MODERN PROCESSIONS AND FESTIVALS.
Mediæval Venice was a city of imposing spectacles. Its church was a
national church, and its Patriarch, the heir of Saint Mark, was, from
the Venetian point of view, the peer of the heir of Saint Peter. It
being a strictly Venetian or State church, the Doge was its head
equally with the Patriarch, and indeed in a certain way was more
important; for the chief church of Venice was not that of the
Patriarch, but the Chapel of the Doge, while the Chapter of San Marco
was far more powerful than the Bishop, who was officially its
superior.
But it pleased the State to make its church prominent in its public
ceremonies; and each great event in its history--be it the
deliverance from the plague or a conspiracy, or a success in having
proved a plague to any foe--was commemorated by a religious function.
Some of these splendid processions corresponded to those of other
Catholic countries and cities, such as those of the Corpus Domini and
Palm Sunday; and Gentile Bellini's pictures of religious processions
now in the Academy still impress us with the unequalled pomp and
magnificence with which the Venetians loved to dazzle themselves and
the strangers within their gates.
The festivals which were peculiar to Venice were important. The
procession of the Doge to the smallest and perhaps the oldest church
in Venice, San Vio, founded in 917, celebrated the deliverance of the
city from the {73} conspiracy of Tiepolo in 1310; and as it occurred
on the 15th of June, that lovely season in Venice, we can but regret
its discontinuance. But the deliverance from the plague in 1576 and
in 1631 is still celebrated each year. The ravages of the plague in
Venice at various times were almost beyond belief. That of 1171 is
curiously associated with the Giustiniani. A hundred or more members
of this most noble house were cut off by this scourge, and its very
name was in danger of extinction, since the young Niccolo, who now
represented the family, was a novice in the convent of San Niccolo,
on the Lido. The Doge Michieli, under these circumstances, thought
it not wrong to send at once to the Pope, asking that Niccolo
Giustiniani might be released from his vows, and married to Anna
Michieli, the daughter of the Doge. Mrs. Oliphant pictures the
interval between the departure of the messenger and his return:--
"The old Giustiniani fathers, in the noble houses which were not as
yet the palaces we know, must have waited among their weeping women
for the decision from Rome. And it is wonderful that no dramatist or
modern Italian romancer should have thought of taking for his hero
this young monk upon the silent shores of the Lido, amid all the
wonderful dramas of light and shade that go on upon the low horizon
sweeping round on every side, a true globe of level, long
reflections, of breadth and space and solitude, so apt for thought.
"Had he known, perhaps, before he thought of dedication to the
church, young Anna Michieli, between whose eyes and his, from her
windows in the Doge's palace to the green line of the Lido, there was
nothing but the dazzle of the sunshine and the ripple of the sea?
Was there a simple romance of this natural kind, waiting to be turned
into joyful fulfilment by the Pope's favorable answer? Or had the
novice to give up his dreams of holy seclusion, or those highest,
all-engrossing visions of ambition, which were to no man more open
than to a bold and able priest?"
{74}
The Pope could but consent under such circumstances, and the marriage
was celebrated immediately. Nine sons and three daughters were born
of this union; and many men of illustrious character and some great
orators afterward proceeded from the Casa Giustiniani. But his life
in the world, with all its good fortune, did not make Niccolo
forgetful of his early vows nor of the peace of his convent; and when
his duty to the State was done, he there re-dedicated himself to
God's service, and his wife Anna entered her chosen nunnery, where
the holiness of her life caused her to be made a _Beata_ after her
death.
Four centuries later Venice was again decimated; and the deliverance
from the plague of 1576 is celebrated to this day on the third Sunday
of July, which is called
THE FÊTE OF THE REDENTORE.
For some days previously the city is in commotion. A pontoon bridge
is thrown across the Grand Canal; and the ferrymen, whose earnings
are thus lessened, receive three francs a day as compensation.
