BURANO AND TORCELLO.
The town of Burano, on the island of the same name, seven miles east
of Venice, is now quite the superior of Mazzorbo, from which, in its
infancy, it begged a piece of land to build itself on. Its founders
were few and very poor, but at present there are about ten thousand
Buranelli, who well sustain the reputation for disorderliness which
they have inherited; for in the old days, even the women of Burano,
who held a market in Venice, caused the magistrates much vexation by
their quarrels, and now the Venetian gondoliers usually ascribe any
troubles that arise on the canals to the Buranei, unless they know of
the presence of those other disturbers, the Chiozzotti.
Burano is noisy and dirty. The people are rough in manner and
speech, and the children bold and persistent in following strangers.
The muscular development of the Buranelli and their statuesque
figures are the only traits that one can admire in them. The men are
occupied in fishing and towing barges, filled with lagoon mud, which
goes to enrich the soil of Pordenone. They have the reputation of
doing good work for reasonable pay.
The women are uproarious in their speech and behavior, and seem unfit
to make the soft, lovely lace which is largely their occupation. But
as one listens to their speech, it is found to be in a dialect so
soft and sweet as to make one wonder how so much noise can be made
with {164} vowels alone, for apparently all the consonants have been
lost. H. F. Brown says: "They dwell upon the vowels, redoubling and
prolonging them, so that their words seem to have no close, but die
away in a kind of sigh. For instance, they call their own town Buraâ
instead of Buran. The effect is not unpleasant, but is rather too
sweet and gripless for our northern ears."
Mazzorbo, which at the founding of Burano was the Urbs Major (the
greater city), has gradually disappeared, and is now but the kitchen
garden of Venice. Burano has annexed it by a bridge built on piles,
and high enough in the centre for boats to pass under. There is
scarcely a house left on the island, save the little inn where the
boatmen get a glass of wine. Each morning the fruit and vegetable
boats go to Venice, and their cargoes are sold near the Rialto. The
difference between the people of these two islands is striking.
Those of Mazzorbo are gentle and kind in manner, and really beautiful
in person. What can make this dissimilarity in the twelve hundred
feet which separates them?
But the special interest in Burano is the lace-making, which is now
in full revival, thanks to the Countess Marcello, and other
benevolent patrons, whose efforts have reproduced the Point de Burano
in its old patterns. The hundreds of girls in the Fabbrica di
Merletti di Burano are certainly more than good-looking, and are
improving in their work each year. Indeed, one may believe that the
old-time skill of their ancestors is not lost.
The sacristan of San Martino exhibits some fine bits of old Point de
Burano, and the robes of the priests are so exquisite that one need
not be a judge of laces in order to appreciate their beauty. One who
has ever visited this independent little island will recall its
peculiarities, and certainly its lace-makers, in whatever distant
part of the globe their handiwork may be seen.
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During the sixteenth century lace-making flourished in all the
principal towns of northern Italy, but to Venice belongs the fame of
_needle-points_; and Venetian ladies were the first to wear it, in
the seventeenth century, from which time the fine Venetian
lace-making dates.
Before this time the ladies of Venice had worn lace, as their
portraits attest, but not of this particular sort. Artists of the
highest order did not disdain to make designs for Point coupé, which
was made for ladies of illustrious rank, for princesses and queens;
and bits of this exquisite point now bring prices that are simply
fabulous, and worse, to any but a collector of laces or a connoisseur
in them.
"The special character of this lace consists in high reliefs,
ornamental figures either in solid or open work, artistically formed
and arranged in petals, overlaid with fantastic flowers of very broad
design, the open blossoms of which detach themselves from rich
foliage of marvellous workmanship, and are connected by joining
threads and very delicate network stitches."
The authorities in this specialty put Venice point above all other
laces, on account of its high relief, its softness and suppleness,
and a certain velvety quality found only in needle-made laces. For
some time the secret of the stitches used in making this lace were
known only to the inventors. Its fame reached other countries
immediately, and the demand for it naturally caused imitations to
spring up. The real Venice point was made entirely with the needle.
The foliage, the flower petals, the stems, all the raised parts, and
all the connecting threads were made in one stitch. The time
necessary for its completion gave it an intrinsic value; and its
price was such that only very wealthy persons could pay it, while if
exported the duty was also heavy.
