AN AUTUMN RAMBLE.
The artist has gone on a tramp in the Alps, and now begins the long
neglected sight-seeing,--a pure delight in the golden October days.
There is no such haste in the early morning as in the summer time,
and it is usually ten o'clock when I have read my papers, written my
letters, and Anita is ready to go with me with her never-failing
luncheon-basket; for we do not like to be bound to return at a fixed
hour, and we never know quite where we shall be when we are hungry,
so we take our _collazione_ with us. As a rule we are home again at
four, just in good time for a cup of tea and a rest before dinner.
When the summer is over, it is delightful to feel that the gondola is
not obligatory, to use it only for excursions on the lagoons, for
views on the Grand Canal, for moonlit evenings, and when one is
indolent. Venice is quite another place when one walks and makes the
acquaintance of the curious, characteristic _campi_ and _calli_, as
well as of some of the people. One of the most charming walks is
along the Riva degli Schiavoni, ending at the Arsenal, after various
detours.
Passing through the Piazzetta, we turn to the left on the Molo. This
side of the Ducal Palace is beautiful in spite of the disproportion
in the height of the lower story; this is caused by the rising of the
sea-level, which is said to average three inches in a century, and
consequently the pavement must be raised; if this is correct, the
columns {203} of the palace must be fifteen inches below the present
pavement. The entire _loggie_ on this side of the palace are the
work of the Bon family; the designs on the capitals of the columns
are very curious, illustrating mediæval allegories and legends which
symbolize justice and good government. The windows are fine, and the
balcony in the centre is richly ornamented; the bas-reliefs are
wrought with great delicacy and skill.
[Illustration: _Panorama from the Campanile of St. Mark._]
From the Ponte della Paglia, at the end of the Molo, we have the best
possible view of the Bridge of Sighs, which Howells calls a "pathetic
swindle," and not without reason. It was not built until the end of
the sixteenth century, since which there has been but one victim of
political imprisonment. But there it hangs, high in air, "a palace
and a prison on each hand." Looking up from the Paglia it is most
effective, although vulgar prisoners only have passed over it to
their death. No doomed Foscari or Carmagnola ever saw it; and
perhaps its greatest interest is from that much-worn line of Byron's,
"I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs."
Passing the Paglia, we are on the Riva degli Schiavoni, in front of
the Carceri, or public prison. As the apartments of the _Signori di
Notte_ (heads of police) were on this side, it was not made to look
like a prison. Below are rustic arches, above which Doric columns,
on pedestals, support a fine cornice with consoles in the frieze.
The upper rooms are now used for convicts and the windows are grated.
One can but wonder how it would seem to be there, shut off from the
world, and gaze out on the beautiful Church of San Giorgio Maggiore
and the lagoon beyond, with the ever-changing aspect of the divinely
colored waters; to watch the multitudes of steamers, gondolas, and
other boats passing and re-passing; to listen to the sound of steps
and voices on the Riva, and to all the different songs and cries from
the boats. It must be {204} maddening. Was it the effect of the
restless waves that Saint John watched from Patmos, in his exile,
that made him say, "And I saw a new heaven and a new earth; for the
first heaven and the first earth were passed away; _and there was no
more sea_"?
Passing another bridge, we turn into a curious vaulted passage at the
left which leads to the beautiful Church of San Zaccaria; it is three
centuries and a quarter old, and the third which has been erected on
this spot. Architects lavish praises on it; Fergusson says: "One of
the finest of the early façades of Italy is that of San Zaccaria at
Venice."
In 854 Pope Benedict III. visited Venice, and the Abbess of San
Zaccaria succeeded in obtaining from his Holiness the gift of the
bodies of Santa Sabina and San Pancrazio and other sacred relics.
After these treasures had been received, the Doge Tradenigo paid a
visit of devotion to this favored shrine, and the abbess presented to
him the splendid Ducal Beretta. It was studded with rare gems,
having in the centre a large diamond surrounded by twenty-four
pear-shaped pearls; above the diamond was a ruby of dazzling
brilliancy, and in the front a cross was woven which contained
twenty-three emeralds and other precious stones. The Doge made a
solemn promise that each year he, and his successors after him, would
visit San Zaccaria at Easter, in solemn procession, and wearing the
precious Beretta.
