A Dream Of Venice

Numb, half asleep, and dazed with whirl of wheels,

And gasp of steam, and measured clank of chains,

I heard a blithe voice break a sudden pause,

Ringing familiarly through the lamp-lit night,

“Wife, here’s your Venice!”

I was lifted down,

And gazed about in stupid wonderment,

Holding my little Katie by the hand-

My yellow-haired step-daughter. And again

Two strong arms led me to the water-brink,

And laid me on soft cushions in a boat,-

A queer boat, by a queerer boatman manned-

Swarthy-faced, ragged, with a scarlet cap-

Whose wild, weird note smote shrilly through the dark.

Oh yes, it was my Venice! Beautiful,

With melancholy, ghostly beauty-old,

And sorrowful, and weary-yet so fair,

So like a queen still, with her royal robes,

Full of harmonious colour, rent and worn!

I only saw her shadow in the stream,

By flickering lamplight,-only saw, as yet,

White, misty palace-portals here and there,

Pillars, and marble steps, and balconies,

Along the broad line of the Grand Canal;

And, in the smaller water-ways, a patch

Of wall, or dim bridge arching overhead.

But I could feel the rest. ‘Twas Venice!-ay,

The veritable Venice of my dreams.

I saw the grey dawn shimmer down the stream,

And all the city rise, new bathed in light,

With rose-red blooms on her decaying walls,

And gold tints quivering up her domes and spires-

Sharp-drawn, with delicate pencillings, on a sky

Blue as forget-me-nots in June. I saw

The broad day staring in her palace-fronts,

Pointing to yawning gap and crumbling boss,

And colonnades, time-stained and broken, flecked

With soft, sad, dying colours-sculpture-wreathed,

And gloriously proportioned; saw the glow

Light up her bright, harmonious, fountain’d squares,

And spread out on her marble steps, and pass

Down silent courts and secret passages,

Gathering up motley treasures on its way;-

Groups of rich fruit from the Rialto mart,

Scarlet and brown and purple, with green leaves-

Fragments of exquisite carving, lichen-grown,

Found, ‘mid pathetic squalor, in some niche

Where wild, half-naked urchins lived and played-

A bright robe, crowned with a pale, dark-eyed face-

A red-striped awning ‘gainst and old grey wall-

A delicate opal gleam upon the tide.

I looked out from my window, and I saw

Venice, my Venice, naked in the sun-

Sad, faded, and unutterably forlorn!-

But still unutterably beautiful.

For days and days I wandered up and down-

Holding my breath in awe and ecstasy,-

Following my husband to familiar haunts,

Making acquaintance with his well-loved friends,

Whose faces I had only seen in dreams

And books and photographs and his careless talk.

For days and days-with sunny hours of rest

And musing chat, in that cool room of ours,

Paved with white marble, on the Grand Canal;

For days and days-with happy nights between,

Half-spent, while little Katie lay asleep

Out on the balcony, with the moon and stars.

O Venice, Venice!-with thy water-streets-

Thy gardens bathed in sunset, flushing red

Behind San Giorgio Maggiore’s dome-

Thy glimmering lines of haughty palaces

Shadowing fair arch and column in the stream-

Thy most divine cathedral, and its square,

With vagabonds and loungers daily thronged,

Taking their ice, their coffee, and their ease-

Thy sunny campo’s, with their clamorous din,

Their shrieking vendors of fresh fish and fruit-

Thy churches and thy pictures-thy sweet bits

Of colour-thy grand relics of the dead-

Thy gondoliers and water-bearers-girls

With dark, soft eyes, and creamy faces, crowned

With braided locks as bright and black as jet-

Wild ragamuffins, picturesque in rags,

And swarming beggars and old witch-like crones,

And brown-cloaked contadini, hot and tired,

Sleeping, face-downward, on the sunny steps-

Thy fairy islands floating in the sun-

Thy poppy-sprinkled, grave-strewn Lido shore-

Thy poetry and thy pathos-all so strange!-

Thou didst bring many a lump into my throat,

And many a passionate thrill into my heart,

And once a tangled dream into my head.

‘Twixt afternoon and evening. I was tired;

The air was hot and golden-not a breath

Of wind until the sunset-hot and still.

Our floor was water-sprinkled; our thick walls

And open doors and windows, shadowed deep

With jalousies and awnings, made a cool

And grateful shadow for my little couch.

A subtle perfume stole about the room

From a small table, piled with purple grapes,

And water-melon slices, pink and wet,

And ripe, sweet figs, and golden apricots,

New-laid on green leaves from our garden-leaves

Wherewith an antique torso had been clothed.

