Quantitative Psychological Research

The Complete Student s Companion

David Clark-Carter
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 Quantitative Psychological Research

Quantitative Psychological Research: The Complete Student's Companion expertly guides the reader
through all the stages involved in undertaking quantitative psychological research: designing a study,
choosing a sample of people, undertaking the study, analysing the data, and reporting the research.
Accessibly written and clearly presented, the book is designed for anyone learning to conduct
quantitative psychological research. It covers the full research process, from the original idea to
reporting the completed study, emphasising the importance of looking beyond statistical significance in
evaluating data. The book provides step-by-step guidance on choosing, interpreting and reporting the
appropriate analysis, featuring worked examples and extended calculations as appendices for advanced
readers.
This edition features new chapters on exploratory factor analysis, logistic regression and Bayesian
statistics, and has been thoroughly updated throughout to reflect the latest research practices. Care has
been taken to avoid tying the book to any specific statistical software, providing readers with a thorough
grounding in the basics no matter which package they go on to use.
Whether you’re at the beginning of your undergraduate degree or working towards your masters
or doctorate, this book will be invaluable for anyone looking to understand how to conduct quantitative
psychological research.

David Clark-Carter is Professor of Psychological Research Methods at Staffordshire University and

Consultant Editor of the British Journal of Mathematical and Statistical Psychology. In 2016 he was
awarded the lifetime achievement award by the Education and Public Engagement Board of the British
Psychological Society.
Quantitative
Psychological Research
The Complete Student’s Companion

4th Edition

David Clark-Carter
Fourth edition published 2019
by Routledge
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and by Routledge
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© 2019 David Clark-Carter
The right of David Clark-Carter to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in
accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by
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used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe.
First edition published by Psychology Press 1997
Third edition published by Psychology Press 2010
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A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Names: Clark-Carter, David, author.
Title: Quantitative psychological research : the complete student’s companion / David Clark-Carter.
Description: 4th Edition. | New York : Routledge, 2019. | Series: Revised edition of the author’s
Quantitative psychological research, 2009. | Includes bibliographical references and index.
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To Anne, Tim and Rebecca
 Brief contents

Preface xviii
Acknowledgements xxii

PART 1 INTRODUCTION 1

CHAPTER 1 The methods used in psychological research 2

PART 2 CHOICE OF TOPIC, MEASURES AND RESEARCH DESIGN 17

CHAPTER 2 The preliminary stages of research 18

CHAPTER 3 Variables and the validity of research designs 31

CHAPTER 4 Research designs and their internal validity 41

PART 3 METHODS 63

CHAPTER 5 Asking questions I: interviews and surveys 64

CHAPTER 6 Asking questions II: measuring attitudes and meaning 76

CHAPTER 7 Observation and content analysis 86

PART 4 DATA AND ANALYSIS 93

CHAPTER 8 Scales of measurement 94

CHAPTER 9 Summarising and describing data 100

CHAPTER 10 Going beyond description 127

CHAPTER 11 Samples and populations 135

viii   Brief contents

CHAPTER 12 Analysis of differences between a single sample

and a population 144

CHAPTER 13 Effect size and power 159

CHAPTER 14 Parametric and non-parametric tests 166

CHAPTER 15 Analysis of differences between two levels of an

independent variable 174

CHAPTER 16 Preliminary analysis of designs with one independent

variable with more than two levels 195

CHAPTER 17 Analysis of designs with more than one independent

variable 215

CHAPTER 18 Subsequent analysis after ANOVA or χ2 231

CHAPTER 19 Analysis of relationships I: correlation 255

CHAPTER 20 Analysis of relationships II: linear regression 284

CHAPTER 21 Analysis of relationships III: logistic regression 308

CHAPTER 22 Analysis of covariance (ANCOVA) 320

CHAPTER 23 Screening data 334

CHAPTER 24 Exploratory factor analysis (EFA) 341

CHAPTER 25 Multivariate analysis 354

CHAPTER 26 Meta-analysis 364

CHAPTER 27 Bayesian statistics 374

PART 5 SHARING THE RESULTS 381

CHAPTER 28 Reporting research 382

 Brief contents   ix

APPENDICES 401
Appendix I: Descriptive statistics (linked to Chapter 9) 402
Appendix II: Sampling and confidence intervals for proportions
(linked to Chapter 11) 411
Appendix III: Comparing a sample with a population (linked to Chapter 12) 416
Appendix IV: The power of a one-group z-test (linked to Chapter 13) 422
Appendix V: Data transformation and goodness-of-fit tests
(linked to Chapter 14) 425
Appendix VI: Seeking differences between two levels of an independent
variable (linked to Chapter 15) 432
Appendix VII: Seeking differences between more than two levels
of an independent variable (linked to Chapter 16) 456
Appendix VIII: Analysis of designs with more than one independent
variable (linked to Chapter 17) 476
Appendix IX: Subsequent analysis after ANOVA or χ2 (linked to Chapter 18) 489
Appendix X: Correlation and reliability (linked to Chapter 19) 505
Appendix XI: Linear regression (linked to Chapter 20) 529
Appendix XII: Logistic regression (linked to Chapter 21) 546
Appendix XIII: ANCOVA (linked to Chapter 22) 562
Appendix XIV: Evaluation of measures: item and discriminative analysis,
and accuracy of tests (linked to Chapter 6) 567
Appendix XV: Exploratory factor analysis (linked to Chapter 24) 571
Appendix XVI: Meta-analysis (linked to Chapter 26) 578
Appendix XVII: Probability tables 591
Appendix XVIII: Power tables 633
Appendix XIX: Miscellaneous tables 688
References 697
Glossary of symbols 705
Author index 706
Subject index 709
 Detailed contents of chapters

PART 1 INTRODUCTION 1

CHAPTER 1 The methods used in psychological research 2

Introduction 2
What is the purpose of research? 2
What is a method? 2
Why have a method? 2
Tensions between control and ecological validity 3
Distinctions between quantitative and qualitative methods 4
Is psychology a science? 9
Ethical issues in psychological research 11
Summary 15

PART 2 CHOICE OF TOPIC, MEASURES AND RESEARCH DESIGN 17

CHAPTER 2 The preliminary stages of research 18

Introduction 18
Choice of topic 18
Focusing on a specific area of research 21
Choice of method 22
Choice of hypotheses 22
Choice of research design 22
Measurement in psychology 23
The choice of measures 24
Choice of analysis 28
Choice of participants – the sample 28
The procedure 29
Pilot studies 29
Summary 30
 Detailed contents of chapters   xi

CHAPTER 3 Variables and the validity of research designs 31

Introduction 31
Variables 31
The validity of research designs 33
Efficacy and effectiveness 39
The choice of hypotheses 39
Summary 40

CHAPTER 4 Research designs and their internal validity 41

Introduction 41
Types of designs 41
Terminology 43
Specific examples of research designs 47
Summary 61

PART 3 METHODS 63

CHAPTER 5 Asking questions I: interviews and surveys 64

Introduction 64
Topics for questions 64
The formats for asking questions 64
Choosing between the formats 65
The settings for asking questions 65
The pilot study 75
Summary 75

CHAPTER 6 Asking questions II: measuring attitudes and meaning 76

Introduction 76
Reliability of measures 76
Dimensions 77
Attitude scales 77
Techniques to measure meaning 82
Summary 85

CHAPTER 7 Observation and content analysis 86

Introduction 86
Observation 86
xii   Detailed contents of chapters

Issues shared between observation and content analysis 89

Structured observation 90
Content analysis 91
Summary 92

PART 4 DATA AND ANALYSIS 93

CHAPTER 8 Scales of measurement 94

Introduction 94
Examples of measures 94
Scales of measurement 95
The relevance of the four scales 96
Indicators 97
Statisticians and scales 97
Summary 99

CHAPTER 9 Summarising and describing data 100

Introduction 100
Numerical methods 100
Graphical methods 106
The distribution of data 122
Summary 125