The nuns of this sisterhood also gave a part of their garden to
enlarge the Piazza of San Marco, and proved themselves as generous
and public-spirited as they were opulent.
From the ninth to the twelfth century the Doges were buried in San
Zaccaria; and the same Tradenigo who received the Beretta was
assassinated in front of the church, where the column now stands.
Its architecture {205} is semi-Byzantine, except in the choir, which
is Gothic. The pentagonal tribune is beautiful, with its circular
arches below and its pointed arches above, which are exquisite in
proportion and effect.
Near the door of the sacristy is the monument of the "Michelangelo of
Venice," Alessandro Vittoria. He began this funeral monument
thirteen years before he died! The bust is by his own hand, and the
whole work is very interesting.
But that which holds us longest in San Zaccaria is the picture of the
Virgin and Child, with four saints, by the adorable Giovanni Bellini.
It is not one of his best, but it is a glorious picture. In 1797 it
made the sad and disgraceful journey to Paris, and the restorers have
not improved it; but in spite of all, we love it, and before we go
away must also see the same master's small picture of the
Circumcision, in a chapel of the choir, which is very much admired.
As we return to the Riva and pass on to the Ponte del Sepolcro, a
very different sort of interest is aroused by the sight of the
inscription upon the house which now replaces the Casa del Petrarca.
The Palazzo delle due Torri was given to the poet in 1362 by the
Republic, in return for a portion of his library. This frank
statement of a perfectly creditable business transaction is somewhat
of a shock to those who have thought of Petrarch as a disinterested
benefactor of Venice. But we must remember that he was now nearly
threescore years of age; he had exhausted the romance of his life
long before; he had attempted to make peace between the Italian
powers in vain; he abominated the manner in which wars had come to be
made, by employing the mercenaries who brought with them pestilence
and death; and he longed for a peaceful home for his old age more
than for anything else.
{206}
With what comfort he must have settled himself in his luxurious house
on the Riva; how differently must he have felt from those prisoners
in the Carceri, of whom we have spoken, when he gazed upon the broad
harbor and heard the bustle of the port! That it all appealed to him
is proved by the following extract from one of his letters:
"See the innumerable vessels which set forth from the Italian shore
in the desolate winter, in the most variable and stormy spring, one
turning its prow to the east, the other to the west; some carrying
our wine to foam in British cups, our fruits to flatter the palates
of the Scythians, and, still more hard of credence, the wood of our
forests to the Ægean and Achaian isles; some to Syria, to Armenia, to
the Arabs and Persians, carrying oil and linen and saffron, and
bringing back all their diverse goods to us."
He soon gathered around him a choice circle of friends; Boccaccio
came to visit him and remained three months. What a picture is
presented to our imagination when Petrarch reminds the great
story-teller of their "nocturnal rambles on the sea, and that
conversation enlightened and sincere"! He urges him to come again in
this wise: "The gentle season invites to where no other cares await
you but those pleasant and joyful occupations of the Muses, to a
house most healthful, which I do not describe because you know it."
It is not thus that we are apt to think of Laura's lover, or of the
author of the Decameron; but in Venice they seem to have been two
quiet old men seeking peace and health.
An interesting occasion when Petrarch played an important part was
that of the great tournament which terminated the festivities after
the capture of Crete in 1364. He sat beside the Doge in a balcony
behind the horses of St. Mark. The balcony was as splendid as the
richest awnings and hangings could make it, and the ducal {207} robes
and crown were in strange contrast to the black gown and hood of the
Laureate. Did he take pleasure in the thought that his fame as a
poet would be known to future millions who would not be able to call
the name of a single Venetian among the thousands who were there
assembled? Surely it was a pleasant episode in Petrarch's life, this
time in Venice; but it was all too short, and ended most unhappily.
After four years on the Riva, in that "house most healthful," a
number of the patrician _giovinastri_--all infidels and much puffed
up with their little learning--after discussing their philosophies
with Petrarch came to the grave decision that he was "a good but
ignorant man"! To us it is absurd that this great poet should have
given a serious thought to such folly; but the same sort of young men
had driven Marino Faliero to such straits that he turned traitor.
