VENICE* 



B.Y Karl Stieler 



MIDNIGHT is past ; a boat glides 

 through the narrow canals, the 

 figure of the gondolier shows 

 like a black shadow, and a sepulchral cry, 

 "Giae, giae !" sounds as the gondola 

 shoots past the sharp corners. The moon 

 is high in the heavens, but. ..her light 

 reaches not to these narrow watery ways. 

 Only a few twinkling stars peep between 

 the tall houses, and now and then a tardy 

 light glimmers behind some barred win- 

 dow. Hark ! Who goes there ? Behind 

 a half-opened door that is nearly on a 

 level with the water a girl peeps forth 

 and then hurriedly scuds away ; ours is 

 not the gondola she was waiting for. On 

 the marble steps that lead down from no- 

 ble doorways to the water sleepers are 

 lying stretched. From time to time a 

 boat glides past us, so close that the sides 

 almost graze each other ; the gondoliers 

 greet each other with secret signs, and 

 we peer curiously at the masked figures 

 reclining on the cushions. Then all is 

 still again, and we hear nothing save the 

 lapping of the water against the keel and 

 the splash of the oar. 



We listen, and now strange sounds 

 meet our ears. Far away there, beyond 

 the Lido, murmurs the sea in which the 

 Doge was wont to throw his golden ring 

 in token of betrothal. It is the hour of 

 flood, and the tide, slowly rising, fills the 

 lagoons and flows into the Canal Grande, 

 among the palaces of the proud old 

 names. 



"All is still ; the sea breathes only. 

 Sighing deep, lamenting sore, 

 Knocks the Doge's bride, deserted, 

 At each lordly palace door." 



And that, really, is what we seem to 

 hear; we feel the power of the great 

 deep, but we do not see it ; we are im- 

 prisoned in a labyrinth of narrow watery 

 paths, which cross and are tangled end- 

 lessly in one another and lead — who 

 knows whither? 



IMPRESSIONS OE" VISITORS 



Some such impression as that above 

 described is felt by a traveler arriving at 



night by the train from Mestre and then 

 rowing from the station into the city. 

 No horse', no carriage, is to be seen ; noth- 

 ing but the dark throng of gondolas 

 which thread their way in and out with 

 snake-like agility. All firm foundations 

 seem to sink away from one's feet, and 

 we see only the black, pliant waters, from 

 which the weather-stained houses rise up 

 perpendicularly. The sad, gloomy hues 

 which they display, even in broad day- 

 light, become mere dreary darkness by 

 night, and the long, intricate voyage has 

 in truth something Stygian about it ! 

 Disappointment makes us dumb. 



The May sun was shining brilliantly 

 when we entered the Piazza of St. Mark 

 the next day. Who has not felt the en- 

 chantment of such sunshine, breathing of 

 spring and morning, penetrating the soul 

 with an awakening power? Now the 

 dark veil was lifted that lay last evening 

 over Venice ; now the sea was blue, and 

 the old gray blocks of stone of Avhich 

 the palaces are built looked bright and 

 strong, and the delicate open-work of the 

 fagades glittered in the light. She is still 

 alive, the silent city of the Doges ! With 

 full hands she pours out her treasures ; 

 with wondering eyes we contemplate her 

 marvelous form ; but St. Mark's is the 

 very heart of her. 



A FAMOUS SOUARi: 



The Piazza di San Marco is closed in 

 on all four sides, and although the piaz- 

 zetta adjoins it on the northeast, the 

 unity of the picture is not destroyed by 

 it. On the right and left stretch out the 

 huge rows of buildings called the pro- 

 ciiratie. The lower stories consist of 

 open arcades, under which the crowd 

 throngs ; the upper have rows of col- 

 umns whose structure combines grace 

 and vigor. 



The procuratic are joined by a cross 

 wing (the edifice called the Ala Nuova), 

 which terminates the piazza on the west. 

 At the opposite end there lies before us 

 St. Mark's Church, with its great cupolas 

 and porches, its marble minarets and 



* From "Italy, from the Alps to Mt. Etna." 



587 



