the business of a little man who sat on a low stool behind a small
table opposite the judges, and near the advocates. More especially
I learned the use of an hour-glass, which was placed before him. As
long as the clerk reads, time is not heeded, but the advocate is only
allowed a certain time, if he speaks in the course of the reading.
The clerk reads, and the hour-glass lies in a horizontal position,
with the little man's hand upon it. As soon as the advocate opens his
mouth, the glass is raised, and sinks again, as soon as he is silent.
It is the great duty of the advocate to make remarks on what is read,
to introduce cursory observations in order to excite and challenge
attention. This puts the little Saturn in a state of the greatest
perplexity. He is obliged every moment to change the horizontal and
vertical position of the glass, and finds himself in the situation
of the evil spirits in the puppet-show, who by the quickly varying
"Berliche, Berloche" of the mischievous _Hanswurst_[4], are puzzled
whether they are to come or to go.
Whoever has heard documents read over in a law-court, can imagine
the reading on this occasion,--quick and monotonous, but plain and
articulate enough. The ingenious advocate contrives to interrupt the
tedium by jests, and the public shows its delight in his jokes by
immoderate laughter. I must mention one, the most striking of those I
could understand. The reader was just reciting the document, by which,
one, who was considered to have been illegally possessed of it, had
disposed of the property in question. The advocate bade him lead more
slowly, and when he plainly uttered the words: "I give and bequeath,"
the orator flew violently at the clerk and cried: "What will you
give? What will you bequeath? you poor starved-out devil, nothing in
the world belongs to you?" "However,"--he continued, as he seemed to
collect himself--"the illustrious owner was in the same predicament.
He wished to give, he wished to bequeath that which belonged to him no
more than to you." A burst of inextinguishable laughter followed this
sally, but the hour-glass at once resumed its horizontal position. The
reader went mumbling on, and made a saucy face at the advocate; but all
these jokes are prepared beforehand.
[Footnote 4: An allusion to the comic scene, in the puppet-play of
Faust, from which Göethe took the subject of his poem. One of the two
magic words (Berliche, Berloche) summons the devils, the other drives
them away, and the Hanswurst (or buffoon), in a mock-incantation scene,
perplexes the fiends, by uttering one word after the other, as rapidly
as possible.--Trans.] [Footnote 4: An allusion to the comic scene,
in the puppet-play of Faust, from which Göethe took the subject of
his poem. One of the two magic words (Berliche, Berloche) summons the
devils, the other drives them away, and the Hanswurst (or buffoon), in
a mock-incantation scene, perplexes the fiends, by uttering one word
after the other, as rapidly as possible.--Trans.]
* * * * *
_Oct._ 4.
I was yesterday at the play, in the theatre of S. Luke, and was highly
pleased. I saw a piece acted _extempore_ in masks, with a great deal
of nature, energy, and vigour. The actors are not, indeed, all equal;
the pantaloon is excellent, and one of the actresses, who is stout and
well-built, speaks admirably, and deports herself cleverly, though she
is no extraordinary actress. The subject of the piece is extravagant,
and resembled that which is treated by us under the name of _Der
Verschlag_ (the partition). With inexhaustible variety it amused us
for more than three hours. But even here the people is the base upon
which everything rests, the spectators are themselves actors, and the
multitude is melted into one whole with the stage. All day long the
buyer and the seller, the beggar, the sailor, the female gossip, the
advocate and his opponent, are living and acting in the square and
on the bench, in the gondolas and in the palaces, and make it their
business to talk and to asseverate, to cry and to offer for sale, to
sing and to play, to curse and to brawl. In the evening they go into
the theatre, and see and hear the life of the day artificially put
together, prettily set off, interwoven with a story, removed from
reality by the masks, and brought near to it by manners. In all this
they take a childish delight and again shout and clap, and make a
noise. From day to night,--nay, from midnight to midnight, it is always
the same.
I have not often seen more natural acting than that by these masks. It
is such acting as can only be sustained by a remarkably happy talent
and long practice.
While I am writing this, they are making a tremendous noise on the
canal under my window, though it is past midnight. Whether for good or
for evil, they are always doing something.
* * * * *
_October_ 4.
I have now heard public orators; viz., three fellows in the square
and on the stone-bench, each telling tales after his fashion, two
advocates, two preachers, and the actors, among whom I must especially
commend the pantaloon. All these have something in common, both
because they belong to one and the same nation, which, as it always
lives in public, always adopts an impassioned manner of speaking, and
because they imitate each other. There is besides a marked language
of gesticulations, with which they accompany the expressions of their
intentions, views, and feelings.
