Night in Venice! Night is nowhere else so wonderful, unless it be in
winter among the high Alps. But the nights of Venice and the nights of
the mountains are too different in kind to be compared.
There is the ever-recurring miracle of the full moon rising, before
day is dead, behind San Giorgio, spreading a path of gold on the
lagoon which black boats traverse with the glow-worm lamp upon their
prow; ascending the cloudless sky and silvering the domes of the
Salute; pouring vitreous sheen upon the red lights of the Piazzetta;
flooding the Grand Canal, and lifting the Rialto higher in ethereal
whiteness; piercing but penetrating not the murky labyrinth of
_rio_ linked with _rio_, through which we wind in light and
shadow, to reach once more the level glories and the luminous expanse
of heaven beyond the Misericordia.
This is the melodrama of Venetian moonlight; and if a single
impression of the night has to be retained from one visit to Venice,
those are fortunate who chance upon a full moon of fair weather. Yet
I know not whether some quieter and soberer effects are not more
thrilling. To-night, for example, the waning moon will rise late
through veils of _scirocco_. Over the bridges of San Cristoforo
and San Gregorio, through the deserted Calle di Mezzo, my friend and
I walk in darkness, pass the marble basements of the Salute, and push
our way along its Riva to the point of the Dogana. We are out at sea
alone, between the Canalozzo and the Giudecca. A moist wind ruffles
the water and cools our forehead. It is so dark that we can only see
San Giorgio by the light reflected on it from the Piazzetta. The same
light climbs the Campanile of S. Mark, and shows the golden angel in
a mystery of gloom. The only noise that reaches us is a confused hum
from the Piazza. Sitting and musing there, the blackness of the water
whispers in our ears a tale of death. And now we hear a plash of oars,
and gliding through the darkness comes a single boat. One man leaps
upon the landing-place without a word and disappears. There is another
wrapped in a military cloak asleep. I see his face beneath me, pale
and quiet. The _barcaruolo_ turns the point in silence. From the
darkness they came; into the darkness they have gone. It is only an
ordinary incident of coastguard service. But the spirit of the night
has made a poem of it.
Even tempestuous and rainy weather, though melancholy enough, is never
sordid here. There is no noise from carriage traffic in Venice, and
the sea-wind preserves the purity and transparency of the atmosphere.
It had been raining all day, but at evening came a partial clearing.
I went down to the Molo, where the large reach of the lagoon was all
moon-silvered, and San Giorgio Maggiore dark against the bluish sky,
and Santa Maria della Salute domed with moon-irradiated pearl, and the
wet slabs of the Riva shimmering in moonlight, the whole misty sky,
with its clouds and stellar spaces, drenched in moonlight, nothing but
moonlight sensible except the tawny flare of gas-lamps and the orange
lights of gondolas afloat upon the waters. On such a night the very
spirit of Venice is abroad. We feel why she is called Bride of the
Sea.
Take yet another night. There had been a representation of Verdi's
'Forza del Destino' at the Teatro Malibran. After midnight we walked
homeward through the Merceria, crossed the Piazza, and dived into the
narrow _calle_ which leads to the _traghetto_ of the Salute.
It was a warm moist starless night, and there seemed no air to breathe
in those narrow alleys. The gondolier was half asleep. Eustace called
him as we jumped into his boat, and rang our _soldi_ on the
gunwale. Then he arose and turned the _ferro_ round, and stood
across towards the Salute. Silently, insensibly, from the oppression
of confinement in the airless streets to the liberty and immensity
of the water and the night we passed. It was but two minutes ere we
touched the shore and said good-night, and went our way and left
the ferryman. But in that brief passage he had opened our souls to
everlasting things--the freshness, and the darkness, and the kindness
of the brooding, all-enfolding night above the sea.
* * * * *
_THE GONDOLIER'S WEDDING_
The night before the wedding we had a supper-party in my rooms. We
were twelve in all. My friend Eustace brought his gondolier Antonio
with fair-haired, dark-eyed wife, and little Attilio, their eldest
child. My own gondolier, Francesco, came with his wife and two
children. Then there was the handsome, languid Luigi, who, in his best
clothes, or out of them, is fit for any drawing-room. Two gondoliers,
in dark blue shirts, completed the list of guests, if we exclude the
maid Catina, who came and went about the table, laughing and joining
in the songs, and sitting down at intervals to take her share of wine.
The big room looking across the garden to the Grand Canal had been
prepared for supper; and the company were to be received in the
smaller, which has a fine open space in front of it to southwards. But
as the guests arrived, they seemed to find the kitchen and the cooking
that was going on quite irresistible. Catina, it seems, had lost her
head with so many cuttlefishes, _orai_, cakes, and fowls, and
cutlets to reduce to order. There was, therefore, a great bustle below
stairs; and I could hear plainly that all my guests were lending their
making, or their marring, hands to the preparation of the supper. That
the company should cook their own food on the way to the dining-room,
seemed a quite novel arrangement, but one that promised well for their
contentment with the banquet. Nobody could be dissatisfied with what
was everybody's affair.
