producing its best oarsmen.
To-day the course is from the wall of the Public Gardens to the Lido and
back. Young Francesco Portera, the idol of the shipyards, a big-boned
Venetian, short-armed and strong, is to row for the Nicolletti, and
Luigi Zanaletto, a man near twice his age, for the Castellani.
For days there has been no other talk than this gondola race. Never in
any September has the betting run so high. So great is the interest in
the contest that every morning for a week the line of people at the
Monte di Pietà--the Government pawn shop--has extended out into the
great corridor of the Palazzo, every arm and pocket filled with
clothing, jewels, knick-knacks, everything the owners can and cannot
spare, to be pawned in exchange for the money needed to bet on this
race.
There is good cause for this unusual excitement. While Luigi is known as
the successful winner of the four annual races preceding this one,
carrying the flag of the Castellani to victory against all comers, and
each year a new contestant, many of his enemies insist that the pace has
told on him; that despite his great reach of arm and sinewy legs, his
strength, by reason of his age--they are all old at forty in Venice
(except the Castellani)--is failing, and that for him to win this fifth
and last race would be more than any guild could expect, glorious as
would be the result. Others, more knowing, argued that while Francesco
had an arm like a blacksmith and could strike a blow that would fell an
ox, he lacked that refinement of training which made the ideal oarsman;
that it was not so much the size or quality of the muscles as it was the
man who used them; that blood and brains were more than brute force.
Still another feature added zest and interest to the race, especially to
members of the opposing guilds. There was an unwritten law of Venice
that no man of either guild could win more than five races in
succession--a foolish law, many thought, for no oarsman had accomplished
it. This done, the victor retired on his laurels. Ever after he became
_Primo_--the envied of his craft, the well-beloved of all the women of
his quarter, young and old alike. Should Luigi Zanaletto win this fifth
race, no Nicolletti could show their faces for very shame on the Piazza.
For weeks thereafter they would be made the butt of the good-natured
badinage of the populace. If, however, Luigi should lose this fifth and
last race, the spell would be broken and some champion of the
Nicolletti--perhaps this very Francesco, with the initiative of this
race, might gain succeeding victories and so the Nicolletti regain the
ground they had lost through Luigi's former prowess.
Those of his guild, however, those who knew and loved Luigi, had no such
misgivings as to the outcome. They lost no sleep over his expected
defeat. As their champion stepped from his gondola this beautiful
September morning, laying his oar along its side, and mounted the marble
steps of the landing opposite the Caffè Veneta Marina, those who got
close enough to note his superb condition only added to their wagers.
Six feet and an inch, straight, with willowy arms strengthened by steel
cords tied in knots above the elbows, hauled taut along the wrists and
anchored in the hands--grips of steel, these hands, with thumbs and
forefingers strong as the jaws of a vice (he wields and guides his oar
with these); waist like a woman's, the ribs outlined through the
cross-barred boating shirt; back and stomach in-curved, laced and
clamped by a red sash; thighs and calves of lapped leather; shoulders a
beam of wood--square, hard, unyielding; neck an upward sweep tanned to
a ruddy brown, ending in a mass of black hair, curly as a dog's and as
strong and glistening.
And his face! Stop some morning before the church of Santi Giovanni e
Paolo, and look up into the face of the great Colleoni as he sits
bestride his bronze horse, and ask the noble soldier to doff his helmet.
Then follow the firm lines of the mouth, the wide brow, strong nose, and
iron chin. Add to this a skin bronzed to copper by the sun, a pair of
laughing eyes, and an out-pointed mustache, and you have Luigi.
And the air of the man! Only gondoliers, of all serving-men, have this
humble fearlessness of manner--a manner which combines the dignity of
the patrician with the humility of the servant. It is their calling
which marks the difference. Small as is the gondola among all water
craft, the gondolier is yet its master, free to come and free to go. The
wide stretch of the sea is his--not another's: a sea hemmed about by the
palaces of ancestors who for ten centuries dominated the globe.
* * * * * * *
But Luigi is still standing on the marble steps of the landing opposite
the Caffè Veneta Marina this lovely September day, doffing his cap to
the admiring throng, just as Colleoni would have doffed his, and with
equal grace. Not the red cap of his guild--that has been laid aside for
two centuries--but his wide straw hat, with his colors wound about it.
As he made his way slowly through the crowd toward the caffè, an old
woman who had been waiting for him--wrinkled, gray-haired, a black shawl
about her head held tight to the chin by her skinny fingers, her eyes
peering from its folds--stepped in front of him. She lived near his home
and was godmother to one of his children.
"Luigi Zanaletto!" she cried, catching him by the wrist.
"Yes, good mother."
"That idiot Marco told my Amalia last night that you will lose the race.
He has been to the Pietà and will bet all his money on Francesco."