[Sidenote: Venice.]
This day was the festival of S. Francis, and I was in his church Alle
Vigne. The loud voice of the capuchin was accompanied by the cries of
the salesmen in front of the church, as by an antiphone. I stood at the
church-door between the two, and the effect was singular enough.
* * * * *
_Oct._ 5.
This morning I was in the arsenal, which I found interesting enough,
though I know nothing of maritime affairs, and visited the lower school
there. It has an appearance like that of an old family, which still
bustles about, although its best time of blossom and fruit has passed.
By paying attention to the handicraftsmen, I have seen much that is
remarkable, and have been on board an eighty-four gun ship, the hull of
which is just completed.
Six months ago a thing of the sort was burned down to the water's
edge, off the Riva dei Schiavoni. The powder-room was not very full,
and when it blew up, it did no great damage. The windows of the
neighbouring houses were destroyed.
I have seen worked the finest oak from Istria, and have made my
observations in return upon this valuable tree. That knowledge of the
natural things used by man as materials, and employed for his wants,
which I have acquired with so much difficulty, has been incalculably
serviceable in explaining to me the proceedings of artists and
artisans. The knowledge of mountains and of the stone taken out of them
has been to me a great advance in art.
* * * * *
_Oct._ 5.
To give a notion of the Bucentaur in one word, I should say that it
is a state-galley. The older one, of which we still have drawings,
justified this appellation still more than the present one, which, by
its splendour makes us forget its original.
I am always returning to my old opinions. When a genuine subject is
given to an artist, his productions will be something genuine also.
Here the artist was commissioned to form a galley, worthy to carry
the heads of the Republic, on the highest festivals in honour of its
ancient rule on the sea; and the problem has been admirably solved. The
vessel is all ornament; we ought to say, it is overladen with ornament;
it is altogether one piece of gilt carving, for no other use, but
that of a pageant to exhibit to the people its leaders in right noble
style. We know well enough that a people, who likes to deck out its
boats, is no less pleased to see their rulers bravely adorned. This
state-galley is a good index to show what the Venetians were, and what
they considered themselves.
* * * * *
_Oct._ 5. _Night._
I came home laughing from a tragedy, and must at once make the jest
secure upon paper. The piece was not bad, the author had brought
together all the tragic _matadors_, and the actors played well. Most
of the situations were well known, but some were new and highly
felicitous. There are two fathers, who hate each other, sons and
daughters of these severed families, who respectively are passionately
in love with each other, and one couple is even privately married. Wild
and cruel work goes on, and at last nothing remains to render the young
people happy, but to make the two fathers kill each other, upon which
the curtain falls amid the liveliest applause. Now the applause becomes
more vehement, now "fuora" was called out, and this lasted until the
two principal couples vouchsafed to crawl forward from behind the
curtain, make their bow, and retire at the opposite side.
[Sidenote: Venice.]
The public was not yet satisfied, but went on clapping and crying: "i
morti!" till the two dead men also come forward and made their bow,
when some voices cried "bravi i morti!" The applause detained them
for a long time, till at last they were allowed to depart. The effect
is infinitely more droll to the eye-and-ear-witness, who, like me,
has ringing in his ears the "bravo! bravi!" which the Italians have
incessantly in their mouths, and then suddenly hears the dead also
called forward with this word of honour.
We of the north can say "good night" at any hour, when we take leave
after dark, but the Italian says: "Felicissima notte" only once, and
that is when the candles are brought into a room. Day and night are
thus divided, and something quite different is meant. So impossible is
it to translate the idioms of any language! From the highest to the
lowest word all has reference to the peculiarities of the natives, in
character, opinions, or circumstances.
* * * * *
_Oct._ 6.
The tragedy yesterday taught me a great deal. In the first place, I
have heard how the Italians treat and declaim their Eleven-syllable
iambics, and in the next place, I have understood the tact of Gozzi in
combining masks with his tragic personages. This is the proper sort of
play for this people, which likes to be moved in a rough fashion. It
has no tender, heart-felt sympathy for the unfortunate personage, but
is only pleased when the hero speaks well. The Italians attach a great
deal of importance to the speaking, and then they like to laugh, or to
hear something silly.
Their interest in the drama is like that in a real event. When the
tyrant gave his son a sword and required him to kill his own wife,
who was standing opposite, the people began loudly to express their
disapprobation of this demand, and there was a great risk that
the piece would have been interrupted. They insisted that the old
man should take his sword back, in which case all the subsequent
situations in the drama would have been completely spoiled. At last,
the distressed son plucked up courage, advanced to the proscenium, and
humbly entreated that the audience would have patience for a moment,
assuring them that all would turn out to their entire satisfaction.
