GONDOLA AND GONDOLIER
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The gondola is one of the great charms of Venice: it alone, without art, without the genius of artists which arrests one at every step, would be enough to fascinate the stranger. In that gentle swinging like the swinging of a hammock, that light plash of the oar which caresses the ear, that incredible sensibility of the boat itself, which seems to move like a living being, in these and in the surrounding silence there is from the first moment a charm which no one can escape.
CHARLES YRIARTE.
Let me this gondola boat compare to the slumberous cradle, And to a spacious bier liken the cover demure; Thus on the open canal through life we are swaying and swimming Onward with never a care, coffin and cradle between. RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES (FROM GOETHE).
The gondolier in Venice is as fine to look at as his gondola; he has colour, too, in the ruddy dye of his face, the infinite variety of his amber shirts and blue trousers and scarlet sashes; and if you really know him, he is one of the most charming of people.
ARTHUR SYMONS.
‘Row, Zarzi!’
The gondolier rowed with increased vigour; the rowlock now and then creaked under his effort. The Fondaco dei Truchi melted away like worn and marvellously discoloured ivory, like the surviving portico of a ruined mosque. The palace of the Cornaro and the palace of the Pesaro passed them, like two opaque giants blackened by time as by the smoke of a conflagration. The Ca’ d’Oro passed them like a divine play of stone and air; then the Rialto showed its ample back already noisy with popular life, laden with its encumbered shops, filled, ... like an enormous cornucopia pouring on the shore all around it an abundance of the fruits of the earth.
GABRIELE D’ANNUNZIO.
THE CHARM OF THE GONDOLA
In the palmy days of the gondolier (for he bore the traveller all the way from Mestre to Venice) there was real poetry in the journey, as tower, and campanile, and dome gathered from the golden haze, across the narrowing expanse of water.... It was a vehicle no less pleasant for the longer excursions on the lagoon. Shaded by its awning, or sheltering under its black covering, what could be more pleasant than to slide over the water to the sandy Lido for a refreshing dip in the Adriatic, or seek the Cathedral of Murano, or, yet further afield, pass by lonely islets to visit Torcello and its oldest church? Venice the silent and the gondola are exactly suited. There is no more restful mode of locomotion; no vibration, no rattle, no clatter, nothing but the rhythmic wash of the water beneath the oar, so curiously handled, or the gentle ripple as it slides past the sides; no louder sound except now and again the gondolier’s strange cry on approaching a corner to warn those beyond it what direction to take. But the gondolier has another advantage. Venice is more than a few important canals, something more than ornate palaces or stately churches. The waterways among its three score and ten islands ramify in all directions, and some of the most picturesque, though often dilapidated, parts of the city are only properly accessible from the smaller canals.... Here some ornate balcony overhangs; then a little canal unexpectedly opens, perhaps with its central well. Here a quaintly designed bridge carries from islet to islet those narrow alleys, means of communication yet more intricate than the canals themselves. Sometimes they reveal unexpected phases of domestic life, such as a group of youngsters indulging in a bath from their own doorstep, now disporting themselves in the warm water, now basking in the sunshine on the stone slabs. Venetian boys take to the water almost as naturally as ducks; and the baby, tied for safety to the door-post with a string, solemnly contemplates the sport. Venice is at its best in the summer-time.... A refreshing breeze from the Adriatic often tempers even the midday heat, and it is a city which needs sunshine almost as much as London itself.
ANON.
IN A GONDOLA
He sings. I send my heart up to thee, all my heart In this my singing! For the stars help me, and the sea bears part; The very night is clinging Closer to Venice’ streets to leave one space Above me, whence thy face May light my joyous heart to thee its dwelling-place. She speaks. Say after me, and try to say My very words, as if each word Came from you of your own accord, In your own voice, in your own way: ‘This woman’s heart, and soul, and brain ‘Are mine as much as this gold chain ‘She bids me wear; which’ (say again) ‘I choose to make by cherishing ‘A precious thing, or choose to fling ‘Over the boat-side, ring by ring.’ And yet once more say ... no word more! Since words are only words. Give o’er! Unless you call me, all the same, Familiarly by my pet-name Which, if the Three should hear you call, And me reply to, would proclaim At once our secret to them all: Ask of me, too, command me, blame— Do break down the partition-wall ’Twixt us, the daylight world beholds Curtained in dusk and splendid folds. What’s left but—all of me to take? I am the Three’s; prevent them, slake Your thirst! ’Tis said, the Arab sage In practising with gems can loose Their subtle spirit in his cruce And leave but ashes: so, sweet mage, Leave them my ashes when thy use Sucks out my soul, thy heritage! He sings. I. Past we glide, and past, and past! What’s that poor Agnese doing Where they make the shutters fast? Grey Zanobi’s just a-wooing To his couch the purchased bride: Past we glide! II. Past we glide, and past, and past! Why’s the Pucci Palace flaring Like a beacon to the blast? Guests by hundreds—not one caring If the dear host’s neck were wried: Past we glide! She sings. I. The Moth’s kiss, first! Kiss me as if you made believe You were not sure, this eve, How my face, your flower, had pursed Its petals up; so, here and there You brush it, till I grow aware Who wants me, and wide open burst. II. The Bee’s kiss, now! Kiss me as if you entered gay My heart at some noonday, A bud that dares not disallow The claim, so all is rendered up, And passively its shattered cup Over your head to sleep I bow. He sings. I. What are we two? I