CHAPTER 10 Going beyond description 127

Introduction 127
Hypothesis testing 127
Probability 127
Statistical significance 130
Error types 131
Calculating the probability of the outcome of research 131
One- and two-tailed tests 133
Summary 134

CHAPTER 11 Samples and populations 135

Introduction 135
Statistics 135
Parameters 135
Choosing a sample 135
 Detailed contents of chapters   xiii

Confidence intervals 140

Summary 143

CHAPTER 12 Analysis of differences between a single sample and

a population 144
Introduction 144
z-Tests 144
One-group t-tests 150
Confidence intervals for means 154
z-Test comparing a sample proportion with a population proportion 154
Further graphical displays 155
Identifying outliers with standardised scores 157
Summary 158

CHAPTER 13 Effect size and power 159

Introduction 159
Limitations of statistical significance testing 159
Effect size 159
Statistical power 161
Summary 165

CHAPTER 14 Parametric and non-parametric tests 166

Introduction 166
Parametric tests 166
The assumptions of parametric tests 166
Non-parametric tests for one-group designs 169
Summary 173

CHAPTER 15 Analysis of differences between two levels of an independent

variable 174
Introduction 174
Parametric tests 174
Non-parametric tests 181
Summary 194

CHAPTER 16 Preliminary analysis of designs with one independent variable

with more than two levels 195
Introduction 195
xiv   Detailed contents of chapters

Parametric tests 195

Non-parametric equivalents of ANOVA 210
Summary 213

CHAPTER 17 Analysis of designs with more than one independent variable 215
Introduction 215
Interactions between IVs 215
Parametric tests 217
Non-parametric tests 230
Summary 230

CHAPTER 18 Subsequent analysis after ANOVA or χ2 231

Introduction 231
Contrasts 231
Trend tests 240
Simple effects 244
Interpreting main effects 251
Beyond two-way ANOVA 253
Summary 254

CHAPTER 19 Analysis of relationships I: correlation 255

Introduction 255
Correlation 255
Non-parametric correlation 266
Correlation and nominal data 270
Other uses of correlation 271
The use of correlation to evaluate reliability and validity of measures 278
Summary 283

CHAPTER 20 Analysis of relationships II: linear regression 284

Introduction 284
Simple regression 284
Multiple regression 288
Recommended sample size 294
Reporting a multiple regression 302
Mediation analysis 303
The similarity between ANOVA and multiple regression 304
Summary 307
 Detailed contents of chapters   xv

CHAPTER 21 Analysis of relationships III: logistic regression 308

Introduction 308
The generalised linear model 308
Maximum likelihood estimation 309
Simple logistic regression 309
A single continuous predictor variable 311
Multiple logistic regression 312
Sequential logistic regression 313
Assumptions 314
Sample size 318
Summary 319

CHAPTER 22 Analysis of covariance (ANCOVA) 320

Introduction 320
An IV with two levels 320
Assumptions of ANCOVA 322
Reporting an ANCOVA 325
Statistical power and ANCOVA 325
Pre-treatment values as covariates 326
Alternatives to ANCOVA for pre–post designs 326
ANCOVA with more than two levels in an IV 327
Follow-up analysis 328
Summary 333

CHAPTER 23 Screening data 334

Introduction 334
Checking for sensible values 334
Missing data 334
Intention to treat 338
Outliers and influential data 338
Distribution of data 339
Order of checks 339
Bootstrap 340
Summary 340

CHAPTER 24 Exploratory factor analysis (EFA) 341

Introduction 341
Types of factor analysis 341
xvi   Detailed contents of chapters

Finding the number of factors 345

Initial solution 346
Making the picture clearer 348
Interpreting 349
Naming the factors 351
Checking the solution 351
Sample size 352
Reporting 353
Summary 353

CHAPTER 25 Multivariate analysis 354

Introduction 354
Why use multivariate techniques? 354
Seeking a difference 355
Controlling for covariates 356
Exploring relationships 357
Seeking latent variables 359
Summary 362

CHAPTER 26 Meta-analysis 364

Introduction 364
Choosing the topic of the meta-analysis 364
Identifying the research 364
Choosing the hypotheses to be tested 365
Deciding which papers to obtain 365
Extracting the necessary information 366
Combining the results of studies 368
Dealing with heterogeneity 371
Reporting the results of a meta-analysis 371
Summary 373

CHAPTER 27 Bayesian statistics 374

Introduction 374
An alternative approach to probability and hypothesis testing 374
Estimation 376
Specifying the prior(s) 377
Model comparison/hypothesis testing 378
 Detailed contents of chapters   xvii

Bayes Factor 378

Summary 380

PART 5 SHARING THE RESULTS 381

CHAPTER 28 Reporting research 382

Introduction 382
Non-sexist language 382
A written report 382
A verbal presentation 394
A poster presentation 399
Trying the presentation out 399
Summary 400
 Preface

This book is designed to take the reader through all the stages of research: from choosing the method
to be employed, through the aspects of design, conduct and analysis, to reporting the results of the
research. The book provides an overview of the methods which psychologists employ in their research
but concentrates on the practice of quantitative methods.
However, such an emphasis does not mean that the text is brimming with mathematical equations.
The aim of the book is to explain how to do research, not how to calculate statistical techniques by hand
or by simple calculator. The assumption is that the reader will have access to a computer and appropriate
statistical software to perform the necessary calculations. Accordingly, the equations in the body of the
text are there to enhance understanding of the technique being described. Nonetheless, the equations
and worked examples for given techniques are contained in appendices for more numerate readers who
wish to try out the calculations themselves and for those occasions when no computer is available to
carry out the analysis. In addition, some more complex ideas are only dealt with in the appendices.

The structure of the book

A book on research methods has to perform a number of functions. Initially, it introduces researchers to
basic concepts and techniques. Once they are mastered, it introduces more complex concepts and tech-
niques. Finally, it acts as a reference work. The experienced researcher often is aware that a method exists or
that there is a restriction on the use of a statistical technique but needs to be reminded of the exact details.
This book is structured in such a way that the person new to the subject can read selected parts of
selected chapters. Thus, first-level undergraduates will need an overview of the methods used in psychology,
a rationale for their use and ethical aspects of such research. They will then look at the stages of research,
followed by a discussion of variables and an overview of research designs and their internal validity. Then,
depending on the methods they are to conduct, they will read selected parts of the chapters on specific
research methods. In order to analyse data they will need to be aware of the issues to do with scales of meas-
urement and how to explore and summarise data. Next they will move on to trying to draw inferences from
their data – how likely their results are to have occurred by chance. They should be aware of how samples can
be chosen to take part in a study and how to compare the results from a sample with those from a population.
It is important that, as well as finding out about how likely their results are to have occurred by
chance, they know how to state the size of any effect they have detected and how likely they were to
detect a real effect if it exists. They need to know the limitations on the type of data which certain statis-
tical tests can handle and of alternative tests which are available and which do not have the same limi-
tations. They may restrict analysis to situations involving looking at differences between two conditions
and simple analysis of the relationships between two measures. Finally, they will need to know how to
report their research as a laboratory report. Therefore, a first-level course could involve the following
chapters and parts of chapters:

1 The methods used in psychological research.

2 The preliminary stages of research.
3 Variables and the validity of research designs.
 Preface  xix

The sections on types of designs and on terminology in:

4 Research designs and their internal validity.

One or more of:

5 Asking questions I: interviews and surveys.

6 Asking questions II: measuring attitudes and meaning.
7 Observation and content analysis.

Then:

8 Scales of measurement.
9 Summarising and describing data.
10 Going beyond description.

The sections on statistics, parameters and choosing a sample from:

11 Samples and populations.

The sections on z-tests and t-tests in:

12 Analysis of differences between a single sample and a population.

13 Effect size and power.
14 Parametric and non-parametric tests.
15 Analysis of differences between two levels of an independent variable.

