Kitty and Margaret bade their men fall in, and they presently found
themselves on the Salute side of the floating audience, their prow
pointing to the canal.
The
barca began to move, and the mass of gondolas followed. Round
them, and behind them, other boats were passing and repassing, each with
its slim black body, its swanlike motion, its poised oarsman, and its
twinkling light. The lagoon towards the Guidecca was alive with these
lights; and a magnificent white steamer adorned with flags and
lanterns--the yacht, indeed, of a German prince--shone in the
mid-channel.
On they floated. Here were the hotels, with other illuminated boats in
front of their steps, whence spoiled voices shouted, "Santa Lucia," till
even Venice and the Grand Canal became a vulgarity and a weariness.
These were the "serenate publiche," common and commercial affairs, which
the private serenata left behind in contempt, steering past their
flaring lights for the dark waters of romance which lay beyond.
Suddenly Kitty's sadness gave way; her starved senses clamored; she woke
to poetry and pleasure. All round her, stretching almost across the
canal, the noiseless flock of gondolas--dark, leaning figures impelling
them from behind, and in front the high prows and glow-worm lights; in
the boats, a multitude of dim, shrouded figures, with not a face
visible; and in their midst the
barca, temple of light and music,
built up of flowers, and fluttering scarves, and many-colored lanterns,
a sparkling fantasy of color, rose and gold and green, shining on the
bosom of the night.
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