am a Jew, And carry thee, farther than friends can pursue, To a feast of our tribe, Where they need thee to bribe The devil that blasts them unless he imbibe Thy.... Shatter the vision for ever! And now, As of old, I am I, Thou art Thou! II. Say again, what we are? The sprite of a star, I lure thee above where the Destinies bar My plumes their full play Till a ruddier ray Than my pale one announce there is withering away Some.... Shatter the vision for ever! And now, As of old, I am I, Thou art Thou! He muses. Oh, which were best, to roam or rest? The land’s lap or the water’s breast? To sleep on yellow millet-sheaves, Or swim in lucid shallows, just Eluding water-lily leaves, An inch from Death’s black fingers, thrust To lock you, whom release he must; Which life were best on Summer eves? He speaks, musing. Lie back; could thought of mine improve you? From this shoulder let there spring A wing; from this, another wing; Wings, not legs and feet, shall move you! Snow-white must they spring, to blend With your flesh, but I intend They shall deepen to the end, Broader, into burning gold, Till both wings crescent-wise enfold Your perfect self, from ’neath your feet To o’er your head, where, lo, they meet As if a million sword-blades hurled Defiance from you to the world! Rescue me thou, the only real! And scare away this mad Ideal That came, nor motions to depart! Thanks! Now, stay ever as thou art! Still he muses. I. What if the Three should catch at last Thy serenader? While there’s cast Paul’s cloak about my head, and fast Gian pinions me, Himself has past His stylet thro’ my back; I reel; And ... is it thou I feel? II. They trail me, these three godless knaves, Past every church that saints and saves, Nor stop till, where the cold sea raves By Lido’s wet accursed graves, They scoop mine, roll me to its brink, And ... on thy breast I sink! She replies, musing. Dip your arm o’er the boat-side, elbow-deep, As I do: thus: were Death so unlike Sleep, Caught this way? Death’s to fear from flame, or steel, Or poison doubtless; but from water—feel! Go find the bottom! Would you stay me? There! Now pluck a great blade of that ribbon-grass To plait in where the foolish jewel was, I flung away: since you have praised my hair, ’Tis proper to be choice in what I wear. He speaks. Row home? must we row home? Too surely Know I where its front’s demurely Over the Giudecca piled; Window just with window mating, Door on door exactly waiting, All’s the set face of a child: But behind it, where’s a trace Of the staidness and reserve, And formal lines without a curve, In the same child’s playing-face? No two windows look one way O’er the small sea-water thread Below them. Ah, the autumn day I, passing, saw you overhead! First, out a cloud of curtain blew, Then, a sweet cry, and last, came you— To catch your lory that must needs Escape just then, of all times then, To peck a tall plant’s fleecy seeds, And make me happiest of men. I scarce could breathe to see you reach So far back o’er the balcony, (To catch him ere he climbed too high Above you in the Smyrna peach) That quick the round smooth cord of gold. This coiled hair on your head, unrolled, Fell down you like a gorgeous snake The Roman girls were wont, of old, When Rome there was, for coolness’ sake To let lie curling o’er their bosoms. Dear lory, may this beak retain Ever its delicate rose stain As if the wounded lotus-blossoms Had marked their thief to know again! Stay longer yet, for others’ sake Than mine! what should your chamber do? —With all its rarities that ache In silence while day lasts, but wake At night-time and their life renew, Suspended just to pleasure you —That brought against their will together These objects, and, while day lasts, weave Around them such a magic tether That dumb they look: your harp, believe, With all the sensitive tight strings That dare not speak, now to itself Breathes slumbrously as if some elf Went in and out the chords, his wings Make murmur wheresoe’er they graze, As an angel may, between the maze Of midnight palace-pillars, on And on, to sow God’s plagues have gone Through guilty glorious Babylon. And while such murmurs flow, the nymph Bends o’er the harp-top from her shell, As the dry limpet for the lymph Come with a tune he knows so well. And how your statues’ hearts must swell: And how your pictures must descend To see each other, friend with friend! Oh, could you take them by surprise, You’d find Schidone’s eager Duke Doing the quaintest courtesies To that prim Saint by Haste-thee-Luke And, deeper into her rock den, Bold Castelfranco’s Magdalen You’d find retreated from the ken Of that robed counsel-keeping Ser— As if the Tizian thinks of her, And is not, rather, gravely bent On seeing for himself what toys Are these, his progeny invent, What litter now the board employs Whereon he signed a document That got him murdered! Each enjoys Its night so well, you cannot break The sport up, so, indeed, must make More stay with me, for others’ sake. She speaks. I. To-morrow, if a harp-string, say, Is used to tie the jasmine back That overfloods my room with sweets, Contrive your Zorzi somehow meets My Zanze! If the ribbon’s black, The Three are watching; keep away! II. Your gondola—let Zorzi wreathe A mesh of water-weeds about Its prow, as if he unaware Had struck some quay or bridge-foot stair; That I may throw a paper out As you and he go underneath. There’s Zanze’s vigilant taper; safe are we! Only one minute more to-night with me? Resume your past self of a month ago! Be you the bashful gallant, I will be The lady with the colder breast than snow: Now bow you, as becomes, nor touch my hand More than I touch yours when I step to land, And say, ‘All thanks, Siora!’— Heart to heart, And lips to lips! Yet once more, ere we part, Clasp me, and make me thine, as mine thou art! He is surprised, and stabbed. It was ordained to be so, Sweet,—and best Comes now, beneath thine eyes, and on thy breast. Still kiss me! Care not for the cowards! Care Only to put aside thy beauteous hair My blood will hurt! The Three, I do not scorn To death, because they never lived: but I Have lived indeed, and so—(yet one more kiss)—can die! ROBERT BROWNING.