Pilgrims from the neighboring islands and from the mainland are
constantly arriving, and a motley crowd throngs all Venice.
All Sunday morning the Piazza of San Marco is a busy place, for there
the priests from every parish of Venice gather, and form the
procession that marches hence to the Church of the Redentore. The
variously colored stoles of the priests indicate the parishes to
which they belong; and when the procession is seen from a distance,
these stripes of color are very curious in effect. As the church has
a commanding position on the island of La Giudecca, one may easily
have a fine view of the procession on the bridge, and by quickly
crossing in a gondola lose little of the pageant in the church, which
has no doubt lost much of its original splendor.
{75}
But the great interest of the _festa_ is outside the church. The
quays are filled with tents and stalls, decorated gayly with flags,
and displaying cheap toys, cakes, ices, and fennel, as well as hot
_fritelle_, and more solid food for those who wish. The children are
never weary of these tents, while dancing-halls have been hastily
improvised for their elders. And so all day long there is tramping
and chattering, a sense of confusion and unrest, which invades even
the interiors of the most retired houses; and one is better off to
join in the festivities and fully do his part than to attempt to be
quiet.
The real _festa_, however, seems to begin only when the day is ended.
As soon as the sun sinks to rest, the whole Giudecca Canal is covered
with boats fancifully decorated with boughs, and illuminated with
lanterns shaped like lilies, fuschias, and other flowers whose form
lends itself to illumination. Much time and skill is lavished on
these decorations, as the best device gains a handsome prize.
A little later the supper gondolas appear. These are brilliantly
lighted with lamps, and so beautifully dressed with green branches
and wreaths that they seem like living bowers. The tables are well
filled, and the boats crowded with joyous holiday-seekers, whose
laughs and jests, intermingled with the sound of mandolins and songs,
are most contagious in their merriment. As soon as it is dark
enough, fireworks are set off in many parts of the city, but
especially on the Giudecca, and the air is full of rockets and Roman
candles. The gayety of the scene can scarcely be exaggerated; and
its whole appearance is so characteristic of Venice, and so unlike
any other place, that it is quite impossible to draw a true picture
of it in words. From the inauguration of the _festa_ of the
Redentore, it has been the custom to pass the night on the water; and
about two o'clock the boats all move {76} towards the Lido, there to
salute the rising sun, and many of the people rush into the water to
hail the God of Day.
Thus ends the midsummer fête, so well worth seeing and so unique.
But is not all a Venetian summer full of charm? To us each day is a
lovely _festa_.
A REGATTA.
Venice is especially suited to scenic displays upon the water,--the
winding Grand Canal, cutting the city like a mammoth letter S,
opening into the Basin of St. Mark, the Ducal Palace on one side, and
San Giorgio on the other, the curve of the Riva degli Schiavoni
running into the public gardens, all lend themselves to spectacles
with perfect fitness.
Of late years, too, the Town Council has generously encouraged the
regatta with money and influence. The course of the race is from the
stairs of the public gardens to the Station, and back to the Palazzo
Foscari. The prizes are money and flags,--red, green, and blue for
the first three boats, and a sucking pig and a yellow flag with a pig
embroidered on it for the last boat. One would think that after
falling behind so much as to surely fail of the first prizes, there
would be a contention for the hindmost place.
There is no end to the varieties of the Venetian craft,--gondolas,
_sandolos_, _barche_, _barchette_, _topos_, _cavaline_, _vipere_,
_bissoni_, and many more. Before the regatta begins, the Grand Canal
is covered with boats of every size. All the palaces are hung with
tapestries, rugs, curtains, and any stuffs of a gay color, while
flags flutter everywhere. Every balcony and window is full of people
and heads, while the roofs are black with those who have no more
advantageous outlooks.