"And why not, good mother? Why do you worry?"
"Because the two fools will have no money to be married on. They are
called in San Rosario next Sunday, and the next is their wedding-day. He
has pawned the boat his uncle gave him."
"And if he wins?"
"He will not win, Luigi. When that brute came in from the little race we
had last week I was passing in a sandolo on my way to San Giorgio. He
was panting like a child after a run. If he had no breath left in him
then, where will he be to-day?"
"One cannot tell, good mother. Who told the boy I would lose the race?"
"Beppo Cavalli."
"Ah! the Nicolletti," muttered Luigi.
"Yes."
"He has a boy, too, has he not, good mother?"
"Yes, Amalia loved him once; now she loves Marco. These girls are like
the wind, Luigi. They never blow two days alike."
Luigi stopped and looked out toward the lagoon. He knew Cavalli. In
summer he rowed a barca; in winter he kept a wine shop and sold untaxed
salt and smuggled cigarettes to his customers. The crowd pressed closer,
listening.
"Beppo Cavalli, good mother," he said, slowly, "means ill to the boy
Marco and to your daughter. The Cavallis are not backing Francesco. They
talk loud, but there is not a soldo for him among them. Cavalli would
get that girl for his son; she is pretty and would bring customers to
his shop. Where is Marco?"
"He is at the Caffè Beneto with Cavalli and Francesco. I have tired my
tongue out talking to Marco, and so has Amalia. His head is fixed like a
stone. Francesco is getting ready for this afternoon, but it will do him
no good. He has not arms like this. Is it not so, men?"--and she lifted
Luigi's arm and held it up that the crowd might see.
A great cheer went up in answer, and was echoed by the crowd about the
caffè door. Luigi among the people of his quarter was like their
religion.
The champion had now reached one of the tables of the caffè. Drawing out
a chair, he bent forward, shook hands with old Guido, the proprietor,
crooked his fingers gallantly at a group of women in an overhanging
balcony, and was just taking his seat when a young girl edged her way
through the circle and slipped her arm around the woman's neck. She had
the low brow surmounted by masses of jet-black hair, drooping, sleepy
eyelids shading slumbering, passionate eyes, sensitive sweet mouth and
oval face common to her class. About her shoulders was draped a black
shawl, its fringes lost in the folds of her simple gown.
"Oh, Amalia!" cried the woman, "has this boy of yours given up his money
yet?"
"No, mother, he has promised to wait till I come back. Marco is like a
wild man when I talk. I thought Luigi would speak to him if I asked him.
Please, dear Luigi, do not let him lose his money. We are ruined if he
bets on Francesco."
Luigi reached out his hand and drew the girl toward him. His own
daughter at home had just such a look in her eyes whenever she was in
trouble and came to him for help.
"How much will he bet, child?" he asked in a low voice.
"Every soldo he has. Cavalli talks to him all the time. They are like
crazy people over there at the Beneto. Ah, good Luigi, do not win! I am
so unhappy!" and the tears gathered in her eyes.
Luigi, still holding her hand, laughed gently as he looked up into her
face. The others who had heard the girl's plea laughed with him.
"Go, child, and bring Marco here to me. Cavalli shall not ruin you both,
if I can help it."
The girl pushed her hair back from her flushed face, drew her shawl
closer about her shoulders, bent her pretty head, wormed her way out of
the dense throng pressing in upon the table, and ran with all her might
toward the Caffè Beneto, followed by her mother.
In a few minutes the two were back again, their arms fast locked in
those of a young fellow of twenty--they marry young under Italian
suns--who stood looking at Luigi with curious, wondering eyes. Not that
he did not know the champion--every man in Venice knew him--but because
Cavalli had pictured Luigi as of doubtful strength, and the Luigi before
him did not fit Cavalli's measure.
"Marco," said Luigi, a smile crossing his face.
"Yes, Signore Zanaletto," answered the boy.
"Come nearer."
The young fellow advanced to the table. The others who had been near
enough to learn of the girl's errand crowded the closer. Every utterance
of a champion on a day like this is of value.
"You should be at work, boy, not betting on the race. You earn your
living with your hands; that is better than Cavalli's way; he earns his
with his tongue. I am nearly twice your age and have rowed many times,
but I have never yet wagered as much as a soldo on any race of mine.
Give your money to the good mother, and let her take it to the Pietà and
get your boat. You will need it before the month is out, she tells me."
The boy hung his head and did not answer.
"Why do you think I shall lose? Have I not won four already?"
"Yes, but every year the signore gets older; you are not so strong as
you were. And then, no man has won five races in fifty years. It is the
Nicolletti's year to win, Cavalli says."
A cheer here went up from the outside of the crowd. Some of the
Nicolletti who had followed the boy had been listening.