The first section in:

19 Analysis of relationships I: correlation.

Possibly the section on simple regression in:

20 Analysis of relationships II: regression.

The sections on non-sexist language and on the written report in:

25 Reporting research.

Students in their second level should be dealing with more complex designs. Accordingly, they
will need to look at more on the methods, on the designs and on their analysis. They may look at further
analysis of relationships and be aware of other forms of reporting research. Therefore they are likely to
look at:

The section on specific examples of research designs in:

4 Research designs and their internal validity.

xx  Preface

Anything not already read in:

5 Asking questions I: Interviews and surveys.

6 Asking questions II: Measuring attitudes and meaning.
7 Observation and content analysis.

The section on confidence intervals in:

11 Samples and populations.

16 Preliminary analysis of designs with one independent variable with more than two levels.
17 Analysis of designs with more than one independent variable.

At least the section on contrasts in:

18 Subsequent analysis after ANOVA or χ2.

The remaining material in:

19 Analysis of relationships I: correlation.

At subsequent levels, I would hope that students would learn about other ways of analysing data
once they have conducted an analysis of variance, that they would learn about multiple regression,
analysis of covariance, factor analysis and meta-analysis, and that they would be aware of the range of
multivariate analyses. At each stage researchers need to be aware of data screening and so it is important
that they look at the material in Chapter 23. Nonetheless, this chapter contains some complex ideas and
methods, and so it is likely that until later chapters in the book have been covered, greater guidance
from tutors will be necessary over the material in this chapter.
As psychologists we have to treat methods as tools which help us carry out our research, not as
ends in themselves. However, we must be aware of the correct use of the methods and be aware of their
limitations. The debate about failure to replicate findings discussed in Chapter 1 should make this clear.
Above all the things that I hope readers gain from conducting and analysing research is the excitement
of taking an idea, designing a way to test it empirically and seeing whether the evidence is consistent
with your original idea.

A note to tutors
Tutors will notice that I have tried to place greater emphasis on statistical power, effect size and confi-
dence intervals than is often the case in statistical texts which are aimed at psychologists. Without these
tools psychologists are in danger of producing findings which lack generalisability because they are
overly dependent on what have become conventional inferential statistics.
I have not given specific examples of how to perform particular analyses in any particular com-
puter package because of lack of space, because I do not want the book to be tied to any one package and
because the different generations of the packages involve different ways of achieving the same analysis.
The growth in the use and development of the open source language R confirms me in my decision
not to select one statistical package to illustrate how to implement the analyses. Nonetheless, I make
reference to what you can expect from the IBM Statistical Package for the Social Sciences (SPSS). There
are many ‘how to’ books for computer packages and I recommend Gray and Kinnear (2012) for SPSS.
However, it does need updating to take account of more recent developments. Kabacoff (2015) would
be a useful starting point if your students want to learn about R.
 Preface  xxi

The new edition

When people have heard that I was writing another edition they have often said that they didn’t think
the topic changed that much. They clearly don’t read the statistics and methodology journals, which
are constantly exploring new aspects of the subject. Apart from anything else, the development of more
powerful computers has meant that the limits of statistical techniques can be tested, using simulations.
In addition, my own thinking changes as I read about, use or teach a technique.
Most chapters and appendices have been altered to a certain extent. I have introduced three new
chapters: one on logistic regression, one on exploratory factor analysis and one on Bayesian statistics.
Details of the first two were briefly covered in the chapter on multivariate analysis in previous editions.
The decision over what other new material to put in has again partly been guided by wanting
to explain to psychologists terms and procedures which are used within disciplines with which psy-
chologists are likely to work, in particular those in the medical professions and epidemiologists. I have
included sections on using intraclass correlations to measure interrater agreement, interaction contrasts
as a way of examining interactions, power analysis for individual predictors in multiple regression,
bootstrapping and focused comparison and forest plots in meta-analysis. I have expanded the power
tables to include logistic regression. To accommodate new material in the second edition, and given the
main focus of the book, I reluctantly took out the section on specific qualitative methods which had
been in the first edition. In its place are details of books on the topic.
 Acknowledgements

I would like to thank those people who started me off on my career as a researcher and in particular
John Valentine, Ray Meddis and John Wilding, who introduced me to research design and statistics. I
have learned a lot from many others in the intervening years, not least from all the colleagues and stu-
dents who have asked questions which have forced me to clarify my own thoughts. I would also like to
thank Marian Pitts, who encouraged me when I first contemplated writing this book and has continued
to be supportive.

First edition
Ian Watts and Julie Adams, from Staffordshire University’s Information Technology Services, often gave
me advice on how to use the numerous generations of my word-processing package to achieve what I
wanted. Rachel Windwood, Rohays Perry, Paul Dukes, Kathryn Russell and Kirsten Buchanan from
Psychology Press all gave me help and advice as the book went from original idea to camera ready copy.
Paul Kinnear, Sandy Lovie and John Valentine all made helpful comments on an earlier draft of
the book. Tess and Steve Moore initiated me into some of the mysteries of colour printing. Anne Clark-
Carter acted as my person on the Stoke-on-Trent omnibus and pointed out where I was making the
explanation particularly complicated. This effort was especially heroic given her aversion to statistics.
In addition, she, Tim and Rebecca all tolerated, with various levels of equanimity, my being frequently
superglued to a computer.

Second edition
Peter Harris, Darren Van Laar and John Towse all made helpful comments on the proposals I put for-
ward about the second edition. Chris Dracup, Astrid Schepman, Mark Shevlin and A. H. Wallymahmed
made helpful comments on the first draft of that edition. A number of people at Psychology Press and
Taylor & Francis (some of whom have moved on) had a hand in the way that edition developed. In fact,
there were so many that I apologise if I’ve left anyone out of the following list: Alison Dixon, Caroline
Osborne, Sue Rudkin and Vivien Ward. I would also like to thank all the students and colleagues at Staf-
fordshire University who commented on the first edition or asked questions which suggested ways in
which the first edition could be amended or added to. Finally, although I have already thanked them in
the preface to the first edition, I want again to thank Anne, Tim and Rebecca for their forbearance and
for dragging me from the study when I was in danger, rather like Flann O’Brien’s cycling policeman, of
exchanging atoms with the chair and computer keyboard.

Third edition
The following helped me with the third edition. Sarah Gibson, Sharla Plant, Tara Stebnicky and Rebekah
Edmondson, all of Taylor & Francis, helped at various points from the initial invitation to write the third
 Acknowledgements  xxiii

edition to seeing it through to publication. Charlotte Brownlow, Pat Dugard and Mark Shevlin made
helpful comments on the changes I proposed to make to the third edition. Charlotte Brownlow and Pat
Dugard made further useful comments on the first draft of the third edition. Once again, Anne, Tim
and Rebecca have supported me throughout.
Despite all the efforts of others, any mistakes which are still contained in the book are my own.

Fourth edition
The following helped me with the fourth edition. Ceri McLardy, Sophie Crowe, Jenny Guildford,
Elizabeth Rankin and Michael Strang helped by, among other things, commissioning the new edi-
tion, seeking reviews of my proposals for this edition and checking the manuscript. Zaheer Hussain
and Nathalie Noret provided useful comments on my proposed changes. Tina Cottone and the team
from ApexCoVantage have, among other things, thoroughly checked and copyedited the manuscript
and kept me up to date with when the next task would be arriving. Once again, Anne helped me to
complete what has been an enormous undertaking. As time went on and deadlines approached she
absorbed ever more tasks to give me the time to get on with writing. Nonetheless, we continued to take
the final dog walk of the day together.
PART 1

Introduction
1 The methods used in
psychological research

Introduction
This chapter deals with the purposes of psychological research. It explains why psychologists employ a
method in their research and describes the range of quantitative methods employed by psychologists. It
addresses the question of whether psychology is a science. Finally it deals with ethical issues to do with
psychological research.

What is the purpose of research?

