LEGENDARY VENICE
Venice, Bride of the Sea—Its Glorious Children—Pledge of the Crown
of Thorns—The Miracle of Saint Saba’s Relics—Intellectual Humility
and Faith—St. Mark, Patron of the Venetians—Theft of the Saint’s
Remains from Alexandria—Reception in Venice—Early History—Tales of
Hardships—The Gate of the Damsels—Legends of the Saint.
There is hardly a street or a building in Venice that cannot flower
with some whisper of legend, if the soil of its story be but cultivated
with determination; but a house-to-house search would involve the
labour of years; and, though the pursuit of legend is doubtless an
enthralling business, yet life is a small package, and it is difficult
enough to find a room in it for all that it has to contain.
Still, if I am fortunate enough to lead some, through the lure of the
legend, to the serious study of the history from which the legend is
culled, my labour will have been repaid many times over. In the rush
and scurry of to-day, when excitement is mistaken for labour and bustle
for speed, scholarship—that is to say, the real and serious study
of real and serious subjects—has become, except for the illustrious
few, a thing of the past; but those few have gathered together, for
our benefit, a precious mass of material, a rich harvest of romance
wherewith we can brighten many a heavy hour; so let us wander into the
garden, culling as we go, and acknowledging our heartfelt gratitude to
those who planted it at the cost of such infinite toil.
The Bride of the Sea, seen from the distance, seems to rise like
a softly coloured pearl from the misty embrace of the waters, and
the effect is one of such awesome charm that, for a while, the
mind can hardly carry the suggestions that crowd in upon it. What
Venice contains! Is there any city in the world, save only Rome
and Jerusalem—the cradle and the House—that can compare with that
jewel-case?
The home, in one way or another, of Titian, Tintoretto, Giorgione,
Veronese, and Barbari—the story of Venice is so illuminated with the
glory of her children that its tragedy is almost lost in it, as black
rocks emerge with their surroundings in the glint of the mid-day sun.
From its meagre beginnings—a few slivers of land, half covered by the
sea, where some hundreds of exiles took refuge and sheltered themselves
in huts of mud and osier, down through the ages, she comes like an
Easter “Gloria”—first a whisper, then a murmur, and then, from note to
note, onwards and upwards, to the crashing splendour of her triumph.
Venice has grown old now, and she is content to doze in the sun’s
warmth and to dream of the golden past. Her gates are open now to
inquisitive sightseers, and one can imagine her smile of amusement
when, every now and again, some impudent brat digs her in the ribs,
Ruskin-like, and bellows his fortnight-formed opinions of her in her
ear.
“Oh, you were beautiful!” they cry, “but what a shocking condition
of ignorance and idolatry you did live in! Of course you could not be
expected to be as wise as Manchester or as spiritually enlightened as
Piccadilly Circus—still!”
“Still?” she answers mildly. “I once held the Crown of Thorns in my
hand—did you know that? It was a very long time ago—seven hundred years
and more—but I did.”
It was soon after the death of John of Brienne, when the revenues of
France were so eaten up by wars—with Bulgaria among others (it seems
queer to think that that state which has been fighting the battle of
the Crown so gallantly should once have been the cause of the pawning
of the Crown!)—that the government of the Regency was compelled to
open subscriptions for a loan. The one movable thing of value which
they possessed was the Crown of Thorns, and this was given in pledge
to a certain Albert Nerosini, as representing the Venetian and Genoese
merchants who had taken up the loan (one wonders that some of them were
not struck dead for the impious sacrilege!). It was taken from its
resting-place in the chapel of the Bouillons, and, after the term of
the loan had run out and the payment of the note was not forthcoming,
by an arrangement with a rich Venetian banker, made in order to evade
a scandal (one cannot help thinking that it was a little late in the
day to be talking about a “scandal”), it was transferred for the sake
of safety to the Church of Pantocrates, in Constantinople, whence, in
the case of the Regency failing in the performance of its agreement,
the banker was at liberty to remove it to Venice and keep it there for
a further term of four months; also, it was agreed that if the money
was not paid by the 19th of June, 1238, the Crown should become the
property of the mortgagee.
We are not told what the Holy Louis IX of France said when he came
to hear of this transaction, but when we remember that in those rough
times even the most saintly of men were apt to “let fly” upon lesser
occasions and under far less temptation, one can imagine. He acted,
however, with commendable promptitude and sent off two Dominicans on
the spot to Constantinople to redeem the relic from pawn and bring it
back, if possible, to their own country—a congenial task, no doubt, to
the sons of St. Dominic.
