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Title: The charm of Venice
An anthology
Compiler: Alfred E. Hyatt
Release date: August 17, 2024 [eBook #74272]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Chatto & Windus, 1908
Credits: Carol Brown, Tim Miller and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from scanned images of public domain material from the Google Books project.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHARM OF VENICE ***
THE CHARM OF VENICE
THE
CHARM OF VENICE
AN ANTHOLOGY
COMPILED BY
ALFRED H. HYATT
[Illustration: colophon]
LONDON
CHATTO & WINDUS
1908
_All rights reserved_
EDITOR’S NOTE
It is always delightful to read about Venice. This city, so
exceptionally situated, and to which belongs so fascinating a history,
has inspired almost countless authors to extol its many beauties, to
retell its historic episodes, and to recount the treasures of its art
and architecture.
The praise of London is sung by the Londoner, that of Paris by the
Parisian, and so on, city by city. But of the beauty of Venice members
of every nation have written, and perhaps in a greater measure than the
Venetians themselves. It is from these eulogies that I have endeavoured
to place before the reader those prose passages and poems that paint in
a few words some of the varied charms belonging to Venice.
A. H. H.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks are due to the following publishers and authors for having so
kindly allowed the inclusion of copyright poems and extracts in this
volume:
To Lady Ritchie and Messrs. Smith, Elder and Co. for an extract from
‘Miss Angel’; to Lady Lindsay for two poems contained in ‘From a
Venetian Balcony’ (Messrs. Kegan Paul); to Messrs. George Bell and
Sons for extracts from Charles Yriarte’s ‘Venise’ (translated by Mr.
F. J. Sitwell); to Messrs. William Blackwood and Sons for an extract
from ‘The Life of George Eliot’; to Mr. Arthur Symons for poems from
his ‘Collected Poems’ (Mr. W. Heinemann) and an extract from ‘The
Cities of Italy’ (Messrs. Dent); to Mr. W. Heinemann for an extract
from Gabriele D’Annunzio’s ‘The Flame of Life’; to Mr. Horatio F. Brown
and Messrs. Smith, Elder for extracts from J. Addington Symonds’s ‘A
Venetian Medley,’ and a poem from this same author’s volume, ‘Old and
New’; to Messrs. Gay and Bird and Mr. Percy Pinkerton for poems from
‘Adriatica’; to Messrs. Maclehose and Sons for ‘A Vision of Venice’
from David Gray’s ‘Poems’; to Messrs. Macmillan and Co., Ltd., for
extracts from Mrs. Oliphant’s ‘Makers of Venice’ and Mr. F. Marion
Crawford’s ‘Gleanings from Venetian History’; to the Rev. Stopford A.
Brooke for poems from his volume published by Messrs. Macmillan and
Co., Ltd.; to Messrs. Duckworth and Co. for extracts from the Rev.
Stopford A. Brooke’s ‘The Sea Charm of Venice’; to Miss Braddon for an
extract from ‘The Venetians’ (Messrs. Simpkin, Marshall); to Messrs.
George Newnes, Ltd., for an extract from Mr. F. Eden’s ‘A Garden in
Venice’; to Mr. W. D. Howells for extracts from ‘Venetian Life’; to
Messrs. Rivingtons for an extract from Mr. Horatio F. Brown’s ‘Life on
the Lagoons’; to Mrs. Lee-Hamilton for a poem by Eugene Lee-Hamilton;
to Miss Margaret Newett for an extract from her translation of
‘Casola’s Pilgrimage’ (the Clarendon Press); to Madame Duclaux (Mary
A. F. Robinson) for ‘A Venetian Nocturne’ from her ‘Collected Poems’
(Mr. T. Fisher Unwin); to Vernon Lee for extracts from ‘The Enchanted
Woods’ and ‘The Sentimental Traveller’ (Mr. John Lane), and ‘Studies of
the Eighteenth Century in Italy’; to Mr. S. Rosen, of Venice, for an
extract from Pompeo Molmenti’s ‘The Renaissance in Venice,’ published
by the Liberia Rosen, Venice; to Mr. Lloyd Mifflin for various poems;
to Mrs. Moulton for an extract from ‘Random Rambles’; to the Baroness
Swift for a poem; to Mr. Fred G. Bowles for the use of his translation
of Hélène Vacaresco’s poem; to Messrs. Chatto and Windus for extracts
from Ouida’s ‘Santa Barbara,’ Beryl de Sélincourt and May Sturge
Henderson’s ‘Venice,’ and Edith Seeley’s translation of Vasari’s
‘Stories of the Italian Artists’; and to Mr. Mackenzie Bell for a
sonnet from ‘Collected Poems’ (the Kingsgate Press).
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE CHARM OF VENICE 1
VENICE FROM THE SEA 65
THE SEA SPELL 107
GONDOLA AND GONDOLIER 133
ISLAND AND LAGOON 169
CANAL AND BRIDGE 219
SOME VENETIAN PHASES 231
ARCHITECTURE AND ART 277
A VENETIAN DAY 303
THE SEASONS IN VENICE 321
VENICE OF THE PAST 343
THE ROMANCE OF VENICE 371
INDEX OF AUTHORS 382
TABLE OF CONTENTS 383
_There goes a swallow to Venice--the stout seafarer!
Seeing those birds fly, makes one wish for wings._
ROBERT BROWNING.
THE CHARM OF VENICE
The charm of Venice: that subtle dreamy charm ... which no
artist or poet ever can resist.
OUIDA.
I do not know how this should be, but Venice seems made to
prove that ‘_La Vita è un sogno._’ What the Venice dream is
all the world knows. Motion that is almost imperceptible,
colour too deep and gorgeous to strike the eye, gilding
so massive and ancient as to wear a mist of amber brown
upon its brightness, white cupolas that time has turned
to pearls, marble that no longer looks like stone, but
like blocks cut from summer clouds, a smooth sea that is
brighter and more infinite than the sky it reflects--these
are some of the ingredients of the dream which are too
familiar for description. Nothing can describe the
elemental warmth of the days, the sea-kisses of the wind at
evening, the atmosphere of breathless tepid moonlight in
the night.
JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS.
Venice is among cities what Shakespeare is among men.
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.
I may speak of thee as the traveller doth of Venice:
Vinegia, Vinegia,
Chi non te vede, ei non te pregia.
SHAKESPEARE.
In this enchanted Venice, it seems to you, no one is ever
sad, or cross, or weary. You think that here, at least, you
could be reconciled to an earthly immortality.
LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.
This enchanting city of Venice has always the same charm
and the same glamour.... Sun, moon, and stars shed all
they have of glory and of glamour over the romantic
city, painting the smooth lagoons with a rare splendour
of colouring which changes city and sea into something
supernal, unimaginable, dreamlike.
M. E. BRADDON.
SALVE VENETIA!
Venice is the most personal of all cities in the world, the most
feminine, the most comparable to a woman, the least dependent, for her
individuality, upon her inhabitants, ancient or modern. What would
Rome be without the memory of the Cæsars? What would Paris be without
the Parisians? What was Constantinople like before it was Turkish? The
imagination can hardly picture a Venice different from her present self
at any time in her history. Where all is colour, the more brilliant
costumes of earlier times could add but little; a general exodus of
her inhabitants to-day would leave almost as much of it behind. In the
still canals the gorgeous palaces continually gaze down upon their
own reflected images with placid satisfaction, and look with calm
indifference upon the changing generations of men and women that glide
upon the waters. The mists gather upon the mysterious lagoons and sink
away again before the devouring light, day after day, year after year,
century after century; and Venice is always there herself, sleeping or
waking, laughing, weeping, dreaming, singing or sighing, living her
own life through ages, with an intensely vital personality which time
has hardly modified, and is altogether powerless to destroy. Somehow,
it would not surprise those who know her, to come suddenly upon her
and find that all human life was extinct within her, while her own
went on, strong as ever; nor yet, in the other extreme, would it seem
astonishing if all that has been should begin again, as though it had
never ceased to be, if the Bucentaur swept down the Grand Canal to the
beat of its two hundred oars, bearing the Doge out to wed the sea with
gorgeous train; if the Great Council began to sit again in all its
splendour; if the Piazza were thronged once more with men and women
from the pictures of Paris Bordone, Tintoretto, Paolo Veronese, and
Titian; if Eastern shipping crowded the entrance to the Giudecca, and
Eastern merchants filled the shady ways of the Merceria. What miracle
could seem miraculous in Venice, the city of wonders?...
Venice was Venice from the first, and is Venice still, a person in our
imagination, almost more than a place.... ‘Venice’ calls up a dream of
colour, of rich palaces and of still water, and at the name there are
more men who will think of Shylock and Othello than of Enrico Dandolo,
or Titian, or Carlo Zeno, or Vittor Pisani....
Who seeks true poetry, said Rossi, writing on Venice, will find it
most abundantly in the early memories of a Christian nation; and
indeed the old chronicles are full of it, of idyls, of legends, and of
heroic tales. Only dream a while over the yellow pages of Muratori,
and presently you will scent the spring flowers of a thousand years
ago, and hear the ripple of the blue waves that lent young Venice their
purity, their brilliancy, and their fresh young music. You may even
enjoy a pagan vision of maiden Aphrodite rising suddenly out of the
sea into the sunshine, but the dream dissolves only too soon; grace
turns into strength, the lovely smile of the girl-goddess fades from
the commanding features of the reigning queen, and heavenly Venus is
already earthly Cleopatra.
It is better to open our arms gladly to the beautiful when she comes
to us, than to prepare our dissecting instruments as soon as we are
aware of her presence.... And so with Venice; she is a form of beauty,
and must be looked upon as that and nothing else; not critically, for
criticism means comparison, and Venice is too personal and individual,
and too unlike other cities to be fairly compared with them; not
coldly, for she appeals to the senses and to the human heart, and
craves a little warmth of sympathy; above all, not in a spirit of
righteous severity, for he who would follow her story must learn to
forgive her almost at every step.
She has paid for her mistakes with all save her inextinguishable life;
she has expiated her sins of ill-faith, of injustice and ingratitude,
by the loss of everything but her imperishable charm.
FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD.
WRITTEN AT VENICE
Not only through the golden haze
Of indistinct surprise.
With which the Ocean-bride displays
Her pomp to stranger eyes;--
Not with the fancy’s flashing play,
The traveller’s vulgar theme,
Where following objects chase away
The moment’s dazzling dream;
Not thus art thou content to see
The City of my love,--
Whose beauty is a thought to me
All mortal thoughts above;--
And pass in dull unseemly haste,
Nor sight nor spirit clear,
As if the first bewildering taste
Were all the banquet here!
When the proud sea, for Venice’ sake,
Itself consents to wear
The semblance of a land-locked lake,
Inviolably fair;
And, in the dalliance of her isles,
Has levelled his strong waves,
Adoring her with tenderer wiles
Than his own pearly caves....
Surely may _we_ delight to pause
On our care-goaded road,
Refuged from Time’s most bitter laws
In this august abode.
Come out upon the broad lagoon,
Come for the hundredth time,
Our thoughts shall make a pleasant tune,
Our words a worthy rhyme;
And thickly round us we will set
Such visions as were seen,
By Titian and by Tintoret,
And dear old Gian Bellin,--
And all their peers in art, whose eyes,
Taught by this sun and sea,
Flashed on their works whose burning dyes,
That fervent poetry;
And wove the shades so thinly-clear
They would be parts of light
In northern climes, whose frowns severe
Mar half the charms of sight.
Did ever shape Paolo drew
Put on such brilliant tire,
As Nature, in this evening view,
This world of tinted fire?
The glory into whose embrace,
The lady seeks to rise,
Is but reflected from the face
Of these Venetian skies.
RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.
VENICE THE ENCHANTRESS
Venice has long borne in the imagination of the world a distinctive
position, something of the character of a great enchantress, a
magician of the seas. Her growth between the water and the sky; her
great palaces, solid and splendid, built, so to speak, on nothing;
the wonderful glory of light and reflection about her; the glimmer of
incessant brightness and movement; the absence of all those harsh,
artificial sounds which vex the air in other towns, but which in her
are replaced by harmonies of human voices, and by the liquid tinkle
of the waves--all these unusual characteristics combine to make her a
wonder and a prodigy. While there are scarcely any who are unmoved by
her special charm, there are some who are entirely subdued by it, to
whom the sight of her is a continual enchantment, and who never get
beyond the sense of something miraculous, the rapture of the first
vision. Not only does she ‘shine where she stands,’ which even the
poorest cluster of human habitations will do in the light of love: but
all those walls, with the mist of ages like a bloom of eternal youth
upon them--all those delicate pinnacles and carven-stones, the arches
and the pillars and the balconies, the fretted outlines that strike
against the sky--shine too as with a light within that radiates into
the clear sea-air; and every ripple on the great water-way, and every
wave on the lagoon, and each little rivulet of a canal, like a line of
light between the piles of masonry, which are themselves built of pearl
and tints of ocean shells, shines too with an ever-varied, fantastic,
enchanting glimmer of responsive brightness. In the light of summer
mornings, in the glow of winter sunsets, Venice stands out upon the
blue background, the sea that brims upwards to her very doors, the sky
that sweeps in widening circles all around, radiant with an answering
tone of light. She is all wonder, enchantment, the brightness and the
glory of a dream. Her own children cannot enough paint her, praise
her, celebrate her splendours; and to outdo if possible that patriotic
enthusiasm has been the effort of many a stranger from afar....
Where is the poet, where the prophet, the princes, the scholars, the
men whom, could we see, we should recognize wherever we met them, with
whom the whole world is acquainted? They are not here. In the sunshine
of the Piazza, in the glorious gloom of San Marco, in the great
council-chambers and offices of State, once so full of busy statesmen,
and great interests, there is scarcely a figure recognizable of all,
to be met with in spirit--no one whom we look for as we walk, whose
individual footsteps are traceable wherever we turn. Instead of the men
who made her what she is, who ruled her with so high a hand, who filled
her archives with the most detailed narratives, and gleaned throughout
the world every particular of universal history which could enlighten
and guide her, we find everywhere the great image--an idealisation
more wonderful than any in poetry--of Venice herself, the crowned and
reigning city, the centre of all their aspirations, the mistress of
their affections, for whom those haughty patricians of an older day,
with a proud self-abnegation which has no humility or sacrifice in it,
effaced themselves, thinking of nothing but her glory....
Though there is no record of that time when Dante stood within the
red walls of the arsenal, and saw the galleys making and mending, and
the pitch fuming up to heaven--as all the world may still see them
through his eyes--yet a milder scholarly image, a round smooth face,
with cowl and garland, looks down upon us from the gallery, all blazing
with crimson and gold, between the horses of San Marco, a friendly
visitor, the best we could have, since Dante left no sign behind him,
and probably was never heard of by the magnificent Signoria. Petrarch
stands there, to be seen by the side of the historian-doge, as long as
Venice lasts: but not much of him, only a glimpse, as in the Venetian
way, lest in contemplation of the poet we should for a moment forget
the Republic, his hostess and protector--Venice, the all-glorious
mistress of the seas, the first object, the unrivalled sovereign of her
children’s thoughts and hearts.
MRS. OLIPHANT.
VENICE
White swan of cities, slumbering in thy nest
So wonderfully built among the reeds
Of the lagoon, that fences thee and feeds,
As sayeth thy old historian and thy guest!
White water-lily, cradled and caressed
By ocean streams, and from the silt and weeds
Lifting thy golden pistils with their seeds.
Thy sun-illumined spires, thy crown and crest!
White phantom city, whose untrodden streets
Are rivers, and whose pavements are the shifting
Shadows of palaces and strips of sky;
I wait to see thee vanish like the fleets
Seen in mirage, or towers of cloud uplifting
In air their unsubstantial masonry.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
VENETIAN ENCHANTMENT
Can you fancy a city without a horse in it, or a carriage, where not
even a van or a truck disturbs the stillness, where your household
possessions are moved on the witching first of May in boats, and you
drift along in a gondola to your merry-makings or your funerals? Such
a city is Venice, where, as Browning wrote, ‘the sea the street is.’ I
went out of the railroad-station into a gondola, and the enchantment
began. I felt the spell, at once, of this unique city,--this one only
Venice in all the world. Everywhere were gondolas,--gondolas moored
at the quay, waiting for passengers; gondolas drawn up in front of
palaces, waiting for their freight of dark-eyed Venetian girls;
gondolas threading the mazes of the little canals, or sweeping down
the Grand Canal, and drawing near each other now and then for a chat
between the occupants.
All these gondolas are painted black. This is in accordance with
an ancient law of the Republic, passed once upon a time when the
decorations of the fascinating water-carriages were becoming too
sumptuous for Republican morals. But even now many of the gondolas are
very elegant. They are long and slender in shape, with a high beak
pointed with steel; they are often superb in carving. Inside the little
house in which you sit are soft cushions, and gilt-framed mirrors
in which the piquant, dark-eyed faces of the Italian girls behold
themselves in fascinating reflection....
Venice is a city of palaces. Three-quarters of them are unoccupied now,
save by the stranger within her gates, who hires them for a season.
But they are wonderfully beautiful, with their superb architecture and
their great variety of colouring. Nothing could be more delightful than
a sail down the Grand Canal at sunset, unless it be one by moonlight.
At sunset, after the warmest day, the air is cool. The sky is crimson
above you, and the water which laps around your black keel is crimson
also. Everybody has come out to enjoy the delicious coolness and
shadow. You meet your friends, and exchange greetings with them as you
would in the Casino at Florence or the Central Park in New York. The
old palaces catch the sunset glory, and glow in it with a splendour as
radiant as their memories. Busy waiters are arranging the out-of-door
tables in front of the cafés in the grand piazza of San Marco for their
evening custom. You drift on and on, till the sunset glory fades, and a
new glory, purer and paler, has arisen,--the glory of the moon.
Everybody raves about moonlight in Venice, and well they may, for there
is nothing on earth so enchanting. You forget the far-off world,--that
old, hard world, where waggons rattle, and horses stumble and fall,
and people are tired, and duns harass you, and time and tide wait for
no man. In this enchanted Venice, it seems to you, no one is ever
sad, or cross, or weary. You think that here, at least, you could be
reconciled to an earthly immortality. The feeling is universal. A
rich Englishman, while I was there, leased one of the old palaces for
twenty-five years to come, and was busily adorning it with gems of
art. He put into it old Venetian glasses, strange mirrors with nymphs
and roses painted on them, such as were the glory of Venice long ago.
His silver was wrought by the men of Benvenuto Cellini’s time. In his
hall were marble statues sculptured by long-forgotten hands. His chairs
and tables were carved by cunning workmen who had turned to dust.
Everything was of the past, except the flowers, which everywhere ran
riot. Marble vases, rifled from tombs, were full of glowing crimson
roses. Bright-hued blossoms filled the windows, vines trailed over the
walls, fragrance as of a thousand gardens flooded the rooms.
‘Twenty-five years!’ cried a friend, who was looking on at the lavish
adornment of the old palace. ‘Are you sure you will be contented here
so long?’
‘If not, it is hopeless,’ was the answer, ‘for I’ve tried the rest of
the world, and found it wanting. Year after year Venice has drawn me
back again with her charm, always new, though so old. If _she_ fails to
content me, there is nothing left but to go to heaven.’
And there are those who think, having reached Venice, that they have
gone very nigh to heaven. At least, let us fancy it is that Island of
the Blest which the old voyageurs used to seek....
There are few places more prolific of temptations to the purse than
this city by the sea. You could spend a small fortune in photographs;
and no photographs are so beautiful as those of Venice, with her
water-ways, her sumptuous architecture, and her picturesque gondolas.
You go a few steps from the photographer’s, and pause before the window
of a shop for the sale of antiquities. If you have any imagination at
all, you are fascinated at once. You find here quaint rings, as old as
the days of the Doges; lace which generations of by-gone marquises have
worn, and which time has turned to the hue of amber; fans behind which
the dear, dead women, with their red-gold hair that Titian painted,
blushed and bloomed and sighed and flirted. Here are shoe-buckles
glittering with diamonds; here, in short, are a thousand relics of
a beauty-loving and luxurious past; and you cannot turn away from
them until you have bought something by way of talisman, wherewith to
conjure back the shades of dead days and faded glories.
You see long lines of shops, full of the Venetian mosaic, and of the
Venetian gold-work, which is the daintiest that you can imagine. Here
is Salviati’s priceless glass. It is Salviati who has rediscovered the
secrets of the old glass-makers. He will tell you that there can be
no such thing as a lost art, while the human brain retains its former
power; and in this matter of glass-making, at least, he has proved
his own theories. Such wonderful colours, such wonderful shapes, such
exquisite designs, can be found nowhere else. It almost converts one
to Spiritualism, this exceptional success of Salviati’s, and makes
you think that the ghosts of some of the old glass-makers have been
whispering their long-forgotten secrets into his ears. You have
fingered all the morning round this captivating piazza of San Marco,
with its shops full of temptations, and now the bronze Vulcans of the
clock-tower march out and strike the hour of two, and retire again; and
just as they beat their retreat you see one of the prettiest sights
in Venice. Long ago--at the beginning of the thirteenth century, so
the story runs,--Admiral Dandolo, while besieging Candia, received
intelligence by means of carrier-pigeons which greatly aided him. He
then sent the birds to Venice with the news of his success; and since
that period their descendants have been carefully cherished and greatly
prized by the Venetians. Every day, at two o’clock the doves are fed
at the expense of the city.... Venice! You can pass your dreamy days
there in the luxury of an absolute repose. No other place is like it
for beauty, and certainly no other is like it for restfulness....
Gay belles, who have tired themselves out by a busy winter in Rome
or Florence, betake themselves to this City of the Sea, and win back
their roses in its quiet. Its spell is on you from the first moment
you arrive. It seems to me no one could ever leave it willingly; and
if only the post could be abolished, and no letters would come to call
you back to the world outside, you might stay there for ever without
knowing it,--like the monk who laid his ear so close to heaven that he
heard in his dream the songs of Paradise, and awoke to find that he had
been listening to them for a thousand years.
LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.
A VISION OF VENICE
Behold! a waking vision crowns my soul
With beatific radiance, and the light
Of shining hope;--a golden memoried dream
That clings unto my youth, as clung the strange
Leonine phantom to that mystic man,
Lean Paracelsus. It has grown with me
Like destiny, or that which seems to be
My destiny, ambition: and its glow
Inflames my fancy, as if some clear star
Had burst in silvery light within my brain.
From the smooth hyaline of that far sea
The pictured Adriatic rises, fair
As dream, a kingly-built and tower’d town;
Column and arch and architrave instinct
With delicatest beauty; overwrought
With tracery of interlacèd leaves
For ever blooming on white marble, hush’d
In everlasting summer, windless, cold:
The city of the Doges!
From the calm
Transparent waters float some thrilling sounds
Of Amphionic music, and the words
Are Tasso’s, where he passions for his love,
That lady Florentine so lily-smooth,
Clothed on with haughtiness!
At the black stair
Of palace rising shadowy from the wave,
Two singing gondolieri wait a freight
Of loveliness. A tremulous woman, robed
In dazzling satin, and whose dimpled arms
Shine through their veil diaphanous, floats down
From the wide portal; and the ivory prow
Of the soft-cushion’d gondola (as she
Steps lightly from the marble to her place)
Dips, rises, dips again; and through the blue
Swift glides into the sunset.
Oh, the glow
Of that rich sunset dims whate’er I see
In this my own dear valley! O’er the hills--
Those craggy Euganean hills, whose peaks
Wedge the clear crystalline--a blazonry
Of clouds pavilion’d, folded, interwound
Inextricably, load the breezeless west
With awe and glory. The effulgence gleams
Upon a vision’d Belmont, home of her
Who loved as Shakespeare’s women do; and gleams
Upon those walls wherein Othello’s spear
Stabb’d clinging innocence; where the poor wife,
The lone Cassandra Belvidera, gave
Her soul in martyrdom to love and woe.
And shall I never that far town behold,
Crested with sparkling columns, fiery towers,
Praxitelean masonry?--behold
VENICE, the mart of nations, ere I die?
By Heaven! her common merchants princes were
Unto two continents; her traffickers
The honourable of the earth! she stood
A crownèd city, and the fawning sea
Licked her white feet; and the eternal sun
Kissed with departing beam her brow of snow!
* * * * *
Woe to this Venice, with her crown of pride!
The Lady of the kingdoms, the perfection
Of beauty, and the joy of the whole earth!
Through her pavilions shall the crannying winds
Whistle, and all her borders in the sea
Crumble their Parian wonder. Woe to her,
Whose glorious beauty is a fading flower!
Her sober-suited nightingales, with notes
Of smooth liquidity and softened stops,
Solace the brakes; and ’mid her ancient streets
Tawny, the gleaming and harmonious sea
Makes silvery melody of by-gone days.
Oh, white Enchantment! Ocean-spouse of old!
When thy high battlements and bulging domes,
By sunset purpled, trembled in the wave!
Now o’er thy towers the Lord hath spread His hand,
And as a cottage shalt thou be removed;
Like Nineveh, or cloudy Babylon!
DAVID GRAY.
SPECTRAL VENICE
‘I know another sight,’ said the Moon, ‘the spectre of a city. Whenever
the jetty fountains splash into the marble basins, they seem to me to
be telling the story of the floating city. Yes, the spouting water
may tell of her, the waves of the sea may sing of her fame! On the
surface of the ocean a mist often rests, and this is her widow’s veil.
The Bridegroom of the Sea is dead; his palace and his city are his
mausoleum. Dost thou know this city? She has never heard the rolling of
wheels or the hoof-tread of horses in her streets, through which the
fish swim, while the black gondola glides spectrally over the green
water. I will show you the place,’ continued the Moon, ‘the largest
square in it, and you will fancy yourself transported into the city of
a fairy-tale. The grass grows rank among the broad flag-stones, and
in the morning twilight thousands of tame pigeons flutter around the
solitary lofty tower. On three sides you find yourself surrounded by
cloistered walks. In these the silent Turk sits smoking his long pipe;
the handsome Greek leans against the pillar, and gazes at the upraised
trophies and lofty masts, memorials of power that is gone. The flags
hang down like mourning scarves. A girl rests there; she has put down
her heavy pails filled with water, the yoke with which she has carried
them rests on one of her shoulders, and she leans against the mast of
victory. This is not a fairy-palace you see before you yonder, but a
church; the gilded domes and shining orbs flash back my beams; the
glorious bronze horses up yonder have made journeys, like the bronze
horse in the fairy-tale; they have come hither, and gone hence, and
have returned again. Do you notice the variegated splendour of the
walls and windows? It looks as if Genius had followed the caprices of
a child, in the adornment of these singular temples. Do you see the
winged lion on the pillar? The gold glitters still, but his wings are
tied; the lion is dead, for the King of the Sea is dead; the great
halls stand desolate, and where gorgeous painting hung of yore, the
naked wall now peers through. The _lazzaroni_ sleeps under the arcade,
whose pavement in old times was to be trodden only by the feet of the
high nobility. From the deep wells, and perhaps from the prisons by
the Bridge of Sighs, rise the accents of woe, as at the time when the
mandolino was heard in gay gondolas, and the golden ring was cast from
the Bucentaur to Adria, the Queen of the Seas. Adria! shroud thyself
in mists; let the veil of thy widowhood shroud thy form, and clothe in
the weeds of woe the mausoleum of thy bridegroom--the marble, spectral
Venice!’
HANS ANDERSEN.
A REVERIE IN VENICE
I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs;
A palace and a prison on each hand:
I saw from out the wave her structures rise
As from the stroke of the enchanter’s wand:
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand
Around me, and a dying glory smiles
O’er the far times when many a subject land
Looked to the wingèd Lion’s marble piles,
Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles!
She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean,
Rising with her tiara of proud towers
At airy distance, with majestic motion,
A ruler of the waters and their powers:
And such she was; her daughters had their dowers
From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East
Poured in her lap all gems in sparkling showers.
In purple was she robed, and of her feast
Monarchs partook, and deemed their dignity increased.
In Venice, Tasso’s echoes are no more,
And silent rows the songless gondolier;
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore,
And music meets not always now the ear:
Those days are gone--but beauty still is here.
States fall, arts fade--but Nature doth not die,
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear,
The pleasant place of all festivity,
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy!
But unto us she hath a spell beyond
Her name in story, and her long array
Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond
Above the dogeless city’s vanished sway;
Ours is a trophy which will not decay
With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor,
And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away--
The keystones of the arch! though all were o’er.
For us repeopled were the solitary shore....
The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord;
And annual marriage now no more renewed,
The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored,
Neglected garment of her widowhood!
St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood
Stand, but in mockery of his withered power,
Over the proud place where an Emperor sued,
And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour
When Venice was a queen with an unequalled dower.
The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns--
An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt;
Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and chains
Clank over sceptred cities; nations melt
From power’s high pinnacle, when they have felt
The sunshine for a while, and downward go
Like lauwine loosened from the mountain’s belt:
Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo!
The octogenarian chief, Byzantium’s conquering foe.
Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass,
Their gilded collars glittering in the sun;
But is not Doria’s menace come to pass?
Are they not _bridled_?--Venice, lost and won,
Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done,
Sinks, like a seaweed, into whence she rose!
Better be whelmed beneath the waves, and shun,
Even in Destruction’s depth, her foreign foes,
From whom submission wrings an infamous repose.
In youth she was all glory,--a new Tyre,--
Her very byword sprung from victory,
The ‘Planter of the Lion,’ which through fire
And blood she bore o’er subject earth and sea;
Though making many slaves, herself still free,
And Europe’s bulwark ’gainst the Ottomite:
Witness Troy’s rival, Candia! Vouch it, ye
Immortal waves that saw Lepanto’s fight!
For ye are names no time nor tyranny can blight.
Statues of glass--all shivered--the long file
Of her dead doges are declined to dust;
But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pile
Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust;
Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust,
Have yielded to the stranger: empty halls,
Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must
Too oft remind her who and what enthrals,
Have flung a desolate cloud o’er Venice’ lovely walls.
When Athens’ armies fell at Syracuse,
And fettered thousands bore the yoke of war,
Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse,
Her voice their only ransom from afar:
See! as they chant the tragic hymn, the car
Of the o’ermastered victor stops, the reins
Fall from his hands--his idle scimitar
Starts from his belt--he rends his captive’s chains,
And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his strains.
Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine,
Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot,
Thy choral memory of the bard divine,
Thy love of Tasso, should have cut the knot
Which ties thee to thy tyrants; and thy lot
Is shameful to the nations,--most of all,
Albion! to thee: the Ocean Queen should not
Abandon Ocean’s children: in the fall
Of Venice think of thine, despite thy watery wall.
I loved her from my boyhood: she to me
Was as a fairy city of the heart,
Rising like water-columns from the sea,
Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart;
And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakespeare’s art,
Had stamped her image in me, and e’en so,
Although I found her thus, we did not part,
Perchance e’en dearer in her day of woe,
Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show.
I can repeople with the past--and of
The present there is still for eye and thought,
And meditation chastened down, enough;
And more, it may be, than I hoped or sought;
And of the happiest moments which were wrought
Within the web of my existence, some
From thee, fair Venice! have their colours caught:
There are some feelings Time cannot benumb,
Nor torture shake, or mine would now be cold and dumb.
LORD BYRON.
IN PRAISE OF VENICE
Though the incomparable and most decantated majestie of this citie
doth deserve a farre more elegant and curious pensill to paint
her out in her colours then mine. For I ingenuously confess mine
owne insufficiency and unworthiness, as being the unworthiest of
ten thousand to describe so beautiful, so renowned, so glorious a
Virgin (for by that title doth the world most deservedly stile her),
because my rude and unpolished pen may rather staine and eclipse the
resplendent rays of her unparalleled beauty, then adde any lustre
unto it; yet since I have hitherto contrived this slender and naked
narration of my observations of five moneths travels in forraine
countries, this noble citie doth in a manner chalenge this at my
hands, that I should describe her also as well as the other cities I
saw in my journey, partly because shee gave me most loving and kinde
entertainment for the space of sixe weeks, which was the sweetest time
(I must needes confesse) for so much that ever I spent in my life; and
partly for that she ministered unto me more variety of remarkable and
delicious objects then mine eyes ever survayed in any citie before,
or ever shall, if I should with famous Sir John Mandevil our English
Ulysses spend thirty whole yeares together in travelling over most
places of the Christian and Ethnicke world. Therefore omitting tedious
introductions, I will descend to the description of this thrise
worthie citie: the fairest Lady, yea the richest Paragon and Queene
of Christendome. (I call her not thus in respect of any soveraignty
that she hath over other nations, in which sense Rome was in former
times called Queene of the world, but in regard of her incomparable
situation, surpassing wealth, and most magnificent buildings.) Such
is the rareness of the situation of Venice, that it doth even amaze
and drive into admiration all strangers that upon their first arrivall
behold the same. For it is built altogether upon the water in the
innermost gulfe of the Adriatique Sea which is commonly called Gulfo
di Venetia, and is distant from the maine sea about the space of three
miles.... The city is divided in the middest by a goodly faire channel,
which they call Canal il Grande. The same is crooked, and made in the
form of a Roman S. It is in length a thousand and three hundred paces,
and in breadth at least forty, in some places more. The sixe parts of
the City whereof Venice consisteth, are situate on both sides of this
Canal il Grande. The names of them are these, St. Marco, Castello,
Canareio, that lie on one side of it, and those on the other side are
called St. Polo, St. Croce, Dorso Duro. Also both sides of this channel
are adorned with many sumptuous and magnificent Palaces that stand very
neare to the water, and make a very glorious and beautifull shew. For
many of them are of a great height, three or foure stories high, most
being built with bricke, and some few with faire free stone. Besides,
they are adorned with a great multitude of stately pillars made partly
of white stone, and partly of Istrian marble.... There is only one
bridge to go over the great channell, which is the same that leadeth
from St. Marks to the Rialto, and joyneth together both the banks of
the channell. This bridge is commonly called Ponte de Rialto, and is
the fairest bridge by many degrees for one arch that ever I saw, read,
or heard of. For it is reported that it cost about fourescore thousand
crownes, which doe make foure and twenty thousand pounds sterling.
Truely, the exact view hereof ministered unto me no small matter of
admiration to see a bridge of that length (for it is two hundred foote
long, the channell being at the least forty paces broade as I have
before written) so curiously compacted together with only one arch;
and it made me presently call to minde that most famous bridge of the
Emperour Trajan, so celebrated by the auncient historians, especially
that worthy Greeke Authour Dion Cassius, which he built over the river
Danubius, to enter the country of Dacia.... But this incomparable
one-arched bridge of the Rialto doth farre excell the fairest arch
of Trajans both in length and breadth. For this is both forty foote
longer than the arch of his bridge was, and a hundred foote brooder,
as I will anon declare in the more particular description thereof.
But in height I believe it is a little inferiour to the other. I will
proceede with the description of this peereless bridge of Venice. It
was first built but with timber (as I heard divers Venetian gentlemen
report), but because that was not correspondent to the magnificence of
the other parts of the City, they defaced that, and built this most
sumptuous bridge with squared white stone, having two faire rowes
of pretty little houses for artificers, which are only shops, not
dwelling houses. Of these shops there are two rowes in each side of
the bridge till you come to the toppe. On that side of this bridge
which is towards St. Marks, there are ten severall ascents of staires
to the toppe, on the other side towards the Rialto twelve ascents.
Likewise, behind these shops there are very faire staires to the toppe,
which doe reach in length from the back of them to the farthest edge
of the bridge.... At the toppe of the bridge directly above these
rowes of buildings that I have spoken of, wherein the artificers
shops are, there are advanced two faire arches to a prety convenient
height which doe greatly adorne the bridge. In these arches I saw the
portraiture of the heads of two Hunnicall Gyants that came into Italy
with King Attila, very exactly made in the inside of the toppe. There
are in Venice thirteen ferries or passages, which they commonly call
Traghetti, where passengers may be transported in a Gondola to what
place of the City they will.... Certaine little boates which they call
Gondolas [are] the fayrest that ever I saw in any place. For none of
them are open above, but fairly covered, first with some fifteene or
sixteen little round peeces of timber that reach from one end to the
other, and make a pretty kinde of Arch or vault in the Gondola; then
with faire blacke cloth which is turned up at both ends of the boate,
to the end that if the passenger meaneth to be private, he may draw
downe the same, and after row so secretly that no man can see him: in
the inside the benches are finely covered with blacke leather, and the
bottomes of many of them together with the sides under the benches
are very neatly garnished with fine linnen cloth, the edge whereof
is laced with bonelace: the ends are beautified with two pretty and
ingenious devices. For each end hath a crooked thing made in the forme
of a Dolphins tayle, with the fins very artifically represented, and
it seemeth to be tinned over. The water-men that row these never sit
as ours do in London, but alwaies stand, and that at the further
end of the Gondola, sometimes one, but most commonly two; and in my
opinion they are altogether as swift as our rowers about London....
The fairest place of all the citie (which is indeed of that admirable
and incomparable beauty, that I thinke no place whatsoever eyther in
Christendome or Paganisme may compare with it) is the Piazza, that is,
the Market place of St. Marke, or (as our English merchants commorant
in Venice, doe call it) the place of S. Marke, in Latin Forum, or
Platea Di Marci. Truely such is the stupendious (to use a strange
Epitheton for so strange and rare a place as this) glory of it, that
at my first entrance thereof it did even amaze or rather ravish my
senses. For here is the greatest magnificence of architecture to be
seene, that any place under the sunne doth yeelde. Here you may both
see all manner of fashions of attire, and heare all the languages of
Christendome, besides those that are spoken by the barbarous Ethnickes;
the frequencie of people being so great twise a day, betwixt sixe of
the clocke in the morning and eleven, and againe betwixt five in the
afternoon and eight, that (as an elegant writer saith of it) a man
may very properly call it rather Orbis then Urbis forum, that is, a
market place of the world, not of the citie.... But I will descend
to the particular description of this peerelesse place, wherein if I
seeme too tedious, I crave pardon of thee (gentle Reader) seeing the
variety of curious objects which it exhibiteth to the spectator is
such, that a man shall much wrong it to speake a little of it. The like
tediousenesse thou art like to finde also in my description of the
Duke’s Palace, and St. Markes Church, which are such glorious workes,
that I endeavoured to observe as much of them as I might, because I
knew it was uncertaine whether I should ever see them againe, though I
hoped for it. This street of St. Marke seemeth to be but one, but if
the beholder doth exactly view it, he will finde that it containeth
foure distinct and severall streetes in it, which I will thus divide:
The first is that which reacheth from the front of St. Markes Church
to the opposite front of St. Geminians Church. The second from that
notable clocke at the cumming into St. Markes from the Merceria to the
two lofty marble pillars neare to the shore of the Adriatique Gulfe.
These two streetes doe seeme to contend for the superiority, but the
first (in my opinion) is the fairest of them. The third reacheth from
the bridge neare to the prison, along by the South side of the Dukes
Palace, and so by the Sea shore, to the end of that stately building a
little beyond the foresaid pillars. The fourth and the last from one
side of St. Markes Church to the Canons houses. The first of these is
beyond all comparison the fairest of all Europe. For it hath two such
magnificent fronts or rowes of buildings on the North and South sides
opposite each other, especially that on the North side, that they
drove me into great admiration, and so I thinke they doe all other
strangers that behold the same.... The fairest streete of all Venice
saving Sainte Markes, which I have already described, is that adjoyning
to St. Markes place which is called the Merceria, which name it hath
because many Mercers dwell there, as also many Stationers, and sundry
other artificers. This streete reacheth from almost the hither side
of the Rialto bridge to Saint Markes, being of goodly length, but not
altogether of the broadest, yet of breadth convenient enough in some
places for five or sixe persons to walke together side by side; it is
paved with bricke, and adorned with many faire buildings of a competent
height on both sides; there is a very faire gate at one end of this
street even as you enter into St. Markes place when you come from the
Rialto bridge, which is decked with a great deale of faire marble, in
which gate are two pretty conceits to be observed, the one at the very
top, which is a clocke with the images of two wilde men by it made in
brasse, a witty device and very exactly done.... The other conceit that
is to be observed in this gate is the picture of the Virgin Mary made
in a certaine dore above a faire Dial, neare to whom on both sides of
her are painted two Angels on two little dores more. These dores upon
any principall holiday doe open themselves, and immediately there come
forth two Kings to present themselves to our Lady, unto whom, after
they have done their obeysance by uncovering of their heads, they
returne, againe into their places: in the front of this sumptuous gate
are presented the twelve celestial signes, with the Sunne, Moone, and
Starres, most excellently handled.
THOMAS CORYAT (1611).
BEAUTIFUL VENICE
Beautiful Venice,
Fair City of Song!
What memories of old
To thy regions belong:
What sweet recollections
Cling to my heart
As thy fast-fading shores
From my vision depart!
Oh, sweet poesie’s home
Is thy light colonnades,
Where winds gently sigh
As the sweet twilight fades.
I have known many homes,
But the dwelling for me
Is beautiful Venice,
The bride of the sea!
Beautiful Venice,
Queen of the earth!
Where dark eyes shine bright
Amid music and mirth;
Where gay serenaders
By light of the star
Oft mingle their songs
With the dulcet guitar.
All that’s lovely in life,
All that’s deathless in song,
Venetia’s fair isles,
To thy regions belong.
J. E. CARPENTER.
THAT GLORIOUS CITY IN THE SEA
There is a glorious City in the Sea.
The sea is in the broad, the narrow streets,
Ebbing and flowing; and the salt sea-weed
Clings to the marble of her palaces.
No track of men, no footsteps to and fro,
Lead to her gates. The path lies o’er the sea,
Invisible; and from the land we went
As to a floating city--steering in,
And gliding up her streets as in a dream,
So smoothly, silently--by many a dome,
Mosque-like, and many a stately portico,
The statues ranged along an azure sky;
By many a pile in more than Eastern pride,
Of old the residence of merchant-kings;
The fronts of some, though time had shattered them,
Still glowing with the richest hues of art,
As though the wealth within them had run o’er....
Gliding on,
At length we leave the river for the sea.
At length a voice aloft proclaims ‘Venezia!’
And, as called forth, She comes.
A few in fear,
Flying away from him whose boast it was[1]
That the grass grew not where his horse had trod,
Gave birth to Venice. Like the water-fowl,
They built their nests among the ocean-waves;
And where the sands were shifting, as the wind
Blew from the north or south--where they that came
Had to make sure the ground they stood upon,
Rose, like an exhalation from the deep,
A vast Metropolis, with glistering spires,
With theatres, basilicas adorned;
A scene of light and glory, a dominion,
That has endured the longest among men.
And whence the talisman, whereby she rose,
Towering? ’Twas found there in the barren sea.
What led to Enterprise; and, far or near,
Who met not the Venetian?--now among
The Ægean Isles, steering from port to port,
Landing and bartering; now, no stranger there,
In Cairo, or without the eastern gate
Ere yet the cafila came, listening to hear
Its bells approaching from the Red Sea coast;
Then on the Euxine, and that smaller Sea
Of Azoph, in close converse with the Russ
And Tartar; on his lowly deck receiving
Pearls from the Persian Gulf, gems from Golconde;
Eyes brighter yet, that shed the light of love,
From Georgia, from Circassia. Wandering round,
When in the rich bazaar he saw, displayed,
Treasures from climes unknown, he asked and learnt,
And, travelling slowly upward, drew ere long
From the well-head, supplying all below;
Making the Imperial City of the East,
Herself, his tributary.--If we turn
To those black forests, where, through many an age,
Night without day, no axe the silence broke,
Or seldom, save where Rhine or Danube rolled;
Where o’er the narrow glen a castle hangs,
And, like the wolf that hungered at his door,
The baron lived by rapine--there we meet,
In warlike guise, the caravan from Venice;
When on its march, now lost and now beheld,
A glittering file (the trumpet heard, the scout
Sent and recalled), but at a city-gate
All gaiety, and looked for ere it comes;
Winning regard with all that can attract,
Caegs, whence every wild cry of the desert,
Jugglers, stage-dancers. Well might Charlemain
And his brave peers, each with his visor up,
On their long lances lean and gaze awhile,
When the Venetian to their eyes disclosed
The wonders of the East! Well might they then
Sigh for new conquests!
Thus did VENICE rise.
Thus flourish.
SAMUEL ROGERS.
[1] Attila.
THE FAIRY DAYS OF VENICE
The absence of horses and carriages and the resonance of the canal make
Venice the most delightful city for unceasing songs and serenading.
One must be an enthusiast indeed to fancy that the gondolier choruses
are better than those of the opera at Paris, as I have heard asserted
by some individuals of a particularly happy temperament, but it is
quite certain that one of those choruses, heard from afar under the
arcades of these Moorish palaces, looking so white in the moon’s rays,
gives more pleasure even than better music executed under a colonnade
formed of painted canvas. These rough uncultivated dilettanti shout in
tune and time; and the calm marble echoes prolong these rude and grave
harmonies, like the winds over the sea. The magic of acoustic effect,
and the desire to hear some sort of harmony in the silence of these
enchanted nights, make one listen with indulgence, and almost I may say
with gratitude, to the humblest melody which floats by, and is lost in
the distance.... Fairy days of Venice.... No one has ever said enough
of the beauty of the heavens, and the delights of the night at Venice.
The lagoon is so calm, that in fine evenings, the stars do not even
tremble on its surface. When you are in the midst, it is so blue, so
quiet that the outline of the horizon cannot be distinguished, and the
waves and the heavens form an azure veil, where reverie loses itself
and sleeps. The atmosphere is so transparent, so pure that thousands
more stars may be seen, than in our North of France. I have seen here,
nights, when the silvery lustre of the stars occupied more space in the
firmament than the blue of the atmosphere. It was a galaxy of diamonds
giving almost as good a light as the moon at Paris.... Here Nature,
more powerful in her influence, perhaps, imposes too much silence on
the mind; she sends all thought to sleep, but agitates the heart, and
dominates the senses. One must not even dream, unless one is a man of
genius, of writing poems during these voluptuous nights: one must love
or sleep.
As for sleeping, there is a most delicious spot: the platform of white
marble which descends from the Viceroy’s gardens to the canal. When the
ornamented gate is shut on the garden-side, one can go in a gondola to
these steps, still warm from the rays of the setting sun, and remain
without being interrupted by any inopportune stroller, unless he be
endowed with the faith so much needed by St. Peter. Many hours have I
passed there alone, thinking of nothing, whilst Catullo and his gondola
slumbered in the midst of the waters, within call.
When the breath of midnight passes over the linden-trees, and scatters
their blossoms over the waters, when the perfume of wallflowers and
geraniums rises in gusts, as though the earth gave forth her sighs
of fragrance to the moon; when the cupolas of St. Mary raise towards
heaven their alabaster hemispheres and their turban-crowned minarets;
when all is white, the water, the sky, the marble, the three elements
of Venice, and when from the tower of St. Mark a giant sound hovers
over my head, then I begin to feel life through every pore, and evil be
to him who should then come to make an appeal to my soul! I vegetate,
I repose, I forget. Who would not do the same in my place?... I defy
anyone, no matter who, to prevent me from sleeping happily when I
see Venice, so impoverished, so oppressed, so miserable, still so
beautiful, so calm, in spite of men and of time. Behold her, round
me, admiring herself in the lagoons with the air of a sultana; and
this populace of fishermen, sleeping on the pavement, winter as well
as summer, with no other pillow than one of granite, no other mattress
than a tattered cloak; is not such a populace a great example of
philosophy? When it has no longer wherewithal to purchase a pound of
rice, it sings a chorus to drive away the pangs of hunger; thus braving
masters and misery, as it used to brave cold, heat, and the sudden
tempest. It would require many years of slavery to imbrute entirely
this careless frivolous character, so accustomed for many years to be
nourished with _fêtes_ and diversions. Existence is still so easy at
Venice!
GEORGE SAND.
VENICE THE PROUD
Venice exult! and o’er thy moonlight seas,
Swell with gay strains each Adriatic breeze!
What though long fled those years of martial fame,
That shed romantic lustre o’er thy name:
Though to the winds thy streamers idly play,
And the wild waves another Queen obey;
Though quenched the spirit of thine ancient race,
And power and freedom scarce have left a trace;
Yet still shall Art her splendours round thee cast,
And gild the wreck of years for ever past.
Again thy fanes may boast a Titian’s dyes,
Whose clear soft brilliance emulates thy skies,
And scenes that glow in colouring’s richest bloom,
With life’s warm flush Palladian halls illume,
From thy rich dome again th’ unrivalled steed
Starts to existence, rushes into speed,
Still for Lysippus claims the wreath of fame,
Panting with ardour, vivified with flame.
Proud Racers of the Sun! to fancy’s thought,
Burning with spirit, from his essence caught,
No mortal birth ye seem--but formed to bear
Heaven’s car of triumph through the realms of air;
To range uncurbed the pathless fields of space,
The winds your rivals in the glorious race;
Traverse empyreal spheres with buoyant feet,
Free as the zephyr, as the shot-star fleet;
And waft through worlds unknown the vital ray,
The flame that wakes creations into day.
Creatures of fire and ether! winged with light,
To track the regions of the Infinite!
From purer elements whose light was drawn,
Sprung from the sunbeam, offspring of the dawn,
What years on years, in silence gliding by,
Have spared those forms of perfect symmetry!
Moulded by Art to dignify alone,
Her own bright deity’s resplendent throne,
Since first her skill their fiery grace bestowed,
Meet for such lofty fate, such high abode,
How many a race, whose tales of glory seem
An echo’s voice--the music of a dream,
Whose records feebly from oblivion save,
A few bright traces of the wise and brave:
How many a state, whose pillared strength sublime,
Defied the storms of war, the waves of time,
Towering o’er earth majestic and alone,
Fortress of power--has flourished and is gone!
And they, from clime to clime by conquest borne,
Each fleeting triumph destined to adorn,
They, that of powers and kingdoms lost and won,
Have seen the noontide and the setting sun,
Consummate still in every grace remain,
As o’er _their_ heads had ages rolled in vain!
Ages, victorious in their ceaseless flight,
O’er countless monuments of earthly might!
While she, from fair Byzantium’s lost domain,
Who bore those treasures to her ocean-reign,
’Midst the blue deep, who reared her island-throne,
And called th’ infinitude of waves her own;
Venice the proud, the Regent of the sea,
Welcomes in chains the trophies of the Free!
MRS. HEMANS.
THIS LOVELY VENICE!
St. Mark’s Place, after all I had read and all I had heard of
it, exceeded expectation; such a cluster of excellence, such a
constellation of artificial beauties, my mind had never ventured to
excite the idea of within herself.... Whoever sees St. Mark’s Place
lighted up of an evening, adorned with every excellence of human art
and pleasure, expressed by intelligent countenances sparkling with
every grace of nature; the sea washing its walls, the moonbeams dancing
on its subjugated waves, sport and laughter resounding from the cafés,
girls with guitars skipping about the square, masks and merry-makers
singing as they pass you, unless a barge with a band of music is heard
at some distance upon the water, and calls attention to sounds made
sweeter by the element over which they are brought--whoever is led
suddenly, I say, to this scene of seemingly perennial gaiety, will be
apt to cry out of Venice, ...
‘With thee conversing, I forget all time,
All seasons and their change--all please alike.’
For it is sure there are in this town many astonishing privations of
all that are used to make other places delightful; and as poor Omai,
the savage, said, when about to return to Otaheite: ‘No horse there,
no ass, no cow, no golden pippins, no dish of tea.... I am always so
content there, though.’ It is really just so one lives at this lovely
Venice. One has heard of a horse being exhibited there, and yesterday
I watched the poor people paying a penny a-piece for the sight of a
stuffed one.... The view of Venice from the Zuecca would invite one
never more to stray from it, farther, at least, than to St. George’s
Church, on another little opposite island, whence the prospect is
surely wonderful.... On Saturday next I am to forsake--but I hope not
for ever--this gay, this gallant city, so often described, so certainly
admired--seen with rapture, quitted with regret. Seat of enchantment!
head-quarters of pleasure, farewell!
MRS. PIOZZI (1785).
TO VENICE
‘Questi palazzi, e queste logge or colte.’
These marble domes, by wealth and genius graced,
With sculptured forms, bright hues, and Parian stone,
Were once rude cabins ’midst a lonely waste,
Wild shores of solitude, and isles unknown.
Pure from each vice, ’twas here a venturous train
Fearless in fragile barks explored the sea;
Not theirs a wish to conquer or to reign,
They sought these island-precincts--to be free.
Ne’er in their souls ambition’s flame arose,
No dream of avarice broke their calm repose;
Fraud, more than death, abhorred each artless breast;
Oh! now, since Fortune gilds their brightening day,
Let not those virtues languish and decay,
O’erwhelmed by luxury, and by wealth opprest!
MRS. HEMANS.
_From the Italian of ‘Della Casa.’_
VENICE: THAT RARE CITY
I have now a good while since taken footing in Venice, this admired
maiden city, so called because she was never deflowered by any enemy
since she had a being, nor since her Rialto was first erected, which is
now above twelve ages ago.
I protest unto you at my first landing I was for some days ravished
with the high beauty of this maid, with her lovely countenance. I
admired her magnificent buildings, her marvellous situation, her dainty
smooth neat streets, whereon you may walk most days in the year in a
silk stocking and satin slippers, without soiling them, nor can the
streets of Paris be so foul, as these are fair....
Give me leave to salute you first in these sapphics.
‘Insulam tendens iter ad Britannam
Charta, de paucis volo, siste gressum,
Verba Mansello, bene noscis illum,
Talia perfer.
‘Finibus longe patriis Hoellus
Dimorans, quantis Venetum superba
Civitas leucis Doroberniensi
Distat ab urbe;
‘Plurimum mentis tibi vult salutem,
Plurimum cordis tibi vult vigorem,
Plurimum sortis tibi vult favorem
Regis et Aulæ.’
These wishes come to you from Venice, a place where there is nothing
wanting that heart can wish; renowned Venice, the admiredst city
in the world, a city that all Europe is bound unto, for she is her
greatest rampart against that huge eastern tyrant the Turk by sea,
else I believe he had overrun all Christendom by this time. Against
him this city hath performed notable exploits, and not only against
him, but divers other. She hath restored emperors to their throne,
and popes to their chairs, and with her galleys often preserved Saint
Peter’s barque from sinking: for which, by way of reward, one of his
successors espoused her to the sea, which marriage is solemnly renewed
every year in solemn profession by the Doge and all the Clarissimos,
and a gold ring cast into the sea out of the great galleasse, called
the _Bucentoro_, wherein the first ceremony was performed by the Pope
himself, above three hundred years since, and they say it is the
self-same vessel still, though often put upon the careen and trimmed.
This made me think on that famous ship at Athens; nay, I fell upon an
abstracted notion in philosophy, and a speculation touching the body
of man, which being in perpetual flux, and a kind of succession of
decays, and consequently requiring ever and anon a restoration of what
it loseth of the virtue of the former ailment, and what was converted
after the third concoction into blood and fleshly substance, which, as
in all other sublunary bodies that have internal principles of heart,
uses to transpire, breathe out, and waste away through invisible pores
by exercise, motion, and sleep to make room still for a supply of new
nourriture. I fell, I say, to consider whether our bodies may be said
to be of like condition with this _Bucentoro_, which, though it be
reputed still the same vessel, yet I believe there’s not a foot of
that timber remaining which it had upon the first dock, having been,
as they tell me, so often planked and ribbed, caulked and pierced.
In like manner our bodies may be said to be daily repaired by new
sustenance, which begets new blood, and consequently new spirits, new
humours, and I may say new flesh, the old by continual deperdition
and insensible transpirations evaporating still out of us, and giving
way to stress; so that I make a question, whether by reason of these
perpetual preparations and accretions the body of man may be said to
be the same numerical body in his old age that he had in his manhood,
or the same in his manhood that he had in his youth, the same in his
youth that he carried about him in his childhood, or the same in his
childhood which he wore first in the womb. I make a doubt whether I
had the same identical individually numerical body when I carried a
calf-leather satchel to school in Hereford, as when I wore a lambskin
hood in Oxford, or whether I have the same mass of blood in my veins,
and the same flesh now in Venice which I carried about me three years
since up and down London streets, having in lieu of beer and ale drunk
wine all this while, and fed upon different viands; now the stomach is
like a crucible, for it hath a chemical kind of virtue to transmute
one body into another, to transubstantiate fish and fruits into flesh
within, and about us; but though it be questionable whether I wear the
same flesh which is fluxible, I am sure my hair is not the same, for
you may remember I went flaxen-haired out of England, but you shall
find me returned with a very dark brown, which I impute not only to
the heat and air of those hot countries I have ate my bread in, but
to the quality and difference of food; but you will say that hair is
but an excrementitious thing, and makes not to this purpose; moreover,
methinks I hear you say that this may be true, only in the blood and
spirits, or such fluid parts, not in the solid and heterogeneal parts;
but I will press no further at this time this philosophical notion
which the sight of _Bucentoro_ infused into me, for it hath already
made me exceed the bounds of a letter, and I fear me to trespass too
much upon your patience. I leave the further disquisition of this point
to your own contemplations, who are a far riper philosopher than I, and
have waded deeper into, and drunk more of Aristotle’s Well; but ...
though it be doubtful whether I carry about me the same body or no, in
all points that I had in England, I am well assured I bear still the
same mind, and therein I verify the old verse--
‘Cœlum non animam mutant qui trans mare currunt.’
‘The air but not the mind they change,
Who in outlandish countries range.’ ...
She [Venice] was built of the ruins of Aquileia and Padua, for when
those swarms of tough northern people overran Italy under the conduct
of that scourge of heaven Attila, with others, and that this soft
voluptuous nation, after so long a desuetude from arms, could not repel
their fury, many of the ancient nobility and gentry fled into these
lakes and little islands, amongst the fishermen for their security,
and finding the air good and commodious for habitation, they began to
build upon those small islands, whereof there are in all three-score;
and in tract of time, they conjoined and leagued them together by
bridges, whereof there are now above eight hundred, and this makes
up the city of Venice, who is now above twelve ages old, and was
contemporary with the monarchy of France; but the signiory glorieth
in one thing above the monarchy, that she was born a Christian, but
the monarchy not. Though this city be thus hemmed in with the sea, yet
she spreads her wings far wide upon the shore; she hath in Lombardy
six considerable towns--Padua, Verona, Vicenza, Brescia, Crema, and
Bergamo; she hath in the Marquisat, Bassan and Castlefranco; she
hath all Friuli and Istria; she commands the shores of Dalmatia and
Slavonia; she keeps under the power of Saint Mark, the islands of Corfu
(anciently Corcyria), Cephalonia, Zant, Cerigo, Lucerigo, and Candy
(Jove’s Cradle); she had a long time the kingdom of Cyprus, but it was
quite rent from her by the Turk, which made that high-spirited Bassa,
being taken prisoner at the Battle of Lepanto, where the grand signior
lost above 200 galleys, to say, ‘That that defeat to his great master
was but like the shaving of his beard or the paring of his nails; but
the taking of Cyprus was like the cutting off of a limb, which will
never grow again.’ This mighty potentate being so near a neighbour to
her, she is forced to comply with him and give him an annual present
in gold: she hath about thirty galleys most part of the year in course
to scour and secure the gulf; she entertains by land in Lombardy and
other parts 25,000 foot, besides some of the cantons of Suisses whom
she gives pay unto; she hath also in constant pay 600 men of arms, and
every one of these must keep two horses a-piece, for which they are
allowed 120 ducats a year, and they are for the most part gentlemen of
Lombardy. When they have any great expedition to make, they have always
a stranger for their general, but he is supervised by two proveditors,
without whom he cannot attempt anything.
Her great Council consists of above 2,000 gentlemen, and some of them
meet every Sunday and holiday to choose officers and magistrates, and
every gentleman being past twenty-five years of age is capable to sit
in this Council. The Doge or Duke (their sovereign magistrate) is
chosen by lots, which would be too tedious here to demonstrate, and
commonly he is an aged man who is created, like that course they hold
in the popedom. When he is dead there be inquisitors that examine his
actions, and his misdemeanours are punishable in his heirs. There is a
superintendent council of ten, and six of them may dispatch business
without the Doge, but the Doge never without some of them, not as much
as open a letter from any foreign state, though addressed to himself,
which makes him to be called by other princes, _Testa di legno_, a head
of wood.
The wealth of this republic hath been at a stand, or rather declining,
since the Portugal found a road to the East Indies by the Cape of Good
Hope; for this city was used to fetch all those spices and other Indian
commodities from the grand Cairo down the Nile, being formerly carried
to Cairo from the Red Sea upon camels’ and dromedaries’ backs, three
score days’ journey; and so Venice used to dispense those commodities
through all Christendom, which not only the Portugal, but the English
and Hollander, now transport, and are masters of the trade. Yet there
is no outward appearance at all of poverty, or any decay in this city,
but she is still gay, flourishing, and fresh, and flowing with all kind
of bravery and delight, which may be had at cheap rates....
I have now enough of the maiden city, and this week I am to go further
into Italy; for though I have been a good while in Venice, yet I cannot
say I have been hitherto upon the continent of Italy: for this city
is nought else but a knot of islands in the Adriatic Sea, joined in
one body by bridges, and a good way distant from the firm land. I have
lighted upon very choice company, your cousin Brown and Master Web,
and we all take the road of Lombardy, but we made an order amongst
ourselves that our discourse be always in the language of the country,
under penalty of a forfeiture, which is to be indispensably paid.
Randal Symns made us a curious feast lately, where in a cup of the
richest Greek we had your health, and I could not tell whether the wine
or the remembrance of you was sweeter; for it was naturally a kind of
aromatic wine, which left a fragrant perfuming kind of farewell behind
it. I have sent you a runlet of it in the ship _Lion_, and if it come
safe, and unpricked, I pray bestow some bottles upon the lady (you
know) with my humble service.... Before I conclude I will acquaint you
with a common saying that is used of this dainty city of Venice:
‘Venetia, Venetia, chi non te vede non te pregia,
Ma chi t’ha troppo veduto te dispreggia.’
