_Venice_
ALL IS NOT LOST
Cynthia was sleepy when she stumbled into the station at Genoa. She
hadn’t been too sure that the hotel keeper would wake her in time to
get the train for Venice. So all night long she had dozed fitfully,
waking to sit bolt upright and flash on the light to see her watch,
then finally been waked from a sound sleep at five, just an hour before
train time by the sharp summoning knuckles of the garçon on her bedroom
door.
And it must have been because her eyes were still blurred with sleep
that she took the _rapide_ instead of the express for Venice. They were
standing directly opposite each other, and both of them had “Venezia”
in letters a foot high along the carriages. An Italian _rapide_ does
not necessarily move with great rapidity. By the best of expresses it
is a long day’s journey across the width of Italy and by the time she
had discovered, with the half dozen native phrases that she knew, that
she had taken the wrong train it was too late to do anything about it.
They were already an hour east of Genoa.
“What time do we get to Venezia,” she begged. “Venezia ... _Venezia_.
...”
“Si...si...si...si...si,” hissed the beaming conductor as he punched
her ticket.
“Yes, but what time? Tempo? Tempo?” she pleaded.
The conductor shook his head and shrugged. Probably mad, this pretty
signorina. But he had no English, and what did she in third class, in
that expensive dress of real silk, with leather shoes upon her feet,
a hat, and a suitcase also of veritable leather? He gave it up and
sauntered down the crowded aisle between the wooden benches to examine
the biglietto of a wizened little great-grandmother traveling, with six
great-grandchildren, to Milan.
Cynthia grinned and settled philosophically against the frame of the
open window. Ten hours was a pretty long time, and it would be more
than that now in this poky old train, but anyway it was an adventure
and all part of traveling. She was certainly going in the right
direction, there was no one to meet her at the other end, no one to
worry when she didn’t arrive, and she would have all day to observe and
to make sketches.
Third class had been almost a necessity, this Italian trip hadn’t been
allowed for in her original budget, but Cynthia had found third class
in France so much more fun than second ... and of course even the
Italians say that no one but rich, rich Americans and officials who
travel on passes ever go by first. This was the coolest carriage too,
since the always open windows let in floods of air and sunlight along
with the floods of dust, and the hard wooden benches were pleasantly
free of the small insect life almost universally inhabiting the
upholstery of first and second coaches.
But third class in Italy! The young man at Cooks who had sold her her
ticket had almost expired to hear of an Anglo-Saxon traveling in so
unorthodox a fashion. No one ... _no one_ ever traveled third class in
Italy! Cynthia surveyed the coach and chuckled again.
Further down the aisle, two lovely little Sisters of Santa Chiara, in
the soft, dove-gray habit of their order, with spotless wide-spreading
winged headdresses and speckless collars munched contentedly and
daintily on bread and cheese augmented by a bottle of water they had
brought with them. Cynthia’s eye took in the angle of that tilted,
sail-like headdress, stealthily her fingers groped for sketch-book
and pencil. A moment later she was so absorbed in her drawing that
she absent-mindedly grinned back in friendly fashion at the littlest
Sister, who had caught her drawing. Nobody seemed to mind being
sketched in this country.
Then there was the old great grandmother and her boisterous brood.
Beside them she tended a hen in her apron, a hen that seemed very
content to sleep and to cluck drowsily in the warm depths of that blue
lap. The littlest bambino was not more than a year old, sleeping with
bobbing head on the shoulder of the oldest sister. He had the most
beautiful hands, tapering, with tiny dimples and wee pink nails, which
fell into enchanting poses. Cynthia sketched happily.
People came and went from every tiny station and crowds gathered
and dispersed beneath the trailing potted flowers that decorated the
pillars of every station platform. Cheerily they screamed “_Buon
giorno!_” “_Addio!_” “_Arrivederci! Arrivederci!_” Italian, someone had
told Cynthia, was a language intended to be shouted.
The sun grew warmer, the paper beneath her hand sticky with
perspiration. Somewhere along the line a few lire purchased a sandwich
of garlic-flavored sausage between thick slices of warm bread, a bottle
of warmish water and a bunch of sweet, very juicy green grapes. After
lunch she curled in her corner and slept.
When she awoke the car was nearly empty and they were clattering and
banging through the light of midafternoon. Hills were purple beyond
hot haze and vineyards, white with dust, spread for miles and miles on
either side the track. Cynthia sighed and got up to walk the length of
the car and back again. Where were they now, she wondered?
