but this water-road could have consoled me for the thought
that there would be no more motoring for a week. And clearly it was a
road of which it was necessary for the gondoliers to know every
oar-length; for it was defined by stakes, standing up out of the lagoon
singly, or gathered into clusters like giant bunches of asparagus.

Turning my back to the arched railway bridge, which accompanied us too
far, I looked only at sky and water, and at Venice rising from the sea.

The tide was running out, the Prince said (among other chatterings,
while I wished everybody woven in a magic spell of silence) and the
gondola made swift progress, rocking lightly like a shell, over the
bright ripples of the lagoon.

The nearer we drew to Venice the more like a vision of enchantment did
the city seem. Not a sound came to us, for the music of the bells had
died. All was still as in a dream--for in dreams, does one ever hear a
sound? I think I never have. And now the gold had faded from the clouds,
leaving them pink and violet, transparent as gauze, through which the
rising moon sifted silver dust. How could the others talk? I did not
understand.

Aunt Kathryn was saying, "If I hire a gondolier, I want to get a
singer." As if he were a sewing-machine, or a canary-bird! And Beechy
was complaining that she felt "very funny;" she believed the motion of
the gondola was making her seasick, just as she used to be in her
cradle, when she was too young to protest except by a howl.

It was a relief to my feelings when we turned out of the wide lagoon
into a canal, for then they did at least speak of the scene around them,
asking questions about the tall palaces that walled us in; who lived
here; who lived there; what was the name or history of that?

The odour of seaweed was more pungent, and there was a smell of water
mingling with it too; something like fresh cucumbers, and the roots of
flowers when they have just been pulled out of the earth. I could not
have believed that water could have such clearness and at the same time
hold so many colours, as the water in this, my first canal of Venice. It
was like a greenish mirror, full of lights, and wavering reflected tints
from the crumbling palaces whose old bricks, mellow pink, gold, and
purple, showed like veins through the skin of peeling stucco. Down
underneath the shining mirror, one could see the old marble steps,
leading up to the shut mystery of water gates. There were shimmering
gl