In other countries laces were made which from a {166} distance had
much the same effect, but could not be compared to the true Venetian
point. Louis XIV. gave much attention to this lace, and instructed
his ambassadors to give him all possible information about its
manufacture. He even wrote letters on this subject with his own
hand, and was greatly interested in keeping Venetian lace out of
France, thus compelling the use of French point. And on the other
hand, the Venetian ambassador to France was able to discover just
what workmen the French had induced to go to France to introduce the
lace-making, and sent a list of them to the Senate. All this
resulted in a decree of the Inquisitors, as follows:--
"If any workman or artist transports his art into a foreign country
to the detriment of the Republic, he shall be sent an order to
return; if he does not obey, his nearest relatives shall be
imprisoned, so as to reduce him to obedience by his interest in them;
if he returns, the past will be pardoned, and an establishment in
Venice will be procured for him; if, in spite of the imprisonment of
his relations, he is still determined to live abroad, an emissary
will be charged to kill him, and after his death his relations will
be set at liberty."
TORCELLO.
Torcello, that once populous city, now uninhabitable from malaria, is
a realization of complete desolation; for the few traces of its past
make its present more gloomy than if it had never been other than a
desert isle. And yet in spring-time it is full of beauty, when its
orchards and thorn-hedges are in bloom and fill the air with
fragrance, or in the golden autumn days, when the sea-lavender, with
its delicate, feather-like bloom, tinges all the meadows with its
purple.
In his book on "Italian Sculptors" Mr. Perkins thus prettily tells
the legend of the settlement of Torcello:--
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"Two hundred years after the invasion of Attila had driven many of
the inhabitants of Aquileja and Altina from their homes, the province
was desolated by the Lombards. The Altinese, alarmed at their
approach, anxiously deliberated whether they should remain to face
this 'Australis plaga,' or seek safety in flight, when they beheld
vast flocks of birds, with their fledglings in their beaks, take
flight from the city walls and towers and direct their course
seaward. Regarding this as a sign from heaven, some departed to
Ravenna, some to Pentapolis, and others to Istria, leaving behind
them a band of devout persons, who, in order to obtain a more direct
manifestation of the will of Heaven, determined to fast and pray for
three days, according to the advice of their bishop, Paulus. At the
end of the time they heard a voice like thunder, saying, 'Ascend into
the city tower and look at the stars.' They beheld a vision of boats
and ships and islands, and taking this as an indication that their
course should be directed seaward, they removed their most precious
possessions to the island of Torcello.... Paulus, Bishop of Altina,
migrated with his flock, their relics and treasure, to Torcello and
the neighboring islands, A.D. 641."
The ascent of the tall, square Campanile (eleventh century) is not
easy, for its ladders are rickety; but the view from its bell-chamber
compensates for all the difficulty of reaching it. To the east lies
a large district, which is neither sea nor land, but partly both,
crossed and recrossed by broad ditches. These are the _valli_, in
which fish are bred. Many little huts stand beside the _valli_, in
which Venetian gentlemen live while duck-shooting in the winter. The
sport is so fine that, in spite of cold and the absence of all real
comfort, a shooting-party usually lasts several days.
To the south the view is over the Adriatic, and the eye follows the
line of breakwaters, even to Chioggia. South-west lies Venice, her
many towers and palaces cutting an irregular line across the azure
sky, with the Euganean {168} Hills for a background. To the north,
far away beyond the plain, with nothing to intercept the view, stand
the Dolomitic Alps, seen in perfection from Torcello. Tofano,
Antelao, and Pelmo stand out boldly, their clear-cut peaks white with
snow, and their long, lower ridges dark and shadowy. A more heavenly
sky, a lovelier sea, more striking mountain peaks, and a more
fancy-stirring city,--can these be found in any one panorama to excel
the view from the Campanile of Torcello?
The Cathedral of Torcello was so injured by the repairs under the
Austrians that one can find little pleasure in visiting it. The one
interesting feature is the arrangement of the chancel, where the
semicircular seats rise one above the other, and the bishop's throne
in the centre, reached by a steep staircase, towers above all.