When they stopped with a clatter and bang at the next station she
hopped out to look at the map hung on the station wall. Keeping
one careful eye on the train lest it slide out and leave her, she
estimated the probable time that it would reach Venice. Good gracious,
it was hours away yet! And at the rate this train was going ...
The little horn tooted its warning and Cynthia fled back to her seat.
What to do, what to do? Thank goodness, nobody would be at all worried
or put out by this fool mistake of hers. Nancy, back in Brittany by
now, and Mrs. Brewster were the only people that knew about her trains
and her plans. Mother had insisted when Cynthia first left America that
she keep in touch, close touch, with some one person in Europe, and she
had been awfully faithful about that. She had even written Nancy what
train she was taking from Genoa ... and now, Cynthia grinned ... look
at the darn thing!
By five o’clock she was ravenous and very weary. From former experience
she knew that she could hop off almost any place that the train might
stop and continue next day on the same ticket. But for hours they had
not passed a decent sized town, just little settlements about the usual
tiny church and inn, a few donkeys and a mangy yellow dog or two. Did
she dare get off just anywhere and risk what she might find, or should
she stick on here till seeming doomsday, till midnight anyway and
arrive at some weird hour on the unknown canals of Venice?
Fumbling in the pocket of her silk jacket she found a single lira and
on impulse flipped it into the air. It dropped into her lap and she
covered it quickly with her hand.
“Heads; I’ll get off at the very next stop, no matter if it’s in the
middle of a field. Tails; I’ll go on to Venice, no matter how late we
get there or how hungry I am,” she said aloud.
She uncovered the coin. Heads it was!
Cynthia was a little scared. But determined, oh very determined.
Resolutely she took down her suitcase from the rack, swung her painting
box beside it. Firmly she waited by the open window till the train
banged again to a stop beside a little shack that served as a station.
The sign read Santa Maria Something-or-other, a name which meant
nothing to Cynthia. Sturdily she stepped backward down the three steep
steps to the ground, swung her box and suitcase off beside her and
turning her back on the poky little train walked toward the gate.
“Tomorrow ... tomorrow morning I go to Venice,” she explained to
the gatekeeper who was punching lacework patterns into her ticket.
“_Domani. Comprendo?_”
“_Si, si._” Wonderingly he let her pass. Not until the gate had closed
firmly did Cynthia feel sure that she herself wouldn’t turn and race
toward the departing train, the train that eventually must reach Venice.
When the last shriek of the whistle had died along the echoing hills,
when the last smudge of smoke had disappeared against the dazzling
light of the sinking sun, Cynthia was plodding almost ankle deep in
dust along the wide path that seemed to do duty as the town road. But
there was literally no town here. Far off across the plowed fields
a sugar white tower reared against the skyline; the village church.
Four or five scattered houses with the inevitable grape vine, their
whitewashed sides stained verdigris green with arsenic spray, and a
tiny inn to which the gateman had directed her. This latter was her
objective.
Its entrance was beneath a vine covered lattice and its bare dirt
floor, its collection of dogs looked much like the other farmhouses.
But inside there were several tables and a girl behind a counter. She
slid forward and smiled shyly with a flutter of incredible lashes.
Cynthia felt reassured.
Stumblingly she asked for a room for the night, explained her wish to
be called early for the first train for Venice.
Yes, signorina, there was a room, but one. The signorina should regard
it.
It was bare, save for the bed, table and chair and directly above the
café, but clean and cool. Cynthia nodded, did not ask the price and
letting her suitcase slide to the floor, ordered water with which to
wash. That was easy, one always asked for water. Supper also should be
simple, since a traveler was expected to desire food. Cynthia thought
of her first night in Paris and felt a little proud of how much more
confident she had become since then. What would Chick think of this
adventure of hers, she wondered and was glad he needn’t know about it
for weeks yet. He’d be sure to scold her for taking such a risk.
It proved however to be no risk at all. At supper, a simple meal of
spaghetti, a salad and grapes, she was examined shyly by several
children, hopefully by several dogs, curiously by the adults of the
family. But the spaghetti was delicious and Cynthia was hungry. After
dinner she was far too sleepy to do more than take a short walk down
the quiet dusty road. Back in her room she wedged a chair under the
latch of the lockless door and fell asleep almost before she could
think again what an adventure this was.
* * * * *
The express from the north, to which Cynthia transferred a half hour
beyond the little village, arrived in Venice about nine o’clock. It
looked, she thought as she waited in the train corridor, just a little
disappointing, only a long, tunnel-like train shed. No canals, no
gondolas, no palaces in sight.
