As Don Ippolito passed down the long narrow calle or footway
leading from the Campo San Stefano to the Grand Canal in Venice, he
peered anxiously about him: now turning for a backward look up the
calle, where there was no living thing in sight but a cat on a
garden gate; now running a quick eye along the palace walls that
rose vast on either hand and notched the slender strip of blue sky
visible overhead with the lines of their jutting balconies,
chimneys, and cornices; and now glancing toward the canal, where he
could see the noiseless black boats meeting and passing. There was
no sound in the calle save his own footfalls and the harsh scream
of a parrot that hung in the sunshine in one of the loftiest
windows; but the note of a peasant crying pots of pinks and roses
in the campo came softened to Don Ippolito's sense, and he heard
the gondoliers as they hoarsely jested together and gossiped, with
the canal between them, at the next gondola station. The first
tenderness of spring was in the air though down in that calle there
was yet enough of the wintry rawness to chill the tip of Don
Ippolito's sensitive nose, which he rubbed for comfort with a
handkerchief of dark blue calico, and polished for ornament with a
handkerchief of white linen.
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