VENICE
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enice anadyomene! City of reflections! A cloud of rose and violetpoised upon a changing sea. City of soft waters washing marblestairways, of feet moving over stones with the continuous sound ofslipping water. Floating, wavering city, shot through with thesilver threads of water, woven with the green-gold of flowing water,your marble Rivas block the tides as they sweep in over the Lagoons,your towers fling golden figures of Fortune into the carnation sky atsunset, the polished marble of the walls of old palaces burns red tothe flaring torches set in cressets before your doors. Strange city,belonging neither to earth nor water, where the slender spandrels ofvines melt into the carvings of arched windows, and crabs ferrythemselves through the moon-green water rippling over the steps of adecaying church. Beautiful, faded city. The sea wind has dimmed your Orientalextravagance to an iris of rose, and amber, and lilac. You are dimand reminiscent like the frayed hangings of your State Chambers, andthe stucco of your house-fronts crumbles into the canals with agentle dripping which no one notices. A tabernacle set in glass, an ivory ornament resting upon a table ofpolished steel. It is the surface of the sea, spangled, crinkled,engine-turned to whorls of blue and silver, ridged in waves offlower-green and gold. Sequins of gold skip upon the water,crocus-yellow flames dart against white smoothness and disappear,wafers of many colours float and intermingle. The Lagoons are awhite fire burning to the blue band of the Lido, restlessly shiftingunder the cool, still, faint peaks of the Euganean Hills. Where is there such another city? She has taken all the Orient toherself. She has treated with Barbarossa, with Palæologus, with thePope, the Tzar, the Caliph, the Sultan, and the Grand Khan. Herreturning vessels have discharged upon the mole metals and jewels,pearls from the Gulf of Oman, silks from Damascus, camel's-hairfabrics from Erzeroum. The columns of Saint John of Acre have beenlanded on her jetties, and the great lions from the Piræus. Now sherests and glitters, holding her treasures lightly, taking them forgranted, chatting among the fringes, and tinkling sherbet spoons ofan evening in the dark shadow of the Campanile. Up from the flickering water, beyond the laced colonnades of theDucal Palace--golden bubbles, lung out upon a sky of ripe blue.Arches of white and scarlet flowers, pillars of porphyry, columns ofjasper, open loggias of deep-green serpentine flaked with snow. Inthe architraves, stones chipped and patterned, the blues studded withgreens, the greens circling round yellows, reds of every depth, clearpurples, heliotropes clouded into a vague white. Above them, allabout them, the restless movement of carven stone; it is involutedand grotesque, it is acanthus leaves and roses, it is palm branchesand vine tendrils, it is feathers and the tails of birds, all blowingon a day of _scirocco_. Angels rise among the swirling acanthusleaves, angels and leaves weaving an upstarting line, ending in thegreat star of Christ struck upon the edge of a golden dome. SaintMark's Church, gazing down the length of the chequered Piazza,thrusting itself upon the black and white pavement, rising out of theflat tiles in a rattle of colours, soaring toward the full sky like abroken prism whirling at last into the gold bubbles of its five widedomes. The Campanile mounts above it, but the Campanile is onlybrick, even if it has a pointed top which you cannot see withoutlying on your back. The pigeons can fly up to it, but the pigeonsprefer the angles and hollows of the sculptured church. Saint Mark's Church--and over the chief arch, among the capitals offoaming leaves and bent grasses, trample four great horses. They areof gold, of gilding so fine that it has not faded. They aretarnished here and there, but their fair colour overcomes the greencorroding and is a blinding to the eyes in sunshine. Fourmagnificent, muscular horses, lightly stepping upon traceriedcolumns, one forefoot raised to launch them forward. They stand overthe high door, caught back a moment before springing, held an instantto the perfection of a movement about to begin, and the pigeonscircle round them brushing against their sides like wind. But, dear me, Saint Mark's is the only thing in the Piazza that isnot talking, and walking to and fro, and cheapening shoe buckles at astall, and playing panfil and bassetta at little round tables by thewall, and singing to guitars, and whistling to poodles, and shoutingto acquaintances, and giving orders to servants, and whispering ascandal behind fans, and carrying tomatoes in copper pans, and flyingon messages, and lying to creditors, and spying on suspects, andcolliding with masked loungers, and crying out the merits of friedfish, caught when the tide comes leaping through the Tre Porti. Adish of tea at a coffee-house, and then cross one leg over the otherand wait. She will be here by seven o'clock, and a faithful_cicisbeo_ has her charms to muse upon until then. Ah, Venice,chattering, flattering, occupied Venice, what are the sculpturedangels and golden horses to you. You are far too busy to glance atthem. They are chiefly remarkable as curiosities, for whoever saw areal angel, and as to