Rapidity of our drive along the causeways of the Brenta.--Shore of
Fusina.--A stormy sky.--Draw near to Venice.--Its deserted
appearance.--Visit to Madame de R.--Cesarotti.
Padua, June 14th, 1782.
Once more, said I to myself, I shall have the delight of beholding
Venice; so got into an open chaise, the strangest curricle that ever man
was jolted in, and drove furiously along the causeways by the Brenta,
into whose deep waters it is a mercy, methinks, I was not precipitated.
Fiesso, the Dolo, the Mira, with all their gardens, statues, and
palaces, seemed flying after each other, so rapid was our motion.
After a few hours’ confinement between close steeps, the scene opened to
the wide shore of Fusina. I looked up (for I had scarcely time to look
before) and beheld a troubled sky, shot with vivid red, the Lagunes
tinted like the opal, and the islands of a glowing flame-colour. The
mountains of the distant continent appeared of a deep melancholy grey,
and innumerable gondolas were passing to and fro in all their blackness.
The sun, after a long struggle, was swallowed up in the tempestuous
clouds.
In an hour we drew near to Venice, and saw its world of domes rising out
of the waters. A fresh breeze bore the toll of innumerable bells to my
ear. Sadness came over me as I entered the great canal, and recognised
those solemn palaces, with their lofty arcades and gloomy arches,
beneath which I had so often sat, the scene of many a strange adventure.
The Venetians being mostly at their villas on the Brenta, the town
appeared deserted. I visited, however, all my old haunts in the Place of
St. Mark, ran up the Campanile, and rowed backwards and forwards,
opposite the Ducal Palace, by moon-light. They are building a spacious
quay, near the street of the Sclavonians, fronting the island of San
Giorgio Maggiore, where I remained alone at least an hour, following the
wanderings of the moon amongst mountainous clouds, and listening to the
waters dashing against marble steps.
I closed my evening at my friend Madame de Rosenberg’s, where I met
Cesarotti, who read to us some of the most affecting passages in his
Fingal, with all the intensity of a poet, thoroughly persuaded that into
his own bosom the very soul of Ossian had been transfused.
Next morning the wind was uncommonly violent for the mild season of
June, and the canals much ruffled; but I was determined to visit the
Lido once more, and bathe on my accustomed beach. The pines in the
garden of the Carthusians were nodding as I passed by in my gondola,
which was very poetically buffeted by the waves.
Traversing the desert of locusts,[11] I hailed the Adriatic, and plunged
into its agitated waters. The sea, delightfully cool, refreshed me to
such a degree, that, upon my return to Venice, I found myself able to
thread its labyrinths of streets, canals, and alleys, in search of amber
and oriental curiosities. The variety of exotic merchandise, the perfume
of coffee, the shade of awnings, and the sight of Greeks and Asiatics
sitting cross-legged under them, made me think myself in the bazaars of
Constantinople.
It is certain my beloved town of Venice ever recalls a series of eastern
ideas and adventures. I cannot help thinking St. Mark’s a mosque, and
the neighbouring palace some vast seraglio, full of arabesque saloons,
embroidered sofas, and voluptuous Circassians.