THE INVITATION TO THE GONDOLA
Come forth; for Night is falling, The moon hangs round and red On the verge of the violet waters, Fronting the daylight dead. Come forth; the liquid spaces Of sea and sky are as one, Where outspread angel flame-wings Brood o’er the buried sun. Bells call to bells from the islands, And far-off mountains rear Their shadowy crests in the crystal Of cloudless atmosphere. A breeze from the sea is wafted; Lamp-litten Venice gleams With her towers and domes uplifted Like a city seen in dreams. Her waterways are atremble With melody far and wide, Borne from the phantom galleys That o’er the darkness glide. There are stars in heaven, and starry Are the wandering lights below: Come forth! for the Night is calling, Sea, city, and sky are aglow! JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS.
THE GONDOLA
Didst ever see a gondola? For fear You should not, I’ll describe it you exactly: ’Tis a long cover’d boat that’s common here, Carved at the prow, built lightly, but compactly, Rowed by two rowers, each called ‘Gondolier,’ It glides along the water looking blackly, Just like a coffin clapt in a canoe, Where none can make out what you say or do. And up and down the long canals they go, And under the Rialto shoot along, By night and day, all paces, swift or slow, And round the theatres, a sable throng, They wait in their dusk livery of woe,— But not to them do woeful things belong. For sometimes they contain a deal of fun, Like mourning coaches when the funeral’s done. LORD BYRON.
A DREAM IN A GONDOLA
I had a dream of waters: I was borne Fast down the slimy tide Of eldest Nile, and endless flats forlorn Stretched out on either side,— Save where from time to time arose Red pyramids, like flames in forced repose, And Sphinxes gazed, vast countenances bland, Athwart the river-sea and sea of sand. It is the nature of the Life of Dream, To make all action of our mental springs, Howe’er unnatural, discrepant and strange, Be as the unfolding of most usual things; And thus to me no wonder did there seem, When by a subtle change, The heavy ample hyblus-wingèd boat In which I lay afloat, Became a deft canoe, light-wove Of painted bark, gay-set with lustrous shells, Faintingly rocked within a lonesome cove, Of some rich island where the Indian dwells; Below, the water’s pure-white light Took colour from reflected blooms, And, through the forest’s deepening glooms, Birds of illuminated plumes Came out like stars in summer night: And close beside, all fearless and serene, Within a niche of drooping green, A girl, with limbs fine-rounded and clear-brown, And hair thick-waving down, Advancing one small foot, in beauty stood, Trying the temper of the lambent flood. Yet not less favoured when awake,—for now, Across my torpid brow Swept a cool current of the young night’s air, With a sharp kiss, and there Was I all clear awake,—drawn soft along There in my dear gondola, among The bright-eyed Venice isles, Lit up in constant smiles.— What had my thoughts and heart to do With wild Egyptian bark, or frail canoe, Or mythic skiff out of Saturnian days, When I was there, with that rare scene to praise, That gondola to rest in and enjoy, That actual bliss to taste without alloy? Cradler of placid pleasures, deep delights, Bosomer of the poet’s wearied mind, Tempter from vulgar passions, scorns and spites, Enfolder of all feelings that be kind,— Before our souls thy quiet motions spread, In one great calm, one undivided plain, Immediate joy, blest memories of the dead, And iris-tinted forms of hope’s domain, Child of the still lagoons, Open to every show Of summer sunsets and autumnal moons, Such as no other space of world can know,— Dear boat, that makest dear Whatever thou comest near,— In thy repose still let me gently roam, Still on thy couch of beauty find a home; Still let me share thy comfortable peace With all I have of dearest upon Earth, Friend, mistress, sister; and when death’s release Shall call my spirit to another birth, Would that I might thus lightly lapse away, Alone,—by moonlight,—in a gondola. RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.
WERE LIFE BUT AS THE GONDOLA!
Afloat; we move. Delicious! Ah, What else is like the gondola? This level floor of liquid glass Begins beneath us swift to pass. It goes as though it went alone By some impulsion of its own. (How light it moves, how softly! Ah, Were all things like the gondola!) How light it moves, how softly! Ah, Could life, as does our gondola, Unvexed with quarrels, aims and cares, And moral duties and affairs, Unswaying, noiseless, swift, and strong, For ever thus—thus glide along! (How light we move, how softly! Ah, Were life but as the gondola!) With no more motion than should bear A freshness to the languid air; With no more effort than exprest The need and naturalness of rest, Which we beneath a grateful shade Should take on peaceful pillows laid! (How light we move, how softly! Ah, Were life but as the gondola!) In one unbroken passage borne To closing night from opening morn, Uplift at whiles slow eyes to mark Some palace front, some passing bark; Through windows catch the varying shore, And hear the soft turns of the oar! (How light we move, how softly! Ah, Were life but as the gondola!) ... How light we go, how soft we skim! And all in moonlight seem to swim. In moonlight is it now, or shade? In planes of sure division made, By angles sharp of palace walls The clear light and the shadow falls; O sight of glory, sight of wonder! Seen, a pictorial portent, under. O great Rialto, the vast round Of thy thrice-solid arch profound! (How light we go, how softly! Ah, Life should be as the gondola!) ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.