Psychological research is conducted in order to increase our knowledge of humans. Research is gen-
erally seen as having one of four aims, which can also be seen as stages: the first is to describe, the sec-
ond to understand, leading to the third, which is to predict, and then finally to control. In the case of
research in psychology the final stage is better seen as trying to intervene to improve human life. As an
example, take the case of non-verbal communication (NVC). Firstly, psychologists might describe the
various forms of NVC, such as eye contact, body posture and gesture. Next they will try to understand
the functions of the different forms and then predict what will happen when people display abnormal
forms of NVC, such as making too little eye contact or standing too close to others. Finally they might
devise a means of training such people in ways of improving their NVC. This last stage will also include
some evaluation of the success of the training.

What is a method?
A method is a systematic approach to a piece of research. Psychologists use a wide range of methods.
There are a number of ways in which the methods adopted by psychologists are classified. One common
distinction which is made is between quantitative and qualitative methods. As their names suggest,
quantitative methods involve some form of numerical measurement while qualitative methods involve
verbal description.

Why have a method?

The simple answer to this question is that without a method the research of a psychologist is no better
than the speculations of a layperson, for, without a method, there is little protection against our hunches
overly guiding what information is available to us and how we interpret it. In addition, without method
our research is not open to the scrutiny of other psychologists. As an example of the dangers of not
employing a method, I will explore the idea that the consumption of coffee in the evening causes people
to have a poor night’s sleep.
 Chapter 1 The methods used in psychological research  3

I have plenty of evidence to support this idea. Firstly, I have my own experience of the link between
coffee consumption and poor sleep. Secondly, when I have discussed it with others they confirm that
they have the same experience. Thirdly, I know that caffeine is a stimulant and so it seems a perfectly
reasonable assumption that it will keep me awake.
However, there are a number of flaws in my argument. In the first place I know my prediction.
Therefore the effect may actually be a consequence of that knowledge. To control for this possibility I
should study people who are unaware of the prediction. Alternatively, I should give some people who
are aware of the prediction what is called a placebo – a substance which will be indistinguishable from
the substance being tested but which does not have the same physical effect – in this case a drink which
they think contains caffeine. Secondly, because of my prediction I normally tend to avoid drinking cof-
fee in the evening; I only drink it on special occasions and it may be that other aspects of these occasions
are contributing to my poor sleep.
The occasions when I do drink coffee in the evenings are when I have gone out for a meal at a
restaurant or at a friend’s house or when friends come to my house. It is likely that I will eat differently
on these occasions: I will have a larger meal or a richer meal and I will eat later than usual. In addition,
I may drink alcohol on these occasions and the occasions may be more stimulating in that we will talk
about more interesting things than usual and I may disrupt my sleeping pattern by staying up later
than usual. Finally, I have not checked on the nature of my sleep when I do not drink coffee; I have no
baseline for comparison.
Thus, there are a number of factors which may contribute to my poor sleep, which I need to
control for if am going to properly study the relationship between coffee consumption and poor sleep.
Applying a method to my research allows me to test my ideas more systematically and more completely.

Tensions between control and ecological validity

Throughout science there is a tension between two approaches. One is to investigate a phenomenon in
isolation or, at least, with a minimum of other factors, which could affect it, being present. For example,
I may isolate the consumption of caffeine as the factor which contributes to poor sleep. The alternative
approach is to investigate the phenomenon in its natural setting. For example, I may investigate the
effect of coffee consumption on my sleep in its usual context. There are good reasons for adopting each
of these approaches.
By minimising the number of factors present, researchers can exercise control over the situation.
Thus, by varying one aspect at a time and observing any changes, they can try to identify relationships
between factors. Thus, I may be able to show that caffeine alone is not the cause of my poor sleep. In
order to minimise the variation which is experienced by the different people they are studying, psy-
chologists often conduct research in a laboratory.
However, a phenomenon often changes when it is taken out of its natural setting. It may have been
the result of a large number of factors working together or it may be that, by conducting my research
in a laboratory, I have made it so artificial that it bears no relation to the real world. The term ecological
validity is used to refer to research which does relate to real-world events. Thus, the researcher has to
adopt an approach which maximises control while at the same time being aware of the problem of arti-
ficiality. Another approach is to have a research strategy which has two strands: one maximising control
and the other maximising ecological validity. Then an attempt will be made to reconcile the results from
the two strands; this is called triangulation. For example, researchers could test the effects of caffeine
on sleep in two ways. In one they could conduct the study in a laboratory. They allocate participants
to either a caffeine or a placebo condition, give them drinks appropriate for the group they have been
put in and observe them at night. In the second approach they could ask participants to keep diaries of
their consumption of drinks such as coffee and tea and other events in the day. In addition, they would
record their sleep patterns.
4   PART 1 Introduction

Distinctions between quantitative and qualitative methods

The distinction between quantitative and qualitative methods can be a false one, in that they may be
two approaches to studying the same phenomena. Or they may be two stages in the same piece of
research, with a qualitative approach yielding ideas which can then be investigated via a quantitative
approach. Not surprisingly, this combination is sometimes called mixed methods. The problem arises
when they provide different answers. Nonetheless, the distinction can be a convenient fiction for clas-
sifying methods.

Quantitative methods
One way to classify quantitative methods is under the headings of experimenting, asking questions
and observing. The main distinction between the three is that in the experimental method researchers
manipulate certain aspects of the situation and measure the presumed effects of those manipulations.
Questioning and observational methods generally involve measurement in the absence of manipula-
tion. Questioning involves asking people about details such as their behaviour and their beliefs and
attitudes. Observational methods, not surprisingly, involve watching people’s behaviour.
Thus, in an experiment to investigate the relationship between coffee drinking and sleep patterns
I might give one group of people no coffee, another group one cup of normal coffee and a third group
decaffeinated coffee and then measure how much sleep members of each group had. Alternatively, I
might question a group of people about their patterns of sleep and about their coffee consumption,
while in an observational study I might stay with a group of people for a week, note each person’s coffee
consumption and then, using a closed circuit television system, watch how well they sleep each night.
The distinction between the three methods is, once again, artificial, for the measures used in an
experiment could involve asking questions or making observations. Before I deal with the methods
referred to above I want to mention one which is often left out of consideration and gives the most
control to the researcher – modelling.

