Transatlantic voyages -- Fiction; Venice (Italy) -- Fiction; Voyages and travels -- Fiction; Young women -- Fiction
Lydia did not know when the captain came on board. Once, talking in the
cabin made itself felt through her dreams, but the dense sleep of weary
youth closed over her again, and she did not fairly wake till morning.
Then she thought she heard the crowing of a cock and the cackle of hens,
and fancied herself in her room at home; the illusion passed with
a pang. The ship was moving, with a tug at her side, the violent
respirations of which were mingled with the sound of the swift rush of
the vessels through the water, the noise of feet on the deck, and of
orders hoarsely shouted.
The girl came out into the cabin, where Thomas was already busy with
the breakfast table, and climbed to the deck. It was four o'clock of the
summer's morning; the sun had not yet reddened the east, but the stars
were extinct, or glimmered faint points immeasurably withdrawn in the
vast gray of the sky. At that hour there is a hovering dimness over all,
but the light on things near at hand is wonderfully keen and clear, and
the air has an intense yet delicate freshness that seems to breathe from
the remotest spaces of the universe,--a waft from distances beyond the
sun. On the land the leaves and grass are soaked with dew; the densely
interwoven songs of the birds are like a fabric that you might see and
touch. But here, save for the immediate noises on the ship, which
had already left her anchorage far behind, the shouting of the tug's
escape-pipes, and the huge, swirling gushes from her powerful wheel, a
sort of spectacular silence prevailed, and the sounds were like a part
of this silence. Here and there a small fishing schooner came lagging
slowly in, as if belated, with scarce wind enough to fill her sails; now
and then they met a steamboat, towering white and high, a many-latticed
bulk, with no one to be seen on board but the pilot at his wheel, and a
few sleepy passengers on the forward promenade. The city, so beautiful
and stately from the bay, was dropping, and sinking away behind. They
passed green islands, some of which were fortified: the black guns
looked out over the neatly shaven glacis; the sentinel paced the
rampart.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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