University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER 15

Venice

My Dear Mother:

The day has been hot and dusty, yet we have been fairly comfortable, compartments were reserved for us and we were not crowded. I miss the ice water provided in our country; here you are expected to purchase drinks at the stations from the numerous vendors. At Verona the train stopped for fifteen minutes and we braved the sun, walking the long platform wishing we had time to visit the city of the immortal lovers, Romeo and Juliet. Verona and queer lemonade must always be associated in my memory. You see Ed thought I ought to have a drink, and as I would not have wine he purchased, "lemonade." Perhaps it was that beverage, as made in Italy. I do not care to try another glass. Swiftly passing through lazy, sleepy, entrancing Italia. The very fields bask idly in the sun as if they were sentient things, and everywhere we caught glimpses of strenuous workers stretched peacefully in the blazing sun. In Oklahoma the sun is man's enemy, in this clime God made it for his comfort.

At the first sight of Venice I found myself whispering the lines:

"She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean Rising with her tiara of proud towers, At airy distance, with majestic motion: A ruler of the waters and their powers."

At the station we found gondolas awaiting us and within a few minutes we were gaily afloat. In Venice you know the streets are canals and the carriage swiftly gliding gondolas. Oh, dear heart, the grand canal, palaces here and there and beyond, the dome of St. Mark, with its winged lions the symbol of fair Venice!

We lost nothing of her beauty as she lay soft and breathless beneath the western sun, the water gently lapping the time-worn palaces of her prime. "She to me was a fairy city of the heart, rising like water columns from the sea, of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart."

Our gondolier was persistent in his soft appeal for money with which to drink our health, so I tossed him a coin. I do wish you could have seen his contemptuous expression, heard his tones of disgust. "Merci, Merci," and he tossed the piece upon the floor. Ed reached over and quite coolly pocketed it. The man grew violent in his demands, begged, stormed and even swore in liquid Italian. Ed smoked steadily, not even vouchsafing a glance. I confess I was frightened and only the knowledge that we were on the grand canal and surrounded by friends sustained my courage. The gondolier looked so wicked, not at all like our western bad men, but just like a dark-browed devil, you know. When we reached the hotel he exhausted his fury and came cringingly to beg for money. Ed assisted me to alight and said, "not a cent." Cook had hired him, and of course we are not even supposed to tip, yet had not the man so rudely spurned my gift he would have been some richer.

This hotel is all O.K. in appearance, yet it has the odor of a closed cellar. We were assigned a third floor room, oh, so smelly. That husband of mine ordered the man to return the grips to the office, and absolutely refused to occupy the chamber. Now we are on the second floor with plenty of ventilation and mosquitoes galore. More cotton pillows. I am glad I have an air one with me. We spent the evening on the Plaza of St. Mark's listening to the music, sipping wine and resting. Ed, of course, made excursions into the near-by shops, investigating, and airing his French. The Plaza is like a big café, with numerous little tables and white aproned waiters darting here and there. The tables encroach upon the walk, pedestrians wind in and out, and shop keepers standing in doorways call attention to their wares.

July 23--Do you know, dear, I was so sleepy last evening I crawled off to bed without writing you goodnight. Never mind, mother dear, I whispered it when I said my prayers. This day has been a Rooseveltian interpretation of the simple life. If we have many more in this climate I shall rebel.

We left the hotel promptly at nine. The guide is an old man, and I think he suffers from insomnia, hence the early hours. Fed the doves of St. Mark and listened to a dissertation by a man not thoroughly conversant with English as she is spoken. Ed caught a dove and the man ceased his flow of eloquence to warn him that a large fine and three months in prison follow the killing of a bird. As were served the little things in a pie at dinner Ed was eager to know when our landlord will occupy a cell.

