Part 13

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