THE PIAZZETTA
The two columns--An ingenious engineer--S. Mark's lion--S.
Theodore of Heraclea--The Old Library--Jacopo Sansovino--The
Venetian Brunelleschi--Vasari's life--A Venetian library--Early
printed books--The Grimani breviary--A pageant of the
Seasons--The Loggetta--Coryat again--The view from the Molo--The
gondolier--Alessandro and Ferdinando--The danger of the
traghetto--Indomitable talkers--The fair and the fare--A proud
father--The rampino.
The Piazzetta is more remarkable in its architectural riches than the
Piazza. S. Mark's main façade is of course beyond words wonderful; but
after this the Piazza has only the Merceria clock and the Old and the
New Procuratie, whereas the Piazzetta has S. Mark's small façade, the
Porta della Carta and lovely west façade of the Doges' Palace, the
columns bearing S. Mark's lion and S. Theodore, Sansovino's Old Library
and Loggetta; while the Campanile is common to both. The Piazzetta has a
café too, although it is not on an equality either with Florian's or the
Quadri, and on three nights a week a band plays.
The famous Piazzetta columns, with S. Theodore and his crocodile (or
dragon) on one and the lion of S. Mark on the other, which have become
as much a symbol of Venice as the façade of S. Mark's itself, were
brought from Syria after the conquest of Tyre. Three were brought in
all, but one fell into the water and was never recovered. The others
lay on the quay here for half a century waiting to be set up, a task
beyond human skill until an engineer from Lombardy volunteered to do it
on condition that he was to have any request granted. His request was to
be allowed the right of establishing a gaming-table between the columns;
and the authorities had to comply, although gambling was hateful to
them. A few centuries later the gallows were placed here too. Now there
is neither gambling nor hanging; but all day long loafers sit on the
steps of the columns and discuss pronto and subito and cinque and all
the other topics of Venetian conversation.
I wonder how many visitors to Venice, asked whether S. Theodore on his
column and the Lion of S. Mark on his, face the lagoon or the Merceria
clock, would give the right answer. The faces of both are turned towards
the clock; their backs to the lagoon. The lion, which is of bronze with
white agates for his eyes, has known many vicissitudes. Where he came
from originally, no one knows, but it is extremely probable that he
began as a pagan and was pressed into the service of the Evangelist much
later. Napoleon took him to Paris, together with the bronze horses, and
while there he was broken. He came back in 1815 and was restored, and
twenty years ago he was restored again. S. Theodore was also
strengthened at the same time, being moved into the Doges' Palace
courtyard for that purpose.
There are several saints named Theodore, but the protector and patron of
the Venetians in the early days before Mark's body was stolen from
Alexandria, is S. Theodore of Heraclea. S. Theodore, surnamed
Stretelates, or general of the army, was a famous soldier and the
governor of the country of the Mariandyni, whose capital was Heraclea.
Accepting and professing the Christian faith, he was beheaded by the
Emperor Licinius on February 7, 319. On June 8 in the same year his
remains were translated to Euchaia, the burial-place of the family, and
the town at once became so famous as a shrine that its name was changed
to Theodoropolis. As late as 970 the patronage of the Saint gave the
Emperor John I a victory over the Saracens, and in gratitude the emperor
rebuilt the church where Theodore's relics were preserved. Subsequently
they were moved to Mesembria and then to Constantinople, from which city
the great Doge Dandolo brought them to Venice. They now repose in S.
Salvatore beneath an altar.
The west side of the Piazzetta consists of the quiet and beautiful
façade of Sansovino's Old Library. To see it properly one should sit
down at ease under the Doge's arcade or mount to the quadriga gallery of
S. Mark's. Its proportions seem to me perfect, but Baedeker's
description of it as the most magnificent secular edifice in Italy seems
odd with the Ducal Palace so near. They do not, however, conflict, for
the Ducal Palace is so gay and light, and this so serious and stately.
The cherubs with their garlands are a relaxation, like a smile on a
grave face; yet the total effect is rather calm thoughtfulness than
sternness. The living statues on the coping help to lighten the
structure, and if one steps back along the Riva one sees a brilliant
column of white stone--a chimney perhaps--which is another inspiriting
touch. In the early morning, with the sun on them, these statues are the
whitest things imaginable.
The end building, the Zecca, or mint, is also Sansovino's, as are the
fascinating little Loggetta beneath the campanile, together with much of
its statuary, the giants at the head of Ricco's staircase opposite, and
the chancel bronzes in S. Mark's, so that altogether this is peculiarly
the place to inquire into what manner of man the Brunelleschi of Venice
was. For Jacopo Sansovino stands to Venice much as that great architect
to Florence. He found it lacking certain essential things, and,
supplying them, made it far more beautiful and impressive; and whatever
he did seems inevitable and right.
