like gold. Surely the Doge will not desert his bride; or has the
jilt tired of her long subjection? False water, upon your breast
rock many navies, how should you remain true to a ship which fears to
wet its keel. The _Bucentoro_ glitters in the Arsenal, she blazes
with glass and gilding drawn up safely on a runway of dry planks,
while over the sea, beyond the Lido, rises the spark of sails. The
vessel is hull down, but the tiers of canvas lift up, one after the
other: skysails, royals, topgallantsails, topsails, mainsails, and at
last, the woodwork. Then gleaming ports, then streaming water
flashed from a curved bow. A good ship, but she flys the
_tricolore_. This is no wedding barge, there is no winged lion on
that flag. There is no music, no choir singing hymns. Men run to
and fro in San Nicolo Fort, peering through spy-glasses. Ah, she
will observe the rules, the skysails come down, then the royals--but
why in thunder do not the topgallantsails follow? The fellow is
coming right under the fort. Guns. He salutes. Answer from the
fort. Citizen Lallemont has agreed that no French vessel shall enter
the port, even the English do not attempt it. But the son of a dog
comes on. Send out boats, Comandatore Pizzamano. _Per Dio_, he is
passing them! Touch off the cannon as a warning. One shot. Two.
Some one is on the poop with a speaking-trumpet. "What ship is
that?" "_Le Libérateur d'Italie. Le Capitaine Laugier. Marine de
la République Française._" "It is forbidden to enter the port,
_Signor Capitano Laugier_." "We intend to anchor outside." Do you!
Then why not clew up those damned topgallantsails. My God! She is
past the fort. She has slipped through the entrance; she is in the
Lagoon. Her forefoot cuts the diamond water, she sheers her way
through the calm colour reflections, her bow points straight at the
rose and violet city swimming under the light clouds of early
afternoon. Shock! Shiver! Foul of a Venetian galley, by all that's
holy. What beastly seamanship! The Venetians will not stand it, I
tell you. Pop! Pop! Those are muskets, drop on them with
cutlasses, _mes enfants_. Chop into the cursed foreigners. "_Non
vogliamo forestieri qui._" Boom! The cannon of Fort Sant' Andrea.
Good guns, well pointed, the smoke from them draws a shade over the
water. Down come the topgallantsails. You have paid a price for
your entrance, Captain Laugier, but it is not enough. "_Viva San
Marco!_" Detestable voices, these Venetians. That cry is confusing.
Puff! The smoke goes by. Three marines have fallen. The cannon
fire at intervals of two minutes. Hot work under a burning sky. Hot
work on a burning deck. The smoothness of the water is flecked with
bits of wood. A dead body rolls overboard, and bobs up and down
beside the ships. A sailor slips from a yard, and is spiked on an
upturned bayonet. Over the water comes the pealing of many bells.
Captain Laugier is dead, and the city tolls his requiem. Strike your
colours, beaten Frenchmen. Bronze cannot walk upon the sea. You
have failed and succeeded, for upon your Captain's fallen body the
bronze feet have found their bridge. Do you rejoice, old Arsenal? A
captive ship towed up to you again! Ah, the cannon firing has
brought the rain. Yes, and thunder too, and in the thunder a voice
of bronze. The _Bucentoro_ will not take the water this year. Cover
up the brasses, _Arsenalotti_. Ascension Day is nothing to Venice
now.
Yesterday this was matter for rejoicing, but to-day... Get the best
rowers, order relays of horses on the mainland, post hot foot to the
Commissioners at Gratz. One ship is nothing, but if they send
twenty! What has the bronze General already said to the
Commissioners. The Senate wonders, and wears itself out in
speculation. They will give money, they will plunder the pockets of
the populace to save Venice. Can a child save his toys when manhood
is upon him? The century is old, already another lies in its arms.
Month by month a new moon rises over Venice, but century by century!