When seven o'clock struck, Eustace and I, who had been entertaining
the children in their mothers' absence, heard the sound of steps upon
the stairs. The guests arrived, bringing their own _risotto_ with
them. Welcome was short, if hearty. We sat down in carefully appointed
order, and fell into such conversation as the quarter of San Vio and
our several interests supplied. From time to time one of the matrons
left the table and descended to the kitchen, when a finishing stroke
was needed for roast pullet or stewed veal. The excuses they made
their host for supposed failure in the dishes, lent a certain grace
and comic charm to the commonplace of festivity. The entertainment
was theirs as much as mine; and they all seemed to enjoy what took the
form by degrees of curiously complicated hospitality. I do not think
a well-ordered supper at any _trattoria_, such as at first
suggested itself to my imagination, would have given any of us an
equal pleasure or an equal sense of freedom. The three children had
become the guests of the whole party. Little Attilio, propped upon an
air-cushion, which puzzled him exceedingly, ate through his supper and
drank his wine with solid satisfaction, opening the large brown eyes
beneath those tufts of clustering fair hair which promise much beauty
for him in his manhood. Francesco's boy, who is older and begins to
know the world, sat with a semi-suppressed grin upon his face, as
though the humour of the situation was not wholly hidden from him.
Little Teresa, too, was happy, except when her mother, a severe
Pomona, with enormous earrings and splendid _fazzoletto_ of
crimson and orange dyes, pounced down upon her for some supposed
infraction of good manners--_creanza_, as they vividly express it
here. Only Luigi looked a trifle bored. But Luigi has been a soldier,
and has now attained the supercilious superiority of young-manhood,
which smokes its cigar of an evening in the piazza and knows the
merits of the different cafés. The great business of the evening began
when the eating was over, and the decanters filled with new wine of
Mirano circulated freely. The four best singers of the party drew
together; and the rest prepared themselves to make suggestions, hum
tunes, and join with fitful effect in choruses. Antonio, who is a
powerful young fellow, with bronzed cheeks and a perfect tempest of
coal-black hair in flakes upon his forehead, has a most extraordinary
soprano--sound as a bell, strong as a trumpet, well trained, and
true to the least shade in intonation. Piero, whose rugged Neptunian
features, sea-wrinkled, tell of a rough water-life, boasts a bass of
resonant, almost pathetic quality. Francesco has a _mezzo voce_,
which might, by a stretch of politeness, be called baritone. Piero's
comrade, whose name concerns us not, has another of these nondescript
voices. They sat together with their glasses and cigars before them,
sketching part-songs in outline, striking the keynote--now higher and
now lower--till they saw their subject well in view. Then they burst
into full singing, Antonio leading with a metal note that thrilled
one's ears, but still was musical. Complicated contrapuntal pieces,
such as we should call madrigals, with ever-recurring refrains of
'Venezia, gemma Triatica, sposa del mar,' descending probably from
ancient days, followed each other in quick succession. Barcaroles,
serenades, love-songs, and invitations to the water were interwoven
for relief. One of these romantic pieces had a beautiful burden,
'Dormi, o bella, o fingi di dormir,' of which the melody was fully
worthy. But the most successful of all the tunes were two with a sad
motive. The one repeated incessantly 'Ohimé! mia madre morì;' the
other was a girl's love lament: 'Perchè tradirmi, perchè lasciarmi!
prima d'amarmi non eri così!' Even the children joined in these; and
Catina, who took the solo part in the second, was inspired to a great
dramatic effort. All these were purely popular songs. The people of
Venice, however, are passionate for operas. Therefore we had duets
and solos from 'Ernani,' the 'Ballo in Maschera,' and the 'Forza del
Destino,' and one comic chorus from 'Boccaccio,' which seemed to make
them wild with pleasure. To my mind, the best of these more formal
pieces was a duet between Attila and Italia from some opera unknown to
me, which Antonio and Piero performed with incomparable spirit. It
was noticeable how, descending to the people, sung by them for love
at sea, or on excursions to the villages round Mestre, these operatic
reminiscences had lost something of their theatrical formality, and
assumed instead the serious gravity, the quaint movement, and marked
emphasis which belong to popular music in Northern and Central Italy.
An antique character was communicated even to the recitative of Verdi
by slight, almost indefinable, changes of rhythm and accent. There was
no end to the singing. 'Siamo appassionati per il canto,' frequently
repeated, was proved true by the profusion and variety of songs
produced from inexhaustible memories, lightly tried over, brilliantly
performed, rapidly succeeding each other. Nor were gestures
wanting--lifted arms, hands stretched to hands, flashing eyes, hair
tossed from the forehead--unconscious and appropriate action--which
showed how the spirit of the music and words alike possessed the men.
One by one the children fell asleep. Little Attilio and Teresa were
tucked up beneath my Scotch shawl at two ends of a great sofa; and not
even his father's clarion voice, in the character of Italia defying
Attila to harm 'le mie superbe città,' could wake the little boy up.