Petrarch showed his pain and indignation in a milder way, by quitting
Venice to return no more. This was certainly the worse for Venice,
since he imparted to the Republic the only poetical association
connected with its palmy days. No poet with a name to live was born
of that nation of wise statesmen, bravo soldiers, cunning merchants,
and glorious artists. We can but wonder if it would have comforted
him to know that the first exquisite book from the Aldine press in
Venice, more than a century and a quarter after his death, would be
his own poems and printed in fac-simile of his own handwriting!
Petrarch retired to Arqua del Monte, a quiet little town in a valley
of the Euganean Hills, where he lived peacefully, visited by his
friends and enjoying the many proofs that came to him of the
appreciation which the scholars of his time had for his character and
works. In 1373, again he went to Venice with Francesco Carrara
Novello, who was to make submission as the proxy of his father, {208}
after the treaty at the termination of the Carrarese War. Again, the
Laureate addressed the Doge, the peers, and senators, as the Apostle
of Peace; it was his valedictory at Venice. In July, 1374, he was
found dead in his library at Arqua.
"But knock, and enter in.
This was his chamber. 'T is as when he went;
As if he now were in his orchard-grove.
And this his closet. Here he sat and read.
This was his chair; and in it, unobserved,
Reading, or thinking of his absent friends,
He passed away as in a quiet slumber."
While thinking thus of the happenings on this very Riva five
centuries agone, we pass through the narrow calle which leads to the
campo of San Giovanni in Bragora. The pictures in this church are
very interesting, and the font by Sansovino is beautiful; but to-day
the Palazzo Badoer especially appeals to me, and yet one must almost
regret having seen it since the restorers--Heaven save the
mark!--have spoiled it. If the ghosts of the seven Badoer Doges ever
walk this way, what must they think of the squares of red and white
marble in which it is now dressed?
What a family they were, descended from Tribunes of the Rialto in the
time of Theodoric the Goth; and to what good purpose they swayed the
Ivory Sceptre during seventy-four years. It was Badoer II. who
erected the first chapel in the Ducal Palace for the body of Saint
Mark, which came to Venice during his reign. A daughter of Badoer
IV. was an abbess of San Zaccaria, and many of the sons of these
Doges entered the Church; but theirs was a proud, brave, just, and
patriotic race, better suited to governing the Republic than to the
offices of Holy Church. In their day the Doges were absolute
monarchs, and the Badoeri gave almost constant domestic tranquillity
to Venice, and won the hearts of the Venetians.
{209}
And now we are in the broadest street of Venice, the Via Garibaldi.
It leads to the Giardini Pubblici, which is a park rather than a
garden, and was made by Napoleon in 1807. The space was gained by
the destruction of four churches, as many monasteries, and a hundred
houses, none of which are now missed. It is a pleasant place to take
luncheon, with a lovely panorama before us, to which the boats and
their ever-fascinating sails give life and cheerfulness. Beyond the
canal of the Giudecca rises the dome of the Redentore; the square
tower of the Dogana and the cupolas of the Salute make a striking
effect against the cloudless sky; well round to the right we see the
top of the Campanile behind the Ducal Palace, and before us, the
island of San Giorgio Maggiore, with its picturesque church and fine
clock-tower, seems very near.
Undoubtedly, all this is best at sunset with the golden west for a
background; indeed, few points are so favorable for watching the
glorious death of day, especially if one lingers while the fires die
out and even the more delicate tints fade away. Then a mysterious
indistinctness steals over all the distant objects, but now so
clearly cut against the flaming sky. There was a reality and
emphasis about these towers and spires, the canals, and all the
moving objects that made them a part of a work-a-day, practical
world, but in the dusky twilight the outlines run together; we see
and do not see the true forms of the various parts of Santa Maria
della Salute, but a beautiful whole remains; even the nearer San
Giorgio becomes mysterious; the smaller features disappear, while the
whole is profoundly impressive and grand, seeming to clothe itself
with the night, as if retiring into its own world of peaceful and
solemn repose.
But at whatever hour one comes, this garden seems deserted, except on
the one September Monday when it is the custom to picnic here.
