Entering Venice

BY KRISHNA R. GURUSWAMY REDDIAR, M.A., (Cantab)

It has been a most pleasant voyage concluding with thrilling vistas of panoramic views of Grecian Isles and Italian coast–undulating mountain sides covered with vineyards among which glitter charmingly villas. Memories of ancient events throng on their sight, among which is the Homeric story of the Odyssey. The ship to which by now we have developed an affection, due to it as temporary home at sea, steams along measuring punctual knots, glad that it is returning home once again as numerous times before, after days and nights of unerring passage through far-away seas.

It's evening. Venice is reached duly piloted, welcomed with customary ceremonies. The aesthetic-feeling-effect of the sight of Venetian churches, buildings, harbour, spires, domes, houses–fresh experience of reading Italian names on buildings and hoardings by the long sea entrance–there are some Italian warships arrived–is mingled with the feeling of reaching the destination of a long voyage. The previous evening there has been a farewell dinner on board–the somewhat Roman-looking captain of the ship bidding adieu in the daintily decorated saloon–I like the frieze effects, Greco-Roman, on the walls–to the passengers whom he has brought to Port. We are all gathered on decks and in saloons–there are Fascist pictures in them–restlessly moving to and fro, catching eager glimpses of this historic Venice. Gradually the rolling, powerful, vibrating, reverberating sound of the engines stops, the heavy thud of the swimming propellers stops, the ship is anchored and moored. Farewell greetings are exchanged among us who have grown into friendship on meeting on board.

Now destinations differ. We go with our gathered baggages our different ways–my Dutch friend who has spoken about Hindu architectural remains in Java, my French friend who has spoken about Indian soldiers during the War and the combination of British Troops with French command and their greatness, my German friend who has spoken about Kant and Schopenhauer, my American millionaire friend who has spoken about the Fourteen Points, War Debts, Prohibition–pragmatically considering "d–d" drinks–and my friends of other nationalities, from long voyages–one of them who gave attractively swelling accounts of storms in the Chinese seas and of heavy seas in the Behring Straits.

We part with the feeling of slight sadness that contact of many nations even in such a temporary home as a ship on voyage brings on its cessation–somewhat of a League of Nations gathering.

It's raining–somewhat, not overmuch, clouds overhang the city–not too thick. Step by step, by the steps of the ladder, I leave the ship, with the last step telling myself that I step now in the great city feeling the atmosphere of past greatness immensely rich in my imagination.

I like the drizzling drops. The umbrella is spread. I do not like to pass through the Customs–I am eager to feel the true atmosphere of the city. I walk away along streets crossing and re-crossing bridges, canals–I start and am startled to realise what Venice is like. Streets of water, sea-water–unique in this that the city floats built on ‘Foundations’ in sea canals–the wonder–canals, deep canals–these the streets and roads, the ways and by ways of Venice to be reached, crossed and re-crossed, by bridges which are so quaintly pretty, which are frequently, here and there now and now.

I like this–I see children–Venetian children playing by a church,–by a school–what games are they!–such sweet-eyed little boys and girls, happy, merry, full of the zest of the game! Wistfully, I pass by girls, ladies, look at their eyes, tell myself these are Venetians–So!–I see, observe along the ways, streets, canals, costumes and Venetian customs.

I return–pass through the Customs. The "business" there is much. The searching of this or that, for this or that–these are officials of the Fascist Italian Government. The questioning finished–and the search– Free!

The canal's here–the boats await. I hear Italian spoken on all sides except when passengers and interpreters––how polyglot they are!–speak foreignly. Italian is sweet to hear,–Dolce, si, si,–I remember its great Literature–poems occur to mind–ah! but I must deal with Italian boatmen.

I am in the boat–Venetian Gondolas! It is most pleasant to realise the smooth, lulling, floating, care-free, gliding-feeling of the Gondola–the shape of it! The dazzling rain-drops that fall on the canal water, with reflected effects and temporarily unceasing patter, in variegated patterns!–so refreshingly nice to see! The rhyming rhythmic splash of the oars!–on and on –I go thus–dreaming dreams, realising past dreams of nights of Venetian glories. The rain continues–I feel the music of it. I hear music from a Gondola. The effect of the rain on the canal I feel will make a most pretty picture–bello!

I am in the Grand Canal. What great sights! How do these ancient, massive, historic, rich buildings float in the midst of deep waters! I wonder about the histories in what I see. I wonder what effects can be captured in colours, pictures. Thus musing I find lights glimmer, shine, bright iridiscent. The water twinkles and sparkles with reflected lights and the effect is a thousand-fold increased in the dancing waters–with the many boats passing and re-passing–now silent, now articulate. It's pleasant to hear Italian spoken from inside the rain–wet boats.

The hotel is reached–Albergo!–a fashionable one on the Grand Canal–invited, welcomed, I find myself among well-mannered Italians and visitors. I like the office well. I like the welcome. I like the little boy who takes the umbrella, who with somewhat mischievous glances says greetingly ‘Bona Sera’–speaks Italian smilingly to me explaining everything.

Escorted to my room–Camera–most comfortably arranged–by a sweet-looking maid, who has pretty dimples in her cheeks, I find a picture of a beautiful girl eyes-smiling, look at it, see, look at it again–there on the wall!–There, there on the wall is a picture of Venice. I look at it–I look at it again–St. Mark's square!–the beloved San Marco. I remember its Literature. I look through the Venetian windows. I see the lights of the city. ‘Italia’–I shall see this at Dawn.

In the lulling softness of the bed I find myself irresistibly dreaming, musing, over the Great past of Venice and the Great past of India–of their ancient mutual silken-sea–acquaintance, Friendship–of the ancient Greatness of Italy and of the ancient Greatness of India.