Seasick women sobbed and gasped around me, not having, as we, graduated in the great college of ocean passage. The night was very black. Presently a form nestled at my right. It was the elder neophyte, disgusted with the cabin, and willing to be anywhere else. The moon rose late, a de-crescent. The whole time was amphibious, neither sleeping nor waking, neither day nor night. Suddenly, a perceptible chill seized upon us; a little later the black sky grew gray, and the series of groups that filled the deck were all revealed, like hidden motives in the light of some new doctrine. The sunrise was showery, and attended by a rainbow. The people bestirred themselves, stretched their benumbed limbs, and shook their tumbled garments into shape. Black coffee could now be had for ten sous a cup, and café au lait for twenty, with a crust of bread which defied gnawing. The diary says, "L. and I grew quite tearful as we saw beautiful Venice come out of the water, just as we had seen her disappear. At the health station we were fumigated with chloride of lime—an unpleasant and useless process. We arrived opposite the Piazzetta at half past seven A. M. The captain was kind in helping us to find our effects and to get off. The gondoliers asked five francs for bringing us to our lodgings, and got them. The Barbiers could not receive us at our former snug abode, but monsieur went round to show us some rooms in Palazzo Gambaro, which he offered for seven francs per diem. We were glad to take them. Went to Florian's café for breakfast, visited San Marco, and then proceeded to install ourselves in our new lodging. Ordered a dinner for six francs, which proved abundant. Took a long sleep,—from one to four P. M.,—having only dozed a little during the night. Our lodgings are very roomy and pleasant—two large rooms well furnished, and two smaller ones. We expect to enjoy many things here, and all the more because we now know something of what is to be seen."
This expectation was fully realized during the week that followed, although the meagre entries of the diary give little assistance in recalling the strict outlines of the brilliant picture. It was now height of season in Venice. The grand canal was brilliant, every evening, with gondolas, and gondoliers in costumes. Now we admired full suits of white, with scarlet sashes, trimmed with gold fringe, now gray and blue, edged with silver. Now an ugly jockey costume, got up by some Anglo-maniac, insulted the Italian beau-idéal, and, indeed, every other. For the short coat and heavy clothes, suited at once to the saddle and the English climate, were utterly unsuited to the action of rowing, as well as to the full bloom of an Italian summer. I cannot help remarking upon this unsightly livery, because it was an eyesore, and because it was obviously considered by its proprietor as a brilliant success. In stylish gondolas, the rowers are two in number, and always dressed in livery. The fashionables, in height of millinery bliss, float up and down the grand canal, until it is time for the rendezvous on the Piazza. As you pass the palaces, you often see the gondola in waiting below, while in a balcony or arched window above, the fresh, smiling faces make their bright picture; and the domestic stands draped in the white opera-cloaks or bournooses. And I remember a hundred little nonsensical songs about this very passage in Venetian life.
| "Prent'e la gondoletta, |
| Tutt'e serena il mar, |
| Ninetta, mia diletta, |
| Vieni solcar il mar |
| Il marinar, che gioja—che gioja il marinar!" |
Which I translate into English equivalency as follows:—
| The two-in-hand is waiting, |
| The groom is in his boots; |
| The lover's fondly prating, |
| The lady's humor suits: |
| Susanna! Susanna! |
| What joy to flog the brutes! |
| What joy, what joy in driving! |
| What joy, what joy to drive! |
Like all other poetical visions, these, once seen, speedily become matters of course. Still, we found always a fairy element in the "Gita in gondoletta." Our gondolier had always a weird charm in our eyes. He seemed almost a feudal retainer, a servant for life or death. His shrewd glance showed that he was not easily to be astonished. He could tip over an obnoxious person in the dark, stab at a street corner, carry the most audacious of letters, and deliver the contraband answer under the very nose of high-snuffing authority. Nought of all this did we desire of him: in fact, nothing but safe conduct and moderate charges. Yet we admired his mysterious talents, and wondered in what unwritten novels he might have figured. For, indeed, the watery streets of Venice, no less than her gondoliers, suggest the idea of romantic and desperate adventure. What balconies from which to throw a rival, dead or alive! What silent, know-nothing waters to receive him! What clever assistants to aid and abet!