a real horse--"I saw a stuffed one for a_soldo_, the other day, in the Campo San Polo. _Un elephanto_,Gastone, taller than my shoulder and the eyes were made of glass,they would pass for perfect any day." Ah, the beautiful palaces, with their gateways of gilded iron frilledinto arms and coronets, quilled into shooting leaves and tendrils,filled with rosettes, fretted by heraldic emblems! Ah, the beautifultaste, which wastes no time on heavy stone, but cuts flowers, andfoliage, and flourishes, and ribbons out of--stucco! Bows of stuccoglued about a ceiling by Tiepolo, and ranged underneath, frailwhite-and-gold, rose-and-gold, green-and-gold chairs, fair consolesof polished lacquer supporting great mirrors of Murano. Hangings ofblue silk with silver fringes, behind your folds, la Signora Benzonaaccords a favour to the Cavalier Giuseppe Trevis. Upon asalmon-coloured sofa striped with pistachio-green, the CavalieraContarini flirts with both her _cicisbei_ at once, in a charmingimpartiality. Kisses? Ah, indeed, certainly kisses. Hands ticklingagainst hands? But assuredly, one for each of you. The heel of aleft slipper caught against a buckled shoe, the toe of a right footpressed beneath a broader sole; but the toll is finished. "Tut!Tut! Gentlemen! With the other present! Have you no delicacy?To-night perhaps, after the Ridotto, we will take a giro in mygondola as far as Malamocco, Signor Bianchi. And to-morrow, CarloPin, will you go to church with me? There is something in the tonesof an organ, I know not what exactly, but it has its effect." "You rang, _Illustrissima_?" "Of course I rang, Stupid, did youthink it was the cat?" "Your nobility desires?" "The time,Blockhead, what is the time?" "Past seven, _Illustrissima_." "YeGods, how time passes when one sleeps! Bring my chocolate at once,and call Giannina." With a yawn, the lady rises, just as the sunfades away from the flying figure of Fortune on the top of theDogana. "Candles, Moracchio." And the misty mirrors prick andpulsate with reflections of blurred flame. Flame-points, and behindthem the puce-coloured curtains of a bed; an escritoire withfeathered pens and Spanish wax; a table with rouge-pots andpowder-boxes; a lady, naked as a Venus, slipping into a silk shift.In the misty mirrors, she is all curves and colour, all slendernessand tapering, all languor and vivacity. Even Giannina murmurs, "_Chebella Madonna mia!_" as she pulls the shift into place. But the dooris ajar, a mere harmless crack to make a fuss about. "Only one eye,_Cara Mia_, I assure you the other saw nothing but the panel. I askfor so much, and I have only taken the pleasure of one little eye. Imust kiss them, _Signora Bellissima_, two little red berries, likethe fruit of the _potentillas_ in the grass at Sant' Elena. _Musica!Musica!_ The barque of music is coming down the canal. Sit on myknee a moment, the Casino can wait; and after you have won a thousandzecchini, will you be a second Danae and go with me to the earlymorning market? Then you shall come home and sleep all day in thegreat bed among the roses I shall buy for you. With your gold?Perhaps, my dearest tease, the luck has deserted me lately. Butthere are ways of paying, are there not, and I am an honourable man." The great horses of Saint Mark's trot softly forward on theirsculptured pedestals, without moving. Behind them, the glass of thearched window is dark, but the Piazza is a bowl of lights, atambourine of little bell-stroke laughter. The golden horses stepforward, dimly shimmering in the light of the lamps below, and thepigeons sleep quietly on the stands at their feet. Green Lion of Saint Mark upon your high pedestal! Winged Lion ofSaint Mark, your head turned over the blinding Lagoons to the blueLido, your tail pointing down the sweeping flow of the Grand Canal!What do you see, Green Lion of the Patron Saint? Boats? Masts?Quaint paintings on the broad bows of bragozzi, orange sailscontra-crossing one another over tossing ripples. Gondolas tippingto the oars of the _barcajuoli_, slipping under the Ponte dellaPaglia, dipping between sardine _topi_, skipping past the Piazzetta,curving away to the Giudecca, where it lies beyond the crystalpinnacles of Santa Maria della Salute and San Giorgio Maggiore whichhas the lustre of roses. What do you smell, Lion? Boiling hot chestnuts, fried cuttles, friedpuffs of pastry; the pungent odour of salt water and of dead fish;the nostalgic aroma of sandal-wood and myrrh, of musk, of leopardskins and the twin tusks of elephants. And you, great Lion of the Ducal Palace, what goes on at your feet?People knotted together or scattering, pattering over the old stonesin impertinent satin slippers, flippantly tapping the pavement withred heels. Whirls of people circle like the pigeons, knots of peoplespot the greyness of the stones, ribbons of people file along thecolonnades, rayed lines of people between the Procuratie stripe thepavement sideways, criss-cross, at oblique angles. Spangles snap andfade; gems glitter. A gentleman in a buttercup-coloured coat goes bywith a bouquet. A sea-green gown brocaded with cherry and violetstays an instant before a stall to buy a packet of ambergris.Pilgrims with staffs and cockles knock the stones as they shufflealong, a water-carrier shouts out a song. A scarlet sacristanjingles his