How can I describe St. Mark's? My, me, you just use your imagination, stretch it and then stretch it some more, and perhaps you may reach its magnificence. It is a mass of color, gleaming crimson and gold everywhere; above it the lion of St. Mark and the bronze horses once carried by Napoleon to his beloved Paris, but finally returned to heart broken Venice. You see the Venetians have forgotten that once they stole them from Constantinople. Here Frederic Barbarossa knelt and made his peace with God and Holy Church. Within we were shown treasures beyond price, everywhere magnificent columns all of one block of marble, crosses from Santa Sophia, alabaster pillars from the temple of Solomon, and the best of all the very doors are from the wondrous temple, built of the cedar of Lebanon. The guide related to us many a tale of "ye ancient days," and in the very midst of a most unlikely one, Ed was quite sure to whisper, "now, honey, would you believe it;" thus destroying my poise. We have several in the tour who are evidently gathering material for class-room use, and their numerous questions are often trying the to patience of us on pleasure bent. The new Campanile is near completion. Ed asked, "What happened to the old tower," and our instructor replied, "Oh, the Campanile, he sat down." That finished me, I sat down and wept with laughter. I do wish, dear Cook and Sons would provide a guide not quite so funny.

In the palace of the Doges we were shown Venice in the hey-day of her glory. Our instructor gave us much valuable information in his inimitable way. For instance we were grouped before an historic painting; he pointed with dramatic gesture, saying "see, there stands the artist all covered with nothing." It was literally true and many of us chocked with repressed laughter. Ed alone as unmoved, urging him always to newer and more fantastic remarks, gravely supplying him wit choice slang to serve the next party of tourists.

"I stood on the bridge of sighs. A palace and a prison on each hand."

Yes, I stood there quite a while, then gently fainted. The professor from Kansas City was in search of information and the guide was eager to impart it. We were huddled in that narrow place, and the oxygen soon became too diminished for me. It was impossible to get out and when I regained consciousness I was far from the approved position for a fainting person. Ed had me high in his arms, my face at a tiny port hole, Mr. B. was frantically fanning me, Mr. M. was holding beneath my nose pungent salts. I was led to the balcony of the condemned and given a chair. Of course all I needed was fresh air, and I was quickly myself, yet I yielded to Ed's request and did not go below to the dungeons. Mr. B. remained with me and told me so many interesting stories of days in Venice I was glad I fainted. I have a fair share of teasing at my choice of a place to faint, being accused of doing it for effect.

We returned to the hotel at twelve to enjoy a lunch and a sleep before the gondola ride. Out into the grand canal we swung, the gondolas swaying and dipping like birds at sea. I urged our gondolier not to try any fancy antics, for I felt a touch of my old enemy, sea sickness. Now, will you think of that, to be sick on a peaceful canal in a dear gondola. Ed declares he is ashamed of me, he brings me out to be happy and I waste golden moments in that manner. When we reached the steps of Santa Maria della Salute, I almost shouted, "Glory Hallelujah!" It was like a church in the books of fairy land, marble steps to the very water's edge, showing dazzling white in the glaring sunlight. Up we climbed out of the glare into the cool dimness of the house of God. In this we were shown many paintings. The one remaining in my memory is that of St. Mark, the work of Titian when a youth of twenty. The professor from Kansas City refuses to enter another church until we reach Rome, he declares he is "dead tired of cathedrals." You will be surprised when I give you the list of edifices in which we have bade the Lord "Good day." Sometimes I feel like I am on a pilgrimage, not a Cook's tour.

On the other side of the canal, almost opposite Santa Maria, is a house of ancient design, pointed out to tourists as the home of Desdemona. I have mailed you a card with a good picture of it. Let us believe, mother, that Desdemona leaned from those windows watching her brave Moor, and sat within listening with bated breath to his tales of martial deeds. On we swept with musical dip of oars, past the home of Byron, the palace where Browning died, and dear, so many, many more places that belong to history I dare not attempt to enumerate. The church of the Jesuits was our next stopping place. Here we were met by numerous beggars, young and old, even the babies in arms are taught to extend their tiny hands for alms. Our guide chased them with his stick, and indulged in violent language, if we judged by the elevation of his voice. In this country of superb churches, all built of marble, this building is worthy of consideration. The design is unique and the black and white is pleasing to the eye. The main altar is deserving of special mention, and the tombs are magnificent. Really, mother, the houses of God over here are treasure halls of art, relics of ages of faith, when the very best was not considered too good for the Lord. A few more canals were lazily traversed and we anchored before a glass factory which proved interesting. The men were so courteous, so willing to give us their time and attention. I had little idea of the true beauty of Venetian glass, I wish I could bring home a car load. From glass to lace, here hundreds of girls were busily engaged in catering to the feminine love of the exquisite. I had always imagined lace makers with stooped shoulders, dimmed eyes and unhappy faces. I was agreeably surprised, the girls in this well equipped factory were young and charming, with bright eyes and happy faces. Ed conversed with many of them. Their wages are very low if we compare them with America, yet when the cost of living is considered they are not more to be commiserated than our work people. Indeed, the advantage is with the Venetian girls, for they do not struggle to keep up appearances, but are content with the position in life to which they were born. Some of the girls would have been beautiful had we fancied prominent noses. It seems all Italians are favored with quite sufficient of that feature, far more than consonate with my idea of beauty.