THE SONGS OF THE GONDOLIERS
This evening I bespoke the celebrated song of the mariners, who sing Tasso and Ariosto to melodies of their own. This must actually be ordered, as it is not to be heard as a thing of course, but rather belongs to the half-forgotten traditions of former times. I entered a gondola by moonlight, with one singer before and the other behind me. They sing their song, taking up the verses alternately. The melody, which we know through Rousseau, is of a middle kind, between choral and recitative, maintaining throughout the same cadence, without any fixed time. The modulation is also uniform, only varying with a sort of declamation both tone and measures, according to the subject of the verse. But the spirit—the life of it, is as follows:
Without inquiring into the construction of the melody, suffice it to say that it is admirably suited to that easy class of people who, always humming something or other to themselves, adapt such tunes to any little poem they know by heart.
Sitting on the shore of an island, on the bank of a canal, or on the side of a boat, a gondolier will sing away with a low penetrating voice—the multitude admire force above everything—anxious only to be heard as far as possible. Over the silent mirror it travels far. Another in the distance, who is acquainted with the melody and knows the words, takes it up and answers with the next verse, and then the first replies, so that the one is as it were the echo of the other. The song continues through whole nights, and is kept up without fatigue. The further the singers are from each other, the more touching sounds the strain. The best place for the listener is half-way between the two.
In order to let me hear it, they landed on the bank of the Giudecca, and took up different positions by the canal. I walked backwards and forwards between them, so as to leave the one whose turn it was to sing, and to join the one who had just left off. Then it was that the effect of the strain first opened upon me. As a voice from the distance it sounds in the highest degree strange—as a lament without sadness: it has an incredible effect, and is moving even to tears. I ascribed this to my own state of mind, but my old boatman said: ‘È singolare, come quel canto intenerisce, e molto piu quando è piu ben cantato.’ He wished that I could hear the women of the Lido, especially those of Malamocco, and Pelestrina. These also, he told me, sang Tasso and Ariosto to the same or similar melodies. He went on: ‘In the evening, while their husbands are on the sea, fishing, they are accustomed to sit on the beach, and with shrill and penetrating voice to make these strains resound, until they catch from the distance the voices of their partners, and in this way they keep up a communication with them.’ Is not that beautiful? and yet, it is very possible that one who heard them close by would take little pleasure in such tones which have to vie with the waves of the sea. Human, however, and true becomes the song in this way: thus is life given to the melody, on whose dead elements we should otherwise have been sadly puzzled. It is the song of one solitary, singing at a distance, in the hope that another of kindred feelings and sentiments may hear and answer.
GOETHE.
THE GONDOLA
Boy, call the gondola; the sun is set.— It came, and we embarked; but instantly, As at the waving of a magic wand, Though she had stept on board so light of foot, So light of heart, laughing she knew not why, Sleep overcame her; on my arm she slept. From time to time I waked her; but the boat Rocked her to sleep again. The moon was now Rising full-orbed, but broken by a cloud. The wind was hushed, and the sea mirror-like. A single zephyr, as enamoured, played With her loose tresses, and drew more and more Her veil across her bosom. Long I lay Contemplating that face so beautiful.... I went alone beneath the silent moon; Thy square, St. Mark, thy churches, palaces, Glittering and frost-like, and, as day drew on, Melting away, an emblem of themselves. Those porches passed, thro’ which the water-breeze Plays, though no longer on the noble forms That moved there, sable-vested—and the quay, Silent, grass-grown—adventurer-like, I launched Into the deep, ere long discovering Isles such as cluster in the Southern seas, All verdure.... In Venice, when again In that strange place, so stirring and so still, Where nothing comes to drown the human voice But music, or the dashing of the tide, Ceased I to wonder. Now a Jessica Sung to her lute, her signal as she sate At her half-open window. Then, methought, A serenade broke silence, breathing hope Thro’ walls of stone, and torturing the proud heart Of some Priuli. Once, we could not err, (It was before an old Palladian house, As between night and day we floated by), A gondolier lay singing: and he sung, As in the time when Venice was herself, Of Tancred and Erminia. On our oars, We rested; and the verse was verse divine! We could not err—perhaps he was the last— For none took up the strain, none answered him; And, when he ceased, he left upon my ear A something like the dying voice of Venice! The moon went down; and nothing now was seen Save where the lamp of a Madonna shone Faintly—or heard, but when he spoke, who stood Over the lantern at the prow and cried, Turning the corner of some reverend pile, Some school or hospital of old renown, Tho’ haply none were coming, none were near, ‘Hasten or slacken.’ But at length Night fled; And with her fled, scattering, the sons of pleasure. Star after star shot by, or, meteor-like, Crossed me and vanished—lost at once among Those hundred isles that tower majestically, That rise abruptly from the water-mark, Nor with rough crag, but marble, and the work Of noblest architects. SAMUEL ROGERS.