Modelling and artificial intelligence

Modelling
Modelling refers to the development of theory through the construction of models to account for the
results of research and to explore more fully the consequences of the theory. The consequences can
then be subjected to empirical research to test how well the model represents reality. Models can take
many forms. They have often been based on metaphors borrowed from other disciplines. For example,
the information-processing model of human cognition can be seen to be based on the computer. As
Gregg (1986) points out, Plato viewed human memory as being like a wax tablet, with forgetting being
due to the trace being worn away or effaced; see also Randall (2007) for a discussion of metaphors of
memory.
Modelling can be in the form of the equivalent of flow diagrams as per Atkinson and Shiffrin’s
(1971) model of human memory, where memory is seen as being in three parts: immediate, short-term
and long-term. Alternatively, it can be in the form of mathematical formulae, as were Hull’s models of
animal and human learning (see Estes, 1993). Friston (2005) discusses models of how the brain func-
tions, including statistical models.
With the advent of the computer, models can now be explored through computer programs.
For example, Newell and Simon (1972) explored human reasoning through the use of computers. This
approach to modelling is called computer simulation. Miller (1985) has a good account of the nature
of computer simulation, while Brattico (2008) and Fodor (2000) discuss the limitations of current
approaches.
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the Riva. On we go, abreast of the crowd, past the landing-wharf of
the little steamers, past the rear porches of the queer caffès, past the
man-of-war, and a moment later are off the wine-shop and my
bridge. I part the curtains, and from my cushions can see the
Duchess standing in the doorway, her arms akimbo, with all the
awnings rolled back tight for the night. The bridge itself is smothered
in a swarm of human flies, most of them bareheaded. As we sheer
closer, one more ragged than the rest springs up and waves his hat.
Then comes the refrain of that loveliest of all the Venetian boat
songs:—
“Jammo, jammo neoppa, jammo ja.”
It is Luigi, bidding me good-night.
THE PIAZZA OF SAN MARCO
HERE is but one piazza in the world. There may be other
splendid courts and squares, magnificent breathing spaces
for the people, enriched by mosque and palace, bordered
by wide-spreading trees, and adorned by noble statues.
You know, of course, every slant of sunlight over the plaza of the
Hippodrome, in Constantinople, with its slender twin needles of
stone; you know the Puerta del Sol of Madrid, cooled by the splash
of sunny fountains and alive with the rush of Spanish life; and you
know, too, the royal Place de la Concorde, brilliant with the never-
ending whirl of pleasure-loving Paris. Yes, you know and may love
them all, and yet there is but one grand piazza the world over; and
that lies to-day in front of the Church of San Marco.
It is difficult to account for this fascination. Sometimes you think it
lurks in the exquisite taper of the Campanile. Sometimes you think
the secret of its charm is hidden in masterly carvings, delicacy of
arch, or refinement of color. Sometimes the Piazza appeals to you
only as the great open-air bricabrac shop of the universe, with its
twin columns of stone stolen from the islands of the Archipelago; its
bronze horses, church doors, and altar front wrested from
Constantinople and the East; and its clusters of pillars torn from
almost every heathen temple within reach of a Venetian galley.
When your eye becomes accustomed to the dazzling splendor of the
surroundings, and you begin to analyze each separate feature of this
Court of the Doges, you are even more enchanted and bewildered.
San Marco itself no longer impresses you as a mere temple, with
open portals and swinging doors; but as an exquisite jewel-case of
agate and ivory, resplendent in gems and precious stones. The clock
tower, with its dial of blue and gold and its figures of bronze, is not,
as of old, one of a row of buildings, but a priceless ornament that
might adorn the palace of some King of the Giants; while the Loggia
of Sansovino could serve as a mantel for his banquet hall, and any
one of the three bronze sockets of the flag-staffs, masterpieces of
Leopardo, hold huge candles to light him to bed.
And behind all this beauty of form and charm of handicraft, how lurid
the background of tradition, cruelty, and crime! Poor Doge Francesco
Foscari, condemning his own innocent son Jacopo to exile and
death, in that very room overlooking the square; the traitor Marino
Faliero, beheaded on the Giant Stairs of the palace, his head
bounding to the pavement below; the perfidies of the Council of Ten;
the state murders, tortures, and banishments; the horrors of the
prisons of the Piombi; the silent death-stroke of the unsigned
denunciations dropped into the Bocca del Leone—that fatal letter-
box with its narrow mouth agape in the wall of stone, nightly filled
with the secrets of the living, daily emptied of the secrets of the
dead. All are here before you. The very stones their victims trod lie
beneath your feet, their water-soaked cells but a step away.
As you pass between the twin columns of stone,—the pillars of Saint
Theodore and of the Lion,—you shudder when you recall the fate of
the brave Piedmontese, Carmagnola, a fate unfolding a chapter of
cunning, ingratitude, and cruelty almost unparalleled in the history of
Venice. You remember that for years this great hireling captain had
led the armies of Venice and the Florentines against his former
master, Philip of Milan; and that for years Venice had idolized the
victorious warrior.
You recall the disastrous expedition against Cremona, a stronghold
of Philip, and the subsequent anxiety of the Senate lest the sword of
the great captain should be turned against Venice herself. You
remember that one morning, as the story runs, a deputation entered
the tent of the great captain and presented the confidence of the
Senate and an invitation to return at once to Venice and receive the
plaudits of the people. Attended by his lieutenant, Gonzaga,
Carmagnola set out to obey. All through the plains of Lombardy,
brilliant in their gardens of olive and vine, he was received with honor
and welcome. At Mestre he was met by an escort of eight gentlemen
in gorgeous apparel, special envoys dispatched by the Senate, who
conducted him across the wide lagoon and down the Grand Canal,
to this very spot on the Molo.
On landing from his sumptuous barge, the banks ringing with the
shouts of the populace, he was led by his escort direct to the palace,
and instantly thrust into an underground dungeon. Thirty days later,
after a trial such as only the Senate of the period would tolerate, and
gagged lest his indignant outcry might rebound in mutinous echoes,
his head fell between the columns of San Marco.
There are other pages to which one could turn in this book of the
past, pages rubricated in blood and black-lettered in crime. The book
is opened here because this tragedy of Carmagnola recalls so
clearly and vividly the methods and impulses of the times, and
because, too, it occurred where all Venice could see, and where to-
day you can conjure up for yourself the minutest details of the
terrible outrage. Almost nothing of the scenery is changed. From
where you stand between these fatal shafts, the same now as in the
days of Carmagnola (even then two centuries old), there still hangs a
balcony whence you could have caught the glance of that strong,
mute warrior. Along the water’s edge of this same Molo, where now
the gondoliers ply their calling, and the lasagnoni lounge and gossip,
stood the soldiers of the state drawn up in solid phalanx. Across the
canal, by the margin of this same island of San Giorgio—before the
present church was built—the people waited in masses, silently
watching the group between those two stone posts that marked for
them, and for all Venice, the doorway of hell. Above towered this
same Campanile, all but its very top complete.
But you hurry away, crossing the square with a lingering look at this
fatal spot, and enter where all these and a hundred other tragedies
were initiated, the Palace of the Doges. It is useless to attempt a
description of its wonderful details. If I should elaborate, it would not
help to give you a clearer idea of this marvel of the fifteenth century.
To those who know Venice, it will convey no new impression; to
those who do not it might add only confusion and error.
Give yourself up instead to the garrulous old guide who assails you
as you enter, and who, for a few lire, makes a thousand years as one
day. It is he who will tell you of the beautiful gate, the Porta della
Carta of Bartolommeo Bon, with its statues weather-stained and
worn; of the famous Scala dei Giganti, built by Rizzo in 1485; of the
two exquisitely moulded and chased bronze well-heads of the court;
of the golden stairs of Sansovino; of the ante-chamber of the Council
of Ten; of the great Sala di Collegio, in which the foreign
ambassadors were received by the Doge; of the superb senate
chamber, the Sala del Senato; of the costly marbles and marvelous
carvings; of the ceilings of Titian, Tintoretto, and Veronese; of the
secret passages, dungeons, and torture chambers.
But the greatest of all these marvels of the Piazza still awaits you,
the Church of San Marco. Dismiss the old guide outside the beautiful
gate and enter its doors alone; here he would fail you.
If you come only to measure the mosaics, to value the swinging
lamps, or to speculate over the uneven, half-worn pavement of the
interior, enter its doors at any time, early morning or bright noonday,
or whenever your practical, materialistic, nineteenth-century body
