Part 10

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.

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