SING TO ME, GONDOLIER
Sing to me, Gondolier! Sing words from Tasso’s lay; While blue, and still, and clear, Night seems but softer day. The gale is gently falling, As if it paused to hear Some strain the past recalling— Sing to me, Gondolier! Oh, ask me not to wake The memory of the brave; Bid no high numbers break The silence of the wave. Gone are the noble-hearted, Closed the bright pageants here; And the glad song is departed From the mournful Gondolier! MRS. HEMANS.
THE GONDOLIER’S CRY
Most persons are now well acquainted with the general aspect of the Venetian gondola, but few have taken the pains to understand the cries of warning uttered by its boatmen, although those cries are peculiarly characteristic, and very impressive to a stranger.... It may perhaps be interesting to the traveller in Venice to know the general method of management of the boat to which he owes so many happy hours.
A gondola is in general rowed only by one man, standing at the stern; those of the upper classes having two or more boatmen, for greater speed and magnificence. In order to raise the oar sufficiently, it rests, not on the side of the boat, but on a piece of crooked timber like the branch of a tree, rising about a foot from the boat’s side, and called a ‘fórcola.’ The fórcola is of different forms, according to the size and uses of the boat, and it is always somewhat complicated in its parts and curvature, allowing the oar various kinds of rest and catches on both its sides, but perfectly free play in all cases; as the management of the boat depends on the gondolier’s being able in an instant to place his oar in any position. The fórcola is set on the right-hand side of the boat, some six feet from the stern: the gondolier stands on a little flat platform or deck behind it, and throws nearly the entire weight of his body upon the forward stroke. The effect of this stroke would be naturally to turn the boat’s head round to the left, as well as to send it forward; but this tendency is corrected by keeping the blade of the oar under the water in the return stroke, and raising it gradually, as a full spoon is raised out of any liquid, so that the blade emerges from the water only an instant before it again plunges. A downward and lateral pressure upon the fórcola is thus obtained, which entirely counteracts the tendency given by the forward stroke; and the effort, after a little practice, becomes hardly conscious, though, as it adds some labour to the back stroke, rowing a gondola at speed is hard and breathless work, though it appears easy and graceful to the looker-on.
If then the gondola is to be turned to the left, the forward impulse is given without the return stroke; if it is to be turned to the right, the plunged oar is brought forcibly up to the surface; in either case a single strong stroke being enough to turn the light and flat-bottomed boat. But as it has no keel, when the turn is made sharply, as out of one canal into another very narrow one, the impetus of the boat in its former direction gives it an enormous leeway, and it drifts laterally up against the wall of the canal, and that so forcibly, that if it has turned at speed, no gondolier can arrest the motion merely by strength or rapidity of stroke of oar; but it is checked by a strong thrust of the foot against the wall itself, the head of the boat being, of course, turned for the moment almost completely round to the opposite wall, and greater exertion made to give it, as quickly as possible, impulse in the new direction.
The boat being thus guided, the cry ‘Premi’ is the order from one gondolier to another that he should ‘press’ or thrust forward his oar, without the back stroke, so as to send his boat’s head round to the left; and the cry ‘Stali’ is the order that he should give the return or upward stroke which sends the boat’s head round to the right. Hence, if two gondoliers meet under any circumstances which render it a matter of question on which side they should pass each other, the gondolier who has at the moment the least power over his boat cries to the other ‘Premi,’ if he wishes the boats to pass with their right-hand sides to each other, and ‘Stali’ if with their left. Now, in turning a corner, there is, of course, risk of collision between boats coming from opposite sides, and warning is always clearly and loudly given on approaching an angle of the canals. It is, of course, presumed that the boat which gives the warning will be nearer the turn than the one which receives and answers it; and, therefore, will not have so much time to check itself or alter its course. Hence the advantage of the turn—that is, the outside, which allows the fullest swing, and greatest room for leeway—is always yielded to the boat which gives warning. Therefore, if the warning boat is going to turn to the right, as it is to have the outside position, it will keep its own right-hand side to the boat which it meets, and the cry of warning is therefore ‘Premi,’ twice given; first as soon as it can be heard round the angle, prolonged and loud, with the accent on the e, and another strongly accented e added, a kind of question, ‘Prémi-é,’ followed, at the instant of turning, with ‘Ah Premí,’ with the accent sharp on the final i. If, on the other hand, the warning boat is going to turn to the left, it will pass with its left-hand side to the one it meets; and the warning cry is, ‘Stálié, Ah Stalí.’ Hence the confused idea in the mind of the traveller that Stali means ‘to the left,’ and ‘Premi’ to the right; while they mean, in reality, the direct reverse: the Stali, for instance, being the order to the unseen gondolier who may be behind the corner, coming from the left-hand side, that he should hold as much as possible to his own right; this being the only safe order for him, whether he is going to turn the corner himself, or to go straight on; for as the warning gondola will always swing right across the canal in turning, a collision with it is only to be avoided by keeping well within it, and close up to the corner which it turns.