The burly Italian in front of her swung off with his bags, Cynthia
prepared to follow, and stopped stock still, midway of the top step.
“_Chick!_”
“_Cynthia_,” came the excited reply, “Where on earth? ...”
“I ... I thought you were in New York, Chick!” And stood gaping with
open mouth until a large bag prodded her, not too gently, in the middle
of her back. Then she swung down the steps and dropped suitcase and
paint box to fling herself into the arms of the surprised young man.
Almost, it seemed, as surprised as she was.
“I thought you were due last night, on the _rapide_ from Genoa,”
exclaimed the disgusted Chick. “You wrote that to Nancy you know. And
I’ve been meeting trains almost all night. ... It was only by luck I
stopped here. I was meeting the express from Genoa on track six ten
minutes ago.”
He signaled a porter. “This your stuff? All of it?” A hand beneath her
elbow, impersonally, kindly, almost as though he were the favorite
nephew of a maiden aunt, all concern for her baggage, that she pass
the _dogana_, the local custom house, that she give her ticket to the
proper uniformed official. They came out of the stone doorway onto a
half dozen steep stone steps. Before them shimmered the canal. So the
popular report was true and Venice did have them?
“I’ve got a gondola waiting right here ...” he looked along the
bobbing, yelling line of gondoliers who shouted their wares and virtues
below the quay. “Dash that fellow ...” she heard him mutter. “Oh well,
never mind Cyn, we’ll take this one,” and still with that air of a
nephew-who-expects-to-be-well-remembered-in-the-will, piloted her down
the step.
The wide upholstered seat was very comfortable. With surprisingly
little fuss they were in the center of the stream, Chick had given the
order, his fingers caught hers and held them tight. Good, then they
really were still engaged! Cynthia chuckled happily.
“I can’t ...” she turned to gaze at him ... “can’t get over this Chick.
It’s the greatest surprise of my life.”
“That was the intention,” Chick grinned back. He had, he told her,
arrived in Naples two days ago, had promptly wired Nancy to find
Cynthia’s exact address and had been told of the train she would take
to Venice.
“Neat, very neat!” approved Cynthia. “If I just hadn’t taken a local by
mistake. And now where are you taking me?”
“Pensione Casa Petrarca?”
She nodded, Yes, that was where she had reserved a room.
“Had your breakfast? Good. Then wash and tidy up and we’ll do a bit of
sightseeing. After that. ...” Quietly he slipped his hand from hers,
slid it into his pocket.
“Oh dear, Chick, what’s the matter, what is it?”
“I’ve ... that is I seem to have. ...” And with the maddening masculine
manner of one blessed with many pockets started fumbling through them
all, one after another.
“Lost something?”
Chick frowned. “Gone. But I hope it’s not lost.” Deliberately he went
through the whole lot again while the gondola rocked gently before the
steps of the pensione. At last he shrugged. “I came out last night and
this morning with a gondolier named Luigi, from the traghetta, that’s a
sort of gondola taxi-stand, across the way. If I’ve dropped the thing,
it’ll probably be in his gondola. Go on up, will you? I’ll see if I can
trace him.”
A big airy room with a quaint porcelain stove in the corner. As the
door closed behind the porter, Cynthia dropped into a chair and
dragged off her hat. She didn’t know whether to weep or to laugh. Was
she, or was she not, engaged to Chick? He hadn’t mentioned it, he
hadn’t acted like it. She decided to laugh and felt better. Washed her
face, ran a comb through her curls and felt better yet.
A bit of powder, some rouge and she was ready to meet the world again,
or at least Venice and Chick. He was waiting for her by the pensione
steps.
“Know any Italian?” he asked anxiously.
“Not much, I’m afraid, Chick.” But, she thought, probably more than he
did.
“Well, come see if you can make anything out of this jumble of talk.
I’m about cuckoo. We’ll walk across, it’s a good chance to see the
Rialto bridge.”
This was of stone, lined with a shallow, stepped, series of shops on
either side, going up, going down till one reached the farther side
of the Grand canal. Here Chick pointed out the row of gondolas as the
taxi-rank from which he had taken Luigi.
Cynthia stammered a few questions, listened to the voluble replies and
managed to make out that Luigi had gone some where with a sightseeing
party, probably to one of the islands. He’d be back later in the day.
“This morning?” asked Chick anxiously.
