Rialto Bridge Quotes

Venice appeared to me as in a recurring dream, a place once visited and now fixed in memory like images on a photographer’s plates so that my return was akin to turning the leaves of a portfolio: a scene of the gondolas moored by the railway station; the Grand Canal in twilight; the Rialto bridge; the Piazza San Marco; the shimmering, rippling wonderland; the bustling water traffic; the fish market; the Lido beach and boardwalk; Teeny in the launch; the singing, gesturing gondoliers; the bourgeois tourists drinking coffee at Florian’s; the importunate beggars; the drowned girl’s ghost haunting the Bridge of Sighs; the pigeons, mosquitoes and fetor of decay.

Aboard the gondola, Giacomo Foscarini sat facing Mathias. They were crossing the Canal Grande, then they would navigate around San Marco and return. Foscarini loved to travel around Venice this way. They stopped briefly at a mooring near the bridge to the Rialto, and Foscarini had a servant fetch green olives, fresh Piacenza cheese, a few sausages from Modena, and wine that had just been delivered from Crete. The nobleman often dined aboard his gondola, looking out over the city, watching his world. "Seen from this vantage point, Venice doesn't seem like it's in any of its terrible troubles at all magister," said Foscarini.

Cass leaned over the side of the Rialto Bridge, the wind lifting her auburn hair away from her face. Wispy clouds swirled low in the sky. “Cass.” The word fluttered on the breeze. She turned. Falco stood at her side, his square jaw backlit by the sun, his mouth curving into the lopsided smile she loved. “I thought you…?” Cass couldn’t finish. Left. He had left her, weeks ago. “I came back for you,” he said. He stroked her face with his hands, one fingertip tracing the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She wobbled in her chopines and he reached out to steady her, his hand lingering on her arm. The platform overshoes made her taller than Falco, but he didn’t seem to notice. Tilting his head toward her, he pulled her body in close to his. Cass trembled as he closed the gap between them. Their lips met. Hungry. Wanting. Falco’s hands wrapped around her waist, caressing her through the layered fabric of her dress. Her body went weak, and she gripped the stone railing of the bridge to keep from pitching over into the water. Her other hand found his hair. She twisted it around her fingers. “Come with me,” he whispered. Cass didn’t even ask where they were going.

If it were up to me, I would have waited a year or more to even think about any planning. I wish I could postpone the wedding indefinitely. I just don’t feel ready. Sometimes I wish…” Cass hesitated. She decided that Signor Sesti, as a tailor for both nobles and wealthy courtesans, was no stranger to gossip. Chances were that nothing she could say would make the old man’s stoic face so much as twitch. “What?” Mada prompted her. “I wish I were a man,” Cass burst out. “Or a courtesan, even. At least then I’d have some control over my own life.” “A courtesan?” Mada’s voice sharpened to a screech. “You must be joking. They’re no better than common whores. Today I passed the Rialto Bridge only to see some courtesan’s stays dangling from a mooring post. I can only imagine how they got there.” Cass turned bright red. She had assumed her stays had ended up in the canal, not looped around a post for the whole world to see.

Today I passed the Rialto Bridge only to see some courtesan’s stays dangling from a mooring post. I can only imagine how they got there.” Cass turned bright red. She had assumed her stays had ended up in the canal, not looped around a post for the whole world to see.

I wish I were a man,” Cass burst out. “Or a courtesan, even. At least then I’d have some control over my own life.” “A courtesan?” Mada’s voice sharpened to a screech. “You must be joking. They’re no better than common whores. Today I passed the Rialto Bridge only to see some courtesan’s stays dangling from a mooring post. I can only imagine how they got there.” Cass turned bright red. She had assumed her stays had ended up in the canal, not looped around a post for the whole world to see. Mada took her embarrassment for surprise. “Yes, that’s right. There’s a little more to being a courtesan than control. Honestly, Cass, you should feel lucky that you won’t have to wait an eternity to start your married life like me.” She sighed dramatically. “But what about love?” Cass blurted out, her mind returning to the kiss she had shared with Falco. A warmth bloomed inside her and spread throughout her limbs. How could a feeling so powerful be wrong?

The couple removed their masks and the man bent down to kiss the young woman. Cass pushed the leaves away from her face and crept toward the bench before Falco could stop her. The lovers were deep in embrace, their faces melding into one in the darkness. Cass felt a pang of envy. She thought of the almost-kiss beneath the Rialto Bridge, of the bright colors that bloomed inside her at Falco’s touch. She should have just let go. It could have been their secret. How many more times would she get an opportunity to have any secrets at all?

She turned away from Falco as they approached the Rialto Bridge. Burning steel cressets illuminated both ends of the structure, its middle glistening faintly under the night sky. “It’s so pretty in the moonlight,” she said. She had rarely seen it this way. “Yes, pretty in the moonlight,” Falco echoed. Cass felt his eyes burning into her back, as if he were looking only at her when he spoke.

Take your cloak off,” she said quickly. “Trying to undress me?” Falco asked. He slid out of his cloak and looked questioningly at Cass. “Hold it up,” she ordered. She adjusted his hands so that the cloak shielded her, and fumbled to undo the bindings around her chest. She began to sweat as she unknotted the laces; in the dark, images of Agnese and Luca floated in front of her, their faces cold with disapproval. “You all right in there?” Falco asked. “You’re thrashing about like you’re performing a self-exorcism.” Cass emerged a minute later, red faced but triumphant. She waved her ivory-colored stays above her head. “Now,” she said, “I can breathe.” Falco plucked the fabric from her hand. He fingered it and feigned surprise. “Good Lord. What is this thing made of?” he asked. “Steel?” “Whalebone.” Cass clasped a hand over her mouth to stifle a yelp as Falco tossed her stays over the edge of the Rialto Bridge. “Consider yourself liberated,” he said. “Do you feel better?” Cass couldn’t respond. She couldn’t describe it, the way it felt to be able to inhale and exhale completely, like for once she was using all of her lungs. Her satin chemise curled and folded against her bare chest, giving her the sensation of being both cold and hot at the same time. Falco touched his forehead to hers again. His nose brushed against the side of her cheek. Cass’s heart sped up. But this time, he didn’t try to kiss her. He just held her in the dark, his mouth so close to hers that their breath mingled together like mist off the canals.

They walked slowly, taking the shortest way, deliberately cutting through Campo delle Fava to avoid the crowds in Calle della Bissa. When they arrived at the foot of the Rialto bridge, they looked up at it, horrified. Anthill, termites, wasps. Ignoring these thoughts, they locked arms and started up, eyes on their feet and the area immediately in front of them. Up, up, up as feet descended towards them, but they ignored them and didn't stop. Up, up, up and across the top, shoving their way through the motionless people, deaf to their admiration. Then down, down, down, the momentum of their descent making them more formidable, They saw the feet of the people coming up towards them dance to the side at their approach, hardened their hearts to their protests, and plunged ahead. Then left and into the underpass, where they stopped, Brunetti's pulse raced and Paola leaned helpless on his arm. "I can't stand it any more," Paola said and pressed her forehead against his shoulder.

And Nietzsche, without knowing that the “sorcerer” had surprised the ancient secret of the city, wrote to Peter Gast: “Last night brought me again, while I paused on the Rialto bridge, a music that left me in tears, an ancient adagio, so incredibly ancient that there simply couldn’t have been an adagio before this one.