They cannot see, these Senators. They cannot hear the General
cutting the Commissioners short in a sort of fury. "I wish no more
Inquisition, no more Senate. I will be an Attila for Venice. This
government is old; it must fall!" Pretty words from bronze to
porcelain. A stain on a brave, new gospel. "Save Venice," the
letter urges, and the Commissioners depart for Trieste. But the
doors are locked. The General blocks his entrances. "I cannot
receive you, Gentlemen, you and your Senate are disgusting to the
French blood." A pantomime before a temple, with a priest acting the
part of chief comedian. Strange burlesque, arabesquing the
characters of a creed. You think this man is a greedy conqueror. Go
home, thinking. Your moment flutters off the calendar, your world
dissolves and another takes its place. This is the cock-crow of
ghosts. Slowly pass up the canal, slowly enter the Ducal Palace.
Debate, everlastingly debate. And while you quibble the
communication with the continent is cut.
He has declared war, the bronze General. What can be done? The
little glass figures crack under the strain. Condulmer will not
fight. Pesaro flees to Austria. So the measure awaits a vote. A
grave Senate consulting a ballot-box as to whether it shall cut its
throat. This is not suicide, but murder; this is not murder, but the
turned leaf of an almanac. "Divide! Divide!" What is the writing
on the other side? "_Viva la Libertà_," shouts General Salimbeni
from a window. Stupid crowd, it will not give a cheer. It is queer
what an unconscionable objection people have to dying. "_Viva San
Marco!_" shouts General Salimbeni. Ah, now you hear! Such a racket,
and the old lion flag hoisted everywhere. But that was a rash thing
to do. It brings the crash. They fight, fight for old Saint Mark,
they smash, burn, demolish. Who wore the _tricolore_? Plunder their
houses. No you don't, no selling us to foreigners. They cannot
read, the people, they do not see that the print has changed. By
dint of cannon you can stop them. Stop them suddenly like a clock
dropped from a wall.
Venice! Venice! The star-wakes gleam and shatter in your still
canals, and the great horses pace forward, vigorous, unconcerned,
beautiful, treading your grief as they tread the passing winds.
The riot is over, but another may break out. A dead republic cannot
control its citizens. General Baraguey d'Hilliers is at Mestre. His
dragoons will keep order. Shame, nobles and abdicated Senate! But
can one blame the inactivity of the dead? French dragoons in little
boats. The 5th and 63rd of the line proceeding to Venice in forty
little boats. Grenadiers embarked for a funeral. Soldiers cracking
jokes, and steady oar-strokes, warping them over the water toward
Venice. A dark city, scarcely a lamp is lit. A match-spark slits
the darkness, a drummer is lighting his pipe. Ah, there are walls
ahead. The dull bones of the dead. Water swashes against marble.
They are in the canal, their voices echo from doors and porches.
Forty boats, and the bobble of them washes the water step and step
above its usual height on the stairways. "_C'est une église ça!_"
"_Mais, oui, Bêta, tu pensais pourtant pas que tu entrais en France.
Nous sommes dans une sale ville aristocratique, et je m'en fiche,
moi!_" Brave brigadier, spit into the canal, what else can a man of
the new order do to show his enlightenment. Two regiments of
seasoned soldiers, two regiments of free citizens, forty boat-loads
of thinking men to goad a moribund nation into the millennium. The
new century arriving with a flower in its button-hole, the
_carmagnole_ ousting the _furlana_. Perhaps--perhaps--but years pile
up and then collapse. Will gaps start between one and another?
Settle your gun-straps, 63rd of the line, we land here by the dim
shine of a lantern held by a bombardier. Tier and tier the soldiers
march through Venice. Their steps racket like the mallets of
marble-cutters in the narrow _calli_, and the sound of them over
bridges is the drum-beating of hard rain.
There are soldiers everywhere, Venice is stuffed with soldiers. They
are at the Arsenal, on the Rialto, at San Stefano, and four hundred
stack muskets, and hang their bearskins on the top of them, in the
middle of the Piazza.
Golden horses, the sound of violins is hushed, the pigeons who brush
past you in the red and rising sunlight have just been perching on
crossed bayonets. Set your faces to this army, advance toward them,
paw the air over their heads. They do not observe you--yet. You are
confounded with jewels, and leaves, and statues. You are a part of
the great church, even though you stand poised to leave it, and
already a sergeant has seen you. "_Tiens,_" says he, "_voilà les
quatre chevaux d'or. Ah, mais ils sont magnifiques! Et quelle drôle
d'idée de les avoir montés sur la Cathédrale._"
The century wanes, the moon-century is gnawed and eaten, but the feet
of the great horses stand upon its fragments, full-tilted to an
arrested advance, and the green corroding on their sides is hidden in
the glare of gold.