It was a long journey that they had to make before they completed
their mission, for the Imperial government had not liquidated its
obligations, and the owner had already hired a ship to convey the
Cross, and had set sail some time before the two monks arrived
at the Golden Horn. But they tracked it to Venice, and there they
obtained an audience with the Doge, Tiepolo, who must have been in
an extraordinarily good temper, for him, for he seems to have made no
objections, either to the audience or to taking them in person to St.
Mark’s, where he showed them a golden casket, sealed with his own arms,
wherein lay the treasure they sought.
Louis IX had picked his men well, they paid the mortgagee instantly,
and as instantly claimed the restitution of the Crown. It is rather
difficult to see upon what they based their claim, but it was a pious
age and they seem to have had no great difficulty in obtaining the
surrender of it, for they were well on their way home before any
question arose upon the subject between the Imperial government of
Constantinople and the banker from whom they had redeemed the Crown.
Upon their return to Paris, Louis took the Crown in procession to
the Sainte Chapelle, which had been built especially to contain it,
carrying it in his own hands and walking barefoot and in his shirt
through the streets, and there it remained for many centuries, to
attest the devotion and piety of the Royal Saint.
The Venetians appear to have been ardent collectors of sacred objects
at all times, for it is related that, as early as 992, a certain
Pietro Barbolano, afterwards Doge, having been sent upon a diplomatic
mission to the Byzantine Court, came across the remains of Saint Saba
and conceived an ardent desire to transport the holy body to his own
country. In parenthesis, and without in the least impugning the moral
sense of either party to the transaction, the bargaining that followed
between Barbolano and the officials, for the purchase of the Saint’s
remains, makes queer reading. There seems to have been no hesitancy in
haggling for the relics, and no sense of any sordidness or sacrilege.
Even the storm that descended upon Barbolano on the night of his
embarkation does not seem to have carried any message to him, but the
priests were alarmed and begged him to reconsider his intention. But
he, being on the spot with his two sons and some servants, soon had
the casket on board, and set sail. The weather cleared up and equable
winds soon brought them to the Venetian shore, when Barbolano ordered
the chest to be transferred from the ship to his own house, which stood
next to the Church of Sant’ Antonino at Olivolo. But the casket would
not move. So heavy had it grown that no human agency could be found
to lift it an inch; and, while they were still struggling with it, the
bell of the Campanile began to peal so violently as to make the great
tower rock.
A crowd speedily assembled, and Barbolano, grasping the message of
the bell and the meaning of the casket’s weight, fell on his knees and
said: “We will carry it into the Church, for the will of the Saviour
has been declared that the body shall rest in the shrine dedicated to
his servant, St. Antoninus!”
Immediately the casket became as light as a feather, when it was
conducted with all pomp to Sant’ Antonino and laid upon the altar.
As the casket touched the stone, the bell of the Campanile ceased
its clamour; and then, over the remains, appeared a Dove of wonderful
whiteness of plumage, which only disappeared after the “Te Deum” had
been sung and the services concluded. An altar was built for St. Saba
behind the choir, and the casket was placed in the Treasury of the
Church.
It is told besides how, on that same evening when the “Piovano” of
Sant’ Antonino was strolling about his garden, among some rose trees
which he had recently planted there, he noticed a flower of such
unearthly beauty that he immediately ascribed it to the miracle which
he himself had just witnessed.
I can almost see the smiles with which many good people will read
this little story, but permit me to suggest, with all the most
kindly and friendly feelings possible, to such that, once the human
intelligence—and I care not whose it is—is permitted to grapple,
unaided, with the possibilities of an Infinite Power, spiritual
destruction is the invariable result. “Whosoever shall fall upon this
stone shall be broken—but on whomsoever it shall fall it shall grind
him to powder!”
Legend and fact, faith and inspiration are so intermingled that to
separate and classify them is impossible to any intelligence not
directly inspired. But it is not a bad thing to bear in mind, if only
for the sake of acquiring that intellectual humility without which
the production of good work is impossible, that the veriest fool can
disbelieve. It requires no brains or study whatever; but to grasp
and retain faith, based on conviction, and supported by reason, is an
extremely difficult task, even for the strongest mind. Indeed, were
it not for the grace of the Almighty aiding, I think very few, if any,
could accomplish it.