keys; purple robes of justices saunter at ease. MesserGoldoni hustles by to a rehearsal, and three famous _castrati_, iSignori Pacchierotti, Aprili, Rubenelli, rustle their mantles andadjust their masks, ogling the ladies with gold lorgnons. Blind mensniffle into flageolets, marionette men hurry on to a distant Campoin a flurry of cotton streamers. If Venice is a flowing of water, itis also a flowing of people. All Europe runs into this wide square.There is Monsieur Montesquieu, just from France, taking notes on thesly; there is Mrs. Piozzi, from England, with an eye to everything,even chicken-coops; Herr Goethe, from the Court at Weimar, trying toovercome a fit of mental indigestion; Madame Vigée le Brun,questioning the merit of her work and that of Rosalba Carriera. Youhave much to watch, Lion, the whole earth cannot match the pageant ofthis great square, in the limpid sun-shot air, between the toweringCampanile and the blaze of Saint Mark's angels. Star-fish patterns,jelly-fish rounds of colour, if the sea quivers with variety so doesthe Piazza. But above, on the façade of the jewelled church, thehorses do not change. They stand vigorous and immovable, steppinglightly as though poised upon glass. Metal horses set upon shiftingshards of glass, and the soft diphthongs of the Venetian dialectfloat over them like wind. There are two Venices, the one we walk upon, and the one which waversup to us inverted from the water of the canals. The silver prow of agondola winds round a wall, and in the moss-brown water anothergondola joins it, bottom to bottom, with the teeth of the prowinfinitely repeated. A cypress closes the end of a _rio_, and driveninto the thick water another cypress spindles beneath us, and thewake of our boat leaves its foliage cut to tatters as it passes on.We plough through the veined pinks and subdued scarlets of thefaçades of palaces; we sheer a path through a spotted sky and bluntthe tip of a soaring campanile. Are we swimming in the heavens,turned legend and constellation? Truly it seems so. "How you go on,Cavalier, certainly you are a foreigner to notice such things. TheLido, Giuseppe. I have a nostalgia for flowers to-day, and besides,abroad so early in the afternoon--what shocking style! The custom ofthe country, my dear Sir, here we go to bed by sunlight as you willsee." Sweep out of the broad canal, turn to the hanging snow summits. Oh,the beautiful silver light, the blue light shimmering with silver.The clear sunlight on rose brick and amber marble. The sky so paleit is white, so bright it is yellow, so cloudless it is blue. Oh,the shafts of sapphire striping the wide water, the specks of golddancing along it, the diamond roses opening and shutting upon itssurface! Some one is singing in a distant boat: "_Amanti, ci vuole costanza in amor'Amando,Penando,Si speri, si, si._" The lady shrugs her shoulders. "These fishermen are very droll.What do the _canaglia_ know about love. Breeding, yes, that iscertainly their affair, but love! _Più presto_, Giuseppe. How thesun burns!" Rock over the streaked Lagoon, gondola, pock the bluestrips with white, shock purple shadows through the silver strata,set blocks of iris cannoning against gold. This is the rainbow overwhich we are floating, and the heart-shaped city behind us is areliquary of old ivory laid upon azure silk. Your hand, Signor theForeigner, be careful lest she wet those fine French stockings, theycost I do not know how much a pair. Now run away across the Lido,gathering violets and periwinkles. The lady has a whim for a_villeggiatura_, and why not? Those scarlet pomegranate blossomswill look well in her hair to-night at the opera. But one cannotlinger long, already the Dolomites are turning pink, and there is awhole night ahead of us to be cajoled somehow. A mile away fromVenice and it is too far. "_Felicissima notte!_" Wax candles shinein the windows. The little stars of the gondola lanterns glidebetween dark walls. Broken moonlight shivers in the canals. And themasks come out, thronging the streets and squares with a chequer-workof black cloaks and white faces. Little white faces floating likepond-lilies above the water. Floating faces adrift over unfathomabledepths. Have you ever heard the words, _Libertà, Independenza, eEguaglianza_? "What stuff and nonsense! Of course I have read yourgreat writer, Rousseau; I cried my heart out over '_La NouvelleHéloise_,' but in practice! Wake my servants, the lazy fellows arealways asleep, you will find them curled up on the stairs mostlikely. It is time we went to the _Mendicanti_ to hear the oratorio.Ah, but those poor orphans sing with a charm! It makes one weep tohear them, only the old _Maestro di Capella_ will beat time with hismusic on the grill. It is quite ridiculous, they could go through itperfectly without him. _Misericordia!_ The red light! That is thegondola of the Supreme Tribunal taking some poor soul to the Piombi;God protect him! But it does not concern us, my friend. _Ridiamo aduetto!