"For the honour and independence of the infant Cisalpine Republic,
the affectionate and loving Republic of France orders and commands--"
What does she command? Precisely, that the new Government shall walk
in solemn procession round the Piazza, and that a mass of
thanksgiving shall be celebrated in Saint Mark's Church and the image
of the Virgin exposed to the rejoicing congregation. Who would have
supposed that Venetians could be so dumb. The acclamations seem
mostly in the French tongue. Never mind, it takes more than a day to
translate a creed into a new language. Liberty is a great prize,
good Venetians, although it must be admitted that she appears in
disguise for the moment. She wears a mask, that is all, and you
should be accustomed to masks. The soldiers bask in the warm
sunshine, and doubtless the inhabitants bask in the sight of the
soldiers, but they conceal their satisfaction very adroitly. Still,
General Baraguey d'Hilliers has no doubt that it is there. This
liberation of a free people is a famous exploit. He is a bit nettled
at their apathy, for he has always heard that they were of a gay
temperament. "_Sacré Bleu!_ And we are giving them so much!"
Indeed, this giving is done with a magnificent generosity. It is
exactly on Ascension Day that Bonaparte writes from Montebello:
"Conformably to your desire, Citizens, I have ordered the
municipalities of Padua and Treviso to allow the passage of the
foodstuffs necessary to the provisionment of the town of Venice."
"Real and perpetual dominion," and now a boat-load of food is a
condescension! Pink and purple water, your little ripples jest at
these emblazoned palaces, your waves chuckle down the long Rivas, you
reflect the new flag of Venice which even the Dey of Algiers refuses
to respect, and patter your light heels upon it as on a
dancing-floor. There will be no more use for the _Bucentoro_, of
course. So rip off the gilding, pack up the mirrors, chop the
timbers into firewood. This is good work for soldiers with nothing
to do. There are other ships to be dismantled too, and some few
seaworthy enough to send to the army at Corfu. But if they have
taken away Ascension Day, the French will give Venice a new fête.
Ah! and one so beautiful! Beat the drums, ring the church-bells, set
up a Tree of Liberty in the Great Square, this fête is past telling.
So writes the Citizen Arnault, from his room in the _Queen of
England_ inn. He bites his pen, he looks out on the little canal
with its narrow bridge, he fusses with his watch-chain. It is not
easy to write to the bronze General. He dips in the ink and starts
again. "The people take no active part in what goes on here. They
have seen the lions fall without making any sign of joy." That
certainly is queer. Perhaps Citizen Arnault did not hear that
gondolier, who when they chiselled out "_Pax tibi, Marce, evangelista
meus_" on the lion's book, and chiselled in "_Diritti dell' uomo e
del cittadino_," exclaimed: "The lion has turned over a new leaf."
Does that sound like grief? Certainly not, think the French
soldiers, and yet the Doge's robes, the Golden Book, burn in silence,
until a corporal strikes up the "_Marseillaise_." They make a grand
blaze too; why, the boatmen far off in the hazy Lagoon can hear the
crackle of it snapping over the water. Then the columns! The
columns produce a lovely effect, one all wound with _tricolore_ flags
and with this inscription: "To the French, regenerators of Italy,
Venice grateful," on its front, and on the back, "Bonaparte." The
other is not so gay, but most proper and desirable. It is hung with
crêpe, and the letters read: "To the shade of the victim of
oligarchy, Venice sorrowful," and, "Laugier." To be sure there has
been considerable excitement, and the great green lion has been
thrown down and shattered in at least eighty fragments, but the
soldiers did it. The populace were simply stolid and staring.
Citizen Arnault fidgets in his chair. But other affairs march
better. He has found the only copy of Anacharsis which is known to
be in Venice; he is going to hunt for Homer, for he wants to put it
with the Ossian of Cesarotti which he has already taken from the
Library. Here his pen runs rapidly, he has an inspiration. "There
are four superb horses which the Venetians took when, in company with
the French, they sacked Constantinople. These horses are placed over
the portal of the Ducal Church. Have not the French some right to
claim them, or at least to accept them of Venetian gratitude?" The
bronze General has an eye to a man, witness this really excellent
plan. Fold your letter, Citizen. Press your fob down upon the seal.
