Arrival at Venice: The ubiquitous Gondola: The Grand Canal: The curious
water ways: Our Hotel: A snap shot of a Gondola and its freight: St.
Mark’s Cathedral: Its curious history: Its wonderful Tower, and its
interior adornments.
I think it was the most thrilling moment of our tour, as our train left
Mestra, and almost immediately we began crossing the long bridge
(two-and-a-half miles long) which crosses the lagoon, we seem to be
travelling right into the sea, the gentle ripple of the watery waves by
moonlight as they extend on either side of the line, has a pleasing
effect. The peculiar smell of the seaweed is strong in the air, and
right ahead is Venice, of which some poet has sung:
“There is a glorious city in the sea,
The sea is in the broad, the narrow streets
Ebbing and flowing, and the salt seaweed
Clings to the marble of her palaces.
No track of men, no footsteps to and fro
Lead to her gates! the path lies o’er the sea,
Invisible: And from the land we went
As to a floating city—steering in,
And gliding up her streets as in a dream,
So smoothly, silently—by many a dome
Mosque-like, and many a stately portico
The statues ranged along an azure sky,
By many a pile, in more than Eastern pride,
Of old the residence of merchant kings;
The fronts of some, tho’ time hath shattered them,
Still glowing with the richest hues of art,
As though the wealth within them had run o’er.”
Our arrival at Venice was about eight o’clock in the evening, surely no
time so fitting to be introduced to the fair Queen of the Adriatic. From
the busy, bustling railway station we were concluded by a Fakena, who
brought up our luggage to a gondola lying in the shimmering sea just
outside. No cabs or ’bus as at other stations, the gondola seemed to be
everywhere. As we stepped into our new found equipage we were entranced,
imagination fails to picture a sight so bewitching. Lights in a thousand
directions, gondolas passing and repassing as we sweep through the
principal waterway, then turn sharp round a corner as our gondolier
cries: “Stali priene gai e” as he passes others with most wonderful
precision. We were thus conveyed to the door of the Grand Hotel
Victoria, where for a short time we were to make our home. We found the
house all we could desire, warm, clean sweet, and fitted up almost
luxuriantly. To bed and a rest, and oh! how sweet after toil and travel.
We were awake and out early to see the sights of this unique city. We
opened our eyes on a lovely picture, soft, dreamy, beautiful. The water,
dotted over in all directions, with this strange craft. It seems this is
the only means of locomotion. No cabs, omnibuses, carts, or even a
barrow. There is no animal in Venice larger than a dog. Here the
universal bike cometh not. The fashionable or unfashionable motor
neither puffs nor smells. The train must not approach nearer than the
head of the Grand Canal. A horse would be as great a novelty in Venice,
I should think, as a ship in full sail would be in Wheeler Gate,
Nottingham. Right from the water’s edge at our hotel door, we could see
gondolas gliding swiftly hither and thither. In Byron’s “Beppo” we find
the following lines:
“Did’st ever see a Gondola; for fear you should not
I’ll describe it exactly,
’Tis a long covered boat common here,
Carved at the prow, built lightly but compactly,
Rowed by two rowers, each called gondolier;
It glides along the water looking blackly,
Just like a coffin clapt in a canal,
Where none can make out what you say or do.”
[Picture: Mrs. Wardle and Miss Himmel in gondola, Venice]
Appearing suddenly, through unsuspected gateways and alleys, yonder, we
see vast bridges and stately palaces of marble throw their shadows
athwart the glittering waves. There seems life and motion everywhere,
and yet there is no noise. There seems a hush as if suggestive of secret
enterprise, of mysterious shadows, of the departed greatness of this
still great city. Old Petrarch might well exclaim: “I know not that the
world hath the equal of this place.”