The night wore on. It was past one. Eustace and I had promised to be
in the church of the Gesuati at six next morning. We therefore gave
the guests a gentle hint, which they as gently took. With exquisite,
because perfectly unaffected, breeding they sank for a few moments
into common conversation, then wrapped the children up, and took
their leave. It was an uncomfortable, warm, wet night of sullen
_scirocco_.
The next day, which was Sunday, Francesco called me at five. There
was no visible sunrise that cheerless damp October morning. Grey dawn
stole somehow imperceptibly between the veil of clouds and leaden
waters, as my friend and I, well sheltered by our _felze_, passed
into the Giudecca, and took our station before the church of the
Gesuati. A few women from the neighbouring streets and courts crossed
the bridges in draggled petticoats on their way to first mass. A few
men, shouldering their jackets, lounged along the Zattere, opened the
great green doors, and entered. Then suddenly Antonio cried out that
the bridal party was on its way, not as we had expected, in boats, but
on foot. We left our gondola, and fell into the ranks, after shaking
hands with Francesco, who is the elder brother of the bride. There was
nothing very noticeable in her appearance, except her large dark eyes.
Otherwise both face and figure were of a common type; and her bridal
dress of sprigged grey silk, large veil and orange blossoms, reduced
her to the level of a _bourgeoise_. It was much the same with
the bridegroom. His features, indeed, proved him a true Venetian
gondolier; for the skin was strained over the cheekbones, and the
muscles of the throat beneath the jaws stood out like cords, and the
bright blue eyes were deep-set beneath a spare brown forehead. But
he had provided a complete suit of black for the occasion, and wore
a shirt of worked cambric, which disguised what is really splendid in
the physique of these oarsmen, at once slender and sinewy. Both bride
and bridegroom looked uncomfortable in their clothes. The light that
fell upon them in the church was dull and leaden. The ceremony, which
was very hurriedly performed by an unctuous priest, did not appear to
impress either of them. Nobody in the bridal party, crowding together
on both sides of the altar, looked as though the service was of the
slightest interest and moment. Indeed, this was hardly to be wondered
at; for the priest, so far as I could understand his gabble, took
the larger portion for read, after muttering the first words of the
rubric. A little carven image of an acolyte--a weird boy who seemed to
move by springs, whose hair had all the semblance of painted wood,
and whose complexion was white and red like a clown's--did not make
matters more intelligible by spasmodically clattering responses.
After the ceremony we heard mass and contributed to three distinct
offertories. Considering how much account even two _soldi_ are to
these poor people, I was really angry when I heard the copper shower.
Every member of the party had his or her pennies ready, and dropped
them into the boxes. Whether it was the effect of the bad morning, or
the ugliness of a very ill-designed _barocco_ building, or the
fault of the fat oily priest, I know not. But the _sposalizio_
struck me as tame and cheerless, the mass as irreverent and vulgarly
conducted. At the same time there is something too impressive in
the mass for any perfunctory performance to divest its symbolism of
sublimity. A Protestant Communion Service lends itself more easily to
degradation by unworthiness in the minister.
We walked down the church in double file, led by the bride and
bridegroom, who had knelt during the ceremony with the best
man--_compare_, as he is called--at a narrow _prie-dieu_ before the
altar. The _compare_ is a person of distinction at these weddings. He
has to present the bride with a great pyramid of artificial flowers,
which is placed before her at the marriage-feast, a packet of candles,
and a box of bonbons. The comfits, when the box is opened, are found
to include two magnificent sugar babies lying in their cradles. I was
told that a _compare_, who does the thing handsomely, must be prepared
to spend about a hundred francs upon these presents, in addition to
the wine and cigars with which he treats his friends. On this occasion
the women were agreed that he had done his duty well. He was a fat,
wealthy little man, who lived by letting market-boats for hire on the
Rialto.
From the church to the bride's house was a walk of some three minutes.
On the way we were introduced to the father of the bride--a very
magnificent personage, with points of strong resemblance to Vittorio
Emmanuele. He wore an enormous broad-brimmed hat and emerald-green
earrings, and looked considerably younger than his eldest son,
Francesco. Throughout the _nozze_ he took the lead in a grand
imperious fashion of his own. Wherever he went, he seemed to fill the
place, and was fully aware of his own importance. In Florence I think
he would have got the nickname of _Tacchin_, or turkey-cock.
Here at Venice the sons and daughters call their parent briefly
_Vecchio_. I heard him so addressed with a certain amount of awe,
expecting an explosion of bubbly-jock displeasure. But he took it, as
though it was natural, without disturbance. The other _Vecchio_,
father of the bridegroom, struck me as more sympathetic. He was a
gentle old man, proud of his many prosperous, laborious sons.
They, like the rest of the gentlemen, were gondoliers. Both the
_Vecchi_, indeed, continue to ply their trade, day and night, at
the _traghetto_.
_Traghetti_ are stations for gondolas at different points of the
canals. As their name implies, it is the first duty of the gondoliers
upon them to ferry people across. This they do for the fixed fee of
five centimes. The _traghetti_ are in fact Venetian cab-stands.