The devotion of the Venetian to St. Mark is as great as that of the
southern sailors to St. Antoninus. They were always a pious people
and had carried about with them many relics, so that some discussion
(probably tinged with acridness, since in these matters each had his
peculiar devotion for his own) took place as to the choice of a holy
patron, for the new settlement, when the descendants of the pioneers
found themselves in a position to honour one with a suitable edifice—an
insurance, so to speak, of the continued attention of the Almighty.
There was a legend, no doubt the smoke of some far-off fire of fact,
that St. Mark the Evangelist had been shipwrecked upon the shore of
Rialto and that, on landing there, he heard a voice from the emptiness
of the island that said, “Pax tibi, Marce, Evangeliste meus” (Peace be
with thee, oh, Mark, my evangelist!), words which afterward became the
motto of the Republic.
St. Mark thereupon grew in honour among the Venetians, until he had
assumed the position of Patron, and it was not long before the idea of
bringing back his body, which reposed at Alexandria, began to take hold
of the common mind. But, unfortunately, Alexandria was in the hands of
the Mussulman, and the Emperor had forbidden any intercourse with the
unbelievers, even for the purposes of commerce.
Now the Emperor’s interdictions were not to be lightly disobeyed, life
and fortune being the usual penalty; but the Emperor was far away and
St. Mark could hardly refuse to have any one going on such an errand in
his keeping. He was an Evangelist, too—a mighty man and one who stood
very near to the throne; so, commending themselves to his protection,
two Venetians, merchants and navigators—Burno da Malamoceo and Rustico
da Torcello—fitted out a very fast boat with merchandise for the East,
and set sail, leaving no address.
When they reached Alexandria, they stayed on board until the evening,
and one can imagine them sitting on the deck and watching the slow
setting of the sun over the blue waters, their eyes straying hungrily
to the city as it faded, shade by shade, into an amethystine obscurity.
They were running more risks than that of the Emperor’s wrath that
night, and they must have talked long ere they arrived at a plan of
action for getting the body of the Saint on board. It would not be
tamely surrendered, that was sure; in fact, as they knew, it would
not be surrendered at all. They would have to take it, and, besides,
transport it through the city afterwards.
When at last the night gathered the world into its mantle, they left
the ship and were rowed ashore, when, taking their courage in their
hands, they hurried through the soft eastern dusk towards the Basilica
where the body was kept. How they came to know their way to it, history
does not say, and that tangled maze of buildings which was Alexandria
must have been a business to thread, seeing that they spoke no language
which the common people in the streets understood. However, they
eventually arrived at the Basilica and opened communication with the
men in charge of the Church.
They seem to have gone straight to the point, for in a very short while
they succeeded in bribing these latter (one can only speculate on what
they must have been compelled to pay!) and in obtaining possession
of the treasure. That done, they placed it in the bottom of a cart
and filled the latter with as much salt-pork as the mules could draw,
knowing well that no Mohammedan, however casual, would touch the
unclean meat or even approach it, after which they retraced their way
through the sleeping city and smuggled their prize on board.
They slipped out to sea while it was still dark, and, the wind holding,
made the return journey swiftly. Coming near to their destination, they
sent on a light boat to carry the good news and to give the city and
its rulers time enough to arrange for the triumphal reception which
they were sure would not be grudged to the freight they were bringing.
Nor were they disappointed. The population came down to the shore of
the Lagoon _en masse_, and the four greatest nobles of Venice carried
the casket on their shoulders to the private chapel of the ducal
palace, where it was to lie in state until a church could be built for
it, amid cries of “Viva San Marco” that swept over the city and from
island to island.
And it was thanks to the Evangelist that the scattered factions
in Venice drew together again and became true Venetians, for their
allegiance to him bound them gradually to each other.
The early history of Venice is a succession of wars, foreign and
internecine, as has been the experience of every tribe and race that
has risen above the common herd. She came to greatness in battle, and
sank to littleness in peace. Without strife—without the continuous
necessity of keeping herself in readiness for self-defence—she
relapsed, like all the rest, and sank into insignificance. Muscles
unused will soon become useless, and this result will gradually affect
the whole system.
As early as 809, she was important enough to attract the enmity of
Charlemagne, who sent a fleet under his son Pepin to the skirts of the
Lagoon. Then it was that Venice awoke to find herself a cause, for, in
the face of the Franks, the partisan warfare ceased and under Badoer
the Venetians stood together, back to back, and succeeded in handling
Pepin hard enough to make him see the wisdom of leaving them in peace
in their islands afterwards.