There are several other cries necessary in the management of the gondola, but less frequently, so that the reader will hardly care for their interpretation; except only the ‘sciar,’ which is the order to the opposite gondolier to stop the boat as suddenly as possible by slipping his oar in front of the fórcola. The cry is never heard except when the boatmen have got into some unexpected position, involving a risk of collision; but the action is seen constantly, when the gondola is rowed by two or more men (for if performed by the single gondolier it only swings the boat’s head sharp round to the right), in bringing up at a landing-place, especially when there is any intent of display, the boat being first urged to its full speed and then stopped with as much foam about the oar-blades as possible, the effect being much like that of stopping a horse at speed by pulling him on his haunches.
JOHN RUSKIN.
GONDOLIERS
Venice, May 1, 1834.
You always wish to seize boldly upon beauty, to feel and know what it is, to know why and how nature is worthy of your admiration and love. I was explaining these feelings to our friend the other evening, as we were passing in a gondola under the sombre arcade of the Bridge of Sighs. Do you remember the light which is seen at the end of the canal, and which is reflected and multiplied in the old and shining marble of the palace of Bianca Cappello? In all Venice there is no canalletto more mysterious, more melancholy. This single light, glancing on all surrounding objects but enlightening none, dancing on the water, and appearing to play in the wake of the passing gondolas, as though it were an ignis fatuus attached to their course, made me remember that long line of lamps which trembles in the Seine, and which in the water looks like long crooked tracks of fire.... I was quite absorbed in my customary fantasies, when I saw upon the canal of St. George, among the other objects upon its surface, a black spot moving so rapidly as soon to leave all the others behind. It was the new and brilliant gondola of the young Catullo. When within sight, I recognized the flower of our gondoliers, in his nankin vest.... In the interval of dipping the oar into the tranquil mirror of the lake, from time to time, he threw a glance of satisfaction upon his resplendent image, and charmed with his appearance, and penetrated with gratitude towards the generous soul of his patron, he managed the gondola with a vigorous hand, and made her bound over the waters like a wild duck.
Giulio (Catullo’s brother) was at the other end of the barque, and seconded his efforts with all the ease of a true child of the Adriatic. Our friend Pietro was lying indolently on the carpet of the gondola, and the beautiful Beppa, seated on the black morocco cushions, let the wind play among her ebony tresses, parted on her noble brow, and falling in two long loose curls upon her bosom.... The gondola slackened its pace whilst one of the rowers took breath, and when it neared the shady banks, it floated idly on the waves which caressed the marble stairs of the garden. Pietro asked Beppa to sing. Giulio took his guitar, and Beppa’s voice rose into the air full of passion as the appeal of a syren. She sang a verse from a song which Pietro composed for some fair lady, perhaps for Beppa herself:
‘Con lei sull’ onda placida Errai dalla laguna, Ella gli sguardi immobili In te fissava o luna! E a che pensava allor? Era un morrente palpito? Era un nascente amor?’ GEORGE SAND.
GONDOLIERS’ MUSIC
The gondolier, stationed at the traghetto, invites passengers by the most miraculous offers: ‘Will you go to Trieste this afternoon, monseigneur? Here is a beautiful gondola, that does not fear the tempest in the open sea, and a gondolier ready to row you, without stopping, to Constantinople.’ Unexpected pleasures are the only pleasures in the world. Yesterday I wished to go and see the moon rise over the Adriatic; I had never been able to decide Catullo to conduct me to the Lido. He pretended, what they all pretend when they do not wish to obey, that the water or the wind was contrary.... I was in desperate ill-humour when we met, just opposite La Salute, a barque which was floating gently towards the Grand Canal, leaving behind it, like a perfume, the sounds of a delightful serenade. ‘Turn the prow,’ said I to old Catullo; ‘I hope you are strong enough to follow that gondola.’ Another barque floating idly by, imitated my example, then a second, then another; at last all those who were enjoying the fresh air on the canal, and several even which were vacant, and whose gondoliers surrounded us, crying, ‘Music, music,’ with an air, hungry as the Israelites in the desert for the manna. In ten minutes a flotilla was formed round these dilettanti; all the oars were silent, and the barques were left at the will of the current.
The harmony floated softly in the breeze and the hautbois sighed so sweetly that each one held his breath for fear of interrupting its accents so full of tenderness and love. The violin mingled its voice so sad,—with such sympathetic yearnings.... Then the harp gave forth two or three chords of harmonious sounds, which seemed to descend from heaven, and promise the caresses and consolation of its angels to all souls suffering on this earth. Then came the horn as from the depths of a wood, and each of us might fancy he saw his first love advance from the forests of Friuli, and approach with these sounds of joy. The hautbois replied with sounds more full of passion than those uttered by the dove seeking her mate in the air. The violin exhaled its sobs of convulsive joy, the harp gave forth its full and generous vibrations, like the palpitations of an ardent breast, and then the sounds of the four instruments mingled like happy souls embracing each other before their departure for a better world. I drank in their accents, and my imagination heard them after they had ceased to exist. Their passage left a magic warmth in the atmosphere, as though Love had agitated it with his wings.