And, of course, like London cabs, the gondolas may be taken off them
for trips. The municipality, however, makes it a condition, under
penalty of fine to the _traghetto_, that each station should
always be provided with two boats for the service of the ferry. When
vacancies occur on the _traghetti_, a gondolier who owns or hires
a boat makes application to the municipality, receives a number, and
is inscribed as plying at a certain station. He has now entered a sort
of guild, which is presided over by a _Capo-traghetto_, elected
by the rest for the protection of their interests, the settlement of
disputes, and the management of their common funds. In the old acts
of Venice this functionary is styled _Gastaldo di traghetto_. The
members have to contribute something yearly to the guild. This payment
varies upon different stations, according to the greater or less
amount of the tax levied by the municipality on the _traghetto_.
The highest subscription I have heard of is twenty-five francs; the
lowest, seven. There is one _traghetto_, known by the name
of Madonna del Giglio or Zobenigo, which possesses near its
_pergola_ of vines a nice old brown Venetian picture. Some
stranger offered a considerable sum for this. But the guild refused to
part with it.
As may be imagined, the _traghetti_ vary greatly in the amount
and quality of their custom. By far the best are those in the
neighbourhood of the hotels upon the Grand Canal. At any one of these
a gondolier during the season is sure of picking up some foreigner or
other who will pay him handsomely for comparatively light service.
A _traghetto_ on the Giudecca, on the contrary, depends upon
Venetian traffic. The work is more monotonous, and the pay is reduced
to its tariffed minimum. So far as I can gather, an industrious
gondolier, with a good boat, belonging to a good _traghetto_, may
make as much as ten or fifteen francs in a single day. But this cannot
be relied on. They therefore prefer a fixed appointment with a private
family, for which they receive by tariff five francs a day, or by
arrangement for long periods perhaps four francs a day, with certain
perquisites and small advantages. It is great luck to get such an
engagement for the winter. The heaviest anxieties which beset a
gondolier are then disposed of. Having entered private service, they
are not allowed to ply their trade on the _traghetto_, except
by stipulation with their masters. Then they may take their place one
night out of every six in the rank and file. The gondoliers have
two proverbs, which show how desirable it is, while taking a fixed
engagement, to keep their hold on the _traghetto_. One is to this
effect: _il traghetto è un buon padrone_. The other satirises
the meanness of the poverty-stricken Venetian nobility: _pompa di
servitù, misera insegna_. When they combine the _traghetto_
with private service, the municipality insists on their retaining
the number painted on their gondola; and against this their employers
frequently object. It is therefore a great point for a gondolier to
make such an arrangement with his master as will leave him free to
show his number. The reason for this regulation is obvious. Gondoliers
are known more by their numbers and their _traghetti_ than
their names. They tell me that though there are upwards of a
thousand registered in Venice, each man of the trade knows the
whole confraternity by face and number. Taking all things into
consideration, I think four francs a day the whole year round are
very good earnings for a gondolier. On this he will marry and rear a
family, and put a little money by. A young unmarried man, working at
two and a half or three francs a day, is proportionately well-to-do.
If he is economical, he ought upon these wages to save enough in
two or three years to buy himself a gondola. A boy from fifteen to
nineteen is called a _mezz' uomo_, and gets about one franc a day. A
new gondola with all its fittings is worth about a thousand francs. It
does not last in good condition more than six or seven years. At the
end of that time the hull will fetch eighty francs. A new hull can be
had for three hundred francs. The old fittings--brass sea-horses or
_cavalli_, steel prow or _ferro_, covered cabin or _felze_, cushions
and leather-covered back-board or _stramazetto_, maybe transferred to
it. When a man wants to start a gondola, he will begin by buying one
already half past service--a _gondola da traghetto_ or _di mezza età_.
This should cost him something over two hundred francs. Little by
little, he accumulates the needful fittings; and when his first
purchase is worn out, he hopes to set up with a well-appointed
equipage. He thus gradually works his way from the rough trade which
involves hard work and poor earnings to that more profitable industry
which cannot be carried on without a smart boat. The gondola is a
source of continual expense for repairs. Its oars have to be replaced.
It has to be washed with sponges, blacked, and varnished. Its bottom
needs frequent cleaning. Weeds adhere to it in the warm brackish
water, growing rapidly through the summer months, and demanding to be
scrubbed off once in every four weeks. The gondolier has no place
where he can do this for himself. He therefore takes his boat to a
wharf, or _squero_, as the place is called. At these _squeri_ gondolas
are built as well as cleaned. The fee for a thorough setting to rights
of the boat is five francs. It must be done upon a fine day. Thus in
addition to the cost, the owner loses a good day's work.