"Cavalli should read his history better. It is not fifty years, but
sixty. But we Italians work for ourselves now, and are free. That counts
for something."
"Francesco works, Signore Zanaletto. He has arms like my leg."
"Yes, and for that reason you think him the stronger?"
"I did when Cavalli talked to me. Now I am in doubt."
The cheer that answered this reply came from some Castellani standing in
the door of the caffè. When the cheering slackened a man on the outside
of the crowd called out:
"Your Luigi is a coward. He will not bet because he knows he'll lose."
At this a big stevedore from the salt warehouse lunged toward Luigi and
threw a silver lira on his table.
"Match that for Francesco!" he cried.
Luigi pushed it back.
"When I bet it will be with my equal," he said, icily.
A laugh of derision followed, in which Marco joined. The boy evidently
thought the champion was afraid to risk his own money and make his word
good. Boys of twenty often have such standards.
"Bet with Francesco, then, Signore Zanaletto," cried the stevedore. "He
is twice your equal."
"Yes, bring him here," answered Luigi, quietly.
Half a dozen men, led by the big stevedore, made a rush for the Caffè
Beneto. While they were gone, Marco, with Amalia and her mother, kept
their places beside Luigi's table, chatting together in low tones.
Luigi's refusal to bet with the stevedore and his willingness to bet
with his opponent had unsettled Marco's mind all the more. Marriage,
with him as with most of the people of his class, meant just money
enough to pay the priest and to defray expenses of existence for a
month. He would take his chances after that. They might both go to work
again then, she back to her beads and he to his boat, but they would
have had their holiday, and a holiday is the one thing valued above all
others by most Venetians. Should he lose, however, he must give up the
girl for the present--the prettiest in all the quarter. And then perhaps
Beppo Cavalli's son might find favor again in her eyes.
Amalia's anxiety was none the less keen. She had thrown over Cavalli's
son for Marco, and if anything should go wrong the whole quarter would
laugh at her. The two continued to ply Luigi with questions: as to who
would win the toss for position; whether the wind would be against them;
whether the water would be rough where the tide cut around the point of
San Giorgio--all of which Marco, being a good boatman, could have
settled for himself had his mind been normal. As they talked on, Luigi
read their minds. Reason and common sense had evidently made no
impression on the boy; he was not to be influenced in that way.
Something stronger and more obvious, some demonstration that he could
understand, was needed. Amalia's mother was his friend, and had been for
years; what he could do to help her he would, no matter at what cost.
The throng parted again, and the stevedore, out of breath, forced his
way into the circle.
"The great Francesco says he comes at no man's call. He is a Nicolletti.
If any Castellani wants to see him he must come to _him_. He will wait
for you at the Beneto."
A shout went up, and a rush to avenge the insult was only stopped by
Luigi gaining his feet and raising his hand.
"Tell him," he said, in a clear voice, loud enough for everyone to hear,
"that there is no need of his saying he is a Nicolletti; we would know
it from his message. Come, boy, I'll show you of what stuff this
gentleman is made."
The crowd fell back, Luigi striding along, his hand on Marco's shoulder.
The champion could hardly conceal a smile of triumph as he neared the
door of the Caffè Beneto, which opened to let them in. The two passed
through the long passage into the room opening out on the veranda and
the water beyond. Francesco sat at a table with his back to a window,
sipping a glass of wine diluted with water. Cavalli, his head bound with
a yellow handkerchief, the colors of the Nicolletti, a scowl on his
face, sat beside him. Every inch of standing room was blocked with his
admirers.
"Signore Francesco," said Luigi, courteously, removing his hat, "I
understand that you want to lose some money on the race. I have come to
accommodate you. How much shall it be?"
"Ten lire!" cried one of the officers of the regatta, pouring some
silver beside Francesco's hand as it rested on the table. "Put your
money here, Signore Zanaletto. Our good landlord will hold the stakes."
"The money is not enough," answered Luigi. "I am the challenged party,
and have the right to choose. Is it not so?"
"Yes, yes," cried half a dozen voices; "make it fifty lire! We are not
_lazagnoni_. We have money--plenty of it. See, Signore Castellani"--and
half a dozen palms covered with small coin were extended.
"I can choose, then, the kind of money and the sum," continued Luigi.
"Yes, gold, silver, paper--anything you want!"
"Then, gentle Nicolletti," said Luigi, in his softest and most
courteous voice, "if you will permit me, I will choose the poor man's
money. Match this, Signore Francesco," and he threw a copper soldo (a
coin the size and thickness of an English penny) upon the table. "It is
yours if you win."
A roar of laughter greeted the announcement. Francesco sprang to his
feet.
"I am not here to be made a fool of! I don't bet with soldi! I throw
them to beggars!" he cried, angrily.
"Pardon me, signore. Was it not agreed that I had the choice?"