There was some minutes’ silence, which no one dared to break. The melodious barque began to flee before us as though it wished to make its escape, but we quickly followed in its track; we might have been compared to a flock of petrels disputing the possession of a goldfish. We pressed upon its flight with our prows, like large steel scythes in the moon’s beams, shining like the fiery teeth of Ariosto’s dragons. The fugitive achieved its deliverance in the same way as Orpheus: some chords from the harp reduced us all to order and silence. At the sound of its light arpeggios, three barques ranged themselves on each side of the one bearing the music, and followed the adagio with the most religious slowness. The others remained behind like a cortège, and this was perhaps the best situation for hearing. This long file of silent gondolas, floating gently with the wind on the magnificent Grand Canal of Venice, was a coup-d’œil which realized the most lovely dreams. Every undulation of the water, every slight movement of the oars, seemed to respond sympathetically to the sentiment of each musical passage, extracted from the harmonious themes of Oberon and Guillaume Tell. The gondoliers, erect on the poop, their bold attitudes clearly defined against the blue atmosphere, seemed to form a background of dark spectres behind the groups of friends and lovers they were conducting. The moon rose slowly, and peeping curiously over the roofs, seemed also to listen and love the music. A palace on one side of the canal, yet plunged in obscurity, defined upon the clear sky its enormous Moorish outlines, darker than the gates of hell.
The other shore, illumined by the rays of the full moon, at that time as large and brilliant as a silver shield, received the light upon its silent and serene arcades. These immense piles of fairy-like buildings, lighted only by the stars, wore an aspect of solitude, repose, and immobility truly sublime. The slender statues rising by hundreds into the air seemed mysterious spirits watching the repose of the quiet city, slumbering like the Sleeping Beauty in the Wood, and condemned, like her, to slumber for a hundred years or more.
GEORGE SAND.
THE GONDOLIERS OF VENICE
In Venice the gondoliers know by heart long passages from Ariosto and Tasso, and often chant them with a peculiar melody. But this talent seems at present on the decline:—at least, after taking some pains, I could find no more than two persons who delivered to me in this way a passage from Tasso. Goldoni, in his life, however, notices the gondolier returning with him to the city: ‘He turned the prow of the gondola towards the city, singing all the way the twenty-sixth stanza of the sixteenth canto of the “Jerusalem Delivered.”’ ... Lord Byron has told us that with the independence of Venice the song of the gondoliers has died away.
‘In Venice Tasso’s echoes are no more.’
There are always two concerned, who alternately sing the strophes. We know the melody eventually by Rousseau, to whose songs it is printed; it has properly no melodious movement, and is a sort of medium between the canto fermo and the canto figurato; it approaches to the former by recitativical declamation, and to the latter by passages and course, by which one syllable is detained and embellished.
I entered a gondola by moonlight: one singer placed himself forwards and the other aft, and thus proceeded to St. Georgio. One began the song: when he had ended his strophe the other took up the lay, and so continued the song alternately. Throughout the whole of it, the same notes invariably returned, but, according to the subject-matter of the strophe, they laid a greater or a smaller stress, sometimes on one and sometimes on another note, and indeed changed the enunciation of the whole strophe, as the object of the poems altered....
We got out upon the shore, leaving one of the singers in the gondola, while the other went to the distance of some hundred paces. They now began to sing against one another, and I kept walking up and down between them both, so as to leave him who was to begin his part. I frequently stood still and hearkened to the one and to the other.
Here the scene was properly introduced. The strong declamatory, and, as it were, shrieking sound, met the ear from far, and called forth the attention; the quickly succeeding transitions, which necessarily required to be sung in a lower tone, seemed like plaintive strains succeeding the vociferations of emotions or of pain. The other, who listened attentively, immediately began where the former left off, answering him in milder or more vehement notes, according as the purport of the strophe required. The sleepy canals, the lofty buildings, the splendour of the moon, the deep shadows of the few gondolas that moved like spirits hither and thither, increased the striking peculiarity of the scene, and amidst all these circumstances it was easy to confess the character of this wonderful harmony.
It suits perfectly well with an idle solitary mariner, lying at length in his vessel at rest on one of these canals, waiting for his company, or for a fare; the tiresomeness of which situation is somewhat alleviated by the songs and poetical stories he has in memory. He often raises his voice as loud as he can, which extends itself to a vast distance over the tranquil mirror; and as all is still around, he is as it were in a solitude in the midst of a large and populous town. Here is no rattling of carriages, no noise of foot passengers: a silent gondola glides now and then by him, of which the splashing of oars is scarcely to be heard.
At a distance he hears another, perhaps utterly unknown to him. Melody and verse immediately attach the two strangers: he becomes the responsive echo to the former, and exerts himself to be heard as he had heard the other. By a tacit convention they alternate verse for verse; though the song should last the whole night through, they entertain themselves without fatigue; the hearers, who are passing between the two, take part in the amusement.
This vocal performance sounds best at a great distance, and is then inexpressibly charming, as it only fulfils its design in the sentiment of remoteness. It is plaintive, but not dismal in its sound, and at times it is scarcely possible to refrain from tears....
I was told that the women of Lido, the long row of islands that divides the Adriatic from the lagoons, particularly the women of the extreme districts of Malamocco and Pelestrina, sing in like manner the works of Tasso to these and similar tunes.
They have a custom, when their husbands are fishing out at sea, to sit along the shore in the evenings and vociferate these songs, and continue to do so with great violence, till each of them can distinguish the responses of her own husband at a distance.
