Gondola days

by Francis Hopkinson Smith

Here also you will often meet the Professor. Indeed, he is breakfasting with me in this same garden this very morning. It is the first time I have seen him since the memorable day of the regatta, when Pasquale won the prize and the old fellow lost his soldi.

He has laid aside his outing costume—the short jacket, beribboned hat, and huge field-glass—and is gracing my table clothed in what he is pleased to call his “garb of tuition,” worn to-day because of a pupil who expects him at nine o’clock; “a horrid old German woman from Prague,” he calls her. This garb is the same old frock-coat of many summers, the well-ironed silk hat, and the limp glove dangling from his hand or laid like a crumpled leaf on the cloth beside him. The coat, held snug to the waist by a single button, always bulges out over the chest, the two frogs serving as pockets. From these depths, near the waist-line, the Professor now and then drags up a great silk handkerchief, either red or black as the week’s wash may permit, for I have never known of his owning more than two!

To-day, below the bulge of this too large handkerchief swells yet another enlargement, to which my guest, tapping it significantly with his finger-tips, refers in a most mysterious way as “a very great secret,” but without unbosoming to me either its cause or its mystery. When the cigarettes are lighted he drops his hand deep into his one-buttoned coat, unloads the handkerchief, and takes out a little volume bound in vellum, a book he had promised me for weeks. This solves the mystery and effaces the bulge.

One of the delights of knowing the Professor well is to see him handle a book that he loves. He has a peculiar way of smoothing the sides before opening it, as one would a child’s hand, and of always turning the leaves as though he were afraid of hurting the back, caressing them one by one with his fingers, quite as a bird plumes its feathers. And he is always bringing a new book to light; one of his charming idiosyncrasies is the hunting about in odd corners for just such odd volumes.

“Out of print now, my dear fellow. You can’t buy it for money. This is the only copy in Venice that I could borrow for love. See the chapters on these very fellows—these gondoliers,” pointing to the traghetto. “Sometimes, when I hear their quarrels, I wonder if they ever remember that their guild is as old as the days of the Doges, a fossil survival, unique, perhaps, in the history of this or of any other country.”

While the Professor nibbles at the crescents and sips his coffee, pausing now and then to read me passages taken at random from the little volume in his hands, I watch the procession of gondolas from the traghetto, like a row of cabs taking their turn, as Joseph’s “a una” or “due” rings out over the water. One after another they steal noiselessly up and touch the water-steps, Joseph helping each party into its boat: the German Baroness with the two poodles and a silk parasol; the poor fellow from the Engadine, with the rugs and an extra overcoat, his mother’s arm about him—not many more sunshiny days for him; the bevy of joyous young girls in summer dresses and sailor hats, and the two college boys in white flannels, the chaperone in the next boat. “Ah, these sweet young Americans, these naïve countrywomen of yours!” whispers the Professor; “how exquisitely bold!” Last, the painter, with his trap and a big canvas, which he lifts in as carefully as if it had a broken rib, and then turns quickly face in; “an old dodge,” you say to yourself; “unfinished, of course!”

Presently a tall, finely formed gondolier in dark blue, with a red sash, whirls the ferro of his boat close to the landing-steps, and a graceful, dignified woman, past middle life, but still showing traces of great beauty, steps in, and sinks upon the soft cushions.

The Professor rises like a grand duke receiving a princess, brings one arm to a salute, places the other over his heart, and makes a bow that carries the conviction of profound respect and loyalty in its every curve. The lady acknowledges it with a gracious bend of her head, and a smile which shows her appreciation of its sincerity.

“An English lady of rank who spends her Octobers here,” says the Professor, when he regains his seat. He had remained standing until the gondola had disappeared—such old-time observances are part of his religion.

“Did you notice her gondolier? That is Giovanni, the famous oarsman. Let me tell you the most delicious story! Oh, the childish simplicity of these men! You would say, would you not, that he was about forty years of age? You saw, too, how broad and big he was? Well, mon ami, not only is he the strongest oarsman in Venice, but he has proved it, for he has won the annual regatta, the great one on the Grand Canal, for five consecutive summers! This, you know, gives him the title of ‘Emperor.’ Now, there is a most charming Signora whom he has served for years,—she always spends her summers here,—whom, I assure you, Giovanni idolizes, and over whom he watches exactly as if she were both his child and his queen. Well, one day last year,” here the Professor’s face cracked into lines of suppressed mirth, “Giovanni asked for a day’s leave, and went over to Mestre to bid good-by to some friends en route for Milan. The Brindisi wine—the vina forte—oh, that devilish wine! you know it!—had just reached Mestre. It only comes in September, and lasts but a few weeks. Of course Giovanni must have his grand outing, and three days later Signor Giovanni-the-Strong presented himself again at the door of the apartment of his Signora, sober, but limp as a rag. The Signora, grand dame as she was, refused to see him, sending word by her maid that she would not hear a word from him until the next day. Now, what do you think this great strong fellow did? He went home, threw himself on the bed, turned his face to the wall, and for half the night cried like a baby! Think of it! like a baby! His wife could not get him to eat a mouthful.