To-day we leave it quite empty, {210} and walk along the Riva of the
Rio di Sant'Anna, making our way to the _calle larga_ and the bridge
which connects Venice with the island called San Pietro, or Olivolo,
or Quinta Valle. Early in the history of Venice this island became
important; and the first large church of the Republic, built here
among the olives, was made the patriarchal church, and so continued
until Napoleon bestowed that honor on San Marco, and converted the
patriarchal palace of San Pietro into a barrack. After 766 the
Bishop of Olivolo was an important man; he could not have been very
wealthy, since his income depended on the mortuary tax, from which he
was called _Vescovo de' Morti_ (the Bishop of the Dead), and on an
annual poll-tax of three hens from the people of a certain district.
One evening in June, 836, as the Doge Badoer III. was leaving San
Pietro after vespers, unattended, as was his custom, he was seized by
a number of bravoes, who compelled him to submit to the tonsure and
then hurried him to a neighboring convent, where he was securely
lodged. To kidnap a Doge of Venice was a most high-handed and
extraordinary proceeding, and it is gratifying to know that his enemy
who caused it to be done, was not elected to fill the vacancy he had
created.
It was also at San Pietro di Castello, as the church came to be
called, that the "Brides of Venice" were wed. By ancient custom, on
Saint Mary's Eve, January 31, twelve poor virgins, endowed by the
Republic, came here with their lovers, parents, kinsfolk, and
friends; the brides were dressed in white with their hair hanging
loosely about the shoulders, and each one with her dower in a little
box suspended by a ribbon around her neck. Many boats dressed with
flags and flowers bore the happy company over the canals towards
Olivolo.
The Doge and the chief officers of State assisted at the ceremony,
and the Bishop preached a sermon and pronounced {211} a blessing on
all these fortunate young people, who went away wedded and joyous.
But in 939 a most unhappy interruption occurred. The pirates of
Trieste, who knew all about this wholesale wedding, hid themselves
near by until all the assembly had entered the church, and then,
rushing in, just as the brides were to be given away, they seized
them, even at the foot of the altar, and before the Venetians could
comprehend the danger, the maidens were in the barks of the pirates
and sailing towards Trieste!
No such outrage as this had ever been perpetrated in Venice, and the
Doge Sanudo II. summoned the people to arms with the bell of the
Campanile. The trunk-makers offered their boats, which were near at
hand, and the Doge with the lovers and friends of the brides were
soon in hot pursuit, and erelong hundreds of other boats followed.
They soon overtook the Istrians, and killed almost every one of them
in the conflict which ensued. The rescued brides were taken back to
the usual festivities of the evening, which were greatly enhanced by
their gratitude at being delivered from the unusual dangers that had
threatened them.
After this episode the Festa delle Marie was established. Twelve
dolls were dressed in bridal costume, and carried around the Piazza
in procession; but this dumb show did not satisfy the Venetians, and
was soon replaced by a solemn procession of twelve virgins attended
by the Doge and the clergy. They paid a visit of ceremony to the
parish of Santa Maria Formosa, where the trunk-makers who originated
this _festa_ welcomed them most hospitably. Tradition says that when
these men requested the Doge to institute this Andata, he asked,--
"And what if it should rain?"
"We will give you hats for your head; and if you are thirsty, we will
give you drink," answered they.
{212}
Accordingly, each year, the Doge received two bottles of Malmsey, two
oranges, and two hats, on one of which was his own coat-of-arms, and
that of the reigning Pope on the other. In the thirteenth century
such extravagance had crept into this ceremonial that the brides wore
crowns of gold adorned with precious stones, and cloaks of cloth of
gold, and all in the procession were treated to wine and sweetmeats.
This was continued until 1379, when the War of Chioggia interrupted
all Venetian merry-makings; and on account of its cost, and a certain
license of conduct which had been indulged in its celebration, the
Festa delle Marie was discontinued.
Another delightful story in Bandello relates that Elena was secretly
married to Gerardo, and separated from him by the same cruel fate
that presides over many secret marriages, and on the eve of an
enforced marriage she fell into a death-like trance and was laid in a
sarcophagus in San Pietro. On that very evening a more propitious
fate brought Gerardo home from Syria. When he learned of Elena's
death, he rushed to the church, snatched her from the tomb, and
carried her off; in his embrace she again found life, and the
sorrowing parents gladly forgave these most interesting young people.