But even judging from an artistical point of view, this situation was,
under the circumstances, silly and unnatural, and I commended the
people for their feeling.
I can now better understand the long speeches and the frequent
dissertations, _pro_ and _con_, in the Greek tragedy. The Athenians
liked still more to hear speaking, and were still better judges of it,
than the Italians. They learned something from the courts of law, where
they spent the whole day.
* * * * *
_Oct._ 6.
In those works of Palladio, which are completed, I have found much to
blame, together with much that is highly valuable. While I was thinking
it over in my mind how far I was right or wrong in setting my judgment
in opposition to that of so extraordinary a man, I felt as if he stood
by and said, "I did so and so against my will, but, nevertheless, I
did it, because in this manner alone was it possible for me, under
the given circumstances, to approximate to my highest idea." The
more I think the matter over, it seems to me, that Palladio, while
contemplating the height and width of an already existing church, or of
an old house to which he was to attach facades, only considered: "How
will you give the greatest form to these dimensions? Some part of the
detail must from the necessity of the case, be put out of its place
or spoiled, and something unseemly is sure to arise here and there.
Be that as it may, the whole will have a grand style, and you will be
pleased with your work."
And thus he carried out the great image which he had within his soul,
just to the point where it was not quite suitable, and where he was
obliged in the detail to mutilate or to overcrowd it.
On the other hand, the wing of the Carità cannot be too highly prized,
for here the artist's hands were free, and he could follow the bent of
his own mind without constraint. If the convent were finished there
would, perhaps, be no work of architecture more perfect throughout the
present world.
[Sidenote: Venice.]
How he thought and how he worked becomes more and more clear to me, the
more I read his works, and reflect how he treated the ancients; for
he says few words, but they are all important. The fourth book, which
illustrates the antique temples, is a good introduction to a judicious
examination of ancient remains.
* * * * *
_Oct._ 6.
Yesterday evening I saw the _Electra_ of Crebillon--that is to say, a
translation--at the theatre S. Crisostomo. I cannot say, how absurd the
piece appeared to me, and how terribly it tired me out.
The actors are generally good, and know how to put off the public with
single passages.
Orestes alone has three narratives, poetically set off, in one scene.
Electra, a pretty little woman of the middle size and stature, with
almost French vivacity, and with a good deportment, delivered the
verses beautifully, only she acted the part madly from beginning to
end, which, alas! it requires. However, I have again learned something.
The Italian Iambic, which is invariably of eleven syllables, is very
inconvenient for declamation, because the last syllable is always
short, and causes an elevation of the voice against the will of the
declaimer.
* * * * *
_Oct._ 6.
This morning I was present at high mass, which annually on this day
the Doge must attend, in the church of St. Justina, to commemorate an
old victory over the Turks. When the gilded barks, which carry the
princes and a portion of the nobility approach the little square, when
the boatmen, in their rare liveries, are plying their red-painted
oars, when on the shore the clergy and the religious fraternities are
standing, pushing, moving about, and waiting with their lighted torches
fixed upon poles and portable silver chandeliers; then, when the
gangways covered with carpet are placed from the vessels to the shore,
and first the full violet dresses of the Savii, next the ample red
robes of the Senators are unfolded upon the pavement, and lastly when
the old Doge adorned with his golden Phrygian cap, in his long golden
_talar_ and his ermine cloak, steps out of the vessel--when all this,
I say, takes place in a little square before the portal of a church,
one feels as if one were looking at an old worked tapestry, exceedingly
well designed and coloured. To me, northern fugitive as I am, this
ceremony gave a great deal of pleasure. With us, who parade nothing
but short coats in our processions of pomp, and who conceive nothing
greater than one performed with shouldered arms, such an affair might
be out of place. But these trains, these peaceful celebrations are all
in keeping here.
The Doge is a well-grown and well-shaped man, who, perhaps, suffers
from ill health, but, nevertheless, for dignity's sake, bears himself
upright under his heavy robe. In other respects he looks like the
grandpapa of the whole race, and is kind and affable. His dress is very
becoming, the little cap, which he wears under the large one, does not
offend the eye, resting as it does upon the whitest and finest hair in
the world.
About fifty _nobili_, with long dark-red trains, were with him. For the
most part they were handsome men, and there was not a single uncouth
figure among them. Several of them were tall with large heads, so that
the white curly wigs were very becoming to them. Their features are
prominent; the flesh of their faces is soft and white, without looking
flabby and disagreeable. On the contrary, there is an appearance
of talent without exertion, repose, self-confidence, easiness of
existence, and a certain joyousness-pervades the whole.