_" Little tinkling drops from the oars of the boatmen, littletinkling laughter wafted across the moonlight. Four horses parading in front of a splendid church. Four ancienthorses with ears pointed forward, listening. One foot is raised,they advance without moving. To what do they listen? To theserenades they have heard so often? _Cavatine, canzonette_, dancesongs, hymns, for six hundred years the songs of Venice have driftedpast them, lightly, as the wings of pigeons. And month by month theold moon has sailed over them, as she did in Constantinople, as shedid in Rome. Saint Stephen's Day, and the Carnival! For weeks now Venice will beamused. Folly to think of anything but fun. Toot the fifes! Bangthe drums! Did you ever see anything so jolly in all your lifebefore? Keep your elbows to your sides, there isn't room to squarethem. "My! What a flare! Rockets in broad daylight! I declarethey make the old horses of Saint Mark's blush pink when they burst.Thirsty? So am I, what will you have? Wine or oranges? Don'tjostle so, old fellow, we can look in the window as well as you. Seethat apothecary's stall, isn't that a gay festoon? Curse me, if itisn't made of leeches; what will these shopkeepers do next! Thatmask has a well-turned ankle. Good evening, my charmer. You are asbeautiful as a parrot, as white as linen, as light as a rabbit. Ay!O-o-h! The she-camel! She aimed her _confetti_ right at my eye.Come on, Tito, let's go and see them behead the bull. Hold on aminute though, somebody's pulling my cloak. Just one little squeeze,Beauty, you shouldn't tweak a man's cloak if you don't want to besqueezed. You plump little pudding, you little pecking pigeon, I'llget more next time. Wow! Here comes Arlecchino. Push back, pushback, the comedians are coming. Stow in your fat belly,_'lustrissimo_, you take up room enough for two." Somebody beats a gong, and three drummers cleave a path through thecrowd. Bang! _Bang!_ BANG! So loud it splits the hearing.Mattachino leaps down the path. He is in white, with red lacings andred shoes. On his arm is a basket of eggs. Right, left, into thecrowd, skim the eggs. Duck--jump--it is no use. Plump, on someone's front; pat, against some one's hat. The eggs crack, andscented waters run out of them, filling the air with the sweet smellsof musk and bergamot. But here is a wheel of colours rolling downthe path. Clown! Clown! It is Arlecchino, in his patched coat. Itwas green and he has botched it with red, or is it yellow, orpossibly blue. It is hard to tell, he turns so fast. Threesomersaults, and he comes up standing, and makes a long nose, andsweeps off his hat with the hare's fud, and glares solemnly into theeyes of a gentleman in spectacles. "Sir," says Arlecchino, "have youby chance a toothache? I can tell you how to cure it. Take anapple, cut it into four equal parts, put one of these into yourmouth, and thrust your head into an oven until the apple is baked. Iswear on my honour you will never have the toothache again." Zip!Sizz! No use in the cane. A pirouette and he is away again. Ahand-spring, a double cut-under, and the parti-coloured rags are onlya tag bouncing up out of surging black mantles. But there issomething more wonderful yet. Set your faces to the Piazzetta,people; push, slam, jam, to keep your places. "A balloon is going upfrom the Dogana del Mare, a balloon like a moon or something elsestarry. A meteor, a comet, I don't really know what; it looks, sothey say, like a huge apricot, or a pear--yes, that's surely thething--blushing red, mellow yellow, a fruit on the wing, garlandedwith streamers and tails, all a-whirl and a-flutter. Cut the stringand she sails, till she lands in the gutter." "How do you know shelands in the gutter, Booby?" "Where else should she land, unless inthe sea?" "You're a fool, I suppose you sat up all night writingthat doggerel." "Not at all, it is an improvisation." "Here, keepback, you can't push past me with your talk. Oh! Look! Look!" That is a balloon. It rises slowly--slowly--above the Dogana. Itwavers, dips, and poises; it mounts in the silver air, it floatswithout direction; suspended in movement, it hangs, a clear pear ofred and yellow, opposite the melting, opal-tinted city. And thereflection of it also floats, perfect in colour but cooler, perfectin outline but more vague, in the glassy water of the Grand Canal.The blue sky sustains it; the blue water encloses it. Then balloonand reflection swing gently seaward. One ascends, the otherdescends. Each dwindles to a speck. Ah, the semblance is gone, thewater has nothing; but the sky focusses about a point of fire, aformless iridescence sailing higher, become a mere burning, untilthat too is absorbed in the brilliance of the clouds. You cheer, people, but you do not know for what. A beautiful toy?Undoubtedly you think so. Shout yourselves hoarse, you who haveconquered the sea, do you underestimate the air? Joke, laugh,purblind populace. You have been vouchsafed an awful vision, and youdo nothing but clap your hands. That is over, and here is Pantalone calling to you. "Going--going--Iam selling my furniture. Two dozen chairs of fine holland; fourteentables of almond paste; six majolica mattresses full of scrapings ofhaycocks; a semolina bedcover; six truffled cushions; two pavilionsof spider-web trimmed with tassels made from the moustaches of Swissdoor-keepers. Oh! The Moon! The Moon! The good little yellowmoon, no bigger than an omelet of eight eggs. Come, I will throw inthe moon. A quarter-ducat for the moon, good people. Take youropportunity." Great gold horses, quietly stepping above the little mandarinfigures, strong horses above