“I guess so.” Cynthia was slightly careless about that. Funny of Chick,
not like him to make such a fuss over some silly little souvenir he’d
bought. “Come on,” she put a hand on his arm, “let’s go sight-see for a
while.”
Somewhat reluctantly Chick agreed. Over tiny crooked stone bridges
they went, along quays along whose mossy sides the water lapped dark
and mysterious, down blind, colorful alleys where small children stuck
their heads from windows and yelled shrilly. “_Non passaggio_ ... no
passage!” Cynthia adored it all, adored being with Chick again.
If he only wouldn’t fuss so, she thought. For he kept looking at his
watch, glancing back over his shoulder, until finally she gave it up in
despair. No use of sightseeing till Chick recovered his lost property.
“How about going back now and having another try at your gondolier?”
she suggested.
He was so grateful that she was almost ashamed of her impatience, and
they turned back immediately. But there was no further news; Luigi had
not returned. Desperately Chick started to ask questions, perhaps one
of the other gondoliers had heard Luigi speak of a package he had found?
Cynthia, first on one foot and then on the other, for she was getting a
little tired, translated to the best of her ability. Chick stuck in a
word now and then.
“_Perdita._ ... Lost ... lost.” Was Chick’s gender wrong, or had he
really mislaid a blonde?
But a few in the group of gondoliers got the idea. Apparently each
one had, at one time or another discovered something _perdita_.
From beneath the flea-infested blanket of a gondola was produced a
dogs-eared magazine. Cynthia beginning to be amused read the lurid
title in flaming vermilion sprawled across its cover. “True Tales
of the Wild West.” The date was over a year ago but it had been,
undoubtedly, once lost.
Other gondoliers left their bobbing craft, passers-by drew closer as
Chick’s eagerness held promise of rich reward. Waving the magazine
aside he chanted impatiently, “Piccolo ... piccolo,” while he made
gestures of small measurement with his hands. Then aside to Cynthia,
“that does mean ‘little,’ doesn’t it? Not a musical instrument?”
Cynthia nodded silently, not daring to risk speech and watched with
dancing eyes while Chick refused, from a second cheerful brigand a
musty, torn golash.
Cheerful brigand number two was a sheer loss to high pressure
salesmanship. Cynthia caught the word “_Impermeabile_ ... waterproof,”
as he covered the tear with one big hand. Twisting the rubber inside
out he sought to display its amazing suppleness and elasticity while
an admiring group applauded both at the golash and the salesman, with
ohs and ahs of astonishment. Cynthia was wondering how a single torn
rubber had been brought from so many thousand miles to lie forgotten in
a Venetian gondola, and also how the gondolier thought Chick, with a
foot obviously many sizes larger, was going to use it. But perhaps he
surmised a sentimental attachment.
She glanced at Chick. Poor darling, this was awfully important to
him, and it was mean of her to take it all so lightly. But he was
being pretty darn solemn and masculine. Impatiently she said. “If
you’d _only_ tell me what it is, Chick, perhaps I could make them
understand.” Oh dear, how annoying men could be!
Chick seemed not to hear. The new distraction was a cabbage, wilted,
but unquestionably of more recent vintage than either the galosh or
the ancient magazine. Its discoverer had waited for a time outside the
magic circle, while firing forth a rapid stream of “_Ecco ... ecco ...
ecco!_” as he held aloft the proffered vegetable. Breaking through
at last he encountered the two previous presenters of articles, thus
gaining the attention also of the crowd. Which was his downfall.
An old woman, black shawl over her head, flattened slippers of magenta
felt upon her feet, having heaved her way through by sheer force of
language, not only wanted a cabbage, but _the_ cabbage. Perhaps it was
the cabbage of her childhood, perhaps she had nursed it from a tiny
seedling, this dejected thing. For a moment longer Cynthia listened,
then screwed up her face and clapped frantic hands to ears. Couldn’t
they get out of this soon?
Close behind the old woman came shouldering two calm carabinieri, just
in time it seemed to prevent a general combat. White gloved hands
behind them, patent leather hats set squarely above unruffled brows,
two identical, magnificent examples of the Venetian police. Tweedledum,
it seemed, asked the questions. Tweedledee answered them. Conversely
Dum asked and Dee answered. Comparative silence settled upon the circle
and Cynthia cautiously removed her hands from her ears.
All available witnesses began to present their evidence. As there were
perhaps a score in number all acting out their theories in violent
pantomime, Cynthia began to wish they weren’t right in the center
of it. The one who had taken upon himself the part of the inquirer
after lost articles, Chick’s rôle in fact, was losing things in all
directions with wide, dramatic sweeps of his arms.