Vasari wrote a very full life of Sansovino, not included among his other
Lives but separately published. In this we learn that Jacopo was born in
Florence in 1477, the son of a mattress-maker named Tatti; but
apparently 1486 is the right date. Appreciating his natural bent towards
art, his mother had him secretly taught to draw, hoping that he might
become a great sculptor like Michael Angelo, and he was put as
apprentice to the sculptor Andrea Contucci of Monte Sansovino, who had
recently set up in Florence and was at work on two figures for San
Giovanni; and Jacopo so attached himself to the older man that he became
known as Sansovino too. Another of his friends as a youth was Andrea del
Sarto.
From Florence he passed to Rome, where he came under the patronage of
the Pope Julius II, of Bramante, the architect, and of Perugino, the
painter, and learned much by his studies there. Returning to Florence,
he became one of the most desired of sculptors and executed that superb
modern-antique, the Bacchus in the Bargello. Taking to architecture, he
continued his successful progress, chiefly again in Rome, but when the
sack of that city occurred in 1527 he fled and to the great good fortune
of Venice took refuge here. The Doge, Andrea Gritti, welcomed so
distinguished a fugitive and at once set him to work on the restoration
of S. Mark's cupolas, and this task he completed with such skill that
he was made a Senior Procurator and given a fine house and salary.
As a Procurator he seems to have been tactful and active, and Vasari
gives various examples of his reforming zeal by which the annual income
of the Procuranzia was increased by two thousand ducats. When, however,
one of the arches of Sansovino's beautiful library fell, owing to a
subsidence of the foundations, neither his eminent position nor ability
prevented the authorities from throwing him into prison as a bad
workman; nor was he liberated, for all his powerful friends, without a
heavy fine. He built also several fine palaces, the mint, and various
churches, but still kept time for his early love, sculpture, as his
perfect little Loggetta, and the giants on the Staircase, and such a
tomb as that in S. Salvatore, show.
[Illustration: S. JEROME IN HIS CELL
FROM THE PAINTING BY CARPACCIO
_At S. Giorgio dei Schiavoni_]
This is Vasari's description of the man: "Jacopo Sansovino, as to his
person, was of the middle height, but rather slender than otherwise, and
his carriage was remarkably upright; he was fair, with a red beard, and
in his youth was of a goodly presence, wherefore he did not fail to be
loved, and that by dames of no small importance. In his age he had an
exceedingly venerable appearance; with his beautiful white beard, he
still retained the carriage of his youth: he was strong and healthy even
to his ninety-third year, and could see the smallest object, at whatever
distance, without glasses, even then. When writing, he sat with his head
up, not supporting himself in any manner, as it is usual for men to do.
He liked to be handsomely dressed, and was singularly nice in his
person. The society of ladies was acceptable to Sansovino, even to the
extremity of age, and he always enjoyed conversing with or of them. He
had not been particularly healthy in his youth, yet in his old age he
suffered from no malady whatever, in-so-much that, for a period of fifty
years, he would never consult any physician even when he did feel
himself indisposed. Nay, when he was once attacked by apoplexy, he would
still have nothing to do with physic, but cured himself by keeping in
bed for two months in a dark and well-warmed chamber. His digestion was
so good that he could eat all things without distinction: during the
summer he lived almost entirely on fruits, and in the very extremity of
his age would frequently eat three cucumbers and half a lemon at one
time.
"With respect to the qualities of his mind, Sansovino was very prudent;
he foresaw readily the coming events, and sagaciously compared the
present with the past. Attentive to his duties, he shunned no labour in
the fulfilment of the same, and never neglected his business for his
pleasure. He spoke well and largely on such subjects as he understood,
giving appropriate illustrations of his thoughts with infinite grace of
manner. This rendered him acceptable to high and low alike, as well as
to his own friends. In his greatest age his memory continued excellent;
he remembered all the events of his childhood, and could minutely refer
to the sack of Rome and all the other occurrences, fortunate or
otherwise, of his youth and early manhood. He was very courageous, and
delighted from his boyhood in contending with those who were greater
than himself, affirming that he who struggles with the great may become
greater, but he who disputes with the little must become less. He
esteemed honour above all else in the world, and was so upright a man of
his word, that no temptation could induce him to break it, of which he
gave frequent proof to his lords, who, for that as well as other
qualities, considered him rather as a father or brother than as their
agent or steward, honouring in him an excellence that was no pretence,
but his true nature."
Sansovino died in 1570, and he was buried at San Gimignano, in a church
that he himself had built. In 1807, this church being demolished, his
remains were transferred to the Seminario della Salute in Venice, where
they now are.