the whirling porcelain figures, are thepigeons the only birds in Venice? Have the swallows told younothing, flying from the West? The bells of Saint Mark's Church ring midnight. The carnival is over. In the deserted square, the pavement is littered with feathers,_confetti_, orange-peel, and pumpkin-seeds. But the golden horses onthe balcony over the high door trot forward, without moving, and theshadow of the arch above them is thrown farther and farther forwardas the moon drops toward the Lagoon. Bronze armies marching on a sea-shell city. Slanted muskets filingover the passes of tall Alps. Who is this man who leads you, carvenin new bronze, supple as metal still cooling, firm as metal from afresh-broken mold? A bright bronze general heading armies. Thetread of his grenadiers is awful, continuous. How will it be in thestreets of the glass city? These men are the flying letters of a newgospel. They are the tablets of another law. Twenty-eight, thisgeneral! Ah, but the metal is well compounded. He has beenvictorious in fourteen pitched battles and seventy fights; he hastaken five hundred field pieces, and two thousand of heavy calibre;he has sent thirty millions back to the treasury of France. TheKings of Naples and Sardinia write him friendly letters; the Pope andthe Duke of Parma weary themselves with compliments. The Englishhave retired from Genoa, Leghorn, and Corsica. Little glass masks, have you heard nothing of this man? What of thenew French ambassador, Citizen Lallemont? You have seen hisgondoliers and the _tricolore_ cockade in their caps? It is apuzzling business, but you can hardly expect us to be alarmed, wehave been a republic for centuries. Still, these new ideas areintriguing, they say several gentlemen have adopted them. "AlvisePisani, my Dear, and Abbate Colalto, also Bragadin, and Soranza, andLabbia. Oh, there was much talk about it last night. Such strangenotions! But the cockade is very pretty. I have the ribbon, and Iam going to make a few. Signora Fontana gave me the pattern." Columbus discovered America. Ah, it was then you should have madeyour cockades. Is it Bonaparte or the Cape of Good Hope which hascompassed your destiny? Little porcelain figures, can you stand theshock of bronze? No, evidently. The quills of the Senate secretaries are worn blunt,writing note after note to the General of the Armies. But still hemarches forward, and his soldiers, dressed as peasants, have invadedBreschia and Bergamo. And what a man! Never satisfied. He musthave this--that--and other things as well. He must have guns,cannon, horses, mules, food, forage. What is all this talk of aCisalpine Republic? The Senate wavers like so many sea anemones inan advancing tide. Ascension Day is approaching. Shall the Doge goin the _Bucentoro_ to wed the sea "in token of real and perpetualdominion"? The Senate dictates, the secretaries write, and the_Arsenalotti_ polish the brasses of the _Bucentoro_ and wait.Brightly shine the overpolished brasses of the _Bucentoro_, but theships in the Arsenal are in bad repair and the crews wanting. It is Holy Saturday in Venice, and solemn processions march to thechurches. The slow chanting of choirs rises above the floating city,but in the Citizen Lallemont's apartments is a jangling of spurredheels, a clanking of cavalry sabres. General Junot arrived in thesmall hours of the night. Holy Saturday is nothing to a reformedFrenchman; the General's business will not wait, he must see theSignory at once. Desert your churches, convene the College in haste.A bronze man cannot be opposed by a Senate of glass. Is it forfantasy that so many people are wearing the _tricolore_, or is itpoliteness to the visiting general? But what does he say? Frenchsoldiers murdered! Nonsense, a mere street row between Bergamese.But Junot thunders and clanks his sabre. A sword is a terrible thingin a cabinet of biscuit figurines. Let that pass. He has gone. ButVenice is shaken. The stately palaces totter on their rotting piles,the _campi_ buzz with voices, the Piazza undulates to a gesticulatingmultitude. Only the pigeons wheel unconcernedly about the Campanile,and the great horses stand, poised and majestic, beneath the mountingangels of Saint Mark's Church. Ascension Day draws nearer. The brasses of the _Bucentoro_ shinelike gold. Surely the Doge will not desert his bride; or has thejilt tired of her long subjection? False water, upon your breastrock many navies, how should you remain true to a ship which fears towet its keel. The _Bucentoro_ glitters in the Arsenal, she blazeswith glass and gilding drawn up safely on a runway of dry planks,while over the sea, beyond the Lido, rises the spark of sails. Thevessel is hull down, but the tiers of canvas lift up, one after theother: skysails, royals, topgallantsails, topsails, mainsails, and atlast, the woodwork. Then gleaming ports, then streaming waterflashed from a curved bow. A good ship, but she flys the_tricolore_. This is no wedding barge, there is no winged lion onthat flag. There is no music, no choir singing hymns. Men run toand fro in San Nicolo Fort, peering through spy-glasses. Ah, shewill observe the rules, the skysails come down, then the royals--butwhy in thunder do not the topgallantsails follow? The fellow iscoming right under the fort. Guns. He salutes. Answer from