You may feel proud as you ring for candles, no one will have hurt
Venice more than you.
The blue night softens the broken top of the column in the Piazzetta
where it juts against the sky. The violet night sifts shadows over
the white, mounting angels of Saint Mark's Church; it throws an
aureole of lilac over the star of Christ and melts it into the
glimmering dome behind. But upon the horses it clashes with the
glitter of steel. Blue striking gold, and together producing a
white-heart fire. Cold, as in great fire, hard as in new-kindled
fire, outlined as behind a flame which folds back upon itself in lack
of fuel, the great horses stand. They strain forward, they recoil
even when starting, they raise one foot and hold it lifted, and all
about them the stones of the jewelled church writhe, and convolute,
and glisten, and dash the foam of their tendrils against the clear
curve of the moulded flanks.
The Treaty of Campo Formio! A mask stripped off a Carnival figure,
and behold, the sneering face of death! What of the creed the French
were bringing the Venetians! Was it greed after all, or has a seed
been sown? If so, the flowering will be long delayed. The French
are leaving us, and almost we wish they would remain. For Austria!
What does it matter that the _Bucentoro_ is broken up; the lions from
the Piræus loaded into a vessel; books, parchments, pictures, packed
in travelling cases! What does anything matter! A gondolier snaps
his fingers: "_Francese non tutti ladri, ma Buona-parte!_" Hush, my
friend, that is a dangerous remark, for Madame Bonaparte has
descended upon Venice in a whirlwind of laughter, might have made
friends had she not been received in an overturned storehouse. But
she stays only three days, and the song of the gondoliers who row her
away can scarcely be heard for the hammering they make, putting up an
immense scaffolding in front of Saint Mark's Church. They have
erected poles too, and tackle. It is an awful nuisance, for soldiers
are not skilled in carpenter work, and no Venetian will lend a hand.
A grand ship sails for Toulon as soon as the horses are on board.
Golden horses, at last you leave your pedestals, you swing in the
blue-and-silver air, you paw the reflections flung by rippled water,
and the starved pigeons whirl about you chattering.
One--one--one--one! The tackle creaks, the little squeaks of the
pigeons are sharp and pitiful. A gash in the front of the great
Church. A blank window framing nothing. The leaves of the
sculptures curl, the swirling angels mount steadily, the star of
Christ is the pointed jet of a flame, but the horses drop--drop--
They descend slowly, they jerk, and stop, and start again, and
one--one--one--one--they touch the pavement. Women throw shawls over
their heads and weep; men pull off their caps and mutter prayers and
imprecations. Then silently they form into a procession and march
after the hand-carts, down to the quay, down to the waiting vessel.
Slow feet following to a grave. Here is a sign, but hardly of joy.
This is a march of mourning. Depart, vessel, draw out over the
bright Lagoon, grow faint, vague, blur and disappear. The murder is
accomplished. To-morrow come the Austrians.
_BONFIRES BURN PURPLE_
_Then the energy which peoples the Earth crystallized into a single
man. And this man was Water, and Fire, and Flesh. His core had the
strength of metal, and the hardness of metal was in his actions, and
upon him the sun struck as upon polished metal. So he went to and
fro among the nations, gleaming as with jewels. Of himself were the
monuments he erected, and his laws were engraved tablets of fairest
bronze. But there grew a great terror among the lesser peoples of
the Earth, and they ran hither and yon like the ants, they swarmed
like beetles, and they saw themselves impotent, merely making tracks
in sand. Now as speed is heat, so did this man soften with the haste
of his going. For Fire is supreme even over metal, and the Fire in
him overcame the strong metal, so that his limbs failed, and his
brain was hot and molten. Then was he consumed, but those of his
monuments which harboured not Fire, and were without spirit, and
cold, these endured. In the midst of leaping flame, they kept their
semblances, and turning many colours in heat, still they cooled as
the Fire cooled. For metal is unassailable from without, only a
spark in the mid-most circle can force a double action which pours it
into Water, and volatilizes it into Air, and sifts it to ashes which
are Earth. For man can fashion effigies, but the spark of Life he
can neither infuse nor control._
_As a sharp sun this man passed across his century, and of the
cenotaphs of his burning, some remain as a shadow of splendour in the
streets of his city, but others have returned whence he gathered
them, for the years of these are many and the touch of kings upon
them is as the dropping of particles of dust._
VENICE AGAIN
Sunday evening, May 23, 1915. A beautiful Sunday evening with the
Lagoon just going purple, and the angel on the tip of the new
Campanile dissolved to a spurt of crocus-coloured flame. Up into the
plum-green sky mount the angels of the Basilica of Saint Mark, their
wings, curved up and feathered to the fragility of a blowing leaf,
making incisive stabs of whiteness against the sky.