We cannot complain of the day's pleasure as arranged by Cook, for it is varied and comprehensive. The hours are full, yet we are not hurried and our evening are always our own. After dinner Mr. R. joined us and we indulged in our usual walk. The streets are narrow beyond belief. Two persons are often a tight fit therein. I am confident the sun strives without avail to peep into many a crowded district. The city is so poorly lighted that burglars and foot pads might operate without fear of detection. Even the grand canal is not so brilliantly illuminated as our little western town. In the evening the city is awake and the inhabitants gather on the numerous squares, eat, drink and chatter. I wonder if Venetians notice the musty odor of their old canals. After a while do you lose your acute sense of smell, and do the mosquitoes cease to bite you? If I could have those questions answered to my satisfaction Venice as a home would call me in siren tones. Poor Ed looks like a person with a bad case of measles. If the mosquitoes wish to bite him tonight they will find it difficult to find a new spot. The call of the gondoliers has been mastered by him and he finds pleasure in standing beside a canal and giving it to the mystification of an approaching gondola and its occupants. The call is always given at a turn in the canal and when a collision is imminent. It doubtless means "make way there."

We were passing a shop on the Plaza of St. Mark when a necklace within attracted my attention. I stopped to admire and soon came out the "spider" to enveigle the "poor little fly." We were urged to enter. Ed politely refused saying he did not wish to buy. The man insisted. He so longed to "fleece the Americano." With great seeming reluctance Ed entered. The necklace was produced. "Twelve dollars," said the man, then the fun commenced. Fast and furious waxed the bargaining. Ed soon used French, as he says it gives him greater scope for "artistic work," the man comprehended it better than English. The poor shopkeeper tried to talk, but Ed had the lead and the political meeting progressed. A free for all discussion, but one on the floor. Ed offered one dollar and fifty cents for the bauble; the man was aghast. "Let us talk it over," said Ed. What arguments he used I know not but the man was lost. We left the shop with the necklace, and a dazed shopkeeper bade us a weary good night. He looked after us so wistfully I know he was longing for the American's gift of gab. Mr. B. our book of general information, assured us that it was a great bargain, each mosaic bangle being of great beauty.

Beneath my window is a chattering equaled only by a meeting of crows in the springtime. When do Venetians retire? At two-thirty last night the noises had not ceased.

This is one of our "three night stands," and we play to such "full houses" we cannot retire early. Ed is restless for the mosquitoes are loving him and about every fifteen minutes he arises and "shoos" desperately at his "foreign cousins." Goodnight, dear mother, perhaps I shall sleep, perhaps I shall join my husband in the war with mosquitoes.

July 24.--The lark found us asleep, for the fight was fast and furious for hours, then our friends in the street did not sleep until two-thirty and they very inconsiderately arose at three-thirty, to retire for the day just as the lark was opening his sleepy eyes.

We were not personally conducted this morning, so we were enabled to sleep until a late hour. After breakfast we wandered where our fancy led and very much undressed boys directed. You can always have a half dozen boy guides for a few pennies and Ed finds them so entertaining, and so do I. We reached the Rialto after many a twist and turn; as in the time of Shylock it is the place of merchantism, and many are the close bargains made there. Ed talked with the numerous Shylocks, so he named them. I was not attracted by the display of goods, and the fruit stands were abominable places. Ed found out from a boy in our train that the fish market was near by, and do you know I had to entreat him not to visit it. Think of a fish market, under an Italian sky. I was tired now, and the canopied gondolas were very attractive. We selected a handsome one with a pleasant faced man in charge and in luxury enjoyed the heat. We went on and on like the brook, you know. A funeral cortege passed us. In Venice the hearses are gondolas, as the streets are water, and the only horses are the bronze ones over the portico of St. Mark's. I do believe I would prefer to seek my last resting place behind high-stepping horses. You see the boat ride I am expecting in purgatory will come soon enough.