Adjoining the Old Library is the Mint, now S. Mark's Library, which may
be both seen and used by strangers. It is not exactly a British Museum
Reading-room, for there are but twelve tables with six seats at each,
but judging by its usually empty state, it more than suffices for the
scholarly needs of Venice. Upstairs you are shown various treasures
brought together by Cardinal Bessarione: MSS., autographs, illuminated
books, and incunabula. A fourteenth-century Dante lies open, with
coloured pictures: the poet very short on one page and very tall on the
next, and Virgil, at his side, very like Christ. A _Relazione della
Morte de Anna Regina de Francia_, a fifteenth-century work, has a
curious picture of the queen's burial. The first book ever printed in
Venice is here: Cicero's _Epistolæ_, 1469, from the press of Johannes di
Spira, which was followed by an edition of Pliny the Younger. A fine
Venetian _Hypnerotomachia_, 1499, is here, and a very beautiful
Herodotus with lovely type from the press of Gregorius of Venice in
1494. Old bindings may be seen too, among them a lavish Byzantine
example with enamels and mosaics. The exhibited autographs include
Titian's hand large and forcible; Leopardi's, very neat; Goldoni's,
delicate and self-conscious; Galileo's, much in earnest; and a poem by
Tasso with myriad afterthoughts.
But the one idea of the custodian is to get you to admire the famous
Grimani Breviary--not alas! in the original, which is not shown, but in
a coloured reproduction. Very well, you say; and then discover that the
privilege of displaying it is the perquisite of a rusty old colleague.
That is to say, one custodian extols the work in order that another may
reap a second harvest by turning its leaves. This delightful book dates
from the early sixteenth century and is the work of some ingenious and
masterly Flemish miniaturist with a fine sense of the open air and the
movement of the seasons. But it is hard to be put off with an ordinary
bookseller's traveller's specimen instead of the real thing. If one may
be so near Titian's autograph and the illuminated _Divine Comedy_, why
not this treasure too? January reveals a rich man at his table, dining
alone, with his servitors and dogs about him; February's scene is white
with snow--a small farm with the wife at the spinning-wheel, seen
through the door, and various indications of cold, without; March shows
the revival of field labours; April, a love scene among lords and
ladies; May, a courtly festival; June, haymaking outside a fascinating
city; July, sheep-shearing and reaping; August, the departure for the
chase; September, grape-picking for the vintage; October, sowing seeds
in a field near another fascinating city--a busy scene of various
activities; November, beating oak-trees to bring down acorns for the
pigs; and December, a boar hunt--the death. And all most gaily coloured,
with the signs of the Zodiac added.
The little building under the campanile is Sansovino's Loggetta, which
he seems to have set there as a proof of his wonderful catholicity--to
demonstrate that he was not only severe as in the Old Library, and
Titanic as in the Giants, but that he had his gentler, sweeter thoughts
too. The Loggetta was destroyed by the fall of the campanile; but it
has risen from its ruins with a freshness and vivacity that are
bewildering. It is possible indeed to think of its revivification as
being more of a miracle than the new campanile: for the new campanile
was a straight-forward building feat, whereas to reconstruct Sansovino's
charm and delicacy required peculiar and very unusual gifts. Yet there
it is: not what it was, of course, for the softening quality of old age
has left it, yet very beautiful, and in a niche within a wonderful
restoration of Sansovino's group of the Madonna and Child with S. John.
The reliefs outside have been pieced together too, and though here and
there a nose has gone, the effect remains admirable. The glory of Venice
is the subject of all.
The most superb of the external bronzes is the "Mercury" on the left of
the façade. To the patience and genius of Signor Giacomo Boni is the
restored statuary of the Loggetta due; Cav. Munaretti was responsible
for the bronzes, and Signor Moretti for the building. All honour to
them!
Old Coryat's enthusiasm for the Loggetta is very hearty. "There is," he
says, "adjoyned unto this tower [the campanile] a most glorious little
roome that is very worthy to be spoken of, namely the Logetto, which is
a place where some of the Procurators of Saint Markes doe use to sit in
judgement, and discusse matters of controversies. This place is indeed
but little, yet of that singular and incomparable beauty, being made all
of Corinthian worke, that I never saw the like before for the quantity
thereof."
Where the Piazzetta especially gains over the Piazza is in its lagoon
view. From its shore you look directly over the water to the church and
island of S. Giorgio Maggiore, which are beautiful from every point and
at every hour, so happily do dome and white façade, red campanile and
green roof, windowed houses and little white towers, compose. But then,
in Venice everything composes: an artist has but to paint what he sees.