Englished and rhymed thus (though I know you need no translation, you
understand so much of Italian):
‘Venice, Venice, none thee unseen can prize,
Who hath seen too much will thee despise.’
I will conclude with that famous hexastic which Sannazaro made of this
rare city, which pleaseth me much better:
‘Viderat Hadriacis Venetam Neptunus in undis
Stare urbem, et toti ponere jura Mari;
Nunc mihi Tarpeias quantum vis, Jupiter, Arces
Objice, et illa tui mænia Martis ait,
Sic Pelago Tibrim præfers, urbem aspice utramque,
Illam homines dices, hanc posuisse Deos.’
‘When Neptune saw in Adrian surges stand
Venice, and gave the sea laws of command:
Now Jove, said he, object thy Capitol,
And Mars’ proud walls: this were for to extol
Tyber beyond the main; both towns behold;
Rome, men thou’lt say, Venice the Gods did mould.’
Sannazaro had given him by Saint Mark a hundred zecchins, for every one
of these verses, which amounts to about 300 pounds. It would be long
before the city of London would do the like. Witness that cold reward,
or rather those cold drops of water which were cast upon my countryman,
Sir Hugh Middleton, for bringing Ware River through her streets, the
most serviceable and wholesomest benefit that ever she received.
JAMES HOWELL (1621).
VENISE
Dans Venise la rouge,
Pas un bateau qui bouge,
Pas un pêcheur dans l’eau,
Pas un falot.
Seul, assis à la grève,
Le grand lion soulève,
Sur l’horizon serein,
Son pied d’airain.
Autour de lui, par groupes,
Navires et chaloupes,
Pareils à des hérons
Couchés en ronds,
Dorment sur l’eau qui fume,
Et croisent dans la brume,
En légers tourbillons
Leurs pavillons.
La lune qui s’efface
Couvre son front qui passe
D’un nuage étoilé
Demi-voilé.
Ainsi, la dame abbesse
De Sainte-Croix rabaisse
Sa cape aux vastes plis
Sur son surplis,
Et les palais antiques,
Et les graves portiques,
Et les blancs escaliers
Des chevaliers,
Et les ponts, et les rues,
Et les mornes statues,
Et le golfe mouvant
Qui tremble au vent,
Tout se tait, fors les gardes
Aux longues hallebardes,
Qui veillent aux créneaux
Des arsenaux.
--Ah! maintenant plus d’une
Attend, au clair de lune,
Quelque jeune muguet,
L’oreille au guet.
Pour le bal qu’ou prépare,
Plus d’une qui se pare,
Met devant son miroir
Le masque noir....
Et qui, dans l’Italie,
N’a son grain de folie?
Qui ne garde aux amours
Ses plus beaux jours?
Laissons la vieille horloge,
Au palais du vieux doge,
Lui compter de ses nuits
Les longs ennuis.
Comptons plutôt, ma belle,
Sur ta bouche rebelle,
Tant de baisers donnés.
Ou pardonnés.
Comptons plutôt tes charmes,
Comptons les douces larmes
Qu’à nos yeux a coûtè
La volupté!
ALFRED DE MUSSET.
A PEERLESS CITY
Safe at Venice. A place whose strange and passing beauty is well known
to thee by report of our mariners. Dost mind too how Peter would
oft fill our ears withal, we handed beneath the table, and he still
discoursing of this sea-enthroned and peerless city, in shape a bow,
and its great canal and palaces on piles, and its watery ways plied by
scores of gilded boats; and that market-place of nations, orbis, non
urbis, forum, St. Mark his place? And his statue with the peerless
jewels in his eyes, and the lion at his gate? But I, lying at my window
in pain, may see none of these beauties as yet, but only a street,
fairly paved, which is dull, and houses with oiled paper and linen,
in lieu of glass, which is rude; and the passers-by, their habits and
their gestures, wherein they are superfluous. Therefore, not to miss my
daily comfort of whispering to thee, I will e’en turn mine eyes inward,
and bind my sheaves of wisdom reaped by travel. For I love thee so,
that no treasure pleases me not shared with thee; and what treasure
so good and enduring as knowledge? This then have I, Sir Footsore,
learned, that each nation hath its proper wisdom, and its proper folly;
and methinks, could a great king, or duke, tramp like me, and see
with his own eyes, he might pick the flowers, and eschew the weeds of
nations, and go home and set his own folk on Wisdom’s hill....
The Italians are a polished and subtle people. They judge a man, not
by his habits, but his speech and gesture. Here Sir Chough may by no
means pass for falcon gentle, as did I in Germany, pranked in my noble
servant’s feathers. Wisest of all nations in their singular temperance
of food and drink. Most foolish of all to search strangers coming into
their borders, and stay them from bringing much money in. They should
rather invite it, and like other nations, let the traveller from taking
of it out. Also here in Venice the dames turn their black hair yellow
by the sun and art, to be wiser than Him who made them. Ye enter no
Italian town without a bill of health, though now is no plague in
Europe. This peevishness is for extortion’s sake. The innkeepers cringe
and fawn, and cheat, and in country places, murder you. Yet will they
give you clean sheets by paying therefor. Delicate in eating, and abhor
from putting their hand in the plate; sooner they will apply a crust
or what not. They do even tell of a cardinal at Rome, which armeth his
guest’s left hand with a little bifurcal dagger to hold the meat, while
his knife cutteth it. But methinks this, too, is to be wiser than Him,
who made the hand so supple and prehensile....
Their bread is lovely white. Their meats they spoil with sprinkling
cheese over them; O, perversity! Their salt is black; without a lie. In
commerce these Venetians are masters of the earth and sea; and govern
their territories wisely.... Also, in religion, they hang their cloth
according to the wind, siding now with the Pope, now with the Turk; but
aye with the god of traders, mammon hight. Shall flower so cankered
bloom to the world’s end? But since I speak of flowers, this none may
deny them, that they are most cunning in making roses and gilliflowers
to blow unseasonably. In summer they nip certain of the budding roses
and water them not. Then in winter they dig round these discouraged
plants, and put in cloves; and so with great art rear sweet-scented
roses, and bring them to market in January....
Sweetheart, I must be brief, and tell thee but a part of that I have
seen, for this day my journal ends. To-night it sails for thee, and I,
unhappy, not with it, but to-morrow, in another ship, to Rome.
Dear Margaret, I took a hand litter, and was carried to St. Mark his
church. Outside it, towards the market-place, is a noble gallery, and
above it four famous horses, cut in brass by the ancient Romans, and
seem all moving, and at the very next step must needs leap down on the
beholder. About the church are six hundred pillars of marble, porphyry,
and ophites. Inside is a treasure greater than either at St. Denys, or
Loretto, or Toledo. Here a jewelled pitcher given the seigniory by a
Persian king, also the ducal cap blazing with jewels, and on its crown
a diamond and a chrysolite, each as big as an almond; two golden crowns
and twelve golden stomachers studded with jewels, from Constantinople;
item, a monstrous sapphire; item, a great diamond given by a French
king; item, a prodigious carbuncle; item, three unicorns’ horns. But
what are these compared with the sacred relics?
Dear Margaret, I stood and saw the brazen chest that holds the body of
St. Mark the Evangelist. I saw with these eyes and handled his ring,
and his gospel written with his own hand, and all my travels seemed
light; for who am I that I should see such things? Dear Margaret, his
sacred body was first brought from Alexandria by merchants in 810, and
then not prized as now; for between 829, when this church was builded,
and 1094, the very place where it lay was forgotten. Then holy priests
fasted and prayed many days seeking for light, and lo! the Evangelist’s
body brake at midnight through the marble and stood before them. They
fell to the earth; but in the morning found the crevice the sacred body
had burst through, and peering through it saw him lie. Then they took
and laid him in his chest beneath the altar, and carefully put back
the stone with its miraculous crevice, which crevice I saw, and shall
gape for a monument while the world lasts. After that they showed me
the Virgin’s chair, it is of stone; also her picture, painted by St.
Luke, very dark, and the features now scarce visible. This picture, in
time of drought, they carry in procession, and brings the rain. I wish
I had not seen it. Item, two pieces of marble spotted with John the
Baptist’s blood; item, a piece of the true cross, and of the pillar to
which Christ was tied; item, the rock struck by Moses, and wet to this
hour; also a stone Christ sat on, preaching at Tyre; but some say it
is the one the patriarch Jacob laid his head on, and I hold with them,
by reason our Lord never preached at Tyre. Going hence, they showed me
the state nursery for the children of those aphrodisian dames, their
favourites. Here in the outer wall was a broad niche, and if they bring
them so little as they can squeeze them through it alive, the bairn
falls into a net inside, and the state takes charge of it, but if too
big, their mothers must even take them home again, with whom abiding
’tis like to be mali corvi mali ovum. Coming out of the church we met
them carrying in a corpse, with the feet and face bare. This I then
first learned is Venetian custom, and sure no other town will ever rob
them of it.... But what I most admired was to see over against the
Duke’s palace a fair gallows in alabaster, reared express to bring him,
and no other, for the least treason to the state; and there it stands
in his eye whispering him memento mori. I pondered, and owned these
signors my masters, who will let no man, not even their sovereign, be
above the common weal.
CHARLES READE.
‘VENICE, WHOSE NAME DID ONCE ADORN THE WORLD’
Venice, whose name did once adorn the world,
Thou mightst have been all that thou ever wert,
In form and feature and material strength,
Up from the sea, which is thy pedestal,
Unto thy Campanile’s golden top,
And yet have never won the precious crown,
To be the loved of human hearts, to be
The wise man’s treasure now and evermore.
The ingenious boldness, the creative will,
Which from some weak uncertain plots of sand,
Cast up among the waters, could erect
Foundations firm as on the central ground;
The art which changed thy huts to palaces,
And bade the God of Ocean’s temples rise
Conspicuous far above the crystal plain,
The ever-active nerve of industry,
That bound the Orient to the Occident
In fruitful commerce, till thy lap was filled
With wealth, the while thy head was girt with power,
Each have their separate palm from wondering men ...
Prime model of a Christian commonwealth!
Thou wise simplicity, which present men
Calumniate, not conceiving; joy is mine,
That I have read and learnt thee as I ought,
Not in the crude compiler’s painted shell,
But in thine own memorials of live stone,
And in the pictures of thy kneeling princes,
And in the lofty words on lofty tombs,
And in the breath of ancient chroniclers,
And in the music of the outer sea.
RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.
THE BRIDE OF THE SEA
There are cities high over Orion
That jasper and sardonyx be;
Whose streets it were joy but to lie on,
Whose walls it were bliss but to see;
Many sumptuous cities fair Dian
Beholds over mountain and lea,
But the Bride, ’neath the wings of her Lion,--
Where is one such as she?
She is crowned with her triumphs and towers,
And blue run the veins in her arms;
Like the lotus, afloat with her flowers,
Her whiteness hath wonderous charms;
Delicious her lips are, with powers
Circean, yet void of alarms;
And the mortal that dreams of her bowers
Leaves his soul in her arms.
Yet should time, ever eager, though olden,
Her fairness despoil and depose;
Should her domes, which at evening are golden,
Dissolve as her Apennine snows;
Should the sceptre, which long she hath holden,
Depart, and the crown from her brows,
And the robes of her splendour be rolled in
The gray dust of her woes;
Should the glory grow dim of her Titians,
Her gondolas drift ’neath the moon;
Should her marbles, mosaics, Venetians,
Evanish and pass as a swoon;
Should her forehead, the fairest of visions,
Sink under the silent lagoon,
And the sea, tombing all her traditions,
Leave a waste for the loon;
Should she melt as a mist evanescent,
Or fade as a myth from a scroll,--
Yet her wraith would arise juvenescent,
Aglow with a great aureole;
Still her glamour eternally crescent,
Supreme o’er the spirit would roll;
And her Name, as a star iridescent,
Light the sky of the soul.
Though in regions celestial there are lands--
Bright lands it were bliss but to see,
Whose towers, built high over star lands,
Of beryl and sardonyx be:
Though cities in fabulous far lands
Loom fair over mountain and lea,--
Yet on earth, in her gloom, or her garlands,
Who so comely as she!
LLOYD MIFFLIN.
BROWNING’S VENICE
This is the loggia Browning loved,
High on the flank of the friendly town;
These are the hills that his keen eye roved,
The green like a cataract leaping down
To the plain that his pen gave new renown.
There to the West what a range of blue!--
The very background Titian drew
To his peerless Loves! O tranquil scene!
Who than thy poet fondlier knew
The peaks and the shore and the lore between!
See! yonder’s his Venice--the valiant Spire,
Highest one of the perfect three,
Guarding the others: the Palace choir
The Temple flashing with opal fire--
Bubble and foam of the sunlit sea.
ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON.
VENICE
If you would see Venice as she is,
Wander by night in silence and alone
Among her towers and sculptured palaces
And read the story she has writ in stone;
Then, as you read, she will upon you cast
The fascination of her wondrous past.
Muse on, and let the silent gondolier
Wind at his will ’mid tortuous, twisting ways
And broad lagoons, with waters wide and clear,
On whose unruffled breast the moonbeam plays;
And move not, speak not, for the mystery
Of Venice is with you on the sea.
Pass, if you will, beneath the five great domes
Of old Saint Mark’s; watch how the glittering height
Soars in quick curves; see how each sunbeam roams
And fills the nave with soft pure amber light;
This is the heart of Venice, and the tomb
Which folds her story in its sacred gloom.
So leave her sunlight, enter now her cells,
By frowning black-browed ports and massy bars,
Where pestilence in foul dank vapour dwells,
Far, far from sun and day, from moon and stars
The only sound when whispering waters glide
In on the bosom of a sluggish tide.
Then turn again into her solitudes,--
Things of to-day will faint and fade like smoke;--
Drift through the darkened nooks where silence broods,
Let memory fall upon you like a cloak:
Venice will rise around you as of old.
Decked out in marble, amethyst, and gold.
But that was years ago; to-day the notes
Of wild free song have left her silver streets;
Her blazoned banner now no longer floats
In aureate folds, no more the sunrise greets;
She lives but in a past so strong and brave
It serves alike for monument and grave.
ALAN SULLIVAN.
GEORGE ELIOT’S IMPRESSION OF VENICE
From Padua to Venice! It was about ten o’clock on a moonlight
night--the 4th of June--that we found ourselves apparently on a railway
in the midst of the sea: we were on the bridge across the lagoon. Soon
we were in a gondola on the Grand Canal, looking out at the moonlit
buildings and water. What stillness! What beauty! Looking out from the
high window of our hotel on the Grand Canal, I felt that it was a pity
to go to bed. Venice was more beautiful than romances had feigned.
And that was the impression that remained, and even deepened, during
our stay of eight days. That quiet which seems the deeper because one
hears the delicious dip of the oar (when not disturbed by clamorous
church bells), leaves the eye in full liberty and strength to take in
the exhaustless loveliness of colour and form.
We were in our gondola by nine o’clock the next morning, and of course
the first point we sought was the Piazza di San Marco. I am glad to
find Ruskin calling the Palace of the Doges one of the two most perfect
buildings in the world.... This spot is a focus of architectural
wonders: but the palace is the crown of them all. The double tier of
columns and arches, with the rich sombreness of their finely outlined
shadows, contrast satisfactorily with the warmth and light and more
continuous surface of the upper part. Even landing on the Piazzetta,
one has a sense, not only of being in an entirely novel scene, but one
where the ideas of a foreign race have poured themselves in without
yet mingling indistinguishably with the pre-existent Italian life. But
this is felt yet more strongly when one has passed along the Piazzetta
and arrived in front of San Marco, with its low arches and domes and
minarets. But perhaps the most striking point to take one’s stand on
is just in front of the white marble guard-house flanking the great
tower--the guard-house with Sansovino’s iron gates before it. On the
left is San Marco, with the two square pillars from St. Jean d’Acre,
standing as isolated trophies; on the right the Piazzetta extends
between the Doge’s palace and the Palazzo Reale to the tall columns
from Constantinople; and in front is the elaborate gateway leading to
the white marble Scala dei Giganti, in the courtyard of the Doge’s
palace. Passing through this gateway and up the staircase, we entered
the gallery which surrounds the court on three sides, and looked down
at the fine sculptured vase-like wells below. Then into the great Sala,
surrounded with the portraits of the Doges: the largest oil-painting
here--or perhaps anywhere else--is the ‘Gloria del Paradiso’ by
Tintoretto, now dark and unlovely. But on the ceiling is a great Paul
Veronese--the ‘Apotheosis of Venice’--which looks as fresh as if it
were painted yesterday, and is a miracle of colour and composition--a
picture full of glory and joy of an earthly, fleshly kind, but without
any touch of coarseness or vulgarity. Below the radiant Venice on
her clouds is a balcony filled with upward-looking spectators; and
below this gallery is a group of human figures with horses. Next to
this Apotheosis, I admire another Coronation of Venice on the ceiling
of another Sala, where Venice is sitting enthroned above the globe
with her lovely face in half-shadow--a creature born with an imperial
attitude. There are other Tintorettos, Veroneses, and Palmas in the
great halls of this palace; but they left me quite indifferent, and
have become vague in my memory. From the splendours of the palace we
crossed the Bridge of Sighs to the prisons, and saw the horrible dark
damp cells that would make the saddest life in the free light and air
seem bright and desirable.
The interior of St. Mark’s is full of interest, but not of beauty: it
is dark and heavy, and ill-suited to the Catholic worship, for the
massive piers that obstruct the view everywhere shut out the sight of
ceremony and procession, as we witnessed at our leisure on the day of
the great procession of Corpus Christi. But everywhere there are relics
of gone-by art to be studied, from mosaics of the Greeks to mosaics of
later artists than the Zuccati; old marble statues, embrowned like a
meerschaum pipe; amazing sculptures in wood; Sansovino doors, ambitious
to rival Ghiberti’s; transparent alabaster columns; an ancient Madonna,
hung with jewels, transported from St. Sophia, in Constantinople; and
everywhere the venerable pavement, once beautiful with its starry
patterns in rich marble, now deadened and sunk to unevenness like the
mud floor of a cabin.
Then outside, on the archway of the principal door, there are
sculptures of a variety that makes one renounce the study of them in
despair at the shortness of one’s time--blended fruits and foliage,
and human groups and animal forms of all kinds. On our first morning
we ascended the great tower, and looked around on the island-city and
the distant mountains and the distant Adriatic. And on the same day
we went to see the Pisani Palace--one of the grand old palaces that
are going to decay.... After this we saw the Church of San Sebastiano,
where Paul Veronese is buried, with his own paintings around, mingling
their colour with the light that falls on his tombstone. There is
one remarkably fine painting of his here: it represents, I think,
some Saints going to martyrdom, but apart from that explanation, is a
composition full of vigorous, spirited figures....
Santa Maria della Salute, built as an _ex voto_ by the Republic on the
cessation of the plague, is one of the most conspicuous churches in
Venice, lifting its white cupolas close on the Grand Canal, where it
widens out towards the Giudecca. Here there are various Tintorettos,
but the only one which is not blackened so as to be unintelligible
is the _Cena_, which is represented as a bustling supper-party, with
attendants and sideboard accessories, in thoroughly Dutch fashion!...
But of all Tintoretto’s paintings, the best preserved, and perhaps
the most complete in execution, is the Miracle of St. Mark at the
Accademia. We saw it the oftener because we were attracted to the
Accademia again and again by Titian’s Assumption, which we placed next
to Peter the Martyr among the pictures at Venice. For a thoroughly rapt
expression I never saw anything equal to the Virgin in this picture;
and the expression is the more remarkable because it is not assisted
by the usual devices to express spiritual ecstasy, such as delicacy
of feature and temperament or pale meagreness. Then what cherubs and
angelic heads bathed in light! The lower part of the picture has no
interest; the attitudes are theatrical; and the Almighty above is as
unbeseeming as painted Almighties usually are: but the middle group
falls short only of the Sistine Madonna.
Among the Venetian painters Giovanni Bellini shines with a mild,
serious light that gives one an affectionate respect towards him. In
the Church of the Scalzi there is an exquisite Madonna by him--probably
his _chef-d’œuvre_--comparable to Raphael’s for sweetness.
And Palma Vecchio, too, must be held in grateful reverence for his
Santa Barbara, standing in calm, grand beauty above an altar in the
Church of Santa Maria Formosa. It is an almost unique presentation of
a hero-woman, standing in calm preparation for martyrdom, without the
slightest air of pietism, yet with the expression of a mind filled with
serious conviction.
We made the journey to Chioggia.... Of all dreamy delights, that of
floating in a gondola along the canals and out on the lagoon is surely
the greatest. We were out one night on the lagoon when the sun was
setting, and the wide waters were flushed with the reddened light. I
should have liked it to last for hours: it is the sort of scene in
which I could most readily forget my own existence, and feel melted
into the general life.
Another charm of evening time was to walk up and down the Piazza of
San Marco as the stars were brightening and look at the grand dim
buildings, and the flock of pigeons flitting about them; or to walk on
to the Bridge of La Paglia and look along the dark canal that runs
under the Bridge of Sighs--its blackness lit up by a gaslight here and
there, and the plash of the oar of blackest gondola slowly advancing....
Farewell, lovely Venice! and away to Verona, across the green plains of
Lombardy, which can hardly look tempting to an eye still filled with
the dreamy beauty it has left behind.
_GEORGE ELIOT’S LIFE AS RELATED IN HER
LETTERS AND JOURNALS._
BEFORE ‘A SURVEY OF THE CITY OF VENICE’
THAT EXQUISITE LARGE PEECE
Could any state on earth immortal be,
_Venice_ by her rare Government is she....
Though, Syren-like, on shore and sea, her face
Enchants all those whom once she doth embrace.
Nor is there any can her beauty prize
But he who hath beheld her with his eyes....
_Venus_ and _Venice_ are, Great Queens in their degree;
_Venus_ is Queen of love, _Venice_ of policy.
JAMES HOWELL.
VENICE: THE GEM OF THE WORLD
AN EPITOME
Having now so amply declared unto you most of the principall things
of this thrise-renowned and illustrious citie, I will briefly by way
of epitome mention most of the other particulars thereof, and so
finally shut up this narration: There are reported to be in Venice
and the circumjacent islands two hundred Churches in which are one
hundred forty three paire organs, fifty foure Monasteries, twenty sixe
Nunneries, fifty sixe Tribunals or places of judgment, seventeene
Hospitals, sixe Companies or Fraternities; one hundred sixty five
marble statues of worthy personages, partly equestriall, partly
pedestriall, which are erected in sundry places of the citie, to the
honour of those that eyther at home have prudently administered the
Commonweale, or abroad valiantly fought for the same. Likewise of brass
there are twenty three, whereof one is that of Bartholomew Coleon.
Also there are twentie seven publique clocks, ten brasen gates, a
hundred and fourteene Towers for bels to hang in, ten brasen horses,
one hundred fifty wels for the common use of the citizens, one hundred
eighty five delectable gardens, ten thousand Gondolaes, foure hundred
and fifty bridges partly stony, partly timber, one hundred and twenty
Palaces, whereof one hundred are very worthy of that name, one hundred
seventy foure courts: and the totall number of soules living in the
citie and about the same is thought to be about five hundred thousand,
something more or lesse. For sometimes there is a catalogue made of all
the persons in the citie of what sexe or age soever they be; as we may
reade there was heretofore in Rome in the time of Augustus Cæsar: and
at the last view there were found in the whole city as many as I have
before spoken.
Thus have I related unto thee as many notable matters of this noble
citie, as either I could see with mine eyes, or heare from the report
of credible and worthy persons, or derive from the monuments of learned
and authenticke writers that I have found in the citie.... And so at
length I finish the treatise of this incomparable city, this most
beautifull Queene, this untainted virgine, the Paradise, the Tempe,
this rich Diademe and most flourishing garland of Christendome:
of which the inhabitants may as proudly vaunt, as I have reade the
Persians have done of their Ormus, who say that if the world were a
ring, then should Ormus be the gemme thereof: the same (I say) may
the Venetians speake of their citie, and much more truely. The sight
whereof hath yeelded unto me such infinite and unspeakable contentment
(I must needes confesse) that even as Albertus Marquesse of Guasto
said, were he put to his choice to be Lord of foure of the fairest
cities of Italy, or the Arsenall of Venice, he would prefer the
Arsenall: In like manner I say, that had there bin an offer made unto
me before I took my journey to Venice, eyther that foure of the richest
mannors of Somerset-shire (wherein I was borne) should be gratis
bestowed upon me if I never saw Venice, or neither of them if I should
see it; although certainly those mannors would do me much more good in
respect of a state of livelyhood to live in the world, then the sight
of Venice: yet notwithstanding, I will ever say while I live, that the
sight of Venice and her resplendent beauty, antiquities, and monuments,
hath by many degrees more contented my mind, and satisfied my desires,
then those foure Lordshippes could possibly have done.
* * * * *
Thus much of the glorious citie of Venice.
THOMAS CORYAT (1611).
VENICE FROM THE SEA
Venus is the fair goddess,
Venice is the fair city;
Sweet star, town enchantress,
Pearls of love and of beauty.
Slumber you the still night through,
Cradled in the briny waters;
For you are sisters, both of you,
Of the ocean-foam were daughters.
IN GEORGE SAND’S ‘THE USCOQUE.’
Fayre Venice, flower of the last world’s delight.
EDW. SPENCER.
Faire Venice, like a spouse in Neptune’s armes.
JOHN HARRINGTON.
To taste in all their fulness his first impressions of
Venice, the traveller should arrive there by sea, at
mid-day, when the sun is high.... He who comes for the
first time to Venice by this route realizes a dream--his
only dream perhaps ever destined to be surpassed by the
reality; and if he knows how to enjoy the things of Nature,
if he can take delight in silver-grey and rose-coloured
reflections in water, if he loves light and colour, the
picturesque life of Italian squares and streets, the good
humour of the people and their gentle speech, which seems
like the twittering of birds, let him only allow himself to
live for a little time under the sky of Venice, and he has
before him a season of happiness without alloy.
CHARLES YRIARTE.
SAILING TOWARDS VENICE
To the sea, the wonderful sea!... To Venice, the strangely floating
city, the queen of the Adriatic!... I knew perfectly that the north of
Italy would present to me a new style of scenery. Venice itself was
really so different to any other Italian city; a richly adorned bride
for the mighty sea. The winged Venetian lion waved on the flag above
me. The sails swelled in the wind, and concealed the coast from me. I
sat upon the right side of the ship, and looked out across the blue,
billowy sea; a young lad sat not far from me, and sang a Venetian song
about the bliss of love and the shortness of life: ‘Kiss the red lips,
on the morrow thou art with the dead; love whilst thy heart is young,
and thy blood is fire and flame! Grey hairs are the flowers of death:
then is the blood ice; then is the flame extinguished! Come into the
light gondola! We sit concealed under its roof, we cover the windows,
we close the door, nobody sees thee, love! We are rocked upon the
waves; the waves embrace, and so do we. Love whilst youth is in thy
blood. Age kills with frost and with snow!’
As he sang, he smiled and nodded to the others around him; and they
sang in chorus, about kissing and loving while the heart was young. It
was a merry song, very merry; and yet it sounded like a magical song
of death in my heart.... My heart desired love: God had ordained it,
who had implanted this feeling within me. I was still young, however:
Venice was a gay city full of beautiful women. And what does the world
give me for my virtue, thought I, for my childlike temper? Ridicule,
and time brings bitterness and grey hairs. Thus thought I, and sang in
chorus with the rest, of kissing and loving, while the heart was yet
young....
The vessel flew onward to the north--to the rich Venice. In the morning
hour, I discerned the white buildings and town of Venice, which seemed
like a crowd of ships with outspread sails. To the left stretched
itself the kingdom of Lombardy, with its flat coast: the Alps seemed
like pale blue mist in the horizon. Here was the heaven wide. Here the
half of the hemisphere could mirror itself in the heart.
In this sweet morning air ... I thought about the history of Venice,
of the city’s wealth and pomp, its independence and supremacy; of the
magnificent doges, and their marriage with the sea. We advanced nearer
and nearer to the sea: I could already distinguish the individual
houses across the lagoons.... The sun shone upon Venice: all the bells
were ringing. I stepped down into the black gondola, and sailed up into
the dead street, where everything was water, not a foot-breadth upon
which to walk. Large buildings stood with open doors, and with steps
down to the water; the water ran into the great doorways, like a canal;
and the palace-court itself seemed only a four-cornered well, into
which people could sail, but scarcely turn the gondola. The water had
left its greenish slime upon the walls: the great marble palaces seemed
as if sinking together: in the broad windows, rough boards were nailed
up to the gilded, half-decayed beams. The proud giant-body seemed to
be falling away piecemeal; the whole had an air of depression about
it. The ringing of the bells ceased, not a sound, excepting the splash
of the oars in the water, was to be heard, and I still saw not a human
being. The magnificent Venice lay like a dead swan upon the waves.
We crossed about into the other streets; small narrow bridges of
masonry hung over the canals; and I now saw people who skipped over me,
in among the houses, and in among the walls even; for I saw no other
streets than those in which the gondolas glided.
‘But where do the people walk?’ inquired I of my gondolier; and he
pointed to small passages by the bridges, between the lofty houses.
Neighbour could reach his hand to neighbour, from the sixth story
across the street; three people could hardly pass each other below,
where not a sunbeam found its way. Our gondola had passed on, and all
was still as death.
HANS ANDERSEN.
‘FABRICS OF ENCHANTMENT PILED TO HEAVEN’
I rode one evening with Count Maddalo
Upon the bank of land which breaks the flow
Of Adria towards Venice: a bare strand
Of hillocks, heaped from ever-shifting sand,
Matted with thistles and amphibious weeds,
Such as from earth’s embrace the salt ooze breeds,
Is this; an uninhabited seaside,
Which the lone fisher, when his nets are dried,
Abandons; and no other object breaks
The waste, but one dwarf tree and some few stakes
Broken and unrepaired, and the tide makes
A narrow space of level sand thereon,
Where ’twas our wont to ride while day went down.
This ride was my delight. I love all waste
And solitary places; where we taste
The pleasure of believing what we see
Is boundless, as we wish our souls to be:
And such was this wide ocean, and this shore
More barren than its billows; and yet more
Than all, with a remembered friend I love
To ride as I then rode;--for the winds drove
The living spray along the sunny air
Into our faces; the blue heavens were bare,
Stripped to their depths by the awakening north;
And, from the waves, sound like delight broke forth
Harmonizing with solitude, and sent
Into our hearts aërial merriment.
So, as we rode, we talked; and the swift thought,
Winging itself with laughter, lingered not,
But flew from brain to brain,--such glee was ours,
Charged with light memories of remembered hours,
None slow enough for sadness: till we came
Homeward, which always makes the spirit tame.
This day had been cheerful but cold, and now
The sun was sinking, and the wind also.
Our talk grew somewhat serious, as may be
Talk interrupted with such raillery
As mocks itself, because it cannot scorn
The thoughts it would extinguish:--’twas forlorn,
Yet pleasing; such as once, so poets tell,
The devils held within the dales of hell,
Concerning God, freewill, and destiny.
Of all that earth has been, or yet may be;
All that vain men imagine or believe,
Or hope can paint, or suffering can achieve,
We descanted; and I (for ever still
Is it not wise to make the best of ill?)
Argued against despondency; but pride
Made my companion take the darker side.
The sense that he was greater than his kind
Had struck, methinks, his eagle spirit blind
By gazing on its own exceeding light.
Meanwhile the sun paused ere it should alight
Over the horizon of the mountains--Oh!
How beautiful is sunset, when the glow
Of heaven descends upon a land like thee,
Thou paradise of exiles, Italy!
Thy mountains, seas, and vineyards, and the towers
Of cities they encircle!--It was ours
To stand on thee, beholding it: and then,
Just where we had dismounted, the Count’s men
Were waiting for us with the gondola.
As those who pause on some delightful way,
Though bent on pleasant pilgrimage, we stood,
Looking upon the evening and the flood,
Which lay between the city and the shore,
Paved with the image of the sky: the hoar
And aery Alps, towards the north, appeared,
Through mist, an heaven-sustaining bulwark, reared
Between the east and west; and half the sky
Was roofed with clouds of rich emblazonry,
Dark purple at the zenith, which still grew
Down the steep west into a wondrous hue
Brighter than burning gold, even to the rent
Where the swift sun yet paused in his descent
Among the many folded hills--they were
Those famous Euganean hills, which bear,
As seen from Lido, through the harbour piles,
The likeness of a clump of peakèd isles--
And then, as if the earth and sea had been
Dissolved into one lake of fire, were seen
Those mountains towering, as from waves of flame,
Around the vaporous sun, from which there came
The inmost purple spirit of light, and made
Their very peaks transparent. ‘Ere it fade,’
Said my companion, ‘I will show you soon
A better station.’ So, o’er the lagoon
We glided; and from that funereal bark
I leaned, and saw the city, and could mark
How from their many isles, in evening’s gleam,
Its temples and its palaces did seem
Like fabrics of enchantment piled to heaven.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
VENICE SEEN IN THE DISTANCE
We ... were entering the fertile territory of the Bassanese. It was
now I beheld groves of olives, and vines clustering the summits of
the tallest elms; pomegranates in every garden, and vases of citron
and orange before almost every door. The softness and transparency of
the air soon told me I was arrived in happier climates, and I felt
sensations of joy and novelty run through my veins, upon beholding this
smiling land of groves and verdure stretched out before me. A few hazy
vapours, I can hardly call them clouds, rested upon the extremities
of the landscape; and, through their medium, the sun cast an oblique
and dewy ray. Peasants were returning home, singing as they went, and
calling to each other over the hills; whilst the women were milking
goats before the wickets of the cottage, and preparing their country
fare....
Our route to Venice lay winding along the variegated plains I had
surveyed from Mosolente; and after dining at Treviso we came in two
hours and a half to Mestre, between grand villas and gardens peopled
with statues. Embarking our baggage at the last-mentioned place, we
stepped into a gondola, whose even motion was very agreeable after the
jolts of a chaise. We were soon out of the canal of Mestre, terminating
by an isle which contains a cell dedicated to the Holy Virgin, peeping
out of a thicket, whence spire up two tall cypresses. Its bells tinkled
as we passed along and dropped some paolis into a net tied at the end
of a pole stretched out to us for that purpose. As soon as we had
doubled the cape of this diminutive island, an expanse of sea opened
to our view, the domes and towers of Venice rising from its bosom. Now
we began to distinguish Murano, St. Michele, St. Giorgio in Alga, and
several other islands, detached from the grand cluster, which I hailed
as old acquaintances; innumerable prints and drawings having long since
made their shapes familiar. Still gliding forward, we every moment
distinguished some new church or palace in the city, suffused with the
rays of the setting sun, and reflected with all their glow of colouring
from the surface of the waters.
The air was calm; the sky cloudless; a faint wind just breathing upon
the deep, lightly bore its surface against the steps of a chapel in
the island of San Secondo, and waved the veil before its portal, as we
rowed by and coasted the walls of its garden overhung with fig-trees
and surmounted by spreading pines. The convent discovers itself through
their branches, built in a style somewhat morisco, and level with the
sea, except where the garden intervenes.
We were now drawing very near the city, and a confused hum began to
interrupt the evening stillness; gondolas were continually passing and
repassing, and the entrance of the Canal Reggio, with all its stir and
bustle, lay before us. Our gondoliers turned with much address through
a crowd of boats and barges that blocked up the way, and rowed smoothly
by the side of a broad pavement, covered with people in all dresses and
of all nations.
WILLIAM BECKFORD.
FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF VENICE
It is easy to feel and to say something obvious about Venice. The
influence of this sea-city is unique, immediate, and unmistakable. But
to express the sober truth of those impressions which remain when the
first astonishment of the Venetian revelation has subsided, when the
spirit of the place has been harmonized through familiarity with our
habitual mood, is difficult.
Venice inspires at first an almost Corybantic rapture. From our
earliest visits, if these have been measured by days rather than
weeks, we carry away with us the memory of sunsets emblazoned in gold
and crimson upon cloud and water; of violet domes and bell-towers
etched against the orange of a western sky; of moonlight silvering
breeze-rippled breadths of liquid blue; of distant islands shimmering
in sun-litten haze; of music and black gliding boats; of labyrinthine
darkness made for mysteries of love and crime; of statue-fretted palace
fronts; of brazen clangour and a moving crowd; of pictures by earth’s
proudest painters, cased in gold on walls of council chambers where
Venice sat enthroned a queen, where nobles swept the floors with
robes of Tyrian brocade. These reminiscences will be attended by an
ever-present sense of loneliness and silence in the world around; the
sadness of a limitless horizon, the solemnity of an unbroken arch of
heaven, the calm and greyness of evening on the lagoons, the pathos of
a marble city crumbling to its grave in mud and brine.
These first impressions of Venice are true. Indeed they are inevitable.
They abide, and form a glowing background for all subsequent pictures,
toned more austerely, and painted in more lasting hues of truth upon
the brain. Those have never felt Venice at all who have not known
this primal rapture, or who perhaps expected more of colour, more of
melodrama, from a scene which nature and the art of man have made the
richest in these qualities. Yet the mood engendered by this first
experience is not destined to be permanent. It contains an element of
unrest and unreality which vanishes upon familiarity. From the blare of
that triumphal bourdon of brass instruments emerge the delicate voices
of violin and clarinet. To the contrasted passions of our earliest love
succeed a multitude of sweet and fanciful emotions. It is my present
purpose to recapture some of the impressions made by Venice in more
tranquil moods. Memory might be compared to a kaleidoscope. Far away
from Venice I raise the wonder-working tube, allow the glittering
fragments to settle as they please, and with words attempt to render
something of the patterns I behold.
JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS.
TOWARDS VENICE
The gates were opened and we passed into the sea. There was a ‘breath
of Venice in the breeze;’ the odour of the lagoons, clear and pungent;
a scent that seems to penetrate the being, to reach the very heart,
and charms it to surrender. The evening wind sprang up behind, and we
set our sail and prow for Venice, twenty-five miles away across the
pearly grey lagoon. On and on we sailed while the day faded about us,
deepening slowly into night. A fiery sunset flamed itself to death
behind the Euganean Hills. The expanse of water quickened from grey
to crimson, to gold, to orange, to pale burnished copper, dimpled and
shadowed by the tiny waves, to purple as the night came down; then
all this glory of colour withdrew once more into the pervasive pearly
grey, as the last light died in the western heavens, and darkness stole
silently over the waters....
It is the people and the place, the union and interpenetration of
the two, the sea life of these dwellers in the city that is always
‘just putting out to sea,’ which constitutes for many the peculiar
and enduring charm of Venice. The people and the place so intimately
intermingled through all their long history, have grown into a single
life charged with the richness of sea-nature and the warmth of human
emotion. From both together escapes this essence or soul of Venice
which we would clasp with all the ardour of a lover. Venice, her
lagoons, her seafaring folk, become the object of a passionate idolatry
which admits no other allegiance in the hearts that have known its
power. To leave her is a sure regret; to return a certain joy.
HORATIO F. BROWN.
THE APPROACH TO VENICE
We come to a low wharf or quay at the extremity of a canal, with long
steps on each side down to the water, which latter we fancy for an
instant has become black with stagnation; another glance undeceives
us,--it is covered with the black boats of Venice. We enter one of
them, rather to try if they be real boats or not, than with any
definite purpose, and glide away; at first feeling as if the water were
yielding continually beneath the boat and letting her sink into soft
vacancy. It is something clearer than any water we have seen lately,
and of a pale green; the banks only two or three feet above it, of mud
and rank grass, with here and there a stunted tree; gliding swiftly
past the small casement of the gondola, as if they were dragged by upon
a painted scene.
Stroke by stroke, we count the plunges of the oar, each heaving up
the side of the boat slightly as her silver beak shoots forward. We
lose patience, and extricate ourselves from the cushions: the sea
air blows keenly by, as we stand leaning on the roof of the floating
cell. In front, nothing to be seen but long canal and level bank; to
the west, the tower of Mestre is lowering fast, and behind it there
have risen purple shades, of the colour of dead rose-leaves, all round
the horizon, feebly defined against the afternoon sky,--the Alps of
Bassano. Forward still: the endless canal bends at last, and then
breaks into intricate angles about some low bastions, now torn to
pieces and staggering in ugly rents towards the water,--the bastions
of the fort of Malghera. Another turn, and another perspective of
canal; but not interminable. The silver beak cleaves it fast,--it
widens: the rank grass of the banks sinks lower and lower, and at last
dies in tawny knots along an expanse of weedy shore. Over it, on the
right, but a few years back, we might have seen the lagoon stretching
to the horizon, and the warm southern sky bending over Malamocco to
the sea. Now we can see nothing but what seems a low and monotonous
dockyard wall, with flat arches to let the tide through it;--this is
the railroad bridge, conspicuous above all things. But at the end of
those dismal arches there rises, out of the wide water, a straggling
line of low and confused brick buildings, which, but for the many
towers which are mingled among them, might be the suburbs of an English
manufacturing town. Four or five domes, pale, and, apparently at a
greater distance, rise over the centre of the line; but the object
which first catches the eye is a sullen cloud of black smoke brooding
over the northern half of it, and which issues from the belfry of a
church.
It is Venice.
JOHN RUSKIN.
THE THRONE OF VENICE
In the olden days of travelling, now to return no more, in which
distance could not be vanquished without toil, but in which that
toil was rewarded, partly by the power of deliberate survey of the
countries through which the journey lay, and partly by the happiness
of the evening hours, when, from the top of the last hill he had
surmounted, the traveller beheld the quiet village where he was to
rest, scattered among the meadows beside its valley stream; or, from
the long hoped for turn in the dusty perspective of the causeway,
saw, for the first time, the towers of some famed city, faint in the
rays of sunset--hours of peaceful and thoughtful pleasure, for which
the rush of the arrival in the railway station is perhaps not always,
or to all men, an equivalent,--in those days, I say, when there was
something more to be anticipated and remembered in the first aspect of
each successive halting-place, than a new arrangement of glass roofing
and iron girder, there were few moments of which the recollection was
more fondly cherished by the traveller, than that which ... brought him
within sight of Venice, as his gondola shot into the open lagoon from
the canal of Mestre. Not but that the aspect of the city itself was
generally the source of some slight disappointment, for, seen in this
direction, its buildings are far less characteristic than those of the
other great towns of Italy; but this inferiority was partly disguised
by distance, and more than atoned for by the strange rising of its
walls and towers out of the midst, as it seemed, of the deep sea, for
it was impossible that the mind or the eye could at once comprehend
the shallowness of the vast sheet of water which stretched away in
leagues of rippling lustre to the north and south, or trace the narrow
line of islets bounding it to the east. The salt breeze, the white
moaning sea-birds, the masses of black weed separating and disappearing
gradually, in knots of heaving shoal, under the advance of the steady
tide, all proclaimed it to be indeed the ocean on whose bosom the
great city rested so calmly; not such blue, soft, lake-like ocean
as bathes the Neapolitan promontories, or sleeps beneath the marble
rocks of Genoa, but a sea with the bleak power of our own northern
waves, yet subdued into a strange spacious rest, and changed from
its angry pallor into a field of burnished gold, as the sun declined
behind the belfry tower of the lonely island church, fitly named ‘St.
George of the Seaweed.’ As the boat drew nearer to the city, the coast
which the traveller had just left sank behind him into one long, low,
sad-coloured line, tufted irregularly with brushwood and willows: but,
at what seemed its northern extremity, the hills of Arqua rose in a
dark cluster of purple pyramids, balanced on the bright mirage of the
lagoon; two or three smooth surges of inferior hill extended themselves
about their roots, and beyond these, beginning with the craggy peaks
above Vicenza, the chain of the Alps girded the whole horizon to the
north--a wall of jagged blue, here and there showing through its clefts
a wilderness of misty precipices, fading far back into the recesses of
Cadore, and itself rising and breaking away eastward, where the sun
struck opposite upon its snow, into mighty fragments of peaked light,
standing up behind the barred clouds of evening, one after another,
countless, the crown of the Adrian Sea, until the eye turned back from
pursuing them, to rest upon the nearer burning of the campaniles of
Murano, and on the great city, where it magnified itself along the
waves, as the quick, silent pacing of the gondola drew nearer and
nearer. And at last, when its walls were reached, and the outmost of
its untrodden streets was entered, not through towered gate or guarded
rampart, but as a deep inlet between two rocks of coral in the Indian
Sea; when first upon the traveller’s sight opened the long ranges of
columned palaces,--each with its black boat moored at the portal,--each
with its image cast down, beneath its feet, upon that green pavement
which every breeze broke into new fantasies of rich tessellation;
when first, at the extremity of the bright vista, the shadowy Rialto
threw its colossal curve slowly forth from behind the palace of the
Camerlenghi; that strange curve, so delicate, so adamantine, strong
as a mountain cavern, graceful as a bow just bent; when first, before
its moonlike circumference was all risen, the gondolier’s cry, ‘Ah!
Stalì,’ struck sharp upon the ear, and the prow turned aside under the
mighty cornices that half met over the narrow canal, where the splash
of the water followed close and loud, ringing along the marble by the
boat’s side; and when at last that boat darted forth upon the breadth
of silver sea, across which the front of the Ducal palace, flushed with
its sanguine veins, looks to the snowy dome of Our Lady of Salvation,
it was no marvel that the mind should be so deeply entranced by the
visionary charm of a scene so beautiful and so strange, as to forget
the darker truths of its history and its being. Well might it seem that
such a city had owed her existence rather to the rod of the enchanter
than the fear of the fugitive; that the waters which encircled her had
been chosen for the mirror of her state, rather than the shelter of her
nakedness; and that all which in nature was wild or merciless,--Time
and Decay, as well as the waves and tempests,--had been won to adorn
her instead of to destroy, and might still spare, for ages to come,
that beauty which seemed to have fixed for its throne the sands of the
hour-glass as well as of the sea.
And although the last few eventful years, fraught with change to the
face of the whole earth, have been more fatal in their influence on
Venice than the five hundred that preceded them; though the noble
landscape of approach to her can now be seen no more, or seen only
by a glance, as the engine slackens its rushing on the iron line; and
though many of her palaces are for ever defaced, and many in desecrated
ruins, there is still so much of magic in her aspect that the hurried
traveller, who must leave her before the wonder of that first aspect
has been worn away, may still be led to forget the humility of her
origin, and to shut his eyes to the depth of her desolation. They, at
least, are little to be envied, in whose hearts the great charities
of the imagination lie dead, and for whom the fancy has no power to
repress the importunity of painful impressions, or to raise what is
ignoble, and disguise what is discordant, in a scene so rich in its
remembrances, so surpassing in its beauty. But for this work of the
imagination there must be no permission during the task which is before
us. The impotent feelings of romance, so singularly characteristic of
this century, may indeed gild, but never save, the remains of those
mightier ages to which they are attached like climbing flowers; and
they must be torn away from the magnificent fragments, if we would
see them as they stood in their own strength. Those feelings, always
as fruitless as they are fond, are in Venice not only incapable of
protecting, but even of discerning, the objects to which they ought to
have been attached. The Venice of modern fiction and drama is a thing
of yesterday, a mere efflorescence of decay, a stage dream which the
first ray of daylight must dissipate into dust. No prisoner, whose
name is worth remembering, or whose sorrow deserved sympathy, ever
crossed that ‘Bridge of Sighs,’ which is the centre of the Byronic
ideal of Venice; no great merchant of Venice ever saw that Rialto under
which the traveller now passes with breathless interest: the statue
which Byron makes Faliero address as of one of his great ancestors
was erected to a soldier of fortune a hundred and fifty years after
Faliero’s death; and the most conspicuous parts of the city have been
so entirely altered in the course of the last three centuries that if
Henry Dandolo or Francis Foscari could be summoned from their tombs,
and stood each on the deck of his galley at the entrance of the Grand
Canal, that renowned entrance, the painter’s favourite subject, the
novelist’s favourite scene, where the water first narrows by the
steps of the Church of La Salute,--the mighty Doges would not know in
what part of the world they stood, would literally not recognize one
stone of the great city, for whose sake, and by whose ingratitude,
their grey hairs had been brought down with bitterness to the grave.
The remains of _their_ Venice lie hidden behind the cumbrous masses
which were the delight of the nation in its dotage; hidden in many a
grass-grown court, and silent pathway, and lightless canal, where the
slow waves have sapped their foundations for five hundred years, and
must soon prevail over them for ever. It must be our task to glean and
gather them forth, and restore out of them some faint image of the lost
city; more gorgeous a thousandfold than that which now exists, yet not
created in the day-dream of the prince, nor by the ostentation of the
noble, but built by iron hands and patient hearts, contending against
the adversity of nature and the fury of man, so that its wonderfulness
cannot be grasped by the indolence of imagination, but only after frank
inquiry into the true nature of that wild and solitary scene, whose
restless tides and trembling sands did indeed shelter the birth of the
city, but long denied her dominion.
When the eye falls casually on a map of Europe, there is no feature by
which it is more likely to be arrested than the strange sweeping loop
formed by the junction of the Alps and Apennines, and enclosing the
great basin of Lombardy. This return of the mountain chain upon itself
causes a vast difference in the character of the distribution of its
débris on its opposite sides. The rock fragments and sediments which
the torrents on the north side of the Alps bear into the plains are
distributed over a vast extent of country, and, though here and there
lodged in beds of enormous thickness, soon permit the firm substrata
to appear from underneath them; but all the torrents which descend
from the southern side of the High Alps, and from the northern slope
of the Apennines, meet concentrically in the recess or mountain bay
which the two ridges enclose; every fragment which thunder breaks
out of their battlements, and every grain of dust which the summer
rain washes from their pastures, is at last laid at rest in the blue
sweep of the Lombardic plain; and that plain must have risen within
its rocky barriers as a cup fills with wine, but for two contrary
influences which continually depress, or disperse from its surface, the
accumulation of the ruins of ages.
I will not tax the reader’s faith in modern science by insisting on
the singular depression of the surface of Lombardy, which appears for
many centuries to have taken place steadily and continually; the main
fact with which we have to do is the gradual transport, by the Po and
its great collateral rivers, of vast masses of the finer sediment to
the sea. The character of the Lombardic plains is most strikingly
expressed by the ancient walls of its cities, composed for the most
part of large rounded Alpine pebbles alternating with narrow courses
of brick; and was curiously illustrated in 1848, by the ramparts of
these same pebbles thrown up four or five feet high round every field,
to check the Austrian cavalry in the battle under the walls of Verona.
The finer dust among which these pebbles are dispersed is taken up by
the rivers, fed into continual strength by the Alpine snow, so that,
however pure their waters may be when they issue from the lakes at
the foot of the great chain, they become of the colour and opacity of
clay before they reach the Adriatic; the sediment which they bear is
at once thrown down as they enter the sea, forming a vast belt of low
land along the eastern coast of Italy. The powerful stream of the Po of
course builds forward the fastest; on each side of it, north and south,
there is a tract of marsh, fed by more feeble streams, and less liable
to rapid change than the delta of the central river. In one of these
tracts is built Ravenna, and in the other VENICE.
What circumstances directed the peculiar arrangement of this great belt
of sediment in the earliest times it is not here the place to inquire.
It is enough for us to know that from the mouths of the Adige to those
of the Piave there stretches, at a variable distance of from three to
five miles from the actual shore, a bank of sand, divided into long
islands by narrow channels of sea. The space between this bank and the
true shore consists of the sedimentary deposits from these and other
rivers, a great plain of calcareous mud, covered, in the neighbourhood
of Venice, by the sea at high water, to the depth in most places of a
foot or a foot and a half, and nearly everywhere exposed at low tide,
but divided by an intricate network of narrow and winding channels,
from which the sea never retires. In some places, according to the run
of the currents, the land has risen into marshy islets, consolidated,
some by art, and some by time, into ground firm enough to be built
upon, or fruitful enough to be cultivated: in others, on the contrary,
it has not reached the sea-level; so that, at the average low water,
shallow lakelets glitter among its irregularly exposed fields of
seaweed. In the midst of the largest of these, increased in importance
by the confluence of several large river channels towards one of
the openings in the sea bank, the city of Venice itself is built,
on a crowded cluster of islands; the various plots of higher ground
which appear to the north and south of this central cluster have at
different periods been also thickly inhabited, and now bear, according
to their size, the remains of cities, villages, or isolated convents
and churches, scattered among spaces of open ground, partly waste and
encumbered by ruins, partly under cultivation for the supply of the
metropolis.
The average rise and fall of the tide is about three feet (varying
considerably with the seasons); but this fall, on so flat a shore,
is enough to cause continual movement in the waters, and in the main
canals to produce a reflux which frequently runs like a mill stream.
At high water no land is visible for many miles to the north or south
of Venice, except in the form of small islands crowned with towers or
gleaming with villages: there is a channel, some three miles wide,
between the city and the mainland, and some mile and a half wide
between it and the sandy breakwater called the Lido, which divides the
lagoon from the Adriatic, but which is so low as hardly to disturb the
impression of the city’s having been built in the midst of the ocean,
although the secret of its true position is partly, yet not painfully,
betrayed by the clusters of piles set to mark the deep-water channels,
which undulate far away in spotty chains like the studded backs of
huge sea-snakes, and by the quick glittering of the crisped and
crowded waves that flicker and dance before the strong winds upon the
unlifted level of the shallow sea. But the scene is widely different
at low tide. A fall of eighteen or twenty inches is enough to show
ground over the greater part of the lagoon; and at the complete ebb
the city is seen standing in the midst of a dark plain of seaweed, of
gloomy green, except only where the larger branches of the Brenta and
its associated streams converge towards the port of the Lido. Through
this salt and sombre plain the gondola and the fishing-boat advance
by tortuous channels, seldom more than four or five feet deep, and
often so choked with slime that the heavier keels furrow the bottom
till their crossing tracts are seen through the clear sea water like
the ruts upon a wintry road, and the oar leaves blue gashes upon the
ground at every stroke, or is entangled among the thick weed that
fringes the banks with the weight of its sullen waves, leaning to and
fro upon the uncertain sway of the exhausted tide. The scene is often
profoundly oppressive, even at this day, when every plot of higher
ground bears some fragment of fair building: but, in order to know
what it was once, let the traveller follow in his boat at evening
the windings of some unfrequented channel far into the midst of the
melancholy plain; let him remove, in his imagination, the brightness
of the great city that still extends itself in the distance, and the
walls and towers from the islands that are near; and so wait, until
the bright investiture, and sweet warmth of the sunset are withdrawn
from the waters, and the black desert of their shore lies in its
nakedness beneath the night, pathless, comfortless, infirm, lost in
dark languor and fearful silence, except where the salt runlets plash
into the tideless pools, or the sea-birds flit from their margins with
a questioning cry; and he will be enabled to enter in some sort into
the horror of heart with which this solitude was anciently chosen by
man for his habitation. They little thought, who first drove the stakes
into the sand, and strewed the ocean reeds for their rest, that their
children were to be the princes of that ocean, and their palaces its
pride; and yet, in the great natural laws that rule that sorrowful
wilderness, let it be remembered what strange preparation had been made
for the things which no human imagination could have foretold, and how
the whole existence and fortune of the Venetian nation were anticipated
or compelled, by the setting of those bars and doors to the rivers and
the sea. Had deeper currents divided their islands, hostile navies
would again and again have reduced the rising city into servitude; had
stronger surges beaten their shores all the richness and refinement of
the Venetian architecture must have been exchanged for the walls and
bulwarks of an ordinary seaport. Had there been no tide, as in other
parts of the Mediterranean, the narrow canals of the city would have
become noisome, and the marsh in which it was built pestiferous. Had
the tide been only a foot or eighteen inches higher in its rise, the
water-access to the doors of the palaces would have been impossible:
even as it is, there is sometimes a little difficulty, at the ebb, in
landing without setting foot upon the lower and slippery steps; and the
highest tides sometimes enter the courtyards, and overflow the entrance
halls. Eighteen inches more of difference between the level of the
flood and ebb would have rendered the doorsteps of every palace, at low
water, a treacherous mass of weeds and limpets, and the entire system
of water-carriage for the higher classes, in their easy and daily
intercourse, must have been done away with. The streets of the city
would have been widened, its network of canals filled up, and all the
peculiar character of the place and the people destroyed.
The reader may perhaps have felt some pain in the contrast between
this faithful view of the site of the Venetian Throne and the romantic
conception of it which we ordinarily form: but this pain, if he have
felt it, ought to be more than counterbalanced by the value of the
instance thus afforded to us at once of the inscrutableness and the
wisdom of the ways of God. If, two thousand years ago, we had been
permitted to watch the slow settling of the slime of those turbid
rivers into the polluted sea, and the gaining upon its deep and fresh
waters of the lifeless, impassable, unvoyageable plain, how little
could we have understood the purpose with which those islands were
shaped out of the void, and the torpid waters enclosed with their
desolate walls of sand! How little could we have known, any more than
of what now seems to us most distressful, dark, and objectless, the
glorious aim which was then in the mind of Him in whose hands are all
the corners of the earth! how little imagined that in the laws which
were stretching forth the gloomy margins of those fruitless banks,
and feeding the bitter grass among their shallows, there was indeed a
preparation, and _the only preparation possible_, for the founding of
a city which was to be set like a golden clasp on the girdle of the
earth, to write her history on the white scrolls of the sea-surges,
and to word it in their thunder, and to gather and give forth, in
world-wide pulsation, the glory of the West and of the East, from the
burning heart of her Fortitude and Splendour!
JOHN RUSKIN.
THE JEWELLED CROWN OF VENICE
In days before the railway and its bridge had done away with the island
apartness of Venice, it seemed like a dream of Young Romance to drop
through the narrow canal from Mestre on the mainland and come upon the
far-spread shimmer of the silvery lagoon; and, rowing slowly, see,
through veils of morning mist, the distant towers, walls, churches,
palaces, rise slowly, one after another, out of the breast of the
waters--silver and rose and gold out of the sapphire, azure, and pale
grey--a jewelled crown of architecture on the head of slumbering ocean.
We forgot that fairyland had been driven from the earth, and saw, or
dreamed we saw, the city of Morgan le Fay, or the palaces of the Happy
Isles where the Everyoung found refuge in the sea--so lovely and so dim
the city climbed out of the deep.
That vision is gone, but even now there are few visions more startling
in their charm than that which befalls the weary traveller when, coming
out of the dark station, he finds himself suddenly upon the marble
quay, with a river of glittering waters before his eyes, fringed with
churches, palaces, and gardens; the broad stream alive with black
gondolas, shouts in his ears like the shouting of seamen; and, lower
in note and cry, but heard more distinctly than all other sounds, the
lapping of the water on the steps of stone, the rushing of the tide
against the boats. Midst all the wonders of the city, this it is which
first seizes on his heart. It is the first note of the full melody of
charm which the sea in Venice will play upon his imagination for many a
happy day.
STOPFORD A. BROOKE.
VENICE FROM THE EUGANEAN HILLS
Ay, many Lowering islands lie
In the waters of wide Agony:
To such a one this morn was led,
My bark by soft winds piloted:
’Mid the mountains Euganean
I stood listening to the pæan,
With which the legioned rooks did hail
The sun’s uprise majestical;
Gathering round with wings all hoar,
Through the dewy mist they soar
Like grey shades, till the eastern heaven
Bursts, and then, as clouds of even,
Flecked with fire and azure, lie
In the unfathomable sky,
So their plumes of purple grain,
Starred with drops of golden rain,
Gleam above the sunlight woods,
As in silent multitudes
On the morning’s fitful gale
Through the broken mist they sail,
And the vapours cloven and gleaming
Follow down the dark steep streaming,
Till all is bright, and clear, and still,
Round the solitary hill.
Beneath is spread, like a green sea,
The waveless plain of Lombardy,
Bounded by the vaporous air,
Islanded by cities fair;
Underneath day’s azure eyes
Ocean’s nursling, Venice lies,
A peopled labyrinth of walls,
Amphitrite’s destined halls,
Which her hoary sire now paves
With his blue and beaming waves.
Lo! the sun upsprings behind,
Broad, red, radiant, half reclined
On the level quivering line
Of the waters crystalline;
And before that chasm of light,
As within a furnace bright,
Column, tower, and dome, and spire,
Shine like obelisks of fire,
Pointing with inconstant motion
From the altar of dark ocean
To the sapphire-tinted skies;
As the flames of sacrifice
From the marble shrines did rise,
As to pierce the dome of gold
Where Apollo spoke of old.
Sun-girt City, thou hast been
Ocean’s child, and then his queen
Now is come a darker day,
And thou soon must be his prey,
If the power that raised thee here
Hallow so thy watery bier.
A less drear ruin then than now,
With thy conquest-branded brow
Stooping to the slave of slaves
From thy throne, among the waves
Wilt thou be, when the seamew
Flies, as once before it flew,
O’er thine isles depopulate,
And all is in its ancient state,
Save where many a palace gate
With green sea-flowers overgrown
Like a rock of ocean’s own
Topples o’er the abandoned sea
As the tides change sullenly.
The fisher on his watery way,
Wandering at the close of day,
Will spread his sail and seize his oar
Till he pass the gloomy shore,
Lest thy dead should, from their sleep
Bursting o’er the starlight deep,
Lead a rapid masque of death
O’er the waters of his path.