would escape from the blaze of the sun outside. Or you can stay
away altogether; neither you nor the world will be the loser. But if you
are the kind of man who loves all beautiful things,—it may be the
sparkle of early dew upon the grass, the silence and rest of cool
green woods, the gloom of the fading twilight,—or if your heart
warms to the sombre tones of old tapestries, armor, and glass, and
you touch with loving tenderness the vellum backs of old books, then
enter when the glory of the setting sun sifts in and falls in shattered
shafts of light on altar, roof, and wall. Go with noiseless step and
uncovered head, and, finding some deep-shadowed seat or
sheltered nook, open your heart and mind and soul to the story of its
past, made doubly precious by the splendor of its present. As you sit
there in the shadow, the spell of its exquisite color will enchant you—
color mellowing into harmonies you knew not of; harmonies of old
gold and porphyry reds; the dull silver of dingy swinging lamps, with
the soft light of candles and the dreamy haze of dying incense;
harmonies of rich brown carvings and dark bronzes rubbed bright by
a thousand reverent hands.
The feeling which will steal over you will not be one of religious
humility, like that which took possession of you in the Saint Sophia of
Constantinople. It will be more like the blind idolatry of the pagan, for
of all the temples of the earth, this shrine of San Marco is the most
worthy of your devotion. Every turn of the head will bring new
marvels into relief; marvels of mosaic, glinting like beaten gold;
marvels of statue, crucifix, and lamp; marvels of altars, resplendent
in burnished silver and flickering tapers; of alabaster columns
merging into the vistas; of sculptured saint and ceiling of sheeted
gold; of shadowy aisle and high uplifted cross.
Never have you seen any such interior. Hung with the priceless
fabrics and relics of the earth, it is to you one moment a great
mosque, studded with jewels and rich with the wealth of the East;
then, as its color deepens, a vast tomb, hollowed from out a huge,
dark opal, in which lies buried some heroic soul, who in his day
controlled the destinies of nations and of men. And now again, when
the mystery of its light shimmers through windows covered with the
dust of ages, there comes to this wondrous shrine of San Marco,
small as it is, something of the breadth and beauty, the solitude and
repose, of a summer night.
When the first hush and awe and sense of sublimity have passed
away, you wander, like the other pilgrims, into the baptistery; or you
move softly behind the altar, marveling over each carving of wood
and stone and bronze; or you descend to the crypt and stand by the
stone sarcophagus that once held the bones of the good saint
himself.
As you walk about these shadowy aisles, and into the dim recesses,
some new devotee swings back a door, and a blaze of light streams
in, and you awake to the life of to-day.
Yes, there is a present as well as a past. There is another Venice
outside; a Venice of life and joyousness and stir. The sun going
down; the caffès under the arcades of the King’s Palace and of the
Procuratie Vecchie are filling up. There is hardly an empty table at
Florian’s. The pigeons, too, are coming home to roost, and are
nestling under the eaves of the great buildings and settling on the
carvings of San Marco. The flower girls, in gay costumes, are
making shops of the marble benches next the Campanile, assorting
roses and pinks, and arranging their boutonnières for the night’s
sale. The awnings which have hung all day between the columns of
the arcades are drawn back, exposing the great line of shops
fringing three sides of the square. Lights begin to flash; first in the
clusters of lamps illuminating the arcades, and then in the windows
filled with exquisite bubble-blown Venetian glass, wood carvings,
inlaid cabinets, cheap jewelry, gay-colored photographs and prints.
As the darkness falls, half a dozen men drag to the centre of the
Piazza the segments of a great circular platform. This they surround
with music-rests and a stand for the leader. Now the pavement of the
Piazza itself begins filling up. Out from the Merceria, from under the
clock tower, pours a steady stream of people merging in the crowds
about the band-stand. Another current flows in through the west
entrance, under the Bocca di Piazza, and still another from under the
Riva, rounding the Doges’ Palace. At the Molo, just where poor
Carmagnola stepped ashore, a group of officers—they are
everywhere in Venice—land from a government barge. These are in
full regalia, even to their white kid gloves, their swords dangling and
ringing as they walk. They, too, make their way to the square and fill
the seats around one of the tables at Florian’s, bowing magnificently
to the old Countess who sits just inside the door of the caffè itself,
resplendent, as usual, in dyed wig and rose-colored veil. She is
taking off her long, black, fingerless silk gloves, and ordering her
customary spoonful of cognac and lump of sugar. Gustavo, the head
waiter, listens as demurely as if he expected a bottle of Chablis at
least, with the customary commission for Gustavo—but then
Gustavo is the soul of politeness. Some evil-minded people say the
Countess came in with the Austrians; others, more ungallant, date
her advent about the days of the early doges.
By this time you notice that the old French professor is in his
customary place; it is outside the caffè, in the corridor, on a leather-
covered, cushioned seat against one of the high pillars. You never
come to the Piazza without meeting him. He is as much a part of its
history as the pigeons, and, like them, dines here at least once a
day. He is a perfectly straight, pale, punctilious, and exquisitely
deferential relic of a by-gone time, whose only capital is his charming
manner and his thorough knowledge of Venetian life. This
combination rarely fails where so many strangers come and go; and
then, too, no one knows so well the intricacies of an Italian kitchen
as Professor Croisac.
Sometimes on summer evenings he will move back a chair at your
own table and insist upon dressing the salad. Long before his
greeting, you catch sight of him gently edging his way through the
throng, the seedy, straight-brimmed silk hat in his hand brushed with
the greatest precision; his almost threadbare frock-coat buttoned
snug around his waist, the collar and tails flowing loose, his one
glove hanging limp. He is so erect, so gentle, so soft-voiced, so
sincere, and so genuine, and for the hour so supremely happy, that
you cannot divest yourself of the idea that he really is an old
marquis, temporarily exiled from some faraway court, and to be
treated with the greatest deference. When, with a little start of
sudden surprise, he espies some dark-eyed matron in the group
about him, rises to his feet and salutes her as if she were the Queen
of Sheba, you are altogether sure of his noble rank. Then the old
fellow regains his seat, poises his gold eyeglasses—a relic of better
days—between his thumb and forefinger, holds them two inches
from his nose, and consults the menu with the air of a connoisseur.
Before your coffee is served the whole Piazza is ablaze and literally
packed with people. The tables around you stand quite out to the
farthest edge permitted. (These caffès have, so to speak, riparian
rights—so much piazza seating frontage, facing the high-water mark
of the caffè itself.) The waiters can now hardly wedge their way
through the crowd. The chairs are so densely occupied that you
barely move your elbows. Next you is an Italian mother—full-blown
even to her delicate mustache—surrounded by a bevy of daughters,
all in pretty hats and white or gay-colored dresses, chatting with a
circle of still other officers. All over the square, where earlier in the
day only a few stray pilgrims braved the heat, or a hungry pigeon
wandered in search of a grain of corn, the personnel of this table is
repeated—mothers and officers and daughters, and daughters and
officers and mothers again.
Outside this mass, representing a clientèle possessing at least half a
lira each—one cannot, of course, occupy a chair and spend less,
and it is equally difficult to spend very much more—there moves in a
solid mass the rest of the world: bareheaded girls, who have been all
day stringing beads in some hot courtyard; old crones in rags from
below the shipyards; fishermen in from Chioggia; sailors, stevedores,
and soldiers in their linen suits, besides sight-seers and wayfarers
from the four corners of the earth.
If there were nothing else in Venice but the night life of this grand
Piazza, it would be worth a pilgrimage half across the world to see.
Empty every café in the Boulevards; add all the habitués of the Volks
Gardens of Vienna, and all those you remember at Berlin, Buda-
Pesth, and Florence; pack them in one mass, and you would not half
fill the Piazza. Even if you did, you could never bring together the
same kinds of people. Venice is not only the magnet that draws the
idler and the sight-seer, but those who love her just because she is
Venice—painters, students, architects, historians, musicians, every
soul who values the past and who finds here, as nowhere else, the
highest achievement of chisel, brush, and trowel.
The painters come, of course—all kinds of painters, for all kinds of
subjects. Every morning, all over the canals and quays, you find a
new growth of white umbrellas, like mushrooms, sprung up in the
night. Since the days of Canaletto these men have painted and
repainted these same stretches of water, palace, and sky. Once
under the spell of her presence, they are never again free from the
fascinations of this Mistress of the Adriatic. Many of the older men
are long since dead and forgotten, but the work of those of to-day