These details will serve to give some notion of the sort of people
with whom Eustace and I spent our day. The bride's house is in an
excellent position on an open canal leading from the Canalozzo to the
Giudecca. She had arrived before us, and received her friends in the
middle of the room. Each of us in turn kissed her cheek and murmured
our congratulations. We found the large living-room of the house
arranged with chairs all round the walls, and the company were
marshalled in some order of precedence, my friend and I taking place
near the bride. On either hand airy bedrooms opened out, and two
large doors, wide open, gave a view from where we sat of a good-sized
kitchen. This arrangement of the house was not only comfortable, but
pretty; for the bright copper pans and pipkins ranged on shelves
along the kitchen walls had a very cheerful effect. The walls were
whitewashed, but literally covered with all sorts of pictures. A great
plaster cast from some antique, an Atys, Adonis, or Paris, looked down
from a bracket placed between the windows. There was enough furniture,
solid and well kept, in all the rooms. Among the pictures were
full-length portraits in oils of two celebrated gondoliers--one in
antique costume, the other painted a few years since. The original of
the latter soon came and stood before it. He had won regatta prizes;
and the flags of four discordant colours were painted round him by the
artist, who had evidently cared more to commemorate the triumphs of
his sitter and to strike a likeness than to secure the tone of his own
picture. This champion turned out a fine fellow--Corradini--with one
of the brightest little gondoliers of thirteen for his son.
After the company were seated, lemonade and cakes were handed round
amid a hubbub of chattering women. Then followed cups of black coffee
and more cakes. Then a glass of Cyprus and more cakes. Then a glass
of curaçoa and more cakes. Finally, a glass of noyau and still more
cakes. It was only a little after seven in the morning. Yet politeness
compelled us to consume these delicacies. I tried to shirk my duty;
but this discretion was taken by my hosts for well-bred modesty; and
instead of being let off, I had the richest piece of pastry and the
largest maccaroon available pressed so kindly on me, that, had they
been poisoned, I would not have refused to eat them. The conversation
grew more, and more animated, the women gathering together in their
dresses of bright blue and scarlet, the men lighting cigars and
puffing out a few quiet words. It struck me as a drawback that these
picturesque people had put on Sunday-clothes to look as much like
shopkeepers as possible. But they did not all of them succeed. Two
handsome women, who handed the cups round--one a brunette, the other
a blonde--wore skirts of brilliant blue, with a sort of white jacket,
and white kerchief folded heavily about their shoulders. The brunette
had a great string of coral, the blonde of amber, round her throat.
Gold earrings and the long gold chains Venetian women wear, of all
patterns and degrees of value, abounded. Nobody appeared without
them; but I could not see any of an antique make. The men seemed to be
contented with rings--huge, heavy rings of solid gold, worked with
a rough flower pattern. One young fellow had three upon his fingers.
This circumstance led me to speculate whether a certain portion at
least of this display of jewellery around me had not been borrowed for
the occasion.
Eustace and I were treated quite like friends. They called us _I
Signori_. But this was only, I think, because our English names
are quite unmanageable. The women fluttered about us and kept
asking whether we really liked it all? whether we should come to the
_pranzo_? whether it was true we danced? It seemed to give them
unaffected pleasure to be kind to us; and when we rose to go away, the
whole company crowded round, shaking hands and saying: 'Si divertirà
bene stasera!' Nobody resented our presence; what was better, no one
put himself out for us. 'Vogliono veder il nostro costume,' I heard
one woman say.
We got home soon after eight, and, as our ancestors would have said,
settled our stomachs with a dish of tea. It makes me shudder now to
think of the mixed liquids and miscellaneous cakes we had consumed at
that unwonted hour.
At half-past three, Eustace and I again prepared ourselves for action.
His gondola was in attendance, covered with the _felze_, to take us to
the house of the _sposa_. We found the canal crowded with poor people
of the quarter--men, women, and children lining the walls along its
side, and clustering like bees upon the bridges. The water itself was
almost choked with gondolas. Evidently the folk of San Vio thought our
wedding procession would be a most exciting pageant. We entered the
house, and were again greeted by the bride and bridegroom, who
consigned each of us to the control of a fair tyrant. This is the most
fitting way of describing our introduction to our partners of the
evening; for we were no sooner presented, than the ladies swooped upon
us like their prey, placing their shawls upon our left arms, while
they seized and clung to what was left available of us for locomotion.
There was considerable giggling and tittering throughout the company
when Signora Fenzo, the young and comely wife of a gondolier, thus
took possession of Eustace, and Signora dell' Acqua, the widow of
another gondolier, appropriated me. The affair had been arranged
beforehand, and their friends had probably chaffed them with the
difficulty of managing two mad Englishmen. However, they proved equal
to the occasion, and the difficulties were entirely on our side.
Signora Fenzo was a handsome brunette, quiet in her manners, who meant
business. I envied Eustace his subjection to such a reasonable being.
Signora dell' Acqua, though a widow, was by no means disconsolate; and
I soon perceived that it would require all the address and diplomacy I
possessed, to make anything out of her society. She laughed
incessantly; darted in the most diverse directions, dragging me along
with her; exhibited me in triumph to her cronies; made eyes at me over
a fan, repeated my clumsiest remarks, as though they gave her
indescribable amusement; and all the while jabbered Venetian at
express rate, without the slightest regard for my incapacity to follow
her vagaries. The _Vecchio_ marshalled us in order. First went the
_sposa_ and _comare_ with the mothers of bride and bridegroom. Then
followed the _sposo_ and the bridesmaid. After them I was made to lead
my fair tormentor. As we descended the staircase there arose a hubbub
of excitement from the crowd on the canals. The gondolas moved
turbidly upon the face of the waters. The bridegroom kept muttering to
himself, 'How we shall be criticised! They will tell each other who
was decently dressed, and who stepped awkwardly into the boats, and
what the price of my boots was!' Such exclamations, murmured at
intervals, and followed by chest-drawn sighs, expressed a deep
preoccupation. With regard to his boots, he need have had no anxiety.