Those who alone thy towers behold
Quivering through aerial gold,
As I now behold them here,
Would imagine not they were
Sepulchres, where human forms,
Like pollution-nourished worms
To the corpse of greatness cling,
Murdered, and now mouldering:
But if Freedom should awake
In her omnipotence, and shake
From the Celtic Anarch’s hold
All the keys of dungeons cold,
Where a hundred cities lie
Chained like thee, ingloriously,
Thou and all thy sister band
Might adorn this sunny land,
Twining memories of old time
With new virtues more sublime;
If not, perish thou and they,
Clouds which stain truth’s rising day
By her sun consumed away,
Earth can spare ye: while like flowers,
In the waste of years and hours,
From your dust new nations spring
With more kindly blossoming.
Perish! let there only be
Floating o’er thy hearthless sea,
As the garment of thy sky
Clothes the world immortally,
One remembrance, more sublime
Than the tattered pall of time,
Which scarce hides thy visage wan;
That a tempest-cleaving swan
Of the songs of Albion,
Driven from his ancestral streams
By the might of evil dreams,
Found a nest in thee; and Ocean
Welcomed him with such emotion
That its joy grew his, and sprung
From his lips like music flung
O’er a mighty thunder-fit,
Chastening terror: what though yet
Poesy’s unfailing river,
Which through Albion winds for ever,
Lashing with melodious wave
Many a sacred poet’s grave,
Mourn its latest nursling fled!
What though thou with all thy dead
Scarce can for this fame repay
Aught thine own,--oh, rather say,
Though thy sins and slaveries foul
Overcloud a sunlike soul!
As the ghost of Homer clings
Round Scamander’s wasting springs;
As divinest Shakespeare’s might
Fills Avon and the world with light
Like omniscient power, which he
Imaged ’mid mortality;
As the love from Petrarch’s urn,
Yet amid yon hills doth burn,
A quenchless lamp, by which the heart
Sees things unearthly; so thou art,
Mighty spirit: so shall be
The city that did refuge thee.
Lo, the sun floats up the sky
Like thought-wingèd Liberty,
Till the universal light
Seems to level plain and height;
From the sea a mist has spread,
And the beams of morn lie dead
On the towers of Venice now,
Like its glory long ago.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
THE CITY OF ENCHANTMENT
I think there can be nothing else in the world so full of glittering
and exquisite surprise as that first glimpse of Venice which the
traveller catches as he issues from the railway station by night, and
looks upon her peerless strangeness. There is something in the blessed
breath of Italy (how quickly; coming South, you know it, and how bland
it is, after the harsh, transalpine air!) which prepares you for your
nocturnal advent into the place; and O you! whoever you are, that
journey toward this enchanted city for the first time, let me tell you
how happy I count you! There lies before you for your pleasure the
spectacle of such singular beauty as no picture can ever show you nor
book tell you,--beauty which you shall feel perfectly but once, and
regret for ever.
For my own part, as the gondola slipped away from the blaze and bustle
of the station down the gloom and silence of the broad canal, I forgot
that I had been freezing two days and nights; that I was at that moment
very cold and a little homesick. I could at first feel nothing but that
beautiful silence, broken only by the star-silvered dip of the oars.
Then on either hand I saw stately palaces rise grey and lofty from
the dark waters, holding here and there a lamp against their faces,
which brought balconies, and columns, and carven arches into momentary
relief, and threw long streams of crimson into the canal. I could see
by that uncertain glimmer how fair was all, but not how sad and old;
and so, unhaunted by any pang for the decay that afterward saddened
me amid the forlorn beauty of Venice, I glided on. I have no doubt it
was a proper time to think all the fantastic things in the world, and
I thought them; but they passed vaguely through my mind, without at
all interrupting the sensations of sight and sound. Indeed, the past
and present mixed here, and the moral and material were blent in the
sentiment of utter novelty and surprise. The quick boat slid through
old troubles of mine, and unlooked-for events gave it the impulse that
carried it beyond, and safely around sharp corners of life. And all
the while I knew that this was a progress through narrow and crooked
canals, and past marble angles of palaces. But I did not know then that
this fine confusion of sense and spirit was the first faint impression
of the charm of life in Venice.
Dark, funereal barges like my own had flitted by, and the gondoliers
had warned each other at every turning with hoarse, lugubrious cries;
the lines of balconied palaces had never ended;--here and there at
their doors larger craft were moored, with dim figures of men moving
uncertainly about on them. At last we had passed abruptly out of the
Grand Canal into one of the smaller channels, and from comparative
light into a darkness only remotely affected by some far-streaming
corner lamp. But always the pallid, stately palaces; always the dark
heaven with its trembling stars above, and the dark water with its
trembling stars below; but now innumerable bridges, and an utter
lonesomeness, and ceaseless sudden turns and windings. One could
not resist a vague feeling of anxiety, in these strait and solitary
passages, which was part of the strange enjoyment of the time, and
which was referable to the novelty, the hush, the darkness, and the
piratical appearance and unaccountable pauses of the gondoliers. Was
not this Venice, and is not Venice for ever associated with bravoes and
unexpected dagger-thrusts? That valise of mine might represent fabulous
wealth to the uncultivated imagination. Who, if I made an outcry, could
understand the Facts of the Situation--(as we say in the journals)?
To move on was relief; to pause was regret for past transgressions
mingled with good resolutions for the future. But I felt the liveliest
mixture of all these emotions, when, slipping from the cover of a
bridge, the gondola suddenly rested at the foot of a stairway before a
closely-barred door. The gondoliers rang and rang again, while their
passenger ‘divided the swift mind,’ in the wonder whether a door so
grimly bolted and austerely barred could possibly open into a hotel,
with cheerful overcharges for candles and service. But as soon as
the door opened, and he beheld the honest swindling countenance of a
hotel _portier_, he felt secure against everything but imposture, and
all wild absurdities of doubt and conjecture at once faded from his
thought, when the _portier_ suffered the gondoliers to make him pay a
florin too much.
So, I had arrived in Venice, and I had felt the influence of that
complex spell which she lays upon the stranger. I had caught the most
alluring glimpses of the beauty which cannot wholly perish while any
fragment of her sculptured walls nods to its shadow in the canal; I had
been penetrated by a deep sense of the mystery of the place, and I had
been touched already by the anomaly of modern life amid scenes where
its presence offers, according to the humour in which it is studied,
constant occasion for annoyance or delight, enthusiasm or sadness....
I yet felt curiously at home in Venice from the first. I believe it
was because I had, after my own fashion, loved the beautiful that I
here found the beautiful, where it is supreme, full of society and
friendship, speaking a language which, even in its unfamiliar forms, I
could partly understand, and at once making me a citizen of that Venice
from which I shall never be exiled. It was not in the presence of the
great and famous monuments of art alone that I felt at home--indeed,
I could as yet understand their excellence and grandeur only very
imperfectly--but wherever I wandered through the quaint and marvellous
city, I found the good company of ‘The fair, the old;’ and to tell the
truth, I think it is the best society in Venice, and I learned to turn
to it later from other companionship with a kind of relief.
W. D. HOWELLS.
IN VENICE
An hour before sunset I arrived at Fusina, and beheld, four or five
miles out at sea, the towers and cupolas of Venice suffused with a
rich golden light, and rising out of the bright blue waters. Not an
exclamation escaped me. I felt like a man who has achieved a great
object. I was full of calm exultation, but the strange incident of the
morning made me serious and pensive.
As our gondolas glided over the great lagoon, the excitement of the
spectacle reanimated me. The buildings that I had so fondly studied in
books and pictures rose up before me. I knew them all; I required no
cicerone. One by one, I caught the hooded cupolas of St. Mark, the tall
Campanile red in the sun, the Morescoe Palace of the Doges, the deadly
Bridge of Sighs, and the dark structure to which it leads. Here my
gondola quitted the lagoon, and, turning up a small canal, and passing
under a bridge which connected the quays, stopped at the steps of a
palace.
I ascended a staircase of marble, I passed through a gallery crowded
with statues, I was ushered into spacious apartments, the floors of
which were marble and the hangings satin. The ceilings were painted
by Tintoretto and his scholars, and were full of Turkish trophies and
triumphs over the Ottomite. The furniture was of the same rich material
as the hangings, and the gilding, although of two hundred years’
duration, as bright and burnished as the costly equipment of a modern
palace. From my balcony of blinds I looked upon the great lagoon. It
was one of those glorious sunsets which render Venice, in spite of
her degradation, still famous. The sky and sea vied in the brilliant
multiplicity of their blended tints. The tall shadows of her Palladian
churches flung themselves over the glowing and transparent wave out of
which they sprang. The quays were crowded with joyous groups, and the
black gondolas flitted like sea-serpents, over the red and rippling
waters.
I hastened to the Place of St. Mark. It was crowded and illuminated.
Three gorgeous flags waved on the mighty staffs, which are opposite to
the church in all the old drawings, and which once bore the standards
of Candia, and Cyprus, and the Morea. The coffee-houses were full, and
gay parties, seated on chairs in the open air, listened to the music
of military bands, while they refreshed themselves with confectionery
so rich and fanciful that it excites the admiration of all travellers,
but which I since discovered in Turkey to be Oriental. The variety of
costume was also great. The dress of the lower orders in Venice is
still unchanged; many of the middle classes yet wear the cap and cloak.
The Hungarian and the German military, and the bearded Jew, with his
black velvet cap and flowing robes, are observed with curiosity. A few
days also before my arrival, the Austrian squadron had carried into
Venice a Turkish ship and two Greek vessels, which had violated the
neutrality. Their crews now mingled with the crowd. I beheld, for the
first time, the haughty and turbaned Ottoman, sitting crossed-legged
on his carpet under a colonnade, sipping his coffee and smoking a
long chibouque, and the Greeks, with their small red caps, their high
foreheads, and arched eyebrows.
Can this be modern Venice, I thought? Can this be the silent, and
gloomy, and decaying city, over whose dishonourable misery I have so
often wept? Could it ever have been more enchanting? Are not these
indeed still subjects of a Doge, and still the bridegrooms of the
ocean? Alas, the brilliant scene was as unusual as unexpected, and
was accounted for by its being the feast day of a favourite Saint.
Nevertheless, I rejoiced at the unaccustomed appearance of the city at
my entrance, and still I recall with pleasure the delusive moments,
when, strolling about the Place of St. Mark, the first evening that I
was in Venice, I mingled for a moment in a scene that reminded me of
her lost light-heartedness, and of that unrivalled gaiety which so long
captivated polished Europe.
The moon was now in her pride. I wandered once more to the quay,
and heard for the first time a serenade. A juggler was conjuring in
a circle under the walls of my hotel, and an itinerant opera was
performing on the bridge. It is by moonlight that Venice is indeed
an enchanted city. The effect of the floods of silver light upon the
twinkling fretwork of the Moresco architecture, the total absence of
all harsh sounds, the never-ceasing music on the waters, produce an
effect upon the mind which cannot be experienced in any other city. As
I stood gazing upon the broad track of brilliant light that quivered
over the lagoon, a gondolier saluted me. I entered his boat, and
desired him to row me to the Grand Canal.
The marble palaces of my ancestors rose on each side, like a series of
vast and solemn temples. How sublime were their broad fronts bathed
in the mystic light, whose softened tints concealed the ravages of
Time, and made us dream only of their eternity! And could these great
creations ever die! I viewed them with a devotion which I cannot
believe to have been surpassed in the most patriotic period of the
Republic. How willingly would I have given my life to have once more
filled their mighty halls with the proud retainers of their free and
victorious nobles!
As I proceeded along the canal, and retired from the quarter of St.
Mark, the sounds of merriment gradually died away. The light string
of a guitar alone tinkled in the distance, and the lamp of a gondola,
swiftly shooting by, indicated some gay, perhaps anxious, youth,
hastening to the general rendezvous of festivity and love. The course
of the canal bent, and the moon was hid behind a broad, thick arch,
which black, yet sharply defined, spanned the breadth of the water. I
beheld the famous Rialto.
Was it possible? was it true? was I not all this time in a reverie
gazing upon a drawing in Winter’s studio! Was it not some delicious
dream? some delicious dream from which perhaps this moment I was about
to be roused to cold, dull life? I struggled not to wake, yet, from a
nervous desire to move and put the vision to the test, I ordered the
gondolier to row to the side of the canal, jumped out, and hurried to
the bridge. Each moment I expected that the arch would tremble and
part, and that the surrounding palaces would dissolve into mist, that
the lights would be extinguished and the music cease, and that I should
find myself in my old chamber in my father’s house.
I hurried along; I was anxious to reach the centre of the bridge
before I woke. It seemed like the crowning incident of a dream, which,
it is remarkable, never occurs, and which, from the very anxiety it
occasions, only succeeds in breaking our magical slumbers.
I stood upon the Rialto; I beheld on each side of me, rising out of the
waters, which they shadowed with their solemn image, those colossal
and gorgeous structures raised from the spoils of the teeming Orient,
with their pillars of rare marbles, and their costly portals of jasper,
and porphyry, and agate; I beheld them ranged in majestic order, and
streaming with the liquid moonlight.
LORD BEACONSFIELD.
ENTERING VENICE AT TWILIGHT
Nothing could exceed Emily’s admiration on her first view of Venice,
with its islets, palaces, and towers rising out of the sea, whose
clear surface reflected the tremulous picture in all its colours. The
sun, sinking in the west, tinted the waves and the lofty mountains of
Friuli, which skirt the northern shores of the Adriatic, with a saffron
glow, while on the marble porticos and colonnades of St. Mark were
thrown the rich lights and shades of evening. As they glided on, the
grander features of this city appeared more distinctly: its terraces,
crowned with airy yet majestic fabrics, touched, as they now were, with
the splendour of the setting sun, appeared as if they had been called
up from the ocean by the wand of an enchanter, rather than reared by
mortal hands.
The sun, soon after, sinking to the lower world, the shadow of the
earth stole gradually over the waves, and then up the towering sides
of the mountains of Friuli, till it extinguished even the last upward
beams that had lingered on their summits, and the melancholy purple of
evening drew over them like a thin veil. How deep, how beautiful was
the tranquillity that wrapped the scene! All nature seemed to repose;
the finest emotions of the soul were alone awake. Emily’s eyes filled
with tears of admiration and sublime devotion, as she raised them
over the sleeping world to the vast heavens, and heard the notes of
solemn music that stole over the waters from a distance. She listened
in still rapture, and no person of the party broke the charm by an
inquiry. The sounds seemed to grow on the air; for so smoothly did
the barge glide along, that its motion was not perceivable, and the
fairy city appeared approaching to welcome the strangers. They now
distinguished a voice, accompanied by a few instruments, singing a soft
and mournful air, and its fine expression, as it sometimes seemed,
pleading with the impassioned tenderness of love, and then languishing
into the cadence of hopeless grief, declared that it flowed from no
feigned sensibility.... The deep twilight that had fallen over the
scene admitted only imperfect images to the eye, but at some distance
on the sea she thought she perceived a gondola: a chorus of voices and
instruments now swelled on the air--so sweet, so solemn! seemed like
the hymn of angels descending through the silence of night! Now it
died away, and fancy almost beheld the holy choir reascending towards
heaven; then again it swelled with the breeze, trembled awhile, and
again died into silence.... The gay and busy scene that appeared, as
the barge approached St. Mark’s Place, at length roused her attention.
The rising moon, which threw a shadowy light upon the terrace, and
illumined the porticos and magnificent arcades that crowned them,
discovered the various company, whose light steps, soft guitars, and
softer voices, echoed through the colonnades.
The music they heard before now passed Montoni’s barge in one of the
gondolas, of which several were seen skimming along the moonlight sea,
full of gay parties, catching the cool breeze. Most of these had music,
made sweeter by the waves over which it floated, and by the measured
sound of oars as they dashed the sparkling tide.... The barge passed
on to the Grand Canal, where Montoni’s mansion was situated. And here
other forms of beauty and of grandeur, such as her imagination had
never painted, were unfolded to Emily in the palaces of Sansovino and
Palladio, as she glided along the waves. The air bore no sounds but
those of sweetness, echoing along each margin of the canal, and from
gondolas on its surface, while groups of masks were seen dancing on
the moonlight terraces, and seemed almost to realize the romance of
fairyland.... The singers sung in parts, the verses of Ariosto. They
sung of the wars of the Moors against Charlemagne, and then of the
woes of Orlando: afterwards the measure changed, and the melancholy
sweetness of Petrarch succeeded. The magic of his grief was assisted by
all that Italian expression, heightened by the enchantments of Venetian
moonlight, could give.
MRS. RADCLIFFE.
THE SEA SPELL
‘Venice herself is poetry, and creates a poet out of the
dullest clay.’ It was a poet who spoke, and his clay
was instinct with the breath of genius. But it is true
that Venice lends wings to duller clay; it has been her
fate to make poets of many who were not so before--a
responsibility that entails loss on her as well as gain.
She has lived--she has loved and suffered and created; and
the echoes of her creation are with us still; the pulse of
the life which once she knew continues to throb behind the
loud and insistent present.
BERYL DE SÉLINCOURT AND MAY STURGE HENDERSON.
... O! for the echo on Lido’s shore
Of the grey Adriatic’s sullen roar,
And the tender blue which sunset throws
On our Euganean hills,
While the Grand Canal is a path of rose,
And the watery mist with radiance fills,
And the mighty palaces loom pale
Like battlements in a fairy tale.
LADY LINDSAY.
The great Venetian heaven, overarching the lagoon, has
especially this power to fascinate, to take one suddenly by
surprise with an unlooked-for revelation of its beauty, its
greatness, and its immortal activity; charging the spirit
with some transport of the skies, and compelling it to its
knees in adoration.
HORATIO F. BROWN.
Ah! you never yet
Were far away from Venice, never saw
Her beautiful towers in the receding distance,
While every furrow of the vessel’s track
Seem’d ploughing deep into your heart; you never
Saw day go down upon your native spires
So calmly with its gold and crimson glory,
And after dreaming a disturbed vision
Of them and theirs, awoke and found them not.
LORD BYRON.
THE LAGOONS’ PHANTOM SPELL
The lagoons are full of mysteries of light; they are a veritable
treasure ground of illusion. They are not one expanse of water over
which the light broods with equable influence; they form a region
of various circles, as it were, of various degrees of remoteness or
tangibility. Almost one feels that each circle must be inhabited by
a spirit appropriate to itself, and that a common language could not
be between them, so sharp are the limits set by the play of light. On
an early autumn morning, when the sky is clear and the sun streams
full and level upon the clear blue expanse that separates Venice and
Mestre, we seem to have a firm foothold on this dancing water. It is
a substantial glory; but as our eye flits on from jewel to jewel in
the clear blue paving, a sudden line is drawn beyond which it may not
pass. The rich flood of vital colour has its bounds, and beyond it
lies a region bathed in light so intense that even colour is refined
into a mystic whiteness--a mirror of crystal, devoid of substance,
infinitely remote; and above it, suspended in that lucent unearthly
atmosphere, hover the towers of Torcello and Burano, like a mirage
of the desert, midway between the water and the sky. They hang there
in completest isolation, yet with a precise definition, a startling
clearness of contour. There is no vestige of other buildings or of the
earth on which they stand, only the dome and campanile of Murano, the
leaning spire of Burano and Mazzorbo’s lightning-blasted tower, their
reflections distinctly mirrored in a luminous medium, half mist, half
water. There is an immense awe in the vision of these phantoms, caught
up into a region where the happy radiant colour dares not play; and
yet not veiled--clearer in what they choose to reveal than the near
city strong and splendid in the unreserve of the young day, but so
unearthly, so magical, that our morning spirits scarcely dare accost
them. What boat shall navigate that shining nothingness that divides
them from our brave and brilliant water?
Venice, indeed, at times falls under the phantom spell. In those
mornings of late autumn when the duel between the sun and the scirocco
seems as if it could not end till day is done and night calls up
her reinforcements of mist, Venice is herself the ghost, her goblet
brimming with a liquor that seems the drink of death, a perilous, grey,
steely vapour. One only of her islands looms out of the enfolding,
foggy blanket: it is San Michele, the island of the dead. On such a
morning we may visit this abode of shadows, not at this hour more
strange, more ghostly, than the city.
BERYL DE SÉLINCOURT AND MAY STURGE HENDERSON.
VENETIAN SPELL
O spell of dawn!
From opal skies a roseate mist floats out,
And slowly wraps the towers and domes about.
All Venice sleeps--nay, yonder a black barge
Slides to the open from the dusky marge.
O spell of silence!
Peace of mind and soul--the plash of oars,
Perchance a distant bell from island shores;
Upon the glassy stillness of the mere
No other sound to vex a fretful ear.
O spell of age!
Historic scenes and names and memories
Are bulwarks of the city in the seas;
Each palace is a book, a scroll each wall--
The sculptured poems hold our hearts in thrall.
O spell of night!
First wanness, then the blue, then sudden dark;
Quiv’ring reflection from each tiny spark;
The water makes a mirror for the moon,
The heavens become a star-beflecked lagoon.
O spell of beauty!
Like the goddess of grey legend-lore,
Cypris or Hulda, sung in runes of yore,
She--Venice--binds men with a magic chain--
Her slaves, that gave an hour, through life remain.
LADY LINDSAY.
THE SOUL THAT ENDURES
On an evening of late September Venice revealed herself to one of her
lovers amidst a spectacle beyond any range of dreams. Evening was
closing in upon the city with cloud and breeze.... The tide was low,
and land and water stretched out in interchanging coils of olive and
azure beneath a purple storm-cloud, whilst ever against the bar of
the Lido rolled the sea, dyed with that celestial blue that sometimes
steals from the Adriatic into the basin of San Marco to prostrate
itself at the conquering Lion’s feet. And there lay Venice, her form
outlined against a flood of pearl, the water bending in a tender,
luminous bow behind her towers. Far away, across the mysterious
expanse of low lagoon, Torcello and Burano gleamed out in startling
pallor against the storm, amid a wild confusion of dark earth and
glittering water. The Northern Alps were hidden in darkness at the
horizon, but westward across the mainland the clear, sharp peaks of
the Euganean hills rose up behind the city’s pearly halo, behind the
deep blue of the surging lowlands, in almost unearthly outline against
the sunset sky. In front of them a livid fire rolled sullenly along
the valley, sending up purple smoke into the cloud. The storm genie,
summoned by nether powers, was descending to his fearful tryst behind
the Euganeans, but, as he sank, he bent his face upon the pale form
of Venice, his enchantress, and the fire of his wonder and of his
adoration kindled in all her slumbering limbs a glow of responsive
life. A flood of crimson suffused the pallor of her pearly diadem, and
her maidens, sleeping grey among the waters round her, unfolded rosy
petals upon the surface of the lagoon.
It is this power of living communion with the daily pageant in which
sun and moon are doge and emperor, and the stars and the clouds their
retinue--this it is which, finding expression once at Venice in a
temporal glory that has passed away, is the abiding assurance of her
immortality. This is the spirit which, if once it helped to make her
great, still makes her great to-day, the spirit that endures.
BERYL DE SÉLINCOURT AND MAY STURGE HENDERSON.
VENICE
The sylphs and ondines,
And the sea-kings and queens,
Long ago; long ago, on the waves built a city,
As lovely as seems
To some bard, in his dreams,
The soul of his latest love-ditty.
Long ago, long ago,--ah! that was long ago
Thick as gems on the chalices
Kings keep for treasure,
Were the temples and palaces
In this city of pleasure;
And the night broke out shining
With lamps and with festival,
O’er the squares, o’er the streets;
And the soft sea went, pining
With love, through the musical,
Musical bridges, and marble retreats
Of this city of wonder, where dwelt the ondines,
Long ago, and the sylphs, and the sea-kings and queens.
--Ah! that was long ago!
But the sylphs and ondines,
And the sea-kings and queens
Are fled under the waves:
And I glide, and I glide
Up the glimmering tide
Through a city of graves.
Here will I bury my heart,
Wrapt in the dream it dreamed;
One grave more to the many!
One grave as silent as any;
Sculptured about with art,--
For a palace this tomb once seemed.
Light lips have laughed there,
Bright eyes have beamed.
Revel and dance;
Lady and lover!
Pleasure hath quaffed there:
Beauty hath gleamed,
Love wooed Romance.
Now all is over!
And I glide, and I glide
Up the glimmering tide,
’Mid forms silently passing, as silent as any,
Here, ’mid the waves,
In the city of graves,
To bury my heart--one grave more to the many!
OWEN MEREDITH.
THE QUIETUDE OF THE LAGOON
What I have learnt about Venice, Venice as a person, has come to me
more or less unconsciously, from living on the Zattere, where I could
see the masts of ships and the black hulls of barges, whenever I looked
out of my windows on the canal of the Giudecca; from sitting night
after night outside a café in the Piazza, listening to the military
band, watching people pass, thinking of nothing, only singularly
content to be there; from strolling night after night down to the
promontory of the Dogana, and looking into the darkness of the water
watching a man catching fish in a net like a shrimping net, while
the sound of the mandolines and of the voices of singers who sat in
lantern-lighted gondolas outside the windows of the hotels on the Grand
Canal came to me in a double chorus, crossing one another in a strange,
not inharmonious confusion of tunes; and especially from the Lido, that
long, narrow bank between the lagoon and the Adriatic, to whose seaward
side I went so often, merely to be there, on the sand beyond the
bathing-huts, watching the quietude of the sea. On the horizon there
would be a long, tall line of fishing-boats, their red sails floating
against the pearl grey of the sky like the painted wings of great
moths, spread for flight; as you gazed at them, they seemed to stand
there motionless; then, as you looked away for a moment and looked back
again, one of them would have vanished suddenly, as if it had gone down
into the sea. And the water, which rippled so gently against the sand
at my feet, had something of the gentleness of colour of that water
which wanders about the shores of Ireland. It shone, and seemed to grow
whiter and whiter, as it stretched out towards the horizon, where the
fishing-boats stood up in their long, tall fine against the sky; it had
the delicacy, the quietude of the lagoon, with, in those bright sails,
the beckoning of a possible escape from the monotony of too exquisite
things....
Melancholy ... is an element in the charm of Venice; but a certain
sadness is inherent in the very sound and colour of still water, and
a little of the melancholy which we now feel must always have been a
background of shadow.... Why is it, then, that the melancholy of Venice
is the most exquisite melancholy in the world? It is because that
melancholy is no nearer to one’s heart than the melancholy in the face
of a portrait. It is the tender and gracious sadness of that beautiful
woman who leans her face upon her hands in a famous picture in the
Accademia. The feast is over, the wine still flushes the glass on the
table, the little negro strikes his lute, she listens to the song, her
husband sits beside her, proudly: something not in the world, a vague
thought, a memory, a forgetfulness, has possessed her for the moment,
setting those pensive lines about her lips, which have just smiled, and
which will smile again when she has lifted her eyelids.
ARTHUR SYMONS.
A SEA-VIEW
_Translated by_ BARONESS SWIFT.
Before me spreads the sea, clear and serene;
Upon its shore a wave flows to and fro,
A sky reflecting, bright as beryl’s sheen,
A sky resplendent with the sunlight’s glow.
A snowy sail, afar, in ether blue,
Seems from the world detach’d, half lost to view,
And, o’er the sea, a gull, pausing in flight,
Laughs at his image in that mirror bright.
ANTONIO NEGRI.
VENICE: ITS PLEASURABLE MELANCHOLY
Venice, the Queen of the Adriatic, is distinguished, not only by the
glory of her arts, the strangeness of her position, the romance of her
origin, but by the great historical memories of her days of power.
These throw an interest over a city which survives its own glories, and
even its own life, like the scenery in some great theatre after the
play is done and all the actors are withdrawn. A pleasurable melancholy
grows upon the traveller who wanders among the churches or glides along
on the canals of Venice. Although misfortune has overcast the city
with a pall of sadness, it still preserves the indefinable grace of
things Italian. Its old magnificence imposes on the mind, while the
charm of its present melancholy creeps about the heart. And even on
the brightest day, when the unconquerable sun looks down most broadly
on the glittering city of St. Mark, silence and melancholy still hold
their court on the canals; and the most unsentimental spirit yields to
the elegiac influence.
At Venice, he who is happy, he for whom silence has no charms and
who loves the tumult of the world, soon finds his footsteps dogged
by limping dulness. But those who have known the sorrows of life
return gladly thither; the place is catching--every corner or open
square recommends itself to the affections. The lightness of the
heavens, the even purity of the air, the steely shine of the lagoon,
the roseate reflections of the walls, the nights as clear as day, the
softness of the Venetian dialect, the trustfulness and placability of
the people, their tolerance for all men’s humours, and their gentle
intercourse--out of all these results that unseizable and seductive
quality which is indeed Venice, which sings at a man’s heart, and so
possesses and subdues him that he shall feel far from home whenever he
is far from the Piazzetta.
Travel where you will, neither Rome nor Jerusalem, neither Granada,
Toledo, nor the Golden Horn, will offer you the spectacle of such
another enchanted approach. It is a dream that has taken shape; a
vision of fairyland turned into reality by human hands. The order
of nature is suspended; the lagoon is like the heavens, the heavens
are like the sea; these rosy islets carrying temples are like bards
voyaging the sky; and away upon the horizon, towards Malamocca, the
clouds and the green islands lie mingled as bafflingly as shapes in
the mirage of the desert. The very buildings have an air of dreamland;
solids hang suspended over voids; and ponderous halls and palaces stand
paradoxically supported on the stone lace-work of mediæval sculptors.
All the principles of art are violated: and out of their violation
springs a new art, borrowed from the East but stamped with the mark
of Venice; in a while this is transformed and becomes, in the hands
of the Lombardi, the Leopardi, and the Sansovino, the glory and the
adornment of the city. Opulent and untamed imaginations have spoiled
the treasury of the Magnificoes to build these sculptured palaces and
basilicas of marble and mosaic, to lay their pavements with precious
stones and cover their walls with gold and onyx and Oriental alabaster.
They used the pillage of Aquileia, Altinum, Damascus, and Heliopolis.
With a nameless daring they raised high in air, over the porches and
among their domes, the huge antique bronze horses of Byzantium. They
sustained a mighty palace upon pillars whose carvings seem wrought by
workmen in some opiate dream making them reckless of the cost of time.
They dammed back the sea to set up their city in its place. In the
lagoon, to the sound of strange workmen’s choruses, they buried all
the oaks of Istria and Dalmatia, of Albania and the Julian Alps. They
transformed the climate of the Illyrian peninsula, leaving plains
instead of mountains, and sunburnt deserts in the place of green and
grateful forests; for all the hills have become palaces, as at the
touch of a wand; and deep in the salt sea the old oaks stand embedded,
sustaining the city of St. Mark.
CHARLES YRIARTE.
YOUTH IN VENICE
_Guard._ ... How feel you?
_Jacopo Foscari._ Like a boy--Oh Venice!
_Guard._ And your limbs?
_Jac. Fos._ Limbs! how often have they borne me
Bounding o’er yon blue tide, as I have skimm’d
The gondola along in childish race,
And, masked as a young gondolier, amidst
My gay competitors, noble as I,
Raced for our pleasure, in the pride of strength;
While the fair populace of crowding beauties,
Plebeian as patrician, cheer’d us on
With dazzling smiles, and wishes audible,
And waving kerchiefs, and applauding hands,
Even to the goal!--How many times have I
Cloven with arm still lustier, breast more daring,
The waves all roughen’d; with a swimmer’s stroke
Flinging the billows back from my drench’d hair.
And laughing from my lips the audacious brine,
Which kiss’d it like a wine-cup, rising o’er
The waves as they arose, and prouder still
The loftier they uplifted me; and oft,
In wantonness of spirit, plunging down
Into their green and glassy gulfs, and making
My way to shells and sea-weed, all unseen
By those above, till they wax’d fearful; then
Returning with my grasp full of such tokens
As show’d that I had search’d the deep: exulting
With a far-dashing stroke, and drawing deep
The long-suspended breath, again I spurn’d
The foam which broke around me, and pursued
My track like a sea-bird.--I was a boy then.
LORD BYRON.
BOATS AND VOICES
The boat rocks backwards and forwards, to the gondolier’s circling oar,
the shadows dance a delicious contredanse. Splash, gentle oar; rise,
domes and spires upon the vault; sing, voices, calling along the water;
stream, golden suns, reflected there. The gondola flies down a narrow
passage towards an open place where the canals diverge; the shadows
part, and fire is streaming from the tumultuous water. _Sà premi!_
cry the gondoliers; for a moment all is in swinging confusion....
Lights flash from the upper windows of the tall palaces, balconies
start overhead marked upon the sky. Now it is a palace to let, with
wooden shutters swinging in shadow; now we pass the yawning vaults of
great warehouses filled with saffron and crimson dyes, where barges
are moored and workmen strain at the rolling barrels.... Now it is the
brown wall of some garden terrace; a garland has crept over the brick,
and droops almost to the water; one little spray encircles a rusty ring
hanging there with its shadow.... Now we touch palace walls, and with
a hollow jar start off once more. Now comes a snatch of song through
an old archway; here are boats and voices, the gondolier’s earrings
twinkle in the sun; here are vine wreaths, and steps where children,
those untiring spectators of life, are clustering; more barges with
heavy fruit and golden treasure go by. A little brown-faced boy is
lying with his brown legs in the sun on the very edge of a barge,
dreaming over into the green water; he lazily raises his head to look,
and falls back again; now a black boat passes like a ghost, its slender
points start upwards in a line with the curve of yonder spire; now it
is out of all this swing of shadow and confusion that we cross a broad
sweet breadth of sunlight, and come into the Grand Canal.
LADY RITCHIE.
FROM A PALACE-STEP AT VENICE
I muse ... on a ruined palace-step
At Venice: why should I break off, nor sit
Longer upon my step, exhaust the fit
England gave birth to? Who’s adorable
Enough reclaim a----no Sordello’s Will
Alack!--be queen to me? That Bassanese
Busied among her smoking fruit-boats? These
Perhaps from our delicious Asolo
Who twinkle, pigeons o’er the portico
Not prettier, bind June lilies into sheaves
To deck the bridge-side chapel, dropping leaves
Soiled by their own loose gold-meal? Ah, beneath
The cool arch stoops she, brownest cheek! Her wreath
Endures a month--a half-month--if I make
A queen of her, continue for her sake
Sordello’s story? Nay, that Paduan girl
Splashes with barer legs where a live whirl
In the dead black Giudecca proves sea-weed
Drifting has sucked down three, four, all indeed
Save one pale-red striped, pale-blue turbaned post
For gondolas.
You sad dishevelled ghost
That pluck at me and point, are you advised
I breathe? Let stay those girls (e’en her disguised
--Jewels i’ the locks that love no crownet like
Their native field-buds and the green wheat-spike
So fair! who left this end of June’s turmoil,
Shook off, as might a lily its gold soil,
Pomp, save a foolish gem or two, and free
In dream, came join the peasants o’er the sea.)
Look they too happy, too tricked out? Confess
There is such niggard stock of happiness
To share, that, do one’s uttermost, dear wretch,
One labours ineffectually to stretch
If o’er you so that mother and children, both
May equitably flaunt the sumpter-cloth!
Divide the robe yet farther: be content
With seeing just a score pre-eminent
Through shreds of it, acknowledged happy wights,
Engrossing what should furnish all, by rights!
For, these in evidence, you clearlier claim
A garb for all the rest,--grace all, the same
All these my peasants. I ask youth and strength
And health for each of you, not more--at length
Grown wise, who asked at home that the whole race
Might add the spirit’s to the body’s grace,
And all be dizened out as chiefs and bards.
But in this magic weather one discards
Much old requirements: Venice seems a type
Of Life--’twixt blue and blue extends, a stripe,
As Life, the somewhat, hangs ’twixt nought and nought:
’Tis Venice, and ’tis Life--as good you sought
To spare me the Piazza’s slippery stone
Or keep me to the unchoked canals alone,
As hinder Life the evil with the good
Which make up Living, rightly understood.
ROBERT BROWNING.
THE UNWEARIEDNESS OF VENICE
In returning from an excursion ... it is generally at sunset that
one re-enters Venice, the city all ablaze with purple and gold, the
radiance of the descending orb; the lagoon is a pearly grey studded
with the black points of the piles, and all the campaniles, domes, and
warehouses along the bank seem crowned with halos of gold.
These are the spectacles--these, and such as are presented to us by
everyday life, which, after a long sojourn in Venice, end by engrossing
our interest above all others: as though man soon tired of the works
of men, and kept his appetite and desire always keen, always alive
for the works of God only, for nature and for life. In truth, however
passionate a man may be for the things of art, he is soon surfeited
in so colossal a museum as is the city of Venice; he comes at last to
the pass of looking at Tintoret without attention, he stands before a
Giovanni Bellini without emotion; masterpiece crowds upon masterpiece,
Titian on Carpaccio, Pordenone on Palma; bronzes, enamels, triptychs,
marbles, figures of doges lying on their biers, famous condottieri
buried in their armour and standing proud and valorous in the garb
of war upon their sepulchres--all these sights and glories leave us
indifferent.... The truth is, the air of Venice, the sky and its
varying moods, the extraordinary colouring which the atmosphere throws
over everything, offer a charm which surpasses all others; and the
open air, the lagoon, the life of the port, with the changing aspect
of the pearly waves, that glimmering surface which Guardi has so well
rendered, the trembling light upon the silvery field all barred by
tongues of sand and dotted by the black points of the piles, are beyond
the highest inspirations of man.
To sit in front of a café on the Riva, with no other object but that
of looking before you, is a keen pleasure for anyone who has the love
of the picturesque. The incessant movement; the never ungentle pranks
of the motley crowds; those singular colloquies of which the meaning
unfortunately escapes the ear unfamiliar with the Venetian dialect;
the colouring, the sunshine; the changing effects, the seductive
distances; the constant arrivals of great ships, the entrance or
departure of the Chioggiotes or the Greeks of Zante, or sailors of
Sporades, with their ruddy sails making blots of colour on the lagoon,
and when stretched like a bow by the wind, showing in the transparent
air the great Virgin rudely painted on their surface; the caravans
of strangers that pass, with the special character peculiar to each
nationality,--methodical Englishmen,--American ladies with their long
loose hair,--southern Italians high-coloured and vehement,--blond
Germans in spectacles,--quick Frenchmen running with their noses in the
air,--Italian soldiers with helmets of grey canvas; lastly the quaint
industries sheltered under immense umbrellas; chance singers, who fling
upon the echoes of the lagoon an air of Verdi or Gordigiani--all this
is what one never wearies of at Venice.
And what new surprises in the streets, and on the open places great
and small! Here you go up some steps to cross a canal, there the way
is barred, and a little staircase descends right into the water; old
women, worthy copies of the old woman with the basket of eggs in
Titian’s _Presentation of the Virgin_, brush along the wall, their
heads covered up in their shawls....
Nature, the warm air, the limpid and transparent atmosphere in which
Venice is bathed,--it is the emotion of this which after all remains
the strangest among your impressions. After a visit to that prodigious
Ducal Palace, where masterpieces are heaped upon masterpieces, you
long to breathe the clear air and hurry away to the gardens. You pass
along the whole length of the Riva degli Schiavoni, you get among the
shipping, and the farther you go the better you can see the long front
of Venice composing itself into a single view. You turn from time to
time to enjoy the panorama, for it is the most admirable scene ever
dreamt of by a Desplechin, a Thierry, a Cambon, a Chapron, a Nolan, or
a Rubbé, and when you lean on the terrace you soon forget the great
works of art on which you have but now been gazing, in presence of this
mighty work of the Master of masters! The man of letters and the critic
in you give way to the painter, and you are held enchanted by the spell
of these wonderful harmonies. The grounds of the garden are a light
grey, the grass is green, the trees in the foreground, still bare of
leaves, cut out against the sky the delicate tracery of their boughs,
the water is pearly with diamond spangles and shifting facets of light
as bright as stars; the tongues of sand and dry places of the lagoon
come cutting here and there with bars of brown that silver mirror; San
Giorgio Maggiore, red and white, catches a luminous reflection; the
Grand Canal and its palaces close the horizon. All is solitary in the
gardens, the green lizards glide quiveringly from sight, a gondolier
cries _alla barca_, a pretty little girl passes with bare head, her
hair deftly dressed and draped in her shawl; stretched on the scanty
grass all round, the gondoliers sleep in the sunshine. All this would
no doubt not satisfy the desires and aspirations of practical minds
and natures hungry for life and change, for sensations ever new and
spectacles ever varied. But for us it is a world sufficient, and we
are not alone in feeling it to be so. ‘You dwell there in delight,’
says Paul de St. Victor, ‘and you look back to the days of your sojourn
with emotion. Venice casts about you a charm as tender as the charm
of woman. The rosy atmosphere in which she lies steeped, the shimmer
of her lagoons, the jewelled hues that change with the changing hour
upon her domes, her fascinating vistas, the masterpieces of her radiant
painting, the gentle temper of her men and women, the sweet and pensive
gladness that you breathe with her very air--all these are so many
divers but interlinked enchantments. Other cities had admirers, Venice
alone has lovers.’
CHARLES YRIARTE.
ON THE ZATTERE
INTERMEZZO: VENETIAN NIGHTS
Only to live, only to be
In Venice, is enough for me.
To be a beggar, and to lie
At home beneath the equal sky,
To feel the sun, to drink the night,
Had been enough for my delight;
Happy because the sun allowed
The luxury of being proud
Not to some only, but to all
The right to lie along the wall.
Here my ambition dies; I ask
No more than some half-idle task,
To be done idly, and to fill
Some gaps of leisure when I will.
I care not if the world forget
That it was ever in my debt;
I care not where its prizes fall;
I long for nothing, having all.
The sun each morning, on his way,
Calls for me at the Zattere;
I wake and greet him, I go out,
Meet him, and follow him about;
We spend the day together, he
Goes to bed early; as for me,
I make the moon my mistress, prove
Constant to my inconstant love.
For she is coy with me, will hie
To my arms amorously, and fly
Ere I have kissed her; ah! but she,
She it is, to eternity,
I adore only; but her smile
Bewilders the enchanted isle
To more celestial magic glows
At once the crystal and the rose.
The crazy lover of the moon,
I hold her, on the still lagoon,
Sometimes I hold her in my arms;
’Tis her cold silver kiss that warms
My blood to singing, and puts fire
Into the heart of my desire.
And all desire in Venice dies
To such diviner lunacies;
Life dreams itself: the world goes on,
Oblivious, in oblivion;
Life dreams itself, content to keep
Happy immortally, in sleep.
ARTHUR SYMONS.
‘THE SUN OF VENICE GOING TO SEA’
The Venetian fishing-boats, almost without exceptions carry canvass
painted with bright colours, the favourite design for the centre being
either a cross or a large sun with many rays, the favourite colours
being red, orange, and black, blue occurring occasionally. The radiance
of these sails and of the bright and grotesque vanes at the mast-heads
under sunlight is beyond all painting; but it is strange that, of
constant occurrence as these boats are on all the lagoons, Turner alone
should have availed himself of them. Nothing could be more faithful
than the boat which was the principal object in this picture, in the
cut of the sail, the filling of it, the exact height of the boom above
the deck, the quartering of it with colour; finally and especially,
the hanging of the fish-baskets about the bows. All these, however,
are comparatively minor merits (though not the blaze of colour which
the artist elicited from the right use of these circumstances), but
the peculiar power of the picture was the painting of the sea surface,
where there were no reflections to assist it. A stream of splendid
colour fell from the boat, but that occupied the centre only; in the
distance the city and crowded boats threw down some playing lines,
but these still left on each side of the boat a large space of water
reflecting nothing but the morning sky. This was divided by an eddying
swell, on whose continuous sides the local colour of the water was
seen, pure aqua-marine (a beautiful occurrence of closely-observed
truth), but still there remained a large blank space of pale water to
be treated, the sky above had no distinct details and was pure faint
grey, with broken white vestiges of cloud; it gave no help, therefore.
But there the water lay, no dead grey flat paint, but downright clear,
playing, palpable surface, full of indefinite hue and retiring as
regularly and visibly back and far away, as if there had been objects
all over it to tell the story by perspective. Now it is the doing of
this which tries the painter, and it is his having done this which made
me say above that ‘no man had ever painted the surface of calm water
but Turner.’ The San Benedetto, looking towards Fusina, contained a
similar passage, equally fine; in one of the Canale della Giudecca the
specific green colour of the water is seen in front, with the shadows
of the boats thrown on it in purple; all, as it retires, passing into
the pure reflective blue.
JOHN RUSKIN.
VENICE UNDER THE STARLIGHT
Embark at the Piazzetta at eleven o’clock on a clear sweet starlight
evening, and tell the gondolier to go into the canal of the Giudecca.
The gondola enters on the golden track, you have left the custom-house
on your right. The stars touch with light the gold ball which carries
Fortune on it, and the lamp at the foot of the portico, the steps of
which run down into the water, lights up the white façade, and makes
it reflect itself in the slightly rippled waters. The faubourg of the
Giudecca is on our left--a red-brown by daylight and dark by night;
a few scattered lanterns alone break this black ground like the gold
sparkles which appear and disappear on a piece of burning paper, and
sometimes under the stars, as in the picture of the English painter
Orchardson, two lovers exchange their soft vows ‘in the pale light of
stars’ under the brightly spangled sky.
The Giudecca is long and low, and becomes faint and almost bluish as
it prolongs itself towards the horizon. The black keels of some boats
at anchor, their masts and fine cordage, outline themselves distinctly
against the clear sky; the dome of the Redentore, the church of the
faubourg, rounds itself above the houses. On the right we have the
Zattere and their quays with polished flagstones, looking white in the
rays of the moon, with the great palaces, regular and noble, the little
deserted jetties, and here and there the bridges at the openings of the
canals.
The Giudecca is dark; the Zattere is as light as day, but with that
veiled illumination which the moon throws over everything it floods
with its rays. The silence is profound and the calmness undisturbed;
the distant echoes, the solemn striking of the hour by the clock of St.
Mark’s, the song of a solitary sailor guarding his felucca which he has
brought timber-laden from Dalmatia, the voice of a belated gondolier
who sits swinging his legs in that nocturnal reverie which is like the
_kief_ of the East: who can render this impression at once sweet and
solemn, the incomparable charms which lulls all longings, and attaches
us to Venice with an imperishable love?
CHARLES YRIARTE.
TO VENICE: A FAREWELL
Venice, farewell, your evening tints are shed,--
Soft crimson shadows at this hour you lay
Upon each palace now that gleameth red
Ere lovelier eve gives place to lovely day.
The tender dawn, the golden noon, soft night,
Will ever stay a vision of delight.
No more on quiet lagoon, by dreamy isle,
Shall my gondola there in silence glide;
No more shall I behold you sadly smile
Where loveliest tints are gathered on your tide.
The colour, light, the dreamy dip of oar
Are tenderest memories for evermore.
CESARE MORANDI.
NIGHT IN VENICE
How beautiful is night in Venice! Then music and the moon reign
supreme; the glittering sky reflected in the waters, and every gondola
gliding with sweet sounds! Around on every side are palaces and
temples, rising from the waves which they shadow with their solemn
forms, their costly fronts rich with the spoils of kingdoms, and
softened with the magic of the midnight beam. The whole city, too, is
poured forth for festival. The people lounge on the quays and cluster
on the bridges; the light barks skim along in crowds, just touching the
surface of the water, while their bright prows of polished iron gleam
in the moonshine, and glitter in the rippling wave. Not a sound that is
not graceful: the tinkle of guitars, the sighs of serenaders, and the
responsive chorus of gondoliers. Now and then a laugh--light, joyous,
and yet musical--bursts forth from some illuminated coffee-house,
before which a buffo disports, a tumbler stands on his head, or a
juggler mystifies; and all for a sequin!
The Place of St. Mark ... is distinguished for elegance, luxury, and
enjoyment.... Under a Venetian moon it is the hour of love and of faro;
now is the hour to press your suit and to break a bank; to glide from
the apartment of rapture into the chamber of chance. For [other] tastes
there is the minstrel, the conjurer, and the story-teller, goblets
of Cyprus wine, flasks of sherbet, and confectionery that dazzle
like diamonds. And for every one, from the grave senator to the gay
gondolier, there is an atmosphere in itself a spell, and which, after
all, has more to do with human happiness than all the accidents of
fortune and all the arts of government.
LORD BEACONSFIELD.
GONDOLA AND GONDOLIER
The gondola is one of the great charms of Venice: it
alone, without art, without the genius of artists which
arrests one at every step, would be enough to fascinate
the stranger. In that gentle swinging like the swinging of
a hammock, that light plash of the oar which caresses the
ear, that incredible sensibility of the boat itself, which
seems to move like a living being, in these and in the
surrounding silence there is from the first moment a charm
which no one can escape.
CHARLES YRIARTE.
Let me this gondola boat compare to the slumberous cradle,
And to a spacious bier liken the cover demure;
Thus on the open canal through life we are swaying and swimming
Onward with never a care, coffin and cradle between.
RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES (FROM GOETHE).
The gondolier in Venice is as fine to look at as his
gondola; he has colour, too, in the ruddy dye of his face,
the infinite variety of his amber shirts and blue trousers
and scarlet sashes; and if you really know him, he is one
of the most charming of people.
ARTHUR SYMONS.
‘Row, Zarzi!’
The gondolier rowed with increased vigour; the rowlock
now and then creaked under his effort. The Fondaco dei
Truchi melted away like worn and marvellously discoloured
ivory, like the surviving portico of a ruined mosque. The
palace of the Cornaro and the palace of the Pesaro passed
them, like two opaque giants blackened by time as by the
smoke of a conflagration. The Ca’ d’Oro passed them like a
divine play of stone and air; then the Rialto showed its
ample back already noisy with popular life, laden with its
encumbered shops, filled, ... like an enormous cornucopia
pouring on the shore all around it an abundance of the
fruits of the earth.
GABRIELE D’ANNUNZIO.
THE CHARM OF THE GONDOLA
In the palmy days of the gondolier (for he bore the traveller all the
way from Mestre to Venice) there was real poetry in the journey, as
tower, and campanile, and dome gathered from the golden haze, across
the narrowing expanse of water.... It was a vehicle no less pleasant
for the longer excursions on the lagoon. Shaded by its awning, or
sheltering under its black covering, what could be more pleasant than
to slide over the water to the sandy Lido for a refreshing dip in the
Adriatic, or seek the Cathedral of Murano, or, yet further afield, pass
by lonely islets to visit Torcello and its oldest church? Venice the
silent and the gondola are exactly suited. There is no more restful
mode of locomotion; no vibration, no rattle, no clatter, nothing
but the rhythmic wash of the water beneath the oar, so curiously
handled, or the gentle ripple as it slides past the sides; no louder
sound except now and again the gondolier’s strange cry on approaching
a corner to warn those beyond it what direction to take. But the
gondolier has another advantage. Venice is more than a few important
canals, something more than ornate palaces or stately churches.
The waterways among its three score and ten islands ramify in all
directions, and some of the most picturesque, though often dilapidated,
parts of the city are only properly accessible from the smaller
canals.... Here some ornate balcony overhangs; then a little canal
unexpectedly opens, perhaps with its central well. Here a quaintly
designed bridge carries from islet to islet those narrow alleys,
means of communication yet more intricate than the canals themselves.
Sometimes they reveal unexpected phases of domestic life, such as a
group of youngsters indulging in a bath from their own doorstep, now
disporting themselves in the warm water, now basking in the sunshine on
the stone slabs. Venetian boys take to the water almost as naturally
as ducks; and the baby, tied for safety to the door-post with a
string, solemnly contemplates the sport. Venice is at its best in the
summer-time.... A refreshing breeze from the Adriatic often tempers
even the midday heat, and it is a city which needs sunshine almost as
much as London itself.
ANON.
IN A GONDOLA
_He sings._
I send my heart up to thee, all my heart
In this my singing!
For the stars help me, and the sea bears part;
The very night is clinging
Closer to Venice’ streets to leave one space
Above me, whence thy face
May light my joyous heart to thee its dwelling-place.
_She speaks._
Say after me, and try to say
My very words, as if each word
Came from you of your own accord,
In your own voice, in your own way:
‘This woman’s heart, and soul, and brain
‘Are mine as much as this gold chain
‘She bids me wear; which’ (say again)
‘I choose to make by cherishing
‘A precious thing, or choose to fling
‘Over the boat-side, ring by ring.’
And yet once more say ... no word more!
Since words are only words. Give o’er!
Unless you call me, all the same,
Familiarly by my pet-name
Which, if the Three should hear you call,
And me reply to, would proclaim
At once our secret to them all:
Ask of me, too, command me, blame--
Do break down the partition-wall
’Twixt us, the daylight world beholds
Curtained in dusk and splendid folds.
What’s left but--all of me to take?
I am the Three’s; prevent them, slake
Your thirst! ’Tis said, the Arab sage
In practising with gems can loose
Their subtle spirit in his cruce
And leave but ashes: so, sweet mage,
Leave them my ashes when thy use
Sucks out my soul, thy heritage!
_He sings._
I.
Past we glide, and past, and past!
What’s that poor Agnese doing
Where they make the shutters fast?
Grey Zanobi’s just a-wooing
To his couch the purchased bride:
Past we glide!
II.
Past we glide, and past, and past!
Why’s the Pucci Palace flaring
Like a beacon to the blast?
Guests by hundreds--not one caring
If the dear host’s neck were wried:
Past we glide!
_She sings._
I.
The Moth’s kiss, first!
Kiss me as if you made believe
You were not sure, this eve,
How my face, your flower, had pursed
Its petals up; so, here and there
You brush it, till I grow aware
Who wants me, and wide open burst.
II.
The Bee’s kiss, now!
Kiss me as if you entered gay
My heart at some noonday,
A bud that dares not disallow
The claim, so all is rendered up,
And passively its shattered cup
Over your head to sleep I bow.
_He sings._
I.
What are we two?
I am a Jew,
And carry thee, farther than friends can pursue,
To a feast of our tribe,
Where they need thee to bribe
The devil that blasts them unless he imbibe
Thy.... Shatter the vision for ever! And now,
As of old, I am I, Thou art Thou!
II.
Say again, what we are?
The sprite of a star,
I lure thee above where the Destinies bar
My plumes their full play
Till a ruddier ray
Than my pale one announce there is withering away
Some.... Shatter the vision for ever! And now,
As of old, I am I, Thou art Thou!
_He muses._
Oh, which were best, to roam or rest?
The land’s lap or the water’s breast?
To sleep on yellow millet-sheaves,
Or swim in lucid shallows, just
Eluding water-lily leaves,
An inch from Death’s black fingers, thrust
To lock you, whom release he must;
Which life were best on Summer eves?
_He speaks, musing._
Lie back; could thought of mine improve you?
From this shoulder let there spring
A wing; from this, another wing;
Wings, not legs and feet, shall move you!
Snow-white must they spring, to blend
With your flesh, but I intend
They shall deepen to the end,
Broader, into burning gold,
Till both wings crescent-wise enfold
Your perfect self, from ’neath your feet
To o’er your head, where, lo, they meet
As if a million sword-blades hurled
Defiance from you to the world!
Rescue me thou, the only real!
And scare away this mad Ideal
That came, nor motions to depart!
Thanks! Now, stay ever as thou art!
_Still he muses._
I.
What if the Three should catch at last
Thy serenader? While there’s cast
Paul’s cloak about my head, and fast
Gian pinions me, Himself has past
His stylet thro’ my back; I reel;
And ... is it thou I feel?
II.
They trail me, these three godless knaves,
Past every church that saints and saves,
Nor stop till, where the cold sea raves
By Lido’s wet accursed graves,
They scoop mine, roll me to its brink,
And ... on thy breast I sink!
_She replies, musing._
Dip your arm o’er the boat-side, elbow-deep,
As I do: thus: were Death so unlike Sleep,
Caught this way? Death’s to fear from flame, or steel,
Or poison doubtless; but from water--feel!
Go find the bottom! Would you stay me? There!
Now pluck a great blade of that ribbon-grass
To plait in where the foolish jewel was,
I flung away: since you have praised my hair,
’Tis proper to be choice in what I wear.
_He speaks._
Row home? must we row home? Too surely
Know I where its front’s demurely
Over the Giudecca piled;
Window just with window mating,
Door on door exactly waiting,
All’s the set face of a child:
But behind it, where’s a trace
Of the staidness and reserve,
And formal lines without a curve,
In the same child’s playing-face?
No two windows look one way
O’er the small sea-water thread
Below them. Ah, the autumn day
I, passing, saw you overhead!
First, out a cloud of curtain blew,
Then, a sweet cry, and last, came you--
To catch your lory that must needs
Escape just then, of all times then,
To peck a tall plant’s fleecy seeds,
And make me happiest of men.
I scarce could breathe to see you reach
So far back o’er the balcony,
(To catch him ere he climbed too high
Above you in the Smyrna peach)
That quick the round smooth cord of gold.
This coiled hair on your head, unrolled,
Fell down you like a gorgeous snake
The Roman girls were wont, of old,
When Rome there was, for coolness’ sake
To let lie curling o’er their bosoms.
Dear lory, may this beak retain
Ever its delicate rose stain
As if the wounded lotus-blossoms
Had marked their thief to know again!
Stay longer yet, for others’ sake
Than mine! what should your chamber do?
--With all its rarities that ache
In silence while day lasts, but wake
At night-time and their life renew,
Suspended just to pleasure you
--That brought against their will together
These objects, and, while day lasts, weave
Around them such a magic tether
That dumb they look: your harp, believe,
With all the sensitive tight strings
That dare not speak, now to itself
Breathes slumbrously as if some elf
Went in and out the chords, his wings
Make murmur wheresoe’er they graze,
As an angel may, between the maze
Of midnight palace-pillars, on
And on, to sow God’s plagues have gone
Through guilty glorious Babylon.
And while such murmurs flow, the nymph
Bends o’er the harp-top from her shell,
As the dry limpet for the lymph
Come with a tune he knows so well.
And how your statues’ hearts must swell:
And how your pictures must descend
To see each other, friend with friend!
Oh, could you take them by surprise,
You’d find Schidone’s eager Duke
Doing the quaintest courtesies
To that prim Saint by Haste-thee-Luke
And, deeper into her rock den,
Bold Castelfranco’s Magdalen
You’d find retreated from the ken
Of that robed counsel-keeping Ser--
As if the Tizian thinks of her,
And is not, rather, gravely bent
On seeing for himself what toys
Are these, his progeny invent,
What litter now the board employs
Whereon he signed a document
That got him murdered! Each enjoys
Its night so well, you cannot break
The sport up, so, indeed, must make
More stay with me, for others’ sake.
_She speaks._
I.
To-morrow, if a harp-string, say,
Is used to tie the jasmine back
That overfloods my room with sweets,
Contrive your Zorzi somehow meets
My Zanze! If the ribbon’s black,
The Three are watching; keep away!
II.
Your gondola--let Zorzi wreathe
A mesh of water-weeds about
Its prow, as if he unaware
Had struck some quay or bridge-foot stair;
That I may throw a paper out
As you and he go underneath.
There’s Zanze’s vigilant taper; safe are we!
Only one minute more to-night with me?
Resume your past self of a month ago!
Be you the bashful gallant, I will be
The lady with the colder breast than snow:
Now bow you, as becomes, nor touch my hand
More than I touch yours when I step to land,
And say, ‘All thanks, Siora!’--
Heart to heart,
And lips to lips! Yet once more, ere we part,
Clasp me, and make me thine, as mine thou art!
_He is surprised, and stabbed._
It was ordained to be so, Sweet,--and best
Comes now, beneath thine eyes, and on thy breast.
Still kiss me! Care not for the cowards! Care
Only to put aside thy beauteous hair
My blood will hurt! The Three, I do not scorn
To death, because they never lived: but I
Have lived indeed, and so--(yet one more kiss)--can die!
ROBERT BROWNING.
THE INVITATION TO THE GONDOLA
Come forth; for Night is falling,
The moon hangs round and red
On the verge of the violet waters,
Fronting the daylight dead.
Come forth; the liquid spaces
Of sea and sky are as one,
Where outspread angel flame-wings
Brood o’er the buried sun.
Bells call to bells from the islands,
And far-off mountains rear
Their shadowy crests in the crystal
Of cloudless atmosphere.
A breeze from the sea is wafted;
Lamp-litten Venice gleams
With her towers and domes uplifted
Like a city seen in dreams.
Her waterways are atremble
With melody far and wide,
Borne from the phantom galleys
That o’er the darkness glide.
There are stars in heaven, and starry
Are the wandering lights below:
Come forth! for the Night is calling,
Sea, city, and sky are aglow!
JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS.
THE GONDOLA
Didst ever see a gondola? For fear
You should not, I’ll describe it you exactly:
’Tis a long cover’d boat that’s common here,
Carved at the prow, built lightly, but compactly,
Rowed by two rowers, each called ‘Gondolier,’
It glides along the water looking blackly,
Just like a coffin clapt in a canoe,
Where none can make out what you say or do.
And up and down the long canals they go,
And under the Rialto shoot along,
By night and day, all paces, swift or slow,
And round the theatres, a sable throng,
They wait in their dusk livery of woe,--
But not to them do woeful things belong.
For sometimes they contain a deal of fun,
Like mourning coaches when the funeral’s done.
LORD BYRON.
A DREAM IN A GONDOLA
I had a dream of waters: I was borne
Fast down the slimy tide
Of eldest Nile, and endless flats forlorn
Stretched out on either side,--
Save where from time to time arose
Red pyramids, like flames in forced repose,
And Sphinxes gazed, vast countenances bland,
Athwart the river-sea and sea of sand.
It is the nature of the Life of Dream,
To make all action of our mental springs,
Howe’er unnatural, discrepant and strange,
Be as the unfolding of most usual things;
And thus to me no wonder did there seem,
When by a subtle change,
The heavy ample hyblus-wingèd boat
In which I lay afloat,
Became a deft canoe, light-wove
Of painted bark, gay-set with lustrous shells,
Faintingly rocked within a lonesome cove,
Of some rich island where the Indian dwells;
Below, the water’s pure-white light
Took colour from reflected blooms,
And, through the forest’s deepening glooms,
Birds of illuminated plumes
Came out like stars in summer night:
And close beside, all fearless and serene,
Within a niche of drooping green,
A girl, with limbs fine-rounded and clear-brown,
And hair thick-waving down,
Advancing one small foot, in beauty stood,
Trying the temper of the lambent flood.