[Illustration: _Festival Scene, Bridge of the Rialto._]
By far the most interesting boats are the _bissone_ and {77} _peote_,
rowed by ten and twelve oars, whose duty it is to keep the
race-course clear. These are decorated by the commercial houses of
the city, and are symbolical in their designs, the crews being
dressed in accordance with the decorations. One may resemble a
Chinese junk; another represents the tropics, bearing palms and
gorgeous flowers and even tropical birds; another may have a Polar
bear on its bows, with its rowers imitating walruses, and sitting on
cakes of ice; one is usually decorated with glass from Murano, which
sparkles like precious stones in the sunlight. These have each a
special color,--blue, gold, pink, silver, green, and, in truth, all
the gay colors known; and as, in order to keep the course clear, they
must constantly move about, they make a charming effect, and are
vastly amusing to those who are waiting and watching for the race.
The gondolas of the nobility are frequently gay, with the livery of
the four gondoliers they carry. Many of them are dressed in antique
style, with puffed hose, long silk stockings, gay doublets, and
plumed hats; and other private boats, especially the large bissone,
carry gayly dressed parties, while their crews are in liveries of
velvet or silk with lace and costly trimmings.
Suddenly the boom of a cannon hushes all voices. The race has begun.
It is rowed in small, light gondolas, and every eye is fixed on the
spot where these boats will first be seen. When they are near enough
to tell who leads, there are cheers and shouts of encouragement. The
race sweeps by and disappears. The excitement becomes intense, and
bets are freely made, comments of all sorts are heard, and until the
boats again come in sight, on their return, one might well question
if Babel were as noisy as Venice at a regatta. As the victor nears
the winning post, the silence is breathless. He snatches his flag;
his name is shouted by thousands; the regatta is {78} finished; and
already the people are talking of the amusements which are still to
be enjoyed.
THE SERENADE.
Coming after the regatta, the serenade is a fresh delight. The
anxieties are ended, and everybody can now enjoy the lovely evening,
the cool breeze, the glimpses of exquisite palace interiors, of
gondolas filled with ladies in _festa_ costumes, and of decorations
and illuminations everywhere.
Eight o'clock is the hour for beginning; and a large barge decorated
with many green and red lamps arranged in pyramids and other more
fanciful designs carries the orchestra and the singers. It starts
from above the Rialto, and is soon surrounded by numberless gondolas.
Each gondolier strives for the best position, and that is thought to
be at the bow of the music barge. The whole mass of boats float with
the tide; and as they come to the narrower part of the canal, neither
barge nor any gondola can move forward or back.
Under the arch of the bridge the scene is like a good-natured
pandemonium. The police bid the rowers do this and do that, but they
only make a pretence of trying to obey. The police shout, "Avanti,
avanti!" the boatmen repeat the cry, but nothing moves. At last the
chief official, by means of a trumpet, gives an order to "pump," and
at once a fire-engine on the barge throws a stream of water which
loosens the block a little, and the barge advances a few feet. A
very curious effect is produced by the different sorts of lights.
The cold, colorless electric, the brilliant hues of the Bengal
lights, and the soft glimmering from the stars in the clear blue
above, bring out the statuesque figures of the gondoliers and the
fronts of the palaces,--now like startling ghosts, again like {79}
blushing youths, and then as impalpable spirit-forms. They appear
and disappear as the lights change and as the boats move. The
gondoliers are mostly clothed in white, and seem like dream figures,
as do the exquisite façades with their delicate tracery and ornament.
The serenade is apparently endless; for in spite of the pumping, its
progress is very slow, and the barge will not reach the Salute until
long past midnight. There the lights are put out, and the musicians
released. Little attention is given to the music, which seems only
to be a nucleus for this most novel and fantastic scene, from which
one may easily escape by a side canal, and end the evening with one
more spectacle.
THE ILLUMINATION.