Having all these associations with San Pietro in mind, I had long
wished to go there, but I found little to detain me. The Campanile
(1474) is stately and fine, but the church (1594-1621) is not
interesting. There is little to notice within. Two pictures by
Marco Basaiti are soft and graceful, as are all his works; and the
faces of the saints seem to express enjoyment of their placid
melancholy. Near one of the altars is an ancient Arabian seat or
throne, said to have been used by Saint Peter at Antioch. It was
given to the Doge Pietro Gradenigo by Michele Paleologo in 1310. The
curious inscriptions on the back are thought to be in Arabic.
{213}
Retracing our steps to the Via Garibaldi, we turn into the corte
nuova, and soon stand where one is sure to be impressed with the
power and grandeur of Mediæval Venice.
The first Doge of the Falieri had the honor to found the Arsenal,
than which nothing could be more important in that "City of the Sea."
There is a fascination in thinking of the time when the ringing
hammers were swung by brawny arms, when the pitch was always boiling,
and the primitive vessels of the Middle Ages were built with a
miraculous rapidity; but in the eight centuries that have rolled away
since its foundation there has never been a time when the Arsenal of
Venice was not of great interest, as it still is.
Formerly, more than now, it seemed to be the ever-flowing fountain of
Venetian greatness; for no matter by what enemy the Republic was
threatened or attacked, no matter whether the danger was to her
commerce or her territory, it was to the Arsenal she turned for
strength. To repulse her own enemies, whether they were Saracens
from the East, Genoese from the West, or pirates from all quarters,
her Arsenal must furnish her with ships and arms; and in order to
increase her wealth, the sea must be an open field to traffic and
enterprise. To insure this, her ships must be many and fine; and, in
short, but for her Arsenal she could never have attained or preserved
her empire of the waters.
And now, although the workshops are not teeming with artisans, and
the forges are not blazing as of old, it is not difficult to imagine
the thousands and tens of thousands of men who here forged and welded
the real strength of the beloved Republic.
The Venetians, among modern nations, first built ships on a truly
great scale. Their galleys were enormous in power; their transport
ships could carry a thousand men {214} with their stores; their
galeasses permitted sixteen hundred men to fight on board, while they
carried fifty pieces of heavy artillery, and had their prows made
cannon proof. Naturally the nations with whom they disputed the sea
endeavored to build ships equal to those of Venice; but she always
had one advantage, in that even the small vessels bore at least
fifteen guns, and the Venetian gunners were good marksmen.
Even to the end of the thirteenth century, however, the Arsenal was
not firmly established, and vessels were built in temporary
dockyards, wherever room was found. But with the beginning of the
fourteenth century the Senate determined on making the Arsenal so
fine and so strong that it could not be taken by an enemy. It was
constantly guarded, and many attempts were made to destroy it. At
the end of the fifteenth century it was under the care of a special
magistracy, and sixteen thousand ship-builders and thirty-six
thousand seamen were employed in Venice.
The three magistrates or keepers of the Arsenal were appointed for a
term of thirty-two months, and were obliged to inhabit three official
houses, called Paradiso, Purgatorio, and Inferno. Each keeper was on
duty fifteen days at a time, during which he slept within the
fortification, kept the key in his room, and was answerable with his
head for the safety of the place. But one passage led out of the
Arsenal,--that to the iron gate which opens on the small campo. With
the exception of the great lions now at the entrance,--brought from
Greece in the seventeenth century,--the exterior has changed but
little in three centuries and a half.
Small arms and artillery were made here, as well as ships; and in
each department the superiority of the manufactures resulted from the
skill of the workmen and the quality of the materials used. The ship
timber, after {215} being carefully selected and brought from various
countries, was floated near the Lido for ten years to season it. The
different parts of the vessels were cut and fitted in the workshops
with such exactness that they could be put together with marvellous
rapidity. It is said that when Henry III. of France visited Venice,
a galley was put together and launched in two hours, while he was at
a banquet; and during the famous League, before the battle of
Lepanto, for one hundred days a new galley left the Arsenal each
morning.