An organ moans in the great nave, and the high voices of choristers
float out through the open door and surge down the long Piazza. The
chugging of a motor-boat breaks into the chant, swirls it, churns
upon it, and fades to a distant pulsing down the Grand Canal. The
Campanile angel goes suddenly crimson, pales to rose, dies out in
lilac, and remains dark, almost invisible, until the starting of
stars behind it gives it a new solidity in hiding them.
In the warm twilight, the little white tables of the Café Florian are
like petals dropped from the rose of the moon. For a moment they are
weird and magical, but the abrupt glare of electric lights touches
them back into mere tables: mere tables, flecked with coffee-cups and
liqueur-glasses; mere tables, crumpling the lower halves of
newspapers with their hard edges; mere tables, where gesticulating
arms rest their elbows, and ice-cream plates nearly meet disaster in
the excitement of a heated discussion. Venice discusses. What will
the Government do? Austria has asked that her troops might cross
over Italian territory, South of Switzerland, in order to attack the
French frontier. Austria! "I tell you, Luigi, that alliance the
Government made with the Central Powers was a ghastly blunder. You
could never have got Italians to fight on the side of Austrians.
Blood is thicker than ink, fortunately. But we are ready, thanks to
Commandante Cadorna. It was a foregone conclusion, ever since we
refused passage to their troops." "I saw Signor Colsanto, yesterday.
He told me that the order had come from the General Board of
Antiquities and Fine Arts to remove everything possible to Rome, and
protect what can't be moved. He begins the work to-morrow." "He
does! Well, that tells us. Here, Boy, Boy, give me a paper. Listen
to that roar! There you are, _cinque centesimi_. Well, we're off,
Luigi. It's declared. Italy at war with Austria again. Thank God,
we've wiped off the stain of that abominable treaty." With heads
bared, the crowd stands, and shouts, and cheers, and the pigeons
fleer away in frightened circles to the sculptured porticoes of the
Basilica. The crowd bursts into a sweeping song. A great patriotic
chorus. It echoes from side to side of the Piazza, it runs down the
colonnades of the Procuratie like a splashing tide, it dashes upon
the arched portals of Saint Mark's and flicks upward in jets of
broken music. Wild, shooting, rolling music; vibrant, solemn,
dedicated music; throbbing music flung out of loud-pounding hearts.
The Piazza holds the sound of it and lifts it up as one raises an
offering before an altar. Higher--higher--the song is lifted, it
engulfs the four golden horses over the centre door of the church.
The horses are as brazen cymbals crashing back the great song in a
cadence of struck metal, the carven capitals are fluted reeds to this
mighty anthem, the architraves bandy it to and fro in revolving
canons of harmony. Up, up, spires the song, and the mounting angels
call it to one another in an ascending scale even to the star of fire
on the topmost pinnacle which is the Christ, even into the distant
sky where it curves up and over falling down to the four horizons, to
the highest point of the aconite-blue sky, the sky of the Kingdom of
Italy.
Garibaldi's Hymn! For war is declared and Italy has joined the
Allies!
Soft night falling upon Venice. Summer night over the moon-city, the
flower-city. _Fiore di Mare!_ Garden of lights in the midst of dark
waters, your star-blossoms will be quenched, the strings of your
guitars will snap and slacken. Nights, you will gird on strange
armour, and grow loud and strident. But now-- The gilded horses
shimmer above the portico of Saint Mark's! How still they are, and
powerful. Pride, motion, activity set in a frozen patience.
Suddenly--Boom! A signal gun. Then immediately the shrill shriek of
a steam whistle, and another, and whistles and whistles, from
factories and boats, yawling, snarling, mewling, screeching, a
cracked cacophony of horror.