Authorities agree that the fittings of this apse give a better idea
of the way in which apses were originally arranged than does any
other church, either of the same period with this (seventh century),
or even earlier. It is most unusual; and Ruskin throws such a charm
about it that it is pure pleasure to read what he says of it:--
"There is one circumstance which we ought to remember as giving
peculiar significance to the position which the episcopal throne
occupies in the island church; namely, that in the minds of all early
Christians the church itself was most frequently symbolized under the
image of a ship, of which the bishop was the pilot. Consider the
force which this symbol would assume in the imaginations of men to
whom the spiritual Church had become an ark of refuge in the midst of
a destruction hardly less terrible than that from which the eight
souls were saved of old,--a destruction in which the wrath of man had
become as broad as the earth and as merciless as the sea,--and who
saw the actual and literal edifice of the Church raised up, itself
like an ark in the midst of the waters. No marvel if with the surf
of the Adriatic rolling between them and the shores of their birth,
{169} from which they were separated forever, they should have looked
upon each other as the disciples did when the storm came down on
Tiberias Lake, and have yielded ready and loving obedience to those
who ruled them in His name who had there rebuked the winds and
commanded stillness to the sea. And if the stranger would yet learn
in what spirit it was that the dominion of Venice was begun, and in
what strength she went forth conquering and to conquer, let him not
seek to estimate the wealth of her arsenals or numbers of her armies,
nor look upon the pageantry of her palaces, nor enter into the
secrets of her councils; but let him ascend the highest tier of the
stern ledges that sweep round the altar of Torcello, and then,
looking as the pilot did of old along the marble ribs of the goodly
temple-ship, let him repeople its ruined deck with the shadows of its
dead mariners, and strive to feel in himself the strength of heart
that was kindled within them, when first, after the pillars of it had
settled in the sand, and the roof of it had been closed against the
angry sky that was still reddened by the fires of their
homesteads,--first, within the shelter of its knitted walls, amidst
the murmur of the waste of waves and the beating of the wings of the
sea-birds round the rock that was strange to them,--rose that ancient
hymn, in the power of their gathered voices: '_The sea is His, and He
made it: and His hands prepared the dry land._'"
A picturesque cloister connects the Baptistery or Church of St. Fosca
with the cathedral. The relics of the virgin martyr are said to rest
beneath the low, ancient church. The pillars of the cloisters are so
short that a tall man can touch the arches they sustain; but they are
of pure Greek marble, with delicately sculptured capitals.
Everything seems so small,--the two churches, the tower, an ancient
well, and a marble column are all that remain, save one or two old
buildings that may now have disappeared, so tumble-down were they
when last I saw them. The Piazza (!) around which these buildings
stand is such a bit of a grass-grown place! The only street is but a
{170} footpath, and yet we reverence Torcello for its age. The
banner of Venice has floated here more than a thousand years,--more
than six centuries before Columbus discovered our part of the globe.
There is a little museum in which a few antiquities are gathered,
where one may rest and think before taking leave of this
ghost-haunted island of Torcello, so well described by Helen Hunt:--
"Short sail from Venice sad Torcello lies,
Deserted island low, and still and green.
Before fair Venice was a bride and queen
Torcello's court was held in fairer guise
Than Doges knew. To day death-vapors rise
From fields where once her palaces were seen,
And in her silent towers that crumbling lean
Unterrified the brooding swallow flies."
As we row back to Venice in the lovely evening, with the orange and
purple of the after-glow dissolving into paler and colder tints, and
the stars peeping out one by one, Giacomo tells us a ghost-story
which is familiar to the gondoliers and fishermen, a group of whom we
have just met returning from Venice to their strange fishing-ground.
The story runs that once upon a time six men were fishing and living
together in a small hut among the _valli_. One of them had a little
son who stayed in the hut to cook food for the men whenever they came
in. As the night was the best time for fishing, the little fellow
was often alone from sunset to dawn. One morning, as it was growing
light, the men stopped their work and rowed toward home; and on the
way they saw the body of a drowned man, which the tide was taking out
to sea.
They lifted the corpse into their boat, and laid it on the prow, the
head resting on the arm. The little boy was watching for them; and
when he saw the seventh man, {171} he thought he was some other
fisherman who had fallen asleep after his night of work.
He cheerily called out, "Breakfast is ready; come along!" and ran to
the hut to see that all was right.
When the six were seated at the table, the boy asked, "Where is the
other man? Will he not have breakfast too?"
"Why, isn't he here? You had better run and call him," answered one
of the men.
The boy ran to the canal and called out loudly, "Breakfast is ready,
and there is enough for you. Why do you not come?" Getting no
answer, the boy went again to the hut, saying, "What ails him? He
will not speak."
"Ah," said another, "the old fool is deaf. You must shout at him and
swear a little."
Again the boy went down and shouted, "The others wait for you. Come
along, old fool!" But again the man moved not.
The third time back to the hut ran the boy, saying, "Come, one of
you! He will not wake for me." But they only laughed and said, "Go
shake his leg, and say we cannot wait till doomsday for him."
The boy did as he was bid, and clambered into the boat, and shook the
man, who then sat up on the prow and said, "Go back and tell them I
am coming." Then the boy hastened back, and found the men all
laughing and joking, and he cried out, "It is all right now, and he
is coming."