* * * * *
Yet not less favoured when awake,--for now,
Across my torpid brow
Swept a cool current of the young night’s air,
With a sharp kiss, and there
Was I all clear awake,--drawn soft along
There in my dear gondola, among
The bright-eyed Venice isles,
Lit up in constant smiles.--
What had my thoughts and heart to do
With wild Egyptian bark, or frail canoe,
Or mythic skiff out of Saturnian days,
When I was there, with that rare scene to praise,
That gondola to rest in and enjoy,
That actual bliss to taste without alloy?
Cradler of placid pleasures, deep delights,
Bosomer of the poet’s wearied mind,
Tempter from vulgar passions, scorns and spites,
Enfolder of all feelings that be kind,--
Before our souls thy quiet motions spread,
In one great calm, one undivided plain,
Immediate joy, blest memories of the dead,
And iris-tinted forms of hope’s domain,
Child of the still lagoons,
Open to every show
Of summer sunsets and autumnal moons,
Such as no other space of world can know,--
Dear boat, that makest dear
Whatever thou comest near,--
In thy repose still let me gently roam,
Still on thy couch of beauty find a home;
Still let me share thy comfortable peace
With all I have of dearest upon Earth,
Friend, mistress, sister; and when death’s release
Shall call my spirit to another birth,
Would that I might thus lightly lapse away,
Alone,--by moonlight,--in a gondola.
RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.
WERE LIFE BUT AS THE GONDOLA!
Afloat; we move. Delicious! Ah,
What else is like the gondola?
This level floor of liquid glass
Begins beneath us swift to pass.
It goes as though it went alone
By some impulsion of its own.
(How light it moves, how softly! Ah,
Were all things like the gondola!)
How light it moves, how softly! Ah,
Could life, as does our gondola,
Unvexed with quarrels, aims and cares,
And moral duties and affairs,
Unswaying, noiseless, swift, and strong,
For ever thus--thus glide along!
(How light we move, how softly! Ah,
Were life but as the gondola!)
With no more motion than should bear
A freshness to the languid air;
With no more effort than exprest
The need and naturalness of rest,
Which we beneath a grateful shade
Should take on peaceful pillows laid!
(How light we move, how softly! Ah,
Were life but as the gondola!)
In one unbroken passage borne
To closing night from opening morn,
Uplift at whiles slow eyes to mark
Some palace front, some passing bark;
Through windows catch the varying shore,
And hear the soft turns of the oar!
(How light we move, how softly! Ah,
Were life but as the gondola!) ...
How light we go, how soft we skim!
And all in moonlight seem to swim.
In moonlight is it now, or shade?
In planes of sure division made,
By angles sharp of palace walls
The clear light and the shadow falls;
O sight of glory, sight of wonder!
Seen, a pictorial portent, under.
O great Rialto, the vast round
Of thy thrice-solid arch profound!
(How light we go, how softly! Ah,
Life should be as the gondola!)
ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.
THE SONGS OF THE GONDOLIERS
This evening I bespoke the celebrated _song_ of the mariners, who sing
Tasso and Ariosto to melodies of their own. This must actually be
ordered, as it is not to be heard as a thing of course, but rather
belongs to the half-forgotten traditions of former times. I entered a
gondola by moonlight, with one singer before and the other behind me.
They sing their song, taking up the verses alternately. The melody,
which we know through Rousseau, is of a middle kind, between choral
and recitative, maintaining throughout the same cadence, without any
fixed time. The modulation is also uniform, only varying with a sort
of declamation both tone and measures, according to the subject of the
verse. But the spirit--the life of it, is as follows:
Without inquiring into the construction of the melody, suffice it to
say that it is admirably suited to that easy class of people who,
always humming something or other to themselves, adapt such tunes to
any little poem they know by heart.
Sitting on the shore of an island, on the bank of a canal, or on the
side of a boat, a gondolier will sing away with a low penetrating
voice--the multitude admire force above everything--anxious only to
be heard as far as possible. Over the silent mirror it travels far.
Another in the distance, who is acquainted with the melody and knows
the words, takes it up and answers with the next verse, and then the
first replies, so that the one is as it were the echo of the other. The
song continues through whole nights, and is kept up without fatigue.
The further the singers are from each other, the more touching sounds
the strain. The best place for the listener is half-way between the two.
In order to let me hear it, they landed on the bank of the Giudecca,
and took up different positions by the canal. I walked backwards and
forwards between them, so as to leave the one whose turn it was to
sing, and to join the one who had just left off. Then it was that the
effect of the strain first opened upon me. As a voice from the distance
it sounds in the highest degree strange--as a lament without sadness:
it has an incredible effect, and is moving even to tears. I ascribed
this to my own state of mind, but my old boatman said: ‘È singolare,
come quel canto intenerisce, e molto piu quando è piu ben cantato.’
He wished that I could hear the women of the Lido, especially those
of Malamocco, and Pelestrina. These also, he told me, sang Tasso and
Ariosto to the same or similar melodies. He went on: ‘In the evening,
while their husbands are on the sea, fishing, they are accustomed to
sit on the beach, and with shrill and penetrating voice to make these
strains resound, until they catch from the distance the voices of their
partners, and in this way they keep up a communication with them.’ Is
not that beautiful? and yet, it is very possible that one who heard
them close by would take little pleasure in such tones which have to
vie with the waves of the sea. Human, however, and true becomes the
song in this way: thus is life given to the melody, on whose dead
elements we should otherwise have been sadly puzzled. It is the song
of one solitary, singing at a distance, in the hope that another of
kindred feelings and sentiments may hear and answer.
GOETHE.
THE GONDOLA
Boy, call the gondola; the sun is set.--
It came, and we embarked; but instantly,
As at the waving of a magic wand,
Though she had stept on board so light of foot,
So light of heart, laughing she knew not why,
Sleep overcame her; on my arm she slept.
From time to time I waked her; but the boat
Rocked her to sleep again. The moon was now
Rising full-orbed, but broken by a cloud.
The wind was hushed, and the sea mirror-like.
A single zephyr, as enamoured, played
With her loose tresses, and drew more and more
Her veil across her bosom. Long I lay
Contemplating that face so beautiful....
I went alone beneath the silent moon;
Thy square, St. Mark, thy churches, palaces,
Glittering and frost-like, and, as day drew on,
Melting away, an emblem of themselves.
Those porches passed, thro’ which the water-breeze
Plays, though no longer on the noble forms
That moved there, sable-vested--and the quay,
Silent, grass-grown--adventurer-like, I launched
Into the deep, ere long discovering
Isles such as cluster in the Southern seas,
All verdure....
In Venice, when again
In that strange place, so stirring and so still,
Where nothing comes to drown the human voice
But music, or the dashing of the tide,
Ceased I to wonder. Now a Jessica
Sung to her lute, her signal as she sate
At her half-open window. Then, methought,
A serenade broke silence, breathing hope
Thro’ walls of stone, and torturing the proud heart
Of some Priuli. Once, we could not err,
(It was before an old Palladian house,
As between night and day we floated by),
A gondolier lay singing: and he sung,
As in the time when Venice was herself,
Of Tancred and Erminia. On our oars,
We rested; and the verse was verse divine!
We could not err--perhaps he was the last--
For none took up the strain, none answered him;
And, when he ceased, he left upon my ear
A something like the dying voice of Venice!
The moon went down; and nothing now was seen
Save where the lamp of a Madonna shone
Faintly--or heard, but when he spoke, who stood
Over the lantern at the prow and cried,
Turning the corner of some reverend pile,
Some school or hospital of old renown,
Tho’ haply none were coming, none were near,
‘Hasten or slacken.’ But at length Night fled;
And with her fled, scattering, the sons of pleasure.
Star after star shot by, or, meteor-like,
Crossed me and vanished--lost at once among
Those hundred isles that tower majestically,
That rise abruptly from the water-mark,
Nor with rough crag, but marble, and the work
Of noblest architects.
SAMUEL ROGERS.
SING TO ME, GONDOLIER
Sing to me, Gondolier!
Sing words from Tasso’s lay;
While blue, and still, and clear,
Night seems but softer day.
The gale is gently falling,
As if it paused to hear
Some strain the past recalling--
Sing to me, Gondolier!
Oh, ask me not to wake
The memory of the brave;
Bid no high numbers break
The silence of the wave.
Gone are the noble-hearted,
Closed the bright pageants here;
And the glad song is departed
From the mournful Gondolier!
MRS. HEMANS.
THE GONDOLIER’S CRY
Most persons are now well acquainted with the general aspect of the
Venetian gondola, but few have taken the pains to understand the cries
of warning uttered by its boatmen, although those cries are peculiarly
characteristic, and very impressive to a stranger.... It may perhaps be
interesting to the traveller in Venice to know the general method of
management of the boat to which he owes so many happy hours.
A gondola is in general rowed only by one man, _standing_ at the stern;
those of the upper classes having two or more boatmen, for greater
speed and magnificence. In order to raise the oar sufficiently, it
rests, not on the side of the boat, but on a piece of crooked timber
like the branch of a tree, rising about a foot from the boat’s side,
and called a ‘fórcola.’ The fórcola is of different forms, according to
the size and uses of the boat, and it is always somewhat complicated
in its parts and curvature, allowing the oar various kinds of rest
and catches on both its sides, but perfectly free play in all cases;
as the management of the boat depends on the gondolier’s being able
in an instant to place his oar in any position. The fórcola is set
on the right-hand side of the boat, some six feet from the stern: the
gondolier stands on a little flat platform or deck behind it, and
throws nearly the entire weight of his body upon the forward stroke.
The effect of this stroke would be naturally to turn the boat’s head
round to the left, as well as to send it forward; but this tendency is
corrected by keeping the blade of the oar under the water in the return
stroke, and raising it gradually, as a full spoon is raised out of any
liquid, so that the blade emerges from the water only an instant before
it again plunges. A _downward_ and lateral pressure upon the fórcola
is thus obtained, which entirely counteracts the tendency given by the
forward stroke; and the effort, after a little practice, becomes hardly
conscious, though, as it adds some labour to the back stroke, rowing a
gondola at speed is hard and breathless work, though it appears easy
and graceful to the looker-on.
If then the gondola is to be turned to the left, the forward impulse is
given without the return stroke; if it is to be turned to the right,
the plunged oar is brought forcibly up to the surface; in either case a
single strong stroke being enough to turn the light and flat-bottomed
boat. But as it has no keel, when the turn is made sharply, as out of
one canal into another very narrow one, the impetus of the boat in its
former direction gives it an enormous leeway, and it drifts laterally
up against the wall of the canal, and that so forcibly, that if it has
turned at speed, no gondolier can arrest the motion merely by strength
or rapidity of stroke of oar; but it is checked by a strong thrust
of the foot against the wall itself, the head of the boat being, of
course, turned for the moment almost completely round to the opposite
wall, and greater exertion made to give it, as quickly as possible,
impulse in the new direction.
The boat being thus guided, the cry ‘Premi’ is the order from one
gondolier to another that he should ‘press’ or thrust forward his oar,
without the back stroke, so as to send his boat’s head round _to the
left_; and the cry ‘Stali’ is the order that he should give the return
or upward stroke which sends the boat’s head round to the _right_.
Hence, if two gondoliers meet under any circumstances which render it
a matter of question on which side they should pass each other, the
gondolier who has at the moment the least power over his boat cries to
the other ‘Premi,’ if he wishes the boats to pass with their right-hand
sides to each other, and ‘Stali’ if with their left. Now, in turning
a corner, there is, of course, risk of collision between boats coming
from opposite sides, and warning is always clearly and loudly given on
approaching an angle of the canals. It is, of course, presumed that
the boat which gives the warning will be nearer the turn than the
one which receives and answers it; and, therefore, will not have so
much time to check itself or alter its course. Hence the advantage of
the turn--that is, the outside, which allows the fullest swing, and
greatest room for leeway--is always yielded to the boat which gives
warning. Therefore, if the warning boat is going to turn to the right,
as it is to have the outside position, it will keep its own right-hand
side to the boat which it meets, and the cry of warning is therefore
‘Premi,’ twice given; first as soon as it can be heard round the angle,
prolonged and loud, with the accent on the _e_, and another strongly
accented _e_ added, a kind of question, ‘Prémi-é,’ followed, at the
instant of turning, with ‘Ah Premí,’ with the accent sharp on the
final _i_. If, on the other hand, the warning boat is going to turn to
the left, it will pass with its left-hand side to the one it meets; and
the warning cry is, ‘Stálié, Ah Stalí.’ Hence the confused idea in the
mind of the traveller that Stali means ‘to the left,’ and ‘Premi’ to
the right; while they mean, in reality, the direct reverse: the Stali,
for instance, being the order to the unseen gondolier who may be behind
the corner, coming from the left-hand side, that he should hold as much
as possible _to his own right_; this being the only safe order for him,
whether he is going to turn the corner himself, or to go straight on;
for as the warning gondola will always swing right across the canal
in turning, a collision with it is only to be avoided by keeping well
within it, and close up to the corner which it turns.
There are several other cries necessary in the management of the
gondola, but less frequently, so that the reader will hardly care for
their interpretation; except only the ‘sciar,’ which is the order to
the opposite gondolier to stop the boat as suddenly as possible by
slipping his oar in front of the fórcola. The _cry_ is never heard
except when the boatmen have got into some unexpected position,
involving a risk of collision; but the action is seen constantly, when
the gondola is rowed by two or more men (for if performed by the single
gondolier it only swings the boat’s head sharp round to the right), in
bringing up at a landing-place, especially when there is any intent of
display, the boat being first urged to its full speed and then stopped
with as much foam about the oar-blades as possible, the effect being
much like that of stopping a horse at speed by pulling him on his
haunches.
JOHN RUSKIN.
GONDOLIERS
VENICE, _May 1, 1834_.
You always wish to seize boldly upon beauty, to feel and know what it
is, to know why and how nature is worthy of your admiration and love.
I was explaining these feelings to our friend the other evening, as
we were passing in a gondola under the sombre arcade of the Bridge of
Sighs. Do you remember the light which is seen at the end of the canal,
and which is reflected and multiplied in the old and shining marble of
the palace of Bianca Cappello? In all Venice there is no canalletto
more mysterious, more melancholy. This single light, glancing on all
surrounding objects but enlightening none, dancing on the water, and
appearing to play in the wake of the passing gondolas, as though it
were an _ignis fatuus_ attached to their course, made me remember that
long line of lamps which trembles in the Seine, and which in the water
looks like long crooked tracks of fire.... I was quite absorbed in my
customary fantasies, when I saw upon the canal of St. George, among the
other objects upon its surface, a black spot moving so rapidly as soon
to leave all the others behind. It was the new and brilliant gondola of
the young Catullo. When within sight, I recognized the flower of our
gondoliers, in his nankin vest.... In the interval of dipping the oar
into the tranquil mirror of the lake, from time to time, he threw a
glance of satisfaction upon his resplendent image, and charmed with his
appearance, and penetrated with gratitude towards the generous soul of
his patron, he managed the gondola with a vigorous hand, and made her
bound over the waters like a wild duck.
Giulio (Catullo’s brother) was at the other end of the barque, and
seconded his efforts with all the ease of a true child of the Adriatic.
Our friend Pietro was lying indolently on the carpet of the gondola,
and the beautiful Beppa, seated on the black morocco cushions, let
the wind play among her ebony tresses, parted on her noble brow,
and falling in two long loose curls upon her bosom.... The gondola
slackened its pace whilst one of the rowers took breath, and when it
neared the shady banks, it floated idly on the waves which caressed the
marble stairs of the garden. Pietro asked Beppa to sing. Giulio took
his guitar, and Beppa’s voice rose into the air full of passion as the
appeal of a syren. She sang a verse from a song which Pietro composed
for some fair lady, perhaps for Beppa herself:
‘Con lei sull’ onda placida
Errai dalla laguna,
Ella gli sguardi immobili
In te fissava o luna!
E a che pensava allor?
Era un morrente palpito?
Era un nascente amor?’
GEORGE SAND.
GONDOLIERS’ MUSIC
The gondolier, stationed at the _traghetto_, invites passengers by
the most miraculous offers: ‘Will you go to Trieste this afternoon,
monseigneur? Here is a beautiful gondola, that does not fear the
tempest in the open sea, and a gondolier ready to row you, without
stopping, to Constantinople.’ Unexpected pleasures are the only
pleasures in the world. Yesterday I wished to go and see the moon rise
over the Adriatic; I had never been able to decide Catullo to conduct
me to the Lido. He pretended, what they all pretend when they do not
wish to obey, that the water or the wind was contrary.... I was in
desperate ill-humour when we met, just opposite La Salute, a barque
which was floating gently towards the Grand Canal, leaving behind it,
like a perfume, the sounds of a delightful serenade. ‘Turn the prow,’
said I to old Catullo; ‘I hope you are strong enough to follow that
gondola.’ Another barque floating idly by, imitated my example, then a
second, then another; at last all those who were enjoying the fresh air
on the canal, and several even which were vacant, and whose gondoliers
surrounded us, crying, ‘Music, music,’ with an air, hungry as the
Israelites in the desert for the manna. In ten minutes a flotilla
was formed round these dilettanti; all the oars were silent, and the
barques were left at the will of the current.
The harmony floated softly in the breeze and the hautbois sighed so
sweetly that each one held his breath for fear of interrupting its
accents so full of tenderness and love. The violin mingled its voice
so sad,--with such sympathetic yearnings.... Then the harp gave forth
two or three chords of harmonious sounds, which seemed to descend from
heaven, and promise the caresses and consolation of its angels to all
souls suffering on this earth. Then came the horn as from the depths
of a wood, and each of us might fancy he saw his first love advance
from the forests of Friuli, and approach with these sounds of joy. The
hautbois replied with sounds more full of passion than those uttered by
the dove seeking her mate in the air. The violin exhaled its sobs of
convulsive joy, the harp gave forth its full and generous vibrations,
like the palpitations of an ardent breast, and then the sounds of the
four instruments mingled like happy souls embracing each other before
their departure for a better world. I drank in their accents, and my
imagination heard them after they had ceased to exist. Their passage
left a magic warmth in the atmosphere, as though Love had agitated it
with his wings.
There was some minutes’ silence, which no one dared to break. The
melodious barque began to flee before us as though it wished to make
its escape, but we quickly followed in its track; we might have been
compared to a flock of petrels disputing the possession of a goldfish.
We pressed upon its flight with our prows, like large steel scythes in
the moon’s beams, shining like the fiery teeth of Ariosto’s dragons.
The fugitive achieved its deliverance in the same way as Orpheus: some
chords from the harp reduced us all to order and silence. At the sound
of its light _arpeggios_, three barques ranged themselves on each side
of the one bearing the music, and followed the _adagio_ with the most
religious slowness. The others remained behind like a cortège, and this
was perhaps the best situation for hearing. This long file of silent
gondolas, floating gently with the wind on the magnificent Grand Canal
of Venice, was a _coup-d’œil_ which realized the most lovely dreams.
Every undulation of the water, every slight movement of the oars,
seemed to respond sympathetically to the sentiment of each musical
passage, extracted from the harmonious themes of Oberon and Guillaume
Tell. The gondoliers, erect on the poop, their bold attitudes clearly
defined against the blue atmosphere, seemed to form a background of
dark spectres behind the groups of friends and lovers they were
conducting. The moon rose slowly, and peeping curiously over the roofs,
seemed also to listen and love the music. A palace on one side of
the canal, yet plunged in obscurity, defined upon the clear sky its
enormous Moorish outlines, darker than the gates of hell.
The other shore, illumined by the rays of the full moon, at that time
as large and brilliant as a silver shield, received the light upon its
silent and serene arcades. These immense piles of fairy-like buildings,
lighted only by the stars, wore an aspect of solitude, repose, and
immobility truly sublime. The slender statues rising by hundreds into
the air seemed mysterious spirits watching the repose of the quiet
city, slumbering like the Sleeping Beauty in the Wood, and condemned,
like her, to slumber for a hundred years or more.
GEORGE SAND.
THE GONDOLIERS OF VENICE
In Venice the gondoliers know by heart long passages from Ariosto and
Tasso, and often chant them with a peculiar melody. But this talent
seems at present on the decline:--at least, after taking some pains,
I could find no more than two persons who delivered to me in this
way a passage from Tasso. Goldoni, in his life, however, notices the
gondolier returning with him to the city: ‘He turned the prow of the
gondola towards the city, singing all the way the twenty-sixth stanza
of the sixteenth canto of the “Jerusalem Delivered.”’ ... Lord Byron
has told us that with the independence of Venice the song of the
gondoliers has died away.
‘In Venice Tasso’s echoes are no more.’
There are always two concerned, who alternately sing the strophes. We
know the melody eventually by Rousseau, to whose songs it is printed;
it has properly no melodious movement, and is a sort of medium between
the _canto fermo_ and the _canto figurato_; it approaches to the former
by recitativical declamation, and to the latter by passages and course,
by which one syllable is detained and embellished.
I entered a gondola by moonlight: one singer placed himself forwards
and the other aft, and thus proceeded to St. Georgio. One began the
song: when he had ended his strophe the other took up the lay, and so
continued the song alternately. Throughout the whole of it, the same
notes invariably returned, but, according to the subject-matter of the
strophe, they laid a greater or a smaller stress, sometimes on one and
sometimes on another note, and indeed changed the enunciation of the
whole strophe, as the object of the poems altered....
We got out upon the shore, leaving one of the singers in the gondola,
while the other went to the distance of some hundred paces. They now
began to sing against one another, and I kept walking up and down
between them both, so as to leave him who was to begin his part. I
frequently stood still and hearkened to the one and to the other.
Here the scene was properly introduced. The strong declamatory, and,
as it were, shrieking sound, met the ear from far, and called forth
the attention; the quickly succeeding transitions, which necessarily
required to be sung in a lower tone, seemed like plaintive strains
succeeding the vociferations of emotions or of pain. The other,
who listened attentively, immediately began where the former left
off, answering him in milder or more vehement notes, according as
the purport of the strophe required. The sleepy canals, the lofty
buildings, the splendour of the moon, the deep shadows of the few
gondolas that moved like spirits hither and thither, increased the
striking peculiarity of the scene, and amidst all these circumstances
it was easy to confess the character of this wonderful harmony.
It suits perfectly well with an idle solitary mariner, lying at
length in his vessel at rest on one of these canals, waiting for his
company, or for a fare; the tiresomeness of which situation is somewhat
alleviated by the songs and poetical stories he has in memory. He often
raises his voice as loud as he can, which extends itself to a vast
distance over the tranquil mirror; and as all is still around, he is
as it were in a solitude in the midst of a large and populous town.
Here is no rattling of carriages, no noise of foot passengers: a silent
gondola glides now and then by him, of which the splashing of oars is
scarcely to be heard.
At a distance he hears another, perhaps utterly unknown to him.
Melody and verse immediately attach the two strangers: he becomes the
responsive echo to the former, and exerts himself to be heard as he had
heard the other. By a tacit convention they alternate verse for verse;
though the song should last the whole night through, they entertain
themselves without fatigue; the hearers, who are passing between the
two, take part in the amusement.
This vocal performance sounds best at a great distance, and is then
inexpressibly charming, as it only fulfils its design in the sentiment
of remoteness. It is plaintive, but not dismal in its sound, and at
times it is scarcely possible to refrain from tears....
I was told that the women of Lido, the long row of islands that divides
the Adriatic from the lagoons, particularly the women of the extreme
districts of Malamocco and Pelestrina, sing in like manner the works of
Tasso to these and similar tunes.
They have a custom, when their husbands are fishing out at sea, to
sit along the shore in the evenings and vociferate these songs,
and continue to do so with great violence, till each of them can
distinguish the responses of her own husband at a distance.
How much more delightful and more appropriate does this song show
itself here, than the call of a solitary person uttered far and wide,
till another equally disposed shall hear and answer him! It is the
expression of a vehement and hearty longing, which yet is every moment
nearer to the happiness of satisfaction.
ISAAC D’ISRAELI.
GONDOLIERS AND THEIR SONGS
The gondolas, which everybody knows are black, and give an air of
melancholy at first sight, yet are nothing less than sorrowful; it is
like painting the lively Mrs. Cholmondeley in the character of Milton’s
‘Pensive nun, devout and pure,
Sober, steadfast, and demure’--
as I once saw her drawn by a famous hand, to show a Venetian lady in
her gondola and zendaletta, which is black like a gondola, but wholly
calculated like that for the purposes of refined gallantry. So is the
nightly rendezvous, the café and casino; for whilst Palladio’s palaces
serve to adorn the Grand Canal and strike those who enter Venice
with surprise at its magnificence, those snug retreats are intended
for the relaxation of those who inhabit the more splendid apartments
and are feigned with exertions of dignity and necessity of no small
expense.... I have asked several friends about the truth of what one
has been always hearing in England--that the Venetian gondoliers
sing Tasso’s and Ariosto’s verses in the streets at night, sometimes
quarrelling with each other concerning the merits of their favourite
poets; but what I have been told since I came here of their attachment
to their respective masters, and secrecy when trusted by them in love
affairs, seems far more probable, as they are proud to excess when
they serve a nobleman of high birth, and will tell you with an air of
importance that the house of Memmo, Monsenigo, or Gratterola has been
served by their ancestors for these eighty or perhaps a hundred years,
transmitting pride thus from generation to generation, even when that
pride is but reflected only like the mock rainbow of a summer sky.
But hark! while I am writing this peevish reflection in my room, I
hear some voices under my window answering each other upon the Grand
Canal. It is--it is the gondolieri sure enough; they are at this moment
singing to an odd sort of tune, but in no unmusical manner, the flight
of Erminia from Tasso’s ‘Jerusalem.’
MRS. PIOZZI (1785).
A GONDOLIER OF CHIOGGIA
‘Drink, my friends! _vive la joyeuse Italie, et Venise la belle_!...
I am, as you know, the son of a Chioggia fisherman. Nearly all the
natives of this shore have the thorax well developed, and possess
strong voices, which would be beautiful also, if not early injured
by struggles, when at sea, with the noise of the wind and waves....
The Chioggiotes are a handsome race. They say that a great French
painter, Leopolo Roberto, is now occupied in illustrating their
beauty in a picture, which he will allow no one to see. Though, as
you perceive, my complexion is sufficiently robust, my father, in
comparing me with my brothers, considered me so frail and delicate,
that he would not teach me either to throw the line, or to manage skiff
or fishing-boat. He showed me only how to handle an oar with both
hands, to row a small boat, and sent me to gain a living at Venice,
in the capacity of assistant gondolier of the place. It was a great
relief and humiliation for me to enter thus into servitude, to quit my
paternal home, the borders of the sea, and the honourable and perilous
profession of my ancestors. But I had a fine voice, and knew many
fragments of Ariosto and Tasso. I might make a lively gondolier, and
gain, with time and patience, fifty francs a month in the service of
amateurs and strangers.... Taste for poetry and music develops itself
among us sons of the people. We had, and we still have (though the
custom threatens to be lost) our bards and our poets, whom we call
_cupidons_; rhapsodical travellers, who bring us from the central
provinces incorrect notions of the mother-tongue, modified--I should
better say enriched, with all the genius of the northern and southern
dialects. Men of the people like us, gifted at the same time with
memory and imagination, they never care for mixing their fantastic
improvisations with the creations of poets. Always taking, and leaving
some new phrase in their passage, they embellish the language and the
text of their authors with an inconceivable confusion of idioms. They
might well be called the preservers of the instability of language
in the literature of the frontier provinces. Our ignorance accepts,
without appeal, the decisions of this walking academy; and you have had
occasion, at times, to admire the energy and the grotesque Italian of
our poets, in the mouths of the singers of the lagoons. It is noon on
Sunday after Grand Mass, upon the public place of Chioggia, or of an
evening in the cabarets on the banks, that these rhapsodists delight
a numerous and impassioned audience by their recitations mingled with
song and declamation. The _cupido_ usually stands upon a table, and
plays from time to time a symphony or finale after his fashion, upon
some kind of instrument; sometimes the Calabrian pipe, sometimes the
violin, flute, or guitar. The Chioggiotes, cold and phlegmatic in
appearance, listen and smoke at first, with an imperturbable and almost
disdainful air; but at the noble battle of Ariosto’s heroes, at the
death of Paladins, the rescue of ladies, and the defeat of giants, the
audience are aroused, become animated, utter cries, excite themselves
so effectually, that pipes and glasses fly into pieces, the seats and
the tables are overturned, and often the _cupido_, about to fall the
victim to the enthusiasm he has called forth, is forced to take flight,
while the _dilettanti_ spread themselves through the country in pursuit
of an imaginary ravisher with cries of ‘_d’amazza! d’amazza!_ kill the
monster! kill the coward! bravo, Astolphe! courage, brave comrade!’ It
is thus these men of Chioggia, intoxicated with the fumes of tobacco,
wine, and poetry, take to their boats, declaiming to the winds and
waves broken fragments of these delirious epic poems.
GEORGE SAND.
ISLAND AND LAGOON
My windows look upon a garden, the west side of which
is bounded by the walls of a convent, while towards the
east it juts out into the lagoon, in the form of a little
peninsula. The garden is charmingly situated, but little
frequented. It is my custom every morning ... to spend a
few moments at the window ... to see the sun rise over the
Adriatic.... I recommend exactly this station, the most
eligible one, perhaps, in all Venice, to enjoy so splendid
a prospect in perfection. A purple twilight hangs over the
deep, and a golden mist on the lagoon announces the sun’s
approach. The heavens and the sea are wrapped in expectant
silence. In two seconds the orb of day appears, casting
a flood of fiery light upon the waves. It is a sight of
enchantment!
SCHILLER.
Chioggia, like Venice, is built upon a foundation of wooden
piles.... One meets sailors and fishermen at every step.
Whoever appears in a perruque, or a cloak, is regarded
as an aristocrat--a rich man; the cap and overcoat are
here the insignia of the poor. The situation is certainly
extremely lovely, but it does not bear comparison with
Venice.
SCHILLER.
PLEASANT MURANO
I passed in a gondola to pleasant Murano, distant about a little mile
from the citie, where they make their delicate Venice glasses, so
famous over al Christendome for the incomparable finenes thereof, and
in one of their working houses made a glasse my selfe. Most of their
principall matter whereof they make their glasses is a kinde of earth
which is brought thither by sea from Drepanum, a goodly haven towne
of Sicilie, where Æneas buried his aged father Anchises. This Murano
is a very delectable and populous place, having many faire buildings
both publique and private, and divers very pleasant gardens. The
first that inhabited it were those of the towne Altinum, bordering
upon the sea coast, who in the time of the Hunnes invasion of Italy,
repaired hither with their wives and children, for the securitie of
their lives, as other borderers also did at the same time to those
Islands, where Venice now standeth. Here did I eate the best oysters
that ever I did in all my life. They were indeede but little, something
lesse than our Wainflete oysters about London.... By the way, betwixt
Venice and Murano I observed a most notable thing, whereof I had often
heard long before, a faire monastery of Augustinian monkes built by a
second Flora or Lais. I meane a rich Cortezan of Venice, whose name
was Margarita Æmiliana. I have not heard of so religious a worke done
by so irreligious a founder in any place of Christendome: belike she
hoped to make expiation unto God by this holy deede for the lascivious
dalliances of her youth, but _tali spe freti sperando pereant_.
THOMAS CORYAT (1611).
MURANO
The decay of the city of Venice is, in many respects, like that of
an outwearied and aged human frame; the cause of its decrepitude is
indeed at the heart, but the outward appearances of it are first at the
extremities. In the centre of the city there are still places where
some evidence of vitality remains, and where, with kind closing of
the eyes to signs, too manifest even there, of distress and declining
fortune, the stranger may succeed in imagining, for a little while,
what must have been the aspect of Venice in her prime. But this
lingering pulsation has not force enough any more to penetrate into
the suburbs and outskirts of the city; the frost of death has there
seized upon it irrevocably, and the grasp of mortal disease is marked
daily by the increasing breadth of its belt of ruin. Nowhere is this
seen more grievously than along the great north-eastern boundary, once
occupied by the smaller palaces of the Venetians, built for pleasure or
repose; the nobler piles along the Grand Canal being reserved for the
pomp and business of daily life. To such smaller palaces some garden
ground was commonly attached, opening to the water-side; and, in front
of these villas and gardens, the lagoon was wont to be covered in the
evening by gondolas: the space of it between this part of the city and
the island group of Murano being to Venice, in her time of power, what
its parks are to London; only gondolas were used instead of carriages,
and the crowd of the population did not come out till towards sunset,
and prolonged their pleasures far into the night, company answering to
company with alternate singing.
If, knowing this custom of the Venetians, and with a vision in his
mind of summer palaces lining the shore, and myrtle gardens sloping
to the sea, the traveller now seeks this suburb of Venice, he will be
strangely and sadly surprised to find a new but perfectly desolate
quay, about a mile in length, extending from the arsenal to the Sacca
della Misericordia, in front of a line of miserable houses built in
the course of the last sixty or eighty years, yet already tottering to
their ruin; and not less to find that the principal object in the view
which these houses (built partly in front and partly on the ruins of
the ancient palaces) now command is a dead brick wall, about a quarter
of a mile across the water, interrupted only by a kind of white lodge,
the cheerfulness of which prospect is not enhanced by his finding that
this wall encloses the principal public cemetery of Venice. He may,
perhaps, marvel for a few moments at the singular taste of the old
Venetians in taking their pleasure under a churchyard wall; but on
further inquiry, he will find that the building on the island, like
those on the shore, is recent, that it stands on the ruins of the
Church of St. Cristoforo della Pace; and that, with a singular, because
unintended, moral, the modern Venetians have replaced the Peace of the
Christ-bearer by the Peace of Death, and where they once went, as the
sun set daily, to their pleasure, now go, as the sun sets to each of
them, for ever, to their graves.
Yet the power of Nature cannot be shortened by the folly, nor her
beauty altogether saddened by the misery, of man. The broad tides still
ebb and flow brightly about the island of the dead, and the linked
conclave of the Alps know no decline from their old pre-eminence, nor
stoop from their golden thrones in the circle of the horizon. So lovely
is the scene still, in spite of all its injuries, that we shall find
ourselves drawn there again and again at evening out of the narrow
canals and streets of the city, to watch the wreaths of the sea-mist
weaving themselves like mourning veils around the mountains far away,
and listen to the green waves as they fret and sigh along the cemetery
shore.
But it is morning now: we have a hard day’s work to do at Murano, and
our boat shoots swiftly from beneath the last bridge of Venice, and
brings us out into the open sea and sky.
The pure cumuli of cloud lie crowded and leaning against one another,
rank beyond rank, far over the shining water, each cut away at its
foundation by a level line, trenchant and clear, till they sink to the
horizon like a flight of marble steps, except where the mountains meet
them, and are lost in them, barred across by the grey terraces of those
cloud foundations and reduced into one crestless bank of blue, spotted
here and there with strange flakes of wan, aerial greenish light,
strewed upon them like snow. And underneath is the long dark line of
the mainland fringed with low trees; and then the wide-waving surface
of the burnished lagoon trembling slowly, and shaking out into forked
bands of lengthening fight the images of the towers of cloud above. To
the north, there is first the great cemetery wall, then the long stray
buildings of Murano, and the island villages beyond, glittering in
intense crystalline vermilion, like so much jewellery scattered on a
mirror, their towers poised apparently in the air a little above the
horizon, and their reflections, as sharp and vivid and substantial as
themselves, thrown on the vacancy between them and the sea. And thus
the villages seem standing on the air; and, to the east, there is a
cluster of ships that seem sailing on the land; for the sandy line of
the Lido stretches itself between us and them, and we can see the tall
white sails moving beyond it, but not the sea, only there is a sense
of the great sea being indeed there, and a solemn strength of gleaming
light in the sky above.
The most discordant feature in the whole scene is the cloud which
hovers above the glass furnaces of Murano; but this we may not regret,
as it is one of the last signs left of human exertion among the
ruinous villages which surround us. The silent gliding of the gondola
brings it nearer to us every moment; we pass the cemetery, and a deep
sea-channel which separates it from Murano, and finally enter a narrow
water-street, with a paved footpath on each side, raised three or four
feet above the canal, and forming a kind of quay between the water and
the doors of the houses. These latter are, for the most part, low,
but built with massy doors and windows of marble or Istrian stone,
square set, and barred with iron; buildings evidently once of no mean
order, though now inhabited only by the poor. Here and there an ogee
window of the fourteenth century, or a doorway deeply enriched with
cable mouldings, shows itself in the midst of more ordinary features;
and several houses, consisting of one story only carried on square
pillars, forming a short arcade along the quay, have windows sustained
on shafts, of red Verona marble, of singular grace and delicacy. All
now in vain: little care is there for their delicacy or grace among
the rough fishermen sauntering on the quay with their jackets hanging
loose from their shoulders, jacket and cap and hair all of the same
dark-greenish sea-grey. But there is some life in the scene more than
is usual in Venice; the women are sitting at their doors knitting
busily, and various workmen of the glass-houses sifting glass-dust upon
the pavement, and strange cries coming from one side of the canal to
the other, and ringing far along the crowded water, from vendors of
figs and grapes, and gourds, and shellfish; cries partly descriptive of
the eatables in question, but interspersed with others of a character
unintelligible in proportion to their violence, and fortunately so,
if we may judge by a sentence which is stencilled in black, within a
garland, on the whitewashed walls of nearly every other house in the
street, but which, how often soever written, no one seems to regard:
‘Bestemme non più. Lodate Gesù.’
We push our way on between large barges laden with fresh water from
Fusina, in round white tubs seven feet across, and complicated
boats full of all manner of nets, that look as if they could never
be disentangled, hanging from their masts and over their sides;
and presently pass under a bridge with the lion of St. Mark on its
archivolt, and another on a pillar at the end of the parapet, a small
red lion with much of the puppy in his face, looking vacantly up into
the air (in passing we may note that, instead of feathers, his wings
are covered with hair, and in several other points the manner of his
sculpture is not uninteresting). Presently the canal turns a little
to the left, and thereupon becomes more quiet, the main bustle of
the water-street being usually confined to the first straight reach
of it, some quarter of a mile long, the Cheapside of Murano. We pass
a considerable church on the left, St. Pietro, and a little square
opposite to it with a few acacia-trees, and then find our boat suddenly
seized by a strong green eddy, and whirled into the tide-way of one
of the main channels of the lagoon, which divides the town of Murano
into two parts by a deep stream some fifty yards over, crossed only by
one wooden bridge. We let ourselves drift some way down the current,
looking at the low line of cottages on the other side of it, hardly
knowing if there be more cheerfulness or melancholy in the way the
sunshine glows on their ruinous but whitewashed walls, and sparkles
on the rushing of the green water by the grass-grown quay. It needs
a strong stroke of the oar to bring us into the mouth of another
quiet canal on the farther side of the tide-way, and we are still
somewhat giddy when we run the head of the gondola into the sand on the
left-hand side of this more sluggish stream, and land under the seat
end of the Church of San Donato, the ‘Matrice’ or ‘Mother’ Church of
Murano.
JOHN RUSKIN.
THE GLASS FURNACES OF MURANO
I was lately to see the arsenal of Venice, one of the worthiest things
of Christendom; they say there are as many galleys, and galeasses
of all sorts, belonging to St. Mark, either in cours, as anchor, in
dock, or upon the carine, as there be days in the year; here they can
build a complete galley in half a day, and put her afloat in perfect
equipage, having all the ingredients fitted beforehand, as they did
in three hours, when Henry the Third passed this way to France from
Poland, who wished, that besides Paris and his parliament towns, he
had this arsenal in exchange for three of his chiefest cities. There
are three hundred people perpetually here at work, and if one comes
young and grows old in St. Mark’s service, he hath a pension from the
State during life. Being brought to see one of the Clarissimos that
governs this arsenal, this huge sea store-house, amongst other matters
reflecting upon England, he was saying: ‘That if Cavalier Don Roberto
Mansell were now here, he thought verily the republic would make a
proffer to him to be admiral of that fleet of galleys and galleons,
which are now going against the Duke of Ossuna and the forces of
Naples, you are so well known here.’
I was, since I came hither, in Murano, a little island about the
distance of Lambeth from London, where crystal glass is made, and it
is a rare sight to see a whole street, where on the one side there
are twenty furnaces together at work. They say here that although one
should transplant a glass-furnace from Murano to Venice herself, or to
any of the little assembly of islands about her, or to any other part
of the earth besides, and use the same materials, the same workmen, the
same fuel, the self-same ingredients every day, yet they cannot make
crystal glass in that perfection, for beauty and lustre, as in Murano.
Some impute it to the quality of the circumambient air that hangs over
the place, which is purified and attenuated by the concurrence of so
many fires that are in those furnaces night and day perpetually, for
they are like the vestal fire which never goes out....
The art of glass-making here is very highly valued; for, whosoever be
of that profession are gentlemen _ipso facto_, and it is not without
reason; it being a rare kind of knowledge and chemistry to transmute
dust and sand (for they are the only main ingredients) to such a
diaphanous pellucid dainty body as you see a crystal glass is, which
hath this property above gold or silver or any other mineral, to admit
no poison; as also that it never wastes or loses a whit of its first
weight, though you use it never so long. When I saw so many sorts
of curious glasses made here I thought upon the compliment which a
gentleman put upon a lady in England, who having five or six comely
daughters, said he never saw in his life such a dainty cupboard of
crystal glasses; the compliment proceeds, it seems, from a saying they
have here, ‘That the first handsome woman that ever was made, was made
of Venice glass,’ which implies beauty, but brittleness with all (and
Venice is not unfurnished with some of that mould, for no place abounds
more with lasses and glasses).... When I pried into the materials, and
observed the furnaces and the calcinations, the transubstantiations,
the liquefactions that are incident to this art, my thoughts were
raised to a higher speculation: that if this small furnace-fire hath
the virtue to convert such a small lump of dark dust and sand into such
a precious clear body as crystal, surely that grand universal fire
which shall happen at the day of judgment, may by its violent ardour
vitrify and turn to one lump of crystal the whole body of the earth;
nor am I the first that fell upon this conceit.
JAMES HOWELL.
TORCELLO
Seven miles to the north of Venice, the banks of sand, which nearer
the city rise little above low-water mark, attain by degrees a higher
level, and knit themselves at last into fields of salt morass, raised
here and there into shapeless mounds, and intercepted by narrow creeks
of sea. One of the feeblest of these inlets, after winding for some
time among buried fragments of masonry, and knots of sunburnt weeds
whitened with webs of fucus, stays itself in an utterly stagnant pool
beside a plot of greener grass covered with ground ivy and violets. On
this mound is built a rude brick campanile, of the commonest Lombardic
type, which if we ascend towards evening (and there are none to hinder
us, the door of its ruinous staircase swinging idly on its hinges),
we may command from it one of the most notable scenes in this wide
world of ours. Far as the eye can reach, a waste of wild sea moor, of
a lurid ashen grey; not like our northern moors with their jet-black
pools and purple heath, but lifeless, the colour of sackcloth, with the
corrupted sea-water soaking through the roots of its acrid weeds, and
gleaming hither and thither through its snaky channels. No gathering
of fantastic mists, nor coursing of clouds across it; but melancholy
clearness of space in the warm sunset, oppressive, reaching to the
horizon of its level gloom. To the very horizon, on the north-east;
but, to the north and west, there is a blue line of higher land along
the border of it, and above this, but further back, a misty band of
mountains, touched with snow. To the east, the paleness and roar of
the Adriatic, louder at momentary intervals as the surf breaks on the
bars of sand; to the south, the widening branches of the calm lagoon,
alternately purple and pale green, as they reflect the evening clouds
or twilight sky; and almost beneath our feet, on the same field which
sustains the tower we gaze from, a group of four buildings, two of them
little larger than cottages (though built of stone, and one adorned
by a quaint belfry), the third an octagonal chapel, of which we can
see but little more than the flat red roof with its rayed tiling, the
fourth, a considerable church with nave and aisles, but of which, in
like manner, we can see little but the long central ridge and lateral
slopes of roof, which the sunlight separates in one glowing mass from
the green field beneath and grey moor beyond. There are no living
creatures near the buildings, nor any vestige of village or city round
about them. They lie like a little company of ships becalmed on a
far-away sea.
Then look farther to the south. Beyond the widening branches of the
lagoon, and rising out of the bright lake into which they gather, there
are a multitude of towers, dark, and scattered among square-set shapes
of clustered palaces, a long and irregular line fretting the southern
sky.
Mother and daughter, you behold them both in their widowhood,--TORCELLO
and VENICE.
Thirteen hundred years ago, the grey moorland looked as it does this
day, and the purple mountains stood as radiantly in the deep distances
of evening; but on the line of the horizon, there were strange fires
mixed with the light of sunset, and the lament of many human voices
mixed with the fretting of the waves on their ridges of sand. The
flames rose from the ruins of Altinum; the lament from the multitude
of its people, seeking, like Israel of old, a refuge from the sword in
the paths of the sea.
The cattle are feeding and resting upon the site of the city that they
left; the mower’s scythe swept this day at dawn over the chief street
of the city that they built, and the swathes of soft grass are now
sending up their scent into the night air, the only incense that fills
the temple of their ancient worship. Let us go down into that little
space of meadow land.
The inlet which runs nearest to the base of the campanile is not that
by which Torcello is commonly approached. Another, somewhat broader,
and overhung by alder copse, winds out of the main channel of the
lagoon up to the very edge of the little meadow which was once the
piazza of the city, and there, stayed by a few grey stones which
present some semblance of a quay, forms its boundary at one extremity.
Hardly larger than an ordinary English farmyard, and roughly enclosed
on each side by broken palings and hedges of honeysuckle and briar, the
narrow field retires from the water’s edge, traversed by a scarcely
traceable footpath, for some forty or fifty paces, and then expanding
into the form of a small square, with buildings on three sides of it,
the fourth being that which opens to the water. Two of these, that on
our left and that in front of us as we approach from the canal, are
so small that they might well be taken for the outhouses of the farm,
though the first is a conventual building, and the other aspires to
the title of the ‘Palazzo publico,’ both dating as far back as the
beginning of the fourteenth century; the third, the octagonal church of
Santa Fosca, is far more ancient than either, yet hardly on a larger
scale. Though the pillars of the portico which surrounds it are of
pure Greek marble, and their capitals are enriched with delicate
sculpture, they, and the arches they sustain, together only raise the
roof to the height of a cattle-shed; and the first strong impression
which the spectator receives from the whole scene is, that whatever
sin it may have been which has on this spot been visited with so utter
a desolation, it could not at least have been ambition. Nor will this
impression be diminished as we approach, or enter, the larger church,
to which the whole group of building is subordinate. It has evidently
been built by men in flight and distress, who sought in the hurried
erection of their island church such a shelter for their earnest and
sorrowful worship as, on the one hand, could not attract the eyes of
their enemies by its splendour, and yet, on the other, might not awaken
too bitter feelings by its contrast with the churches which they had
seen destroyed. There is visible everywhere a simple and tender effort
to recover some of the form of the temples which they had loved, and to
do honour to God by that which they were erecting, while distress and
humiliation prevented the desire, and prudence precluded the admission,
either of luxury of ornament or magnificence of plan. The exterior
is absolutely devoid of decoration, with the exception only of the
western entrance and the lateral door, of which the former has carved
sideposts and architrave, and the latter, crosses of rich sculpture;
while the massy stone shutters of the windows, turning on huge rings
of stone, which answer the double purpose of stanchions and brackets,
cause the whole building rather to resemble a refuge from Alpine storm
than the cathedral of a populous city; and, internally, the two solemn
mosaics of the eastern and western extremities,--one representing the
Last Judgment, the other the Madonna, her tears falling as her hands
are raised to bless,--and the noble range of pillars which enclose
the space between, terminated by the high throne for the pastor and
the semicircular raised seats for the superior clergy, are expressive
at once of the deep sorrow and the sacred courage of men who had no
home left them upon earth, but who looked for one to come, of men
‘persecuted but not forsaken, cast down but not destroyed.’ ...
And if the stranger would yet learn in what spirit it was that the
dominion of Venice was begun, and in what strength she went forth
conquering and to conquer, let him not seek to estimate the wealth of
her arsenals or number of her armies, nor look upon the pageantry of
her palaces, nor enter into the secrets of her councils; but let him
ascend the highest tier of the stern ledges that sweep round the altar
of Torcello, and then, looking as the pilot did of old along the marble
ribs of the goodly temple-ship, let him repeople its veined deck with
the shadows of its dead mariners, and strive to feel in himself the
strength of heart that was kindled within them, when first, after the
pillars of it had settled in the sand, and the roof of it had been
closed against the angry sky that was still reddened by the fires of
their homesteads,--first, within the shelter of its knitted walls,
amidst the murmur of the waste of waves and the beating of the wings
of the sea-birds round the rock that was strange to them,--rose that
ancient hymn, in the power of their gathered voices:
‘The sea is His, and He made it;
And His hands prepared the dry land.’
JOHN RUSKIN.
UPON A CUPBOARD OF VENICE-GLASSES
SENT FOR A NEW YEAR’S GIFT TO A CHOICE LADY
MADAME,
If on this New Year’s gift you cast your eye,
You plainly may therein at once descry
A twofold quality; for there will appear
A brittle substance, but the Object clear.
So in the donor, Madame, you may see
These qualities inherent for to be;
His pow’r which brittle little is, Helas,
His mind sincere, and pure as any glass.
The old philosopher did wish there were
A window in his heart of chrystal clear,
Through which his friends might the more clearly see
His inward passions, and integrity.
I wish the like, for there you sure would rest
Of my clear mind, and motions of my breast.
But if it question’d be to what intent
With _Venice_-glasses I do you present,
I answer, that I could no gift perceive
So fit for me to give, you to receive:
For those rare Graces that in you excel,
And _you_ that hold them, one may parallel
Unto a _Venice_-glass, which as ’tis clear,
And can admit no poyson to come near,
So virtue dwells in you, nor can endure
That vice should harbour in a breast so pure.
JAMES HOWELL.
SAN FRANCESCO DEL DESERTO
Two years have gone since on this desert place
We landed, she and I, alone, at one;
But now the wild sea-marshes have no grace,
For she who made their beauty--she is gone.
That day the island in the afternoon
Shone like a gem, and on its point the pine
Kept steadfast watch, while in the clear lagoon
Unwavering lay the shadow and the shrine.
‘How lonely,’ so she said, ‘how still, how fair!
Tell me the story why they call this place
St. Francis of the Desert. Silent air,
And silent light sleep here, and silent space.’
‘Once in his wanderings,’ thus I told the tale,
‘St. Francis, overtaken by the night,
Pushed here his bark to shore and furled his sail,
And wearied, slumbered till the morning light.
‘He woke, and saw his brother, the great Sun
Rise up, full-orbed, refreshed, to praise the Lord,
And so began the Matins: “Is there none
To sing,” he said, “responses?” At the word,
‘The nightingale, the blackbird and the thrush,
And all the little fowl with dancing notes,
Perched joyous on the low acacia bush,
Whereby he knelt, and with full-swelling throats
‘Sang a clear service like the boys in quire;
And Francis, happy as a child, gave thanks
To those sweet children of the heavenly Sire--
Hence grew this shrine upon the wan sea-banks.’
The story pleased her; and the low-roofed church,
The bricked-paved cloister set with balsams round,
The marble well, and silence-guarded porch,
The cypresses that clasped the garden ground,
The soft-leaved poplars rippling in the air,
The white narcissus tufts beneath the trees,
And the lonely waters whispering everywhere;
The blue sky filled to brimming with the breeze
That drove the red-sailed barks along the wave--
All pleased, but most the silent solitude;
The still Franciscan walking slow and grave,
The absent life wherein no cares intrude,
Obedient, chaste and poor--alone with sea
And sky and clouds and winds and God’s still voice;
Unvexèd by the clamorous world, and free
For worship and for work, to die or to rejoice.
‘I would not choose,’ she said, ‘this quiet life;
But if my wheels were broken in the race,
If, having done my best, I failed in the strife,
It would be well to work in this sweet place.
‘But you and I are one--our hopes and need,
Our joy and love are in the world of men;
Let fall the sail and bid the rowers speed,
Life calls aloud--Back to the city then.’
So spake she, bathed in sunshine and delight,
Her hand upon the wooden cross whose shade
Falls on the landing-place. She was so bright
That when I looked on her I was afraid.
Good cause for fear--one little month and then
Dark Ocean quenched her light, and now no more
I see this island in the salt sea-fen,
And think what joy, what love I had of yore.
’Twas summer then and glorious afternoon,
And now ’tis autumn and a dusky eve;
Night rushes swiftly o’er the pale lagoon,
The wet seaweed and lapping waters weave
A mournful song together, and I walk
Beneath the solemn cypress-trees alone;
High overhead the tinkling poplars talk
Of me, and wonder where my love has flown.
I cannot tell them, I have never heard;
My boat has drawn unto a silent shore;
But could she speak to me one little word,
Or could I hope to love her evermore,
Then I might see the sun arise, and sing
Matins of praise, like Francis, o’er the sea;
And every happy bird upon the wing,
And all the angels, would rejoice with me.
STOPFORD A. BROOKE.
SAN FRANCESCO DELLA VIGNA
Do you know San Francesco della Vigna, in Venice?
Some say that its tall tower is the first point rising above the waves,
which the returning Venetian sailor sees as he comes homeward from
the south-east, over the foaming bars of Chioggia and Malamocco, one
slender shaft lifted against sky, calling him back to his city and his
home. All the mariners and fishermen, who come and go over the Adrian
waters, have an especial tenderness, an especial reverence, for Saint
Francis of the Vineyard. There is no vineyard now; only one small
square garden, with a cloister running round it, arched, columned,
marble paved, where the dead lie under the worn smooth slabs, and the
box-edges hem in thyme, and balsams, and basil, and carnations, and
thrift, and saxifrage, and other homely hardy plants which need slight
fostering care. The sea winds blow strongly there, and the sea fogs
drift thickly, and the steam and smoke of the foundries round about
hang in heavy clouds, where once the pavilions and the lawns and the
terraces of the patricians of Venice touched the grey-green lagoon; but
this garden of San Francesco is still sweet and fresh: shut in between
its marble colonnades with the deep brown shadow of the church leaning
over it, and the chiming of the bells, and the melody of the organ
rolling above it in deep waves of sound, jarred sometimes by the clash
of the hammers falling on the iron and the copper of the foundries near
at hand, and sometimes sinking to a sweet silence, only softly stirred
by the splash of an oar as a boat passes up or down the narrow canal.
For the sake of that cloistered garden, a gondola came one summer
every day to the landing-place before San Francesco. In the gondola
was an artist, a painter of Paris, Yvon Dorât, who had seen the spot,
and liked it, and returned to paint from it every day, finding an
inexpressible charm in its contrasts of gloom and light, of high brown
walls and low-lying graves, of fresh green herbs and flowers, and
melancholy immemorial marble aisles. He meant to make a great picture
of it, with the ethereal Venetian sky above all, and, between the
straight edges of the bay, a solitary monk passing thoughtfully. Dorât
was under the charm of Venice: that subtle dreamy charm, voluptuous
and yet spiritual, which no artist or poet ever can resist, and these
summer months were to him as a vision of languor, and beauty and rest,
in which the white wings of sea-birds, and the silver of gleaming
waters, and the festal figures of Carpaccio and the golden warmth of
Palma, Vecchio, and the glories of sunsets aflame behind the Euganean
hills, and the mystery of moonless night, with the tide washing against
the weed-grown piles of a Madonna of the lagoon, were all blended in
that confusion of past and present, of art and nature, of desire and
repose, which fills the soul and the senses of those who love Venice,
and live in thrall to her.
OUIDA.
A TOCCATA OF GALUPPI’S
Oh, Galuppi,[2] Baldassaro, this is very sad to find!
I can hardly misconceive you; it would prove me deaf and blind;
But although I give you credit, ’tis with such a heavy mind!
Here you come with your old music, and here’s all the good it brings.
What, they lived once thus at Venice, where the merchants were the
kings,
Where St. Mark’s is, where the Doges used to wed the sea with rings?
Ay, because the sea’s the street there; and ’tis arched by ... what
you call
... Shylock’s bridge with houses on it, where they kept the carnival!
I was never out of England--it’s as if I saw it all!
Did young people take their pleasure when the sea was warm in May?
Balls and masks begun at midnight, burning ever to mid-day,
When they made up fresh adventures for the morrow, do you say?
Was a lady such a lady, cheeks so round and lips so red,--
On her neck the small face buoyant, like a bellflower on its bed,
O’er the breast’s superb abundance where a man might base his head?
Well (and it was graceful of them) they’d break talk off and afford
--She, to bite her mask’s black velvet, he to finger on his sword,
While you sat and played Toccatas, stately at the clavichord?
What? Those lesser thirds so plaintive, sixths diminished, sigh on
sigh,
Told them something? Those suspensions, those solutions--‘Must we
die?’
Those commiserating sevenths--‘Life might last! we can but try!’
‘Were you happy?’--‘Yes.’--‘And are you still as happy?’--‘Yes--And
you?’
--‘Then more kisses’--‘Did _I_ stop them, when a million seemed so
few?’
Hark--the dominant’s persistence, till it must be answered to!
So an octave struck the answer. Oh, they praised you, I dare say!
‘Brave Galuppi! that was music! good alike at grave and gay!
I can always leave off talking, when I hear a master play.’
Then they left you for their pleasure: till in due time, one by one,
Some with lives that came to nothing, some with deeds as well undone,
Death came tacitly and took them where they never see the sun.
But when I sit down to reason,--think to take my stand nor swerve
Till I triumph o’er a secret wrung from nature’s close reserve,
In you come with your cold music, till I creep thro’ every nerve,
Yes, you, like a ghostly cricket, creaking where a house was burned--
‘Dust and ashes, dead and done with, Venice spent what Venice earned!
The soul, doubtless, is immortal--where a soul can be discerned.
‘Yours for instance, you know physics, something of geology,
Mathematics are your pastime; souls shall rise in their degree;
Butterflies may dread extinction,--you’ll not die, it cannot be!
‘As for Venice and its people, merely born to bloom and drop,
Here on earth they bore their fruitage, mirth and folly were the
crop.
What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?
‘Dust and ashes!’ So you creak it, and I want the heart to scold.
Dear dead women, with such hair, too--what’s become of all the gold
Used to hang and brush their bosoms? I feel chilly and grown old.
ROBERT BROWNING.
[2] Galuppi the musician was a native of Burano, a small
island about a mile from Torcello, where his name is
held in great esteem.--A. H. H.
TO CHIOGGIA WITH OAR AND SAIL
The _sandolo_ is a boat shaped like the gondola, but smaller and
lighter, without benches, and without the high steel prow or ferro
which distinguishes the gondola. The gunwale is only just raised above
the water, over which the little craft skims with a rapid bounding
motion, affording an agreeable variation from the stately swanlike
movement of the gondola. In one of these boats--called by him the
_Fisolo_ or _Seamew_--my friend Eustace had started with Antonio,
intending to row the whole way to Chioggia, or, if the breeze favoured,
to hoist a sail and help himself along. After breakfast, when the crew
for my gondola had been assembled, Francesco and I followed with the
Signora. It was one of those perfect mornings which occur as a respite
from broken weather, when the air is windless and the light falls
soft through haze on the horizon. As we broke into the lagoon behind
the Redentore, the islands in front of us, St. Spirito, Poveglia,
Malamocco, seemed as though they were just lifted from the sea-line.
The Euganeans, far away to westward, were bathed in mist, and almost
blent with the blue sky. Our four rowers put their backs into their
work; and soon we reached the port of Malamocco, where a breeze from
the Adriatic caught us sideways for a while....
Now we are well lost in the lagoons--Venice no longer visible behind;
the Alps and Euganeans shrouded in a noonday haze; the lowlands at the
mouth of Brenta marked by clumps of trees ephemerally faint in silver
silhouette against the filmy, shimmering horizon. Form and colour
have disappeared in light irradiated vapour of an opal hue. And yet
instinctively we know that we are not at sea; the different quality of
the water, the piles emerging here and there above the surface, the
suggestion of coastlines scarcely felt in this infinity of lustre,
all remind us that our voyage is confined to the charmed limits of an
inland lake. At length the jutting headland of Pelestrina was reached.
We broke across the Porto di Chioggia, and saw Chioggia itself ahead--a
huddled mass of houses low upon the water. One by one, as we rowed
steadily, the fishing-boats passed by, emerging from their harbour for
a twelve hours’ cruise upon the open sea. In a long line they came,
with variegated sails of orange, red, and saffron, curiously chequered
at the corners, and cantled with devices in contrasted tints. A little
land-breeze carried them forward. The lagoon reflected their deep
colours till they reached the port. Then, slightly swerving eastward
on their course, but still in single file, they took the sea and
scattered, like beautiful bright-plumaged birds, who from a streamlet
float into a lake, and find their way at large according as each wills.
The Signorino and Antonio, though want of wind obliged them to row the
whole way from Venice, had reached Chioggia an hour before, and stood
waiting to receive us on the quay. It is a quaint town this Chioggia,
which has always lived a separate life from that of Venice. Language
and race and customs have held the two populations apart from these
distant years when Genoa and the Republic of St. Mark fought their
duel to the death out in the Chioggian harbours, down to these days,
when your Venetian gondolier will tell you that the Chioggoto loves
his pipe more than his _donna_ or his wife. The main canal is lined
with substantial palaces, attesting to old wealth and comfort. But from
Chioggia, even more than from Venice, the tide of modern luxury and
traffic has retreated. The place is left to fishing folk and builders
of the fishing craft, whose wharves still form the liveliest quarter.