This is the appropriate end of a really grand festival; and the scene
in the Piazza is as beautiful, if not as exciting, as the race or the
serenade. So brilliant is the light that not a detail of the
architecture is lost. Every column, with all its ornament, each
cornice, pillar, and curve is outlined by little jets of golden
flame, and even of a deeper tint; and all these lights are flickering
just enough to dazzle the eye with an effect like a rippling sea of
fire. In weird contrast is the façade of San Marco, lighted by
electricity. It is pale and unearthly, and its domes seem to be
suspended in air. No wonder that the doves fly hither and thither in
fright and amazement, and cluster in the darker Piazzetta, where they
and we may thankfully rest our eyes and look out to San Giorgio, now
all aflame with many-colored lamps.
Again to the Piazza, to note what we may not yet have seen. The two
Procuratie and the Piazza walls are like sheets of fire, for the
lamps of the square have globes of crimson glass. Surely nowhere
else has one seen such {80} color, so splendid and fascinating, so
blinding and confusing, that late though it be we bid our good
gondolier make a giro in the quiet canals, which seem to welcome us
as old friends do, and restore the equilibrium which the regatta, the
serenade, and the illumination have somewhat disturbed; and in this
quiet there come back to us the lines we learned so long ago, writ by
another pilgrim in this same Venice,--
I can repeople with the past,--and of
The present there is still for eye and thought,
And meditation chastened down, enough;
And more, it may be, than I hoped or sought;
And of the happiest moments which were wrought
Within the web of my existence, some
From thee, fair Venice! have their colors caught.
LORD BYRON.
THE MADONNA DELLA SALUTE.
The plague of 1630 was the seventieth, and the last great plague of
Venice. Eighty-two thousand victims had died in the city and the
neighboring islands, and sixteen months of horror and suffering had
passed since its outbreak. Not a sound of joy was heard in all the
extent of Venice when special public prayers were made, and the
Senate vowed to the Holy Virgin--"Mary, the Mother of Health"--that a
church should be built in her honor if she would but stay the plague.
And lo! suddenly, in November, 1631, the scourge was stayed.
Fifty-five years before, the votive church of the Redentore had been
built in gratitude to a similar answer to their prayers; and now the
people were determined to erect a still more splendid church, upon a
piece of land on the point of the Dogana, which the Knights Templars
had given to the Republic. But it would take a long time to build a
church, and the people were in haste to put all their sadness behind
them, and to have one festal {81} day without delay. Accordingly,
the 28th of November was appointed, and a wooden structure erected
hastily, in which to celebrate the jubilee.
[Illustration: _Church of Santa Maria della Salute._]
The procession left the high altar of San Marco; and when it reached
the centre of the Piazza, the health officers announced that the
plague was stayed by the Virgin. This announcement was welcomed by
salvos of artillery, peals of bells, and blare of trumpets. The
procession then moved on, and crossing the Grand Canal by a pontoon
bridge, it reached the wooden church.
A writer of that period tells us that the day was most propitious.
Not a cloud obscured the deep blue sky, and the air was as mild as
that of spring. Nothing was omitted that could add to the splendor
of the procession. The gorgeous robes of the priests, the
candlesticks of gold and silver, the flags of all the noble guilds
and companies, the elder nobles with long white tapers in their
hands, and the younger in all the bravery of doublets and hose,
furnished a spectacle not easily excelled; and in every year of the
two hundred and sixty-two that have since passed, this jubilee has
been repeated with all possible splendor.
On the April following the first stone was laid in the new church,
which rests on 1,200,000 piles. And there, at the entrance of the
canal it stands, with its buttresses and statues and cupolas,--in a
word, with all its architectural audacity,--declaring the grateful
veneration of the Venetians for "Mary, the Mother of Health;" and on
this _festa_ every Venetian, be he devout or not, feels it a duty to
visit her church.
From the early morning the noise of the gathering crowds is heard.
All around the church are stalls with hot coffee, fish, and other
food for sale, and above all _gallani_,--a delicacy which belongs
especially to this jubilee, of which the Venetians are very fond. It
consists of little cups of pastry filled with a preparation of lard,
white of {82} eggs, and flour whipped to a froth. It must be an
acquired taste to be enjoyed by any but a true Venetian. Other
little booths are filled with "portraits" and statuettes of the
Madonna and the saints; and there is a lively fair all about the
church before the hour for the great function.