you know: Ziem first, nearly all his life a worshiper of the wall of the
Public Garden; and Rico and Ruskin and Whistler. Their names are
legion. They have all had a corner at Florian’s. No matter what their
nationality or specialty, they speak the common language of the
brush. Old Professor Croisac knows them all. He has just risen again
to salute Marks, a painter of sunrises, who has never yet recovered
from his first thrill of delight when early one morning his gondolier
rowed him down the lagoon and made fast to a cluster of spiles off
the Public Garden. When the sun rose behind the sycamores and
threw a flood of gold across the sleeping city, and flashed upon the
sails of the fishing-boats drifting up from the Lido, Marks lost his
heart. He is still tied up every summer to that same cluster of spiles,
painting the glory of the morning sky and the drifting boats. He will
never want to paint anything else. He will not listen to you when you
tell him of the sunsets up the Giudecca, or the soft pearly light of the
dawn silvering the Salute, or the picturesque life of the fisher-folk of
Malamocco.
“My dear boy,” he breaks out, “get up to-morrow morning at five and
come down to the Garden, and just see one sunrise—only one. We
had a lemon-yellow and pale emerald sky this morning, with dabs of
rose-leaves, that would have paralyzed you.”
Do not laugh at the painter’s enthusiasm. This white goddess of the
sea has a thousand lovers, and, like all other lovers the world over,
each one believes that he alone holds the key to her heart.
IN AN OLD GARDEN
OU think, perhaps, there are no gardens in Venice; that it is
all a sweep of palace front and shimmering sea; that save
for the oleanders bursting into bloom near the Iron Bridge,
and the great trees of the Public Garden shading the
flower-bordered walks, there are no half-neglected tangles where
rose and vine run riot; where the plash of the fountain is heard in the
stillness of the night, and tall cedars cast their black shadows at
noonday.
Really, if you but knew it, almost every palace hides a garden
nestling beneath its balconies, and every high wall hems in a wealth
of green, studded with broken statues, quaint arbors festooned with
purple grapes, and white walks bordered by ancient box; while every
roof that falls beneath a window is made a hanging garden of potted
plants and swinging vines.
 BEYOND SAN ROSARIO
Step from your gondola into some open archway. A door beyond
leads you to a court paved with marble flags and centred by a well
with carved marble curb, yellow stained with age. Cross this wide
court, pass a swinging iron gate, and you stand under rose-covered
bowers, where in the olden time gay gallants touched their lutes and
fair ladies listened to oft-told tales of love.
And not only behind the palaces facing the Grand Canal, but along
the Zattere beyond San Rosario, away down the Giudecca, and by
the borders of the lagoon, will you find gay oleanders flaunting red
blossoms, and ivy and myrtle hanging in black-green bunches over
crumbling walls.
In one of these hidden nooks, these abandoned cloisters of shaded
walk and over-bending blossom, I once spent an autumn afternoon
with my old friend, the Professor,—“Professor of Modern Languages
and Ancient Legends,” as some of the more flippant of the habitués
of Florian’s were wont to style him. The old Frenchman had justly
earned this title. He had not only made every tradition and fable of
Venice his own, often puzzling and charming the Venetians
themselves with his intimate knowledge of the many romances of
their past, but he could tell most wonderful tales of the gorgeous
fêtes of the seventeenth century, the social life of the nobility, their
escapades, intrigues, and scandals.
If some fair Venetian had loved not wisely but too well, and, clinging
to brave Lorenzo’s neck, had slipped down a rope ladder into a
closely curtained, muffled-oared gondola, and so over the lagoon to
Mestre, the old Frenchman could not only point out to you the very
balcony, provided it were a palace balcony and not a fisherman’s
window,—he despised the bourgeoisie,—but he could give you every
feature of the escapade, from the moment the terror-stricken duenna
missed her charge to that of the benediction of the priest in the
shadowed isle. So, when upon the evening preceding this particular
day, I accepted the Professor’s invitation to breakfast, I had before
me not only his hospitality, frugal as it might be, but the possibility of
drawing upon his still more delightful fund of anecdote and
reminiscence.
Neither the day nor the hour had been definitely set. The invitation, I
afterwards discovered, was but one of the many he was constantly
giving to his numerous friends and haphazard acquaintances,
evincing by its perfect genuineness his own innate kindness and his
hearty appreciation of the many similar courtesies he was daily
receiving at their hands. Indeed, to a man so delicately adjusted as
the Professor and so entirely poor, it was the only way he could
balance, in his own mind, many long-running accounts of, coffee for
two at the Calcina, with a fish and a fruit salad, the last a specialty of
the Professor’s—the oil, melons, and cucumbers being always
provided by his host—or a dish of risotto, with kidneys and the like,
at the Bauer-Grünwald.
Nobody ever accepted these invitations seriously, that is, no one
who knew the Professor at all well. In fact, there was a general
impression existing among the many frequenters of Florian’s and the
Quadri that the Professor’s hour and place of breakfasting were very
like the birds’—whenever the unlucky worm was found, and
wherever the accident happened to occur. When I asked Marks for
the old fellow’s address—which rather necessary item I remembered
later had also been omitted by the Professor—he replied, “Oh,
somewhere down the Riva,” and dropped the subject as too
unimportant for further mental effort.
All these various eccentricities of my prospective host, however,
were at the time unknown to me. He had cordially invited me to
breakfast—“to-morrow, or any day you are near my apartments, I
would be so charmed,” etc. I had as graciously accepted, and it
would have been unpardonable indifference, I felt sure, not to have
continued the inquiries until my hand touched his latch-string.
The clue was a slight one. I had met him once, leaning over the side
of the bridge below Danieli’s, the Ponte del Sepolcro, looking
wistfully out to sea, and was greeted with the remark that he had that
moment left his apartments, and only lingered on the bridge to watch
the play of silvery light on the lagoon, the September skies were so
enchanting. So on this particular morning I began inspecting the bell-
pulls of all the doorways, making inquiry at the several caffès and
shops. Then I remembered the apothecary, down one step from the
sidewalk, in the Via Garibaldi—a rather shabby continuation of the
Riva—and nearly a mile below the more prosperous quarter where
the Professor had waved his hand, the morning I met him on the
bridge.
“The Signor Croisac—the old Frenchman?” “Upstairs, next door.”
He was as delightful as ever in his greetings; started a little when I
reminded him of his invitation, but begged me to come in and sit
down, and with great courtesy pointed out the view of the garden
below, and the sweep and glory of the lagoon. Then he excused
himself, adjusted his hat, picked up a basket, and gently closed the
door.
The room, upon closer inspection, was neither dreary nor uninviting.
It had a sort of annex, or enlarged closet, with a drawn curtain partly
concealing a bed, a row of books lining one wall, a table littered with
papers, a smaller one containing a copper coffee-pot and a scant
assortment of china, some old chairs, and a disemboweled lounge
that had doubtless lost heart in middle life and committed hari-kari.
There were also a few prints and photographs, a corner of the
Parthenon, a mezzo of Napoleon in his cocked hat, and an etching
or two, besides a miniature reduction of the Dying Gladiator, which
he used as a paper-weight. All the windows of this modest apartment
were filled with plants, growing in all kinds of pots and boxes, broken
pitchers, cracked dishes—even half of a Chianti flask. These, like
their guardian, ignored their surroundings and furnishings, and
flamed away as joyously in the summer sun as if they had been
nurtured in the choicest of majolica.
He was back before I had completed my inventory, thanking me
again and again for my extreme kindness in coming, all the while
unwrapping the Gorgonzola, and flecking off with a fork the shreds of
paper that still clung to its edges. The morsel was then laid upon a
broad leaf gathered at the window, and finally upon a plate covered
by a napkin so that the flies should not taste it first. This, with a
simple salad, a pot of coffee and some rolls, a siphon of seltzer and
a little raspberry juice in a glass,—“so much fresher than wine these
hot mornings,” he said,—constituted the entire repast.
But there was no apology offered with the serving. Poor as he was,
he had that exquisite tact which avoided burdening his guest even
with his economies. He had offered me all his slender purse could
afford. Indeed, the cheese had quite overstrained it.
When he had drawn a cigarette from my case,—it was delightful to
see him do this, and always reminded me of a young girl picking
bonbons from a box, it was so daintily done,—the talk drifted into a
discussion of the glories of the old days and of the welfare of Italy
under the present government. I made a point of expressing my
deep admiration for the good King Humbert and his gracious queen.
The Professor merely waved his hand, adding:—
“Yes, a good man and a noble lady, worthy successors of the old
régime!” Then, with a certain air, “I have known, professionally, very
many of these great families. A most charming, delightful society!