They were of the shiniest patent leather, much too tight, and without
a speck of dust upon them. But his nervousness infected me with a
cruel dread. All those eyes were going to watch how we comported
ourselves in jumping from the landing-steps into the boat! If this
operation, upon a ceremonious occasion, has terrors even for a
gondolier, how formidable it ought to be to me! And here is the
Signora dell' Acqua's white cachemire shawl dangling on one arm, and
the Signora herself languishingly clinging to the other; and the
gondolas are fretting in a fury of excitement, like corks, upon the
churned green water! The moment was terrible. The _sposa_ and her
three companions had been safely stowed away beneath their _felze_.
The _sposo_ had successfully handed the bridesmaid into the second
gondola. I had to perform the same office for my partner. Off she
went, like a bird, from the bank. I seized a happy moment, followed,
bowed, and found myself to my contentment gracefully ensconced in a
corner opposite the widow. Seven more gondolas were packed. The
procession moved. We glided down the little channel, broke away into
the Grand Canal, crossed it, and dived into a labyrinth from which we
finally emerged before our destination, the Trattoria di San Gallo.
The perils of the landing were soon over; and, with the rest of the
guests, my mercurial companion and I slowly ascended a long flight of
stairs leading to a vast upper chamber. Here we were to dine.
It had been the gallery of some palazzo in old days, was above one
hundred feet in length, fairly broad, with a roof of wooden rafters
and large windows opening on a courtyard garden. I could see the tops
of three cypress-trees cutting the grey sky upon a level with us.
A long table occupied the centre of this room. It had been laid for
upwards of forty persons, and we filled it. There was plenty of
light from great glass lustres blazing with gas. When the ladies had
arranged their dresses, and the gentlemen had exchanged a few polite
remarks, we all sat down to dinner--I next my inexorable widow,
Eustace beside his calm and comely partner. The first impression
was one of disappointment. It looked so like a public dinner of
middle-class people. There was no local character in costume or
customs. Men and women sat politely bored, expectant, trifling with
their napkins, yawning, muttering nothings about the weather or their
neighbours. The frozen commonplaceness of the scene was made for
me still more oppressive by Signora dell' Acqua. She was evidently
satirical, and could not be happy unless continually laughing at or
with somebody. 'What a stick the woman will think me!' I kept saying
to myself. 'How shall I ever invent jokes in this strange land? I
cannot even flirt with her in Venetian! And here I have condemned
myself--and her too, poor thing--to sit through at least three hours
of mortal dulness!' Yet the widow was by no means unattractive.
Dressed in black, she had contrived by an artful arrangement of lace
and jewellery to give an air of lightness to her costume. She had
a pretty little pale face, a _minois chiffonné_, with slightly
turned-up nose, large laughing brown eyes, a dazzling set of teeth,
and a tempestuously frizzled mop of powdered hair. When I managed to
get a side-look at her quietly, without being giggled at or driven
half mad by unintelligible incitements to a jocularity I could
not feel, it struck me that, if we once found a common term of
communication we should become good friends. But for the moment that
_modus vivendi_ seemed unattainable. She had not recovered from
the first excitement of her capture of me. She was still showing
me off and trying to stir me up. The arrival of the soup gave me
a momentary relief; and soon the serious business of the afternoon
began. I may add that before dinner was over, the Signora dell' Acqua
and I were fast friends. I had discovered the way of making jokes, and
she had become intelligible. I found her a very nice, though flighty,
little woman; and I believe she thought me gifted with the faculty of
uttering eccentric epigrams in a grotesque tongue. Some of my remarks
were flung about the table, and had the same success as uncouth
Lombard carvings have with connoisseurs in _naïvetés_ of art. By that
time we had come to be _compare_ and _comare_ to each other--the
sequel of some clumsy piece of jocularity.
It was a heavy entertainment, copious in quantity, excellent in
quality, plainly but well cooked. I remarked there was no fish. The
widow replied that everybody present ate fish to satiety at home. They
did not join a marriage feast at the San Gallo, and pay their nine
francs, for that! It should be observed that each guest paid for his
own entertainment. This appears to be the custom. Therefore attendance
is complimentary, and the married couple are not at ruinous charges
for the banquet. A curious feature in the whole proceeding had its
origin in this custom. I noticed that before each cover lay an empty
plate, and that my partner began with the first course to heap upon
it what she had not eaten. She also took large helpings, and kept
advising me to do the same. I said: 'No; I only take what I want to
eat; if I fill that plate in front of me as you are doing, it will be
great waste.' This remark elicited shrieks of laughter from all who
heard it; and when the hubbub had subsided, I perceived an apparently
official personage bearing down upon Eustace, who was in the same
perplexity. It was then circumstantially explained to us that the
empty plates were put there in order that we might lay aside what we
could not conveniently eat, and take it home with us. At the end
of the dinner the widow (whom I must now call my _comare_) had
accumulated two whole chickens, half a turkey, and a large assortment
of mixed eatables. I performed my duty and won her regard by placing
delicacies at her disposition.