My husband read his novel on the floor,

Propped up on cushions and an Indian shawl;

And little Katie slumbered at his feet,

Her yellow curls alight, and delicate tints

Of colour in the white folds of her frock.

I lay, and mused, in comfort and at ease,

Watching them both and playing with my thoughts;

And then I fell into a long, deep sleep,

And dreamed.

I saw a water-wilderness-

Islands entangled in a net of streams-

Cross-threads of rippling channels, woven through

Bare sands, and shallows glimmering blue and broad-

A line of white sea-breakers far away.

There came a smoke and crying from the land-

Ruin was there, and ashes, and the blood

Of conquered cities, trampled down to death.

But here, methought, amid these lonely gulfs,

There rose up towers and bulwarks, fair and strong,

Lapped in the silver sea-mists;-waxing aye

Fairer and stronger-till they seemed to mock

The broad-based kingdoms on the mainland shore.

I saw a great fleet sailing in the sun,

Sailing anear the sand-slip, whereon broke

The long white wave-crests of the outer sea,-

Pepin of Lombardy, with his warrior hosts-

Following the bloody steps of Attila!

I saw the smoke rise when he touched the towns

That lay, outposted, in his ravenous reach;

Then, in their island of deep waters, saw

A gallant band defy him to his face,

And drive him out, with his fair vessels wrecked

And charred with flames, into the sea again.

“Ah, this is Venice!” I said proudly-“queen

Whose haughty spirit none shall subjugate.”

It was the night. The great stars hung, like globes

Of gold, in purple skies, and cast their light

In palpitating ripples down the flood

That washed and gurgled through the silent streets-

White-bordered now with marble palaces.

It was the night. I saw a grey-haired man,

Sitting alone in a dark convent-porch-

In beggar’s garments, with a kingly face,

And eyes that watched for dawnlight anxiously-

A weary man, who could not rest nor sleep.

I heard him muttering prayers beneath his breath,

And once a malediction-while the air

Hummed with the soft, low psalm-chants from within.

And then, as grey gleams yellowed in the east,

I saw him bend his venerable head,

Creep to the door, and knock.

Again I saw

The long-drawn billows breaking on the land,

And galleys rocking in the summer noon.

The old man, richly retinued, and clad

In princely robes, stood there, and spread his arms,

And cried, to one low-kneeling at his feet,

“Take thou my blessing with thee, O my son!

And let this sword, wherewith I gird thee, smite

The impious tyrant-king, who hath defied,

Dethroned, and exiled him who is as Christ.

The Lord be good to thee, my son, my son,

For thy most righteous dealing!”

And again

‘Twas that long slip of land betwixt the sea

And still lagoons of Venice-curling waves

Flinging light, foamy spray upon the sand.

The noon was past, and rose-red shadows fell

Across the waters. Lo! the galleys came

To anchorage again-and lo! the Duke

Yet once more bent his noble head to earth,

And laid a victory at the old man’s feet,

Praying a blessing with exulting heart.

“This day, my well-belovèd, thou art blessed,

And Venice with thee, for St. Peter’s sake.

And I will give thee, for thy bride and queen,

The sea which thou has conquered. Take this ring,

As sign of her subjection, and thy right

To be her lord for ever.”

Once again

I saw that old man,-in the vestibule

Of St. Mark’s fair cathedral,-circled round

With cardinals and priests, ambassadors

And the noblesse of Venice-richly robed

In papal vestments, with the triple crown

Gleaming upon his brows. There was a hush:-

I saw a glittering train come sweeping on,

From the blue water and across the square,

Thronged with an eager multitude,-the Duke,

And with him Barbarossa, humbled now,

And fain to pray for pardon. With bare heads,

They reached the church, and paused. The Emperor knelt,

Casting away his purple mantle-knelt,

And crept along the pavement, as to kiss

Those feet, which had been weary twenty years

With his own persecutions. And the Pope

Lifted his white haired, crowned, majestic head,

And trod upon his neck,-crying out to Christ,

“Upon the lion and adder shalt thou go-

The dragon shalt thou tread beneath thy feet!”

The vision changed. Sweet incense-clouds rose up

From the cathedral altar, mix’d with hymns

And solemn chantings, o’er ten thousand heads;

And ebbed and died away along the aisles.

I saw a train of nobles-knights of France-

Pass ‘neath the glorious arches through the crowd,

And stand, with halo of soft, coloured light

On their fair brows-the while their leader’s voice

Rang through the throbbing silence like a bell.