Suddenly the laughter ceased, and the six men turned ashy pale. They
heard the footsteps approaching, and soon the dead man came in and
sat in the boy's place. The eyes of the others were fixed on him,
and they could neither eat nor speak. They could not turn their eyes
from the stranger's face, and their blood was gradually chilled in
their veins; and when the sun was risen, seven {172} dead men sat
around the table, and the poor little boy was alone. It is from this
event that the _valle_ is called the Valle dei Sette Morti.
Ghost-stories are rare in Venice. There is another that one usually
hears. It concerns a house called "haunted." It stands on the most
easterly point of Venice, and is spoken of as the "Casa degli
Spiriti." The old women say that "once upon a time" a fine young
Venetian lived there with a charming bride, and the friend who had
been their groomsman visited them frequently. He was godfather to
their first child, which is a very sacred relation in Venice, and is
called "Compare di San Zuan." After a time the young wife and the
_compare_ fell in love with each other. The husband knew this very
well, and all three of them were most unhappy.
Just then the _compare_ died; and so greatly did the lady suffer that
she grieved herself ill, and was about to die. Her faithful maid
knew all the story of her love and grief, and with her last breath
her mistress begged that when she was dead no one else should be
permitted to watch beside her; and although the other servants would
gladly have kept the vigil, the maid was left alone beside her dead
mistress.
At midnight the door opened, and the dead _compare_ came in. The
maid could neither move nor cry out, and the ghost raised his dead
love up, and she began to dress. When she was ready, the ghost took
her arm, and signed to the maid to light them on their way. Then the
three went down, down to the very lowest vault beneath the house; and
there the _compare_ struck the torch from the hand of the maid, and
she swooned on the floor.
Thus runs the story of the old women; but there are other
explanations of the name of this old house, which even now bears
traces of its former beauty, though the whole edifice is going to
wrack and ruin. A second {173} story is quite as gruesome as the
first, since it says that here dead bodies were brought by medical
students, and autopsies made before they were buried in San Michele,
which is very near. This is the view adopted by J. A. Symonds, who
says:--
"Yonder square white house, standing out to sea, fronting Murano and
the Alps, they call the Casa degli Spiriti. No one cares to inhabit
it; for here, in old days, it was the wont of the Venetians to lay
their dead for a night's rest before their final journey to the
graveyard of S. Michele. So many generations of dead folk had made
that house their inn, that it is now no fitting house for living men."
But a pleasanter explanation is, that long ago an artistic and
literary society held its meetings here, and from the _beaux esprits_
who habitually gathered beneath its roof, it came to be called the
Casa degli Spiriti.
Perhaps the most amusing Venetian ghost-story is that of the parish
priest of San Marcuola, who declared his disbelief in ghosts in a
sermon, and exclaimed, "Where the dead are, there they stay!" This
made the ghosts of those who had been buried in San Marcuola very
indignant, and they revenged themselves by going at night, in a body,
to the chamber of this priest, whom they dragged out of bed, tossed
about, and soundly thrashed for the insult he had put on them.
Meantime, while this story-telling has gone on, it has grown quite
dark, and as we come into the canals, the calls, _Stalì_, _Premè_,
are very frequent. These cries of the gondoliers are curiously
startling, especially at night; but the celerity with which they are
obeyed, and the narrow escapes from accidents, prove their
usefulness. _Stalir_ means go to the right; _Premier_, go to the
left; and _Sciar_, or _Siar_, means that the boat is to be stopped by
turning the flat side of the oar against the current. Monckton
Milnes prettily explains this in his verses:--
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"When along the light ripple the far serenade
Has accosted the ear of each passionate maid,
She may open the window that looks on the stream,--
She may smile on her pillow and blend it in dream;
Half in words, half in music, it pierces the gloom,
'I am coming--stalì--but you know not for whom!
Stalì--not for whom!'
"Now the tones become clearer,--you hear more and more
How the water divided returns on the oar,--
Does the prow of the gondola strike on the stair?
Do the voices and instruments pause and prepare?
Oh! they faint on the ear as the lamp on the view,
'I am passing--premè--but I stay not for you!
Premè--not for you!'
"Then return to your couch, you who stifle a tear,--
Then awake not, fair sleeper,--believe he is here;
For the young and the loving no sorrow endures.
If to-day be another's, to-morrow is yours;
May the next time you listen your fancy be true,
'I am coming--sciàr--and for you and to you!
Sciàr--and to you!'"
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