crowded to the very arcades under the surrounding palaces, with a
moving mass of people, the tables of the caffès reaching almost to the
band-stand placed in the middle. Florian’s is full, hardly a seat to
be had. Auguste and his men are bringing ices and cooling drinks. The
old Duchess of uncertain age, with the pink veil, is in her accustomed
seat, and so are the white-gloved officers with waxed mustaches, and
the pretty Venetian girls with their mothers and duennas. The Professor
drops into his seat against the stone pillar,--the seat covered with
leather,--lights another cigarette, and makes a sign to Auguste. It is
the same old order, a cup of coffee and the smallest drop of Cognac
that can be brought in a tear-bottle of a decanter the size of your
thumb.
When the music is over you stroll along the arcades and under the
_Bocca del Leone_, and through the narrow streets leading to the Campo
of San Moisè, and so over the bridge near the Bauer-Grünwald to the
crack in the wall that leads you to the rear of your own quarter. Then
you cross your garden and mount the steps to your rooms, and so out
upon your balcony.
The canal is deserted. The music-boats have long since put out their
lanterns and tied up for the night. The lighters at the Dogana opposite
lie still and motionless, their crews asleep under the mats stretched
on the decks. Away up in the blue swims the silver moon, attended by an
escort of clouds hovering close about her. Towering above you rises
the great dome of the Salute, silent, majestic, every statue, cross,
and scroll bathed in the glory of her light.
Suddenly, as you hang over your balcony, the soft night embracing you,
the odor of oleanders filling the air, you hear the quick movement of a
flute borne on the night wind from away up the Iron Bridge. Nearer it
comes, nearer, the clear, bird-like notes floating over the still canal
and the deserted city. You lean forward and catch the spring and rhythm
of the two gondoliers as they glide past, keeping time to the thrill
of the melody. You catch, too, the abandon and charm of it all. He is
standing over her, his head uncovered, the moonlight glinting on the
uplifted reed at his lips. She lies on the cushions beneath him, throat
and shoulders bare, a light scarf about her head. It is only a glimpse,
but it lingers in your memory for years,--you on the balcony and alone.
Out they go,--out into the wide lagoon,--out into the soft night, under
the glory of the radiant stars. Fainter and fainter falls the music,
dimmer and dimmer pales the speck with its wake of silver.
Then all is still!
The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS, U. S. A.
ELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED BY
H. O. HOUGHTON AND CO.
FOOTNOTE:
[1] _Misteri di Venezia, di Edmondo Lundy._
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.