thefort. Citizen Lallemont has agreed that no French vessel shall enterthe port, even the English do not attempt it. But the son of a dogcomes on. Send out boats, Comandatore Pizzamano. _Per Dio_, he ispassing them! Touch off the cannon as a warning. One shot. Two.Some one is on the poop with a speaking-trumpet. "What ship isthat?" "_Le Libérateur d'Italie. Le Capitaine Laugier. Marine dela 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 ispast the fort. She has slipped through the entrance; she is in theLagoon. Her forefoot cuts the diamond water, she sheers her waythrough the calm colour reflections, her bow points straight at therose and violet city swimming under the light clouds of earlyafternoon. Shock! Shiver! Foul of a Venetian galley, by all that'sholy. What beastly seamanship! The Venetians will not stand it, Itell you. Pop! Pop! Those are muskets, drop on them withcutlasses, _mes enfants_. Chop into the cursed foreigners. "_Nonvogliamo forestieri qui._" Boom! The cannon of Fort Sant' Andrea.Good guns, well pointed, the smoke from them draws a shade over thewater. Down come the topgallantsails. You have paid a price foryour entrance, Captain Laugier, but it is not enough. "_Viva SanMarco!_" Detestable voices, these Venetians. That cry is confusing.Puff! The smoke goes by. Three marines have fallen. The cannonfire at intervals of two minutes. Hot work under a burning sky. Hotwork on a burning deck. The smoothness of the water is flecked withbits of wood. A dead body rolls overboard, and bobs up and downbeside the ships. A sailor slips from a yard, and is spiked on anupturned bayonet. Over the water comes the pealing of many bells.Captain Laugier is dead, and the city tolls his requiem. Strike yourcolours, beaten Frenchmen. Bronze cannot walk upon the sea. Youhave failed and succeeded, for upon your Captain's fallen body thebronze feet have found their bridge. Do you rejoice, old Arsenal? Acaptive ship towed up to you again! Ah, the cannon firing hasbrought the rain. Yes, and thunder too, and in the thunder a voiceof bronze. The _Bucentoro_ will not take the water this year. Coverup the brasses, _Arsenalotti_. Ascension Day is nothing to Venicenow. Yesterday this was matter for rejoicing, but to-day... Get the bestrowers, order relays of horses on the mainland, post hot foot to theCommissioners at Gratz. One ship is nothing, but if they sendtwenty! What has the bronze General already said to theCommissioners. The Senate wonders, and wears itself out inspeculation. They will give money, they will plunder the pockets ofthe populace to save Venice. Can a child save his toys when manhoodis 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 Generalcutting the Commissioners short in a sort of fury. "I wish no moreInquisition, no more Senate. I will be an Attila for Venice. Thisgovernment is old; it must fall!" Pretty words from bronze toporcelain. A stain on a brave, new gospel. "Save Venice," theletter urges, and the Commissioners depart for Trieste. But thedoors are locked. The General blocks his entrances. "I cannotreceive you, Gentlemen, you and your Senate are disgusting to theFrench blood." A pantomime before a temple, with a priest acting thepart of chief comedian. Strange burlesque, arabesquing thecharacters of a creed. You think this man is a greedy conqueror. Gohome, thinking. Your moment flutters off the calendar, your worlddissolves and another takes its place. This is the cock-crow ofghosts. Slowly pass up the canal, slowly enter the Ducal Palace.Debate, everlastingly debate. And while you quibble thecommunication with the continent is cut. He has declared war, the bronze General. What can be done? Thelittle glass figures crack under the strain. Condulmer will notfight. Pesaro flees to Austria. So the measure awaits a vote. Agrave Senate consulting a ballot-box as to whether it shall cut itsthroat. This is not suicide, but murder; this is not murder, but theturned leaf of an almanac. "Divide! Divide!" What is the writingon the other side? "_Viva la Libertà_," shouts General Salimbenifrom a window. Stupid crowd, it will not give a cheer. It is queerwhat an unconscionable objection people have to dying. "_Viva SanMarco!_" shouts General Salimbeni. Ah, now you hear! Such a racket,and the old lion flag hoisted everywhere. But that was a rash thingto do. It brings the crash. They fight, fight for old Saint Mark,they smash, burn, demolish. Who wore the _tricolore_? Plunder theirhouses. No you don't, no selling us to foreigners. They cannotread, the people, they do not see that the print has changed. Bydint of cannon you can stop them. Stop them suddenly like a clockdropped from a wall. Venice! Venice! The star-wakes gleam and shatter in your stillcanals, 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 cannotcontrol its citizens. General Baraguey d'Hilliers is at Mestre. Hisdragoons will keep order. Shame, nobles and abdicated Senate! Butcan one blame the inactivity of the dead? French dragoons in littleboats. The 5th and 63rd of the line proceeding to Venice in fortylittle boats. Grenadiers embarked for a funeral. Soldiers crackingjokes, and steady oar-strokes, warping them over the water towardVenice. A dark city, scarcely a lamp is lit. A match-spark slitsthe darkness, a drummer is lighting his pipe. Ah, there are wallsahead. 