MR. RUSKIN has given it up, that is very true; but it is only after
extracting half a life-time of pleasure and an immeasurable quantity of
fame from it. We all may do the same, after it has served our turn,
which it probably will not cease to do for many a year to come.
Meantime, it is Mr. Ruskin who, beyond any one, helps us to enjoy. He
has, indeed, lately produced several aids to depression in the shape of
certain little humorous—ill-humorous—pamphlets (the series of “St.
Marks Rest"), which embody his latest reflections on the subject of
Venice and describe the latest atrocities that have been perpetrated
there. These latter are numerous and deeply regrettable; but to admit
that they have spoiled Venice would be to admit that Venice is easily
spoiled,—an admission pregnant, as it seems to us, with disloyalty.
Fortunately, one reacts against the Ruskinian contagion, and one hour
of the lagoon is worth a hundred pages of demoralized prose. This
queer, late-coming prose of Mr. Ruskin (including the revised and
condensed issue of the “Stones of Venice,” only one little volume of
which has appeared, or, perhaps, will ever appear) is all to be read,
though much of it seems to be addressed to children of tender age. It
is pitched in the nursery-key, and might be supposed to emanate from an
angry governess. It is, however, all suggestive, and much of it is
delightfully just. There is an inconceivable want of form in it, though
the author has spent his life in laying down the principles of form,
and scolding people for departing from them; but it throbs and flashes
with the love of his subject,—a love disconcerted and abjured, but
which has still some of the force of inspiration. Among the many
strange things that have befallen Venice, she has had the good fortune
to become the object of a passion to a man of splendid genius, who has
made her his own, and, in doing so, has made her the worlds. There is
no better reading at Venice, therefore, as I say, than Ruskin, for
every true Venice-lover can separate the wheat from the chaff. The
narrow theological spirit, the moralism à tout propos, the queer
provincialities and pruderies, are mere wild weeds in a mountain of
flowers. One may doubtless be very happy in Venice without reading at
all,—without criticising or analysing, or thinking a strenuous
thought. It is a city in which, I suspect, there is very little
strenuous thinking, and yet it is a city in which there must be almost
as much happiness as misery. The misery of Venice stands there for all
the world to sees it is part of the spectacle,—a thorough-going
devotee of local colour might consistently say it is part of the
pleasure. The Venetian people have little to call their own,—little
more than the bare privilege of leading their lives in the most
beautiful of towns. Their habitations are decayed; their taxes heavy;
their pockets light; their opportunities few. One receives an
impression, however, that life presents itself to them with attractions
not accounted for in this meagre train of advantages, and that they are
on better terms with it than many people who have made a better
bargain. They lie in the sunshine; they dabble in the sea; they wear
bright rags; they fall into attitudes and harmonies; they assist at an
eternal conversazione. It is not easy to say that one would have
them other than they are, and it certainly would make an immense
difference should they be better fed. The number of persons in Venice
who evidently never have enough to eat is painfully large; but it would
be more painful if we did not equally perceive that the rich Venetian
temperament may bloom upon a meagre diet. Nature has been kind to it,
and sunshine and leisure and conversation and beautiful views form the
greater part of it's sustenance. It takes a great deal to make a
successful American; but to make a happy Venetian takes only a handful
of quick sensibility. The Italian people have, at once, the good and
evil fortune to be conscious of few wants; so that if the civilization
of a society is measured by the number of it's needs, as seems to be
the common opinion to-day, it is to be feared that the children of the
lagoon would make but a poor figure a set of comparative tables. Not
their misery, doubtless, but the way they elude their misery, is what
pleases the sentimental tourist, who is gratified by the sight of a
beautiful race that lives by the aid of it's imagination. The way to
enjoy Venice is to follow the example of these people, and make the
most of simple pleasures. Almost all the pleasures of the place are
simple; this may be maintained even under the imputation of ingenious
paradox. There is no simpler pleasure than looking at a fine
Titian,—unless it be looking at a fine Tintoretto, or strolling into
St. Mark's,—it is abominable, the way one falls into the habit,—and
resting one's light-wearied eyes upon the windowless gloom; or than
floating in a gondola, or hanging over a balcony, or taking one's
coffee at Florian's. It is of these superficial pastimes that a
Venetian day is composed, and the pleasure of the matter is in the
emotions to which they minister. These, fortunately, are of the finest;
otherwise, Venice would be insufferably dull. Reading Ruskin is good;
reading the old records is, perhaps, better; but the best thing of all
is simply staying on. The only way to care for Venice, as she deserves
it, is to give her a chance to touch you often,—to linger and remain
and return.