At noon we clamored so for Mr. B. to make a suggestion for the afternoon that he said, "let us go to Lido and bathe in the Adriatic." We hailed it with shouts of delight, elected him chairman, and were soon enroute. As only a few of the ladies wished to venture in the water Ed agreed to assist me in chaperoning the girls of the party who desired to dip beneath the waves. To have us all on the same side of the pavilion he purchased tickets for himself, wife and daughters. The suits offered were "fierce," made of red and white bed ticking, all in one piece, shapeless trousers to the ankles, at the belt line a "dust ruffle" of about three or four inches, standing out belligerently, something like the waist adornment of an African chief. This attractive garment was buttoned "all the way down the front" without due regard to proper spacing. I was amazed and positively refused to don the ridiculous thing. As we were discussing it Ed appeared, bearing a bit of cloth aloft, crying. "Just see, girls, what your ‘dad' is to wear." We shouted. All the material had been doubtless used in making the modest trousers for the women, leaving the men to appear almost as nature made 'em. At last Ed teased us into consenting to "dress up," but I insisted that a blue and white one must be found for me. When we retired to the cubby holes provided for ladies I discovered my precious blue suit was built for a woman of Herculean frame. I called; Ed said, "take it off, dear, all that surplus cloth would drown you. Gee, I wish I had a bit of it attached to my trousers." And I assure you he needed it. The woman in charge demurred at changing it, declared it medium size. "Perhaps, madam, yet I dare not trust my wife within, suppose she passed out of a leg or an arm into the sea." The other suit was given him, but to my horror it was of the despised red and the trousers ended at the knee, the useless dust ruffle being correspondingly placed. Fortunately I had a pair of black hose, so I was quite covered, if not according to the standard here. We were soon on the beach, where we were met by the men of the party, suffering noticeably from the shock to their Anglo-Saxon modesty by the scantiness of their attire. After the first dip our bed ticking garments were clinging and to leave the water we dared not, until Ed obligingly brought out linen sheets, off the line stretched along the beach. We were like sheeted ghosts on the hot sands, but at least we were safe from the Kodak fiends of our party. Such fun, we found the water so warm, the sand so pleasant, that two hours passed before we were aware of it. Truly, mother, some of the Venetians in bathing, of the masculine gender, were dressed like Sandwich Islanders. In this country modesty is not expected of men, on the streets or elsewhere, you are always being surprised. I mailed you a post card from Lido with bathers disporting thereon, thus hoping to give you an idea of the appearance of your son and daughter while in the Adriatic. As we were leaving the dressing rooms an attendant appeared and gave us quite a lecture, of which we understood not a word. When Ed came out he sent us forward, the man giving to him the discourse--he was demanding extra pay because we had been out over an hour.

Returning to the city, the Australian lady and the Boston man of our party engaged in a battle of words. The Massachusetts man made a slighting remark concerning the degree of civilization of Australia, and as was quite natural she resented it. I know her blood boiled at the ignorance and prejudice evinced, yet I laughed at her, because I am accustomed to such expressions from easterners in regard to the Indians and Indian Territory, and consider them unworthy of notice. I would have agreed with him and revenged myself by a marvelous tale of Australian wilds.

How do you think we have spent the evening? Can you guess? Of course not. Well, here it is, in a gondola, "spooning." Ed hired a fancy affair with an equally fancy gondolier, and then we sought the lover's paradise. Ed singing sweet songs of love, and by his actions convincing the man that we were desirous of sequestered spots. I have always love Ed's tenor voice, but tonight it was heavenly on the water, and others found it so, for many gondolas followed us, and applauded him often. I am sure they wondered why he did not stop and pass his cap.

"In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more, And silent rows the songless gondolier; Her palaces are crumbling to the shore Those days are gone, but beauty still is here."

Like Byron, my imagination is all sufficient, fair Venice is peopled for me, as she was when, "a queen with an unequalled dower," she reigned supreme. Her glories are of the past, yet how exquisite she is in her decay. I can ill bear the thought that tomorrow we bid her, not farewell, but adieu.

Good night. In my dreams to night I shall be a maiden of ancient Venice and Ed my lover.

Lovingly,

C.