Tweedledum and Tweedledee executed a half turn in perfect unison,
raised right hands in gloves of immaculate whiteness in formal
salutation and in Chick’s direction. By now, Cynthia knew them of old,
they would have come to an unshakable conclusion. If they awarded the
galosh to the old lady, the cabbage to Chick, both parties would have
to be content. But no, they had another plan.
The cabbage was bestowed upon its rightful owner who still lingered,
voluminous with words, to see what else might happen. The golash
returned to the gondolier in whose craft it had originally been found.
Cynthia applauded the decision, then translated for Chick’s benefit
Tweedledum’s speech:
“We’re to go to the police station, Chick. That’ll teach you, young
man, not to start riots. And I hope it does!”
Behind them an admiring and still unsilenced throng applauded their
departure, even followed a short distance along the quay and over the
ancient bridge.
“My heavens!” fumed Chick, “can’t they understand! I’ve said ‘perdita,’
and ‘piccolo’ till I’m black in the face.” But Cynthia was enjoying
herself.
“If you’d tell them a little more,” she soothed, slipping her hand into
his arm. “Or if you’d even tell me. ... What in the name of Agatha
_have_ you lost, anyway?”
The police were speaking again. Cynthia thought she caught the word.
... “Fondere.” Did that mean “found?” The Lost and Found Department
perhaps? She made that suggestion to Chick.
A few more streets, a bridge or two, a narrow sun-lit way and one of
the innumerable palaces which seemed now to be a police station, with
the crown and arms of Italy above the door. Beyond this a damp and
cheerless room, none too clean and the equivalent of a desk sergeant
who drew towards him a large book and set down their names, Chick’s
and Cynthia’s, and their _pensione_. Dum and Dee were doing all the
explaining but in Italian far too rapid for Cynthia to follow. It might
yet prove that she and Chick had defied municipal authority by starting
a barter shop on the quayside, one decaying golash for a wilted cabbage.
Tweedledum and Tweedledee had finished, the man at the desk made a
gesture. An attendant opened a door, flung back a huge iron grill that
closed off about half the room behind it and signed for them to enter.
Cynthia clutched at Chick’s arm. Oh dear!
Frankly uncertain she followed Chick’s slow steps, the attendant
close behind, Dum and Dee bringing up in the rear. Then the attendant
switched on a light, a series of lights disclosing what might have been
a wine cellar. But instead of wine ... Cynthia choked back her laughter
and pointed.
A bicycle, a shelf of gloves, a regular store of ancient umbrellas and
sunshades, piles and piles of books, mostly Baedeckers by their moldy
red bindings, boots, odd bits of clothing, a coffeepot, market loads
still knotted in capacious handkerchiefs, a coffin, a load of bricks.
...
Chick’s face was flaming. “How in the name of goodness can we tell
whether it’s here or not!” He turned to Cynthia. “Don’t they have a
list of things somewhere, and the times they were found? Tell them it’s
small, small. And done up in white paper and a box.”
“I know,” Cynthia nodded solemnly. “A pound of butter, Chick dear. Oh
Chick, you weren’t going to ask me to set up housekeeping were you?”
But at the hurt expression in his eyes her levity dimmed. “I’ll tell
them you lost it last night, is that it?” And turning to Dum and Dee,
carefully choosing her words, she managed to convey the idea.
One of them gave a shrug of disappointment which was echoed by the
other. With all these things to choose from, they seemed to say,
surely any but the most captious would be satisfied. But they turned
to discuss the matter with the attendant. Lights began to go out,
indication that this particular exhibition was over, Finish. But
apparently more was to follow. Chick might yet discover his pound of
butter.
As they returned to the main room the attendant departed and polite
gestures demanded that Chick and Cynthia should take chairs and wait.
An air of expectancy hung above the little room. Obviously the choicest
gem of the collection, something too valuable to be left with the other
articles had been sent for.
“Do you think they’ve sent to the bank?” asked Cynthia.
Chick brightened at the suggestion, brightened until the door swung
open again. There entered behind the attendant a woman, slatternly,
down at heels, very cross and carrying a basket on her arm. Slowly,
reluctantly she advanced to the desk, lifted the cover of the basket.
At the summons of the sergeant Chick appeared beside her. With a wild
burst Dum and Dee grabbed the basket from the woman, thrust it into
Chick’s reluctant arms. Whereat the basket, considerably disturbed, let
out a long neck, green mottled with brown feathers, a wide open yellow
beak, an indignant eye and a stiffly upstanding comb of violent red.