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 stepabove 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 ofthe new order do to show his enlightenment. Two regiments ofseasoned soldiers, two regiments of free citizens, forty boat-loadsof thinking men to goad a moribund nation into the millennium. Thenew century arriving with a flower in its button-hole, the_carmagnole_ ousting the _furlana_. Perhaps--perhaps--but years pileup and then collapse. Will gaps start between one and another?Settle your gun-straps, 63rd of the line, we land here by the dimshine of a lantern held by a bombardier. Tier and tier the soldiersmarch through Venice. Their steps racket like the mallets ofmarble-cutters in the narrow _calli_, and the sound of them overbridges is the drum-beating of hard rain. There are soldiers everywhere, Venice is stuffed with soldiers. Theyare at the Arsenal, on the Rialto, at San Stefano, and four hundredstack muskets, and hang their bearskins on the top of them, in themiddle of the Piazza. Golden horses, the sound of violins is hushed, the pigeons who brushpast you in the red and rising sunlight have just been perching oncrossed bayonets. Set your faces to this army, advance toward them,paw the air over their heads. They do not observe you--yet. You areconfounded with jewels, and leaves, and statues. You are a part ofthe great church, even though you stand poised to leave it, andalready a sergeant has seen you. "_Tiens,_" says he, "_voilà lesquatre chevaux d'or. Ah, mais ils sont magnifiques! Et quelle drôled'idée de les avoir montés sur la Cathédrale._" The century wanes, the moon-century is gnawed and eaten, but the feetof the great horses stand upon its fragments, full-tilted to anarrested advance, and the green corroding on their sides is hidden inthe 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 walkin solemn procession round the Piazza, and that a mass ofthanksgiving shall be celebrated in Saint Mark's Church and the imageof the Virgin exposed to the rejoicing congregation. Who would havesupposed that Venetians could be so dumb. The acclamations seemmostly in the French tongue. Never mind, it takes more than a day totranslate a creed into a new language. Liberty is a great prize,good Venetians, although it must be admitted that she appears indisguise for the moment. She wears a mask, that is all, and youshould be accustomed to masks. The soldiers bask in the warmsunshine, and doubtless the inhabitants bask in the sight of thesoldiers, but they conceal their satisfaction very adroitly. Still,General Baraguey d'Hilliers has no doubt that it is there. Thisliberation of a free people is a famous exploit. He is a bit nettledat their apathy, for he has always heard that they were of a gaytemperament. "_Sacré Bleu!_ And we are giving them so much!" Indeed, this giving is done with a magnificent generosity. It isexactly on Ascension Day that Bonaparte writes from Montebello:"Conformably to your desire, Citizens, I have ordered themunicipalities of Padua and Treviso to allow the passage of thefoodstuffs necessary to the provisionment of the town of Venice." "Real and perpetual dominion," and now a boat-load of food is acondescension! Pink and purple water, your little ripples jest atthese emblazoned palaces, your waves chuckle down the long Rivas, youreflect the new flag of Venice which even the Dey of Algiers refusesto respect, and patter your light heels upon it as on adancing-floor. There will be no more use for the _Bucentoro_, ofcourse. So rip off the gilding, pack up the mirrors, chop thetimbers into firewood. This is good work for soldiers with nothingto do. There are other ships to be dismantled too, and some fewseaworthy enough to send to the army at Corfu. But if they havetaken away Ascension Day, the French will give Venice a new fête.Ah! and one so beautiful! Beat the drums, ring the church-bells, setup a Tree of Liberty in the Great Square, this fête is past telling.So writes the Citizen Arnault, from his room in the _Queen ofEngland_ inn. He bites his pen, he looks out on the little canalwith its narrow bridge, he fusses with his watch-chain. It is noteasy to write to the bronze General. He dips in the ink and startsagain. "The people take no active part in what goes on here. Theyhave seen the lions fall without making any sign of joy." Thatcertainly is queer. Perhaps Citizen Arnault did not hear thatgondolier, who when they chiselled out "_Pax tibi, Marce, evangelistameus_" on the lion's book, and chiselled in "_Diritti dell' uomo edel cittadino_," exclaimed: "The lion has turned over a new leaf."Does that sound like grief? Certainly not, think the Frenchsoldiers, and yet the Doge's robes, the Golden Book, burn in silence,until a corporal strikes up the "_Marseillaise_." They make a grandblaze too; why, the boatmen far off in the hazy Lagoon can hear thecrackle of it snapping over the water. Then the columns! Thecolumns produce a lovely effect, one all wound with _tricolore_ flagsand with this inscription: "To the French, regenerators of Italy,Venice grateful," on its front, and on the back, "Bonaparte." Theother is not so gay, but most proper and desirable. It is hung withcrêpe, and the letters read: "To the shade of the victim ofoligarchy, Venice sorrowful," and, "Laugier." To