Crudely stated, this proceeding moves disgust. But that is only
because one has not thought the matter out. In the performance there
was nothing coarse or nasty. These good folk had made a contract at
so much a head--so many fowls, so many pounds of beef, &c, to be
supplied; and what they had fairly bought, they clearly had a right
to. No one, so far as I could notice, tried to take more than his
proper share; except, indeed, Eustace and myself. In our first
eagerness to conform to custom, we both overshot the mark, and grabbed
at disproportionate helpings. The waiters politely observed that we
were taking what was meant for two; and as the courses followed in
interminable sequence, we soon acquired the tact of what was due to
us.
Meanwhile the room grew warm. The gentlemen threw off their coats--a
pleasant liberty of which I availed myself, and was immediately more
at ease. The ladies divested themselves of their shoes (strange
to relate!) and sat in comfort with their stockinged feet upon the
_scagliola_ pavement. I observed that some cavaliers by special
permission were allowed to remove their partners' slippers. This was
not my lucky fate. My _comare_ had not advanced to that point of
intimacy. Healths began to be drunk. The conversation took a lively
turn; and women went fluttering round the table, visiting their
friends, to sip out of their glass, and ask each other how they
were getting on. It was not long before the stiff veneer of
_bourgeoisie_ which bored me had worn off. The people emerged in
their true selves: natural, gentle, sparkling with enjoyment, playful.
Playful is, I think, the best word to describe them. They played with
infinite grace and innocence, like kittens, from the old men of sixty
to the little boys of thirteen. Very little wine was drunk. Each guest
had a litre placed before him. Many did not finish theirs; and for
very few was it replenished. When at last the dessert arrived, and the
bride's comfits had been handed round, they began to sing. It was very
pretty to see a party of three or four friends gathering round some
popular beauty, and paying her compliments in verse--they grouped
behind her chair, she sitting back in it and laughing up to them,
and joining in the chorus. The words, 'Brunetta mia simpatica, ti amo
sempre più,' sung after this fashion to Eustace's handsome partner,
who puffed delicate whiffs from a Russian cigarette, and smiled her
thanks, had a peculiar appropriateness. All the ladies, it may be
observed in passing, had by this time lit their cigarettes. The men
were smoking Toscani, Sellas, or Cavours, and the little boys were
dancing round the table breathing smoke from their pert nostrils.
The dinner, in fact, was over. Other relatives of the guests arrived,
and then we saw how some of the reserved dishes were to be bestowed. A
side-table was spread at the end of the gallery, and these late-comers
were regaled with plenty by their friends. Meanwhile, the big table
at which we had dined was taken to pieces and removed. The
_scagliola_ floor was swept by the waiters. Musicians came
streaming in and took their places. The ladies resumed their shoes.
Every one prepared to dance.
My friend and I were now at liberty to chat with the men. He knew
some of them by sight, and claimed acquaintance with others. There
was plenty of talk about different boats, gondolas, and sandolos and
topos, remarks upon the past season, and inquiries as to chances of
engagements in the future. One young fellow told us how he had been
drawn for the army, and should be obliged to give up his trade just
when he had begun to make it answer. He had got a new gondola, and
this would have to be hung up during the years of his service. The
warehousing of a boat in these circumstances costs nearly one hundred
francs a year, which is a serious tax upon the pockets of a private in
the line. Many questions were put in turn to us, but all of the same
tenor. 'Had we really enjoyed the _pranzo_? Now, really, were we
amusing ourselves? And did we think the custom of the wedding _un
bel costume_?' We could give an unequivocally hearty response to
all these interrogations. The men seemed pleased. Their interest in
our enjoyment was unaffected. It is noticeable how often the word
_divertimento_ is heard upon the lips of the Italians. They have
a notion that it is the function in life of the _Signori_ to
amuse themselves.
The ball opened, and now we were much besought by the ladies. I had to
deny myself with a whole series of comical excuses. Eustace performed
his duty after a stiff English fashion--once with his pretty partner
of the _pranzo_, and once again with a fat gondolier. The band
played waltzes and polkas, chiefly upon patriotic airs--the Marcia
Reale, Garibaldi's Hymn, &c. Men danced with men, women with women,
little boys and girls together. The gallery whirled with a laughing
crowd. There was plenty of excitement and enjoyment--not an unseemly
or extravagant word or gesture. My _comare_ careered about with a
light mænadic impetuosity, which made me regret my inability to accept
her pressing invitations. She pursued me into every corner of the
room, but when at last I dropped excuses and told her that my real
reason for not dancing was that it would hurt my health, she waived
her claims at once with an _Ah, poverino!_
Some time after midnight we felt that we had had enough of
_divertimento_. Francesco helped us to slip out unobserved. With
many silent good wishes we left the innocent playful people who had
been so kind to us. The stars were shining from a watery sky as we
passed into the piazza beneath the Campanile and the pinnacles of
S. Mark. The Riva was almost empty, and the little waves fretted the
boats moored to the piazzetta, as a warm moist breeze went fluttering
by. We smoked a last cigar, crossed our _traghetto_, and were
soon sound asleep at the end of a long pleasant day. The ball, we
heard next morning, finished about four.