Loudly the occupant of the basket protested with a violent “... C ck
... a ... doo ... dle ... do!”
Chick nearly dropped the basket.
Cynthia, nearly helpless with laughter, had fallen into a chair and,
with face buried in her handkerchief, could only indulge in what Dum
and Dee must surely have considered tears of uncontrolled joy at
this return of her lost property. Sympathetic murmurs, croonings of
consolation echoed about the room. Even the rather hard faced woman was
touched. Chick stood stupidly staring.
The hardest part of the day came when Cynthia, drying her streaming
eyes, was forced into sufficient sobriety and Italian to explain that
indeed and indeed the rooster, and it was a beautiful rooster, oh a
magnificent rooster, was not theirs. Was not at all what they sought.
“No, no, no, no, no!” Like a popgun, Cynthia shot out violent
negatives. And at last she had made it clear. Almost with joy the woman
received back the cherished rooster from Chick’s relieved embrace.
Almost haughtily they were shown to the door, sent, with an air of
extreme disapproval, upon their way.
Outside in the sunlight Cynthia was almost surprised to find it was the
same day, and Chick pulled down his coat, let out a great puff of a
sigh.
After that first burst of laughter Cynthia had managed to get control
of herself, but she wasn’t sure how long this would last. She must
get somewhere, anywhere, and have it all out with Chick. Meekly she
took his arm, let him lead her along the quay, through small streets
toward the Piazza San Marco. She glanced upward. Chick was being very
masculine, very stern, one might almost think, unforgiving.
In silence they traversed the small streets. Well, if Chick was going
to be stuffy! ... But he couldn’t be, he simply couldn’t be. And whose
beastly old bundle was it anyway? _She_ didn’t go about leaving things
in gondolas.
Florio’s, on the Piazza San Marco. A small green iron table, two small
twisted iron chairs and an attentive waiter in a white apron. Chick’s
eyes consulted Cynthia, then ordered two lemonades. They came. In
silence Cynthia sipped hers, bit her lips, gulped and regarded fixedly
a stupid, pink toed pigeon who was strutting, with puffed out chest
before the lovely little faun colored lady of his choice. Sideways out
of her eyes Cynthia caught a glimpse of Chick, then turned to face him.
His face was red but in his eyes was now a glimmer of understanding,
one might almost say mirth. Cynthia dared a slight, tremulous giggle,
forerunner of the gale to come. Then. ...
“Oh Chick, Chick, if you could have seen yourself with that silly
rooster. ... And the cabbage ... and Tweedledum ...!”
The tide had risen now, all bars were down. Rocking with mirth they
clung to the little iron chairs and laughed and laughed. A moment’s
pause to recount the pomposity of the attendant, the old woman with the
cabbage, the galosh, the list of things in that storeroom. Did you see
the bicycle? ... Who could have left those high, buttoned shoes? ...
Oh, and the fans, simply stacks of them!
For ten minutes the gale raged backwards and forwards then, weak and
helpless Cynthia begged for another lemonade, wiped the tears from her
eyes and subsided into comparative sanity. Their laughter together
had relieved her in many ways. It was going to be all right now, she
and Chick still thought alike, could still find amusement in the same
things, and the doubts of the morning were all swept away.
“But Chick,” doggedly she returned to the old question. “Now it’s all
over, you can tell me, can’t you? What was in that package?”
Chick wasn’t going to be stuffy about it any more. He grinned this
time, but shook his head. “If we don’t find it today I’ll really tell
you. Not yet, though.”
“Cross your heart?”
“Cross my heart!”
From the corner of the square a big bell began a slow solemn booming
and as though it was a signal, hundreds, thousands of pigeons rose
against the deep blue of the Venetian sky and the sunlit columns
opposite. Glinting silvery, iridescent, dark blue and rose and gold
they whirled with the muffled beat and roar of a thousand wings.
Cynthia gazed enthralled.
Across the square, giving access to the Merceria, the Way of the
Merchants, was the clock tower. As the great painted face recorded noon
two giant moors slowly struck a bronze bell with big hammers, marking
the hour.
“Lovely!” murmured Cynthia. “Oh Chick, I wish ... I wish we didn’t have
to go back, ever. I wish we could stay on, in one of those sweet old
palaces. ...”
“Like Othello and Desdemona?”
“No ...,” slowly. “She got smothered, didn’t she? I guess I wouldn’t
care for that.”
