The Pigeons in St. Mark’s Square: Further description of the interior:
The Palace of the Doges: “The Bridge of Sighs”: The general Archives of
Venice: The Church of Santa Maria dei Frari: London Polytechnic Party:
Some of the slums of Venice: Our farewell.
In the Piazza of St. Mark’s there may be seen, almost any time, some
hundreds of pigeons. They are very tame, we passed them so closely I
think we could have picked them up in our arms. There is an old legend
that these pigeons are the safety valve of Venice. How? it is difficult
to learn, but they are regarded almost with reverence. Twice a day they
are fed by the public authorities. A huge bell is rung, and they come
from all quarters of the city. They know the time of feeding and to show
visitors that this is true, when the bell is not rung, the pigeons are
there. If anyone hurts or kills one of these pigeons, he is fined
heavily for the first offence, if it is repeated he is imprisoned. We
went inside this beautiful church of St. Mark’s and at first we could not
realise the magnificence, the beauty, the costliness of its interior.
The columns of porphry and amalachite and verde antique, panels
glittering with gold and gems, pavements dazzling in mosaic work.
After some time we began to realize the splendours by which we were
surrounded. Mr. Ruskin, I think, gives a fine picture in very simple
words of the beauties and richness of St. Mark’s: “Then opens before us a
vast cave hewn out in the form of a cross, and divided into shadowy
aisles by many pillars. Round the domes of its roof, the light enters
only through narrow apertures, like large stars; here and there a ray or
two from some far away casement wanders into darkness, and casts a narrow
phosphoric stream upon the waves of marble that heave and fall in a
thousand colours upon the floor. What else there is of light is from
torches or silver lamps burning ceaselessly in the recesses of the
chapels. The roof sheathed with gold, and the polished walls, covered
with rich alabaster, gives back at every curve and angle some feeble
gleaming to the flames: and the glories round the heads of the sculptured
saints flash out upon us as we pass them, and sink into gloom. Under
foot and over head a continual succession of crowded imagery, one picture
passing into another as in a dream; forms beautiful and terrible, mixed
together, dragons and serpents and ravenous beasts of prey, and graceful
birds that in the midst of them, drink from running fountains and feed
from vases of crystal. The passions and pleasures of human life
symbolized together and the mystery of its redemption; for the mass of
interwoven lines and changeful pictures lead always at last to the Cross
lifted and carved in every place and upon every stone, sometimes with the
serpent of eternity wrapped around it, with doves beneath its arms, and
sweet herbage growing forth from its feet. But conspicuous most of all
is the great road that crosses the church before the altar, raised in the
bright blazonry against the shadow of the Apse.”
To describe all the interior of this lovely structure would be as easy as
to describe our British Museum in London. We were enchanted, bewildered,
surprised. The baptistery, with its sculptured front, and for an altar
piece a massive granite slab, on which, it is alleged, our Lord stood
when he preached to the inhabitants of Tyre. Then the choir stalls are
rich in carvings of every description, indeed, everywhere about us are
treasures unspeakable. The outside is hardly less wonderful than the
inside, with its domes, spires, statues, arches and columns, which fairly
bewilder you, as for the first time your eyes fall upon such marvellous
productions of the skilful workmanship of man. The King’s palace or what
is called the Palace of the Doges is just against the Piazza or Square of
St. Mark’s. Against one of the columns at the entrance I took a snapshot
of my dear wife and our friend Miss Himmel. This place is full of things
ancient and interesting. Ruskin says of its many coloured marbles,
columns, arches, and curiously sculptured windows: “A piece of rich and
fantastic colour, as lovely a dream as ever filled the imagination.” It
has been twice destroyed by fire, but from the ashes it has arisen more
beautiful than ever; here it stands to-day a monument of a strange and
eventful history of over one thousand years.
[Picture: Mrs. Wardle and Miss Himmel by The Doges Pillar, Venice]
The power of the Doges it seems, was an absolute power for a time, yet
was of uncertain tenure. Out of fifty, it is said, five abdicated, nine
were exiled, five were banished and their eyes put out, and five were
massacred, this up to 1172. Life was of little value in those days, even
amongst kings, nor was it less so amongst the people, as often a man
accused was condemned without trial, punishment was swift and sure and
secret, generally by strangulation in prison, or by drowning, hands tied
and body weighted. It was no uncommon sight in those days in this land
to see a body swinging from the gallows by the wayside. No one dared to
enquire about the unhappy man’s fate, or he stood in danger of similar
treatment. Everywhere there was unsafety and fear. As Rogers, one of
our poets, puts it:
“A strange mysterious power was there,
Moving throughout; subtle, invisible
And universal as the air they breathed.