be sure there hasbeen considerable excitement, and the great green lion has beenthrown down and shattered in at least eighty fragments, but thesoldiers did it. The populace were simply stolid and staring.Citizen Arnault fidgets in his chair. But other affairs marchbetter. He has found the only copy of Anacharsis which is known tobe in Venice; he is going to hunt for Homer, for he wants to put itwith the Ossian of Cesarotti which he has already taken from theLibrary. Here his pen runs rapidly, he has an inspiration. "Thereare four superb horses which the Venetians took when, in company withthe French, they sacked Constantinople. These horses are placed overthe portal of the Ducal Church. Have not the French some right toclaim them, or at least to accept them of Venetian gratitude?" Thebronze General has an eye to a man, witness this really excellentplan. Fold your letter, Citizen. Press your fob down upon the seal.You may feel proud as you ring for candles, no one will have hurtVenice more than you. The blue night softens the broken top of the column in the Piazzettawhere it juts against the sky. The violet night sifts shadows overthe white, mounting angels of Saint Mark's Church; it throws anaureole of lilac over the star of Christ and melts it into theglimmering dome behind. But upon the horses it clashes with theglitter of steel. Blue striking gold, and together producing awhite-heart fire. Cold, as in great fire, hard as in new-kindledfire, outlined as behind a flame which folds back upon itself in lackof fuel, the great horses stand. They strain forward, they recoileven when starting, they raise one foot and hold it lifted, and allabout them the stones of the jewelled church writhe, and convolute,and glisten, and dash the foam of their tendrils against the clearcurve 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 Frenchwere bringing the Venetians! Was it greed after all, or has a seedbeen sown? If so, the flowering will be long delayed. The Frenchare leaving us, and almost we wish they would remain. For Austria!What does it matter that the _Bucentoro_ is broken up; the lions fromthe Piræus loaded into a vessel; books, parchments, pictures, packedin travelling cases! What does anything matter! A gondolier snapshis fingers: "_Francese non tutti ladri, ma Buona-parte!_" Hush, myfriend, that is a dangerous remark, for Madame Bonaparte hasdescended upon Venice in a whirlwind of laughter, might have madefriends had she not been received in an overturned storehouse. Butshe stays only three days, and the song of the gondoliers who row heraway can scarcely be heard for the hammering they make, putting up animmense scaffolding in front of Saint Mark's Church. They haveerected poles too, and tackle. It is an awful nuisance, for soldiersare 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 theblue-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 thepigeons are sharp and pitiful. A gash in the front of the greatChurch. A blank window framing nothing. The leaves of thesculptures curl, the swirling angels mount steadily, the star ofChrist is the pointed jet of a flame, but the horses drop--drop--They descend slowly, they jerk, and stop, and start again, andone--one--one--one--they touch the pavement. Women throw shawls overtheir heads and weep; men pull off their caps and mutter prayers andimprecations. Then silently they form into a procession and marchafter 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 thebright Lagoon, grow faint, vague, blur and disappear. The murder isaccomplished. To-morrow come the Austrians. _BONFIRES BURN PURPLE_ _Then the energy which peoples the Earth crystallized into a singleman. And this man was Water, and Fire, and Flesh. His core had thestrength of metal, and the hardness of metal was in his actions, andupon him the sun struck as upon polished metal. So he went to andfro among the nations, gleaming as with jewels. Of himself were themonuments he erected, and his laws were engraved tablets of fairestbronze. But there grew a great terror among the lesser peoples ofthe Earth, and they ran hither and yon like the ants, they swarmedlike beetles, and they saw themselves impotent, merely making tracksin sand. Now as speed is heat, so did this man soften with the hasteof his going. For Fire is supreme even over metal, and the Fire inhim overcame the strong metal, so that his limbs failed, and hisbrain was hot and molten. Then was he consumed, but those of hismonuments which harboured not Fire, and were without spirit, andcold, these endured. In the midst of leaping flame, they kept theirsemblances, and turning many colours in heat, still they cooled asthe Fire cooled. For metal is unassailable from without, only aspark in the mid-most circle can force a double action which pours itinto Water, and volatilizes it into Air, and sifts it to ashes whichare Earth. For man can fashion effigies, but the spark of Life hecan neither infuse nor control._ _As a sharp sun this man passed across his century, and of thecenotaphs of his burning, some remain as a shadow of splendour in thestreets of his city, but others have returned whence he gatheredthem, for the years of these are many and the touch of kings uponthem is as the dropping of particles of dust._
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