1882
It is a great pleasure to write the word; but I am not sure there is not
a certain impudence in pretending to add anything to it. Venice has been
painted and described many thousands of times, and of all the cities of
the world it is the easiest to visit without going there. Open the first
book and you will find a rhapsody about it; step into the first
picture-dealer's and you will find three or four high-coloured "views"
of it. There is nothing more to be said about it. Every one has been
there, and every one has brought back a collection of photographs. There
is as little mystery about the Grand Canal as about our local
thoroughfare; and the name of St. Mark is as familiar as the postman's
ring. It is not forbidden, however, to speak of familiar things, and I
believe that, for the true Venice-lover, Venice is always in order.
There is nothing new to be said about it certainly, but the old is
better than any novelty. It would be a sad day, indeed, when there
should be something new to say. I write these lines with the full
consciousness of having no information whatever to offer. I do not
pretend to enlighten the reader; I pretend only to give a fillip to his
memory; and I hold any writer sufficiently justified who is himself in
love with his topic.
I
Mr. Ruskin has given it up, that is very true; but it is only after
extracting half a life-time of pleasure and an immeasurable quantity of
fame from it. We all may do the same, after it has served our turn,
which it probably will not cease to do for many a year to come.
Meantime, it is Mr. Ruskin who, beyond any one, helps us to enjoy. He
has, indeed, lately produced several aids to depression in the shape of
certain little humorous--ill-humorous--pamphlets (the series of _St.
Mark's Rest_), which embody his latest reflections on the subject of
Venice and describe the latest atrocities that have been perpetrated
there. These latter are numerous and deeply to be deplored; but to admit
that they have spoiled Venice would be to admit that Venice may be
spoiled--an admission pregnant, as it seems to us, with disloyalty.
Fortunately, one reacts against the Ruskinian contagion, and one hour of
the lagoon is worth a hundred pages of demoralised prose. This queer,
late-coming prose of Mr. Ruskin (including the revised and condensed
issue of the _Stones of Venice_, only one little volume of which has
appeared or, perhaps, will ever appear) is all to be read, though much
of it seems to be addressed to children of tender age. It is pitched in
the nursery-key, and might be supposed to emanate from an angry
governess. It is, however, all suggestive, and much of it is
delightfully just. There is an inconceivable want of form in it, though
the author has spent his life in laying down the principles of form, and
scolding people for departing from them; but it throbs and flashes with
the love of his subject--a love disconcerted and abjured, but which has
still some of the force of inspiration. Among the many strange things
that have befallen Venice, she has had the good fortune to become the
object of a passion to a man of splendid genius, who has made her his
own, and, in doing so, has made her the world's. There is no better
reading at Venice, therefore, as I say, than Ruskin, for every true
Venice-lover can separate the wheat from the chaff. The narrow
theological spirit, the moralism _à tout propos_, the queer
provincialities and pruderies, are mere wild weeds in a mountain of
flowers. One may doubtless be very happy in Venice without reading at
all--without criticising or analysing or thinking a strenuous thought.
It is a city in which, I suspect, there is very little strenuous
thinking, and yet it is a city in which there must be almost as much
happiness as misery. The misery of Venice stands there for all the world
to see; it is part of the spectacle--a thorough-going devotee of local
colour might consistently say it is part of the pleasure. The Venetian
people have little to call their own--little more than the bare
privilege of leading their lives in the most beautiful of towns. Their
habitations are decayed; their taxes heavy; their pockets light; their
opportunities few. One receives an impression, however, that life
presents itself to them with attractions not accounted for in this
meagre train of advantages, and that they are on better terms with it
than many people who have made a better bargain. They lie in the
sunshine; they dabble in the sea; they wear bright rags; they fall into
attitudes and harmonies; they assist at an eternal _conversazione_. It
is not easy to say that one would have them other than they are, and it
certainly would make an immense difference should they be better fed.
The number of persons in Venice who evidently never have enough to eat
is painfully large; but it would be more painful if we did not equally
perceive that the rich Venetian temperament may bloom upon a dog's
allowance. Nature has been kind to it, and sunshine and leisure and
conversation and beautiful views form the greater part of its
sustenance. It takes a great deal to make a successful American; but to
make a happy Venetian takes only a handful of quick sensibility. The
Italian people have, at once, the good and evil fortune to be conscious
of few wants; so that if the civilisation of a society is measured by
the number of its needs, as seems to be the common opinion to-day, it is
to be feared that the children of the lagoon would make but a poor
figure in a set of comparative tables. Not their misery, doubtless, but
the way they elude their misery, is what pleases the sentimental
tourist, who is gratified by the sight of a beautiful race that lives by
the aid of its imagination. The way to enjoy Venice is to follow the
example of these people and make the most of simple pleasures. Almost
all the pleasures of the place are simple; this may be maintained even
under the imputation of ingenious paradox. There is no simpler pleasure
than looking at a fine Titian--unless it be looking at a fine Tintoret,
or strolling into St. Mark's--it is abominable, the way one falls into
the habit--and resting one's light-wearied eyes upon the windowless
gloom; or than floating in a gondola, or hanging over a balcony, or
taking one's coffee at Florian's. It is of these superficial pastimes
that a Venetian day is composed, and the pleasure of the matter is in
the emotions to which they minister. These, fortunately, are of the
finest; otherwise, Venice would be insufferably dull. Reading Ruskin is
good; reading the old records is, perhaps, better; but the best thing of
all is simply staying on. The only way to care for Venice as she
deserves it, is to give her a chance to touch you often--to linger and
remain and return.