Some muttering was heard at this, but no one answered.
"Let us see your soldo, then, signore," continued Luigi. "The race is
the thing, not the money. A soldo is as good as a gold piece with which
to back one's opinions. Come, I am waiting."
Francesco thrust his hand into his pocket, hauled up a handful of small
coin, picked out a soldo and threw it contemptuously on the table.
"There--will that do?"
Luigi picked up the copper coin, examined it carefully, and tossed it
back on the table.
"It is not of the right kind, signore. The stamp is wrong. We Castellani
are very particular as to what money we wager and win."
The crowd craned their heads. If it was a counterfeit, they would put up
another. This, however, did not seem to be Luigi's meaning. The boy
Marco was so absorbed in the outcome that he reached forward to pick up
the coin to examine it the closer when Luigi stopped him with his hand.
"What's the matter with the soldo?" growled Francesco, scrutinizing the
pieces, "isn't it good?"
"Good enough, perhaps, for beggars, signore, and good enough, no doubt,
for Nicolletti. But it lacks the stamp of the Castellani. Hand it to me,
please, and I will put the mark of my guild upon it. Look, good Signore
Francesco!"
As he spoke, Luigi caught the coin between his thumb and forefinger,
clutched it with a grip of steel, and with a twist of his thumb bent the
copper soldo to the shape of a watch crystal!
"That kind of a soldo, signore," he said in a low tone, as he tossed
the concave coin back upon the table. "Match it, please! Here, try your
fingers on my coin! Come, I am waiting. You do not answer, Signore
Francesco. Why did you send for me, then? Had I known that your money
was not ready I would not have left my caffè. Perhaps, however, some
other distinguished Nicolletti can find some money good enough with
which to bet a Castellani," and he looked about him. "No? I am sorry,
gentlemen, very sorry. Addio!" and he picked up the bent coin, slipped
it into his pocket, bowed like a doge to the room, and passed out
through the door.
* * * * * * *
In the dense mass that lined the wall of the Public Gardens a girl and
her lover stood with anxious eyes and flushed, hot cheeks, watching the
home-stretch of the two contestants.
Francesco and Luigi, cheered by the shouts of a thousand throats, had
reached the stake-boat off the Lido and were now swinging back to the
goal of the Garden wall, both bending to their blades, Luigi half a
length behind, Francesco straining every nerve. Waves of red and of
gold--the colors of the two guilds--surged and flashed from out the mass
of spectators as each oarsman would gain or lose an inch.
Behind the lover and the girl stood the girl's mother, her black shawl
twisted into a scarf. This she waved as heartily as the youngest about
her.
"Don't cry, you fools!" she stopped long enough to shout in Amalia's
ear. "It is his old way. Wait till he reaches the red buoy. Ah! what did
I tell you! Luigi! Luigi! Bravo Castellani! See, Marco--see! Ah, Signore
Francesco, your wind is gone, is it? You should nurse bambinos with
those big arms of yours. Ah, look at him! Amalia, what did I tell you,
you two fools!"
Marco did not answer. He was holding on to the marble coping of the
wall, his teeth set, his lips quivering, his eyes fixed on Francesco's
body in silhouette against the glistening sea. Luigi's long swing,
rhythmical as a machine's, graceful as the curves of a wind sail, did
not seem to interest him. The boy had made his bet, and he would abide
by it, but he would not tell the mother until the race was won. He had
had enough of her tongue.
Suddenly Luigi clenched his thumb and forefinger tight about the handle
of his oar, and with the sweep of a yacht gaining her goal headed
straight for the stake-post, in full sight of the thousands lining the
walls.
A great shout went up. Red flags, red parasols, rags, blankets, anything
that told of Luigi's colors, rose and fluttered in the sunlight.
"_Primo! Primo!_" yelled the crowd. "Viva Castellani! Viva Zanaletto!"
Then, while the whole concourse of people held their breaths, their
hearts in their mouths, Luigi with his fingers turned to steel, shot
past Francesco with the dash of a gull, and amid the shouts of thousands
lifted his victorious hat to the multitude.
For the first time in sixty years the same pair of arms had won five
races!
Luigi was _Primo_ and the Castellani the victors of the sea.
* * * * * * *
When Luigi's boat had reached the main landing of the Gardens and he
had mounted the great flight of marble steps, a hundred hands held out
to him joyous welcome. Amalia, who had forced her way to his side, threw
her arms about his neck.
"Did the boy bet, child?" he asked, wiping the sweat from his face.
"Yes, signore."
"On Francesco?"
"No, dear Luigi, on you! Oh, I am so happy!"
"And what changed his mind?"
"The soldo!"
"The soldo! That makes me happy, too. Add it to your dowry, child," and
he placed the coin in her hand.
She wears it now as a charm. The good priest blessed it with her
wedding-ring.