Wandering about its wide deserted courts and _calli_, we feel the
spirit of the decadent Venetian nobility....
That afternoon the gondola and sandolo were lashed together side
by side. Two sails were raised, and in this lazy fashion we stole
homewards, faster or slower according as the breeze freshened or
slackened, landing now and then on islands, sauntering along the
sea-walls which bulwark Venice from the Adriatic, and singing--those
at least of us who had the power to sing. Four of our Venetians had
trained voices and memories of inexhaustible music. Over the level
water, with the ripple plashing at our keel, their songs went abroad,
and mingled with the failing day. The barcaroles and serenades peculiar
to Venice were, of course, in harmony with the occasion. But some
transcripts from classical operas were even more attractive, through
the dignity with which these men invested them. By the peculiarity
of their treatment the _recitativo_ of the stage assumed a solemn
movement, marked in rhythm, which removed it from the commonplace into
antiquity, and made me understand how cultivated music may pass back by
natural, unconscious transition into the realm of popular melody.
The sun sank, not splendidly, but quietly in banks of clouds above
the Alps. Stars came out, uncertainly at first, and then in strength,
reflected on the sea. The men of the Dogana watch-boat challenged us
and let us pass. Madonna’s lamp was twinkling from her shrine upon the
harbour-pile. The city grew before us. Stealing into Venice in that
calm--stealing silently and shadowlike, with scarce a ruffle of the
water, the masses of the town emerging out of darkness into twilight,
till San Giorgio’s gun boomed with a flash athwart our stern, and the
gas-lamps of the Piazzetta swam into sight; all this was like a long
enchanted chapter of romance. And now the music of our men had sunk to
one faint whistling from Eustace of tunes in harmony with the whispers
at the prow.
Then came the steps of the Palazzo Venier and the deep-scented
darkness of the garden. As we passed through to supper, I plucked a
spray of yellow Banksia rose, and put it in my buttonhole. The dew was
on its burnished leaves, and evening had drawn forth its perfume.
JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS.
THE MIRROR OF THE LAGOON
This strange, soft sea, so tempered into gentlehood, brings through
its quietude another element of charm into Venice. It reflects all
things with a wonderful perfection. Whatever loveliness is by its side
it makes more lovely. Shallow itself, it seems deep; and the towers
and palaces of Venice in all their colours descend and shine among
other clouds and in another sky below. All outlines of sculpture and
architecture, of embossment, in wall and window; all play of sunshine
and shade; all the human life in balcony, bridge or quay, on barge
or boat, are in the waters as in a silent dream--revealed in every
line and colour, but with an exquisite difference in softness and
purity. All Nature’s doings in the sky are also repeated with a tender
fidelity in the mirror of the lagoon--morning light, noonday silver,
purple thunder-cloud in the afternoon, sunset vapours, the moon and
stars of night--and not only on the surface, but also, it seems, in an
immeasurable depth. To look over the side of the boat into the water is
to cry, ‘I see infinite space.’
STOPFORD A. BROOKE.
LAGOON MESSAGE
Not now, but later, when the road
We tread together breaks apart,
When thou, my dearest, distant art,
And tedious days have swelled the load
Upon my heart.
Or haply after that, when I
Am sealed within an earthy bed,
Resting and unrememberèd,
This scene will speak and easily
The whole be said.
Some eve, when from his burning chair
The sun below Fusina slips,
And all the sable poplar-tips
Wave in the warm, vermilion air,
The wind, the lips
Of the soft breeze with wayward touch
Shall tell thee all I longed to own;
And thou, on lurid lakes alone,
Wilt say: ‘Poor soul, he loved me much;
And he is gone.’
PERCY PINKERTON.
ON THE LAGOONS
The afternoons invite us to a further flight upon the water. Both
sandolo and gondola await our choice, and we may sail or row, according
as the wind and inclination tempt us.
Yonder lies San Luzzaro, with the neat red buildings of the Armenian
convent. The last oleander blossoms shine rosy pink above its walls
against the pure blue sky as we glide into the little harbour. Boats
piled with coal-black grapes block the landing-place, for the Padri are
gathering their vintage from the Lido, and their presses run with new
wine. Eustace and I have not come to revive memories of Byron--that
curious patron-saint of the Armenian colony--or to inspect the
printing-press, which issues books of little value for our studies. It
is enough to pace the terrace, and linger half an hour beneath the low
broad arches of the alleys pleached with vines, through which the domes
and towers of Venice rise more beautiful by distance.
Malamocco lies considerably farther, and needs a full hour of stout
rowing to reach it. Alighting there, we cross the narrow strip of land,
and find ourselves upon the huge sea-wall--block piled on block--of
Istrian stone in tiers and ranks, with cunning breathing-places for
the waves to wreak their fury on and foam their force away in fretful
waste. The very existence of Venice may be said to depend sometimes on
these _murazzi_, which were finished at an immense cost by the Republic
in the days of its decadence. The enormous monoliths which compose them
had to be brought across the Adriatic in sailing vessels. Of all the
Lidi, that of Malamocco is the weakest; and here, if anywhere, the sea
might effect an entrance into the lagoon. Our gondoliers told us of
some places where the _murazzi_ were broken in a gale, or _sciroccale_,
not very long ago. Lying awake in Venice, when the wind blows hard,
one hears the sea thundering upon its sandy barrier, and blesses God
for the _murazzi_. On such a night it happened once to me to dream a
dream of Venice overwhelmed by water. I saw the billows roll across
the smooth lagoon, like a gigantic Eager. The Ducal Palace crumbled,
and San Marco’s domes went down. The Campanile rocked and shivered like
a reed. And all along the Grand Canal the palaces swayed helpless,
tottering to their fall, while boats piled high with men and women
strove to stem the tide, and save themselves from those impending
ruins. It was a mad dream, born of the sea’s roar and Tintoretto’s
painting. But this afternoon no such visions are suggested. The sea
sleeps, and in the moist autumn air we break tall branches of the
seeded yellowing samphire from hollows of the rocks, and bear them
homeward in a wayward bouquet mixed with cobs of Indian-corn.
Fusina is another point for these excursions. It lies at the mouth of
the Canal di Brenta, where the mainland ends in marsh and meadows,
intersected by broad renes. In spring the ditches bloom with
fleurs-de-lys; in autumn they take sober colouring from lilac daisies
and the delicate sea-lavender. Scores of tiny plants are turning
scarlet on the brown moist earth; and when the sun goes down behind
the Euganean hills, his crimson canopy of cloud, reflected on these
shallows, muddy shoals, and wilderness of matted weeds, converts the
common earth into a fairyland of fabulous dyes. Purple, violet, and
rose are spread around us. In front stretches the lagoon, tinted with
a pale light from the east, and beyond this pallid mirror shines
Venice--a long low broken line, touched with the softest roseate flush.
Ere we reach the Giudecca on our homeward way, sunset has faded.
The western skies have clad themselves in green, barred with dark
fire-rimmed clouds. The Euganean hills stand like stupendous pyramids,
Egyptian, solemn, against a lemon space on the horizon. The far reaches
of the lagoons, the Alps, and islands assume those tones of glowing
lilac which are the supreme beauty of Venetian evening. Then, at last,
we see the first lamps glitter on the Zattere. The quiet of the night
has come.
Words cannot be formed to express the endless varieties of Venetian
sunset. The most magnificent follow after wet stormy days, when the
west breaks suddenly into a labyrinth of fire, when chasms of clear
turquoise heavens emerge, and horns of flame are flashed to the
zenith, and unexpected splendours scale the fretted clouds, step
over step, stealing along the purple caverns till the whole dome
throbs. Or, again, after a fair day, a change of weather approaches,
and high, infinitely high, the skies are woven over with a web of
half-transparent cirrus-clouds. These in the afterglow blush crimson,
and through their rifts the depth of heaven is of a hard and gemlike
blue, and all the water turns to rose beneath them. I remember one
such evening on the way back from Torcello. We were well out at sea
between Mazzorbo and Murano. The ruddy arches overhead were reflected
without interruption in the waveless ruddy lake below. Our black boat
was the only dark spot in this sphere of splendour. We seemed to hang
suspended; and such as this, I fancied, must be the feeling of an
insect caught in the heart of a fiery-petalled rose. Yet not these
melodramatic sunsets alone are beautiful. Even more exquisite, perhaps,
are the lagoons, painted in monochrome of greys, with just one touch
of pink upon a western cloud, scattered in ripples here and there on
the waves below, reminding us that day has passed and evening come. And
beautiful again are the calm settings of fair weather, when sea and sky
alike are cheerful, and the topmost blades of the lagoon grass, peeping
from the shallows, glance like emeralds upon the surface. There is no
deep stirring of the spirit in a symphony of light and colour; but
purity, peace, and freshness make their way into our hearts.
JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS.
AT THE LIDO
Of all these afternoon excursions, that to the Lido is most frequent.
It has two points for approach. The more distant is the little station
of San Nicoletto, at the mouth of the Porto. With an ebb-tide, the
water of the lagoon runs past the mulberry gardens of this hamlet like
a river. There is here a grove of acacia-trees, shadowy and dreamy,
above deep grass, which even an Italian summer does not wither. The
Riva is fairly broad, forming a promenade, where one may conjure
up the personages of a century ago. For San Nicoletto used to be a
fashionable resort before the other points of Lido had been occupied
by pleasure-seekers. An artist even now will select its old-world
quiet, leafy shade, and prospect through the islands of Vignole and
Sant’ Erasmo to snow-touched peaks of Antelao and Tofana, rather than
the glare and bustle and extended view of Venice which its rival Sant’
Elisabetta offers.
But when we want a plunge into the Adriatic, or a stroll along smooth
sands, or a breath of genuine sea-breeze, or a handful of horned
poppies from the dunes, or a lazy half-hour’s contemplation of a
limitless horizon flecked with russet sails, then we seek Sant’
Elisabetta. Our boat is left at the landing-place. We saunter across
the island and back again. Antonio and Francesco wait and order wine,
which we drink with them in the shade of the little _osteria’s_ wall.
A certain afternoon in May I well remember, for this visit to Lido
was marked by one of those apparitions which are as rare as they are
welcome to the artist’s soul. I have always held that in our modern
life the only real equivalent for the antique mythopœic sense--that
sense which enabled the Hellenic race to figure for themselves the
powers of earth and air, streams and forests, and the presiding genii
of places, under the forms of living human beings, is supplied by the
appearance at some felicitous moment of a man or woman who impersonates
for our imagination the essence of the beauty that environs us. It
seems, at such a fortunate moment, as though we had been waiting
for this revelation, although perchance the want of it had not been
previously felt. Our sensations and perceptions test themselves at the
touchstone of this living individuality. The keynote of the whole music
dimly sounding in our ears is struck. A melody emerges, clear in form
and excellent in rhythm. The landscapes we have painted on our brain
no longer lack their central figure. The life proper to the complex
conditions we have studied is discovered, and every detail judged by
this standard of vitality, falls into its right relations.
I had been musing long that day and earnestly upon the mystery of the
lagoons, their opaline transparencies of air and water, their fretful
risings and sudden subsidence into calm, the treacherousness of their
shoals, the sparkle and the splendour of their sunlight. I had asked
myself how would a Greek sculptor have personified the elemental deity
of these salt-water lakes, so different in quality from the Ægean
or Ionian sea? What would he find distinctive of their spirit? The
Tritons of these shallows must be of other form and lineage than the
fierce-eyed youth who blows his conch upon the curled crest of a wave,
crying aloud to his comrades, as he bears the nymph away to caverns
where the billows plunge in tideless instability.
We had picked up shells and looked for sea-horses on the Adriatic
shore. Then we returned to give our boatmen wine beneath the vine-clad
_pergola_. Four other men were there, drinking, and eating from a dish
of fried fish set upon the coarse white linen cloth. Two of them soon
rose and went away. Of the two who stayed, one was a large, middle-aged
man; the other was still young. He was tall and sinewy, but slender,
for these Venetians are rarely massive in their strength. Each limb is
equally developed by the exercise of rowing upright, bending all the
muscles to their stroke. Their bodies are elastically supple, with free
sway from the hips and a mercurial poise upon the ankle. Stefano showed
these qualities almost in exaggeration. The type in him was refined to
its artistic perfection. Moreover, he was rarely in repose, but moved
with a singular brusque grace. A black broad-brimmed hat was thrown
back upon his matted _zazzera_ of dark hair tipped with dusky brown.
This shock of hair, cut in flakes, and falling wilfully, reminded me
of the lagoon grass when it darkens in autumn upon uncovered shoals,
and sunset gilds its sombre edges. Fiery grey eyes beneath it gazed
intensely, with compulsive effluence of electricity. It was the wild
glance of a Triton. Short blonde moustache, dazzling teeth, skin
bronzed, but showing white and healthful through open front and sleeves
of lilac shirt. The dashing sparkle of this animate splendour, who
looked to me as though the sea-waves and the sun had made him in some
hour of secret and unquiet rapture, was somehow emphasized by a curious
dint dividing his square chin--a cleft that harmonized with smile on
lip and steady flame in eyes. I hardly know what effect it would have
upon a reader to compare eyes to opals. Yet Stefano’s eyes, as they
met mine, had the vitreous intensity of opals, as though the colour
of Venetian waters were vitalized in them. This noticeable being had
a rough, hoarse voice, which, to develop the parallel with a sea-god,
might have screamed in storm or whispered raucous messages from crests
of tossing billows.
I felt, as I looked, that here, for me at least, the mythopoem of the
lagoons was humanized; the spirit of the salt-water lakes had appeared
to me; the final touch of life emergent from nature had been given; I
was satisfied; for I had seen a poem.
Then we rose, and wandered through the Jews’ cemetery. It is a quiet
place, where the flat gravestones, inscribed in Hebrew and Italian,
lie deep in Lido sand, waved over with wild grass and poppies. I would
fain believe that no neglect, but rather the fashion of this folk,
had left the monuments of generations to be thus resumed by nature.
Yet, knowing nothing of the history of this burial-ground, I dare not
affirm so much. There is one outlying piece of the cemetery which
seems to contradict my charitable interpretation. It is not far from
San Nicoletto. No enclosure marks it from the unconsecrated dunes.
Acacia-trees sprout amid the monuments, and break the tablets with
their thorny shoots upthrusting from the soil. Where patriarchs and
rabbis sleep for centuries, the fishers of the sea now wander, and
defile these habitations of the dead:
‘Corruption most abhorred
Mingling itself with their renowned ashes.’
Some of the gravestones have been used to fence the towing-path; and
one I saw, well carved with letters legible of Hebrew on fair Istrian
marble.
JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS.
THE LIDO
Yesterday I set out early with my tutelary genius for the Lido, the
tongue of land which shuts in the lagoons, and divides them from the
sea. We landed and walked straight across the isthmus. I heard a loud
hollow murmur,--it was the sea! I soon saw it: it crested high against
the shore, as it retired,--it was about noon, and time of ebb. I have
then seen the sea with my own eyes, and followed it on its beautiful
bed, just as it quitted it. I wished the children had been there to
gather the shells; childlike, I myself picked up plenty of them.... On
the Lido, not far from the sea, is the burial-place of Englishmen, and
a little further on, of the Jews: both alike are refused the privilege
of resting in consecrated ground. I found here the tomb of Smith, the
noble English consul, and that of his first wife. It is to him that
I owe my first copy of Palladio; I thanked him for it here in his
unconsecrated grave....
The Lido is at best but a sand-bank. But the sea--it is a grand sight!
I will try and get a sail upon it some day in a fishing-boat: the
gondolas never venture out so far....
A delicious day from morning to night! I have been towards Chioggia, as
far as Pelestrina, where are the great structures, called _murazzi_,
which the Republic has caused to be raised against the sea. They are
hewn of stone, and properly are intended to protect from the fury of
the wild element the Lido, which separates the lagoons from the sea.
The lagoons are the work of old nature. First of all, the land and
tide, the ebb and flow, working against each other, and then the
gradual sinking of the primal waters, were, together, the causes why,
at the upper end of the Adriatic, we find a pretty extensive range of
marshes, which, covered by the flood-tide, are partly left bare by the
ebb. Art took possession of the highest spots, and thus arose Venice,
formed out of a group of a hundred isles, and surrounded by hundreds
more. Moreover, at an incredible expense of money and labour, deep
canals have been dug through the marshes, in order that at the time of
high water, ships of war might pass to the chief points. What human
industry and wit contrived and executed of old, skill and industry must
now keep up....
Yesterday evening I ascended the tower of St. Mark’s: as I had lately
seen from its top the lagoons in their glory at flood-time, I wished
to see them at low water; for in order to have a correct idea of the
place, it is necessary to take in both views. It looks rather strange
to see land all around one, where a little before the eye fell upon a
mirror of waters. The islands are no longer islands--merely higher and
house-crowned spots in one large morass of a grey-greenish colour, and
intersected by beautiful canals.
GOETHE.
ON THE LAGOONS
My gondola goes sailing
Over the ruffled brine,
While in the west are paling
The purple and carmine.
The light yet burns and blazes
With richest, rosiest hue
Where red San Giorgio raises
Its belfry in the blue.
As soft scirocco tosses
Foam to my face and spray
Athwart my _ferro_ crosses,
Along the water-way,
In cage-like _barca_ seated,
A soldier, pale and bent,
One to whom has been meted
Long, lonely punishment.
I catch the look imploring
That he to me has cast,
As, indolently oaring,
His sullen guards go past.
Not any word is spoken,
Only a smile from me
Gives the poor prisoner token
Of my heart’s sympathy.
Brief, brief has been our meeting,
And, as the sea grows grey,
Amid the rose light fleeting
We pass upon our way.
PERCY PINKERTON.
À LA ZUECCA
À Saint-Blaise, à la Zuecca,
Vous étiez, vous étiez bien aise
À Saint-Blaise.
À Saint-Blaise, à la Zuecca,
Nous étions bien là.
Mais de vous en souvenir
Prendrez vous la peine?
Mais de vous en souvenir
Et d’y revenir,
À Saint-Blaise, à la Zuecca,
Dans les prés fleuris cueillir la verveine;
À Saint-Blaise, à la Zuecca,
Vivre et mourir là.
ALFRED DE MUSSET.
LA MADONNA DELL’ACQUA
_In the centre of the lagoon between Venice and the mouths of the
Brenta, supported on a few mouldering piles, stands a small shrine
dedicated to the Madonna dell’Acqua, which the gondolier never passes
without a prayer._
Around her shrine no earthly blossoms blow,
No footsteps fret the pathway to and fro;
No sign nor record of departed prayer,
Print of the stone, nor echo of the air;
Worn by the lip, nor wearied by the knee,--
Only a deeper silence of the sea:
For there, in passing, pause the breezes bleak,
And the foam fades, and all the waves are weak.
The pulse-like oars in softer fall succeed,
The black prow falters through the wild seaweed--
Where, twilight-borne, the minute thunders reach,
Of deep-mouthed surf, that bays by Lido’s beach.
With intermittent motion traversed far,
And shattered glancing of the western star,
Till the faint storm-bird on the heaving flow
Drops in white circles, silently like snow.
Not here the ponderous gem nor pealing note,
Dim to adorn--insentient to adore--
But purple-dyed, the mists of evening float,
In ceaseless incense from the burning floor
Of ocean, and the gathered gold of heaven
Laces its sapphire vault, and, early given
The white rays of the rushing firmament
Pierce the blue-quivering night through wreath or rent
Of cloud inscrutable and motionless,--
Hectic and wan, and moon-companioned cloud!
Oh! lone Madonna, angel of the deep,
When the night falls, and deadly winds are loud,
Will not thy love be with us while we keep
Our watch upon the waters, and the gaze
Of thy soft eyes, that slumber not, nor sleep?
Deem not then, stranger, that such trust is vain;
Faith walks not on these weary waves alone,
Though weakness dread or apathy disdain
The spot which God has hallowed for His own.
They sin who pass it lightly, ill-divining
The glory of this place of bitter prayer;
And hoping against hope, and self-resigning,
And reach of faith, and wrestling with despair,
And resurrection of the last distress,
Into the sense of Heaven, when earth is bare,
And of God’s voice, when man’s is comfortless.
JOHN RUSKIN.
LORD BYRON ON THE LIDO
Lord Byron (writes the poet’s friend) proposed to me to accompany him
in his rides on the Lido.... Every day that the weather would permit,
Lord Byron called for me in his gondola, and we found the horses
waiting for us outside the fort. We rode as far as we could along the
sea-shore, and then on a kind of dyke, or embankment, which has been
raised where the island was very narrow, as far as another small fort,
about half-way between the principal one and the town or village of
Malamocco, near the other extremity of the island,--the distance being
about three miles.
On the land side of the embankment, near the smaller fort, was a
boundary stone, which probably marked some division of property,--all
the side of the island, nearest the lagoon, being divided into gardens
for the cultivation of vegetables. At the foot of this stone, Lord
Byron repeatedly told me that I should cause him to be interred, if he
should die in Venice, or its neighbourhood. During my residence here
... nothing could be more delightful than these rides on the Lido. We
were from half to three-quarters of an hour crossing the water, during
which his conversation was most amusing and interesting. Sometimes
he would bring with him any new book he had received, and read to me
the passages which struck him most. Often he would repeat to me whole
stanzas of the poems he was writing, as he had composed them on the
preceding evening.
THOMAS MOORE.
THE LIDO AND ITS GRAVES
I went to greet the full May-moon
On that long narrow shoal
Which lies between the still lagoon
And the open ocean’s roll.
How pleasant was that grassy shore,
When one for months had been
Shut up in streets,--to feel once more
One’s footfall on the green!
There are thick trees too in that place;
But straight from sea to sea,
Over a rough uncultured space,
The path goes drearily.
I pass along with many a bound
To hail the fresh free wave;
But, pausing, wonderingly found
I was treading on a grave.
Then, at one careless look, I saw
That, for some distance round,
Tombstones, without design or law,
Were scattered on the ground:
Of pirates or of mariners
I deemed that these might be
The fitly-chosen sepulchres,
Encircled by the sea.
But there are words inscribed on all,
In the tongue of a far land,
And marks of things symbolical,
I could not understand.
They are the graves of that sad race,
Who, from their Syrian home,
For ages, without resting-place,
Are doomed in woe to roam;
Who, in the days of sternest faith,
Glutted the sword and flame,
As if a taint of moral death
Were in their very name:
And even under laws most mild,
All shame was deemed their due,
And the nurse told the Christian child
To shun the cursèd Jew.
Thus all their gold’s insidious grace
Availed not here to gain,
For their last sleep, a seemlier place
Than this bleak-featured plain.
Apart, severely separate.
On the verge of the outer sea,
Their home of death is desolate
As their life’s home could be.
The common sand-path had defaced
And prest down many a stone;
Others can be but faintly traced
In the rank grass o’er them grown.
I thought of Shylock,--the fierce heart
Whose wrongs and injuries old
Temper, in Shakespeare’s world of art,
His lusts of blood and gold;
Perchance that form of broken pride
Here at my feet once lay,--
But lay alone,--for at his side
There was no Jessica!
Fondly I love each island-shore,
Embraced by Adrian waves;
But none has memory cherished more
Than Lido and its graves.
RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.
AN ISLAND VISIT
I am just returned from visiting the isles of Murano, Torcello, and
Mazorbo, distant about five miles from Venice. To these amphibious
spots the Romans, inhabitants of eastern Lombardy, fled from the rapine
of Attila; and, if we may believe Cassiodorus, there was a time when
they presented a beautiful appearance. Beyond them, on the coast of the
lagoons, rose the once populous city of Altina, with its six stately
gates, which Dandolo mentions. Its neighbourhood was scattered with
innumerable villas and temples, composing altogether a prospect which
Martial compares to Baiæ: ‘Æmula Baiunis Altini littora villis.’
But this agreeable scene, like so many others, is passed entirely away,
and has left nothing, except heaps of stones and misshapen fragments,
to vouch for its former magnificence. Two of the islands, Costanziaco
and Amiano, that are imagined to have contained the bowers and gardens
of the Altinatians, have sunk beneath the waters; those which remain
are scarcely worthy to rise above their surface.
Though I was persuaded little was left to be seen above ground, I
could not deny myself the imaginary pleasure of treading a corner of
the earth once so adorned and cultivated; and of walking over the
roofs, perhaps, of concealed halls and undiscovered palaces. Hiring,
therefore, a _peiotte_, we took some provisions and music (to us
equally necessaries of life), and launched into the canal, between St.
Michael and Murano.
The waves coursed each other with violence, and dark clouds hung over
the grand sweep of northern mountains, whilst the west smiled with
azure and bright sunshine. Thunder rolled awfully at a distance, and
those white and greyish birds, the harbingers of storms, flitted
frequently before our bark. For some moments we were in doubt whether
to proceed; but as we advanced by a little dome in the Isle of St.
Michael, shaped like an ancient temple, the sky cleared, and the ocean
subsiding by degrees, soon presented a tranquil expanse, across which
we were smoothly wafted. Our instruments played several delightful
airs, that called forth the inhabitants of every island, and held them
silent, as if spellbound, on the edge of their quays and terraces, till
we were out of hearing.
Leaving Murano far behind, Venice and its world of turrets began to
sink on the horizon, and the low desert isles beyond Mazorbo to lie
stretched out before us. Now we beheld vast wastes of purple flowers,
and could distinguish the low hum of the insects which hover above
them; such was the silence of the place. Coasting these solitary
fields, we wound amongst several serpentine canals, bordered by gardens
of figs and pomegranates, with neat Indian-looking inclosures of cane
and reed: an aromatic plant clothes the margin of the waters, which the
people justly dignify with the title of marine incense. It proved very
serviceable in subduing a musky odour, which attacked us the moment we
landed, and which proceeds from serpents that lurk in the hedges. These
animals, say the gondoliers, defend immense treasures which lie buried
under the ruins. Woe to those who attempt invading them, or prying too
cautiously about!
Not choosing to be devoured, we left many a mount of fragments
unnoticed, and made the best of our way to a little green, free from
weeds or adders, bounded on one side by a miserable shed, decorated
with the name of the Podesta’s residence, and on the other by a
circular church. Some remains of tolerable antique sculpture are
enchased in the walls; and the dome, supported by pillars of a smooth
Grecian marble, though uncouth and ill-proportioned, impresses a sort
of veneration, and transports the fancy to the twilight glimmering
period when it was raised.
Having surveyed what little was visible, and given as much career to
our imaginations as the scene inspired, we walked over a soil composed
of crumbling bricks and cement to the cathedral; whose arches, turned
on the ancient Roman principle, convinced us that it dates as high as
the sixth or seventh century.
Nothing can well be more fantastic than the ornaments of this
structure, formed from the ruins of the Pagan temples of Altina, and
incrusted with a gilt mosaic, like that which covers our Edward the
Confessor’s tomb. The pavement, composed of various precious marbles,
is richer and more beautiful than one could have expected, in a place
where every other object savours of the grossest barbarism. At the
farther end, beyond the altar, appears a semicircular niche, with
seats like the gradines of a diminutive amphitheatre; above rise the
quaint forms of the apostles, in red, blue, green, and black mosaic,
and in the midst of the goodly group a sort of marble chair, cool
and penitential enough, where St. Lorenzo Giustiniani sat to hold a
provincial council, the Lord knows how long ago! The fount for holy
water stands by the principal entrance, fronting this curious recess,
and seems to have belonged to some place of Gentile worship. The
figures of horned imps cling round its sides, more devilish, more
Egyptian, than any I ever beheld. The dragons on old china are not
more whimsical: I longed to have it filled with bats’ blood, and to
have sent it by way of present to the Sabbath; I can assure you it
would have done honour to their witcheries. The sculpture is not the
most delicate, but I cannot say a great deal about it, as but little
light reaches the spot where it is fixed. Indeed, the whole church is
far from luminous, its windows being narrow and near the roof, with
shutters composed of blocks of marble, which nothing but the last
whirlwind, one would think, could move from their hinges.
By the time we had examined every nook and corner of this singular
edifice, and caught, perhaps, some small portion of sanctity by sitting
in San Lorenzo’s chair, dinner was prepared in a neighbouring convent,
and the nuns, allured by the sound of our flutes and oboes, peeped out
of their cells and showed themselves by dozens at the grate. Some few
agreeable faces and interesting eyes enlivened the dark sisterhood;
all seemed to catch a gleam of pleasure from the music; two or three
of them, probably the last immured, let fall a tear, and suffered the
recollection of the world and its profane joys to interrupt for a
moment their sacred tranquillity.
We stayed till the sun was low, and the breezes blew cold from the
ocean, on purpose that they might listen as long as possible to a
harmony which seemed to issue, as the old abbess expressed herself,
from the gates of paradise ajar. A thousand benedictions consecrated
our departure; twilight came on just as we entered the bark and rowed
out upon the waves, agitated by a fresh gale, but fearing nothing under
the protection of St. Margherita, whose good wishes our music had
secured.
WILLIAM BECKFORD.
CANAL AND BRIDGE
From the Rialto’s edge,
I looked into the waters, on whose face
Glimmered the reflex of some few faint stars,
And two far-flitting lamps of gondoliers,
That seemed on that black flat to move alone,
While, on each side, each well-known building lost
Its separate beauty in one dark long curve.
RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.
The soul’s Rialto hath its merchandise.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
THE BALCONY ON THE GRAND CANAL
The history of Venice reads like a romance; the place seems a fantastic
vision at the best, from which the world must at last awake some
morning, and find that after all it has only been dreaming, and that
there never was any such city.... The Church of St. Mark, standing
so solidly, with a thousand years under the feet of its innumerable
pillars, is not in the least grey with time--no greyer than a Greek
lyric.
‘All has suffered a sea-change
Into something rich and strange,’
in this fantastic city. The prose of earth has risen poetry from its
baptism in the sea....
The cunning city beguiles you street by street, and step by step, into
some old court, where a flight of marble stairs leads high up to the
pillared gallery of an empty palace, with a climbing vine green and
purple on its old decay, and one or two gaunt trees stretching their
heads to look into the lofty windows,--blind long ago to their leafy
tenderness,--while at their feet is some sumptuously carven well, with
the beauty of the sculptor’s soul wrought for ever into the stone. Or
Venice lures you in a gondola, into one of her remote canals, where you
glide through an avenue as secret and as still as if sea-deep under
our work-day world; where the grim heads carven over the water-gates
of the palaces stare at you in austere surprise; where the innumerable
balconies are full of the absences of gay cavaliers and gentle dames,
gossiping and making love to one another, from their airy perches.
Or if the city’s mood is one of bolder charm, she fascinates you
in the very places where you think her power is the weakest, and
as if impatient of your forgetfulness, dares a wilder beauty, and
enthrals with a yet more unearthly and incredible enchantment.... But
whatever surprise of memorable or beautiful Venice may prepare for
your forgetfulness, be sure it will be complete and resistless. Nay,
what potenter magic needs my Venice to revivify her past whenever she
will, than the serpent cunning of her Grand Canal?... For myself, I
must count as half lost the year spent in Venice before I took a house
upon the Grand Canal. There alone can existence have the perfect local
flavour. But by what witchery touched, one’s being suffers the common
sea-change, till life at last seems to ebb and flow with the tide in
that wonder-avenue of palaces, it would be idle to attempt to tell.
I can only take you to our dear little balcony at Casa Falier, and
comment not very coherently on the scene upon the water under us....
October is the month of the sunsets, and are best seen from the Public
Gardens, whence one looks westward, and beholds them glorious behind
the domes and towers of San Giorgio Maggiore and the church of the
Redentore. Sometimes, when the sky is clear, your sunset on the lagoon
is a fine thing; for then the sun goes down into the water with a
broad trail of bloody red behind him, as if, wounded far out at sea,
he had dragged himself landward across the crimsoning expanses, and
fallen and died as he reached the land. But we (upon whom the idleness
of Venice grows daily, and from whom the Gardens, therefore, grow
further and further) are commonly content to take our bit of sunset as
we get it from our balcony, through the avenue opened by the narrow
canal opposite. We like the earlier afternoon to have been a little
rainy, when we have our sunset splendid as the fury of a passionate
beauty--all tears and fire. There is a pretty but impertinent little
palace on the corner which is formed by this canal as it enters the
Canalazzo, and from the palace, high over the smaller channel, hangs
an airy balcony. When the sunset sky, under and over the balcony, is
of that pathetic and angry red which I have tried to figure, we think
ourselves rich in the neighbourhood of that part of the ‘Palace of
Art,’ whereon
‘The light aerial gallery, golden railed,
Burnt like a fringe of fire.’
And so, after all, we do not think we have lost any greater thing in
not seeing the sunset from the Gardens, where half a dozen artists
are always painting it, or from the quay of the Zattere, where it is
splendid over and under the island church of San Giorgio in Alga....
About nightfall came the market boats on their way to the Rialto
market, bringing heaped fruits and vegetables from the mainland; and
far into the night the soft dip of the oar, and the gurgling progress
of the boats was company and gentlest lullaby. By which time, if we
looked out again, we found the moon risen, and the ghost of dead Venice
shadowily happy in haunting the lonesome palaces, and the sea, which
had so loved Venice, kissing and caressing the tide-worn marble steps
where her feet seemed to rest.
W. D. HOWELLS.
BROWNING’S FUNERAL
VENICE, DEC. 15, 1889
Now ‘past they glide,’ and bear the flower-wreathed bier
Across the soundless waters, cold and grey,
Ere Night falls, sable-vestured and austere,
And Day dies in one roseate flush away,
While they who follow, tearful, in the train
See wonted sights with unfamiliar eyes;--
Like dreams, amid the fevered sleep of pain,
Rich domes and frescoed palaces arise.
Yet haply, mixed with sorrow, dawns the thought
How fit such obsequies for him whose pen
Hath given a wondrous poem,[3] passion-fraught,--
Breathing of love and Venice,--unto men:
And so hath added to her deathless glory
A shining scroll of pure and ageless story.
MACKENZIE BELL.
[3] See ‘In a Gondola,’ p. 136.
BYRON ON THE GRAND CANAL
We started together, Lord Byron and myself, in my little Milanese
vehicle, for Fusina,--his portly gondolier, Tito, in a rich livery and
most redundant mustachios.... As we proceeded across the lagoon in
his gondola, the sun was just setting, and it was an evening such as
Romance would have chosen for a first sight of Venice, rising with her
‘tiara of bright towers’ above the wave; while to complete, as might be
imagined, the solemn interest of the scene, I beheld it in company with
him who had lately given a new life to its glories, and sung of that
fair City of the Sea, thus grandly:
‘I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs.’
But, whatever emotions the first sight of such a scene might, under
other circumstances, have inspired within me, the mood of the mind in
which I now viewed it was altogether the very reverse of what might
have been expected. The exuberant gaiety of my companion, and the
recollections--anything but romantic--into which our conversation
wandered, put at once completely to flight all poetic and historical
associations; and our course was, I am almost ashamed to say, one of
uninterrupted merriment and laughter, till we found ourselves at the
steps of my friend’s palazzo on the Grand Canal.
THOMAS MOORE.
BELOW THE RIALTO: MORNING
Could I but place the reader at the early morning on the quay below
the Rialto, when the market boats, full laden, float into groups of
golden colour; and let him watch the dashing of the water about their
glittering steely heads, and under the shadows of the vine leaves; and
show him the purple of the grapes and the figs, and the glowing of the
scarlet gourds carried away in long streams upon the waves; and among
them, the crimson fish baskets, plashing and sparkling, and flaming as
the morning sun falls on their wet tawny sides; and above, the painted
sails of the fishing boats, orange and white, scarlet and blue; and
better than all such florid colour, the naked, bronzed, burning limbs
of the seamen, the last of the old Venetian race, who yet keep the
right Giorgione colour on their brows and bosoms!
JOHN RUSKIN.
A VENETIAN MARKET
The gondola was waiting as usual at the corner; it took them but a
very little way, and landed them on the quay near the Rialto.... All
the pictures out of all the churches were buying and selling in this
busy market; Virgins went by, carrying their Infants; St. Peter is
bargaining his silver fish; Judas is making a low bow to a fat old
monk, who holds up his brown skirts and steps with bare legs into a
mysterious black gondola that has been waiting by the bridge, and
that silently glides away.... A girl came quietly through the crowd,
carrying her head nobly above the rest, and looking straight before
her with a sweet and generous face. ‘What a beautiful creature! Brava,
brava!’ shrieked Lady W. The girl hung her sweet head and blushed.
Titian’s mother, out of the ‘Presentation,’ who was sitting by with her
basket of eggs, smiled and patted the young Madonna on her shoulder.
‘They are only saying good things; they mean no harm,’ said the old
woman.... Then a cripple went along on his crutches; then came a
woman carrying a beautiful little boy, with a sort of turban round
her head.... One corner of the market was given up to great hobgoblin
pumpkins; tomatoes were heaped in the stalls; oranges and limes were
not yet over; but perhaps the fish-stalls are the prettiest of all.
Silver fish tied up in stars with olive-green leaves, golden fish, as
in miracles, with noble people serving. There are the jewellers’ shops
too, but their wares do not glitter so brightly as all this natural
beautiful gold and silver.
LADY RITCHIE.
A RIALTO SCENE
The traveller who delights to linger on St. Mark’s Place, in the
Basilica, at the Ducal Palace, in the museums and churches, should also
halt long and often at the Rialto. This is a corner with a character
quite its own; here crowd together, laden with fruit and vegetables,
the black boats that come from the islands to provision Venice,
the great hulls laden with _cocomeri_, _angurie_, with gourds and
water-melons piled in mountains of colour; there the gondolas jostle,
and the gondoliers chatter like birds in their Venetian idiom; there,
too, are the fishermen in their busy, noisy, black-looking market, an
assemblage of strange craft and strange types of humanity; and as a
pleasant contrast, on the steps of the bridge and stepping before the
jewellers’ shops, are girls from the different quarters of Venice,
from Canareggio, Dorso Duro, San Marco, and Sante Croce, and from
every corner of the town, come to buy the coloured handkerchiefs they
deck themselves in, and jewellery of delicately worked gold, or bright
glass beads from Murano, or glass balls iridescent with green, blue,
and pink; while, wrapped in old grey shawls and showing only their
wrinkled profiles and silver locks, the old women of the Rialto drag
their slippers up the steps, and glide among the crowd, hiding under
the folds of their aprons the strange fries they have just bought from
those keepers of open-air provision stalls who ply their trade on the
approaches to the Rialto.
CHARLES YRIARTE.
THE GRAND CANAL
It was not five o’clock before I was aroused by a loud din of voices
and splashing of water under my balcony. Looking out, I beheld the
Grand Canal so entirely covered with fruits and vegetables, on rafts
and in barges, that I could scarcely distinguish a wave. Loads of
grapes, peaches, and melons arrived, and disappeared in an instant,
for every vessel was in motion; and the crowds of purchasers, hurrying
from boat to boat, formed one of the liveliest pictures imaginable.
Amongst the multitudes I remarked a good many whose dress and carriage
announced something above the common rank; and upon inquiry I found
they were noble Venetians, just come from their casinos, and met to
refresh themselves with fruit, before they retired to sleep for the day.
Whilst I was observing them, the sun began to colour the balustrades of
the palaces, and the pure exhilarating air of the morning drawing me
abroad, I procured a gondola, laid in my provision of bread and grapes,
and was rowed under the Rialto, down the Grand Canal, to the marble
steps of S. Maria della Salute, erected by the Senate in performance
of a vow to the Holy Virgin, who begged off a terrible pestilence
in 1630. I gazed, delighted with its superb frontispiece and dome,
relieved by a clear blue sky. To criticize columns or pediments of the
different façades would be time lost; since one glance upon the worst
view that has been taken of them conveys a far better idea than the
most elaborate description. The great bronze portal opened whilst I was
standing on the steps which lead to it, and discovered the interior of
the dome, where I expatiated in solitude; no mortal appearing except an
old priest who trimmed the lamps, and muttered a prayer before the high
altar, still wrapped in shadows. The sunbeams began to strike against
the windows of the cupola just as I left the church, and was wafted
across the waves to the spacious platform in front of St. Giorgio
Maggiore, by far the most perfect and beautiful edifice my eyes ever
beheld.
When my first transport was a little subsided, and I had examined
the graceful design of each particular ornament, and united the just
proportion and grand effect of the whole in my mind, I planted my
umbrella on the margin of the sea, and reclining under its shade, my
feet dangling over the waters, viewed the vast range of palaces, of
porticos, of towers, opening on every side and extending out of sight.
The Doge’s residence and the tall columns at the entrance of the place
of St. Mark, form, together with the arcades of the public library, the
lofty Campanile and the cupolas of the ducal church, one of the most
striking groups of buildings that art can boast of. To behold at one
glance these stately fabrics, so illustrious in the records of former
ages, before which, in the flourishing times of the republic, so many
valiant chiefs and princes have landed, loaded with the spoils of
different nations, was a spectacle I had long and ardently desired. I
thought of the days of Frederic Barbarossa, when looking up the piazza
of St. Mark, along which he marched in solemn procession, to cast
himself at the feet of Alexander the Third, and pay a tardy homage
to St. Peter’s successor. Here were no longer those splendid fleets
that attended his progress; one solitary galeass was all I beheld,
anchored opposite the palace of the Doge, and surrounded by crowds
of gondolas, whose sable hues contrasted strongly with its vermilion
oars and shining ornaments. A party-coloured multitude was continually
shifting from one side of the piazza to the other; whilst senators and
magistrates in long black robes were already arriving to fill their
respective charges.
I contemplated the busy scene from my peaceful platform, where nothing
stirred but aged devotees creeping to their devotions; and, whilst I
remained thus calm and tranquil, heard the distant buzz and rumour
of the town. Fortunately a length of waves rolled between me and its
tumults; so that I ate my grapes, and read Metastasio, undisturbed by
officiousness or curiosity.
WILLIAM BECKFORD.
SOME VENETIAN PHASES
Venice ... is a poetical place; and classical, to us, from
Shakespeare and Otway.... Venice pleases me as much as I
expected, and I expected much. It is one of those places
which I know before I see them, and has always haunted me
the most, after the East. I like the gloomy gaiety of their
gondolas, and the silence of their canals. I do not even
dislike the evident decay of the city, though I regret the
singularity of its vanished costume.
LORD BYRON.
All the world repaire to Venice to see the folly and
madnesse of the Carnevall; the women, men, and persons of
all conditions disguising themselves in antiq dresses,
with extravagant musiq and a thousand gambols, traversing
the streetes from house to house, all places being there
accessible and free to enter. Abroad, they fling eggs
fill’d with sweete water.... The youth of the severall
wards and parishes contend in other masteries and pastimes,
so that ’tis impossible to recount the universal madnesse
of this place during this time of licence. The greate banks
are set up for those who will play bassett; the comedians
have liberty, and the operas are open; witty pasquils are
thrown about, and the mountebanks have their stages at
every corner.
JOHN EVELYN.
THE COLOUR OF VENICE
Venice is a delightful place for a man sick or well.... No noise, no
flies, no dust. An air so gentle that it could scarce be called a
breeze. A sun that warms and rarely burns: a light, veiled white and
soft, and lets one read without glare-made fatigue; a climate which
asks no man to do anything, and is answered affirmatively by all. So
we, too, should have been content not to do.
The more so that in Venice there is no monotony. Of all places on earth
it is the most variable in its moods. The changes in its colour are
as great from day to day, and sometimes from hour to hour, as in more
northern climes from month to month, or even from season to season.
This variableness, the despair of her studious student, is the joy of
her loitering lover. The painter finds a lovely subject, indeed they
are all around him, and goes from his first day’s work, and perhaps his
second, content that he has caught the tone that charmed him. Even as
he says so a change comes on that makes him doubtful of that work. The
golden light has become silver, the cool blue shadows are swimming in a
_cinque cento_ richness. He must alter his whole scheme of colour or go
home. The next day it may be worse, and he may wait for weeks for the
effect that he had not quite time to render. Thus it is that finished
studio-painted pictures of Venice so rarely tell of Venice to the man
who knows it, whilst the quick sketches made by the artist who can
see, and is possessed of the hand that can render, faithful to his eye
and taste, are so very lovely.
To the idle man this change of mood and colour is, or should be,
perfection. He should never tire, and rarely does so, of his fickle
mistress. He is floating to-day where he floated yesterday. The lagoon,
the island, the buildings are all the same, but how different. The
Euganean Hills, or perhaps the Alps, that spoke to him of Shelley, or
of snow, the distant line of terra-firma that held, as in a fine cut
frame, the steely lagoon waters, are now hidden in a mist of light.
The Ducal Palace, the Salute’s dome, that yesterday appeared clear and
earthly, the grand campanile of San Marco--alas! that it has fallen
a victim to its own weight and Time’s corrosion--the scarcely less
beautiful campanile of San Giorgio, whose clean outlines stood out so
sharply in the atmosphere of vivid blue, to-day all swim ethereal in
a golden haze. ’Tis all there, but a dream rather than a reality, a
spirit picture more than a motive for a sketch.
F. EDEN.
THE GLORY OF COLOUR IN ITALY
You learn for the first time in this Italian climate what colours
really are. No wonder it produces painters. An English artist of any
enthusiasm might shed tears of vexation to think of the dull medium
through which blue and red come to him in his own atmosphere, compared
with this. One day we saw a boat pass us, which instantly reminded us
of Titian, and accounted for him: and yet it contained nothing but an
old boatman in a red cap, and some women with him in other colours, one
of them in a bright yellow petticoat. But a red cap in Italy goes by
you, not like a mere cap, much less anything vulgar or butcher-like,
but like what it is, an intense specimen of the colour of red. It is
like a scarlet bud in the blue atmosphere. The old boatman, with his
brown hue, his white shirt, and his red cap, made a complete picture;
and so did the woman and the yellow petticoat. I have seen pieces of
orange-coloured silk hanging out against a wall at a dyer’s, which gave
the eye a pleasure truly sensual. Some of these boatmen are very fine
men. I was rowed to shore one day by a man the very image of Kemble. It
was really grand to see the mixed power and peacefulness with which all
his limbs came into play as he pulled the oars, occasionally turning
his heroic profile to give a glance behind him at other boats.
LEIGH HUNT.
VENICE THE UNFALLEN
The barge of the ambassador met them at Fusina, and when Venetia beheld
the towers and cupolas of Venice, suffused with a golden light and
rising out of the bright blue waters, for a moment her spirit seemed
to lighten. It is indeed a spectacle as beautiful as rare, and one to
which the world offers few, if any, rivals. Gliding over the great
lagoon, the buildings, with which the pictures at Cherbury had already
made her familiar, gradually rose up before her; the mosque-like Church
of St. Marc, the tall Campanile red in the sun, the Moresco Palace of
the Doges, the deadly Bridge of Sighs, and the dark structure to which
it leads.
Venice had not then fallen. The gorgeous standards of the sovereign
republic, and its tributary kingdoms, still waved in the Place of St.
Marc; the Bucentaur was not rotting in the Arsenal, and the warlike
galleys of the State cruised about the lagoon; a busy and picturesque
population swarmed in all directions; and the Venetian noble, the
haughtiest of men, might still be seen proudly moving from the council
of state, or stepping into a gondola amid a bowing crowd. All was
stirring life, yet all was silent; the fantastic architecture, the
glowing sky, the flitting gondolas, and the brilliant crowd gliding
about with noiseless step, this city without sound, it seemed a dream!
* * * * *
The ambassador had engaged for Lady Annabel a palace on the Grand
Canal, belonging to Count Manfrini. It was a structure of great size
and magnificence, and rose out of the water with a flight of marble
steps. Within was a vast gallery, lined with statues and busts on
tall pedestals; suites of spacious apartments, with marble floors and
hung with satin; ceilings painted by Tintoretto and full of Turkish
trophies; furniture alike sumptuous and massy; the gilding, although of
two hundred years’ duration, as bright and burnished as if it had but
yesterday been touched with the brush; sequin gold, as the Venetians
tell you to this day with pride. But even their old furniture will soon
not be left to them, as palaces are now daily broken up like old ships,
and their colossal spoils consigned to Hanway Yard and Bond Street,
whence, re-burnished and vamped up, their Titanic proportions in time
appropriately figure in the boudoirs of Mayfair and the miniature
saloons of St. James’s. Many a fine lady now sits in a Doge’s chair,
and many a dandy listens to his doom from a couch that has already
witnessed the less inexorable decrees of the Council of Ten.
LORD BEACONSFIELD.
FEEDING THE PIGEONS--VENICE
She is a chrysolite! her manners, too,
Are pure Venetian, haughty, yet endearing.
Didst ever see, my Claudio, such a bearing?
Just watch her as the pigeons round her woo
For more caresses,--voice like some dove’s coo,
And with that face so saint-like yet so daring--
By Bacchus! as you say here in your swearing,
She is as perfect as a drop of dew!
Yet she is of the South--the counterpart
Of vengeance with its hidden venomed dart....
Hush! for the gargoyles hear!... Though white as curds
That sweet soft hand--the hand that feeds the birds--
If you should hint about it certain words,
Would plunge its poisoned poniard through your heart.
LLOYD MIFFLIN.
A FIRST IMPRESSION IN VENICE
‘Is this Venice?--the rich bride of the sea?--the mistress of the
world?’
I saw the magnificent square of St. Mark. ‘Here is life!’ people
said.... The square of St. Mark’s is the heart of Venice, where life
does exist. Shops of books, pearls, and pictures, adorn the long
colonnades, where, however, it was not yet animated enough. A crowd
of Greeks and Turks, in bright dresses, and with long pipes in their
mouths, sat quietly outside the cafés. The sun shone upon the golden
cupola of St. Mark’s Church, and upon the glorious bronze horses over
the portal. From the red masts of the ships from Cyprus, Candia, and
Morea, depended the motionless flags. A flock of pigeons filled the
square by thousands, and went daintily upon the broad pavement.
I visited the Ponte Rialto, the pulse-vein which spoke of life; and
I soon comprehended the great picture of Venice--the picture of
mourning--the impression of my own soul. I seemed yet to be at sea,
only removed from a smaller to a greater ship, a floating ark.
The evening came; and when the moonbeams cast their uncertain light and
diffused broader shadows, I felt myself more at home; in the hour of
the spirit-world. I could first become familiar with the dead bride.
I stood at the open window: the black gondola glided quickly over the
dark, moonlit waters. I thought upon the seaman’s song of kissing and
of love; felt a bitterness towards Annunciata.... I entered a gondola,
and allowed myself to be taken through the streets in the silent
evening. The rowers sung their alternating song, but it was not from
the _Gerusalemme Liberata_; the Venetians had forgotten even the old
melodies of the heart, for their Doges were dead, and foreign hands had
bound the wings of the lion, which was harnessed to their triumphal car.
‘I will seize upon life--will enjoy it to the last drop!’ said I, as
the gondola lay still. I went to my own room, and lay down to sleep.
Such was my first day in Venice.
HANS ANDERSEN.
A VENETIAN DREAM
It was now quite night, and we were at the water-side. There lay here,
a black boat, with a little house or cabin in it of the same mournful
colour. When I had taken my seat in this, the boat was paddled, by two
men, towards a great light, lying in the distance on the sea.
Ever and again, there was a dismal sigh of wind. It ruffled the water,
and rocked the boat, and sent the dark clouds flying before the stars.
I could not but think how strange it was, to be floating away at that
hour: leaving the land behind, and going on, towards this light upon
the sea. It soon began to burn brighter; and from being one light
became a cluster of tapers, twinkling and shining out of the water, as
the boat approached towards them by a dreamy kind of track, marked out
upon the sea by posts and piles.
We had floated on, five miles or so, over the dark water, when I heard
it rippling in my dream, against some obstruction near at hand. Looking
out attentively, I saw, through the gloom, a something black and
massive--like a shore, but lying close and flat upon the water, like a
raft--which we were gliding past. The chief of the two rowers said it
was a burial-place.
Full of the interest and wonder which a cemetery lying out there, in
the lonely sea, inspired, I turned to gaze upon it as it should recede
in our path, when it was quickly shut out from my view. Before I knew
by what, or how, I found that we were gliding up a street--a phantom
street; the houses rising on both sides, from the water, and the black
boat gliding on beneath their windows. Lights were shining from some
of these casements, plumbing the depth of the black stream with their
reflected rays, but all was profoundly silent.
So we advanced into this ghostly city, continuing to hold our course
through narrow streets and lanes, all filled and flowing with water.
Some of the corners, where our way branched off, were so acute and
narrow, that it seemed impossible for the long slender boat to turn
them; but the rowers, with a low melodious cry of warning, sent it
skimming on without a pause. Sometimes, the rowers of another black
boat like our own, echoed the cry, and slackening their speed (as I
thought we did ours) would come flitting past us like a dark shadow.
Other boats, of the same sombre hue, were lying moored, I thought, to
painted pillars, near to dark mysterious doors, that opened straight
upon the water. Some of these were empty; in some, the rowers lay
asleep; towards one, I saw some figures coming down a gloomy archway
from the interior of a palace: gaily dressed, and attended by
torchbearers. It was but a glimpse I had of them, for a bridge, so low
and close upon the boat seemed ready to fall down and crush us; one of
the many bridges that perplexed the dream: blotted them out, instantly.
On we went, floating towards the heart of this strange place--with
water all about us where never water was elsewhere--clusters of
houses, churches, heaps of stately buildings growing out of it--and,
everywhere, the same extraordinary silence. Presently, we shot across
a broad and open stream; and passing, as I thought, before a spacious
paved quay, where the bright lamps with which it was illuminated
showed long rows of arches and pillars, of ponderous construction and
great strength, but as light to the eye as garlands of hoar-frost or
gossamer--and where, for the first time, I saw people walking--arrived
at a flight of steps leading from the water to a large mansion, where,
having passed through corridors and galleries innumerable, I lay down
to rest; listening to the black boats stealing up and down below the
window on the rippling water, till I fell asleep.
The glory of the day that broke upon me in this dream; its freshness,
motion, buoyancy; its sparkles of the sun in water; its clear blue
sky and rustling air; no waking words can tell. But, from my window,
I looked down on boats and barks; on masts, sails, cordage, flags;
on groups of busy sailors, working at the cargoes of these vessels;
on wide quays, strewn with bales, casks, merchandise of many kinds;
on great ships, lying near at hand in stately indolence; on islands,
crowned with gorgeous domes and turrets: and where golden crosses
glittered in the light, atop of wondrous churches, springing from the
sea! Going down upon the margin of the green sea, rolling on before
the door, and filling all the streets, I came upon a place of such
surpassing beauty, and such grandeur, that all the rest was poor and
faded, in comparison with its absorbing loveliness.
It was a great piazza, as I thought; anchored, like all the rest, in
the deep ocean. On its broad bosom, was a palace, more majestic and
magnificent in its old age, than all the buildings of the earth, in
the high prime and fulness of their youth. Cloisters and galleries: so
light, they might have been the work of fairy hands: so strong that
centuries had battered them in vain: wound round and round this palace,
and enfolded it with a cathedral, gorgeous in the wild luxuriant
fancies, of the East. At no great distance from its porch, a lofty
tower, standing by itself and rearing its proud head, alone, into
the sky, looked out upon the Adriatic Sea. Near to the margin of the
stream were two ill-omened pillars of red granite; one having on its
top a figure with a sword and shield; the other, a winged lion. Not
far from these again, a second tower: richest of the rich in all its
decorations: even here, where all was rich: sustained aloft, a great
orb, gleaming with gold and deepest blue: the Twelve Signs painted on
it, and a mimic sun revolving in its course around them: while above,
two bronze giants hammered out the hours upon a sounding bell. An
oblong square of lofty houses of the whitest stone, surrounded by a
light and beautiful arcade, formed part of this enchanted scene; and,
here and there, gay masts for flags rose, tapering, from the pavement
of the unsubstantial ground.
I thought I entered the cathedral, and went in and out among its many
arches: traversing its whole extent. A grand and dreamy structure, of
immense proportions; golden with old mosaics; redolent of perfumes; dim
with the smoke of incense; costly in treasure of precious stones and
metals, glittering through iron bars; holy with the bodies of deceased
saints; rainbow-hued with windows of stained glass; dark with carved
woods and coloured marbles; obscure in its vast heights, and lengthened
distances; shining with silver lamps and winking lights; unreal,
fantastic, solemn, inconceivable throughout. I thought I entered the
old palace; pacing silent galleries and council-chambers, where the old
rulers of this mistress of the waters looked sternly out, in pictures,
from the walls, and where her high-prowed galleys, still victorious on
canvas, fought and conquered as of old. I thought I wandered through
its halls of state and triumph--bare and empty now!--and musing on its
pride and might, extinct: for that was past; all past: heard a voice
say, ‘Some tokens of its ancient rule, and some consoling reasons for
its downfall, may be traced here, yet!’
I dreamed that I was led on, then, into some jealous rooms,
communicating with a prison near the palace; separated from it by a
lofty bridge crossing a narrow street; and called, I dreamed, the
Bridge of Sighs.
But first I passed two jagged slits in a stone wall; the lions’
mouths--now toothless--where, in the distempered horror of my sleep,
I thought denunciations of innocent men to the old wicked Council,
had been dropped through, many a time, when the night was dark. So,
when I saw the council-room to which such prisoners were taken for
examination, and the door by which they passed out, when they were
condemned--a door that never closed upon a man with life and hope
before him--my heart appeared to die within me.
It was smitten harder though, when, torch in hand, I descended from
the cheerful day into two ranges, one below another, of dismal, awful,
horrible stone cells. They were quite dark. Each had a loophole in
its massive wall, where, in the old time, every day, a torch was
placed--I dreamed--to light the prisoner within, for half an hour. The
captives, by the glimmering of these brief rays, had scratched and cut
inscriptions in the blackened vaults. I saw them. For their labour with
a rusty nail’s point, had outlived their agony and them, through many
generations.
One cell, I saw, in which no man remained for more than four-and-twenty
hours; being marked for dead before he entered it. Hard by, another,
and a dismal one, whereto, at midnight, the confessor came--a monk
brown-robed, and hooded--ghastly in the day, and free bright air, but
in the midnight of that murky prison, Hope’s extinguisher, and Murder’s
herald. I had my foot upon the spot, where, at the same dread hour,
the shriven prisoner was strangled; and struck my hand upon the guilty
door--low browed and stealthy--through which the lumpish sack was
carried out into a boat, and rowed away, and drowned where it was death
to cast a net.
Around this dungeon stronghold, and above some part of it: licking the
rough walls without, and smearing them with damp and slime within:
stuffing dank weeds and refuse into chinks and crevices, as if the very
stones and bars had mouths to stop: furnishing a smooth road for the
removal of the bodies of the secret victims of the State--a road so
ready that it went along with them, and ran before them, like a cruel
officer--flowed the same water that filled this dream of mine, and made
it seem one, even at the time.
Descending from the palace by a staircase, called, I thought, the
Giant’s--I had some imaginary recollection of an old man abdicating,
coming, more slowly and more feebly, down it, when he heard the bell,
proclaiming his successor--I glided off, in one of the dark boats,
until we came to an old arsenal guarded by four marble lions. To make
my dream more monstrous and unlikely, one of these had words and
sentences upon its body, inscribed there, at an unknown time, and in an
unknown language; so that their purport was a mystery to all men....
In the luxurious wonder of so rare a dream, I took but little heed of
time, and had but little understanding of its flight. But there were
days and nights in it; and when the sun was high, and when the rays of
lamps were crooked in the running water, I was still afloat, I thought:
plashing the slippery walls and houses with the cleavings of the tide,
as my black boat, borne upon it, skimmed along the streets.
Sometimes, alighting at the doors of churches and vast palaces, I
wandered on, from room to room, from aisle to aisle, through labyrinths
of rich altars, ancient monuments; decayed apartments where the
furniture, half awful, half grotesque, was mouldering away. Pictures
were there, replete with such enduring beauty and expression; with such
passion, truth and power: that they seemed so many young and fresh
realities among a host of spectres. I thought these, often intermingled
with the old days of the city: with its beauties, tyrants, captains,
patriots, merchants, courtiers, priests: nay, with its very stones, and
bricks, and public places; all of which lived again, about me, on the
walls. Then, coming down some marble staircase where the water lapped
and oozed against the lower steps, I passed into my boat again, and
went on in my dream.
Floating down narrow lanes, where carpenters, at work with plane and
chisel in their shops, tossed the light shaving straight upon the
water, where it lay like weed, or ebbed away before me in a tangled
heap. Past open doors, decayed and rotten from long steeping in the
wet, through which some scanty patch of vine shone green and bright,
making unusual shadows on the pavement with its trembling leaves.
Past quays and terraces, where women, gracefully veiled, were passing
and repassing, and where idlers were reclining in the sunshine,
on flagstones and on flights of steps. Past bridges, where there
were idlers too; loitering and looking over. Below stone balconies,
erected at a giddy height, before the loftiest windows of the loftiest
houses. Past plots of garden, theatre, shrines, prodigious piles of
architecture--Gothic--Saracenic--fanciful with all the fancies of all
times and countries. Past buildings that were high, and low, and black,
and white, and straight, and crooked; mean and grand, crazy and strong.
Twining among a tangled lot of boats and barges, and shooting out at
last into a Grand Canal! There, in the errant fancy of my dream, I
saw old Shylock passing to and fro upon a bridge, all built upon with
shops and humming with the tongues of men; a form I seemed to know for
Desdemona’s leaned down through a latticed blind to pluck a flower.
And, in the dream, I thought that Shakespeare’s spirit was abroad upon
the water somewhere: stealing through the city.