The women so exquisite, with such wealth of hair and eyes, and so
gentilles: always of the Beau Monde! And their traditions and
legends, so full of romance and mystery! The palaces too! Think of
the grand staircase of the Foscari, the entrance to the Barbaro, and
the superb ceilings of the Albrezzi! Then their great gardens and vine
orchards! There is nothing like them. Do you happen to know the old
garden on the Giudecca, where lived the beautiful Contessa
Alberoni? No? And you never heard the romantic story of her life, her
disappearance, and its dramatic ending?”
I shook my head. The Professor, to my delight, was now fairly in the
saddle; the best part of the breakfast was to come.
“My dear friend! One of the most curious of all the stories of Venice! I
know intimately many of her descendants, and I know, too, the old
gardener who still cares for what is left of the garden. It has long
since passed out of the hands of the family.
“Let me light another cigarette before I tell you,” said the Professor,
crossing the room, “and just another drop of seltzer,” filling my glass.
“Is it to be a true story?” I asked.
“Mon cher ami! absolutely so. Would you care to see the garden
itself, where it all occurred, or will you take my word for it? No, not
until you sit under the arbors and lean over the very balcony where
the lovers sat. Come, is your gondola here? Under the window?”
pushing aside the flowers. “Which is your gondolier? The one in blue
with the white tenda over his boat? Yes, sound asleep like all the rest
of them!”
Here the old gentleman picked up his silk hat, passed his hand once
or twice around its well-brushed surface, discarded it for a white
straw with a narrow black band, adjusted his cravat in a broken
mirror that hung near the door, gave an extra twist to his gray
mustache, and preceded me downstairs and out into the blinding
light of a summer day.
Several members of the Open-Air Club were hanging over the bridge
as we passed—Luigi flat on his face and sound asleep in the
shadow of the side-wall, and Vittorio sprawled out on the polished
rail above. Those who were awake touched their hats respectfully to
the old fellow as he crossed the bridge, he returning their salutations
quite as a distinguished earl would those of his tenants. Vittorio,
when he caught my eye, sprang down and ran ahead to rouse
Espero, and then back for Luigi, who awoke with a dazed look on his
face, only regaining consciousness in time to wave his hat to me
when we were clear of the quay, the others standing in a row
enjoying his discomfiture.
“This garden,” continued the Professor, settling himself on the
cushions and drawing the curtains so that he could keep the view
toward San Giorgio and still shut out the dazzling light, “is now, of
course, only a ghost of its former self. The château is half in ruins,
and one part is inhabited by fishermen, who dry their nets in the
grape arbors and stow their fish-baskets in the porticoes. Many of
the fruit-trees, however, still exist, as do many of the vines, and so
my old friend Angelo, the gardener, makes a scanty living for himself
and his pretty daughter, by supplying the fruit-stands in the autumn
and raising lettuce and melons in the spring and summer. The
ground itself, like most of the land along the east side of the islands
of the Giudecca, is valueless, and everything is falling into ruin.”
We were rounding the Dogana, Espero bending lustily to his oar as
we shot past the wood-boats anchored in the stream. The Professor
talked on, pointing out the palace where Pierre, the French
adventurer, lived during the Spanish conspiracy, and the very side
door in the old building, once a convent, from which an Englishman
in the old days stole a nun who loved him, and spirited her off to
another quaint nook in this same Giudecca, returning her to her cell
every morning before daybreak.
“Ah, those were the times to live in. Then a soldo was as large as a
lira. Then a woman loved you for yourself, not for what you gave her.
Then your gondolier kept your secrets, and the keel of your boat left
no trace behind. Then your family crest meant something more than
the name-plate on your door, upon which to nail a tax-levy.”
The old man had evidently forgotten his history, but I did not check
him. It was his buoyant enthusiasm that always charmed me most.
As Espero passed under Ponte Lungo, the wooden bridge leading to
the Fondamenta della Pallada, the Professor waved his hand to the
right, and we floated out into the lagoon and stopped at an old water-
gate, its doors weather-stained and broken, over which hung a mass
of tangled vines.
“The garden of the Contessa,” said the Professor, his face aglow
with the expectancy of my pleasure.
It was like a dozen other water-gates I had seen, except that no
gratings were open and the surrounding wall was unusually high.
Once inside, however, with the gate swung-to on its rusty hinges,
you felt instantly that the world had been shut away forever. Here
were long arbors bordered by ancient box, with arching roofs of
purple grapes. Against the high walls stood fragments of statues,
some headless, some with broken arms or battered faces. Near the
centre of the great quadrangle was a sunken basin, covered with
mould, and green with the scum of stagnant water. In the once well-
regulated garden beds the roses bloomed gayly, climbing over
pedestal and statue, while the trumpet-flower and scarlet-creeper
flaunted their colors high upon the crumbling walls overlooking the
lagoon. At one end of this tangled waste rose the remains of a once
noble château or summer home, built of stone in the classic style of
architecture, the pediment of the porch supported by a row of white
marble columns. Leaning against these columns stood old fish-
baskets, used for the storing of live fish, while over the ruined arbors
hung in great festoons the nets of a neighboring fisherman, who
reserved this larger space for drying and mending his seines.
It was a ruin, and yet not a hopeless one. You could see that each
year the flowers struggled into life again; that the old black
cypresses, once trimmed into quaint designs, had still determined to
live on, even without the care of their arboreal barber; that really only
the pruning-knife and spade were needed to bring back the garden
to its former beauty. And the solitude was there too, the sense of
utter isolation, as if the outside world were across the sea, whither
nor eye nor voice could follow.
Old Angelo and his pretty daughter—a pure type of the Venetian girl
of to-day, as she stood expectantly with folded arms—met us at the
gate, and led the way to a sort of summer-house, so thickly covered
with matted vines that the sun only filtered through and fell in drops
of gold, spattering the ground below. Here, encrusted with green
mould, was a marble table of exquisite design, its circular top
supported by a tripod with lions’ feet.
Angelo evidently knew my companion and his ways, for in a few
moments the girl returned, bringing a basket of grapes, some figs,
and a flask of wine. The Professor thanked her, and then, dismissing
her with one of his gentle hand-waves and brushing the fallen leaves
from the stone bench with his handkerchief, sat down.
“And now, right here,” said the old fellow, placing his straw hat on the
seat beside him, his gray hair glistening in the soft light, “right here,
where she loved and died, I will tell you the story of the Contessa
Alberoni.
“This most divine of women once lived in a grand old palace above
the Rialto. She belonged to a noble family of Florence, whose
ancestors fought with Philip, before the Campanile was finished. All
over Italy she was known as the most beautiful woman of her day,
and that, let me tell you, at a time when to be counted as beautiful in
Venice was to be beautiful the world over. She was a woman,”—here
the Professor rested his head on the marble seat and half closed his
eyes, as if he were recalling the vision of loveliness from out his own
past,—“well, one of those ideal women, with fathomless eyes and
rounded white arms and throat; a Catherine Cornaro type, of superb
carriage and presence. Titian would have lost his heart over the
torrent of gold that fell in masses about her shapely head, and
Canova might have exhausted all his skill upon the outlines of her
form.
“In the beginning of her womanhood, when yet barely sixteen, she
had married, at her father’s bidding, a decrepit Italian count nearly
thrice her age, who, in profound consideration of her sacrifice, died
in a becoming manner within a few years of their marriage, leaving
her his titles and estates. For ten years of her wedded life and after,
she lived away off in the secluded villa of Valdagna, a small town
nestling among the foothills of the Alps. Then, suddenly awakening
to the power of her wonderful beauty, she took possession of the
great palace on the Grand Canal above the Rialto. You can see it
any day; and save that some of the spindles in the exquisite rose-
marble balconies are broken and the façade blackened and weather-
stained, the exterior is quite as it appeared in her time. The interior,
however, owing to the obliteration of this noble family and the
consequent decay of its vast estates, is almost a ruin. Every piece of
furniture and all the gorgeous hangings are gone; together with the
mantels, and the superb well-curb in the court below. Tell Espero to
take you there some day. You will not only find the grand entrance
blocked with wine casks, but my lady’s boudoir plastered over with
cheap green paper and rented as cheaper lodgings to still cheaper
tenants. Bah!”
Then the Professor, dropping easily and gracefully into a style of
delivery as stilted as if he were remembering the very words of some
old chronicle, told me how she had lived in this grand palace during
the years of her splendor, the pride and delight of all who came