“New York will be fun too,” hazarded Chick. “And with all the
advertisement you’ve had, young lady; your magazine covers on every
newstand, month after month.”
“Chick! Are they really? Yes, I suppose they are, I hadn’t thought
of that. Better hurry back, hadn’t I?” And then laughed at her own
weather-vane mood. “Well, what shall we do next, Chick? I feel sane
once more.”
Chick’s suggestion was: lunch at the Danieli, which was the swankiest
hotel in Venice, and, he had heard, one of the loveliest of the old
Venetian palaces. Then back to the traghetti to see if Luigi had come.
Oh, that again! Cynthia made an impatient gesture. Save us from a man
with one idea! But she adored the lunch, loved the gracious old palace
with its carved, minstrel gallery, its floor of multicolored tiles, its
ceiling carved and painted in deep blue and rose and gold. Out into the
sunlight again, and the Adriatic shimmering as blue as the ceiling, a
pleasant little wind chilled by the snows of the Dalmatian Alps and the
white bubble of the Church of the Salute rising across the lagoon.
“Shall we ride, or walk?” asked Chick. By the way he said it Cynthia
knew he wanted to walk.
“We see more on foot, don’t we?” she suggested amiably. Perhaps a
little later they could go through the Grand Canal in a gondola. And
indeed she loved the great Piazza flanked by the Doges Palace, by St.
Mark’s and the long colonnade of the Library and the Mint. And the
shops beneath those columns most fascinating of all. Cynthia’s whole
allowance for abroad had been divided between seeing places, and saving
up a bit for what might, when she got home, prove to be a long wait for
more work. But she had learned a lot by looking just in windows, had
learned that you can so memorize a beautiful thing you can at least
carry it away with you in your mind.
“See, Chick, isn’t that the loveliest old bracelet? ...” A thick
circle, not quite joined, of gold, the two ends which almost touched
circled with tiny crowns of blue, blue turquoises. “And oh, Chick, just
look at that ring. ...” A lovely old thing of Florentine gold, studded
with seed pearls and surrounding a topaz as richly dark as the gold
itself. Chick put a hand on her arm and urged her along to the next
window which, being full of ancient books and maps was not quite so
enthralling.
Perhaps it hadn’t been really tactful to admire that ring, almost as
though she had wanted it herself. She had Chick’s own ring, hadn’t she?
The little emerald, very prettily set, not quite good enough, not quite
old enough to be called an antique, not quite the same as though it
had been bought just for her. ... Cynthia checked the feeling. It was
unkind, ungracious, ungrateful. Chick was just a poster artist in the
first year of his success, he had come all the way to Venice just to
see her, or at least she supposed he had, for he hadn’t said so yet. ...
And thank goodness, here was the traghetti. Perhaps they’d find that
stupid lost bundle of Chick’s at last.
Word must have been passed around for there was someone, Chick
exclaimed that it was Luigi, waiting for them, his weathered old face a
mass of interweaving laughter wrinkles. Sturdy, stocky, clad in ragged
clean shirt, with the uniform black trousers and sash of the public
gondolier, Luigi dashed up the short flight of steps, rushed toward
them. In his outstretched hand he held a parcel, small, oh very small.
Not big enough even for a quarter of a pound of butter.
It had been opened, clumsily retied with gray twine. Thrusting it into
Chick’s hand he followed with a flood of rapid Italian. Once more a
circle of interested onlookers threatened to engulf them.
Chick gave a hasty order, grasped Cynthia’s arm and thrust her down the
steps, into the Luigi gondola. Then waved a wide gesture down the Grand
Canal toward the lagoon beyond.
“Buono! ... Buono!” agreed Luigi, nodding vigorously like a porcelain
mandarin. There came a faint cheer from the crowd on the quay and
Cynthia recognized a few of their morning’s spectators. But the man
with the galosh, the woman with the cabbage were not present. From the
comfortable cushioned seat she watched palaces of kings and doges,
princesses, great composers and poets glide past. This was heavenly,
this was the way to see Venice, to see any place, with Chick’s hand in
hers and not a care in the world.
Then she saw the little package in his other hand, glanced up
inquiringly and caught the look in his eyes. Her heart skipped a beat,
two beats. No nephew ever looked like that at a maiden aunt!
“Let’s,” said Chick, taking his hand out of hers, “let’s both undo the
package. You do want to see what’s in it, don’t you, Cyn?”