Situated as they were, they were the natural prey of freebooters of
all sorts for centuries. It was an old custom with them that on the
eve of St. Mary’s twelve poor girls, endowed by the State, should
be married to their lovers in the Church of St. Peter the Apostle at
Olivolo. On the 31st of January, 939, some corsairs who happened to be
in the neighbourhood, resolved to abduct these Daughters of St. Mark,
knowing that the general festa would make a surprise easy and defence
difficult, if not impossible.
Now the parents and kinsfolk of the lucky virgins and their betrothed
used to assemble on these occasions on the island of Olivolo, where
stood the Church, and from the dawn the barks skimmed the canals, gaily
dressed with flowers and flags, bearing the happy couples to San Pietro
with their dowers and wedding presents; so the attackers, conducted by
their chief Gaiolo, a renowned ruffian of that period, hid themselves
the night before the festival in the thick woods of Olivolo, and the
next morning, so soon as the procession had passed through the doors,
they crossed the narrow canal and ran at the Church.
The rites had begun, and the brides were on the point of being handed
over to their future husbands, when the doors were flung open and
the Church was filled with armed and yelling men, who dragged the
girls from the altars, flung them into their boats, and sped away for
Trieste.
The Doge was the first to grapple with the situation and rushed out,
accompanied by the maddened bridegrooms, and called every one within
hearing distance to arms. Some boats belonging to the Trunk Makers of
Santa Maria Formosa being near by, the Doge and his companions jumped
in, seized the oars, and pulled with frenzied energy for the lagoon
of Caorla, where the rapers still were. Thanks to their knowledge of
their own waterways, they caught their enemies in a creek, now called
the Porto delle Donzelle (the gate of the damsels) and, with ferocious
delight, set upon them.
The fight was a prolonged and bloody affair, but the outraged lovers
avenged themselves very completely, by all accounts, for hardly a
corsair escaped, and the girls were carried back to Olivolo, when the
interrupted rites were completed and the tide of enjoyment allowed to
rise to unusual heights in the feasting that followed.
In later years, to commemorate the incident, twelve young girls used
to pay a visit in the company of the Doge to the Trunk Makers of Santa
Maria Formosa on that date. It is said that the custom was originated
by the Trunk Makers themselves, who requested the Doge to make the
visit and even went so far as to offer the latter a new hat, in case
of rain, which often resulted in another custom, that of supplying the
Prince on these occasions with two hats and two bottles of wine.
There are several legends of St. Mark extant, but perhaps the most
interesting of them is one dating from a flood to which Venice was
subjected, owing to a gigantic tidal disturbance in 1340.
It was on the 15th of February that the storm was at its worst, and by
nightfall the dry land was almost submerged beneath the raging waters.
A solitary sailor, hugging his cloak to himself, was standing in the
windy downpour, as evening fell, on the Piazzetta of St. Mark’s, when
he heard himself addressed by name and, turning, saw beside him a tall
and venerable person, who spake in a tone of calm authority: “I am St.
Mark the Evangelist. Take me over to San Giorgio!” The man hardly dared
to move, but awe getting the better of fear, he obeyed, and ferried the
saint to San Giorgio, where, waiting for them apparently, stood a stout
looking personage, whom the terrified ferryman presently learnt to be
St. George. As soon as the latter was on board, the Evangelist directed
the sailor to proceed to the Lido, where a third traveller was added to
the party, in the person of St. Nicholas.
The sailor, his fears calmed by the presence of three such holy ones,
proceeded to carry out the Evangelist’s further instructions without
hesitation, and rowed out into the tempest that was lashing the seas
into a screaming fury. On they went, the waves, though mountain high,
doing them no harm, until they seemed to be enclosed in caverns of
water; and then, in an instant, they were surrounded by legions of
devils, howling and whooping and leaping about in the air.
But these latter were not left long to triumph in the success of their
wickedness. Any one of the three saints would, probably, have been
strong enough to disperse them, but the combination was irresistible
and, after a brief resistance, they were exorcised and sent packing.
Then St. Mark held out a ring to the sailor, telling him to take it to
the “Procuratori,” who would give him five ducats; and, before the man
had time to recover his breath and voice his gratitude at the splendid
reward, he found himself alone in the boat.