children. The little theatre is a kind of trysting-place for lovers in
humble life, and there is a great deal of amusing drama going on between
the acts, in which the invariable Beppo and Nina of the Venetian populace
take the place of the invariable Arlecchino and Facanapa of the stage. I
one day discovered a letter at the bottom of the Canal of the Giudecca, to
which watery resting-place some recreant, addressed as "Caro Antonio," had
consigned it; and from this letter I came to know certainly of at least
one love affair at the Marionette. "Caro Antonio" was humbly besought, "if
his heart still felt the force of love," to meet the writer (who softly
reproached him with neglect) at the Marionette the night of date, at six
o'clock; and I would not like to believe he could resist so tender a
prayer, though perhaps it fell out so. I fished up through the lucent
water this despairing little epistle,--it was full of womanly sweetness
and bad spelling,--and dried away its briny tears on the blade of my oar.
If ever I thought to keep it, with some vague purpose of offering it to
any particularly anxious-looking Nina at the Marionette as to the probable
writer--its unaccountable loss spared me the delicate office. Still,
however, when I go to see the puppets, it is with an interest divided
between the drolleries of Facanapa, and the sad presence of expectation
somewhere among the groups of dark-eyed girls there, who wear such immense
hoops under such greasy dresses, who part their hair at one side, and call
each other "Cio!" Where art thou, O fickle and cruel, yet ever dear
Antonio? All unconscious, I think,--gallantly posed against the wall, thy
slouch hat brought forward to the point of thy long cigar, the arms of thy
velvet jacket folded on thy breast, and thy ear-rings softly twinkling in
the light.



CHAPTER VI.