When we had dodged into its open door out of the heat, and were seated at one of its little square tables under the grapevines, the Professor fished up two books from that capacious inside pocket of his, and with much explanatory preface of how he had searched through all the book-stalls of the Rialto, finding them at last in the great library of the Doge’s Palace itself, wiped their faded covers with a napkin, and turned the leaves tenderly with his withered fingers.
“And just see what festivities went on in these great palaces! Here is a little book written by Giustina Renier Michiel, and published early in the century. It is especially interesting as throwing some light on the wonderful festivities of the olden time. You remember the Palazzo Nani, the palace we saw after leaving the Dandolo? Well, listen to this account of a wonderful fête given in the beginning of the last century at this very palace”—the Professor had closed the book over his finger—he knew the description by heart.
“Michiel says that owing to the intense cold the lagoon was frozen over as far as Mestre, so the hospitable host warmed every part of the palace with huge stoves made of solid silver, elaborately wrought in exquisite designs; and not content with the sum of that outlay, he completed the appointments and decorations in the same precious metal, even to the great candelabra lighting the entrance hall. And then, as a mere freak of hospitality,—he had a large visiting list, you may be sure,—he added ten rooms to his varied suites, in each one of which he placed musicians of different nationalities, just to prevent crowding, you see.
“And now let me read you of another. Part of the palace referred to here,” he added, “has, I believe, been destroyed these many years. It was the home of Patrizio Grimani—the palace where we saw the fine portrait of a Doge hanging near the window. That must have been the room in which the banquet took place. The stage referred to must have been erected in the room opening out from it. The author Michiel says, in describing a princely fête that took place here, that ‘after the play’—performed by his private company in his own theatre, remember—‘the guests were ushered into an adjoining room and the doors closed. In half an hour the doors were re-opened, discovering a superb ballroom, with every vestige of the theatre and its appointments swept away.’
“All years and years ago, mon ami,” continued the Professor, closing the book, “and in the very room that you and I walked through! Think of the balconies crowded with Venetian beauties in the richest of brocades and jewels! Imagine that same old ruin of a garden, roofed over and brilliant with a thousand lanterns! See the canals packed with gondolas, the torch-bearers lighting the way! Bah! When I think of the flare of modern gas-jets along the Champs Elysées, and the crush of fiacres and carriages, all held in check by a score of gendarmes in black coats; of the stuffy rooms and screeching violins; and then drink in the memory of these fêtes, with their sumptuousness and grandeur, I can hardly restrain my disgust for the cheap shams of our times.
“And here is another ancient chronicle of quite a different kind,” opening the other book. “You will find it more or less difficult, for it is in old Italian, and some of its sentences, even with my knowledge of the language,”—this with a certain wave of the hand, as if no one had ever disputed it,—“I can only guess at. This, too, came from the library in the Doge’s Palace, and is especially valuable as showing how little change there is between the Venice of to-day and the Venice of a century and a half ago, so far as localities and old landmarks go. The customs, I am delighted to say, have somewhat improved. It was written by one Edmondo Lundy in 1750.[1] He evidently came down to Venice to try his wings, and from his notes I should say he spread them to some purpose. He first fell into the clutches of a grand dame,—a certain noble lady, a Duchessa,—who sent for him the day after he arrived, and who complimented him upon his bearing and personal attractions. Then she explained that all Venetian ladies of position had attached to their persons a gentleman in waiting, a sort of valet de place of the heart, as it were, who made love to them in a kind of lute-and-guitar-fashion, with ditties and song; that she had seen him on the Riva the afternoon before, had admired his figure and face, and being at the moment without any such attendant herself had determined to offer him the situation. His being a foreigner only increased her ardor, foreigners being at a high premium for such positions in those days. Although the Duchessa had already a husband of her own, was wrinkled, partly bald, and over sixty, Lundy, the gay cavalier, fell into the scheme. It is delightful to hear him tell of how the strange courtship progressed, one incident in particular: It was the custom of the fashionable set of the day to drift out in their gondolas up the Giudecca in the twilight, right in front of where we now sit; you can see the spot from this window. Here they would anchor in mid-stream and listen to recitals of music and poetry by some of the more gifted cavaliers,—lines from Dante and Tasso,—the servants and gondoliers serving the ices, which were all brought from this very Caffè Calcina. See, the name was spelled the same way. Does it not make you feel, as you sit here, that you have only to shut your eyes to bring it all back? Oh, the grand days of the Republic! These old vines above our heads could tell a story!
“But it seems that even the Duchessa palled on so versatile a cavalier as Lundy. She really bored him to death, so he hunts out a friend, explains the situation, and begs that he will get him out of the scrape. The friend writes a letter to Milan, and has it re-delivered to Lundy, summoning him instantly to the bedside of a dying relative. This letter is shown to the Duchessa, who parts with him with many tears and protestations, and Lundy leaves Venice. In three months he returns, hoping that some other equally handsome and attractive young foreigner has taken his place. Alas! the black drapings of the Duchessa’s gondola announce her death. And now comes the most comical part of it all. In her will she left him a thousand lire to purchase some souvenir expressive of the love and devotion with which he had inspired her!
“Further on Lundy tells how he watched for hours the efforts of two priests to get a breakfast. They were strung half way up the Campanile, suspended outside the tower, between heaven and earth, in an iron cage. That, it seems, was the punishment inflicted on such unworthy gentlemen of the Church. They were considered to be better equipped than their parishioners to resist temptation, and so when they went astray they were strung up, like birds, in a cage. The only way these Lotharios got anything to eat was by letting down a string, to which some charitable soul would tie a flagon of wine or a loaf of bread. This morning the string was too short, and Lundy had no end of fun watching their efforts to piece it out with rosaries and sandal-lacings.
“Another time he was stopped by a poet on the Piazza, right in front of where Florian’s now stands; the same caffè, perhaps, who knows? In those days, quite as it is now, the Piazza was a rendezvous for all Venice. All the doctors went there in search of patients, soliciting their patronage and holding out their diplomas. The mountebanks had performances on a carpet stretched on the pavement, and the actors played their parts in little booths erected between the clock tower and the Loggietta of the Campanile,—the roars of applause could be heard away out on the lagoons. The professional poets, too, would hand you copies of their latest productions, and button-hole you long enough to have you listen to a sample stanza.
“Lundy was beguiled in this way, and an hour later discovered that his tobacco-box, containing a portrait of his mother, set in brilliants—an old-fashioned snuff-box, perhaps—was missing. So, under the advice of a friend, he went to the headquarters of the city guard.