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There can only be one Venice
Fortunately I saw St. Mark’s in the morning, in clear, refreshing, springlike sunlight. Neither Venice nor Florence have the hard glitter of the South—only a rich brightness. The domes are almost gold in effect. The nine frescoes of the façade, gold, red and blue. The walls, cream and gray. Before it is the oblique quadrangle which necessitates your getting far to one side to see the church squarely—a perfect and magnificently individual jewel. All the great churches are that, I notice. Overhead a sky of blue. Before you a great, smooth pavement, crowded with people, the Campanile (just recompleted) soaring heavenward in perfect lines. What a square! What a treasure for a city to have! Momentarily this space is swept over by great clouds of pigeons. The new reproduction of the old Campanile glows with a radiance all its own. Above all, the gilded crosses of the church. To the right the lovely arcaded façade of the library. To the right of the church, facing the square, the fretted beauty of the Doge’s Palace—a portion of it. As I was admiring it a warship in the harbor fired a great gun—twelve o’clock. Up went all my pigeons, thousands it seemed, sweeping in great restless circles while church bells began to chime and whistles to blow. Where are the manufactories of Venice?
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At first you do not realize it, but suddenly it occurs to you—a city of one hundred and sixty thousand without a wagon, or horse, without a long, wide street, anywhere, without trucks, funeral processions, street cars. All the shops doing a brisk business, citizens at work everywhere, material pouring in and out, but no wagons—only small barges and gondolas. No noise save the welcome clatter of human feet; no sights save those which have a strange, artistic pleasantness. You can hear people talking sociably, their voices echoed by the strange cool walls. You can hear birds singing high up in pretty windows where flowers trail downward; you can hear the soft lap of waters on old steps at times, the softest, sweetest music of all.
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I find boxes, papers, straw, vegetable waste, all cast indifferently into the water and all borne swiftly out to sea. People open windows and cast out packages as if this were the only way. I walked into the Banca di Napoli this afternoon, facing the Grand Canal. It was only a few moments after the regular closing hour. I came upon it from some narrow lane—some “dry street.” It was quite open, the ground floor. There was a fine, dark-columned hall opening out upon the water. Where were the clerks, I wondered? There were none. Where that ultimate hurry and sense of life that characterizes the average bank at this hour? Nowhere. It was lovely, open, dark,—as silent as a ruin. When did the bank do business, I asked myself. No answer. I watched the waters from its steps and then went away.
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One of the little tricks of the architects here is to place a dainty little Gothic balcony above a door, perhaps the only one on the façade, and that hung with vines.