A power that never slumbered, never pardoned,
All eye, all ear, nowhere, and everywhere;
Most potent when least thought of—Nothing dropt
In secret, when the heart was on the lips,
Nothing in feverish sleep, but instantly
Observed and judged—A power that if but glanced at
In casual converse, be it where it might,
The speaker lowered at once his eyes, his voice
And pointed upwards as to God in heaven.
But, let him in the midnight air indulge
A word, a thought against the laws of Venice,
And in that hour he vanished from the earth.”
Those were dark days in this city of wealth and power. We were not
permitted inside the palace, but were allowed to ascend the staircase at
the head of which is the famous “lions’ mouths,” into which, in ancient
times, were placed terrible denunciations, secret letters, etc., which
meant, what I have already referred to, imprisonment, torture or death.
Also, along a long corridor, where we could see the busts of the Venetian
heroes, whose names were enrolled in the “Golden Book.” Beyond is the
hall of the Grand Council, in which are some of the richest and most
valuable pictures in Venice. There is Tintoretto’s masterpiece, “The
glory of Paradise,” the largest picture (74 feet long) ever painted on
canvas, the most precious thing in Venice to-day. From the hall of the
Grand Council, there is further on the hall of the Council of Ten.
Indeed, the rooms are so many, so large and so full of things of
interest, we left the place greatly interested and very tired.
Another marvellous old church we visited was erected in 1565. It is,
however, much like other churches, full of pictures, bronze statues and
carvings in wood in great variety. The tomb of Titian is an object of
interest in the Church of Frari, but time does not permit us to dwell
upon it. The offices of the general archives of Venice are very fine
buildings, they were in the cloisters of the Frari, they are now simply
the resting places of the most ancient records of the old republic. It
is said there are now over fourteen million volumes of immense value
stored there. They occupy thirteen large rooms. The museum is a place
worth a visit to those who are interested in curios. It belongs to the
city, and in it are many curiosities, chiefly artistical and
archaeological—antique medals, armoury, engravings, books, ivory,
engraved stones. It is a place of great interest.
We crossed the famous “Bridge of Sighs,” immortalised by Lord Byron, who
says:
“I stood in Venice, on the bridge of sighs,
A palace and a prison on each hand.”
It was built in the year 1610. We could not fail to remember Tom Hood’s
pathetic poem, written, it is believed, after seeing a poor girl, one of
the unfortunates, whose corpse has just been discovered in the cold black
waters under this bridge of sighs—Drowned! drowned!
“One more unfortunate weary of breath,
Rashly importunate, gone to her death;
Take her up tenderly, lift her with care;
Fashioned so slenderly, young and so fair.
Touch her not scornfully, think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly; not of the stains of her,
All that remains of her now is pure womanly.
Make no deep scrutiny into her mutiny,
Rash and undutiful, past all dishonour,
Death has left on her only the beautiful.
Still for all slips of hers, one of Eve’s family,
Wipe those poor lips of hers, oozing so clammily.
Loop up her tresses, escaped from the comb,
Her fair auburn tresses, while wonderment guesses
Where was her home? Who was her father?
Who was her mother? Had she a sister?
Had she a brother? Or was there a dearer one
Still and a nearer one yet than the others?
Alas for the rarity of christian charity
Under the sun, Oh! it was pitiful!
Near to a city full, home she had none.
Where the lamps quiver, so far on the river,
With many a light from window and casement
From garret to basement, she stood with amazement
Homeless by night. The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and quiver, but not the dark arch
Or the black flowing river, mad with life’s history
Glad to death’s mystery, swift to be hurled
Anywhere, anywhere, out of the world.
In she plunged boldly, no matter how coldly
The rough river ran.
Over the brink of it. Picture it, think of it.
Then if you can, take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care; fashioned so slenderly,
So young and so fair. E’er her limbs frigidly
Stiffen so rigidly, decently, kindly
Smooth and compose them, and her eyes close them
Staring so blindly, dreadfully staring
Through muddy impurity. As when the daring
Last look of despairing, fixed on futurity.
Perishing gloomily, spurned by contumely,
Cold inhumanity, burning insanity,
Into her rest—Cross her hands humbly
As if praying dumbly, over her breast.
Owning her weakness, her evil behaviour,
And leaving with meakness her sins to her Saviour.”
The bridge derives its name from the fact that criminals crossed it from
the judge’s chamber to the prison. This passage used to be on the
bridge: “The way of the transgressors is hard.” The bridge is a single
arch of one span of ninety feet. There are some nice shops on the top.
Our next visit was to the church of San G. Maggiore. Amongst so many
churches that we visited, I must not omit to name the old church of Santa
Mari dei Frari. It is about five hundred years old. It is said the
heart of Titian lies somewhere here. He died at the age of about one
hundred years. A plague was raging at the time of his death, which
carried away something like fifty thousand of the inhabitants of Venice.