In truth, the Arsenal was a town by itself,--a town of foundries,
forges, magazines of arms, and munitions of war, timber-yards,
rope-walks, model-rooms, and warehouses; a town full of smoke, toil,
and uproar. Dante had been here; and when he wished to describe a
lake of pitch in which corrupt statesmen are immersed, in his
Inferno, he thus begins:--
"In the Venetians' arsenal as boils
Through wintry months tenacious pitch, to smear
Their unsound vessels; for the inclement time
Sea-faring men restrains, and in that while
His bark one builds anew, another stops
The ribs of his that hath made many a voyage,
One hammers at the prow, one at the poop,
This shapeth oars, that other cables twirls,
The mizzen one repairs, and mainsail rent."
The _Arsenalotti_, as the workmen were called, had their own
organization and certain privileges. They well merited the
confidence of the Republic, which they called their "good mother;"
and she wisely gave them pledges of her trust. The treasures of San
Marco, the Mint, and the Bank were guarded by them. Whenever the
Great Council assembled, the Guard of Honor before the Ducal Palace
was elected from their number. Each new Doge was attended by
_Arsenalotti_, when, after his election, he went through the city to
receive the congratulations of {216} the people; and, above all, the
Bucentaur was in their care when the Marriage with the Adriatic was
celebrated.
We can readily understand that the destruction of the Arsenal was the
first aim of the enemies of Venice. It was only by "eternal
vigilance" that it was preserved, and the severest punishments were
thought too mild for those who attempted its ruin. In 1428 a man
suspected of being a tool of the Duke of Milan and of intending to
burn the Arsenal was dragged at a horse's tail and then quartered in
the Piazzetta. Certainly a man who would burn the Arsenal was not
needed in Venice, and we are not surprised that the Council of Ten
were of this opinion; but they might have used a more humane method
in his taking off.
For example, in the Museum of this very Arsenal there are many
instruments of torture that one would not care to have used, even for
the worst criminal imaginable; but there is one curious little
death-dealer that claims to give its victim no pain whatever. It is
a sort of key with a spring, by means of which a poisoned needle is
shot into the victim, who dies without discomfort or the loss of a
particle of blood.
Going home from the Arsenal, we take a gondola; and as we glide
along, we recall the curious _tableaux vivants_ which we have seen in
this long ramble. All about the quarter of San Zaccaria we saw and
heard the bead-stringers, as busy with their tongues as with their
fingers. They are very skilful, and in their bright-colored
handkerchiefs, with here and there a flower or gay comb or pin in
their dark hair,--they know exactly how and where to put them in
order to make the best effect,--they are picturesque, and some of
them very handsome. They hold a tray of beads on the lap, and with a
long needle, which carries the string, they dive among the beads at
one end of the tray, push it quickly through the whole mass, and
bring it up and out at the other end, {217} well laden with the
fascinating, many-tinted little globes. They do it as if they
enjoyed it, and meanwhile they talk with each other, have a few words
with the passers-by, and amuse and scold the children who play around
them.
From San Pietro one sees, on the opposite side the canal, a
neighborhood much adorned with fishing-nets. They are spread or hung
everywhere that they can be made to stay on, and at a distance the
effect is curious and picturesque. Old sails, too, are being dried
or mended, while new ones are cut, sewed, or painted. This last
process is novel and interesting; and as Giacomo needed a new sail
for the sandolo, we saw the operation. The colors used are
principally red and orange, and more rarely a pale green and a heavy
sort of blue. If by chance you see a distant sail with a spot of sky
blue on it, you will find on nearer acquaintance that you were
looking at the real sky through a rent in the sail. The colors are
made by mixing a kind of earth with water and adding the coloring
matter; and these colors are "set" by dipping the sail, when
finished, in the sea, and drying it in the sun, repeating this
several times. The colors are applied with a sponge instead of a
brush; and when one sees in how rude a manner the painting is done,
it seems a wonder that the results are so effective. The artist (?)
simply walks around the edge of his design with his sponge full of
color, and the broad, rough outline is made. A certain slap and dash
puts in the details, and the background is laid on rapidly.
Our new sail had a red heart pierced by an orange arrow, on a blue
field, and the outer border was in stripes of dull red and orange.
It sounds uncommonly ugly on paper, but Giacomo and Anita were very
proud of it; and after it was soiled and faded it was not bad,
although the plain colors, or stripes and geometrical designs, are
preferable, we think,--but we are not Venetian gondoliers or
fishermen.
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