“Signiors, we come to Venice, by the will

Of the most high and puissant lords of France,

To pray you look with your compassionate eyes

Upon the Holy City of our Christ-

Wherein He lived, and suffered, and was lain

Asleep, to wake in glory, for our sakes-

By Paynim dogs dishonoured and defiled!

Signiors, we come to you, for you are strong.

The seas which lie betwixt that land and this

Obey you. O have pity! See, we kneel-

Our Masters bid us kneel-and bid us stay

Here at your feet until you grant our prayers!”

Wherewith the knights fell down upon their knees,

And lifted up their supplicating hands.

Lo! the ten thousand people rose as one,

And shouted with a shout that shook the domes

And gleaming roofs above them-echoing down,

Through marble pavements, to the shrine below,

Where lay the miraculous body of their Saint

(Shed he not heavenly radiance as he heard?-

Perfuming the damp air of his secret crypt),

And cried, with an exceeding mighty cry,

“We do consent! We will be pitiful!”

The thunder of their voices reached the sea,

And thrilled through all the netted water-veins

Of their rich city. Silence fell anon,

Slowly, with fluttering wings, upon the crowd;

And then a veil of darkness.

And again

The filtered sunlight streamed upon those walls,

Marbled and sculptured with divinest grace;

Again I saw a multitude of heads,

Soft-wreathed with cloudy incense, bent in prayer-

The heads of haughty barons, armèd knights

And pilgrims girded with their staff and scrip,

The warriors of the Holy Sepulchre.

The music died away along the roof;

The hush was broken-not by him of France-

By Enrico Dandolo, whose grey head

Venice had circled with the ducal crown.

The old man looked down, with his dim, wise eyes,

Stretching his hands abroad, and spake. “Seigneurs,

My children, see-your vessels lie in port

Freighted for battle. And you, standing here,

Wait but the first fair wind. The bravest hosts

Are with you, and the noblest enterprise

Conceived of man. Behold, I am grey-haired,

And old and feeble. Yet am I your lord.

And, if it be your pleasure, I will trust

My ducal seat in Venice to my son,

And be your guide and leader.”

When they heard,

They cried aloud, “In God’s name, go with us!”

And the old man, with holy weeping, passed

Adown the tribune to the altar-steps;

And, kneeling, fixed the cross upon his cap.

A ray of sudden sunshine lit his face-

The grand, grey, furrowed face-and lit the cross,

Until it twinkled like a cross of fire.

“We shall be safe withhim,” the people said,

Straining their wet, bright eyes; “and we shall reap

Harvests of glory from our battle-fields!”

Anon there rose a vapour from the sea-

A dim white mist, that thickened into fog.

The campanile and columns were blurred out,

Cathedral domes and spires, and colonnades

Of marble palaces on the Grand Canal.

Joy-bells rang sadly and softly-far away;

Banners of welcome waved like wind-blown clouds;

Glad shouts were muffled into mournful wails.

A Doge was come to be enthroned and crowned,-

Not in the great Bucentaur-not in pomp;

The water-ways had wandered in the mist,

And he had tracked them, slowly, painfully,

From San Clemente to Venice, in a frail

And humble gondola. A Doge was come;

But he, alas! had missed his landing-place,

And set his foot upon the blood-stained stones

Betwixt the blood-red columns. Ah, the sea-

The bride, the queen-she was the first to turn

Against her passionate, proud, ill-fated lord!

Slowly the sea-fog melted, and I saw

Long, limp dead bodies dangling in the sun.

Two granite pillars towered on either side,

And broad blue waters glittered at their feet.

“These are the traitors,” said the people; “they

Who, with our Lord the Duke, would overthrow

The government of Venice.”

And anon,

The doors about the palace were made fast.

A great crowd gathered round them, with hushed breath

And throbbing pulses. And I knew their lord,

The Duke Faliero, knelt upon his knees,

On the broad landing of the marble stairs

Where he had sworn the oath he could not keep-

Vexed with the tyrannous oligarchic rule

That held his haughty spirit netted in,

And cut so keenly that he writhed and chafed

Until he burst the meshes-could not keep!

I watched and waited, feeling sick at heart;

And then I saw a figure, robed in black-

One of their dark, ubiquitous, supreme

And fearful tribunal of Ten-come forth,

And hold a dripping sword-blade in the air.

“Justice has fallen on the traitor! See,

His blood has paid the forfeit of his crime!”

And all the people, hearing, murmured deep,

Cursing their dead lord, and the council, too,

Whose swift, sure, heavy hand had dealt his death.

