There's a garden on the Brenta
Where the fairest ladies meet,
Picking roses from the trellis
For the gallants at their feet.
There's an arbour on the Brenta
Made of yews that screen the light,
Where I kiss my girl at midday
Close as lovers kiss at night.
The players soon emerged at this call and presently the deck resounded
with song and laughter. All the company were familiar with the Venetian
bacaroles, and Castelrovinato's lute was passed from hand to hand, as
one after another, incited by the Marquess's Canary, tried to recall
some favourite measure--"La biondina in gondoleta" or "Guarda, che bella
luna."
Meanwhile life was stirring in the villages and gardens, and groups of
people appearing on the terraces overhanging the water. Never had Odo
beheld a livelier scene. The pillared houses with their rows of statues
and vases, the flights of marble steps descending to the gilded
river-gates, where boats bobbed against the landings and boatmen gasped
in the shade of their awnings; the marble trellises hung with grapes,
the gardens where parterres of flowers and parti-coloured gravel
alternated with the dusk of tunnelled yew-walks; the company playing at
bowls in the long alleys, or drinking chocolate in gazebos above the
river; the boats darting hither and thither on the stream itself, the
travelling-chaises, market-waggons and pannier-asses crowding the
causeway along the bank--all were unrolled before him with as little
effect of reality as the episodes woven in some gaily-tinted tapestry.
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