Standing at our hotel door, the gondolier waiting for my wife and our
friend Miss Himmel, I ventured (after they had seated themselves) to take
a snap with my camera to secure some little permanent reminder of the
curiosity of this manner of travel. The gondola is a most handy and
quick means of getting about. We were out in the Grand Canal, and the
sight was, to say the least, most interesting. Here is a party of young
ladies and gentlemen, with their gondola decorated with ribbons in
various colours, and with them, evidently, an opera or chorus party, with
their guitar, and some other peculiar instruments of music, but sweet as
the evening zephyrs, as the sounds floated over the silvery sea. The
gondolas are all black, why? I am unable to say; but I don’t think I saw
one either brown or red, or green or white, simply painted black. The
stern of the boat is usually decorated with a kind of matting or carpet,
at its prow the gondolier stands, he has only a single oar. A long
bladed oar, so he stands erect. How he can scull ahead at such a speed
is a mystery, and at once pull back when there is danger. He seems to
make all his calculations with the greatest precision, he never makes a
mistake. Mark Twain says: “The gondolier is a picturesque rascal for all
he wears no satin harness, no plumed bonnet, no silken tights. His
attitude is stately, he is lithe and supple; all his movements are full
of grace.”
A party of ladies go out shopping in a gondola, this may seem strange,
but it is really true. They flit from street to street, and from shop to
shop, they leave the gondola as a lady here leaves her carriage or her
motor, by the curb, while they have rolls and rolls of silk or muslin or
linen unrolled, and then, perhaps, have just enough cloth to make the pet
dog at home a paletot. Human nature, we find, is much the same the world
over. Boys and girls go to school in the gondola, while they jump and
kick, and fight on the way, but only in play, until landed at the school
house gateway. Nurses are out in the gondola with babies for an airing,
and to pass away the sunny hours on the waters. Families go to church in
the gondolas, dressed in their best, they are soon sculled to the place
where they are wont to worship. The mail boat is a gondola, with its
freight of letters newly arrived, and is always interesting. Funerals
are also carried out in the same way. The gondola is heavily draped in
black velvet and silver trimmings, and furnished with huge candles
lighted, surmounting the canopy, under which lies one who, in his turn
has trodden the silent highways in the enjoyment of health, but is now on
his last journey, accompanied by the solemn chant of the priestly
requiem. Business men come or go in the gondola as we do here in cab or
motor. The doctor visits his patients in and out of the quaint old city,
not on a bicycle, but in a gondola. We saw a party flitting, the
furniture remover brought his gondolas, and furniture was handed out into
this strange vehicle for such a purpose. At Venice it is common, indeed,
the only way possible of conveying goods or furniture from house to
house. So, for almost all purposes, the gondola is useful. We found it
a most enjoyable, as well as a speedy means of getting about. To say
there are no streets in Venice would be hardly true, or to say you cannot
get from place to place only by water. There are only three bridges
cross the Grand Canal which divides the city into pretty nearly equal
halves. The city is built upon one hundred and seventeen islands,
intersected by one hundred and fifty small canals, and two thousand five
hundred and eighty passages or waterways; but almost all the waterways
have a footpath bordering it, while four hundred bridges unite one island
to another. It is, however, very bewildering to pace the mazes of this
strange city. If you get five hundred yards from your starting point,
you may have to cross half a dozen bridges before you can get back again.
[Picture: St. Mark’s Cathedral, Venice]
Our first visit was paid to the cathedral or church of St. Mark’s, and
this wonderful building, for it is a wonderful place, has a wonderful
history; it is this: when the Caliph of Alexandria, who was bitterly
opposed to the Christian religion, was building for himself a magnificent
palace, he gave orders that the most precious marbles were to be procured
for its adornment, and to this end the Christian churches were to be
stripped of their richest treasure. A raid was made on the church of St.