Cynthia laughed. “Here I’ve been hustled and bustled over half of
Venice, in jail and out again ...” she addressed the diminishing houses
of candy pink, baby blue, as the gondola struck the wide lagoon and
rocked slowly away from the town, “and he asks me, do I want to know
what’s in it. Man alive, do you think I’ve got no curiosity?”
From behind them came a musical shout. Luigi warning off another
gondola. Beyond him, Venice glowed pearl pink in the late light of
afternoon, the long paddle made a soft ripple on the blue lagoon. Dark
Italian eyes looked over their shoulders, whole heartedly, honestly
as curious as Cynthia, and two heads, one brown, one blond bent close
together.
Cynthia untied the knot, with slim fingers that were cold and
loosened the rumpled white paper. A small box of blue stained leather
beautifully tooled in gilt. She lifted the lid.
“Oh Chick ... oh you darling! Chick, is it really, really for me?”
On the third finger of her right hand she slipped it. Quaint old green
gold, delicately lacy as the collar of a doge, held firmly in its heart
a single pink pearl. Chick reached and took the hand in his, slipped
off the ring, slid into his palm the little emerald she had worn all
summer, and in its place substituted the other. It fitted as though it
had been made for her. Perhaps it was.
“Just for you, yourself,” he said. “It’s quite old, four or five
hundred years they told me. I got it yesterday afternoon in one of
those shops you looked at, Cynthia. And I’ve been frantic all day. ...
I wanted to tell you, just this way, in a gondola, with just this ring.
And I couldn’t, darling, tell you before.”
“Chick, it’s the most beautiful, beautiful thing I ever saw in my whole
life.”
“Isn’t it?” said Chick, but when she glanced up his eyes were not
on the ring. “Tomorrow,” he said, “we’ll see the American consul. I
understand he’s the marrying guy about here.”
Behind them suddenly came a great shout, baritone, Italian. “_Yum
tum tumti tumtum. ... Yum tiddilty tum, tum ti tumitytum_. ...”
Confidentially Luigi leaned forward, whispered in tones that might have
been heard back in Venice. “That, ladiee, gentleman ... that ver’ fine
Venezia loove song. You like?”
Transcriber’s Notes:
Inconsistent hyphenation, punctuation, spelling, the use of golash and
galosh and poster and paster, and placement of the apostrophe in Little
One’s Magazine and Little Ones’ Magazine have been retained as printed
in the original publication except as follows:
Page 16
had tipped and fallen _changed to_
had tripped and fallen
Page 22
before the senorita and dramatized the _changed to_
before the señorita and dramatized the
Page 24
every step she made took here nearer _changed to_
every step she made took her nearer
Page 33
with small sharp eyes and an opologetic _changed to_
with small sharp eyes and an apologetic
Page 43
a member of the Begger’s Opera
a member of the Beggar’s Opera
Page 47
Its all pearly gray mists _changed to_
It’s all pearly gray mists
Page 52
the _garcon_ of the striped waistcoat _changed to_
the _garçon_ of the striped waistcoat
Page 60
leaned againt the heavy stone balustrade _changed to_
leaned against the heavy stone balustrade
Page 78
chance to to look them over _changed to_
chance to look them over
Page 79
medieval France had not, _changed to_
medieval France had not
Page 99
the Arc de Triomph _changed to_
the Arc de Triomphe
Page 102
that omelet which Madame Poularde _changed to_
that omelet which Madame Poulard
Page 127
all right anyway. --Oh _changed to_
all right anyway.--Oh
Page 146
mourned Cynthia. No; it’s _changed to_
mourned Cynthia. “No; it’s
Page 160
darn that model!” _changed to_
darn that model!
Page 164
caramel custard, at the Cheval Blanc _changed to_
caramel custard at the Cheval Blanc
Page 166
street, past the hotel de l’Universe _changed to_
street, past the Hotel de l’Universe
Page 171
till she come in to look at it _changed to_
till she came in to look at it
Page 184
but your Aunt was _changed to_
but your aunt above was
Page 199
of horses hoofs _changed to_
of horses’ hoofs
Page 201
pervasive and insistant was the tap _changed to_
pervasive and insistent was the tap
Page 202
brillant hued balloon _changed to_
brilliant hued balloon
Page 208
the judges stand _changed to_
the judges’ stand
Page 215
and Cynthia said. _changed to_
and Cynthia said,
Page 219
waking to sit bold upright _changed to_
waking to sit bolt upright
Page 246
irridescent, dark blue and rose _changed to_
iridescent, dark blue and rose
Page 250
like a porcelain manderin _changed to_
like a porcelain mandarin