VENICE, _August 18, 1858_.
You have been roving over the mountains, making unseemly comparisons of
Mont Blanc with a loaf of sugar, while I was working myself to death
searching for gimcracks for you. I have never seen anything uglier than
the things I am bringing you. It is probable that they will be seized by
the custom-houses which I must encounter, or else that they will be
smashed on the journey. I rejoice at this possibility, for never was
such a commission given to a man of taste.
Venice had a most depressing effect on me, from which feeling I have
been unable to rally for nearly two weeks. The architecture is
convincing, but lacking in taste and imagination. It has made me
indignant to recall the commonplaces written about some of the palaces.
The canals bear a striking resemblance to the Bièvre River, and the
gondolas to an incommodious hearse. The pictures of the Academy pleased
me, although none were above the rank of second-rate works. There is not
a Paul Veronese to be compared to _The Marriage at Cana_, not a Titian
comparable to _Caesar’s Coin_, in Dresden, or even _The Crown of Thorns_
in Paris. I searched for a Giorgione, but there was not one in Venice.
On the other hand, I found the faces of the people attractive. The
streets swarm with charming young girls, barefooted and bareheaded, who,
if they were bathed and scrubbed, would be Venuses Anadyomenes. What I
dislike above all else is the odor in the streets. On certain days the
air was full of the smell of fritters frying, and it was insupportable.
I attended a _funzione_ in honor of the Archduke, and found it very
entertaining. He was given a serenade from the Piazzetta to the iron
bridge. Six hundred gondolas followed the colossal boat containing the
music. Every one carried lanterns, and many burned red or blue Bengal
lights, which threw on the palaces of the Grand Canal tints of
fairy-like hue. The passage of the Rialto was extremely amusing. No one
could turn around or withdraw from his place, and the result was that
for an hour and a quarter the entire space between the Loredan palace
and the Rialto was an immovable bridge. The instant a crevice as wide as
one’s hand appeared between two sterns a prow slipped into it like a
coin. Every instant was heard the cracking of planks, and now and then
the cracking of an oar. It is most extraordinary that in all this
throng, which, in France would be the occasion of a free-for-all
scrimmage, not an oath was heard, not even a word of ill-humour. These
people are a compound of milk and maize. I saw yesterday, in
Saint-Mark’s Place, a monk fall on his knees before an Austrian corporal
who obstructed his way. I have never seen anything so distressing, and
in full view of the Lion of Saint-Mark, too!
I am waiting here for Panizzi. I go in society sometimes. I visit the
libraries and spend my time in a tolerably agreeable way. I saw
yesterday the Armenians, and very handsome chaps they are, whom the mere
sight of a senator transformed into Armenians from Constantinople. They
presented me with an epic poem by one of their Fathers.
Good-bye. I shall reach Genoa, probably, the 1st of September, and Paris
certainly in October. I shall go to Vienna as soon as I have heard from
you. For the last few days I have been fairly well, but for more than a
fortnight I was miserably ill. Good-bye again.