This begins at half-past ten. The procession is formed, and moves to
the church in the same manner as that of the Redentore. Within the
church the people light the candles they have brought, one taking the
fire from another; and these lighted candles, in all sizes, from the
largest that are on sale down to mere tapers, are handed to the
priests within the altar-rails, and are placed near the statue of the
Madonna, triumphing over a symbolic figure of the plague. Thousands
of candles are thus massed, until the space around the altar is a
sheet of flame. Those who add to the candles a small sum of money
receive a picture of the Madonna, which they kiss devoutly, and then
conceal in some hiding-place about their dress.
Then the solemn services begin, one Mass succeeding another, until
the vespers and benediction close the day at five o'clock. Meantime
the women sit and gaze at the men constantly moving under the great
cupola, wherever they can thread the crowd. They are all clean, well
shaven, and dressed in their best. The gondoliers, with blue sashes,
present "a symphony in shirts;" for in this use of flannel they are
able to show their love for color, and most of them are artists
enough to know the tint that is most becoming.
The season of the year forbids the open-air festivities which
accompany other fêtes; but the wine-shops and restaurants make a rich
harvest through the evening and far into the night, and jests and
songs are heard in all the streets. In truth, the hour when one may
really sleep becomes a doubtful question; for it happens many {83}
times that just when one is comfortably dreaming, perhaps for the
twentieth time, he hears in musical tones, sometimes singly and again
in trios or quartettes, "Viva Italia! Viva il Re!"
FÊTES OF THE PEOPLE.
But perhaps the most interesting of all the Venetian _feste_, and
certainly the most characteristic, are those distinctly of the
people, and confined to the _contrada_, or quarter, in which the
event occurs. A quarter is often thrown into the greatest excitement
by a challenge to a rowing-match. The qualities of the champions are
hotly discussed, bets are made, and the spirit of rivalry recalls
that of the ancient Nicolotti and Castellani. Indeed, these very
terms are still used on such occasions, though one is puzzled to know
in what way one of these poor boatmen can represent the aristocratic
Nicolotti of Heraclea. However, since these wear a black cap and
sash, and the Castellani wear red, the names and their colors still
serve a good purpose.
The street-fights between these parties, the _Forze d'Ercole_, and
other trials of their strength and skill are all things of the past;
and it is only on the occasion of a regatta of the people that the
question is asked, "Who will win, Castello or San Niccolo?"
The day before these races the two boats are carefully cleaned,
everything being scraped off the bottoms. They are then weighed at
the Custom House, and tied to the posts of a ferry, where they
remain, under the guard of a friend of each of the contestants,
during the night. The race is rowed early in the morning; and only
those who may most decidedly be called _il popolo_ show any knowledge
or interest concerning it. They gather in all sorts of crafts close
by the gardens and by San Giorgio. At half-past {84} seven the
report of a gun is heard, and in a few minutes the race sweeps past.
The red caps are leading; and those in the boats who favor that color
are proportionately gay, while the black caps are silent and downcast.
All the boats that have been waiting follow the race for a certain
distance; but its speed is too great for them, and near the end of
the Giudecca they await the return. The course is usually about
twelve miles; and after an hour and a quarter, or perhaps a little
less, two white specks are seen far away across the water. These
specks grow larger and clearer, and the greatest impatience possesses
the watchers until they can discover which color leads. The boats
stream out in two lines to meet the racers, who are taking different
courses, and are so far apart that no one can yet decide as to the
end. But when the first boat reaches the façade of San Giorgio, it
is still the red cap that holds the lead. "Bravo, bravo!" is heard
from all sides in joyous shouts; but the boats vanish like those in a
dissolving view. They have given all the time they can afford, and
each must now go to his duty, except a few of the more active
spirits, who haste to greet the victor, and arrange a supper in his
honor.