At night, when two votive lamps burnt before an image of the Virgin, in
a gallery outside the great cathedral, near the roof, I fancied that
the great piazza of the Winged Lion was a blaze of cheerful light,
and that its whole arcade was thronged with people; while crowds were
diverting themselves in splendid coffee-houses opening from it--which
were never shut, I thought, but open all night long. When the bronze
giants struck the hour of midnight on the bell, I thought the life
and animation of the city were all centred here; and as I rowed away,
abreast the silent quays, I only saw them dotted, here and there, with
sleeping boatmen wrapped up in their cloaks, and lying at full length
upon the stones.
But close about the quays and churches, palaces and prisons: sucking at
their walls, and welling up into the secret places of the town: crept
the water always. Noiseless and watchful: coiled round and round it, in
its many folds, like an old serpent: waiting for the time, I thought,
when people should look down into its depths for any stone of the old
city that had claimed to be its mistress.
Thus it floated me away, until I awoke in the old market-place at
Verona. I have, many and many a time, thought since, of this strange
dream upon the water: half-wondering if it lie there yet, and if its
name be VENICE.
CHARLES DICKENS.
A VENETIAN RESTAURANT
Uncomforted in soul we rise from the expensive banquet; and how often
rise from it unfed!
Far other be the doom of my own friends--of pious bards and genial
companions, lovers of natural and lovely things! Nor for these do
I desire a seat at Florian’s marble tables, or a perch in Quadri’s
window, though the former supply dainty food, and the latter command a
bird’s-eye view of the Piazza. Rather would I lead them to a certain
humble tavern on the Zattere. It is a quaint, low-built, unpretending
little place, near a bridge, with a garden hard by which sends a
cataract of honeysuckles sunward over a too-jealous wall. In front lies
a Mediterranean steamer, which all day long has been discharging cargo.
Gazing westward up Giudecca, masts and funnels bar the sunset and the
Paduan hills; and from a little front room of the _trattoria_ the view
is so marine that one keeps fancying oneself in some ship’s cabin.
Sea-captains sit and smoke beside their glass of grog in the pavilion
and the _caffè_. But we do not seek their company at dinner-time.
Our way lies under yonder arch, and up the narrow alley into a paved
court. Here are oleanders in pots, and plants of Japanese spindle-wood
in tubs; and from the walls beneath the window hang cages of all
sorts of birds--a talking parrot, a whistling blackbird, goldfinches,
canaries, linnets. Athos, the fat dog, who goes to market daily in a
_barchetta_ with his master, snuffs around. ‘Where are Porthos and
Aramis, my friend?’ Athos does not take the joke; he only wags his
stump of tail and pokes his nose into my hand. What a Tartufe’s nose it
is! Its bridge displays the full parade of leather-bound brass-nailed
muzzle. But beneath this muzzle is a patent sham. The frame does not
even pretend to close on Athos’ jaw, and the wise dog wears it like a
decoration. A little further we meet that ancient grey cat, who has no
discoverable name, but is famous for the sprightliness and grace with
which she bears her eighteen years. Not far from the cat one is sure to
find Carlo--the bird-like, bright-faced, close-cropped Venetian urchin,
whose duty it is to trot backwards and forwards between the cellar and
the dining-tables. At the end of the court we walk into the kitchen,
where the black-capped little _padrone_ and the gigantic white-capped
_chef_ are in close consultation. Here we have the privilege of
inspecting the larder--fish of various sorts, meat, vegetables,
several kinds of birds, pigeons, tordi, beccafichi, geese, wild
ducks, chickens, woodcock, etc., according to the season. We select
our dinner, and retire to eat it either in the court among the birds
beneath the vines, or in the low dark room which occupies one side of
it. Artists of many nationalities and divers ages frequent this house;
and the talk arising from the several little tables turns upon points
of interest and beauty in the life and landscape of Venice. There can
be no difference of opinion about the excellence of the _cuisine_, or
about the reasonable charges of this _trattoria_.... There is no noise,
no bustle, no brutality of waiters, no _ahurissement_ of tourists. And
when dinner is done, we can sit a while over our cigarette and coffee
until the night invites us to a stroll along the Zattere or a _giro_ in
the gondola.
JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS.
VENETIAN CAFFÈS
What is Florian’s? It is the principal, largest, and most fashionable
caffè on the Piazza di San Marco. The caffè in itself is in many
respects a speciality of Venetian life, and has been so since the
days of Goldoni. The readers of his comedies, so abundantly rich in
local colouring, will not have failed to observe that the caffè plays
a larger part in the life of Venice than is the case in any other
city. Probably no Venetian passes a single day without visiting once
at least, if not oftener, his accustomed caffè. Men of business write
their letters and arrange their meetings there. Men of pleasure know
that they shall find their peers there. Mere loafers take their seats
there, and gaze at the stream of life, as it flows past them, for
hours together. And, most marked speciality of all, Venice is the
only city in Italy where the native female aristocracy frequents the
caffè. Indeed, I know no place in all the Peninsula where so large an
amount of Italian beauty may be seen as among the fashionable crowd at
Florian’s on a brilliant midsummer moonlight night.
Venice is of all the cities in the world the one which those who have
never seen it know best. The peculiarities of it are so marked and so
unlike anything else in the world, and the graphic representations
of every part of the city are so numerous and so admirably accurate,
that every traveller finds it to be exactly what he was prepared to
see, and can hardly fancy that he sees the Queen of the Adriatic for
the first time. I may therefore assume, perhaps, that my readers are
acquainted with the appearance of that most matchless of city spaces,
the Piazza di San Marco. They will readily call to mind the long series
of arcades that form the two long sides of the parallelogram which
has the gorgeous front of St. Mark’s Church occupying the entirety of
one of the shorter sides. Well, about half-way up the length of the
piazza six of the arches on the right hand of one facing St. Mark’s
Church are occupied by the celebrated caffè. The six never-closed
rooms, corresponding each with one of the arches of the arcade, are
very small, and would not suffice to accommodate a twentieth part
of the throng which finds itself at Florian’s, quite as a matter of
course, every fine summer’s night. But nobody thinks of entering these
smartly-furnished little cabinets save for breakfast or during the
hours of the day.
Some take their evening ice or coffee on the seats under the arcade,
either immediately in front of the cabinets or around the pillars
which support the arches, and thus have an opportunity of observing
the never-ceasing and ever-varying stream of life that flows by them
under the arcade. But the vast majority of the crowd place themselves
on chairs arranged around little tables set out on the flags of the
piazza. A hundred or so of these little tables are placed in long rows
extending far out into the piazza, and far on either side beyond the
extent of the six arches which are occupied by the caffè itself. A
London or New York policeman would have his very soul revolted, and
conclude that there must be something very rotten indeed in the state
of a city in which the public way could be thus encumbered and no cry
of ‘move on’ ever heard. Assuredly, it is public ground which Florian,
in the person of his nineteenth-century representative, thus occupies
with his tables and chairs. Probably, if a Venetian were asked by what
right he does so, the question would seem to him much as if one asked
by what right the tide covers the shallows of the lagoon. It always has
been so. It is in the natural order of things. And how could Venice
live without Florian’s?...
I am tempted to endeavour to give the reader some picture of the scene
on the piazza on a night when (as is the case almost every other
evening) a military band is playing in the middle of the open space,
and the cosmopolitan crowd is assembled in force--to describe the
wonderful surroundings of the scene, the charm of the quietude broken
by no sound of hoof or of wheel, the soft and tempered light, the gay
clatter, athwart which comes every fifteen minutes the solemn mellow
tone of the great clock of St. Mark, with importunate warning that
another pleasant quarter of an hour has drifted away down the stream
of time. It is a scene that tempts the pen. But the well-dressed
portion of mankind is very similar in all countries and under all
circumstances, and perhaps my readers may be more interested in a few
traits of the popular life of Venice, which the magnificent Piazza
of St. Mark is not the best place for studying, for some of the most
characteristic phases of it are absolutely banished thence. The
strolling musician or singer, who may be heard every night in other
parts of the city, never plies his trade on the piazza. Mendicancy,
which is more rife at Venice, I am sorry to say, than in any other
Italian city, except perhaps Naples, is not tolerated on the piazza.
But if we wish for a good specimen of the truly popular life of Venice,
it will not be necessary to wander far from the great centre of the
piazza. Coming down the Piazzetta, or Little Piazza, which opens out
of the great square at one end, and abuts on the open lagoon opposite
the island of St. George at the other, and turning round the corner of
the Ducal Palace, we cross the bridge over the canal, which above our
head is spanned by the ‘Bridge of Sighs,’ with its ‘palace and a prison
on each hand,’ as Byron sings, and find ourselves on the ‘Riva degli
Schiavoni’--the quay at which the Slavonic vessels arrived, and arrive
still. The quay is a very broad one, by far the broadest in Venice,
paved with flagstones, and teeming with every characteristic form of
Venetian life from early morning till late into the night.
There are two or three hotels frequented by foreigners on the Riva,
for the situation facing the open lagoon is an exceptionally good
one; and there are three or four caffès at which the cosmopolitan and
not too aristocratic visitor may get an excellent cup of coffee (for
the Venetians, thanks to their long connection with the East, know
what coffee is, and will not take chicory or other such detestable
substitutes in lieu of it) for the modest charge of thirteen
centimes--just over one penny--and study as he drinks it the moving and
ever-amusing scenes enacted before his eyes. His neighbour, perhaps,
will be an old gentleman, the very type of the old ‘pantaloon,’
whose mask was in the old comedy supposed to be the impersonation
of Venice. There are the long, slender, and rather delicately cut
features, terminating in a long, narrow, and somewhat protruding chin;
the high cheek-bones, the lank and sunken cheeks, the high nose, the
dark bright eye under its bushy brow. He is very thin, very seedy,
and evidently _very_ poor. But he salutes you, as you take your seat
beside him, with the air of an ex-member of ‘The Ten’; his ancient
hat and napless coat are carefully brushed; his outrageously high
shirt-collar and voluminous unstarched neckcloth, after the fashion of
a former generation, though as yellow as saffron, are clean; and his
poor old boots as irreproachable as blacking--which can do much, but,
alas! not all things--can make them. His expenditure of a penny will
entitle him not only to a cup of coffee, as aforesaid, but also to a
glass of fresh water, which has been turned to an opaline colour by
the shaking into it of a few drops of something which the waiter drops
from a bottle with some contrivance at its mouth, the effect of which
is to cause only a drop or two of the liquor, whatever it may be, to
come out at each shake. Our old friend is also entitled, in virtue of
his expenditure, to occupy the chair he sits on for as many hours as
he shall see fit to remain in it. And after the coffee, which must
be drunk while hot, has been despatched, the sippings of the opaline
mixture aforesaid may be protracted indefinitely while he enjoys the
cool evening breezes from the lagoon, the perfection of _dolce far
niente_, and the amusement the life of the Riva never fails to afford
him....
Presently a middle-aged woman and a girl of some fourteen years station
themselves in front of the audience seated outside the caffè. The elder
woman has a guitar, and the girl a violin and some sheets of music in
her hand. The woman has her wonderful wealth of black hair grandly
dressed, and as shining as oil can make it. She has large gilt earrings
in her ears, a heavy coral necklace, and a gaudy-coloured shawl in
good condition. Whatever might be beneath and below this, is in dark
shadow--_et sic melius situm_. She is not starved, however, for, as
she prepares to finger her guitar, she shows a well-nourished and not
ill-formed arm. The young girl has one of those pale delicate, oval
faces so common in Venice; she also has a good shawl--an amber-coloured
one--which so sets off the olive-coloured complexion of her face as to
make her a perfect picture. This couple do not in any degree assume
an attitude of appealing _ad misericordiam_. They pose themselves _en
artistes_. The girl sets about arranging her music in a businesslike
way, and then they play the well-known air of ‘La Stella Confidente’
the little violinist really playing remarkably well. Then the elder
woman comes round with a little tin saucer for our contributions. No
slightest word or look of disappointment or displeasure follows the
refusal of those who give nothing. The saucer is presented to each in
turn. I supposed that the application to Si’or Pantaleone was an empty
form. But no. That retired gentleman could still find wherewithal to
patronize the fine arts, and dropped a centime--the fifth part of a
cent--into the dish with the air of a prince bestowing the grand cross
of the Golden Fleece.
Then comes a dealer in ready-made trousers, which Pantaloon examines
curiously and cheapens. Then a body of men singing part-songs, not
badly, but to some disadvantage, as they utterly ignore the braying
of half a dozen trumpets which are coming along the Riva in advance
of a body of soldiers returning to some neighbouring barracks. Then
there are fruit sellers and fish sellers and hot-chestnut dealers, and,
most vociferous of all, the cryers of ‘Acqua! acqua! acqua fresca!’
There, making its way among the numerous small vessels from Dalmatia,
Greece, etc., moored to the quay of the Schiavoni, comes a boat from
the Peninsular and Oriental steamer, which arrived this morning from
Alexandria, with four or five Orientals on board. They come on shore,
and proceed to saunter along the Riva towards the Grand Piazza, while
their dark faces and brightly coloured garments add an element to
the motley scene which is perfectly in keeping with old Venetian
reminiscences.
T. ADOLPHUS TROLLOPE.
ON BEING ASKED FOR AN AUTOGRAPH IN VENICE
Amid these fragments of heroic days,
When thought met deed with mutual passions’ leap,
There sits a Fame whose silent trump makes cheap
What short-lived rumour of ourselves we raise;
They had far other estimate of praise
Who stamped the signet of their soul so deep
In art and action, and whose memories keep
Their height like stars above our misty ways;
In this grave presence to record my name,
Something within me hangs the head and shrinks;
Dull were the soul without some joy in Fame:
Yet here to claim remembrance were, methinks,
Like him who in the desert’s awful frame,
Notches his cockney initials on the sphinx.
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
A TOUR ROUND VENICE WITH GOLDONI
IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
The genius of Goldoni, like his character and his life, was in perfect
harmony with his allotted work.... Given the style, no individual could
be imagined more supremely its master: he had the perfect facility of
conception, the perfect ease of execution, the absolute facility of
finish and detail, the immense fecundity of the providentially sent
artist. He was never at a loss for a subject, and never at a standstill
for its treatment; a moment at a window, a glance round a drawing-room,
a word caught in the street, was sufficient material for a comedy.
The sight of the dirty grey-beard Armenian goody-seller, snarling out
‘Baggigi, Abaggigi’ over his basket of lollipops near the clock-tower
of St. Mark’s, produced the delightful little play, ‘I pettegolezzi
delle donne....’
Goldoni was best pleased with the humblest, forming in this a strange
contrast with the French comic writers; the shopkeepers, ridiculous
gullible M. Jourdains and Sganarelles in the eyes of Molière, never
ceased to be respectable for Goldoni.... This democratic, domestic
Goldoni naturally refused to show us the effeminate, corrupt Venice
of nobles, and spies, and courtezans, which shameful adventurers
like Casanova, heaping up all the ordure of their town and times,
have made some of us believe to have been the sole, the real Venice
of the eighteenth century. But Goldoni has another Venice to show, a
Venice undiscovered by gallant idlers like the Président de Brosses,
or pedantic guide-book makers like La Lande. Let us follow Goldoni
across the Square of St. Mark’s, heedless of the crowd in mask and
cloak, of the nobles in their silk robes, of the loungers at the
gilded coffee-houses, of the gamblers and painted women lolling out of
windows; let us pass beneath the belfry where the bronze twins strike
the hours in vain for the idlers and vagabonds who turn day into night
and night into day; and let us thread the network of narrow little
streets of the _Merceria_. There, in those tall dark houses, with
their dingy look-out on to narrow canals floating wisps of straw, or
on to dreary little treeless, grassless squares, in those houses is
the real wealth, the real honour, the real good of Venice; there, and
not in the palaces of the Grand Canal, still lingers something of the
spirit and the habits of the early merchant princes. Merchant princes
no longer, alas! only shopkeepers and brokers, but thrifty, frugal,
patriarchal as in olden days, the descendants of the great Pantalone
de’ Bisognosi, once clothed in scarlet-lined robe and pointed cap, now
dressed austerely in black, without hair-powder, gold lace, swords,
or scarlet cloaks; active, honest, gruff, and puritanical.... Let us
follow Goldoni yet further from St. Mark’s to the distant wharves,
to the remoter canals and _campieli_, to the further islands of the
archipelago of Venice, and he will show us all that remains of the
force of the city, of the savage simplicity and austerity of the
boatmen, and fishers, and working classes. There are the gondoliers,
forming a link between the artisans and the seamen--a strange,
Janus-like class which Goldoni loved to depict: servants of the upper
classes, devoted, faithful, and pliant; steering along with equal
indifference, political conspiracy, household corruption ... beneath
the black, tasselled roof of their boats; witnesses of all the most
secret life of the nobles and merchants, and, while on their prow, mute
and cynical; but, once on shore, independent, arrogant, despising the
indoor servants, contemptuous towards their masters, whose secrets they
possess, frugal and austere at home, jealous and revengeful among each
other. Goldoni has shown us the gondoliers seated on the slimy steps
by their moored boats, exchanging witticism on witticism, criticizing
the performances at the theatre, discussing city life with ineffable
arrogance: he has shown them coming along the Grand Canal, chanting the
flight of Erminia through the ancient forest; he has shown them, again,
quarrelling in the narrow twisting canals, each refusing to make way
for another, yelling and cursing, forcing their passengers to alight
in terror, and then pursuing each other with their oars and their
short, sharp _tatare_ daggers. The gondoliers, besides being good comic
stuff for Goldoni, were an influential part of his audience, and had
to be propitiated by being shown on the stage in all their originality
and waywardness. The gondoliers lived, when off their boats, among a
savage population of ferrymen, bargees, and fishers; poor, violent,
and austere, whose daughters had at once the freedom of speech and
strength of action of amazons, and the purity--nay prudery--of nuns:
large-limbed, sunburnt, barefoot creatures, with the golden tints of
hair and cheek of Titian and Palma, with the dark, savage eyes of an
animal, with the arms of an athlete and the language of a trooper,
of whom Goldoni has painted a magnificent portrait, idealized but
intensely real, in his Bettina....
Let us call Goldoni’s favourite gondolier, the rough and caustic Menego
Cainello, and bid him steer us through the last canals, among the
remotest Venetian islands, leaving the towers of Venice behind us; bid
him row us across the shallow open lagoon, with its vast, snake-like
rows of sea-corroded posts, its stunted marine reeds, and its tangled
sea-grass waving lazily on the rippled water; row on till we get to
that tiny other Venice, still perhaps like the greater Venice in the
days of her earliest Doges, to the little fishing-town of Chiozza.
There, in the port, Goldoni will show us the heavy fishing-boat, grimy
and oozy, just returned from a week’s cruise in the Adriatic, with her
yellow sail, emblazoned with the winged lion, leisurely flapping, and
her briny nets over her sides; the master of the boat, Paron Fortunato,
is shouting in unintelligible dialect, Venetian further insularized
into Chiozzot, and Chiozzot rarefied on sea into some strange nautical
lisping jargon; the rest of the fishermen, Tita-Nane, and Menegheto,
and Tonì, are collecting the fish they have brought into baskets,
reserving the finest for His Excellency the Governor of Chiozza. And,
when the fish are disposed of, follow we the fishermen to the main
street of the little town, where, facing the beach, their wives,
daughters, and sisters sit making lace on their cushions, chattering
like magpies; some eating, others holding disdainfully aloof from
the baked pumpkin with which the gallant peasant Toffolo Marmottina
regales them. Suddenly a tremendous gabble begins, gabble turning into
shrieking and roaring, and upsetting of chairs and cushions; and a
torrent of abuse streams forth in dialect, and all is lost in scuffling
confusion; the men come up, seize sticks, daggers, and stones, and rush
to the rescue of their female relatives, till the police hasten up and
separate the combatants. Then let us watch the recriminations of the
lovers, hear them accusing each other of perfidy, calling each other
dog, assassin, beggar, ginger-bread, jewel, pig, all in turns; clinging
and nudging, weeping and roaring, till at length the good-natured
little Venetian magistrate of Chiozza, contemptuously called ‘Mr.
Wig-of-Tow’ (_Sior paruca de stopa_), makes up all the quarrels, bids
the innkeeper send wine and pumpkins and delicious fried things, and,
after regaling the pacified Chiozzoti and Chiozzote, calls for fiddles
and invites them all to dance some _furlane_. Is it reality? Has Menego
rowed us over the lagoon? Have we seen the ship come in and the fish
put in baskets? Have we seen the women at their lace cushions? Have
we heard that storm of cries, and shrieks, and clatter, and scuffling
feet? Have we really witnessed this incident of fishing life on the
Adriatic? No; we have only laid down a little musty volume at the place
marked ‘Le Baruffe Chiozzotte.’
VERNON LEE.
VENETIAN BELLES
Of all the places where the Carnival
Was most facetious in the days of yore,
For dance, and song, and serenade, and ball,
And masque, and mime, and mystery, and more
Than I have time to tell now, or at all,
Venice the bell from every city bore,--
And at the moment when I fix my story,
That sea-born city was in all her glory.
They’ve pretty faces yet, those same Venetians,
Black eyes, arch’d brows, and sweet expressions still;
Such as of old were copied from the Grecians,
In ancient arts by moderns mimick’d ill;
And like so many Venuses of Titian’s
(The best’s at Florence--see it, if ye will),
They look when leaning over the balcony,
Or stepp’d from out a picture by Giorgione,
Whose tints are truth and beauty at their best;
And when you to Manfrini’s palace go,
The picture (howsoever fine the rest)
Is loveliest to my mind of all the show;
It may perhaps be also to _your_ zest,
And that’s the cause I rhyme upon it so:
’Tis but a portrait of his son, and wife,
And self; but _such_ a woman! love in life!...
I said that, like a picture by Giorgione
Venetian women were, and so they _are_,
Particularly seen from a balcony
(For beauty’s sometimes best set off afar),
And there, just like a heroine of Goldoni,
They peep from out the blind, or o’er the bar;
And truth to say, they’re mostly very pretty,
And rather like to show it, more’s the pity!
LORD BYRON.
A VENETIAN CARNIVAL
Little golden cloudlets, like winged living creatures, were hanging
up in the rosy glow above Santa Maria della Salute, and all along
the Grand Canal the crowded gondolas were floating in a golden haze,
and all the westward-facing palace windows flashed and shone with an
illumination which the lamps and lanterns that were to be lighted after
sundown could never equal, burnt they never so merrily. It was Shrove
Tuesday in Venice, Carnival time. The sun had been shining on the city
and on the lagoons all day long. It was one of those Shrove Tuesdays
which recall the familiar proverb--
‘Sunshine at Carnival,
Fireside at Easter.’
But who cares about the chance of cold and gloom six weeks hence when
to-day is fair and balmy? A hum of joyous, foolish voices echoed from
those palace façades, and floated out seaward, and rang along the
narrow calle, and drifted on the winding waterways, and resounded under
the innumerable bridges; for everywhere in the City by the Sea men,
women, and children were making merry, and had given themselves up to
a wild and childish rapture of unreasoning mirth, ready to explode
into loud laughter at the sorriest jokes. An old man tapped upon the
shoulder by a swinging paper lantern--a boy whose hat had been knocked
off--a woman calling to her husband or her lover across the gay
flotilla--anything was food for mirth on this holiday evening, while
the great gold orb sank in the silvery lagoon, and all the sky over
yonder Chioggia was dyed with the crimson afterglow, and the Chioggian
fishing-boats were moving westward in all the splendour of their
painted sails.
M. E. BRADDON.
THREE VENETIAN FEASTS
I was at three very solemne feasts in Venice; I meane not commessations
or banquets, but holy and religious solemnities, whereof the first
was in the Church of certaine Nunnes in St. Laurence parish.... This
was celebrated the one and thirtieth of July, being Sunday, where I
heard much singular musicke. The second was on the day of our Ladies
assumption, which was the fifth of August, being Fryday, that day
in the morning I saw the Duke in some of his richest ornaments,
accompanyed with twenty-sixe couple of Senators, in their damaske
long-sleeved gownes, come to Sainte Marks. Also there were Venetian
Knights and Ambassadors, that gave attendance upon him, and the first
that went before him on the right hand, carried a naked sword in his
hand. He himselfe then wore two very rich robes or long garments,
whereof the uppermost was white, of cloth of silver, with great massy
buttons of gold, the other cloth of silver also, but adorned with many
curious workes made in colours with needle worke. His traine was then
holden up by two Gentlemen. At that time I heard much good musicke in
Sainte Markes Church, but especially that of a treble voill which was
so excellent, that I thinke no man could surpasse it. Also there were
sagbuts and cornets as at St. Laurence feast which yeelded passing good
musicke. The third feast was upon Saint Roches day, being Saturday and
the sixth day of August, where I heard the best musicke that ever I did
in all my life both in the morning and the afternoone, so good that
I would willingly goe an hundred miles a foote at any time to heare
the like. The place where it was, is neare to Saint Roches Church, a
very sumptuous and magnificent building that belongeth to one of the
sixe Companies of the citie.... This building hath a marvailous rich
and stately frontispice, being built with passing fair white stone,
and adorned with many goodly pillars of marble. There are three most
beautiful roomes in this building; the first is the lowest, which
hath two rowes of goodly pillars in it opposite to each other which
upon this day of Saint Roch were adorned with many faire pictures of
great personages that hanged round about them, as of Emperours, Kings,
Queenes, Dukes, Duchesses, Popes, etc. In this roome are two or three
faire Altars: For this roome is not appointed for merriments and
banquetings as the halles belonging to the Companies of London, but
altogether for devotion and religion.... The second is very spacious
and large, having two or three faire Altars more: the roofe of this
roome, which is of a stately height, is richly gilt and decked with
many sumptuous embossings of gold, and the walles are beautified with
sundry delicate pictures, as also many parts of the roofe; unto this
room you must ascend by two or three very goodly paire of staires. The
third roome which is made at one corner of this spacious roome, is
very beautifull, having both roofe and wals something correspondent to
the other; but the floore is much more exquisite and curious, being
excellently distinguished with checker worke made of several kinds of
marble, which are put in by the rarest cunning that the wit of man
can devise. The second roome is the place where this festivitie was
solemnized to the honour of Saint Roch, at one end whereof was an
altar garnished with many singular ornaments, but especially with a
great multitude of silver candlesticks, in number sixty, and candles
in them of virgin waxe. This feast consisted principally of Musicke,
which was both vocall and instrumental, so good, so delectable, so
rare, so admirable, so superexcellent, that it did even ravish and
stupifie all those strangers that never heard the like. But how others
were affected with it I know not; for mine owne part I can say this,
that I was for the time even rapt up with Saint Paul into the third
heaven. Sometimes there sung sixeteene or twenty men together, having
their master or moderator to keepe them in order; and when they sung,
the instrumentall musitians played also. Sometimes sixeteene played
together upon their instruments, ten Sagbuts, foure Cornets, and two
Violdegambaes of an extraordinary greatness; sometimes tenne, sixe
Sagbuts and foure Cornets; sometimes two, a Cornet and treble violl.
Of those treble viols I heard three severall there, whereof each
was so good, especially one, that I observed above the rest, that I
never heard the like before. Those that played upon the treble viols,
sung and played together, and sometimes two singular fellowes played
together upon Theorboes, to which they sung also, who yeelded admirable
sweet musicke, but so still that they could scarce be heard but by
those that were very neare them. Those two Theorbists concluded that
night’s musicke, which continued three whole howers at the least. For
they beganne about five of the clocke and ended not before eight. Also
it continued as long in the morning: at every time that every severall
musicke played, the Organs, whereof there are seven faire paire in
that room, standing all in a rowe together, plaied with them. Of the
singers there were three or foure so excellent that I thinke few or
none in Christendome do excell them, especially one, who had such a
peerelesse and (as I may in a manner say) such a supernaturall voice
for such a privilege for the sweetnesse of his voice, as sweetnesse,
that I think there was never a better singer in all the world, insomuch
that he did not onely give the most pleasant contentment that could
be imagined, to all the hearers, but also did as it were astonish and
amaze them.... Truely I thinke that had a Nightingale beene in the same
roome, and contended with him for the superioritie, something perhaps
he might excell him, because God hath granted that little birde such
a priviledge for the sweetnesse of his voice, as to none other: but I
thinke he could not much. To conclude, I attribute so much to this rare
fellow for his singing, that I thinke the country where he was borne,
may be as proude for breeding so singular a person as Smyrna was of her
Homer, Verona of her Catullus, or Mantua of Virgil: But exceeding happy
may that Citie, or towne, or person bee that possesseth this miracle of
nature. These musitians had bestowed upon them by that of Saint Roche
an hundred duckats. Thus much concerning the musicke of those famous
feastes of St. Laurence, the Assumption of our Lady, and Saint Roche.
THOMAS CORYAT (1611).
AN IMPROVISATORE
I had now visited the rich Palace of the Doges, had wandered in the
empty, magnificent halls; seen the chamber of the Inquisition, with
the frightful picture of the torments of hell. I went through a narrow
gallery, over a covered bridge, high upon the roof, above the canals
on which the gondolas glided: this is the way from the Doge’s Palace to
the prisons of Venice. This bridge is called the Bridge of Sighs. Close
beside it lie the wells. The light of the lamps alone from the passage
can force its way between the close iron bars into the uppermost
dungeon; and yet this was a cheerful, airy hall, in comparison with
those which lie lower down, below the swampy cellars, deeper even than
the water outside in the canals; and yet in these unhappy captives had
sighed, and inscribed their names on the damp walls.
‘Air, air!’ demanded my heart, rent with the horrors of this place;
and, entering the gondola, I flew with the speed of an arrow from the
pale-red old palace, and from the columns of St. Theodoret and the
Venetian lion, forth over the living, green water to the lagoons and
Lido, that I might breathe the fresh air of the sea,--and I found a
churchyard.
Here is the stranger, the Protestant, buried, far from his native
country,--buried upon a little strip of land among the waves, which
day by day seem to rend away more and more of its small remains. The
billows alone wept. Here often sat the fisherman’s bride or wife,
waiting for the lover or the husband, who had gone out fishing upon
the uncertain sea. The storm arose, and rested again upon its strong
pinions; and the woman sang Tasso’s songs, and listened to hear whether
the man replied. But Love gave no return in song; alone she sat there,
and looked out over the silent sea. Then, also, her lips became silent;
her eye saw only the white bones of the dead in the sand; she heard
only the hollow booming of the billows, whilst night ascended over the
dead, silent Venice.
The dark picture filled my thoughts, my whole state of mind gave it
a strong colouring. Solemn as a church reminding of graves, and the
invisible saints stood before me the entire scene. Flaminia’s words
resounded in my ear, that the poet, who was a prophet of God, should
endeavour only to express the glorification of God, and that subjects
which tended to this were of the highest character. The immortal soul
ought to sing of the immortal; the glitter of the moment changed its
play of colour, and vanished with the instant that gave it birth.... I
silently entered the gondola, which bore me toward Lido. The great open
sea lay before me, and rolled onward to the shore in long billows. I
thought of the bay of Amalfi.
Just beside me, among sea-grass and stones, sat a young man sketching,
certainly a foreign painter; it seemed to me that I recognized him.
I stepped nearer, he raised his head, and we knew each other. It was
Poggio, a young Venetian nobleman.
‘Signore,’ exclaimed he, ‘you on Lido! Is it the beauty of the scene,
or,’ added he, ‘some other beauty, which has brought you so near to
the angry Adriatic?... Such a blue, billowy plain,’ said he, pointing
to the sea, ‘is not to be found in Rome! The sea is the most beautiful
thing on the earth! It is also the mother of Venus, and,’ added he,
laughing, ‘is the widow of all the mighty Doges of Venice.’
‘The Venetians must especially love the sea,’ said I, ‘regarding it as
their grandparent, who carried them and played with them for the sake
of her beautiful daughter Venetia.’
‘She is no longer beautiful now; she bows her head,’ he replied.
‘But yet,’ said I, ‘she is still happy under her sway of the Emperor
Francis.’
‘It is a prouder thing to be queen upon the sea than a Caryatide upon
land,’ returned he. ‘The Venetians have nothing to complain about, and
politics are what I do not understand, but beauty, on the contrary, I
do; and if you are a patron of it, as I do not doubt but you are, see,
here comes my landlady’s handsome daughter, and inquires whether you
will take part in my frugal dinner.’
We went into the little house close by the shore. The wine was good,
and Poggio most charming and entertaining....
‘You do not sing?’ asked the lady of the house from me, when we had
done.
‘I will have the honour to improvise before you,’ said I, as a thought
entered my mind.
‘He is an improvisatore,’ I heard whispered around me. The eyes of the
ladies sparkled; the gentlemen bowed. I took a guitar, and begged them
to give me a subject.
‘Venice!’ cried a lady, looking boldly into my eyes.
‘Venice!’ repeated the young gentlemen, ‘because the ladies are
handsome!’
I touched a few chords; described the pomp and glory of Venice in the
days of her greatness, as I had read about it, and as my imagination
had dreamed of its being, and all eyes flashed; they fancied that it
was so now. I sang about the beauty in the balcony in the moonlight
night, and every lady imagined I meant it for her, and clapped her
hands in applause.... I sang about the proud sea,--the bridegroom of
Venice; about the sons of the sea,--the bold mariners and fishermen
in their little boats. I described a storm; the wife’s and the
bride’s longing and anxiety; described that which I myself had seen;
the children who had let fall the holy crucifix, and clung to their
mothers, and the old fisherman who kissed the feet of the Redeemer....
And now my heart was wonderously light; the empty canals of Venice and
the old palaces seemed to me beautiful--a sleeping fairy world.
HANS ANDERSEN.
VENICE AND HER CHILDREN
Though Orio had quadrupled the sum he had desired, all the treasures
of the world were nothing to him without a Venice to spend them in. At
that time love of country was a passion so strong, so powerful, that
it influenced all hearts, the vilest as well as the noblest. And truly
there was little merit in loving Venice then,--she was so beautiful, so
powerful, so gay! She was such a bountiful mother to all her children;
such a delightful lover of their glory! Venice gave such caresses to
her triumphant warriors, such glowing praise for their bravery, such
elegant and noble rewards for their prudence, such rare pleasures to
recompense their slightest services! Nowhere else could one find such
splendid feasts, enjoy such luxurious idleness, or plunge at will,
to-day in a whirlwind of pleasure, to-morrow in voluptuous repose.
Venice was the most beautiful city of Europe; the most corrupted and
the most virtuous. The righteous could there be always good, the
vicious always bad. It had sunshine for some, shade for others. While
there were wise institutions and touching ceremonies to proclaim
noble actions, there were also caves, inquisitors and executioners,
to maintain order and subdue dangerous passions. There were days of
triumph and ovation for the virtuous, and nights of debauchery and
excess for the vicious: and in no other part of the world were ovations
so exciting, excesses so poetical. Venice was the natural country for
all strong minds, good or evil. It was the undeniable fatherland of all
who knew it.
GEORGE SAND.
SOCIETY IN EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY VENICE
VENICE, _Oct. 10, 1739_.
I like this place extremely, and am of opinion you would do so too: as
to cheapness, I think ’tis impossible to find any part of Europe where
both the laws and customs are so contrived purposely to avoid expenses
of all sorts; and here is a universal liberty that is certainly one of
the greatest _agrémens_ in life. We have foreign ambassadors from all
parts of the world, who have all visited me. I have received visits
from many of the noble Venetian ladies; and upon the whole I am very
much at my ease here. If I was writing to Lady Sophia, I would tell
her of the comedies and operas which are every night, at very low
prices; but I believe even you will agree with me that they are ordered
to be as convenient as possible, every mortal going in a mask, and
consequently no trouble in dressing, or forms of any kind....
VENICE, _Oct. 14, 1739_.
I find myself very well here. I am visited by the most considerable
people of the town, and all the foreign ministers, who have most of
them made great entertainments for me. I dined yesterday at the
Spanish Ambassador’s, who even surpassed the French in magnificence. He
met me at the hall-door, and the lady at the stair-head, to conduct me
through the long apartment; in short, they could not have shown me more
honours, if I had been an ambassadress. She desired me to think myself
_patrona del casa_, and offered me all the services in her power, to
wait on me where I pleased, etc. They have the finest palace in Venice.
What is very convenient, I hear it is not at all expected I should
make any dinners, it not being the fashion for anybody to do it here
but the foreign ministers; and I find I can live here very genteelly
on my allowance. I have already a very agreeable general acquaintance;
though when I came, here was no one I had ever seen in my life, but
the Cavaliere Grimani and the Abbé Conti. I must do them justice to
say they have taken pains to be obliging to me. The Procurator brought
his niece (who is at the head of his family) to wait on me; and they
invited me to reside with them at their palace on the Brent, but I
did not think it proper to accept of it. He also introduced to me the
Signora Pisani Mocenigo, who is the most considerable lady here. The
Nuncio is particularly civil to me; he has been several times to see
me, and has offered me the use of his box at the opera....
VENICE, _Nov. 6, 1739_.
Upon my word, I have spoken my real thoughts in relation to Venice;
but I will be more particular in my description, lest you should find
the same reason of complaint you have hitherto experienced. It is
impossible to give any rule for the agreeableness of conversation;
but here is so great a variety, I think ’tis impossible not to find
some to suit every taste. Here are foreign ministers from all parts
of the world, who, as they have no court to employ their hours, are
overjoyed to enter into commerce with any stranger of distinction. As
I am the only lady here at present, I can assure you I am courted, as
if I was the only one in the world. As to all the conveniences of life,
they are to be had at very easy rates; and for those that love public
places, here are two playhouses and two operas constantly performed
every night, at exceeding low prices. But you will have no reason to
examine that article, no more than myself; all the ambassadors having
boxes appointed them; and I have every one of their keys at my service,
not only for my own person, but whoever I please to carry or send. I do
not make much use of this privilege, to their great astonishment. It
is the fashion for the greatest ladies to walk the streets, which are
admirably paved; and a mask, price sixpence, with a little cloak, and
the head of a domino, the genteel dress to carry you everywhere. The
greatest equipage is a gondola, that holds eight persons, and is the
price of an English chair. And it is so much the established fashion
for everybody to live their own way, that nothing is more ridiculous
than censuring the actions of another. This would be terrible in
London, where we have little other diversion; but for me, who never
found any pleasure in malice, I bless my destiny that has conducted
me to a part where people are better employed than in talking of the
affairs of their acquaintance. It is at present excessive cold (which
is the only thing I have to find fault with); but in recompense we have
a clear bright sun, and fogs and factions things unheard of in this
climate....
VENICE, _June 1, 1740_.
You seem to mention the regatta in a manner as if you would be pleased
with a description of it. It is a race of boats: they are accompanied
by vessels which they call Piotes, and Bichones, that are built at
the expense of nobles and strangers that have a mind to display their
magnificence; they are a sort of machines adorned with all that
sculpture and gilding can do to make a shining appearance. Several of
them cost one thousand pounds sterling, and I believe none less than
five hundred; they are rowed by gondoliers dressed in rich habits,
suitable to what they represent. There was enough of them to look
like a little fleet, and I own I never saw a finer sight. It would be
too long to describe every one in particular; I shall only name the
principal:--the Signora Pisani Mocenigo’s represented the Chariot of
the Night, drawn by four sea-horses, and showing the rising of the
moon, accompanied with stars, the statues on each side representing
the hours to the number of twenty-four, rowed by gondoliers in rich
liveries, which were changed three times, all of equal richness, and
the decorations changed also to the dawn of Aurora and the midday sun,
the statues being new dressed every time, the first in green, the
second time in red, and the last blue, all equally laced with silver,
there being three races. Signor Soranzo represented the Kingdom of
Poland, with all the provinces and rivers in that dominion, with a
concert of the best instrumental music in rich Polish habits; the
painting and gilding were exquisite in their kinds; Signor Contarini’s
piote showed the Liberal Arts; Apollo was seated on the stern upon
Mount Parnassus, Pegasus behind, and the Muses seated round him:
opposite was a figure representing Painting, with Fame blowing her
trumpet; and on each side Sculpture, and Music in their proper dresses.
The procurator Foscarini’s was the Chariot of Flora guided by Cupids,
and adorned with all sorts of flowers, rose-trees, etc. Signor Julio
Contarini’s represented the Triumphs of Valour; Victory was on the
stern, and all the ornaments warlike trophies of every kind. Signor
Correri’s was the Adriatic Sea receiving into her arms the Hope of
Saxony. Signor Alvisio Mocenigo’s was the Garden of Hesperides; the
whole fable was represented by different statues. Signor Querini had
the Chariot of Venus drawn by doves, so well done, they seemed ready
to fly upon the water; the Loves and Graces attended her. Signor Paul
Doria had the Chariot of Diana, who appeared hunting in a large wood:
the trees, hounds, stag, and nymphs, all done naturally: the gondoliers
dressed like peasants attending the chase: and Endymion, lying under
a large tree, gazing on the goddess. Signor Angelo Labbia represented
Poland crowning of Saxony, waited on by the Virtues and subject
Provinces. Signor Angelo Molino was Neptune waited on by the Rivers.
Signor Vicenzo Morosini’s piote showed the Triumphs of Peace; Discord
being chained at her feet, and she surrounded with the Pleasures,
etc....
I must say one word of the bichonis, which are less vessels, quite
open, some representing gardens, others apartments, all the oars being
gilt either with gold or silver, and the gondolier’s liveries either
velvet or rich silk, with a profusion of lace, fringe, and embroidery.
I saw this show at the Procurator Grimani’s house, which was near the
place where the prizes were delivered: there was a great assembly
invited on the same occasion, which were all nobly entertained.
LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU.
IN VENICE ONCE
In Venice once they lived and loved--
Fair women with their red-gold hair--
Their twinkling feet to music moved,
In Venice where they lived and loved,
And all Philosophy disproved,
While hope was young and life was fair,
In Venice where they lived and loved.
LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.
ARCHITECTURE AND ART
Venice is the finest city in the world. What could we wish
for better than its Moorish architecture in white marble
in the midst of the limpid waters, and under a sky truly
magnificent; its people so gay, so heedless, so witty, and
fond of its music; its gondolas, churches, and picture
galleries; those good-looking and elegant women; the
murmurs of the sea breaking upon the ear; the moonlights
nowhere else to be seen; choruses of gondoliers, sometimes
very correct, serenading under every window; cafés full
of Turks and Armenians; fine and spacious theatres where
you can hear Pasta and Donzelli; gorgeous palaces; a Punch
and Judy show far above that of Gustave Malus; delicious
oysters, which you can gather on the steps of every house;
Cyprian wine at twenty-five _sous_ a bottle; flowers in the
heart of winter, and, in the month of February, a heat as
great as that of our month of May?
GEORGE SAND.
Tintoretto, to be rightly understood, must be sought all
over Venice--in the church as well as the Scuola di San
Rocco; in the ‘Temptation of St. Anthony’ at St. Trovaso
no less than in the Temptations of Eve and Christ; in
the decorative pomp of the Scala del Senato, and in the
Paradisal vision of the Scala del Gran Consiglio. Yet,
after all, there is one of his most characteristic moods,
to appreciate which fully we return to the Madonna dell’
Orto. I have called him ‘the painter of impossibilities.’
At rare moments he rendered them possible by sheer
imaginative force.
JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS.
THE BIRTH OF VENETIAN ART
Venice ... rose from a lowly and troublous origin to heights of
dazzling grandeur. When the barbarians of the North began their
incursions and devastations into Italy in the fifth century, the
inhabitants of that part of the Peninsula which was called Venetia fled
from the peril to the islands rising in the lagoons of the Adriatic,
where they found peace, safety, and liberty.... The inhospitable
nature of their new home provided the refugees with but two elements
only--and those the most indeterminate and universal--sky and sea.
All the rest, all that we see to-day, has been artificially formed by
the hand of man, who excluded vegetation, animals, every semblance of
living things, and created for himself a world of stone, a landscape
of architecture, and perspective. He has willed that this shall of
itself be beautiful, not from any assistance from Nature, but by force
of art and riches; not a collection of monuments, but one single
monument in itself, and that so sublime and lasting as to admit of no
comparison. The marvel which here strikes the spectator has no other
example, for Venice is altogether the work of human art. An art, too,
which is both poetry and history, and when we think of the history of
those Venetians who became lords of a mighty commerce and conquerors
of provinces, we see, as by an invincible law spreading out before
our imagination, the marble mansions around the Piazza and along the
Grand Canal; we see through the streets of the city a people proud of
the wisdom of their statesmen and of the creations of their painters;
we think of the golden Basilica, of the Palace of the Doges; we evoke
the shapes of Titian, of Paolo Veronese, of Tintoretto.... The art of
painting arose in Italy in the Trecento. This art, of slower growth
than either architecture or sculpture in Venice, only flourished there
well on in the fifteenth century. It must not, however, be concluded
from this that painting was unknown in the early days of Venetian life,
for leaving aside the question as to whether the first mosaicists were
Byzantines or Venetians, it is certain that the art of colours was
displayed with admirable feeling in the mosaics of St. Mark’s. In the
Basilica, which lifts itself to heaven like a sublime hymn and blends
in divine fulness Greek harmony with Eastern splendour, may be found
the school of Venetian painters, the source of their inspiration,
the golden book wherein is entered the pedigree of Venetian art. The
colours sparkle, flash, and throw lightning gleams on to that building
bright with matchless beauty. Mind and eye are alike filled with
amazement and admiration at the sight of the many-hued marbles, the
mosaics, and the gold flung round in regal profusion. Thus, in this
atmosphere of light, like a serene flower, Venetian painting arose,
warm and vivid in colour even when cold and lifeless in expression.
POMPEO MOLMENTI.
_Translated by Alethea Wiel._
A VENETIAN PASTORAL
BY GIORGIONE[4]
Water, for anguish of the solstice,--yea,
Over the vessel’s mouth still widening,
Listlessly dipt to let the water in
With slow, vague gurgle. Blue, and deep away,
The heat lies silent at the brink of day.
Now the hand trails upon the viol-string
That sobs; and the brown faces cease to sing,
Mournful with complete pleasure. Her eyes stray
In distance; through her lips the pipe doth creep
And leaves them pouting; the green shadowed grass
Is cool against her naked flesh. Let be:
Do not now speak unto her lest she weep,
Nor name this ever. Be it as it was:
Silence of heat, and solemn poetry.
DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.
[4] In the Louvre.
GIORGIONE’S HOME
Born half-way between the mountains and the sea--that young George of
Castelfranco--of the Brave Castle: Stout George they called him, George
of Georges, so goodly a boy he was--Giorgione.
Have you ever thought what a world his eyes opened on--fair, searching
eyes of youth? What a world of mighty life, from those mountain roots
to the shore--of loveliest life, when he went down, yet so young, to
the marble city--and became himself as a fiery heart to it?
A city of marble, did I say? Nay, rather a golden city, paved with
emerald. For truly, every pinnacle and turret glanced or glowed,
overlaid with gold, or bossed with jasper. Beneath, the unsullied
sea drew in deep breathing, to and fro, its eddies of green wave.
Deep-hearted, majestic, terrible as the sea,--the men of Venice moved
in sway of power and war; pure as her pillars of alabaster, stood her
mothers and maidens; from foot to brow, all noble, walked her knights;
the low bronzed gleaming of sea-rusted armour shot angrily under their
blood-red mantle folds. Fearless, faithful, patient, impenetrable,
implacable--every word a fate--sat her senate. In hope and honour,
lulled by flowing of wave around their isles of sacred sand, each
with his name written and the cross graved at his side, lay her dead.
A wonderful piece of world. Rather, itself a world. It lay along the
face of the waters, no larger, as its captains saw it from their masts
at evening, than a bar of sunset that could not pass away; but for
its power, it must have seemed to them as if they were sailing in the
expanse of heaven, and this a great planet, whose orient edge widened
through ether. A world from which all ignoble care and petty thoughts
were banished, with all the common and poor elements of life. No
foulness, nor tumult, in those tremulous streets, that filled, or fell,
beneath the moon; but rippled music of majestic change, or thrilling
silence. No weak walls could rise above them; no low-roofed cottage,
nor straw-built shed. Only the strength as of rock, and the finished
setting of stones most precious. And around them, far as the eye could
reach, still the soft moving of stainless waters, proudly pure; as
not the flower, so neither the thorn nor the thistle could grow in
the glancing fields. Ethereal strength of Alps, dream-like, vanishing
in high procession beyond the Torcellan shore; blue islands of Paduan
hills, poised in the golden west. Above, free winds and fiery clouds
ranging at their will--brightness out of the north, and balm from the
south, and the stars of the evening and morning clear in the limitless
light of arched heaven and circling sea....
I do not find in Giorgione’s work any of the early Venetian monachist
element. He seems to me to have belonged more to an abstract
contemplative school. I may be wrong in this; it is no matter; suppose
it were so, and that he came down to Venice somewhat recusant, or
insentient, concerning the usual priestly doctrines of his day, how
would the Venetian religion, from an outer intellectual standing-point,
have _looked_ to him?
He would have seen it to be a religion indisputably powerful in human
affairs; often very harmfully so; sometimes devouring widows’ houses,
and consuming the strongest and fairest from among the young; freezing
into merciless bigotry the pokey of the old: also, on the other hand,
animating national courage, and raising souls, otherwise sordid, into
heroism: on the whole, always a real and great power; served with
daily sacrifice of gold, time, and thought; putting forth its claims,
if hypocritically, at least in bold hypocrisy, not waiving any atom
of them in doubt or fear; and, assuredly, in large measure, sincere,
believing in itself, and believed: a goodly system, moreover, in
aspect; gorgeous, harmonious, mysterious--a thing which had either to
be obeyed or combated, but could not be scorned. A religion towering
over all the city--many buttressed--luminous in marble stateliness, as
the dome of our Lady of Safety shines over the sea; many-voiced also,
giving, over all the eastern seas, to the sentinel his watchword, to
the soldier his war-cry; and, on the lips of all who died for Venice,
shaping the whisper of death.
JOHN RUSKIN.
TO AN OLD VENETIAN PAINTING
Who _was_ she--this rare Beauty of appealing face?...
The eyes are laden with the weight of Love’s fond burden,
The heart, with tremulous hope of Love’s alluring guerdon.
Had she some wound,--some grief which nothing could erase,--
She whose impassioned look is raised in suppliant grace?
Perhaps some erring penitent in saintly adoration,
Or Doge’s wilful daughter offering supplication
In all the sumptuous beauty of her languorous race?
The plaintive mouth is saddened now from farewell-taking,
The sob still lingers in her smile,--the eyes brim o’er,
As if sweet love, with her, had broken faith and trust.
How _could_ such beauty be unless her heart were breaking?...
Peace! draw the veil: seek no revealment: ask no more:
Such loveliness shall sanctify her very dust.
LLOYD MIFFLIN.
TO GIAN BELLINI
Though ne’er a catchword for the shallow throng,
His name shall shine eternally with those
That light the world. Resplendent Venice shows
Not one sublimer all her sons among.
He taught the true in art, nor knew the wrong.
His lofty purity, his sweet repose
Sprang from a faith that no misgiving knows
By this his soul was nourished and grew strong.
Gentle Venetian! I must envy thee,
Who stand alone in this cool sacristy,
Confronted with the radiance of thine art.
Shrined in these marbles amid ocean foam,
The light of thy pure spirit here has home,
Firing the good in each distempered heart.
PERCY PINKERTON.
TITIAN AT VENICE
Titian was born in the little town of Cadore, on the Piave, five miles
from the Alps. He sprang from the family of the Vecelli, one of the
most noble of those parts; and when he reached the age of ten years,
showing a fine spirit and quickness of mind, he was sent to Venice to
the house of one of his uncles, an honoured citizen. He, seeing that
the boy was much inclined to painting, put him with the famous painter
Gian Bellini, under whose discipline he studied drawing, and showed
himself in a short time to be endowed by nature with all that was
necessary for the art of painting. Gian Bellini and the other painters
of that country, having no knowledge of ancient art, were accustomed
mostly, in fact entirely, to draw from life, though in a dry, crude
manner. Titian therefore learnt in this way. But when Giorgione da
Castelfranco came, the manner of working did not altogether please
him, and he began to give his works more softness and greater relief,
following Nature indeed, and imitating her as well as he could in
colour, but not making any drawing, holding firmly that painting in
colours without studying the drawing in a cartoon was the true and best
way of working. Titian, then, seeing Giorgione’s method, left Gian
Bellini’s manner and adopted the new way, imitating it so well that his
pictures were mistaken for the works of Giorgione. And when Giorgione
was employed upon the façade of the German Exchange a part was given
to Titian. Some gentlemen, not knowing that Giorgione had ceased to
work there, and that Titian was employed upon it, meeting Giorgione
one day, began to congratulate him, saying he was doing better on this
façade than he had done on that one on the Grand Canal. And this vexed
Giorgione so much that until the work was finished, and it was known
that Titian had done that part, he would not be seen, and from that
time he would not let Titian work with him or be his friend....
Giovanni Bellini left unfinished at his death the picture, in the hall
of the Great Council, of Barbarossa kneeling before Pope Alexander
III. Titian completed it, altering many things, and introducing many
portraits of his friends and others. For this he obtained from the
Signory an office which is called the Senseria, which brings in three
hundred crowns a year. This office has usually been given to the best
painter of that city, with the duty of painting from time to time their
Prince or Doge, at the price of eight crowns only, paid them by this
prince, and this portrait is afterwards placed in his memory in the
palace of St. Mark’s.
The Duke Alfonso of Ferrara had engaged Giovanni Bellini to paint a
picture for a room in his palace, but he had been unable to complete
it on account of his age, and Titian therefore was summoned to finish
it, and for this prince he painted several things, and was liberally
rewarded by him. At this time he formed a friendship with the divine
Ludovico Ariosto, who celebrated him in his ‘Orlando Furioso.’
After his return to Venice he painted many pictures for the churches,
and among others for the church of S. Rocco he painted Christ bearing
the Cross. This, which many have supposed to be from Giorgione’s hand,
has become the chief object of devotion in Venice, and has received
in alms more crowns than Titian and Giorgione earned in their whole
life.... For the Church of S. Giovanni and S. Paolo he painted an
altarpiece representing S. Peter Martyr in a wood of high trees, struck
down by a fierce soldier, who has wounded him in the head, and as he
lies but half alive you can see in his face the horror of death, while
another friar fleeing shows signs of fear. In the sky are two angels
coming in the light of heaven, which lights up a beautiful landscape.
The work is the most finished one that Titian ever did....
There is no lord of note or prince or great lady who has not been
painted by Titian; and, besides, at different times, he produced many
other works.
It is true that his way of working in his last pictures is very
different from that of his youth. For his first works were finished
with great diligence, and might be looked at near or far, but the last
are worked with great patches of colour, so that they cannot be seen
near, but at a distance they look perfect. This is the reason that many
think they are done without any trouble, but this is not true. And
this way of working is most judicious, for it makes the pictures seem
living.
All these works, with a great many others, which cannot be mentioned
lest I should become tedious, he has completed, having now reached
the age of seventy-six. He has been most healthy, and as fortunate
as anyone has ever been. In his house at Venice he has received all
the princes, and learned and famous men, who have come to Venice; for
besides his excellence in art, his manners have been most pleasant and
courteous. He has had some rivals, but not very dangerous ones. He has
earned much, for his works have always been well paid; but it would be
well for him, in these his last years, to work only for pastime, lest
he diminish his reputation.
When the present writer was in Venice in 1566, he went to visit Titian,
and found him, old as he was, with his brush in his hand, painting, and
he found great pleasure in seeing his works and talking with him.
Thus Titian, having adorned Venice, or rather Italy, and indeed other
parts of the world, with the finest pictures, deserves to be loved and
studied by artists, and in many things imitated, for he has done works
worthy of infinite praise, which will last as long as illustrious men
are remembered.
VASARI.
_Translated by E. L. Seeley._
THE ENCHANTED VOICE OF VENICE
Turner’s imagination dwelt always on three great cities, Carthage,
Rome, and Venice--Carthage in connection especially with the thoughts
and study which led to the painting of the Hesperides’ Garden, showing
the death which attends the vain pursuit of wealth; Rome, showing the
death which attends the vain pursuit of power; Venice, the death which
attends the vain pursuit of beauty.
How strangely significative, thus understood, those last Venetian
dreams of his become, themselves so beautiful and so frail; wrecks of
all that they were once--twilights of twilight!
Vain beauty; yet not all in vain. Unlike in birth, how like in their
labour, and their power over the future, these masters of England and
Venice--Turner and Giorgione. But ten years ago I saw the last traces
of the greatest works of Giorgione yet glowing, like a scarlet cloud,
on the Fondaco de Tedeschi. And though that scarlet cloud (sanguigna
e fiammeggiante, per cui le pitture cominciarono con dolce violenza
a rapire il cuore delle genti) may, indeed, melt away into paleness
of night, and Venice herself waste from her islands as a wreath of
wind-driven foam fades from their weedy beach; that which she won
of faithful light and truth shall never pass away. Deiphobe of the
sea--the Sun God measures her immortality to her by its sand. Flushed,
above the Avernus of the Adrian lake, her spirit is still seen holding
the golden bough; from the lips of the Sea Sibyl men shall learn for
ages yet to come what is most noble and most fair; and, far away, as
the whisper in the coils of the shell, withdrawn through the deep
hearts of nations, shall sound for ever the enchanted voice of Venice.
JOHN RUSKIN.
VENICE
Walk in St. Mark’s, the time and ample space
Lies in the freshness of the evening shade,
When, on each side, with gravely-darkened face,
The masses rise above the light arcade;
Walk down the midst with slowly-timèd pace,
But gay withal,--for there is high parade
Of fair attire and fairer forms, which pass
Like varying groups on a magician’s glass....
Walk in St. Mark’s again, some few hours after,
When a bright sleep is on each storied pile,--
When fitful music, and inconstant laughter,
Give place to Nature’s silent moonlight smile:
Now fancy wants no faery gale to waft her
To Magian haunt, or charm-engirdled isle,
All too content, in passive bliss, to see
This show divine is visible poetry.
On such a night as this impassionedly
The old Venetian sung those verses rare,
‘That Venice must of needs eternal be,
For heaven had looked through the pellucid air,
And cast its reflex in the crystal sea,
And Venice was the image pictured there;’
I hear them now, and tremble, for I seem
As treading on an unsubstantial dream.
Who talks of vanished glory, of dead power,
Of things that were, and are not? Is he here?
Can he take in the glory of this hour,
And call it all the decking of a bier?
No, surely as on that Titanic tower
The Guardian Angel stands in æther clear,
With the moon’s silver tempering his gold wing,
So Venice lives, as lives no other thing:
That strange cathedral! exquisitely strange;
That front, on whose bright varied tints the eye
Rests as on gems; those arches, whose high range
Gives its rich-broidered border to the sky;
Those ever-prancing steeds! My friend, whom change
Of restless will has led to lands that lie
Deep in the East, does not thy fancy set
Above these domes an airy minaret?
RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.
THE SPLENDOUR OF ST. MARK’S
The beautifull Church of Saint Marke doth of its owne accord as it were
offer it selfe now to be spoken of. Which though it be but little,
yet it is exceeding rich, and so sumptuous for the stateliness of the
architecture, that I thinke very few in Christendome of the bignesse
doe surpasse it.... The pavement of this Church is so passing curious,
that I thinke no Church in Christendome can show the like. For the
pavement of the body of the Church, the Quire, and the walkes round
about before you come within the body, are made of sundry little pieces
of Thasian, Ophiticall, and Laconicall marble in checker worke, and
other most exquisite conveyances, and those, of many severall colours,
that it is very admirable and rare to behold, the rarenesse such that
it doth even amaze all strangers upon their first view thereof. The
west front towards St. Marks street is most beautifull, having five
severall partitions, unto which there belong as many brasen dores,
whereof the middle, through which they usually go into the Church,
is made of solid brasse, the other foure in the forme of latteise
windowes. This front is very stately adorned with beautiful pillars
of white marble, whereof in one part of the front, I told a hundred
and two and fifty, in the higher two and forty. In all one hundred
fourescore and fourteene. Some greater, some lesser. Some of one
colour and some of another. At the sides of the great gate are eight
rich pillars of porphyrie, foure in one side, and as many in another,
whereof each would be worth twenty pound with us in England. Over the
toppe of this middle gate is to be seene a very ancient and remarkable
monument, foure goodly brasen horses made of Corinthian mettall, and
fully as great as the life. These horses were brought to Venice in the
time of their Duke Petrus Zanus, which was about the yeare 1206. Some
say they were cast by Lysippus that singular statuary of Alexander
the Great above three hundred years before Christ; some say that the
Romans made them at what time Hiero King of Syracuse triumphed of the
Parthians, and placed them in a certain arch that they dedicated to
him. It is reported that Tyridates King of Armenia bestowed them on
the Emperour Nero, when he was entertained in Rome with such pompous
magnificence, as is mentioned by Tacitus and Suetonius. And that
Constantine the Great brought them from Rome to Constantinople, and
therehence they were lastly brought to Venice by the Venetians, when
they possessed Constantinople. At what time they brought many other
notable things from that City, for the better ornament both of their
publique and private buildings. These horses are advanced on certain
curious and beautifull pillars, to the end they may be more conspicuous
and eminent to be seene of every person.... I observed another very
memorable monument within the first great gate, which is betwixt
that gate and the opposite brasen gate at the going into the body of
the Church, which is also made of massy brasse, namely a great stone
formed and cut according to the fashion of a diamond pavier, in the
middle whereof is made a prety checker worke garnished with divers
little pieces of marble of sundry colours. On this little worke which
is in the middest of the said stone did Fredericus Barbarossa the
Emperour lay downe his necke as a foote-stoole to Pope Alexander the
third to treade upon it.... Over the gate as you passe into the body
of the Church, is to be seene the picture of St. Marke (if at the
least a man may properly call such a piece of work a picture) made
most curiously with pieces of marble (as I conceive it) exceeding
little, all gilt over in a kinde of worke very common in this Church,
called Mosaicall worke. He is made looking up to heaven with his hands
likewise elevated, and that wearing of a marvailous rich cope, under
whom [an inscription] is written in faire letters.... On the right
hand of the Church as you goe in, even at the south corner, there is
a very faire little Chappel having a sumptuous Altar that is adorned
with a very curious roofe, and two goodly pillars of Parian marble at
the sides, of wonderfull faire workmanship, wherein are finely made
clusters of grapes, and other borders exceeding well expressed. At
both the endes of the Altar are made two great lyons in porphyrie,
whereof that on the right hand leaneth a little child, the other on
the left hand on a sheepe.... The pavement of this Chappel is made of
diamond worke with marble of divers colours, and at the entrance a two
leafed brasen gate. The inner walles of the Church are beautified
with a great multitude of pictures gilt, and contrived in Mosaical
worke, which is nothing else but a pretty kind of picturing consisting
altogether of little pieces and very small fragments of gilt marble,
which are square, and halfe as broade as the naile of a mans finger;
of which pieces there concurreth a very infinite company to the making
of these pictures. I never saw any of this kind of picturing before I
came to Venice, nor ever either read or heard of it, of which Saint
Marks Church is full in every wall and roofe. It is said that they
imitate the Grecians in these Mosaical workes.... At the west end of
the Church in the walke which is without the body, are three more of
those Mosaical round roofes full of those pictures or effigies as the
other within the Church, and another square, of a greater height than
the rest, wherein is painted the Crosse of Christ ... foure Angels
by the sides of it: And a little way farther two companies of Angels
more, one on the right hand of the Crosse, and another on the left,
with Lilies in their hands. Againe, in the north side of the Church
wherein is another of those walkes without the body, are three more of
those Mosaical vaulted roofes full of pictures, which doe make up the
full number. Most of these pictures have either names, which expresse
the same, or Latin Poesies in verse, or both made by them.... I saw
in the body of the Church a very rich stone called an Agat, about
two foote long, and as broad as the palme of a mans hand, which is
valued at tenne thousand duckats at the least. This is on the right
hand of the Church as you goe into the Quire from the West gate. The
corners whereof I saw broken; which I heard happened by this meanes.