Mark at Alexandria, where the body of the Saint was said to rest in a
state of spiritual repose, and so great was the grief of the two Greek
Priests who officiated in the temple that their cries and lamentations
came to the ears of two Venetian merchants who chanced to be trading in
that port. When these merchants found out the cause of their trouble
they offered to take away the body of St. Mark and secure for it a sweet
resting place in their own country. The Priests at first disliked the
idea, but when the temple was profaned and robbed and stripped of all
that made it attractive, they gave consent. It was a work that was very
risky they thought, for St. Mark had been known to work strange miracles,
and was held in great awe and veneration by the people. However, they
entered the tomb in which the body lay, cut open the wrapper in which the
sacred remains were enfolded, removed the body and substituted the body
of St. Claudian therein. How to carry the body away safely was their
next consideration. They fell upon the following stratagem. Placing the
body in a large basket covered with herbs and savoury joints of pork,
they bore it along the streets crying: “Khan zir! Khan zir!” Pork!
Pork! A cry hateful to all true Mussulmen. In this manner they reached
the vessel with their precious burden in safety, where, in order to make
sure of their prize, they concealed the body in the sails until they left
the city. It is said the Venetians received the sacred remains with wild
demonstrations of joy. A succession of fetes were given, ceremonies were
held in honour of the Saint, pilgrims flocked to the shrine from all
parts of the world. A revival in the fortunes of the Venetian Republic
followed, and for a time the cry was often heard “Viva san Marco!” To
secure a fitting resting place for the body thus secured from Alexandria,
this church of St. Mark was built. It is a five domed Romanesque
structure, decked with 500 marble columns. It contains more than 45,000
square feet of mosaics of the tenth century. In form it is of a Greek
cross. Marble from the Haram floors of Eastern potentates panel its
walls and cover its principal porticos, and over its grand portals stand
the four horses of gilded bronze which were taken from the arches of Nero
and Trajan at Rome. They were first taken by Constantine in the fourth
century after Christ to Venice. Then they were taken from Venice again,
and this time to Paris by Napoleon, but they were restored to Venice in
the year 1815. And here, as we saw them, they look most attractive. The
Campanile or Tower of St. Mark’s is not a part of the building, but
stands a little way off. It rises to the height of 322 feet, and at the
top is one of the largest and finest vanes I ever saw, it is that of an
angel with wings outstretched gilded with gold. It was from the tower of
St. Mark’s that Galileo made most of his astronomical observations. We
visited several churches of importance, but they are pretty much alike.
All have their high altars and immense wax candles burning; the picture
of the Madonna in prominent places. The confessional box for the
natives, also for strangers and travellers such as we were. We, however,
declined to patronize this particular line. If we must confess at all,
we certainly take the Psalmist for our ideal, he said: “I said I will
confess my transgressions unto the Lord, and thou forgavest the iniquity
of my sins.” Psalm 32, verse 5. Plenty of Holy Water and evidently
plentifully used, as nearly every one coming in puts his fingers in the
bowl and makes the sign of the cross on his forehead. Cowled monks paced
the floor with noiseless tread. Priests and Bishops in their distinctive
dress are not scarce. I gathered from some source that there are 1,200
priests in Venice, a city of about 100,000 people. It seems as if
everything had to bend to the church and the priest. In the church you
have riches without end, there are huge columns carved out of solid
marble and inlaid from top to bottom with hundreds of delicate figures
wrought in costly verde antique; pulpits of the richest material, whose
draperies hang down in many a lovely picture, showing the artist’s work
from the loom. The Grand Altar, brilliant with agate, jasper and all
manner of precious stones and slabs of what is almost priceless, the
lapis lazuli, which is on all sides lavishly laid as if of no value. Yet
in the midst of all this display of wealth and of lavish expenditure, all
about and at the doors of the churches a dozen or more of hats or bonnets
are doffed and heads bowed in mute appeal and a hundred hands extended
appealing for help. Appealing in a language we could not understand, but
with sad, pitiful eyes and hollow cheeks and tattered garments, no words
were needed to translate their wants. I wondered why all these riches
should lie idle and so many poor actually starving. Mark Twain, when
visiting Italy, said: “Oh! Sons of classic Italy, is the spirit of
enterprize, of self reliance, of noble endeavour, utterly dead within ye.
Why don’t you rob the church?”