The mornings are spent in study, sometimes among pictures, sometimes in
the Marcian Library, or again in those vast convent chambers of the
Frari, where the archives of Venice load innumerable shelves. The
afternoons invite us to a further flight upon the water. Both sandolo
and gondola await our choice, and we may sail or row, according as the
wind and inclination tempt us.
Yonder lies San Lazzaro, with the neat red buildings of the Armenian
convent. The last oleander blossoms shine rosy pink above its walls
against the pure blue sky as we glide into the little harbour. Boats
piled with coal-black grapes block the landing-place, for the Padri are
gathering their vintage from the Lido, and their presses run with new
wine. Eustace and I have not come to revive memories of Byron--that
curious patron saint of the Armenian colony--or to inspect the
printing-press, which issues books of little value for our studies. It
is enough to pace the terrace, and linger half an hour beneath the low
broad arches of the alleys pleached with vines, through which the domes
and towers of Venice rise more beautiful by distance.
Malamocco lies considerably farther, and needs a full hour of stout
rowing to reach it. Alighting there, we cross the narrow strip of land,
and find ourselves upon the huge sea-wall--block piled on block--of
Istrian stone in tiers and ranks, with cunning breathing-places for the
waves to wreak their fury on and foam their force away in fretful waste.
The very existence of Venice may be said to depend sometimes on these
_murazzi_, which were finished at an immense cost by the Republic in the
days of its decadence. The enormous monoliths which compose them had to
be brought across the Adriatic in sailing vessels. Of all the Lidi, that
of Malamocco is the weakest; and here, if anywhere, the sea might effect
an entrance into the lagoon. Our gondoliers told us of some places where
the _murazzi_ were broken in a gale, or _sciroccale_, not very long ago.
Lying awake in Venice, when the wind blows hard, one hears the sea
thundering upon its sandy barrier, and blesses God for the _murazzi_. On
such a night it happened once to me to dream a dream of Venice
overwhelmed by water. I saw the billows roll across the smooth lagoon
like a gigantic Eager. The Ducal Palace crumbled, and San Marco's domes
went down. The Campanile rocked and shivered like a reed. And all along
the Grand Canal the palaces swayed helpless, tottering to their fall,
while boats piled high with men and women strove to stem the tide, and
save themselves from those impending ruins. It was a mad dream, born of
the sea's roar and Tintoretto's painting. But this afternoon no such
visions are suggested. The sea sleeps, and in the moist autumn air we
break tall branches of the seeded yellowing samphire from hollows of the
rocks, and bear them homeward in a wayward bouquet mixed with cobs of
Indian-corn.
Fusina is another point for these excursions. It lies at the mouth of
the Canal di Brenta, where the mainland ends in marsh and meadows,
intersected by broad renes. In spring the ditches bloom with
fleurs-de-lys; in autumn they take sober colouring from lilac daisies
and the delicate sea-lavender. Scores of tiny plants are turning scarlet
on the brown moist earth; and when the sun goes down behind the Euganean
hills, his crimson canopy of cloud, reflected on these shallows, muddy
shoals, and wilderness of matted weeds, converts the common earth into a
fairyland of fabulous dyes. Purple, violet, and rose are spread around
us. In front stretches the lagoon, tinted with a pale light from the
east, and beyond this pallid mirror shines Venice--a long low broken
line, touched with the softest roseate flush. Ere we reach the Giudecca
on our homeward way, sunset has faded. The western skies have clad
themselves in green, barred with dark fire-rimmed clouds. The Euganean
hills stand like stupendous pyramids, Egyptian, solemn, against a lemon
space on the horizon. The far reaches of the lagoons, the Alps, and
islands assume those tones of glowing lilac which are the supreme beauty
of Venetian evening. Then, at last, we see the first lamps glitter on
the Zattere. The quiet of the night has come.
Words cannot be formed to express the endless varieties of Venetian
sunset. The most magnificent follow after wet stormy days, when the west
breaks suddenly into a labyrinth of fire, when chasms of clear turquoise
heavens emerge, and horns of flame are flashed to the zenith, and
unexpected splendours scale the fretted clouds, step over step, stealing
along the purple caverns till the whole dome throbs. Or, again, after a
fair day, a change of weather approaches, and high, infinitely high, the
skies are woven over with a web of half-transparent cirrus-clouds. These
in the after-glow blush crimson, and through their rifts the depth of
heaven is of a hard and gem-like blue, and all the water turns to rose
beneath them. I remember one such evening on the way back from Torcello.
We were well out at sea between Mazzorbo and Murano. The ruddy arches
overhead were reflected without interruption in the waveless ruddy lake
below. Our black boat was the only dark spot in this sphere of
splendour. We seemed to hang suspended; and such as this, I fancied,
must be the feeling of an insect caught in the heart of a fiery-petalled
rose. Yet not these melodramatic sunsets alone are beautiful. Even more
exquisite, perhaps, are the lagoons, painted in monochrome of greys,
with just one touch of pink upon a western cloud, scattered in ripples
here and there on the waves below, reminding us that day has passed and
evening come. And beautiful again are the calm settings of fair weather,
when sea and sky alike are cheerful, and the topmost blades of the
lagoon grass, peeping from the shallows, glance like emeralds upon the
surface. There is no deep stirring of the spirit in a symphony of light
and colour; but purity, peace, and freshness make their way into our
hearts.