But enough of the evening row, which ends at the Piazzetta. Here you dismiss your man-at-oars, naming the hour at which you shall require his presence, he being meanwhile at liberty to sleep in his gondola, or lo leave it in charge with a friend, and to follow you to the Piazza, where you will amuse yourself after your fashion, he after his. Here the banners are floating, the lights glancing, the band stormily performing. Florian's café is represented by a crowd of well-dressed people sitting in the open air, with the appliances of chair and table covered by their voluminous draperies. If you arrive late, you may wait some time before a table, fourteen inches by ten, is vouchsafed to you. Ices are very good, very cheap, and very small. Tea and bread and butter are excellent. While you wait and while you feast, a succession of venders endeavor to impose upon you every small article which the streets of Venice show for sale. Shoes, slippers, alabaster work, shell work, tin gondolas concealing inkstands, nets, bracelets, necklaces,—all these things are offered to you in succession, together with allumettes, cigars, journals, and caramels, or candied fruits strung upon straws. If you are mild in your discouragement of these venders, they will fasten upon you like other vermin, and refuse to depart until they shall have drawn the last drop of your change. I found a brisk charge necessary, with appeals to Florian's garçon, after whose interference, life on the Piazza became practicable.
To the mere enjoyment of good victuals, with squabbles intervening, may be superadded the perception of fashionable life, as it goes on in these regions. When your eyes have taken the standard of light of the Piazza, you recognize in some of the groups about you persons whom you have seen, either in the balcony or in the gondola. Here are two young women whom I saw emerge from a narrow passage, this evening, rowed by a fine-looking servant, who stood bareheaded, and one other. They have diamond earrings, fashionable bonnets, and dresses dripping from a baptism of beads. One by one a group of young men, probably of the first water, forms about them. One of the ladies is handsome and quiet, the other plain and voluble. The latter becomes perforce the prominent figure in what goes on, which indeed amounts to nothing worth repeating. These were on my right. On my left soon appeared a lady of a certain age, with "world" written in large letters all over her countenance. She chaperons a daughter, got up with hair à l'Anglaise, whose pantomimic countenance suggests that she has been drilled by an English governess with papa, prunes, prism, or some equivalent gymnastic. When addressed, she looks down into her fan, and rolls her eyes as if she saw her face in it. And lady friends come up: "Ah, marchesa! ah, signora contessa!" and the young bloods, hat in hand. So here we are, really, on the borders of high life, without intending it. And the baroness introduces a female relative—una sorella maritata—who has been handsome, and whose smile seems accustomed to fold the cloak of her beauty around the poverty of her character. And there is coffee, and there come ices. The ladies sip and gossip, the beaux come and go, talking of intended villeggiaturas; for the greatest social illustration for an Italian is that of travel. A third group immediately in front of us shows a young lady in an advanced stage of ambition, attired in a conspicuous tone, accompanied by quieter female relatives and a young boy. She regards with envious eyes the two popular associations on my right and left. She is dying to be noticed, and does not know how to manage it. And while I take note of these and other vanities, beggars whine for pence, or insist upon carrying off our superfluous bread or cake, for which, indeed, we must pay; but they eat the bread before your eyes with such evident relish that you are satisfied.
By and by this palls upon you. You have seen and heard enough. The society to which you belong is over the water. Here your heart finds no place; and from the crowd of strangers even your lodging and quiet bed seem a refuge. So you settle with Florian's garçon, close your account with all beggars for the night, wander to the Piazzetta, and cry, "Bastiano!" and he of the mysterious intelligence sooner or later responds. You give a penny to the crab,—the man who superfluously holds the boat while you get in,—and are at home after a brief dream of smooth motion under a starry sky. And in this way end all midsummer days in Venice. Not so smooth, however, is your climbing of three flights of stone stairs in the dark, with thumping and bumping. But you are up at last, and Gianetta—the shrewd maid—receives you with a candle-end. Frugal orders for breakfast, and to rest, with the cherubs of the mantel-piece watching over you.