A certaine Jew hid himselfe all night in a corner of this Church, and
when all the gates were locked, he tried to pul up the stone with
pinsers and some other instruments; but he failed in his enterprise,
because the stone was so fast soldered into the ground that he could
not with his cunning pull it up; being apprehended in the Church the
next morning before he could make an evasion, he was presently hanged
for his labour in St. Markes place....
The high Altar is very faire, but especially that inestimable rich
table heretofore brought from Constantinople, which is above the
Altar: that table is never shewed but onely upon some speciall feast
day, being most commonly covered by certaine devices that they have,
and another meaner table standeth usually upon it. This table is the
fairest that ever I saw, which indeed I saw but once onely, upon the
feast of our Ladies assumption, which was the fifth day of August: it
is marvellous richly wrought in gold, and silver, with many curious
little images, such as we call in Latin imagunculæ or icunculæ. And the
upper part of it most sumptuously adorned with abundance of pretious
stones of great value that doe exceedingly beautifie the worke. I think
it is worth at least ten thousand pounds. Over this Altar is a most
beautiful concamerated roofe of rich Ophiticall marble, and supported
with foure passing faire pillars at the corners made of Parian marble,
wherein are very artifically represented many histories of the old and
new Testament. In this Quire I saw two and twenty goodly Candlestickes,
hanged up with chains, the fairest that ever I saw. At both sides of
it are two exceeding faire payre of Organes, whose pipes are silver,
especially those on the left hand as you come in from the body of the
Church, having the brasen winged Lyon of S. Mark on the top, and the
images of two Angels at the sides.... The last notable thing that is
in the Church ... is the treasure of Saint Marke, kept in a certaine
Chappell in the south side of the Church neere to the stately porch
of the Dukes Palace. But here methinks I use the figure _hysteron
proteron_, in that I conclude my tract of St. Markes Church with that
which was worthiest to be spoken of at the beginning. For this treasure
is of that inestimable value, that it is thought no treasure whatsoever
in any one place of Christendome may compare with it.... Here they
say is kept marveilous abundance of rich stones of exceeding worth,
as Diamonds, Carbuncles, Emerauds, Chrysolites, Jacinths, and great
pearles of admirable value: also three Unicorns hornes; an exceeding
great Carbuncle which was bestowed upon the Senate by the Cardinall
Grimannus, and a certaine Pitcher adorned with great variety of
pretious stones, which Usumcassanes King of Persia bestowed upon the
Signiory, with many other things of wonderful value.
THOMAS CORYAT (1611).
THE GLORY OF ST. MARK’S
So we entred St. Marc’s Church, before which stand two brasse pedestals
exquisitely cut and figur’d, which beare as many tall masts painted
red, on which upon greate festivals they hang flags and streamers.
This church is also Gotic; yet for the preciousnese of the materials
being of severall rich marbles, aboundance of porphyrie, serpentine,
&c. far exceeding any in Rome, St. Peter’s hardly excepted. I much
admired the splendid historie of our Saviour, compos’d all of Mosaic
over the faciata, below which and over the chiefe gate are four
horses cast in coper as big as the life, the same that formerly were
transported from Rome by Constantine to Byzantium, and thence by the
Venetians hither. They are supported by eight porphyrie columns of very
great size and value. Being come into the Church, you see nothing,
and tread on nothing, but what is precious. The floore is all inlayed
with achats, lazuli’s, calcedons, jaspers, porphyries and other rich
marbles, admirable also for the work; the walls sumptuously incrusted
and presenting to the imagination the shapes of men, birds, houses,
flowers, and a thousand varieties. The roofe is of most excellent
Mosaic; but what most persons admire is the new work of the emblematic
tree at the other passage out of the Church. In the midst of this
rich volto rise five cupolas, the middle very large and susteyn’d by
thirty-six marble columns, eight of which are of precious marbles:
under these cupolas is the high altar, on which is a reliquarie of
severall sorts of jewells, engraven with figures after the Greeke
manner, and set together with plates of pure gold. The altar is cover’d
with a canopy of ophit, on which is sculptur’d the storie of the Bible
and so on the pillars, which are of Parian marble that support it.
Behind these are four other columns of transparent and true Oriental
alabaster, brought hither out of the mines of Solomon’s Temple as they
report. There are many chapells and notable monuments of illustrious
persons, Dukes, Cardinals, &c. as Zeno, Jo. Soranzi, and others: there
is likewise a vast baptisterie of coper.... In one of the corners
lies the body of St. Isidore, brought hither five hundred years since
from the island of Chios.... Going out of the Church they shew’d us
the stone where Alexander III. trod on the neck of the Emperor Fred.
Barbarossa, pronouncing the verse of the psalm, ‘_Super basiliscum_,’
&c. The dores of the Church are of massie coper. There are neare
five hundred pillars in this building, most of them porphyrie and
serpentine, and brought chiefly from Athens and other parts of Greece
formerly in their power. At the corner of the Church are inserted into
the maine wall foure figures as big as life cut in porphyrie, which
they say are the images of four brothers who poysoned one another,
by which means there escheated to the Republiq that vast treasury of
relicques now belonging to the Church. At the other entrance that looks
towards the sea, stands in a small chapell that statue of our Lady,
made (as they affirme) of the same stone or rock out of which Moses
brought water to the murmuring Israelites at Meriba.... The next day,
by favour of the French Ambassador, I had admittance with him to see
the Reliquary call’d here Tresoro di San Marco, which very few even of
travellers are admitted to see. It is a large chamber full of presses.
There are twelve breast-plates, or pieces of pure golden armour studded
with precious stones, and as many crownes dedicated to St. Mark by so
many noble Venetians who had recovered their wives taken at sea by the
Saracens; many curious vases of achats; the cap or cornet of the Dukes
of Venice, one of which had a rubie set on it esteemed worth 200,000
crowns; two unicorn hornes; numerous vases and dishes of achat set
thick with precious stones and vast pearles, [and] divers heads of
Saints inchas’d in gold.
JOHN EVELYN.
THE LEGEND OF ST. MARK
On the 25th of February, 1340, there fell out a wonderful thing in this
land; for during three days the waters rose continually, and in the
night there was fearful rain and tempest, such as had never been heard
of. So great was the storm that the waters rose three cubits higher
than had ever been known in Venice; and an old fisherman being in his
little boat in the canal of St. Mark, reached with difficulty the Riva
di San Marco, and there he fastened his boat, and waited the ceasing
of the storm. And it is related that, at the time this storm was at
its highest, there came an unknown man, and besought him that he would
row him over to San Giorgio Maggiore, promising to pay him well; and
the fisherman replied, ‘How is it possible to go to San Giorgio? We
shall sink by the way!’ but the man only besought him the more that
he should set forth. So, seeing that it was the will of God, he arose
and rowed over to San Giorgio Maggiore; and the man landed there and
desired the boatman to wait. In a short time he returned with a young
man; and they said, ‘Now row towards San Niccolò di Lido.’ And the
fisherman said, ‘How can one possibly go so far with one oar?’ and they
said, ‘Row boldly, for it shall be possible with thee, and thou shalt
be well paid.’ And he went; and it appeared to him as if the waters
were smooth. Being arrived at San Niccolò di Lido, the two men landed,
and returned with a third, and having entered into the boat, they
commanded the fisherman that he should row beyond the two castles. And
the tempest raged continually. Being come to the open sea, they beheld
approaching, with such terrific speed that it appeared to fly over the
waters, an enormous galley full of demons (as it is written in the
Chronicles, and Marco Sabellino also makes mention of this miracle):
the said barque approached the castles to overwhelm Venice and to
destroy it utterly. Anon the sea, which had hitherto been tumultuous,
became calm; and these three men, having made the sign of the cross,
exorcised the demons, and commanded them to depart, and immediately
the galley or the ship vanished. Then these three men commanded the
fisherman to land them, the one at San Niccolò di Lido, the other at
San Giorgio Maggiore, and the third at San Marco. And when he had
landed the third, the fisherman, notwithstanding the miracle he had
witnessed, desired that he would pay him, and he replied, ‘Thou art
right; go now to the Doge and to the Procuratore of St. Mark, and tell
him what thou hast seen, for Venice would have been overwhelmed had
it not been for us three. I am St. Mark the Evangelist, the protector
of this city; the other is the brave knight St. George, and he whom
thou didst take up at the Lido is the holy Bishop St. Nicholas. Say to
the Doge and to the Procuratore that they are to pay thee, and tell
them likewise that this tempest rose because of a certain schoolmaster
dwelling at San Felice, who did sell his soul to the devil, and
afterwards hanged himself.’ And the fisherman replied, ‘If I should
tell them this, they would not believe me!’ Then St. Mark took off a
ring which was worth five ducats, and he said, ‘Show them this, and
tell them when they look in the sanctuary they will not find it,’ and
thereupon he disappeared. The next morning, the fisherman presented
himself before the Doge, and related all he had seen the night before,
and showed him the ring for a sign. And the Procuratore having sent for
the ring, and sought it in the usual place, found it not; by reason
of which miracle the fisherman was paid, and a solemn procession was
ordained, giving thanks to God, and to the relics of the three holy
saints who rest in our land, and who delivered us from this great
danger. The ring was given to Signor Marco Lordano and to Signor
Andrea Dandolo, the Procuratore, who placed it in the sanctuary; and,
moreover, a perpetual provision was made for the aged fisherman.
MRS. JAMESON.
ST. GEORGE OF THE GREEKS
This Church of St. George of the Greeks is one of Venice’s most
wonderful places. One has the impression of a sanctuary which is at the
same time a treasure-house; gold everywhere--furniture, eikons, lamps,
embroideries--not gilding, but real, heavy gold. The vestments are
stiff with it. The bearded golden priest goes backwards and forwards,
the gold-embroidered curtains opening and shutting for him, revealing
and hiding a number of tapers and incense and shining encrusted walls;
while the acolytes, in slender folded linen smocks, with gold stoles
crossed over their backs, kneel before the rood-screen. There is a
sense of the departed splendours of Judaism, of a Solomon’s Temple
behind those half-drawn curtains; and every time that _pope_ came forth
a name rose up in my mind--Melchizedek, he who was a priest and also a
king. After that service at St. George’s of the Greeks, we walked home
through St. Mark’s, entering it by the sacristy. The hot air, smoke of
incense and dust, the shuffle of human beings and snuffling of priests
caught one by the throat after that fair empty splendour of the Greek
church. Caught me at least, subduing, crushing, perhaps rumpling my
imagination and feelings, but making them humaner. There is, in this
magnificence, a share of shabbiness; in this venerable place the sense
of the deciduous, the perishable, which, in a way, is also a sense of
the eternal. There is room, in St. Mark’s solemnity, for such as that
consumptive girl who made head garlands for cemeteries. And St. Mark’s
is the greater for her poor presence.
VERNON LEE.
A VENETIAN DAY
On her still lake the city sits
While barque and boat beside her flits,
Nor hears, her soft siesta taking,
The Adriatic billows breaking.
ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.
Sunset.... It is the hour when Venice puts forth her
stealing charm.... At the evening hour, now, as in old
times, a spirit takes Venice and folds it in loving arms,
whispering words that are not even guessed by day.
FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD.
Night in Venice: the brilliant stars twinkle in the little
pools of water which the sea has left on the marshes, the
breeze murmurs in the verdant seaweeds. From time to time
we perceive the light from a gondola gliding over the
water. The voice of the Adriatic breaking on the opposite
shores of the Lido reaches us in a monotonous and majestic
sound. We give ourselves up to a thousand delicious dreams.
GEORGE SAND.
SUNRISE IN VENICE
The sun rose upon Venice, and presented to me the city, whose image
I had so early acquired. In the heart of a multitude, there was
stillness. I looked out from the balcony on the crowded quays of
yesterday; one or two idle porters were stretched in sleep on the
scorching pavement, and a solitary gondola stole over the gleaming
waters. This was all.
It was the Villeggiatura, and the absence of the nobility from the city
invested it with an aspect even more deserted than it would otherwise
have exhibited. I cared not for this. For me, indeed, Venice, silent
and desolate, owned a greater charm than it could have commanded
with all its feeble imitation of the worthless bustle of a modern
metropolis. I congratulated myself on the choice season of the year
in which I had arrived at this enchanting city. I do not think that I
could have endured to be disturbed by the frivolous sights and sounds
of society, before I had formed a full acquaintance with all those
marvels of art that command our constant admiration while gliding about
the lost capital of the Doges, and before I had yielded a free flow to
those feelings of poetic melancholy which swell up in the soul as we
contemplate this memorable theatre of human action, wherein have been
performed so many of man’s most famous and most graceful deeds.
If I were to assign the particular quality which conduces to that
dreamy and voluptuous existence which men of high imagination
experience in Venice, I should describe it as the feeling of
abstraction which is remarkable in that city and peculiar to it. Venice
is the only city which can yield the magical delights of solitude.
All is still and silent. No rude sound disturbs your reveries;
Fancy, therefore, is not put to flight. No rude sound distracts your
self-consciousness. This renders existence intense. We feel everything.
And we feel thus keenly in a city not only eminently beautiful, not
only abounding in wonderful creations of art, but each step of which
is hallowed ground, quick with associations that, in their more
various nature, their nearer relation to ourselves, and perhaps their
more picturesque character, exercise a greater influence over the
imagination than the more antique story of Greece and Rome. We feel all
this in a city, too, which, although her lustre be indeed dimmed, can
still count among her daughters maidens fairer than the orient pearls
with which her warriors once loved to deck them. Poetry, Tradition, and
Love, these are the graces that have invested with an ever-charming
cestus this Aphrodite of cities.
LORD BEACONSFIELD.
VENICE: NIGHT ILLUSION--MORNING REALITY
If, instead of entering Venice by the Adriatic, the visitor ... crosses
at night the long viaduct which connects the town with the mainland,
what a strange impression he will receive! To glide silently in the
middle of the night over still black waters, to see glimmering lanterns
flitting right and left, to hear the splash of an oar on the water, to
glide between high banks of architecture, processions of palaces that
flit by more felt than seen, as in an etching of Piranesi,--to pass
under bridges, hear cries without catching their meaning, every moment
to brush past those sombre catafalques which are other gondolas gliding
through the darkness as silently as your own,--then, from time to time,
to see as in a flash of lightning the outline of a figure leaning
forward on its oar, a lamp burning and casting a keen reflection
at the corner of a winding canal, a window brilliantly lighted and
making a flaring hole in the midst of night,--to get entangled in
dark water-lanes, turning, twisting, moving, without the feeling of
movement, and all at once to land at a staircase which plunges its
steps down into the water, and leads into a large and noble hall of
fine architectural proportions, in a palace gleaming with lights, full
of life and activity, and of busy men who bring one back after that
strange journey to the commonplaces of hotel life,--this is certainly
the most wonderful of dreams, a sort of ideal nightmare.
It has scarcely lasted an hour; but you are tired from a long journey;
you soon fall asleep from weariness, hardly asking yourself, in the
first uncertainty and fatigue, over what Styx you have sailed, what
strange city you have traversed, and whether you have not been the dupe
of a dream. In the morning you rush out upon the balcony, and there,
amidst dazzling fight and a very debauch of colours, with a shimmering
of pearl and silver, triumphant upon the waters of her lagoon, you
behold that Venice which you have never seen except in Byron, in Otway,
Musset, and George Sand. She glows, she sings in silvery radiance; here
in very truth is the Queen of the Adriatic! A pigeon of St. Mark’s
flies over the balcony, throwing its shadow on the flagstones, and you
cherish the long-awaited sight! Here are the islands, the Arsenal, the
Lido, the Mole, the Redentore, Santa Maria Maggiore, the Ducal Palace,
the gondoliers; in a word, all the city of Canaletto! But is it not an
illusive scene, a phantasmagoria, a treacherous dream?--if it were but
a mirage after all?
And when you begin to wander about the town, stupefied, dazzled,
confused, blinded; when you go into the museums, the churches; when
cradled in your gondola you pass down that marvellous avenue, the Grand
Canal; when you shall have seen face to face, in their full glory,
Veronese, Tintoret, Vittoria, the gentle Carpaccio, the Bellini, those
sweet and solemn masters, the Vivarini, the Palmas, the great Titian,
Sansovino, Verocchio, the Lombardi, the elegant and noble Leopardi,
Calendario the rebel, whose genius did not save him from condign
punishment; when you shall have viewed all these painters, sculptors,
architects, these mighty spirits who, in the palaces of the Doges, at
the Frari, in the Arsenal, at Santa Maria Formosa, at San Rocco and
the Procuratie, or on either bank of the Grand Canal, have celebrated
the glory of Venice with their gorgeous palettes, have moulded and
carved the bronze and marble with their puissant hands, have raised to
the sky the clear profiles of the campaniles in their hues of white
and rose, have cast upon the green mirror of the waters of Canareggio
the delicate network of Gothic palaces, or the sudden projections of
classic entablatures and balconies; after all this, you will come in
worn out, confused, overwhelmed by the force and greatness of these men
of the Renaissance, and you will call out to your gondolier, ‘To the
Lido,’ in order that you may find rest in Nature from the dazzling
things of art. In another week you will be looking at Tintoret with
a careless eye; for masterpieces crowd too thick upon one another;
bronzes, enamels, triptychs, marbles, figures of doges lying on their
sculptured tombs, famous condottieri buried in their armour, or
standing haughty and valorous in full panoply on their mausoleums,
will leave you indifferent. You are hungry for the open air, for the
lagoon, the changing aspects of the pearl-grey waves, for Nature’s
own reflections as Guardi and Canaletto caught them.... As you get
further from the shore, you turn to enjoy the view, for it is the most
splendid scene ever dreamt by the imagination; and before this picture
of Venice--a picture signed by the Master of masters--you forget the
immortal works made by hands that have been stiff for centuries.
CHARLES YRIARTE.
SUNSET AND VENICE
This perfect evening slowly falls
Without a stain, without a cloud;
The sun has set--and all the bells
Of Venice in the skies are loud,
Clashing and chiming far and near
‘Ave Maria,’ while the moon,
Large-globed and red, climbs through the mist
To loiter o’er the dark lagoon.
And now the loud o’ermastering sound
Ceases, and silence, like a tide,
Flows o’er the shores of sea and sky,
And the gray earth is sanctified.
Beneath me the long gardens lie;
Cool alleys trellised with the vine;
And on the rustling mulberry-trees
Shadows the solitary pine.
Stone-black, it spreads against the fire
That westward reddens and above
Pales into gold and rose and pearl,
And then to azure, warm as love.
How sweet the air, how calm the eve!
How still the light, how still the pine!
But O the more I know their rest,
The more I feel it is not mine.
Great Nature loves our joy and calm;
But to our restless scorn and grief,
Wild weariness of love, she gives
No tenderness, and no relief.
Unkind, alas, she is to me!
What has her heart to do with strife?
‘Seek peace,’ she says, ‘my law of peace.’--
I cannot, let me live my life.
STOPFORD A. BROOKE.
AT SUNSET
Fusina’s fence of boughs
No more allows
Me vision of a red wheel in the west,
Yet cloud and wave retain
Their splendid stain,
Ere Venice by the night be repossessed.
I drift, as in a dream,
Down the blue stream
By oozy beds of weed and shell and slime;
And Gigio, when he breaks
The water, makes
A lazy sound that fits the silent time.
Now, with the sinking fires,
Yon train of spires
Melts on its mirror in a mist of grey,
While an obscurer pall
Wraps the white wall
Of lonely hills that deep in distance lay.
Swung high in convent-tower
Bells mark the hour
For grave Armenian monks to bend in prayer;
They from their quiet isle
Watch the last smile
Of sunset fade upon the golden air.
Ah! could the pageant stay!
Would yesterday
Were impotent to sweep it from my sight;
This were my hour to die,
And silently
To step from world of flame to world of night!
PERCY PINKERTON.
SUNSET
The autumn evening dies, and all the west
Is warm soft gold to half the heaven’s height:
And in the silent air I float and rest
On waters that are lovers of the light.
The clear curved dome of the Redeemer’s Church
Is black against the yellow arch of sky;
And purple-peaked within the sunset’s porch,
The Euganean hills like islands lie--
Children of Padua, but to Venice friends!
Who that has seen them in the evening hour,
But has forgotten earthly cares and ends,
All things but Love that never loses power;
And from St. George among the Seaweed, set
A sapphire isle in golden waters, down
To the Armenian Convent where the fret
Of the sea winds has turned the cypress brown,
The spacious waters in full tide are spread,
A lustrous cloth of gold with colours splashed;--
Blue liquid belts and mirrored clouds blood-red,
Green blazing sea-marsh, broidered waves that flashed
Now ebony, now scarlet, when the tide,
Smoothing the ripple on the shallow’s rim,
Flowed strong to southward where, in towered pride,
Islanded Venice sang her evening hymn.
How calm, how passionless, how golden-fair!
Beauty, I thought, stood tiptoe on his height--
When down the near canal, and tossed in air,
Two lofty sails moved slow athwart the light;
And their tall masts and soaring booms aslope,
Were sky-companions of the lonely dome,
That on Giudecca bids the sinner hope,
And seen from Malamocco speaks of home.
The moving sails, the thought of ocean’s life,
The sense of human will within the ship,
Enriched the peace with which they seemed at strife,
And filled the cup of Beauty to the lip.
O thou, who wast beside me when we loved
This vision of the evening and the sea;
Why art thou silent, why so far removed?
Implore of Death, ask God to set thee free.
STOPFORD A. BROOKE.
A VENETIAN NIGHT
’Tis a goodly night; the cloudy wind which blew
From the Levant hath crept into its cave,
And the broad moon has brightened. What a stillness!...
Around me are the stars and waters--
Worlds mirror’d in the ocean, goodlier sight
Than torches glared back by a gaudy glass;
And the great element, which is to space
What ocean is to earth, spreads its blue depths,
Soften’d with the first breathings of the spring;
The high moon sails upon her beauteous way,
Serenely smoothing o’er the lofty walls
Of those tall piles and sea-girt palaces,
Whose porphyry pillars, and whose costly fronts,
Fraught with the orient spoil of many marbles,
Like altars ranged along the broad canal,
Seem each a trophy of some mighty deed
Rear’d up from out the waters, scarce less strangely
Than those more massy and mysterious giants
Of architecture, those Titanian fabrics,
Which point in Egypt’s plains to times that have
No other record. All is gentle: nought
Stirs rudely; but, congenial with the night,
Whatever walks is gliding like a spirit.
The tinklings of some vigilant guitars
Of sleepless lovers to a wakeful mistress,
And cautious opening of the casement, showing
That he is not unheard; while her young hand,
Fair as the moonlight of which it seems part,
So delicately white, it trembles in
The act of opening the forbidden lattice,
To let in love through music, makes his heart
Thrill like his lyre-strings at the sight; the dash
Phosphoric of the oar, or rapid twinkle
Of the far lights of skimming gondolas,
And the responsive voices of the choir
Of boatmen answering back with verse for verse;
Some dusky shadow checkering the Rialto;
Some glimmering palace roof, or tapering spire,
Are all the sights and sounds which here pervade
The ocean-born and earth-commanding city--
How sweet and soothing is this hour of calm!
I thank thee, Night! for thou hast chased away
Those horrid bodements which, amidst the throng,
I could not dissipate: and with the blessing
Of thy benign and quiet influence,
Now will I to my couch, although to rest
Is almost wronging such a night as this.
LORD BYRON.
VENETIAN NOCTURNE
Down the narrow Calle where the moonlight cannot enter,
The houses are so high;
Silent and alone we pierced the night’s dim core and centre--
Only you and I.
Clear and sad our footsteps rang along the hollow pavement,
Sounding like a bell;
Sounding like a voice that cries to souls in Life’s enslavement,
‘There is Death as well!’
Down the narrow dark we went, until a sudden whiteness
Made us hold our breath;
All the white Salute towers and domes in moonlit brightness,--
Ah! could this be Death?
A. MARY F. ROBINSON (_Madame Duclaux_).
NIGHT IN THE PIAZZA
There have been times, not many, but enough
To quiet all repinings of the heart;
There have been times, in which my tranquil soul,
No longer nebulous, sparse, errant, seemed
Upon its axis solidly to move,
Centred and fast: no mere elastic blank
For random rays to traverse unretained,
But rounding luminous its fair ellipse
Around its central sun....
O happy hours!
O compensation ample for long days
Of what impatient tongues call wretchedness!
O beautiful, beneath the magic moon,
To walk the watery way of palaces!
O beautiful, o’ervaulted with gemmed blue,
The spacious court, with colour and with gold,
With cupolas, and pinnacles, and points,
And crosses multiplex, and lips and balls
(Wherewith the bright stars unreproving mix,
Nor scorn by hasty eyes to be confused);
Fantastically perfect this low pile
Of Oriental glory; these long ranges
Of classic chiselling, this gay flickering crowd,
And the calm campanile. Beautiful!
O beautiful! and that seemed more profound
This morning by the pillar when I sat
Under the great arcade, at the review,
And took, and held, and ordered on my brain
The faces, and the voices, and the whole mass
O’ the motley facts of existence flowing by!
O perfect, if ’twere all!
ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.
VENETA MARINA
INTERMEZZO: VENETIAN NIGHTS
The masts rise white to the stars,
White on the night of the sky,
Out of the water’s night,
And the stars lean down to them white.
Ah! how the stars seem nigh;
How far away are the stars!
And I too under the stars,
Alone with the night again,
And the water’s monotone;
I and the night alone,
And the world and the ways of men
Farther from me than the stars.
ARTHUR SYMONS.
VENETIAN NIGHT
Her eyes in the darkness shone, in the twilight shed
By the gondola bent like the darkness over her head.
Softly the gondola rocked, lights came and went;
A white glove shone as her black fan lifted and leant
Where the silk of her dress, the blue of a bittern’s wing,
Rustled against my knee, and, murmuring
The sweet slow hesitant English of a child,
Her voice was articulate laughter, her soul smiled.
Softly the gondola rocked, lights came and went;
From the sleeping houses a shadow of slumber leant
Over our heads like a wing, and the dim lagoon,
Rustling with silence, slumbered under the moon.
Softly the gondola rocked, and a pale light came
Over the waters, mild as a silver flame;
She lay back, thrilling with smiles, in the twilight shed
By the gondola bent like the darkness over her head;
I saw her eyes shine subtly, then close awhile:
I remember her silence, and, in the night, her smile.
ARTHUR SYMONS.
NIGHT IN VENICE
Night in Venice! Night is nowhere else so wonderful, unless it be in
winter among the high Alps. But the nights of Venice and the nights of
the mountains are too different in kind to be compared.
There is the ever-recurring miracle of the full moon rising, before
day is dead, behind San Giorgio, spreading a path of gold on the
lagoon, which black boats traverse with the glow-worm lamp upon their
prow; ascending the cloudless sky and silvering the domes of the
Salute; pouring vitreous sheen upon the red lights of the Piazzetta;
flooding the Grand Canal, and lifting the Rialto higher in ethereal
whiteness; piercing but penetrating not the murky labyrinth of _rio_
linked with _rio_, through which we wind in light and shadow, to reach
once more the level glories and the luminous expanse of heaven beyond
Misericordia.
This is the melodrama of Venetian moonlight; and if a single impression
of the night has to be retained from one visit to Venice, those are
fortunate who chance upon a full moon of fair weather. Yet I know
not whether some quieter and soberer effects are not more thrilling.
To-night, for example, the waning moon will rise late through veils
of _scirocco_. Over the bridges of San Cristofore and San Gregorio,
through the deserted Calle di Mezzo, my friend and I walk in darkness,
pass the marble basements of the Salute, and push our way along its
Riva to the point of the Dogana. We are out at sea alone, between
the Canalozzo and the Giudecca. A moist wind ruffles the water and
cools our forehead. It is so dark that we can only see San Giorgio by
the light reflected on it from the Piazzetta. The same light climbs
the Campanile of St. Mark, and shows the golden angel in a mystery
of gloom. The only noise that reaches us is a confused hum from the
Piazza. Sitting and musing there, the blackness of the water whispers
in our ears a tale of death. And now we hear a splash of oars, and
gliding through the darkness comes a single boat. One man leaps upon
the landing-place without a word and disappears. There is another
wrapped in a military cloak asleep. I see his face beneath me, pale and
quiet. The _barcaruolo_ turns the point in silence. From the darkness
they came; into the darkness they have gone. It is only an ordinary
incident of coastguard service. But the spirit of the night has made a
poem of it.
Even tempestuous and rainy weather, though melancholy enough, is never
sordid here. There is no noise from carriage traffic in Venice, and
the sea-wind preserves the purity and transparency of the atmosphere.
It had been raining all day, but at evening came a partial clearing.
I went down to the Molo, where the large reach of the lagoon was all
moon-silvered, and San Giorgio Maggiore dark against the bluish sky,
and Santa Maria della Salute domed with moon-irradiated pearl, and the
wet slabs of the Riva shimmering in moonlight, the whole misty sky,
with its clouds and stellar spaces, drenched in moonlight, nothing but
moonlight sensible except the tawny flare of gas-lamps and the orange
lights of gondolas afloat upon the waters. On such a night the very
spirit of Venice is abroad. We feel why she is called Bride of the Sea.
Take yet another night. There had been a representation of Verdi’s
_Forza del Destino_ at the Teatro Malibran. After midnight we walked
homeward through the Merceria, crossed the Piazza, and dived into the
narrow _calle_ which leads to the _traghetto_ of the Salute. It was a
warm moist starless night, and there seemed no air to breathe in those
narrow alleys. The gondolier was half asleep. Eustace called him as
we jumped into his boat, and rang our _soldi_ on the gunwale. Then
he arose and turned the _ferro_ round, and stood across towards the
Salute. Silently, insensibly, from the oppression of confinement in the
airless streets to the liberty and immensity of the water and the night
we passed. It was but two minutes ere we touched the shore and said
good-night, and went our way and left the ferryman. But in that brief
passage he had opened our souls to everlasting things--the freshness,
and the darkness, and the kindness of the brooding, all-enfolding night
above the sea.
JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS.
AT THE DOGANA
INTERMEZZO: VENETIAN NIGHTS
Night, and the silence of the night,
In Venice; far away, a song;
As if the lyric water made
Itself a serenade;
As if the water’s silence were a song
Sent up into the night.
Night, a more perfect day,
A day of shadows luminous,
Water and sky at one, at one with us;
As if the very peace of night,
The older peace than heaven or light,
Came down into the day.
ARTHUR SYMONS.
THE SEASONS IN VENICE
May in Venice is better than April, but June is best of all. Then
the days are hot, but not too hot, and the nights are more
beautiful than the days. Then Venice is rosier than ever in
the morning, and more golden than ever as the day descends. It
seems to expand and evaporate, to multiply all its reflections
and iridescences. Then the life of its people and the strangeness
of its constitution become a perpetual comedy, or, at least, a
perpetual drama. Then the gondola is your sole habitation, and you
spend days between sea and sky.
HENRY JAMES.
HOW SPRING COMES TO VENICE
VENICE, _1st May, 1834_.
My friend, you have no idea of what Venice is. She has not quitted
the mourning garb she assumed in winter, when you saw her ancient
pillars of Greek marble, which in colour and form you compared to dry
bones. At present, spring has breathed upon her, as though her breath
were emerald dust. The base of her palaces, where oysters clustered
in the stagnant moss, is now covered with the most tender green, and
gondolas float between two banks of this verdure, soft as velvet,
and the noise of the water dies away languishingly, mingled with the
foam of the gondola’s track. All the balconies are filled with vases
of flowers; and the flowers of Venice, brought to light in this warm
clayey soil, blossoming in this damp atmosphere, have a freshness, a
richness of tissue, and a languor of attitude which makes them resemble
the women of this climate, whose beauty is brilliant and evanescent
as their own. The double flowering bramble climbs round every pillar,
and suspends its garlands of white rosettes, from the black arabesques
of the balconies. The vanilla iris, the Persian tulip, so beautifully
striped with pure red and white that it seems formed from the material
in which the ancient Venetians used to dress; Greek roses, and
pyramids of gigantic campanulas are heaped in the vases which cover
the balustrades. Sometimes there is quite an arbour of honeysuckle
crowning the balcony from one end to the other, and two or three cages
hidden in the foliage, contain nightingales that sing day and night,
as though they were in the open country. These tame nightingales are
a luxury peculiar to Venice. The women there have a remarkable talent
for bringing up and educating, so to speak, these poor harmonious
prisoners, and know how, by every species of delicacy and kindness, to
soften the _ennui_ of their captivity. In the night, the birds call
to and answer one another from each side of the canal. If a serenade
passes, they are quiet and listen, and as soon as it has passed by,
they recommence their song, and seem vying to surpass the melody they
have just heard. At every street corner, the Madonna shelters her
mysterious lamp under a jasmine canopy; and the _traghetti_, shaded by
trellises, diffuse, all along the Grand Canal, the perfume of the vine
in flower, perhaps the sweetest odour among plants.
These _traghetti_ are the stations for the public gondolas. Those which
are established on the shores of the Canalazzo are the rendezvous of
the porters who come to smoke and talk with the gondoliers. These
often present very theatrical-looking groups. Whilst one, lying on his
gondola, alternately smiles and yawns at the stars, another on the
shore, with open breast, and air of mockery, his hat thrust back upon a
forest of long crisp curled hair, throws his great shadow on the wall.
He is the hero of the _traghetto_.
GEORGE SAND.
SPRING IN VENICE
The way in which the spring made itself felt upon the lagoon was full
of curious delight. It was not so early in the season that we should
know the spring by the first raw warmth in the air, and there was as
yet no assurance of her presence in the growth--later so luxuriant--of
the coarse grasses of the shallows. But somehow the spring was there,
giving us new life with every breath. There were fewer gulls than
usual, and those we saw sailed far overhead, debating departure. There
was deeper languor in the laziness of the soldiers of finance, as they
lounged and slept upon their floating custom-houses in every channel
of the lagoons; and the hollow voices of the boatmen, yelling to each
other as their wont is, had an uncommon tendency to diffuse themselves
in echo. Over all, the heavens had put on their summer blue, in promise
of that delicious weather which in the lagoons lasts half the year,
and which makes every other climate seem niggard of sunshine and
azure skies. I know we have beautiful days at home--days of which the
sumptuous splendour used to take my memory with unspeakable longing and
regret even in Italy;--but we do not have, week after week, month after
month, that
‘Blue, unclouded weather,’
which, at Venice, contents all your senses, and makes you exult to be
alive with the inarticulate gladness of children, or of the swallows
that there all day wheel and dart through the air, and shriek out a
delight too intense and precipitate for song.
W. D. HOWELLS.
APRIL IN VENICE
VENICE, _1st May, 1834_.
Do you remember that, when we left France, you said you cared for
nothing but sculptured marble? You called me a savage, when I replied
that I would quit any palace in the world to see a mountain of unhewn
marble in the Alps or Apennines.
You may remember after a few days you were satiated with statues,
frescoes, churches, and galleries. The sweetest _souvenir_ which was
left to you was that of the cold and limpid waters of a fountain
where you bathed your heated and weary brow in a garden in Genoa. The
creatures of art speak to the intellect alone, but the spectacle of
Nature appeals to every faculty. It influences as through every pore,
as well as through every idea. To the entirely intellectual pleasure of
admiration the aspect of the country adds a purely sensual enjoyment.
The freshness of the fountains, the perfume of plants, the harmony
of the winds, circulates through every nerve, whilst the brilliancy
of colours and the beauty of outlines insinuate themselves into the
imagination. This feeling of pleasure and gratification is appreciable
by every organization, even the commonest animals feel it to a
certain degree. But to an elevated mind it affords but a transitory
pleasure, an agreeable repose after the more energetic functions of
the intellect. To great minds, the entire universe is necessary; the
works of God, and the works of man. The fountain of pure water invites
and charms you, but only for an instant do you repose there. You must
exhaust Michael Angelo and Raphael before you linger again on the
wayside; and when you have washed off the dust of the journey in the
waters of the spring, you pass on saying, ‘Let us see what more there
is under the sun.’
To minds so _médiocre_ and idle as my own, the side of a hedge would
suffice to sleep away my life, if this rough and barren journey might
be slept or dreamt away. But even then, for me the fosse must be just
like this one of Bassano; that is to say, it must be at least one
hundred feet above a delicious valley, and every morning must bring
its breakfast on a grassy slope covered with primroses, with excellent
coffee, mountain butter, and aniseed bread.
To such a breakfast I invite you, when you have time to wish for
repose. When that time comes, everything will be known to you; life
will have no more secrets for you. Your hair will be slightly grey,
mine entirely so; but the valley of Bassano will be just as lovely, the
Alpine snows as pure; and our friendship?--I trust in your heart, and I
answer for my own....
In the midst of this immense garden, the Brenta flows rapidly and
silently over its sandy bed, between banks covered with pebbles and
rocky fragments, torn from the bosom of the Alps, with which it furrows
the plain in its days of anger. A half-circle of fertile hills covered
with those long vine branches which suspend themselves from every
tree in Venetia, were the immediate border of the picture, and the
snowy mountains, sparkling in the sun’s first rays, formed an immense
framework which rose like a silver fringe into the deep blue of the
atmosphere.
‘I wish you to observe,’ said the doctor to me, ‘that your coffee is
getting cold, and the _vetturino_ is waiting for us.’
‘Now, Doctor,’ said I, ‘do you really believe I am going back to Venice
with you?’
* * * * *
Towards sunset I was in the public garden [of Venice]. As usual, there
was very little company there. The elegant Venetian ladies dread the
heat, and dare not go out in full daylight, but they also dread the
cold, and never venture out in the night. There are three or four days
in each season which seem expressly made for them, and then they raise
the covers of their gondolas, but they rarely put their foot to the
ground.
They are a _species_ set apart, beings so frail and delicate, that
one ray of sunlight would wither their beauty, or one breath of the
breeze expose their very existence. All civilized men seek those
places by preference where they may meet the fair sex; the theatres,
the _conversazioni_, the cafés, and the sheltered enclosure of the
Piazzetta, about seven o’clock in the evening. Therefore few remain
in the gardens, but grumbling old men, stupid smokers, or melancholy
victims to bile. You may class me amongst whichever you like of these
three classes.
Gradually, I found myself quite alone; the elegant café, which extends
itself to the lagoons, extinguished its tapers placed in lilies and
marine flowers made of the crystal of Murano.
The last time you saw this garden, it was damp and sad enough! As for
me, I went not there to seek bright thoughts, nor hoping to disencumber
myself of my spleen. But the spring! as you say, who can resist the
influence of the month of April? and at Venice, my dear friend, it is
yet more impossible.
Even the stones are being clothed with verdure; those infected marshes
which our gondolas so carefully avoided, two months since, are now
watery meadows covered by cresses, seaweeds, reeds and flags, and
all sorts of marine mosses, exhaling a peculiar perfume, beloved by
those to whom the sea is a cherished memory; and harbouring thousands
of sea-gulls, divers, and the lesser bustard. The petrel incessantly
hovers over these floating meadows, where the ebb and flow bring the
waters of the Adriatic every day, teeming with myriads of insects,
madrepores, and shells.
Instead of the icy-cold alleys from which we so hastily fled, on the
evening before your departure, and which I had never since had the
courage to revisit, a half-warm sand, patches of Easter daisies, and
groves of sumach and sycamores were just opening to the soft breezes
from the Grecian shore. The little promontory, planted in the English
fashion, is so beautiful, so thickly grown, so rich in flowers,
perfume, and prospect, that I asked myself if it were not the promised
land my dreams had revealed to me. But no, the promised land is pure
from all sorrow, and this is already watered with my tears.
The sun had just sunk behind the Vicentine mountains. Blue mists were
covering the whole heaven above Venice.
The tower of St. Mark, the cupolas of St. Mary, and little groves
of pinnacles and minarets which rise from all quarters of the town,
were defined like so many black points upon the vivid background of
the horizon. The colour of the heavens changed through a wonderful
gradation of softening tints, from crimson to blue; and the water, calm
and limpid, faithfully reflected the rainbow tints of colour. Below
the town, the waves looked exactly like a large mirror of red copper.
Never had I seen Venice so beautiful, so fairy-like. This black shadow
thrown between the sky and the glowing waters, as though in a lake of
fire, seemed one of those sublime aberrations of architecture which the
poet of the Apocalypse saw, in his visions, floating on the shores of
Patmos, when he dreamed his new Jerusalem, and compared her to a bride.
Little by little the bright colours faded, the outlines became more
massive, the depths more mysterious. Venice assumed the aspect of an
immense fleet, then of a lofty wood of cypresses, into which the canals
flowed like high roads of silver sand. At such moments I delight in
contemplating the distance. When the outlines become vague, when every
object is trembling in the mist, when my imagination may disport in an
immense field of conjecture and caprice, when, by merely half closing
the eyes, one can in fancy destroy a city, turn it into a forest, a
camp, or a cemetery, when I can metamorphose the high roads, white with
dust, into peaceful rivers, and the rivulets, winding so serpent-like
down the dark verdure of the hills, into rapid torrents, then it is
that I really enjoy Nature, I play with her, I reign over her, with one
glance I possess her and people her with my own fantasies.
GEORGE SAND.
MAY IN VENICE
_May 17th, 4 p.m._--Looking east the water is calm, and reflects
the sky and vessels, with this peculiarity: the sky, which is pale
blue, is in its reflection of the same kind of blue, only a little
deeper; but the _vessels’ hulls, which are black, are reflected
in pale sea-green_--_i.e._, the natural colour of the water under
sunlight--while the _orange masts_ of the vessels, wet with a recent
shower, are reflected _without change of colour_, only not quite so
bright as above. One ship has a white, another a red stripe (I ought to
have said running horizontally along the gunwales), _of these the water
takes no notice_.
What is curious, a boat passes across with white and dark figures, the
water reflects the dark ones in green, and misses out all the white;
this is chiefly owing to the dark images being opposed to the bright
reflected sky.
A boat swinging near the quay casts an apparent shadow on the rippled
water. This appearance I find to be owing altogether to the increased
_reflective_ power of the water in the shaded space; for the farther
sides of the ripples therein take the deep pure blue of the sky, coming
strongly dark on the pale green, and the nearer sides take the pale
grey of the cloud, hardly darker than the green.
JOHN RUSKIN.
VENICE IN AUTUMN
To this black, shell-encrusted stake
Girt with sea-grasses, moist and green,
I now would moor my boat and make
A survey of the lonely scene.
Here all is sad and still and grey;
Wide water-fields around me lie;
Cool mirrors that for miles away
Reflect the pale October sky.
Where at the city’s boundary
Trees crowd and garden-bushes spread,
Wan, slanting sunlight fitfully
Brightens their blots of brown and red
Or touches on the ocean-rim
Afar, some ochre-tinted sail
Of speeding boat where Chioggians swim
Out to the Adriatic gale.
From pilèd barge that blocks the stream
Some dog at sea-bird wheeling low
Bays; and I hear the madmen scream
In sinister San Servolo.
No other living noise, no cry;
The Sea-Queen wears her saddest dress;
And my soul all insensibly
Catches her mood of mournfulness.
Fairer she seemed when April light
And fragrance played around her throne.
Or when through all some languid night
Large yellow worlds above her shone.
Forsaken, now, her briny streets;
No red-booked strangers pass and pry;
No crowded gondola one meets
Rocking its careless company.
The window-panes above the quay,
Row upon row and square on square,
Seem human faces turned to me
With vacant, melancholy stare.
What would they watch? Some gleaming train
Of galleys go in silver state?
One black hull only drifts amain,
With one sad passenger as freight.
PERCY PINKERTON.
AUTUMN AND VENICE
It was still the hour that in one of his books he had called ‘Titian’s
hour,’ because in it all things seemed, like that painter’s nude
creations, to shine with a rich glow of their own, and almost to
illumine the sky rather than receive light from it. The strange,
sumptuous octagonal temple drawn by Baldassare Longhena from the dream
of Polifilo was now emerging from its blue-green shadow with its
cupola, its scrolls, its statues, its columns, its balustrades, like a
temple dedicated to Neptune, constructed after the pattern of tortuous
marine shapes, and shading off into a haze of mother of pearl. In the
hollows of the stone the wet sea-salt had deposited something fresh and
silvery and jewel-like, that vaguely suggested pearl shells lying open
in their native waters.... Does it not strike you that we seem to be
following the princely retinue of dead Summer? There she lies, sleeping
in her funeral boat, all dressed in gold like the wife of a Doge, like
a Loredana, or a Morosina, or a Soranza, of the enlightened centuries.
And the procession is taking her to the Island of Murano, where some
masterly Lord of Fire will make her a crystal coffin. And the walls
of the coffin shall be of opal, so that when once submerged in the
Laguna, she may at least see the languid play of the seaweed through
her transparent eyelids, and while awaiting the hour of resurrection
give herself the illusion of having still about her person the constant
undulation of her voluptuous hair....
Indeed, that sudden allegory in both its form and rhythm truthfully
expressed the feeling that was permeating all things. As the milky
blue of the opal is filled with hidden fire, so the pale monotonous
water of the harbour held dissimulated splendours that were brought to
light by each shock of the oars. Beyond the straight forest of ships
motionless on their anchors San Giorgio stood out like a vast rosy
galley, its prow turned to the _Fortuna_ that attracted it from the
height of its golden sphere. A placid estuary opened out in the centre
of the Giudecca. The laden boats that came down the rivers flowing into
it brought with their weight of splintered trunks what seemed the very
spirit of the woods that bend over the running waters of their far-away
sources.
And from the _Molo_, from the twofold miracle of the porticoes open
to the popular applause, where the red and white wall rose as if to
enclose that dominant will, the Riva unfolded its gentle arch towards
the shady gardens and the fertile islands, as if to lead away the
thoughts excited by the arduous symbols of art to the restfulness of
Nature. And almost as if still further to complete the avocation of
Autumn there passed a string of boats laden with fruit, like great
floating baskets that spread over the waters reflecting the perpetual
foliage of the cusps and capitols, the fragrance of the island fruit
gardens....
The bells of San Marco gave the signal for the Angelus, and their
ponderous roll dilated in long waves along the mirror of the harbour,
vibrated through the masts of the ships, spread afar towards the
infinite lagoon. From San Giorgio Maggiore, from San Giorgio dei
Greci, from San Giorgio degli Schiavoni, from San Giovanni in Bragora,
from San Moise, from the churches of the Salute and the Redentore and
beyond, over the whole domain of the Evangelist, from the far towers
of the Madonna dell’ Orto, of San Giobbe, of Sant’ Andrea, bronze
voices answered, mingling in one great chorus, spreading over the
silent company of stones and water one great dome of invisible metal,
the vibrations of which seemed to reach the twinkling of the earliest
stars. In the purity of evening the sacred voices gave the City of
Silence a sort of immensity of grandeur. From the summit of their
temples they brought anxious mankind the message sent by the immortal
multitudes hidden in the darkness of deep aisles, or mysteriously
troubled by the light of votive lamps; they brought to spirits worn
out by the day the message of the superhuman creatures figured on the
walls of secluded chapels and in the niches of inner altars, who had
announced miracles and promised worlds. And all the apparitions of
the consoling Beauty invoked by unanimous Prayer, rose on that storm
of sound, spoke in that aerial chorus, irradiated the face of the
marvellous night.
* * * * *
One afternoon not long ago, returning from the Gardens along the warm
bank of the Schiavoni, that must often have seemed to some wandering
poet like I know not what golden magic bridge stretching out over a sea
of light and silence to some infinite dream of beauty, I thought, or
rather I stood by and watched my own thoughts as I would an intimate
spectacle,--I thought of the nuptial alliance of Autumn and Venice
under those skies.
A sense of life was diffused everywhere; a sense of life made up of
passionate expectation and restrained ardour, that surprised me by its
vehemence, but yet could not seem new to me, because I had already
found it gathered in some belt of shadow under the almost deathly
immobility of summer, and I had also felt it here vibrating now and
then like a mysterious pulsation under the strange, feverish odour of
the waters. Thus, I thought, this pure City of Art truly aspires to the
supreme condition of that beauty that is an annual return in her as is
the giving forth of flowers to the forest. She tends to reveal herself
in a full harmony as if she still carried in herself, powerful and
conscious, that desire of perfection from which she was born and formed
through the ages like some divine creature. Under the motionless fires
of a summer sky she seemed pulseless and breathless, dead indeed in
her green waters; but my feeling did not deceive me when I divined her
secretly labouring under a spirit of life that would prove sufficiently
powerful to renew the highest of older miracles....
The mutual passion of Venice and Autumn that exalts the one and the
other to the highest degree of their sensuous beauty has its origin in
a deep affinity; for the soul of Venice, the soul fashioned for the
City Beautiful by its great artists is autumnal.
The correspondence between the external and the interior spectacle once
discovered, my enjoyment found itself unspeakably multiplied. The crowd
of imperishable forms that peoples its churches and palaces seemed from
these latter to answer the harmony of daylight with a chord so deep
and powerful that it soon became dominant. And--because the light of
Heaven alternates with shadows, but the light of Art lasts in the human
soul and cannot be extinguished--when the miracle of the hour ceased to
cover all those things, my spirit felt itself alone and ecstatic among
the splendours of an ideal autumn.
GABRIELE D’ANNUNZIO.
FROM A VENETIAN BALCONY
High-tide at Venice; warm wind driving in from the sea.
Hark! the cry of the gulls as they flit o’er the wide canal,
Flit and circle and skim, and dip in their savage glee,
Striking the lead-coloured waves that scatter tempestual,
Striking with sharp white wing like a flail, gorging their prey:
_Frutto di mare_, fruit of the ocean, drift of the way.
Hither and thither wend other wild birds in the storm--
Gondolas black as the swift that floats o’er an autumn sky--
Gondolas silent and shadowy, wondrously slender of form--
Gliding in close-measured rhythm down where the barges lie,
Under the glimmering bridges, and near to the palace walls
That frown in a gloomy dusk, as the sea-mist gathers and falls.
Now, with a burst of voices, clang the _Salute’s_ bells,
From yonder tower-lofts straining, heav’n high as they may go.
Again, to our fretful world, surely the _Angelus_ tells
Patience for need and pain, and solace and calm for woe.
As I listen the peal dies out--alas, and alas! alas!
But from over the pallid sunset the heavy storm-clouds pass.
O weird sea-birds, as ye utter your hoarse and discordant cry,
Do ye wot of the north, and the hearts that are watching your ominous
course?
Or is it enough for ye, birds, as gyrating and slanting ye fly,
To ride the broad Adriatic, and drink of her glamour and force,
Regardless that realms beyond realms, as waves upon waves, in unrest,
Look up for the message of love that God’s angel brings to the blest?
LADY LINDSAY.
AUTUMN IN VENICE
It is now late in October. The days are short but luminous still when
the mists do not drift in from the lagoons of the Lido, or from the
marshes of the low-lying lands beyond Mestre and Fucina. Boats still
come in with rosy sunrise reflection shed on their orange sails,
and take their loads of autumn apples and pears and walnuts to the
fruit-market above Rialto. But soon, very soon, it will be winter, and
the gondolas will glide by with closed felze, and the water will be a
troubled waste between the city and the Lido, and men will hurry with
muffled heads over the square of Saint Mark when the Alpine wind blows,
and the strange big ships creep on their piloted course tediously and
timidly through the snowstorms to their anchorage in the wide Giudecca.
OUIDA.
VENICE AT TWILIGHT
O for the autumn, and twilight and dream,
Where still waters gleam.
O for sky-distances, fading in blue,
With Venice in view.
O for the opal of cloud and lagoon,
With night-shadows strewn.
Palaces, blue-green, and hushed as in sleep,
Keep watch o’er the deep.
O for the autumn, and Venice aglow,
Where silken winds blow.
Like a chrysanthemum droops the fair town
As Night cometh down,
Crushing those petals of watery bloom
In tenderest gloom.
O at this hour, when Venice is blest,
May I, to my breast,
Gather one petal of delicate hue--
To bring, Love--to you!
HÉLÈNE VACARESCO.
_Translated by Fred. G. Bowles_
ALL SOULS’ DAY AT VENICE
They had put a bridge of boats from the northernmost quay of Venice to
the cemetery island. A dense crowd, coming and going across it, black
over the black anchored barges, each two with their yard of pale water
between their tarred hulls. And, as we draw near, as we go beneath, the
seeming silence turns into a murmur, and a rumble.
For this one day in all the year the cemetery island is bridged on to
the islands of the living. This is no mere coincidence, but a real
symbol.
The cloisters and the gardens are full as for a fair, crowds coming and
going, buying tapers, lighting them at the glittering wax-lights before
the chapel, bringing a few flowers.... Surely for these poor folk there
is a reality, if only a negative one, in this suspending of the labour,
cares, the empty grind of life; and their hour of watching by the dead
may be, in some way deeper than words can say, an hour of communing
with the eternities.
While thus the cemetery was given up to the living and to the long
dead, the scarcely dead, the real dead, were arriving here and there
with the real mourners. I noted a mound of fresh earth, with the ritual
trowel sticking in it, a couple of surpliced and shaven Franciscans
reciting the prayers to a few blear, red-eyed people (a nun among
them); all these new-comers and their ministering clergy seeming a
little scared by intruding their own dead man or woman into this great
public feast of those who have long passed beyond. And the crowd, on
its side, looked surprised at this new and definite reality of loss in
the midst of its vaguer mournings; this man or woman, only just dead,
carried in among those shadowy memories.
Very touching also were the little framed photographs, clean and
evidently taken off some poor table or wall, and hung on the cross for
the afternoon; the dead pauper having his effigy also on his grave,
like the rich man among his marble, if only for those few hours.
As we got back into the gondola the crowd was streaming only one way
along the black bridge; away from the cemetery, back into life.
VERNON LEE.
VENICE IN WINTER
In Venice only the melancholy drenching rain of a winter’s day brings
rest to the eye, when water meets water, and sky is washed into sea and
the city lies soaking and dripping between two floods. But soon the
wind shifts to the north-east, out breaks the sun again, and all Venice
is instantly in a glare of light and colour and startling distinctness,
like the sails and rigging of a ship at sea on a clear day.
FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD.
VENICE: THE END OF WINTER
There is joy in the heart of each Venetian when the end of winter is
reached at last, and once more are visible, lying like pearls on the
spring-blue ocean, the islands of Murano and Malamocco. They have long
been veiled from view by opal mists, sometimes but half obscured and
lying like a ghostly mirage in the distance. But now they stand out
like bright and beautiful cameos, glistening white on a surface of
blue. Tower and wall and roof, washed clean and new by the refreshing
winter mists, stand ready to receive the sunlight. For these sun-loving
and warmth-loving people the year should be always summer! This first
bright burst of warm sunshine has set the spirit of cheer in the heart
of each gondolier as he stands by his own favourite _traghetto_,
furbishing up his gondola and preparing for the coming glorious seasons
of spring and summer in Venice! He smiles and jokes again; he shouts
once more in his old way to his brother gondolier across the opposite
shore--_É primavera! é primavera!_
ENRICO ALBINI.
VENICE OF THE PAST
Dim phantoms of banners for conquest unfurl’d,
Of brows bright with diamonds, of bosoms empearl’d,
Of Venice, the mistress and Queen of the world;
Of argosies laden with damask and gold,
Of tributes barbaric from kingdoms grown old;
Of spousals fantastic and rings in the tide
Of Venice the bridegroom, and Ocean the bride.
CHARLES MACKAY.
Venice ... a ghost upon the sands of the sea, so weak--so
quiet,--so bereft of all but her loveliness, that we might
well doubt, as we watched her faint reflection in the
mirage of the lagoon, which was the City, and which the
Shadow.... It would be difficult to overrate the value of
the lessons which might be derived from a faithful study
of the history of this strange and mighty city: a history
which, in spite of the labour of countless chroniclers,
remains in vague and disputable outline,--barred with
brightness and shade, like the far-away edge of her own
ocean, where the surf and the sandbank are mingled with the
sky.
JOHN RUSKIN.
In Venice ... one cannot think if not in images. They come
to us from all quarters, in countless numbers, in endless
variety, and they are more real, more living, than the
people that elbow us in the narrow street. They let us bend
down to scrutinize the depths of their lingering eyes, and
we can divine the words they are going to say by the curves
of their eloquent lips.
GABRIELE D’ANNUNZIO.
THE ORIGIN OF VENICE
Venice, being a republic, which, both on account of its power and
internal regulations, deserves to be celebrated above any principality
of Italy.... I speak of their (the Venetians’) city from a remote
period.... When Attila, king of the Huns, besieged Aquileia, the
inhabitants, after defending themselves a long time, began to despair
of effecting their safety, and fled for refuge to several uninhabited
rocks, situate at the point of the Adriatic Sea, now called the Gulf of
Venice, carrying with them whatever moveable property they possessed.
The people of Padua, finding themselves in equal danger, and knowing
that, having become master of Aquileia, Attila would next attack
themselves, also removed with their most valuable property to a place
on the same sea, called Rivo Alto, to which they brought their women,
children, and aged persons, leaving the youth in Padua to assist in her
defence. Besides these, the people of Monselice, with the inhabitants
of the surrounding hills, driven by similar fears, fled to the same
rocks. But after Attila had taken Aquileia, and destroyed Padua,
Monselice, Vicenza, and Verona, the people of Padua and others who were
powerful continued to inhabit the marshes about Rivo Alto; and in like
manner all the people of the province anciently called Venetia, drived
by the same events, became collected in these marshes. Thus, under the
pressure of necessity, they left an agreeable and fertile country
to occupy one sterile and unwholesome. However, in consequence of a
great number of people being drawn together into a comparatively small
space, in a short time they made those places not only habitable, but
delightful; and having established among themselves laws and useful
regulations, enjoyed themselves in security amid the devastations of
Italy, and soon increased both in reputation and strength. For, besides
the inhabitants already mentioned, many fled to these places from the
cities of Lombardy, principally to escape from the cruelties of Clefis,
king of the Lombards, which greatly tended to increase the numbers of
the new city; and in the conventions which were made betwixt Pepin,
king of France, and the emperor of Greece when the former, at the
entreaty of the pope, came to drive the Lombards out of Italy, the duke
of Benevenuto and the Venetians did not render obedience to either the
one or the other, but alone enjoyed their liberty. As necessity had led
them to dwell on sterile rocks, they were compelled to seek the means
of subsistence elsewhere; and voyaging with their ships to every port
of the ocean, their city became a depository for the various products
of the world, and was itself filled with men of every nation.
For many years the Venetians sought no other dominion than that
which tended to facilitate their commercial enterprises, and thus
acquired many ports in Greece and Syria; and as the French had made
frequent use of their ships in voyages to Asia, the island of Candia
was assigned to them, in recompense for these services. Whilst they
lived in this manner, their name spread terror over the seas, and
was held in veneration throughout Italy. This was so completely the
case, that they were generally chosen to arbitrate in controversies
arising betwixt the states, as occurred in the difference betwixt
the Colleagues, on account of the cities they had divided amongst
themselves; which being referred to the Venetians, they awarded Brescia
and Bergamo to the Visconti. But when, in the course of time, urged
by their eagerness for dominion, they had made themselves masters
of Padua, Vicenza, Trevisa, and afterwards of Verona, Bergamo, and
Brescia, with many cities in Romanga, and the kingdom of Naples,
other nations were impressed with such an opinion of their power,
that they were a terror, not only to the princes of Italy, but to the
Ultramontane kings. These states entered into an alliance against
them, and in one day wrested from them the provinces they had obtained
with so much labour and expense; and although they have in latter
times re-acquired some portions, still, possessing neither power nor
reputation, like all the other Italian powers, they live at the mercy
of others....