Then came the night, all grey and still and sad.

I saw a few red torches flare and flame

Over a little gondola, where lay

The headless body of the traitor Duke,

Stripped of his ducal vestments. Floating down

The quiet waters, it passed out of sight,

Bearing him to unhonoured burial.

And then came mist and darkness.

Lo! I heard

The shrill clang of alarm-bells, and the wails

Of men and women in the wakened streets.

A thousand torches flickered up and down,

Lighting their ghastly faces and bare heads;

The while they crowded to the open doors

Of all the churches-to confess their sins,

To pray for absolution, and a last

Lord’s Supper-their viaticum, whose death

Seemed near at hand-ay, nearer than the dawn.

“Chioggia is fall’n!” they cried,”and we are lost!”

Anon I saw them hurrying to and fro,

With eager eyes and hearts and blither feet-

Grave priests, with warlike weapons in their hands,

And delicate women, with their ornaments

Of gold and jewels for the public fund-

Mix’d with the bearded crowd, whose lives were given,

With all they had, to Venice in her need.

No more I heard the wailing of despair,-

But great Pisani’s blithe word of command,

The dip of oars, and creak of beams and chains,

And ring of hammers in the arsenal.

“Venice shall ne’er be lost!” her people cried-

Whose names were worthy of the Golden Book-

“Venice shall ne’er be conquered!”

And anon

I saw a scene of triumph-saw the Doge,

In his Bucentaur, sailing to the land-

Chioggia behind him blackened in the smoke,

Venice before, all banners, bells, and shouts

Of passionate rejoicing! Ten long months

Had Genoa waged that war of life and death;

And now-behold the remnant of her host,

Shrunken and hollow-eyed and bound with chains-

Trailing their galleys in the conqueror’s wake!

Once more the tremulous waters, flaked with light;

A covered vessel, with an armèd guard-

A yelling mob on fair San Giorgio’s isle,

And ominous whisperings in the city squares.

Carrara’s noble head bowed down at last,

Beaten by many storms,-his golden spurs

Caught in the meshes of a hidden snare!

“O Venice!” I cried, “where is thy great heart

And honourable soul?”

And yet once more

I saw her-the gay Sybaris of the world-

The rich voluptuous city-sunk in sloth.

I heard Napoleon’s cannon at her gates,

And her degenerate nobles cry for fear.

I saw at last the great Republic fall-

Conquered by her own sickness, and with scarce

A noticeable wound-I saw her fall!

And she had stood above a thousand years!

O Carlo Zeno! O Pisani! Sure

Ye turned and groaned for pity in your graves.

I saw the flames devour her Golden Book

Beneath the rootless “Tree of Liberty;”

I saw the Lion’s legend blotted out,

For “rights of men”-unutterable wrongs!-

Dandolo’s brazen horses borne away-

The venerable Bucentaur, with its wealth

Of glorious recollections, broken up.

I heard the riotous clamour; then the change

To passionate minor cadence-then the sad

And hopeless silence settle down; and then-

I woke. The flickering water-gleam was gone

From off the ceiling, and white snows of light

Fell softly on the marble walls and floors,

And on the yellow head of little Kate

Musingly bent down from the balcony.

The lapping of the tide-the dip of oars-

The sad, sweet songs, and sadder city bells,

Mellowly borne along the water-streets:-

The swirl and ripple around lumbering keels

Of heavy, slow, Rialto market-boats,

Adown the broad and misty highway, lit

With moonbeams and the far-strown light of lamps,

Following the track of vanished gondolas:-

The flutter of a fig-leaf in the wind,

A faded fig-leaf, flapping faded walls,

With faded, crumbling, delicate sculpture-crusts:-

The voice of dreaming Katie crooning out

A snatch of melody that the Austrian band

Played in San Marco’s Place some hours agone,

While patriots, ‘neath their shadowy colonnades,

Sauntered, and shut their ears, and ate their hearts:-

A measured footstep, pacing to and fro-

The brush of two strong hands upon my brows-

The tenor-music of dear English lips,

Whispering, between two kisses, cheerily,

“Wake up, my wife; Nina has brought our tea:”-

These were the sounds that called me back to life.

Rialto (Rivo alto)

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• Николай Заболоцкий – Генеральская дача by Николай Заболоцкий
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• Николай Языков – Землетрясенье by Николай Языков
• Николай Языков – Записки А. С. Дириной by Николай Языков
• Николай Языков – Я. П. Полонскому (Благодарю тебя за твой подарок милой…) by Николай Языков
• Николай Языков – Вторая присяга by Николай Языков

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