Yet such was the esteem in which he was held, the state permitted a
public funeral in that season of death and terror. In this church there
is a fine monument to one of the Kings “Foscari.” It is in its way a
curiosity. It is over forty feet high, and is fronted in such a peculiar
fashion, I could only liken it to some heathen temple. Against it are
four black men, as black as the blackest marble could be, dressed in
white garments of marble. Their black legs are bare, and through places
that seem torn in breeches and sleeves, the shining black marble shows.
Above all this sits the departed Doge or King.
“The Church of Santa Maria della Salute.” On our way home we dropped
from our gondola to have a look at this sacred building. It stands
nearly at the entrance of the Grand Canal. A hundred statues adorn the
facades. It is said the building rests upon over one million massive
piles driven deeply into the sea. It was erected in response to a vow,
so it is said, in the year 1631. Sixty thousand inhabitants were swept
away by a terrible plague. The then Doge vowed a vow to build a costly
church in honour of the Virgin, if the plague was stayed, from the day
the vow was made, no more deaths occurred, and every year this event is
commemorated in a festival. Reaching home tired, we soon went to bed and
rested. Rising refreshed and it being Sunday morning, we felt a need of
our English Sabbath with its quiet rest and worship. This, however, was
partly supplied by a party from the Polytechnic in London, who, we found,
were sleeping at our hotel, so we joined them, after we had breakfasted,
in their songs, and so passed a part of the sacred day happily and
pleasantly. We visited one of the principal manufactories of mosaics and
carvings. A gentleman, who spoke fairly good English, escorted us
through these extensive works. The building was, at one time, one of the
Ducal Palaces. Room after room, full of the finest mosaics, cameos,
china works in every conceivable variety, statuary, and carvings. Some
of these works of art are almost priceless. We bought a few small
specimens of the Venetians’ workmanship. These large palaces of days
long past are crumbling to ruins. Byron says:
“In Venice Tasso’s echoes are no more,
And silent rows the songless gondolier.
Her palaces are crumbling on the shore,
And music greets not always now the ear.”
Among the many places of interest in this very interesting old-world
city, that we cannot stay to describe, are the Mint, the Arsenal, the
Public Gardens, Titian’s house, Academy of Fine Arts, etc. We had just a
look at what we should call the slums, I mean the places where live the
poor, and the poor are very poor. Someone has compared Venice to a page
of music, with its curious streets, palaces, museums, canals and bridges,
resembling lines, notes, double notes, crotchets, pauses; its long and
straight, its short, narrow and crooked ways, its open spaces scattered
up and down, its mounting and descending of bridges. The comparison
holds good in as far as the stranger may easily lose his way and not
easily find it again, in this maze of land and water. In Venice nearly
everything is sold in the open-air in the poorer quarters, and almost
everything that is eaten, is eaten in the open-air. Stalls, where fish
or mutton is grilled or fried, and passed hot into the al fresco
customer’s hands. Turning into a sequestered nook resembling one of the
openings in our Narrow Marsh, we saw a number of girls, very good looking
damsels, with guitars and dulcimers, they were giving a serenade to the
poor of that quarter. They are the pearl threaders. The pearl threading
is an occupation prevalent in Venice, as embroidery was at one time in
England. A home of the poor was being removed from one house to another,
the furniture consisted simply of a bedstead and a huge chest or coffer
with a stool or two, and a small wooden table. These constituted their
whole inventory. Nothing of marble or mosaic here. Nothing of gold or
purple, only squalor, poverty and rags. And now we think we have seen
Venice, our time also is used up or nearly so. We have surely seen
enough of the profusion of costly ornamentation in the old churches. We
gazed upon pictures until our eyes were weary of looking at the finest
works of the painters’ art ever produced. We have surely learned
something in this old-world city of the deeds and doings of bygone ages.
To have seen St. Mark’s and its wonderful Campanile or Tower, and the
Palace of the ancient Kings or Doges, and the Grand Square, and the
Bronze Horses that figure in so many legends (it is said there are
hundreds of people in this curious old city that have never seen a living
horse). We think we have now seen Venice, and if this had been all we
had seen on this tour, it would be worth all the cost and all the trouble
to have seen this city on the sea.
Our new found friend, Miss Himmel, left us in the early morning, her next
visit was to Munich. We wished her good-bye and God speed, for in our
very short acquaintance we had learned to look upon her as a dear friend.
And so we leave Venice, calling it as Goethe does: “a grand work of
collective human effort. A glorious monument, not of a ruler, but a
people.” So we departed, our gondola was at our hotel door early, we
settled up, he swung out and we were at the station and caught the 9.45
for Milan.