How much more delightful and more appropriate does this song show itself here, than the call of a solitary person uttered far and wide, till another equally disposed shall hear and answer him! It is the expression of a vehement and hearty longing, which yet is every moment nearer to the happiness of satisfaction.
ISAAC D’ISRAELI.
GONDOLIERS AND THEIR SONGS
The gondolas, which everybody knows are black, and give an air of melancholy at first sight, yet are nothing less than sorrowful; it is like painting the lively Mrs. Cholmondeley in the character of Milton’s
‘Pensive nun, devout and pure, Sober, steadfast, and demure’—
as I once saw her drawn by a famous hand, to show a Venetian lady in her gondola and zendaletta, which is black like a gondola, but wholly calculated like that for the purposes of refined gallantry. So is the nightly rendezvous, the café and casino; for whilst Palladio’s palaces serve to adorn the Grand Canal and strike those who enter Venice with surprise at its magnificence, those snug retreats are intended for the relaxation of those who inhabit the more splendid apartments and are feigned with exertions of dignity and necessity of no small expense.... I have asked several friends about the truth of what one has been always hearing in England—that the Venetian gondoliers sing Tasso’s and Ariosto’s verses in the streets at night, sometimes quarrelling with each other concerning the merits of their favourite poets; but what I have been told since I came here of their attachment to their respective masters, and secrecy when trusted by them in love affairs, seems far more probable, as they are proud to excess when they serve a nobleman of high birth, and will tell you with an air of importance that the house of Memmo, Monsenigo, or Gratterola has been served by their ancestors for these eighty or perhaps a hundred years, transmitting pride thus from generation to generation, even when that pride is but reflected only like the mock rainbow of a summer sky. But hark! while I am writing this peevish reflection in my room, I hear some voices under my window answering each other upon the Grand Canal. It is—it is the gondolieri sure enough; they are at this moment singing to an odd sort of tune, but in no unmusical manner, the flight of Erminia from Tasso’s ‘Jerusalem.’
MRS. PIOZZI (1785).
A GONDOLIER OF CHIOGGIA
‘Drink, my friends! vive la joyeuse Italie, et Venise la belle!... I am, as you know, the son of a Chioggia fisherman. Nearly all the natives of this shore have the thorax well developed, and possess strong voices, which would be beautiful also, if not early injured by struggles, when at sea, with the noise of the wind and waves.... The Chioggiotes are a handsome race. They say that a great French painter, Leopolo Roberto, is now occupied in illustrating their beauty in a picture, which he will allow no one to see. Though, as you perceive, my complexion is sufficiently robust, my father, in comparing me with my brothers, considered me so frail and delicate, that he would not teach me either to throw the line, or to manage skiff or fishing-boat. He showed me only how to handle an oar with both hands, to row a small boat, and sent me to gain a living at Venice, in the capacity of assistant gondolier of the place. It was a great relief and humiliation for me to enter thus into servitude, to quit my paternal home, the borders of the sea, and the honourable and perilous profession of my ancestors. But I had a fine voice, and knew many fragments of Ariosto and Tasso. I might make a lively gondolier, and gain, with time and patience, fifty francs a month in the service of amateurs and strangers.... Taste for poetry and music develops itself among us sons of the people. We had, and we still have (though the custom threatens to be lost) our bards and our poets, whom we call cupidons; rhapsodical travellers, who bring us from the central provinces incorrect notions of the mother-tongue, modified—I should better say enriched, with all the genius of the northern and southern dialects. Men of the people like us, gifted at the same time with memory and imagination, they never care for mixing their fantastic improvisations with the creations of poets. Always taking, and leaving some new phrase in their passage, they embellish the language and the text of their authors with an inconceivable confusion of idioms. They might well be called the preservers of the instability of language in the literature of the frontier provinces. Our ignorance accepts, without appeal, the decisions of this walking academy; and you have had occasion, at times, to admire the energy and the grotesque Italian of our poets, in the mouths of the singers of the lagoons. It is noon on Sunday after Grand Mass, upon the public place of Chioggia, or of an evening in the cabarets on the banks, that these rhapsodists delight a numerous and impassioned audience by their recitations mingled with song and declamation. The cupido usually stands upon a table, and plays from time to time a symphony or finale after his fashion, upon some kind of instrument; sometimes the Calabrian pipe, sometimes the violin, flute, or guitar. The Chioggiotes, cold and phlegmatic in appearance, listen and smoke at first, with an imperturbable and almost disdainful air; but at the noble battle of Ariosto’s heroes, at the death of Paladins, the rescue of ladies, and the defeat of giants, the audience are aroused, become animated, utter cries, excite themselves so effectually, that pipes and glasses fly into pieces, the seats and the tables are overturned, and often the cupido, about to fall the victim to the enthusiasm he has called forth, is forced to take flight, while the dilettanti spread themselves through the country in pursuit of an imaginary ravisher with cries of ‘d’amazza! d’amazza! kill the monster! kill the coward! bravo, Astolphe! courage, brave comrade!’ It is thus these men of Chioggia, intoxicated with the fumes of tobacco, wine, and poetry, take to their boats, declaiming to the winds and waves broken fragments of these delirious epic poems.
GEORGE SAND.