From the Piazzetta's shore you look diagonally to the right to the
Dogana and the vast Salute and all the masts in the Giudecca canal;
diagonally to the left is the Lido with a mile of dancing water between
us and it.
The shore of the Piazzetta, or more correctly the Molo, is of course the
spot where the gondolas most do congregate, apparently inextricably
wedged between the twisted trees of this marine forest, although when
the time comes--that is, when the gondolier is at last secured--easily
enough detached. For there is a bewildering rule which seems to prevent
the gondolier who hails you from being your oarsman, and if you think
that the gondolier whom you hail is the one who is going to row you, you
are greatly mistaken. It is always another. The wise traveller in Venice
having chanced upon a good gondolier takes his name and number and makes
further arrangements with him. This being done, on arriving at the Molo
he asks if his man is there, and the name--let us say Alessandro Grossi,
No. 91 (for he is a capital old fellow, powerful and cheerful, with a
useful supply of French)--is passed up and down like a bucket at a fire.
If Alessandro chances to be there and available, all is well; but if
not, to acquire a substitute even among so many obviously disengaged
mariners, is no joke.
Old Grossi is getting on in years, although still powerful. A younger
Herculean fellow whom I can recommend is Ferdinando, No. 88. Ferdinando
is immense and untiring, with a stentorian voice in which to announce
his approach around the corners of canals; and his acquaintanceship
with every soul in Venice makes a voyage with him an amusing
experience. And he often sings and is always good-humoured.
All gondoliers are not so. A gondolier with a grudge can be a most
dismal companion, for he talks to himself. What he says, you cannot
comprehend, for it is muttered and acutely foreign, but there is no
doubt whatever that it is criticism detrimental to you, to some other
equally objectionable person, or to the world at large.
The gondolier does not differ noticeably from any other man whose
business it is to convey his fellow creatures from one spot to another.
The continual practice of assisting richer people than oneself to do
things that oneself never does except for a livelihood would seem to
engender a sardonic cast of mind. Where the gondolier chiefly differs
from, say, the London cabman, is in his gift of speech. Cabmen can be
caustic, sceptical, critical, censorious, but they do occasionally stop
for breath. There is no need for a gondolier ever to do so either by day
or night; while when he is not talking he is accompanying every movement
by a grunt.
It is this habit of talking and bickering which should make one very
careful in choosing a lodging. Never let it be near a traghetto; for at
traghetti there is talk incessant, day and night: argument, abuse, and
raillery. The prevailing tone is that of men with a grievance. The only
sound you never hear there is laughter.
The passion for bickering belongs to watermen, although loquacity is
shared by the whole city. The right to the back answer is one which the
Venetian cherishes as jealously, I should say, as any; so much so that
the gondolier whom your generosity struck dumb would be an unhappy man
in spite of his windfall.
[Illustration: THE DOGANA (WITH S. GIORGIO MAGGIORE JUST VISIBLE)]
The gondolier assimilates to the cabman also in his liking to be
overpaid. The English and Americans have been overpaying him for so many
years that to receive now an exact fare from foreigners fills him with
dismay. From Venetians, who, however, do not much use gondolas except as
ferry boats, he expects it; but not from us, especially if there is a
lady on board, for she is always his ally (as he knows) when it comes to
pay time. A cabman who sits on a box and whips his horse, or a chauffeur
who turns a wheel, is that and nothing more; but a gondolier is a
romantic figure, and a gondola is a romantic craft, and the poor fellow
has had to do it all himself, and did you hear how he was panting? and
do look at those dark eyes! And there you are! Writing, however,
strictly for unattended male passengers, or for strong-minded ladies,
let me say (having no illusions as to the gondolier) that every gondola
has its tariff, in several languages, on board, and no direct trip,
within the city, for one or two persons, need cost more than one franc
and a half. If one knows this and makes the additional tip sufficient,
one is always in the right and the gondolier knows it.
One of the prettiest sights that I remember in Venice was, one Sunday
morning, a gondolier in his shirt sleeves, carefully dressed in his
best, with a very long cigar and a very black moustache and a flashing
gold ring, lolling back in his own gondola while his small son, aged
about nine, was rowing him up the Grand Canal. Occasionally a word of
praise or caution was uttered, but for the most part they went along
silently, the father receiving more warmth from the consciousness of
successful paternity than we from the sun itself.
Gondoliers can have pride: but there is no pride about a rampino, the
old scaramouch who hooks the gondola at the steps. Since he too was
once a gondolier this is odd. But pride and he are strangers now. His
hat is ever in his hand for a copper, and the transference of your still
burning cigar-end to his lips is one of the most natural actions in the
world.