Words cannot be formed to express the endless varieties of Venetian
sunset. The most magnificent follow after wet stormy days, when the west
breaks suddenly into a labyrinth of fire, when chasms of clear turquoise
heavens emerge, and horns of flame are flashed to the zenith, and
unexpected splendours scale the fretted clouds, step over step, stealing
along the purple caverns till the whole dome throbs. Or, again, after a
fair day, a change of weather approaches, and high, infinitely high, the
skies are woven over with a web of half-transparent cirrus-clouds. These
in the after-glow blush crimson, and through their rifts the depth of
heaven is of a hard and gem-like blue, and all the water turns to rose
beneath them. I remember one such evening on the way back from Torcello.
We were well out at sea between Mazzorbo and Murano. The ruddy arches
overhead were reflected without interruption in the waveless ruddy lake
below. Our black boat was the only dark spot in this sphere of
splendour. We seemed to hang suspended; and such as this, I fancied,
must be the feeling of an insect caught in the heart of a fiery-petalled
rose. Yet not these melodramatic sunsets alone are beautiful. Even more
exquisite, perhaps, are the lagoons, painted in monochrome of greys,
with just one touch of pink upon a western cloud, scattered in ripples
here and there on the waves below, reminding us that day has passed and
evening come. And beautiful again are the calm settings of fair weather,
when sea and sky alike are cheerful, and the topmost blades of the
lagoon grass, peeping from the shallows, glance like emeralds upon the
surface. There is no deep stirring of the spirit in a symphony of light
and colour; but purity, peace, and freshness make their way into our
hearts.