Since that evening I have had plenty of opportunities for seeing my
friends the gondoliers, both in their own homes and in my apartment.
Several have entertained me at their mid-day meal of fried fish
and amber-coloured polenta. These repasts were always cooked with
scrupulous cleanliness, and served upon a table covered with coarse
linen. The polenta is turned out upon a wooden platter, and cut with
a string called _lassa_. You take a large slice of it on the
palm of the left hand, and break it with the fingers of the right.
Wholesome red wine of the Paduan district and good white bread were
never wanting. The rooms in which we met to eat looked out on narrow
lanes or over pergolas of yellowing vines. Their whitewashed walls
were hung with photographs of friends and foreigners, many of them
souvenirs from English or American employers. The men, in broad
black hats and lilac shirts, sat round the table, girt with the red
waist-wrapper, or _fascia_, which marks the ancient faction of
the Castellani. The other faction, called Nicolotti, are distinguished
by a black _assisa_. The quarters of the town are divided
unequally and irregularly into these two parties. What was once a
formidable rivalry between two sections of the Venetian populace,
still survives in challenges to trials of strength and skill upon the
water. The women, in their many-coloured kerchiefs, stirred polenta at
the smoke-blackened chimney, whose huge pent-house roof projects two
feet or more across the hearth. When they had served the table they
took their seat on low stools, knitted stockings, or drank out of
glasses handed across the shoulder to them by their lords. Some of
these women were clearly notable housewives, and I have no reason to
suppose that they do not take their full share of the housework. Boys
and girls came in and out, and got a portion of the dinner to consume
where they thought best. Children went tottering about upon the
red-brick floor, the playthings of those hulking fellows, who handled
them very gently and spoke kindly in a sort of confidential whisper
to their ears. These little ears were mostly pierced for earrings, and
the light blue eyes of the urchins peeped maliciously beneath shocks
of yellow hair. A dog was often of the party. He ate fish like his
masters, and was made to beg for it by sitting up and rowing with
his paws. _Voga, Azzò, voga!_ The Anzolo who talked thus to
his little brown Spitz-dog has the hoarse voice of a Triton and the
movement of an animated sea-wave. Azzo performed his trick, swallowed
his fish-bones, and the fiery Anzolo looked round approvingly.
On all these occasions I have found these gondoliers the same
sympathetic, industrious, cheery affectionate folk. They live in many
respects a hard and precarious life. The winter in particular is a
time of anxiety, and sometimes of privation, even to the well-to-do
among them. Work then is scarce, and what there is, is rendered
disagreeable to them by the cold. Yet they take their chance with
facile temper, and are not soured by hardships. The amenities of the
Venetian sea and air, the healthiness of the lagoons, the cheerful
bustle of the poorer quarters, the brilliancy of this Southern
sunlight, and the beauty which is everywhere apparent, must be
reckoned as important factors in the formation of their character. And
of that character, as I have said, the final note is playfulness.
In spite of difficulties, their life has never been stern enough to
sadden them. Bare necessities are marvellously cheap, and the pinch
of real bad weather--such frost as locked the lagoons in ice two years
ago, or such south-western gales as flooded the basement floors of
all the houses on the Zattere--is rare and does not last long. On the
other hand, their life has never been so lazy as to reduce them to
the savagery of the traditional Neapolitan lazzaroni. They have had
to work daily for small earnings, but under favourable conditions,
and their labour has been lightened by much good-fellowship among
themselves, by the amusements of their _feste_ and their singing
clubs.
Of course it is not easy for a stranger in a very different social
position to feel that he has been admitted to their confidence.
Italians have an ineradicable habit of making themselves externally
agreeable, of bending in all indifferent matters to the whims and
wishes of superiors, and of saying what they think _Signori_
like. This habit, while it smoothes the surface of existence, raises
up a barrier of compliment and partial insincerity, against which the
more downright natures of us Northern folk break in vain efforts. Our
advances are met with an imperceptible but impermeable resistance by
the very people who are bent on making the world pleasant to us. It
is the very reverse of that dour opposition which a Lowland Scot or
a North English peasant offers to familiarity; but it is hardly less
insurmountable. The treatment, again, which Venetians of the lower
class have received through centuries from their own nobility, makes
attempts at fraternisation on the part of gentlemen unintelligible to
them. The best way, here and elsewhere, of overcoming these obstacles
is to have some bond of work or interest in common--of service on the
one side rendered, and goodwill on the other honestly displayed. The
men of whom I have been speaking will, I am convinced, not shirk their
share of duty or make unreasonable claims upon the generosity of their
employers.
* * * * *
_A CINQUE CENTO BRUTUS_