580
WRIGHT MORRIS
plosh of a body, but most of it strews the alley where it is picked
over by the cats. A sad-hearted breed, these scavengers. Nothing will
deprive a cat of its cathood, but it will soon give up certain virtues
that attract us. Serenity, a regal but casual dignity, a sense of place
that makes the place seem home-like-these virtues the scavenger can
seldom afford. They are tolerated, not encouraged, on the premise
that they keep the alleys free of rats. About eight such cats share the
block on which we live. Their love affairs ornament the nights. The
Venetian theory would seem to be to salvage one kitten from each
litter, but the practice varies. It would still mean too many cats. The
great majority go into the canals. That an alternative exists I have
never heard mentioned. One gathers that the dog fares better, being
something of a novelty and larger. Scale is important. A litter of pups
will not fit in the hand. To drown them would be somewhat more
difficult. In an age when fertility seems more of a liability than a
virtue, this wearisome process lies heavier on the mind of man than
on the mind of cats. They go about their business. And business still
seems to be good.
We are tourists, but we share with the natives a certain distaste
for the
real
tourists-the gentlemen with the cameras, the covey of
females with the map. They throng the Piazza like the pigeons, and
a few lose themselves in our alleys. We hear the sound as the map is
unfolded, turned this way, then that. The sweet honey of malice the
native must feel for· the nightly hosts of touring gondolas two nights
ago dripped on our lips, and we found it to our taste. A hot, sirocco
night, the water leaden and oily, we peered from the bridge over the
San Vio to see these dark shapes in the water, like so many beached
whales. In them the tourists they had swallowed, and could not dis–
gorge. A barge blocked the passage and they wallowed, odorous, in the
high tide of garbage. In the illuminated barge a sweaty tenor sang
o
sole mio. A lovely perfumed sight! Nothing moved but innumerable
fans. Suddenly a voice cried, "Out! Out! Get me out!" An unmistak–
able voice. In a moment other ladies took up the cry. "Out! Out! Back!
Back!" A few of the puzzled gondoliers complied. They backed their
cargo to the cooler waters of the Grand Canal. As they passed beneath
the bridge where we stood the gleam of malice brightened our eyes:
with other natives we wanted to shout, "Female Yankee Go Home!"
Some citizens of Venice have slim pickings, but few slimmer than
the junkman. For weeks, we found him something of a mystery. He