Amongst the great and wonderful institutions of the republics and
principalities of antiquity that have now gone into disuse, was that
by means of which towns and cities were from time to time established;
and there is nothing more worthy the attention of a great prince, or of
a well-regulated republic, or that confers so many advantages upon a
province, as the settlement of new places, where men are drawn together
for mutual accommodation and defence. This may easily be done, by
sending people to reside in recently acquired or uninhabited countries.
Besides causing the establishment of new cities, these removals render
a conquered country more secure, and keep the inhabitants of a province
properly distributed. Thus deriving the greatest attainable comfort,
the inhabitants increase rapidly, are more prompt to attack others,
and defend themselves with greater assurance. This custom, by the
unwise practice of princes and republics, having gone into desuetude,
the ruin and weakness of territories has followed; for this ordination
is that by which alone empires are made secure, and countries become
populated. Safety is the result of it; because the colony which a
prince establishes in a newly acquired country is like a fortress and a
guard, to keep the inhabitants in fidelity and obedience. Neither can a
province be wholly occupied and preserve a proper distribution of its
inhabitants without this regulation; for all districts are not equally
healthy, and hence some will abound to overflowing, whilst others are
void.... With cultivation the earth becomes fruitful, and the air is
purified with fires--remedies which Nature cannot provide. The city
of Venice proves the correctness of these remarks. Being placed in a
marshy and unwholesome situation, it became healthy only by the number
of industrious individuals who were drawn together.
NICCOLO MACHIAVELLI.
A PILGRIM’S DESCRIPTION OF VENICE
On Wednesday, the 21st of May [1494], I took one of the Milanese
couriers to guide me about Venice, and went to the houses of the
merchants for whom I had letters, and to each one I gave his own. Then,
as I was afraid of not finding a place in the galley, I was immediately
introduced to the Magnificent Don Agostino Contarini, a Venetian
patrician and captain of the Jaffa galley--thus the galley is named
which carries the pilgrims going to Jerusalem--and he ordered my name
to be written in the Pilgrims’ Book. At this time I found that I had
been in too great a hurry to leave home, and that I must wait several
days before the departure of the said galley.
In order that the tediousness of waiting should not make me desire to
turn back and do as the children of Israel did when they went into the
Promised Land, I determined to examine carefully the city of Venice,
about which so much has been said and written, not only by learned men,
but also by great scholars, that it appears to me there is nothing left
to say. And I did this solely to amuse myself during the time I had to
spend in such a great port. I wanted to see everything it was possible
for me to see; and I was aided continually by the company given me by
the Magnificent Doctor and Cavalier, the Lord Tadiolo de Vicomercato,
Ambassador to the aforesaid Signoria of Venice for our most illustrious
Lord the Duke of Milan. I paid him a visit, as was my duty, as soon as
I arrived, and from him, although I did not merit it, I received more
than common attention.
Before going further, I must make excuses to the readers of this my
itinerary, if it should seem to them that I have overpraised this
city of Venice. What I write is not written to win the goodwill of
the Venetians, but to set down the truth. And I declare that it is
impossible to tell or write fully of the beauty, the magnificence or
the wealth of the city of Venice. Something indeed can be told and
written to pass the time as I do, but it will be incredible to anyone
who has not seen the city.
I do not think there is any city to which Venice, the city founded on
the sea, can be compared; nevertheless I appeal always to the judgment
of every person who has been there some time. Although this city is
built entirely in the water and the marshes, yet it appears to me that
whoever desires to do so can go everywhere on foot, as it is well kept
and clean. Anyone, however, who does not want to endure the fatigue can
go by water, and will be entreated to do so, and it will cost him less
than he would spend elsewhere for the hire of a horse. As to the size
of the city, I may say that it is so large, that, after being there so
many days as I was, I made but little acquaintance with the streets. I
cannot give the dimensions of this city, for it appears to me not one
city alone but several cities placed together.
I saw many beautiful palaces, beginning with the Palace of St. Mark,
which is always inhabited by the Doge and his family. The façade of the
said palace has been renovated in part with a great display of gold;
and a new flight of steps is being built there--a stupendous and costly
work--by which to ascend to the said palace from the side of the Church
of St. Mark.... Besides the other notable things in the said palace, I
saw a very long hall whose walls are painted very ornately. And there
is painted the story how Frederick Barbarossa drove away Pope Alexander
the Fourth, who fled in disguise to Venice, and was recognized in
a monastery called the Monastery della Carità. The whole story is
represented with such richness and naturalness in the figures that I
think little could be added. The ceiling of the said hall is decorated
with great gilded pictures. Seats are placed round the said hall, and
in addition there are three rows of double seats, in the body of the
hall, placed back to back. There are two magnificent gilded seats,
one at each end of the said hall; I was told they were for seating the
Doge, one for the winter and the other for the summer. In this hall
sit the Great Council of all the gentlemen, who, it is said, are two
thousand five hundred in number....
I will not attempt to describe the number of large and beautiful
palaces splendidly decorated and furnished, worth, some a hundred,
some fifty, some thirty thousand ducats, and the owners of the same,
because it would be too hard an undertaking for me, and better suited
to someone who had to remain a long time in the said city of Venice. On
the Grand Canal there is the most remarkable beginning of a palace for
the Sforza family, and for the honour of the Milanese I am very sorry
it has not been finished. For after seeing the said foundations, I am
sure that the palace would be very magnificent if it were completed.
The said city, although it is in the water, as I said, has so many
beautiful piazzas, beginning with that of St. Mark, that they would
suffice for any great city placed on the mainland. It is a marvel to
see how long and spacious they are. I have observed that the said city
is so well ordered and arranged, that however much it rains, there is
never any mud.
Something may be said about the quantity of merchandise in the said
city, although not nearly the whole truth, because it is inestimable.
Indeed, it seems as if all the world flocks there, and that human
beings have concentrated there all their force for trading....
As the day of our departure was drawing near, I determined to leave
everything else and study the owners of the many beautiful things I
have noted--that is, the Venetian gentlemen, who give themselves this
title. I have considered the qualities of these Venetian gentlemen. For
the most part they are tall, handsome men, astute and very subtle in
their dealings, and whoever has to do business with them must keep his
eyes and ears well open. They are proud--I think this is on account of
their great dominions--and when a son is born to a Venetian gentleman
they say to themselves, ‘A Lord is born into the world’ (_E le nato un
Signore al Mondo_). They are frugal and very modest in their manner of
living at home; outside the house they are very liberal.
The city of Venice preserves its ancient fashion of dress--which never
changes--that is, a long garment of any colour that is preferred.
No one would leave the house by day if he were not dressed in this
long garment, and for the most part in black. They have so observed
this custom, that the individuals of every nation in the world--which
has a settlement in Venice--all adopt this style, from the greatest
to the least, beginning with the gentlemen, down to the sailors and
_galeotti_. Certainly it is a dress which inspires confidence, and is
very dignified. The wearers all seem to be doctors in law, and if a man
should appear out of the house without his toga, he would be thought
mad....
When the Venetian gentlemen take office or go on some embassy,
they wear very splendid garments; in truth, they could not be more
magnificent. They are of scarlet, of velvet, of brocade, if the wearers
hold high office; and all the linings of every kind are very costly....
The Venetian women, especially the pretty ones, try as much as possible
in public to show their chests--I mean their breasts and shoulders--so
much so, that several times when I saw them I marvelled that their
clothes did not fall off their backs. Those who can afford it, and also
those who cannot, dress very splendidly, and have magnificent jewels
and pearls in the trimming round their collars. They wear many rings on
their fingers, with great balass rubies, rubies and diamonds. I said
also those who cannot afford it, because I was told that many of them
hire these things. They paint their faces a great deal, and also the
other parts they show, in order to appear more beautiful.... I thought
it my duty to seek out the churches and monasteries and go and see the
relics which are very numerous; and this seemed to me a meritorious
work for a pilgrim who was awaiting the departure of the galley to go
to the Holy Sepulchre--thus finishing the time as well as I could.
CANON PIETRO CASOLA.
_‘Pilgrimage to Jerusalem in the Year 1494,’
Translated by M. Margaret Newett, B.A._
VENICE: SOME SIXTEENTH-CENTURY
CHARACTERISTICS
I came to Venice at the time of a Faire, which lasted fourteene dayes,
wherein I sawe very many, and faire shewes of wares. I came thither too
short for the first passage, which went from Venice about the seventh
or eighth of May, and with them about three score pilgrims, which
shippe was cast away at a towne called Estria, two miles from Venice,
and all the men in hers, saving thirtie, or thereabouts, lost.
Within eight dayes after fell Corpus Christi day, which was a day
amongst them of procession, in which was shewed the plate and treasurie
of Venice, which is esteemed to be worth two millions of pounds, but
I do not accompt it woorth halfe a quarter of that money, except there
be more than I sawe. To speake of the sumptuousnesse of the copes and
vestments of the Church, I leave, but the trueth is, they bee very
sumptuous, many of them set all over with pearle, and made of cloth of
gold....
To tell you of the duke of Venice, and of the Seigniory: there is one
chosen that ever beareth the name of duke, but in trueth hee is but
servant to the Seigniorie, for of himselfe hee can doe little: it is no
otherwise with him, then with a priest that is at Masse upon a festival
day, which putting on his golden garment, seemeth to be a great man,
but if any man came unto him, and crave some friendship at his handes,
hee will say, you must goe to the Masters of the parish, for I can not
pleasure you, otherwise then by preferring of your suite: and so it is
with the duke of Venice, if any man having a suite, came to him, and
make his complaint, and deliver his supplication, it is not in him to
help him, but hee will tell him, You must come this day, or that day,
and then I will preferre your suite to the Seigniorie, and doe you the
best friendship that I may. Furthermore, if any man bring a letter unto
him, he may not open it, but in the presence of the Seigniorie, and
they are to see it first, which being read, perhaps they will deliver
it to him, perhaps not. Of the Seigniory there be about three hundred,
and about fourtie of the privie Counsell of Venice, who usually are
arayed in gownes of crimsen Satten, or crimsen Damaske, when they sit
in Counsell.
In the Citie of Venice, no man may weare a weapon, except he be a
soldier for the Seigniorie, or a skoller of Padua, or a gentleman of
great countenance, and yet he may not do that without licence.
As for the women of Venice, they be rather monsters, then women. Every
Shoemakers or Taylors wife will have a gowne of silke, and one to
carrie up her traine, wearing their shooes very neere halfe a yard high
from the ground: if a stranger meete one of them, he will surely think
by the state that she goeth with, that he meeteth a Lady.
LAURENCE ALDERSEY (1581).
THE BEAUTIE AND MAGNIFICENCE OF VENICE
I having oftentimes observed many strangers, men wise and learned, who
arriving newly at _Venice_, and beholding the beautie and magnificence
thereof, were stricken with so great an admiration and amazement, that
they woulde, and that with open mouth, confesse, never any thing which
before time they had seene, to be thereunto comparable, either in glory
or goodlinesse. Yet was not every one of them possessed with the like
wonder of the same particular thing: for to some it seemed a matter of
infinite marvaile, and scarcely credible to behold, so unmeasurable a
quantity of all sorts of merchandise to be brought out of all realmes
and countries into this Citie, and hence againe to be conveyed into
so many strange and far distant nations, both by land and sea. Others
exceedingly admired the wonderful concourse of strange and forraine
people, yea, of the farthest and the remotest nations, as though the
City of _Venice_ onely were a common and general market to the whole
world. Others were astonished at the greatnesse of the empire thereunto
belonging, and the mightinesse of their state both by land and sea:
but the greater part of the most wise and judiciall sort were rather in
themselves confounded with amazement at the new and strange manner of
the situation of this Citie, so fitte and convenient for all things,
that it seemed unto them a thing rather framed by the hands of the
immortall gods, than any way by the arte, industry, or invention of
men. And for this only cause deemed the Citie of _Venice_ to excell all
those, that in this age are to be found, or at any time ever were....
The situation of _Venice_ being rather to be attributed to some divine
providence, than to any human industry, is (beyond the beliefe of all
those that have not seene this cittie) not onely most safe and secure,
both by land and sea from all violence, but also in the highest degree
opportune and commodious to the aboundance of all thinges that are
behoovefull to the citizens, as also for traffique of all sortes of
merchandise, in manner with all nations of the worlde. For it is seated
in a remote and secrete place of the Adriatike sea, where on that
side (where the sea beholdeth the continent) there are mightie great
lakes; fortified with an admirable artifice of nature. For twelve miles
off the continent, the sea beginneth to be shallow: the banke which
ariseth behind these shallowes, reacheth almost three score miles, and
incloseth the lakes within.... In this manner therefore are the lakes
of the Citie of _Venice_ inclosed, partly with firme ground, partly
with this banke and shallowes: in middle of the which, in that place,
which of our ancestors was called _Rialta_, and as yet retaineth the
name, was the Citie of _Venice_ budded, at such time as the _Hunnes_
under the conduct of _Atyla_ did spoile with fire and sword the
territory of Venetia, a noble province of _Italie_, which bordered
upon those lakes: in which calamitous time the citizens of _Padua_,
of _Aquilea_, of _Concordia_, and of _Altina_, being all faire and
goodly cities of _Venetia_, such of them as were chiefe in riches, and
nobility, did first get themselves with their families into certaine
islands, or rather little hills, which did appear out somewhat above
the sea, and there built them places of abode, in which as in a secure
haven they avoyded the ragefull tempest of the _Hunnes_.
SIR LEWES LEWKENOR (1599).
FAYRE VENICE
The antique _Babel_, Empresse of the East,
Uprear’d her buildinges to the threatened skie:
And Second _Babell_ tyrant of the West,
Her angry towers upraised much more high.
But with the weight of their own surquedry,
They both are fallen, that all the earth did feare,
And buried now in their own ashes ly,
Yet showing by their heapes how great they were.
But in their place doth now a third appeare,
Fayre _Venice_, flower of the last worlds delight.
EDW. SPENCER (1599).
SOME MARVELS OF VENICE
This stately City built on the bottome of the gulfe of the Adriatique
Sea, in the midst of marshes upon many ilands, is defended on the East
side against the sea, by a banke of earthe, which hath five (or some
say seven) mouths or passages into the sea, and is vulgarly called _Il
Lido_: and being so placed by nature, not made by art, bendeth like
a bowe, and reacheth thirty-five miles.... Venice hath thirty one
Cloysters of Monkes, and twenty eight of nunnes, besides chappels and
almes-houses. Channels of water passe through this city (consisting
of many ilands joyned with bridges) as the bloud passeth through the
veines of a man’s body; so that a man may passe to what place he will
both by land and water. The great channell is in length about one
thousand three hundred paces, and in breadth forty paces, and hath
only one bridge called _Rialto_, and the passage is very pleasant by
this channel; being adorned on both sides with stately pallaces. And
that men may pass speedily, besides this bridge, there be thirteen
places called _Traghetti_, where boats attend called _gondole_, which
being of incredible number give ready passage to all men. The rest
of the channels running through lesse streets, are more narrow, and
in them many bridges are to be passed under. The aforesaid boats are
very neat, and covered all save the ends with black cloth, so as the
passengers may goe unseene and unknowne, and not bee annoyed at all
with the sunne, winde, or raine. And these boats are ready at call any
minute of the day or night. And if a stranger know not the way, hee
shall not need to aske it, for if he will follow the presse of people,
hee shall be sure to bee brought to the market place of Saint _Mark_,
or that of _Rialto_; the streets being very narrow (which they pave
with bricke), and besides if hee onely know his host’s name, taking a
boat, he shall be safely brought thither at any time of the night....
Saint _Marke_ is the protecting saint of this city. The body of which
saint being brought hither by merchants from _Alexandria_: this church
was built in the year 829 at the charge of the Duke _Justinian_, who
dying, gave by his last will great treasure to that use, and charged
his brother to finish the building, which was laid upon the ruines of
Saint _Theodore’s_ Church, who formerly had been the protecting saint
of the city.... The building is become admirable, for the singular
art of the builders and painters, and the most rare peeces of marble,
porphyry, ophites (stones so called of speckles like a serpent) and
like stones; and they cease not still to build it, as if it were
unfinished, lest the revenues given by the last wils of dead men to
that use, should return to their heirs (as the common report goes)....
Upon the ground neere the great door, is a stone, painted as if it were
engraven, which painting is vulgarly called, _a la mosaica_, and upon
this stone _Pope Alexander_ set his foot upon the necke of the Emperor
_Frederick Barbaross_, adoring him after his submission. The outward
part of the church is adorned with one hundred and forty eight pillars
of marble, whereof some are ophytes, that is speckled, and eight of
them are porphyry neere the great doore, which are highly esteemed.
And in all places about the church, there be some six hundred pillars
of marble, besides some three hundred in the caves under ground. Above
these pillars on the outside of the church is an open gallery, borne
up with like pillars, from whence the Venetians at times of feasts,
behold any shewes in the market place. And above this gallery, and over
the great door of the church, be foure horses of brass, gilded over,
very notable for antiquity and beauty; and they are so set, as if at
the first step they would leap into the market place. They are said
to be made to the similitude of the horses of _Phœbus_, drawing the
Chariot of the Sunne, and to have been put upon the triumphal arch of
_Nero_, by the people of Rome, when he had overcome the Parthians....
Above this gallery the image of Saint _Marke_, of marble, and like
images of the other Evangelists and of the Virgin _Mary_, and of the
_Angel Gabriell_, are placed, and there is a bell upon which the houres
are sounded, for the church hath his clock, though another very faire
clocke in the market place be very neere.... I passe over the image
of Saint _Marke_ of brass in the forme of a lion, guilded over, and
holding a booke of brasse. Likewise the artificiall images of the
Doctors of the Church, and others. I would passe over the image of the
Virgin _Mary_, painted _a la mosaica_, that is as if it were engraven,
but that they attribute great miracles to it, so as women desirous to
know the state of their absent friends, place a wax candle burning in
the open air before the image, and beleeve that if their friend be
alive, it cannot be put out with any force of wind; but if he be dead,
that the least breath of wind puts it out, or rather of it self it goes
out: and besides for that I would mention that those who are adjudged
to death, offer waxe candles to this image, and as they passe by, fall
prostrate to adore the same. To conclude, I would not omit mention
thereof, because all shippes comming into haven, use to salute this
image, and that of Saint _Marke_, with pieces of ordinance, as well
and more than the Duke. A merchant of _Venice_ saved from shipwracke,
by the light of a candle in a darke night, gave by his last will to
this image, that his heires for ever should find a waxe candle to burne
before the same.... Touching the inside of the church: In the very
porch thereof is the image of Saint _Marke_, painted with wonderfull
art, and the Images of Christ crucified, of Him buried, and of the
foure Evangelists, highly esteemed; besides many other much commended
for the said painting like engraving, and for other workemanship. And
there be erected foure great pillars of ophites, which they say were
brought from the Temple of _Salomon_. At the entery of the doore, is
an old and great sepulcher, in which lies the Duke _Marino Morosini_.
Not far thence is the image of Saint _Geminian_ in pontificall habit,
and another of Saint _Katherine_, both painted with great art. When
you enter the body of the church there is the great altar, under which
lies Saint _Marke_, in a chest of brasse, decked with images of silver
guilded, and with plates of gold, and images enamelled, and with the
image of Christ sitting upon a stately throne, adorned with pillars of
most white marble, and many precious stones, and curiously engraven. At
the back of this altar there is another, which they call the altar of
the most Holy Sacrament, made of best marble, with a little doore of
brasse, decked with carved images, and with foure pillars of alabaster,
transparent as christall, and highly esteemed; and upon the same hang
every day two lampes of copper: and at the times of feasts there hang
two of pure silver.... At the entry of the chancell, is the throne of
the dukes, make of walnut-tree, all carved above the head, and when
the dukes sit there, it was wont to be covered with carnation satten,
but now it is covered with cloth of gold, given by the King of Persia.
There be two stately pulpits of marble, with histories carved in brass,
where they sing the Epistles and Gospels. On the left hand by the altar
of Saint _James_ is a place, where (if a man may beleeve it) the body
of Saint _Marke_, by a crevice suddenly breaking through the marble
stone, appeared in the yeere 1094, to certaine priests who had fasted
and praied to find the same, the memory of the place where it was laied
at the building of the church about 829 being utterly lost....
The foure square market place of _Rialto_ is compassed with publike
houses, under the arches whereof, and in the middle part lying open,
the merchants meet. And there is also a peculiar place where the
gentlemen meet before noone, as they meet in the place of Sainte
_Marke_ towards evening; and here to nourish acquaintance, they spend
an houre in discourses, and because they use not to make feasts one
to another, they keepe this meeting as strictly as merchants, lest
their friendship should decay. The gold-smiths shoppes lie thereby,
and over against them shoppes of jewellers, in which art the Venetians
are excellent.... To conclude: this most noble city, as well for the
situation, freeing them from enemies, as for the freedome of the
Common-wealth, preserved from the first founding, and for the freedome
which the citizens and very strangers have, to enjoy their goods, and
dispose of them, and for manifold other causes, is worthily called in
Latine _Venetia_, as it were _Veni etiam_, that is, _come again_.
FYNES MORYSON.
ADDRESSED TO VENICE
Fayre mayden towne that in rich _Thetis_ armes,
Hath still been fostered since thy first foundation.
Whose glorious beauty cals unnumbered swarmes
Of rarest spirits from each forrin nation,
And yet (sole wonder to all Europes eares,
Most lovely Nimph, that ever _Neptune_ got)
In all this space of thirteene hundred yeares,
Thy virgin state ambition ne’er could blot.
Now I prognosticate thy ruinous case;
When thou shalt from thy Adriatique seas,
View in this Ocean Isle thy painted face,
In these pure colours coyest eyes to please,
Then gazing in thy shadowes peerless eye,
Enamour’d like _Narcissus_ thou shalt die.
J. ASHLEY (1599).
SCENE IN VENICE
Black Demons hovering o’er his mitred head,
To Cæsar’s Successor the Pontiff spake;
‘Ere I absolve thee, stoop! that on thy neck
Levelled with earth this foot of mine may tread.’
Then he, who to the altar had been led,
He, whose strong arm the Orient could not check,
He, who had held the Soldan at his beck,
Stooped, of all glory disinherited,
And even the common dignity of man!--
Amazement strikes the crowd: while many turn
Their eyes away in sorrow, others burn
With scorn, invoking a vindictive ban
From outraged Nature; but the sense of most
In abject sympathy with power is lost.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
THE MARRIAGE OF VENICE WITH THE SEA
HOW THE CEREMONY WAS FIRST INSTITUTED
From Venice wee departed on the twentieth of August 1610, in the
_Little Defence_ of London. The Venetians are Lords of this Sea,
but not without contention with the Papacie. On Ascention Day, the
Duke accompanyed with the Clarissimoes of that Signiory, is rowed
thither in the Bucentoro, a triumphall Galley, richly, and exquisitely
gilded: above a roome (beneath which they row) comprehending the whole
length and breadth of the Galley; neere the poope a throne, and the
rest accommodated with seates, where he solemnely espouseth the Sea:
confirmed by a Ring throwne therein, the Nuptiall Pledge and Symboll
of subjection. The Ceremonie received a beginning from the Sea-battell
fought and wonne by the Venetians, under the conduct of Sebastiano
Zani, against the forces of Fredericke Barbarossa, in the quarrell of
Pope Alexander the Third. Who flying his furie in the habit of a Cooke
repayred to Venice, and there long lived disguised in the Monastery of
Charitie. Zani returning in triumph with the Emperours Sonne, was met
by the Pope, and saluted in this manner: Here take, O Zani, this Ring
of Gold, and by giving it to the Sea, oblige it unto thee. A ceremonie
shall on this day bee yearly observed, both by thee and thy Successors,
that Posteritie may know how you have purchast the Dominion thereof by
your valours, and made it subject unto you, as a Wife to her Husband.
GEORGE SANDYS (1610).
THE DOGE OF VENICE GOES IN STATE
I was present at high mass this morning, October 6th, which annually
on this day the Doge must attend, in the church of St. Justina, to
commemorate an old victory over the Turks. When the gilded barks,
which carry the princes and a portion of the nobility, approach the
little square, when the boatmen, in their rare liveries, are plying
their red-painted oars, when on the shore the clergy and the religious
fraternities are standing, pushing, moving about, and waiting with
their lighted torches fixed upon poles and portable silver chandeliers;
then, when the gangways, covered with carpets, are placed from the
vessels to the shore, and first the full violet dresses of the
Savii, next the ample red robes of the Senators are unfolded upon
the pavement, and lastly when the old Doge--adorned with his golden
Phrygian cap, in his long golden _talar_ and his ermine cloak, steps
out of the vessel--when all this, I say, takes place in a little square
before the portal of a church, one feels as if one were looking at an
old worked tapestry, exceedingly well designed and coloured. To me,
northern fugitive as I am, this ceremony gave a great deal of pleasure.
With us, who parade nothing but short coats in our processions of pomp,
and who conceive nothing greater than one performed with shouldered
arms, such an affair might be out of place. But these trains, these
peaceful celebrations, are all in keeping here.
The Doge is a well-grown and well-shaped man, who, perhaps, suffers
from ill health, but, nevertheless, for dignity’s sake, bears himself
upright under his heavy robe. In other respects he looks like the
grandpapa of the whole race, and is kind and affable. His dress is very
becoming, the little cap, which he wears under the large one, does not
offend the eye, resting as it does upon the whitest and finest hair in
the world.
About fifty _nobili_, with long, dark-red trains, were with him. For
the most part they were handsome men, and there was not a single
uncouth figure among them. Several of them were tall with large
heads, so that the white curly wigs were very becoming to them. Their
features are prominent; the flesh of their faces is soft and white,
without looking flabby and disagreeable. On the contrary, there is
an appearance of talent without exertion, repose, self-confidence,
easiness of existence, and a certain joyousness pervades the whole.
When all had taken their places in the church, and mass began, the
fraternities entered by the chief door, and went out at the side door
to the right, after they had received holy water in couples, and made
their obeisance to the high altar, to the Doge, and the nobility.
GOETHE.
ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC
Once did She hold the gorgeous east in fee;
And was the safeguard of the west: the worth
Of Venice did not fall below her birth,
Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty.
She was a maiden City, bright and free;
No guile seduced, no force could violate;
And, when she took unto herself a Mate,
She must espouse the everlasting Sea.
And what if she had seen those glories fade,
Those titles vanish, and that strength decay;
Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid
When her long life hath reached its final day:
Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade
Of that which once was great, is passed away.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
VENETIAN DAMES
It was now Ascension Weeke, and the greate Marte or Faire of the whole
yeare was now kept, every body at liberty and jollie. The noblemen
stalking with their ladys on _choppines_; these are high-heel’d shoes,
particularly affected by these proude dames, or, as some may say,
invented to keepe them at home, it being very difficult to walke with
them; whence one being asked how he liked the Venetian dames, replied
that they were _mezzo carne, mezzo ligno_, half flesh, half wood, and
he would have none of them. The truth is, their garb is very odd, as
seeming allwayes in masquerade; their other habits are also totally
different from all nations. They weare long crisped haire, of severall
strakes and colours, which they make so by a wash, dishevelling it
on the brims of a broade hat that has no head, but an hole to put
out their heads by; they drie them in the sunne, as one may see them
at their windows. In their tire they set silk flowers and sparkling
stones, their peticoates coming from their very arme-pits, so that
they are neere three-quarters and an half apron; their sleeves are
made exceedingly wide ... and commonly tucked up to the shoulder,
showing their naked armes, thro’ false sleeves of tiffany, girt with
a bracelet or two, with knots of points richly tagged about their
shoulders and other places of their body, which they usually cover with
a kind of yellow vaile of lawn very transparent. Thus attir’d they set
their hands on the heads of two matron-like servants or old women, to
support them, who are mumbling their beades. ’Tis ridiculous to see
how these ladys crawle in and out of their _gondolas_ by reason of
their _choppines_, and what dwarfs they appeare when taken downe from
their wooden scaffolds; of these I saw nearly thirty together, stalking
half as high again as the rest of the world, for courtezans or the
citizens may not weare _choppines_, but cover their bodies and faces
with a vaile of a certaine glittering taffeta or lustreè, out of which
they now and then dart a glaunce of their eye, the whole face being
otherwise entirely hid with it; nor may the common misses take this
habit, but go abroad bare-fac’d. To the corners of these virgin-vailes
hang broad but flat tossells of curious Point de Venize; the married
women go in black vailes. The nobility weare the same colour, but of
fine cloth lin’d with taffeta in summer, and fur of the bellies of
squirrels in the winter, which all put on at a certaine day girt with
a girdle emboss’d with silver; the vest not much different from what
our Bachelors of Arts weare in Oxford, and a hood of cloth made like
a sack, cast over their left shoulder, and a round cloth black cap
fring’d with wool which is not so comely; they also weare their collar
open to shew the diamond buttons of the stock of their shirt. I have
never seene pearles for colour and bignesse comparable to what the
lady’s wear, most of the noble families being very rich in jewells,
especially pearles.
JOHN EVELYN.
THE VENICE OF CARLO GOLDONI
A PRINCE AMONG WRITERS OF COMEDY
I was born at Venice, in the year 1707, in a large and beautiful house
between the bridges of _Nomboli_ and _Donna Onesta_, at the corner of
the street _Cà cent’anni_, in the parish of St. Thomas. Julius Goldoni,
my father, was born in the same city; but all his family were of
Modena.
Venice is so extraordinary a city, that it is impossible to form
a correct idea of it without seeing it. Maps, plans, models, and
descriptions, are insufficient; it must be seen. All other cities bear
more or less resemblance to one another, but Venice resembles none;
and every time I have seen it after a long absence, it has been a new
subject of astonishment and surprise for me. As I advanced in years,
and my knowledge increased and furnished me with more numerous objects
of comparison, I ever discovered new singularities and new beauties in
it.
But I then saw it as a youth of fifteen, who could not be supposed to
be struck with what in reality was the most remarkable, and who could
only compare it with the small towns which he had lived in. What I was
most astonished at was the surprising view which it presents on a first
approach. On seeing the extent of small islands so close together and
so admirably connected by bridges, we imagine we behold a continent
elevated on a plain, and washed on every side by an immense sea which
surrounds it.
This is not the sea, but a very extensive marsh more or less covered
with water, at the mouth of several ports, with deep canals which admit
large and small vessels into the town and its environs. If you enter
by the quarter of St. Mark through a prodigious quantity of vessels
of every description, ships of war, merchantmen, frigates, galleys,
barks, boats, and gondolas, you land at the Piazzetta where in one
direction you see the palace and the ducal church, which announce the
magnificence of the republic, and in another, the place or square
of St. Mark, surrounded with porticos from designs by Palladio and
Sansovino.
In going through the streets where haberdashery goods are sold, you
tread on flags of Istrian marble, carefully roughened by the chisel
to prevent them being slippery. The whole quarter is a perpetual fair
till you arrive at the bridge of a single arch, ninety feet in breadth,
over the great canal, which, from its elevation, allows the passage of
barques and boats in the highest tides, which offer three different
roads to passengers, and which upholds twenty-four ships with lodgings,
the roofs of which are covered with lead....
In Italy, their places of public amusement are called theatres. There
are seven in Venice, each bearing the name of the titular church of its
parish. The theatre of St. John Chrysostom was then the first in the
town, where the grand operas were represented, where Metastasio opened
his dramatical, and Farinello, Faustine, and Cozzoni their musical
career. At present, the theatre of St. Benedict is highest in rank. The
five other are St. Samuel, St. Luke, St. Angelo, St. Cassian, and St.
Moses. Of these seven, two generally are dedicated to grand operas, two
to comic operas, and three to plays.... There are none of them which
have not had works of mine, and which have not contributed both to my
honour and profit.
CARLO GOLDONI (1707-1793).
THE ROMANCE OF VENICE
If Cupid have not spent all his quiver in Venice.
SHAKESPEARE.
AT VENICE
So now she stands by Glory’s great sea-grave
And has the first fair vision of that shrine
Where it lies sainted with its smile divine,
Rubied in sunset, em’ralded in wave;
Where the stones whisper of the masques they gave
Of argosy and pageant, line on line;
Till we are drunk with splendour as with wine
In that broad street which molten beryls pave.
I wonder if she thinks of me at whiles,
Or only of the dim Byzantine gold
And time-stained fronts, and seaweed-covered piles?
And if a corner of her heart doth hold
Something besides a dream of the crowned isles
That ruled the sunrise and its waves of old?
EUGENE LEE-HAMILTON.
THE GOLDEN BOOK OF VENICE
The Golden Book[5]
Is now unwritten in, and stands unmoved,
Save when the curious traveller takes down
A random volume, from the dusty shelf,
To trace the progress of a bruited name;
The Bucentaur
Is shattered, and of its resplendent form
There is no remnant, but some splintered morsel,
Which in his cabin, as a talisman
Mournfully hangs the pious gondolier;
The Adrian sea
Will never have a Doge to marry more,--
The meagre favours of a foreign lord
Can hardly lead some score of humble craft
With vilest merchandise into the port
That whilom held the wealth of half a world.
Thy palaces
Are bartered to the careful Israelite,--
Or left to perish, stone by stone, worn down
In desolation, solemn skeletons,
Whose nakedness some tufts of pitying grass,
Or green boughs trembling o’er the tumbling wall,
Adorn but hide not.
And are these things true.
Miraculous Venice? Is the charm then past
Away from thee? Is all thy work fulfilled
Of power and beauty? Art thou gathered
To the dead cities? Is thy ministry
Made up, and folded in the hand of Thought?
Ask him who knows the meaning and the truth
Of all existence;--ask the poet’s heart:
The Book has no dead tome for him,--for him
Within St. Mark’s emblazoned porticoes
Thy old nobility are walking still;
The lowliest gondola upon thy waters
Is worth to him thy decorated galley;
He never looks upon the Adrian sea
But as thy lawful tho’ too faithless spouse;
And when, in the sad lustre of the moon,
Thy palaces seem beautifully wan,
He blesses God that there is left on earth
So marvellous, so full an antidote,
For all the racks and toils of mortal life,
As thy sweet countenance to gaze upon.
RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.
[5] Il Libro d’Oro, the Venetian Peerage.
TO AN OLD VENETIAN WINEGLASS
ROSE-COLOURED AT THE BRIM
Daughter of Venice, fairer than the moon!
From thy dark casement leaning, half divine,
And to the lutes of love that low repine
Across the midnight of the hushed lagoon,
Listening with languor in a dreamful swoon--
On such a night as this thou didst entwine
Thy lily fingers round this glass of wine,--
Didst clasp thy climbing lover--none too soon!
Thy lover left, but ere he left thy room
From this he drank, his warm lips at the brim;
Thou kissed it as he vanished in the gloom,
That kiss, because of thy true love for him--
Long, long ago when thou wast in thy bloom--
Hath left it ever rosy round the rim!
LLOYD MIFFLIN.
DANTE AT THE ARSENAL AT VENICE
From bridge to bridge thus, speaking other things
Of which my Comedy cares not to sing,
We came along, and held the summit, when
We halted to behold another fissure
Of Malebolge and other vain laments;
And I beheld it marvellously dark.
As in the Arsenal of the Venetians
Boils in the winter the tenacious pitch
To smear their unsound vessels o’er again,
For sail they cannot; and instead thereof
One makes his vessel new, and one recaulks
The ribs of that which many a voyage has made;
One hammers at the prow, one at the stern,
This one makes oars, and that one cordage twists,
Another mends the mainsail and the mizzen;
Thus, not by fire, but by the art divine,
Was boiling down below there a dense pitch
Which upon every side the bank belimed.
I saw it, but I did not see within it
Aught but the bubbles that the boiling raised,
And all swell up and resubside compressed.
The while below there fixedly I gazed,
My Leader, crying out: ‘Beware, beware!’
Drew me unto himself from where I stood.
Then I turned round, as one who is impatient
To see what it behoves him to escape,
And whom a sudden terror doth unman,
Who, while he looks, delays not his departure;
And I beheld behind us a black devil,
Running along upon the crag, approach.
Ah, how ferocious was he in his aspect!
And how he seemed to me in action ruthless,
With open wings and light upon his feet!
His shoulders, which sharp-pointed were and high,
A sinner did encumber with both haunches,
And he held clutched the sinews of the feet.
_‘INFERNO’ (LONGFELLOW’S TRANSLATION)._
MENDELSSOHN AT VENICE
VENICE, _October 10, 1830_.
Italy at last! and what I have all my life looked forward to as the
greatest possible felicity is now begun, and I am basking in it. The
day has been so fruitful in enjoyment that I must, now that it is
evening, endeavour to collect my thoughts a little to write to you, my
dear parents, and to thank you for having bestowed such happiness on
me.... I shall, however, become quite bewildered, if things are to go
on as they have done on this first day, when every hour brought with it
so much never to be forgotten, that I do not know where to find senses
sufficient to comprehend it all properly. I saw the ‘Assumption,’ then
a whole gallery of paintings in the Manfrini Palace; then a festival in
the church where hangs Titian’s ‘St. Peter’; afterwards St. Mark’s, and
in the afternoon I had a row on the Adriatic, and visited the public
gardens, where the people lie on the grass and eat. I then returned
to the Piazza of St. Mark, where in the twilight there is always an
immense crowd and crush of people; and all this I was obliged to see
to-day, because there is so much that is novel and interesting to be
seen to-morrow.
But I must now relate methodically how I came hither by water.... In
Treviso there was an illumination, paper lanterns suspended in every
part of the great square, and a large gaudy transparency in the centre.
Some most lovely girls were walking about, in their long white veils
and scarlet petticoats. It was quite dark when we arrived at Mestre
last night, when we got into a boat, and in a dead calm gently rowed
across to Venice. On our passage thither, where nothing but water is to
be seen, and distant lights, we saw a small rock which stands in the
midst of the sea; on this a lamp was burning; all the sailors took off
their hats as we passed, and one of them said, this was the ‘Madonna
of Tempests,’ which are often most dangerous and violent here. We then
glided quietly into the great city, under innumerable bridges, without
sound of post-horns, or rattling of wheels, or tollkeepers; the
passage now became more thronged, and numbers of ships lying near; past
the theatre, where gondolas in long rows lie waiting for their masters,
just as our own carriages do at home, then into the great canal, past
the church of St. Mark, the Lions, the palace of the Doges, and the
Bridge of Sighs. The obscurity of night only enhanced my delight on
hearing the familiar names and seeing the dark outlines.
And so I am actually in Venice! Only think: to-day I have gazed upon
the finest pictures in the world, and have at last personally made the
acquaintance of a very admirable man, whom hitherto I only knew by
name--I allude to a certain Signor Giorgione, a splendid fellow--and
also to Pardenone, who displays the most noble pictures, and portrays
both himself and many of his simple scholars, in such a devout,
faithful, and pious spirit, that you seem to converse with and grow
fond of him. Who would not have been confused by all this? But if I am
to speak of Titian, I must do so in a more reverent mood. Till now, I
never knew that he was the felicitous artist I have this day seen him
to be. That he thoroughly enjoyed life, in all its beauty and fulness,
the picture in Paris proves; but he has fathomed the depths of human
sorrow, as well as the joys of Heaven. His glorious ‘Entombment,’ and
also the ‘Assumption,’ fully evince this. How Mary floats on the cloud,
while an actual _air_ seems to pervade the whole picture; how you see
at a glance her very breathing, her awe, her devotion, and in short a
thousand feelings,--all words seem poor and commonplace in comparison.
The three heads of angels too, on the right of the picture, are of the
highest order of beauty,--pure, serene loveliness, so unconscious, so
bright and so seraphic. But no more of this! or I must perforce become
poetical, if I be not so already, and that is a mood which does not
at all suit me. I shall certainly see that picture every day.... What
a man that Titian was! Everyone must be edified by his works, as I
shall try to be, and I rejoice that I am in Italy. At this moment the
gondoliers are shouting to each other, and the lights are reflected in
the depths of the waters; one man is playing a guitar, and singing to
it. It is a charming night. Farewell! and think of me in every happy
hour as I do of you.--FELIX.
FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY.
SHELLEY IN VENICE
WRITTEN TO MARY SHELLEY
We shall travel hence within a few hours, with the speed of the
post.... We have now got a comfortable carriage, and two mules, and,
thanks to Paolo, have made a very decent bargain, comprising everything
to Padua. I should say we had delightful fruit for breakfast, figs,
very fine, and peaches, unfortunately gathered before they were ripe,
whose smell was like what one fancies of the wakening of Paradise
flowers.... I came from Padua [to Venice] in a gondola, and the
gondolier, among other things, without any hint on my part, began
talking of Lord Byron. He said he was a _giovinotto Inglese_, with a
_nome stravagante_, who lived very luxuriously, and spent great sums of
money. This man, it seems, was one of Lord B.’s gondoliers.... These
gondolas are the most beautiful and convenient boats in the world. They
are finely carpeted and furnished with black, and painted black. The
couches on which you lean are extraordinarily soft, and are so disposed
as to be the most comfortable to those who lean or sit. The windows
have at will either Venetian plate-glass flowered, or Venetian blinds,
or blinds of black cloth to shut out the light.... I called on Lord
Byron: he was delighted to see me. He took me in his gondola across the
lagoon to a long sandy island, which defends Venice from the Adriatic.
When we disembarked, we found his horses waiting for us, and we rode
along the sands of the sea, talking. Our conversation consisted in
histories of his wounded feelings, and questions as to my affairs, and
great professions of friendship and regard for me.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
THE VENETIAN SERENADE
When along the light ripple the far serenade
Has accosted the ear of each passionate maid,
She may open the window that looks on the stream,--
She may smile on her pillow and blend it in dream;
Half in words, half in music, it pierces the gloom,
‘I am coming--Stalì--but you know not for whom,
Stalì--not for whom!’
Now the tones become clearer,--you hear more and more
How the waters divided return on the oar,--
Does the prow of the gondola strike on the stair?
Do the voices and instruments pause and prepare?
Oh! they faint on the ear as the lamp on the view,
‘I am passing--Premì--but I stay not for you!
Premì--not for you!’
Then return to your couch, you who stifle a tear,--
Then awake not, fair sleeper--believe he is here;
For the young and the loving no sorrow endures,
If to-day be another’s, to-morrow is yours;--
May, the next time you listen, your fancy be true,
‘I am coming--Sciàr--and for you and to you!
Sciàr--and to you!’
RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.
FAREWELL TO VENICE
If I had been an unconnected man,
I, from this moment, should have formed some plan
Never to leave sweet Venice: for to me
It was delight to ride by the lone sea:
And then the town is silent--one may write,
Or read in gondolas by day or night,
Having the little brazen lamp alight,
Unseen, uninterrupted:--books are there,
Pictures, and casts from all those statues fair
Which were twin-born with poetry;--and all
We seek in towns, with little to recall
Regret for the green country....
But I had friends in London too....
--The following morning, urged by my affairs,
I left bright Venice.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
INDEX OF AUTHORS
Albini, Enrico, 341
Aldersey, Laurence, 353
Andersen, Hans, 17, 67, 237, 266
Anon., 135
Ashley, J., 362
Beaconsfield, Lord, 99, 131, 235, 305
Beckford, William, 72, 214, 228
Bell, Mackenzie, 224
Bowles, Fred. G., 339
Braddon, M. E., 2, 262
Brooke, Stopford A., 90, 186, 197, 309, 311
Brown, Horatio F., 76, 108
Browning, Robert, 121, 136, 190
Byron, Lord, 19, 108, 119, 145, 232, 260, 313
Carpenter, J. E., 29
Casola, Canon Pietro, 348
Clough, Arthur Hugh, 148, 304, 315
Coryat, Thomas, 23, 62, 171, 263, 291
Crawford, Francis Marion, 3, 304, 341
D’Annunzio, Gabriele, 134, 333, 344
Dante, 375
Dickens, Charles, 239
D’Israeli, Isaac, 162
Duclaux, Madame, 315
Eden, F., 233
Eliot, George, 57
Evelyn, John, 232, 296, 367
Goethe, 134, 149, 206, 364
Goldoni, Carlo, 368
Gray, David, 14
Harrington, John, 66
Hemans, Mrs., 35, 38, 153
Henderson, May Sturge, 108, 109, 111
Houghton, Lord (Richard Monckton Milnes), 5, 52, 134, 146, 212, 220,
290, 373, 380
Howell, James, 39, 62, 177, 185
Howells, W. D., 96, 221, 325
Hunt, Leigh, 234
James, Henry, 322
Jameson, Mrs., 299
Johnson, R. U., 55
Landor, Walter Savage, 2
Lee, Vernon, 256, 301, 340
Lee-Hamilton, Eugene, 373
Lewkenor, Sir Lewes, 355
Lindsay, Lady, 108, 110, 337
Longfellow, H. W., 9, 375
Lowell, James Russell, 255
Machiavelli, Niccolo, 345
Mackay, Charles, 344
Mendelssohn, 376
Meredith, Owen, 113
Mifflin, Lloyd, 53, 237, 284, 375
Milnes, Richard Monckton. See _Houghton, Lord_
Molmenti, Pompeo, 279
Montagu, Lady M. W., 271
Moore, Thomas, 211, 224
Morandi, Cesare, 131
Moryson, Fynes, 357
Moulton, Louise Chandler, 2, 10, 276
Musset, Alfred de, 46, 209
Negri, Antonio, 116
Newett, B.A., Margaret, 348
Oliphant, Mrs., 7
Ouida, 2, 188, 338
Pinkerton, Percy, 198, 208, 284, 310, 331
Piozzi, Mrs., 37, 165
Radcliffe, Mrs., 103
Reade, Charles, 48
Ritchie, Lady (Thackeray, Anne), 120, 226
Robinson, A. Mary F., 315
Rogers, Samuel, 30, 151
Rossetti, Dante Gabriel, 280
Ruskin, John, 77, 78, 128, 154, 172, 180, 209, 226, 281, 288, 330,
344
Sand, George, 33, 66, 158, 159, 166, 270, 278, 304, 323, 326
Sandys, George, 363
Schiller, 170
Sélincourt, Beryl de, 108, 109, 111
Shakespeare, 2, 372
Shelley, P. B., 69, 91, 379, 381
Spencer, Edw., 66, 357
Sullivan, Alan, 56
Swift, Baroness, 116
Symons, Arthur, 114, 126, 134, 316, 317, 320
Symonds, John Addington, 2, 74, 144, 193, 198, 202, 247, 278, 318
Thackeray, Anne. See _Ritchie, Lady_
Trollope, T. Adolphus, 249
Vacaresco, Hélène, 339
Vasari, 285
Wordsworth, William, 363, 366
Yriarte, Charles, 66, 116, 123, 129, 134, 227, 306
TABLE OF CONTENTS
TITLE SOURCE OF EXTRACT AUTHOR PAGE
Addressed to Venice ‘Sonnets’ _J. Ashley_ 362
A Dream in a Gondola ‘Memorials of a _Richard Monckton
Residence on Milnes_ (_Lord
the Continent’ Houghton_) 146
A First Impression in
Venice ‘The Improvisatore’ _Hans Andersen_ 237
A Gondolier of Chioggia ‘La Denière Aldini’ _George Sand_ 166
À la Zuecca ‘Poems’ _Alfred de Musset_ 209
All Souls’ Day at Venice ‘The Enchanted
Woods’ _Vernon Lee_ 340
An Improvisatore ‘The Improvisatore’ _Hans Andersen_ 266
An Island Visit ‘Italy’ _William Beckford_ 214
A Peerless City ‘The Cloister and
the Hearth’ _Charles Reade_ 48
A Pilgrim’s Description
of Venice ‘A Pilgrimage to _Canon Pietro Casola_
Jerusalem in (_translated by
the Year 1494’ Margaret M.
Newett, B.A._) 348
April in Venice ‘Lettres d’un
Voyageur’ _George Sand_ 326
A Reverie in Venice ‘Childe Harold’ _Lord Byron_ 19
A Rialto Scene ‘Venise’ _Charles Yriarte_ 227
A Sea-View ‘Poems’ _Antonio Negri_ 116
A Toccata of Galuppi’s ‘Poems’ _Robert Browning_ 190
A Tour round Venice with
Goldoni ‘Studies of the
Eighteenth
Century in
Italy’ _Vernon Lee_ 256
At Sunset ‘Adriatica’ _Percy Pinkerton_ 310
At the Dogana ‘Poems’ _Arthur Symons_ 320
At the Lido ‘A Venetian _John Addington
Medley’ Symonds_ 202
At Venice ‘Forest Notes’ _Eugene Lee-
Hamilton_ 373
Autumn and Venice ‘The Flame of
Life’ _Gabriele
d’Annunzio_ 333
Autumn in Venice ‘Santa Barbara’ _Ouida_ 338
A Venetian Carnival ‘The Venetians’ _M. E. Braddon_ 262
A Venetian Dream ‘Pictures of
Italy’ _Charles Dickens_ 239
A Venetian Market ‘Miss Angel’ _Lady Ritchie_ 226
A Venetian Night ‘Marino Faliero’ _Lord Byron_ 313
A Venetian Pastoral ‘Poems for _Dante Gabriel
Pictures’ Rossetti_ 280
A Venetian Restaurant ‘A Venetian _John
Medley’ Addington Symonds_ 247
A Vision of Venice ‘Poems’ _David Gray_ 14
Beautiful Venice ‘Songs’ _J. E. Carpenter_ 29
Before ‘A Survey of the
City of Venice’ ‘Poems’ _James Howell_ 62
Below the Rialto: Morning ‘Modern
Painters’ _John Ruskin_ 225
Boats and Voices ‘Miss Angel’ _Lady Ritchie_ 120
Browning’s Funeral ‘Collected Poems’ _Mackenzie Bell_ 224
Browning’s Venice Quoted in ‘The _Robert Underwood
World Beautiful’ Johnson_ 55
Byron on the Grand Canal ‘Letters and
Journals of
Lord Byron’ _Thomas Moore_ 224
Dante at the Arsenal at
Venice ‘Inferno’
xxi. 1-36 _Dante_ 375
Entering Venice at
Twilight ‘The Mysteries of
Udolpho’ _Mrs. Radcliffe_ 103
‘Fabrics of Enchantment
piled to Heaven’ ‘Julian and
Maddalo’ _Percy B. Shelley_ 69
Farewell to Venice ‘Julian and
Maddalo’ _Percy B. Shelley_ 381
Fayre Venice ‘Sonnets’ _Edw. Spencer_ 357
Feeding the ‘At the Gates of
Pigeons--Venice Song’ _Lloyd Mifflin_ 237
First Impressions of
Venice ‘A Venetian _John
Medley’ Addington Symonds_ 74
From a Palace-step at
Venice ‘Sordello’ _Robert Browning_ 121
From a Venetian Balcony ‘From a Venetian
Balcony’ _Lady Lindsay_ 337
George Eliot’s Impression ‘George Eliot’s _Edited by
of Venice Life’ J. W. Cross_ 57
Giorgione’s Home ‘Modern
Painters’ _John Ruskin_ 281
Gondoliers ‘Lettres d’un
Voyageur’ _George Sand_ 158
Gondoliers and their ‘A Journey
Songs through Italy’ _Mrs. Piozzi_ 165
Gondoliers’ Music ‘Lettres d’un
Voyageur’ _George Sand_ 159
How Spring comes to
Venice ‘Lettres d’un
Voyageur’ _George Sand_ 323
In a Gondola ‘Poems’ _Robert Browning_ 136
In Praise of Venice Coryat’s
‘Crudities’ _Thomas Coryat_ 23
In Venice ‘Contarini Fleming’ _Lord Beaconsfield_ 99
In Venice Once ‘At the Wind’s _Louise Chandler_
Will’ _Moulton_ 276
Lagoon Message ‘Adriatica’ _Percy Pinkerton_ 198
La Madonna dell’ Acqua Heath’s ‘Book of
Beauty’ _John Ruskin_ 209
Lord Byron on the Lido ‘Letters and
Journals of
Lord Byron’ _Thomas Moore_ 211
May in Venice ‘Modern
Painters’ _John Ruskin_ 330
Mendelssohn at Venice ‘Letters’ _Translated by Lady_
_Wallace_ 376
Murano ‘The Stones of
Venice’ _John Ruskin_ 172
Night in the Piazza ‘Poems’ _Arthur Hugh Clough_ 315
Night in Venice ‘Venetia’ _Lord Beaconsfield_ 131
Night in Venice ‘A Venetian _John
Medley’ Addington Symonds 318
On being asked for an _James Russell
Autograph in Venice ‘Poems’ Lowell_ 255
On the Extinction of the
Venetian Republic ‘Poems’ _William Wordsworth_ 366
On the Lagoons ‘Adriatica’ _Percy Pinkerton_ 208
On the Lagoons ‘A Venetian _John
Medley’ Addington Symonds_ 198
On the Zattere ‘Poems’ _Arthur Symons_ 126
Pleasant Murano Coryat’s ‘Crudities’ _Thomas Coryat_ 171
Sailing towards Venice ‘The Improvisatore’ _Hans Andersen_ 67
Salve Venetia! ‘Gleanings from _Francis Marion
Venetian History’ Crawford_ 3
San Francesco del Deserto ‘Poems’ _Stopford A. Brooke_ 186
San Francesco della Vigna ‘Santa Barbara’ _Ouida_ 188
Scene in Venice ‘Ecclesiastical
Sonnets’ _William Wordsworth_ 363
Shelley in Venice ‘Letters’ _P. B. Shelley_ 379
Sing to Me, Gondolier ‘Poems’ _Mrs. Hemans_ 153
Society in Eighteenth- _Lady Mary Wortley
Century Venice ‘Letters’ Montagu_ 271
Some Marvels of Venice ‘An Itinerary’ _Fynes Moryson_ 357
Spectral Venice ‘Travel Pictures’ _Hans Andersen_ 17
Spring in Venice ‘Venetian Life’ _W. D. Howells_ 325
St. George of the Greeks ‘The Sentimental
Traveller’ _Vernon Lee_ 301
Sunrise in Venice ‘Contarini Fleming’ _Lord Beaconsfield_ 305
Sunset ‘Poems’ _Stopford A. Brooke_ 311
Sunset and Venice ‘Poems’ _Stopford A. Brooke_ 309
That Glorious City in the
Sea ‘Italy’ _Samuel Rogers_ 30
The Approach to Venice ‘The Stones of
Venice’ _John Ruskin_ 77
The Balcony on the Grand
Canal ‘Venetian Life’ _W. D. Howells_ 221
The Beautie and
Magnificence of Venice ‘The Commonwealth
and Government of
Venice’ _Sir Lewes Lewkenor_ 355
The Birth of Venetian Art ‘The Renaissance
in Italy’ _Pompeo Molmenti_ 279
The Bride of the Sea ‘The Slopes of
Helicon’ _Lloyd Mifflin_ 53
The Charm of the Gondola ‘Anon’ ‘_The Standard_’ 135
The City of Enchantment ‘Venetian Life’ _W. D. Howells_ 96
The Colour of Venice ‘A Garden in
Venice’ _F. Eden_ 233
The Doge of Venice goes ‘Letters from
in State Italy’ _Goethe_ 364
The Enchanted Voice of ‘Modern
Venice Painters’ _John Ruskin_ 288
The Fairy Days of Venice ‘Lettres d’un
Voyageur’ _George Sand_ 33
The Glass Furnaces of
Murano ‘Familiar Letters’ _James Howell_ 177
The Golden Book of Venice ‘Memorials of a _Richard Monckton
Residence on Milnes_ (_Lord
the Continent’ Houghton_) 373
The Glory of Colour in
Italy ‘The Liberal’ _Leigh Hunt_ 234
The Glory of St. Mark’s ‘The Diary’ _John Evelyn_ 296
The Gondola ‘Beppo’ _Lord Byron_ 145
The Gondola ‘Italy’ _Samuel Rogers_ 151
The Gondolier’s Cry ‘The Stones of
Venice’ _John Ruskin_ 154
The Gondoliers of Venice ‘Curiosities of
Literature’ _Isaac D’Israeli_ 162
The Grand Canal ‘Italy’ _William Beckford_ 228
The Invitation to the ‘New and Old’ _John
Gondola Addington Symonds_ 144
The Jewelled Crown of ‘The Sea-Charm
Venice of Venice’ _Stopford A. Brooke_ 90
The Legend of St. Mark ‘Sacred Art’ _Mrs. Jameson_ 299
The Lagoons’ Phantom ‘Venice’ _Beryl de Sélincourt
Spell and May
Sturge-Henderson_ 109
The Lido ‘Letters from
Italy’ _Goethe_ 206
The Lido and its Graves ‘Memorials of a _Richard Monckton
Residence on Milnes_ (_Lord
the Continent’ Houghton_) 212
The Marriage of Venice ‘Purchas his
with the Sea Pilgrimes’ _George Sandys_ 363
The Mirror of the Lagoon ‘The Sea-Charm
of Venice’ _Stopford A. Brooke_ 197
The Origin of Venice ‘History of _Niccolo
Florence’ Machiavelli_ 345
The Quietude of the
Lagoon ‘Cities of Italy’ _Arthur Symons_ 114
The Songs of the
Gondoliers ‘Letters from Italy’ _Goethe_ 149
The Soul that Endures ‘Venice’ _Beryl de Sélincourt
and May
Sturge-Henderson_ 111
The Splendour of St.
Mark’s Coryat’s ‘Crudities’ _Thomas Coryat_ 291
‘The Sun of Venice going
to Sea’ ‘Modern
Painters’ _John Ruskin_ 128
The Throne of Venice ‘The Stones of
Venice’ _John Ruskin_ 78
The Unweariedness of
Venice ‘Venise’ _Charles Yriarte_ 123
The Venice of Carlo
Goldoni ‘Memoirs’ _Carlo Goldoni_ 368
The Venetian Serenade ‘Memorials of a _Richard Monckton
Residence on Milnes_ (_Lord
the Continent’ Houghton_) 380
This Lovely Venice! ‘A Journey
through Italy’ _Mrs. Piozzi_ 37
Three Venetian Feasts Coryat’s ‘Crudities’ _Thomas Coryat_ 263
Titian at Venice ‘Stories of the
Italian Artists’ _Vasari_ 285
To an Old Venetian
Painting ‘Collected Sonnets’ _Lloyd Mifflin_ 284
To an Old Venetian
Wineglass ‘At the Gates of
Song’ _Lloyd Mifflin_ 375
To Chioggia with Oar and
Sail ‘A Venetian _John
Medley’ Addington Symonds_ 193
To Gian Bellini ‘Adriatica’ _Percy Pinkerton_ 284
Torcello ‘The Stones of
Venice’ _John Ruskin_ 180
To Venice ‘Poems’ _Mrs. Hemans_ 38
To Venice: A Farewell ‘Poems’ _Cesare Morandi_ 131
Towards Venice ‘Life on the
Lagoons’ _Horatio F. Brown_ 76
Upon a Cupboard of
Venice-Glasses ‘Poems’ _James Howell_ 185
Veneta Marina ‘Poems’ _Arthur Symons_ 316
Venetian Belles ‘Beppo’ _Lord Byron_ 260
Venetian Caffès ‘A Family Party’ _T. Adolphus
Trollope_ 249
Venetian Dames ‘The Diary’ _John Evelyn_ 367
Venetian Enchantment ‘Random Rambles’ _Louise Chandler
Moulton_ 10
Venetian Night ‘Poems’ _Arthur Symons_ 317
Venetian Nocturne ‘Collected _A. Mary F. Robinson_
Poems’ (_Madame Duclaux_) 315
Venetian Spell ‘From a Venetian
Balcony’ _Lady Lindsay_ 110
Venice ‘Poems’ _Henry Wadsworth
Longfellow_ 9
Venice ‘Poems’ _Owen Meredith_ 113
Venice ‘Memorials of a
Tour on the _Richard Monckton
Continent’ Milnes_ 290
Venice ‘Poems’ _Alan Sullivan_ 56
Venice and her Children ‘The Uscoque’ _George Sand_ 270
Venice at Twilight ‘Poems’ _Hélène Vacaresco_ 339
Venice from the Euganean
Hills ‘Poems’ _Percy B. Shelley_ 91
Venice in Autumn ‘Adriatica’ _Percy Pinkerton_ 331
Venice in Winter ‘Marietta’ _Francis Marion
Crawford_ 341
Venice: Its Pleasurable
Melancholy ‘Venise’ _Charles Yriarte_ 116
Venice: Night Illusion--
Morning Reality ‘Venise’ _Charles Yriarte_ 306
Venice seen in the
Distance ‘Italy’ _William Beckford_ 72
Venice: Some Sixteenth-
Century Characteristics ‘Hakluyt’s Voyages’ _Laurence Aldersey_ 353
Venice: That Rare City ‘Familiar Letters’ _James Howell_ 39
Venice the Enchantress ‘The Makers of
Venice’ _Mrs. Oliphant_ 7
Venice: The End of Winter ‘Nova Primavera’ _Enrico Albini_ 341
Venice: The Gem of the
World Coryat’s ‘Crudities’ _Thomas Coryat_ 62
Venice the Proud ‘Poems’ _Mrs. Hemans_ 35
Venice the Unfallen ‘Venetia’ _Lord Beaconsfield_ 235
Venice under the
Starlight ‘Venise’ _Charles Yriarte_ 129
‘Venice, whose Name did ‘Memorials of a
once adorn the World’ Tour on the _Richard Monckton
Continent’ Milnes_ 52
Venise ‘Poems’ _Alfred de Musset_ 46
Were Life but as the
Gondola ‘Poems’ _Arthur Hugh Clough_ 148
Written at Venice ‘Memorials of a _Richard Monckton
Residence on Milnes_ (_Lord
the Continent’ Houghton_) 5
Youth in Venice ‘The Two Foscari’ _Lord Byron_ 119
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