This feast usually takes place within the week, and is a gay affair,
for after the supper there is dancing, and all are in the best of
spirits. The hall in which the tables are laid is always decorated
with the portraits of victorious boatmen, and flags and banners won
in other races. The ancient custom of having a portrait made of the
winner still survives, and it is a matter of great pride to collect
these each time a new victory is gained for the red caps or the black.
The supper requires a long time; for three quarters of an hour is
allowed to pass in smoking, talking, and singing between the courses.
Wine is there in plenty; for if {85} only men are at the supper, it
is brought in a forty-litre tub, suspended on poles from the
shoulders of two men, and welcomed with huzzas. The room grows warm,
and jackets are thrown off, as the merriment increases, exposing the
brilliant flannel shirts and sashes, until at last the final course
of the orthodox boatmen's supper has been eaten, for the menu is as
unalterable as the courses of the stars. And now the tables must be
cleared and the dancing begin. And such dancing! Their waltz is
slow and long, and they love it to madness. They abandon themselves
to its rhythmic movement with delight, and often sing as they dance,
as if every possible expression must be given to their perfect
happiness. One cannot foretell the hour when it will end. Not so
long as the musicians will play,--for when was a dancing gondolier
known to be weary? And when the _Marcia reale_ or Garibaldi's Hymn
is played, with what impetuosity do the dancers respond!
THE SAGRA, OR PARISH FÊTE.
Each parish in Venice has its patron saint, and on that saint's day
the whole parish is devoted to its celebration. Early in the morning
a procession visits every shrine within the borders of the parish to
burn incense before it.
First in the procession are those who carry the crosses, banners, and
candelabra, all the portable belongings of the Church, made as fresh
as possible for the _sagra_, and a Madonna, usually seated in a
somewhat shaky chair. These bearers wear a sort of priestly vestment
over their work-day clothes; and these are carefully arranged in
groups of different colors,--first blue, then red, and lastly white.
It is most interesting to see the faces of these bronzed,
weather-beaten men, more accustomed to rowing than to walking. They
stagger beneath their burdens {86} from side to side of the narrow
calle; but they smile as they meet the gaze of neighbors and friends,
who watch from the windows and doorways the progress of their
carissima Madonna.
Behind the bearers comes the sacristan,--a person of importance,
clothed in scarlet, walking backward, and ringing a bell. He is the
marshal of the procession; and every boy is sober and properly
behaved when within sight of this important official. Following him
the music comes,--usually a clarinet, fife, trombone, and
drum,--playing the most cheerful themes, and followed by three little
acolytes, who swing their censers with such a will as to send up
perfect clouds of incense. The parish priest comes next, and is
usually an old and venerable man. He is dressed in rich robes and
laces, and attended by men bearing a canopy over his head. He
carries the Host reverently in his hands, and is followed by all the
lesser clergy and officials of the parish. Then the pious men and
women, the first in black clothes and bareheaded, and the last in
long black veils, make a large part of the procession; and here a
most curious economical custom is observed. Each of these
parishioners carries a lighted taper, and to avoid its dripping,
holds it sideways across the breast; and beside each one of these
walks some one with a paper bag in which to catch the drippings of
the wax. And so the procession winds in and out of every possible
place in all the parish. It is often forced to halt by some obstacle
in the narrow way; and those below are nodding and smiling to those
above, for every window and balcony is filled. The procession stops
at the last bridge in the parish, which has been covered with gayly
colored mats. The music ceases; the priest alone, under his canopy,
climbs to the highest point on the arch of the bridge, and raises the
Host in air. Every voice is hushed, every head uncovered, and every
knee bent. The only {87} sound is of the water gliding on and on to
the sea. All is enclosed by high walls; but if one throws the head
quite back, a strip of lovely placid blue symbolizes the peace which
these humble worshippers are hoping to gain at last.
