I am saying all my good-byes—to Angelo and the gondola; to the greedypigeons of San Marco, so heavy in the crop that they can scarcely waddleon their little red feet; to the bees and birds and flowers and trees ofthe beautiful garden behind the _casa_; to the Little Genius and hereagle’s nest on the house-top; to “the city that is always just puttingout to sea.” It has been a month of enchantment, and although ratherexpensive, it is pleasant to think that the padrona’s mortgage is nearlypaid.
It is a saint’s day, and to-night there will be a _fiesta_. Coming hometo our island, we shall hear the laughter and the song floating out fromthe wine shops and the _caffès_; we shall see the lighted barges withtheir musicians; we shall thrill with the cries of “_Viva Italia_! _vivael Re_!” The moon will rise above the white palaces; their innumerablelights will be reflected in the glassy surface of the Grand Canal. Weshall feel for the last time “the quick silent passing” of the onlyVenetian cab.
“How light we move, how softly! Ah, Were life but as the gondola!”
To-morrow we shall be rowed against the current to Padua. We shall seeMalcontenta and its ruined villa: Oriago and Mira and the campanile ofDolo. Venice will lie behind us, but she will never be forgotten. Manya time on such a night as this we shall say with other wanderingVenetians:—