A pair of vandals,
a man and wife--no doubt with infinite pains--had smuggled in brush
and marking pot and somehow or other--I suspect by bribing guides
and guards--had found the coveted opportunity of inscribing their
names here in the Doges' black dungeon. With their names they had
written their address too, which was a small town in the Northwest,
and after it the legend: "Send us a postal card."
I imagine that then this couple, having accomplished this feat,
regarded their trip to Europe as being rounded out and complete,
and went home again, satisfied and rejoicing. Send them a postal
card? Somebody should send them a deep-dish poison-pie!
Looking on this desecration my companion and I grew vocal. We
agreed that our national lawgivers who were even then framing an
immigration law with a view to keeping certain people out of this
country, might better be engaged in framing one with a view to
keeping certain people in. Our guide harkened with a quiet little
smile on his face to what we said.
"It cannot have been here long--that writing on the ceiling," he
explained for our benefit." Presently it will be scraped away.
But"-- and he shrugged his eloquent Italian shoulders and outspread
his hands fan-fashion--"but what is the use? Others like them will
come and do as they have done. See here and here and here, if
you please!"
He aimed a darting forefinger this way and that, and looking where
he pointed we saw now how the walls were scarred with the scribbled
names of many visitors.
Pages:
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347