Suddenly the music plays its gayest waltz, the procession returns to
the church with the consciousness of duty done, and the rest of the
day is devoted to festivity, and in the evening the principal open
space of the _contrada_ is illuminated with a few extra lamps and
some Bengal lights. Before almost every window hangs a picture of
the saint whose day it is, and these are lighted by little oil-lamps.
Here, too, as in the greater festivals, are stalls for selling fruit
and pasties, or hot boiled chestnuts and _fritelle_; and much wit is
expended in buying and selling these wares. Somewhere in the quarter
there is dancing, too, usually in the middle of the square; and when
the spectator is fortunate in his position, the whole scene is a
delightful repetition of the fairs and _feste_ of the people so often
seen upon the theatre or operatic stage, but far more beautiful and
fascinating if the night be a moonlit one of early summer.
These parish festivals are managed entirely by the people, and are
more or less impressive according to the collections that the capo,
or manager, is able to make. On this depend the amount of the
illumination and the brilliancy of the fireworks at the end; and no
triumphant general ever had more pride in his victory than has this
capo, when at the close of the _festa_ he is applauded, and bids the
band play the _finale_, which is, of course, the ever-present "Viva
Italia! viva il Re."
It is only with plenty of time, and that at the right season, that
one can really come to know the Venice of to-day, and nothing so
plainly shows the spirit of a people {88} as to see them at their
play; and when, as in the case of these _contrada feste_, these
working classes are quite by themselves, it is a tribute to their
government and to their own natures to find them light-hearted and
merry, easily amused, and contented in the quiet round of their
every-day life.
GOOD FRIDAY.
This fast to the rest of the Christian world in Venice assumes the
air of a feast. The people are all in holiday attire, and the
children in crowds are romping and rolling, shaking their rattles to
scare away Judas, turning somersaults and frolicking generally. And
this day, more than any festival, affords delight to children, who
have a custom of fitting up a Holy Sepulchre (_Santo Sepolero_), and
appealing for coppers to all passers-by. They take the idea,
naturally enough, from the Holy Sepulchres they see in all the
churches; but the surprising thing is the readiness with which they
improvise the _Santo Sepolero_ out of nothing, and then the ease with
which they obtain the little coins. A small box, a bit of green,
some candle-ends, and all is done; and if the child be sweet-voiced
and winning, her Good Friday success is assured.
But at evening, in the most populous quarters, and those least
invaded by strangers, the most unusual Good Friday custom is seen.
The people of the quarter conduct a unique service of song, quite
independent of the Church and at their own cost. They agree to sing
the Passion of Our Lord, for which they use a chant with twenty-four
verses. The necessary means are furnished by subscriptions of money,
oil, wine, or anything that may be used in the celebration.
At one end of the _calle_ a shrine is erected representing a temple,
each part of which--pillars, pediment, and so {89} on--is outlined by
small lamps; while in the centre of the shrine there is a gas-jet
with its paler light. A crowd gathers before the little temple
waiting for the music to begin, while every window within hearing
distance is open and filled with listeners, who meantime gossip with
the people in the street. Somewhere in the _calle_ there is sure to
be a Madonna and Infant Jesus, who have on this day been carefully
cleaned and trimmed with wreaths of flowers, long sprays of graceful
vines, and bits of ribbon.
When the leader of the singers begins the chant, all other sounds are
hushed. Even the children know that they must now be quiet. The
key-note being thus given, other voices join in; and each verse
requires about three minutes for its rendering, and between the
verses there is a pause of five or six minutes, when the chatter of
the men and women and the pranks of the children are resumed, until
again cut short by the voice of the leader. This is repeated until
the twenty-four verses of sombre chant are sung in a manner much
resembling ordinary psalm-singing elsewhere.
The music over, the evening ends, as do all Venetian celebrations,
with a supper at the nearest wine-shop. This singular observance of
a day so sadly solemn elsewhere makes a curious impression at first
on strangers who witness it, and is perhaps the most characteristic
of all the public customs that one can observe in Venice.
{90}