When all had taken their places in the church, and mass began, the
fraternities entered by the chief door, and went out at the side door
to the right, after they had received holy water in couples, and made
their obeisance to the high altar, to the Doge, and the nobility.
* * * * *
_Oct._ 6.
This evening I bespoke the celebrated _song_ of the mariners, who
chaunt Tasso and Ariosto to melodies of their own. This must actually
be ordered, as it is not to be beard as a thing, of course, but rather
belongs to the half forgotten traditions of former times. I entered
a gondola by moon-light, with one singer before and the other behind
me. They sing their song taking up the verses alternately. The melody,
which we know through Rousseau, is of a middle kind, between choral
and recitative, maintaining throughout the same cadence, with out any
fixed time. The modulation is also uniform, only varying with a sort
of declamation both tone and measure, according to the subject of the
verse. But the spirit--the life of it, is as follows:--
Without inquiring into the construction of the melody, suffice it to
say that it is admirably suited to that easy class of people, who,
always humming something or other to themselves, adapt such tunes to
any little poem they know by heart.
[Sidenote: Venice.]
Sitting on the shore of an island, on the bank of a canal, or on the
side of a boat, a gondolier will sing away with a loud penetrating
voice--the multitude admire force above everything--anxious only to
be heard as far as possible. Over the silent mirror it travels far.
Another in the distance, who is acquainted with the melody and knows
the words, takes it up and answers with the next verse, and then the
first replies, so that the one is as it were the echo of the other. The
song continues through whole nights and is kept up without fatigue. The
further the singers are from each other, the more touching sounds the
strain. The best place for the listener is halfway between the two.
In order to let me hear it, they landed on the bank of the Guidecca,
and took up different positions by the canal. I walked backwards and
forwards between them, so as to leave the one whose turn it was to
sing, and to join the one who had just left off. Then it was that the
effect of the strain first opened upon me. As a voice from the distance
it sounds in the highest degree strange--as a lament without sadness:
it has an incredible effect and is moving even to tears. I ascribed
this to my own state of mind, but my old boatsman said: "è singolare,
como quel canto intenerisce, e molto piu quando è piu ben cantato." He
wished that I could hear the women of the Lido, especially those of
Malamocco, and Pelestrina. These also, he told me, chanted Tasso and
Ariosto to the same or similar melodies. He went on: "in the evening,
while their husbands are on the sea fishing, they are accustomed to
sit on the beach, and with shrill-penetrating voice to make these
strains resound, until they catch from the distance the voices of their
partners, and in this way they keep up a communication with them." Is
not that beautiful? and yet, it is very possible that one who heard
them close by, would take little pleasure in such tones which have
to vie with the waves of the sea. Human, however, and true becomes
the song in this way: thus is life given to the melody, on whose dead
elements we should otherwise have been sadly puzzled. It is the song
of one solitary, singing at a distance, in the hope that another of
kindred feelings and sentiments may hear and answer.
* * * * *
_Venice, Oct._ 8, 1786.
I paid a visit to the palace Pisani Moretta, for the sake of a charming
picture by _Paul Veronese._ The females of the family of Darius are
represented kneeling before Alexander and Hephæstion; his mother,
who is in the foreground, mistakes Hephæstion for the king;--turning
away from her he points to Alexander. A strange story is told about
this painting; the artist had been well received and for a long time
honorably entertained in the palace; in return he secretly painted
the picture and left it behind him as a present, rolled up under his
bed. Certainly it well deserves to have had a singular origin, for it
gives an idea of all the peculiar merits of this master. The great art
with which he manages by a skilful distribution of light and shade,
and by an equally clever contrast of the local colors, to produce a
most delightful harmony without throwing any sameness of tone over the
whole picture, is here most strikingly visible. For the picture is in
excellent preservation, and stands before us almost with the freshness
of yesterday.--Indeed, whenever a painting of this order has suffered
from neglect, our enjoyment of it is marred on the spot, even before we
are conscious what the cause may be.
Whoever feels disposed to quarrel with the artist on the score of
costume has only to say he ought to have painted a scene of the
sixteenth century; and the matter is at an end. The gradation in the
expression from the mother through the wife to the daughters, is in the
highest degree true and happy. The youngest princess, who kneels behind
all the rest, is a beautiful girl, and has a very pretty, but somewhat
independent and haughty countenance. Her position does not at all seem
to please her.
* * * * *
_October_ 8, 1786.
My old gift of seeing the world with the eyes of that artist, whose
pictures have most recently made an impression on me, has occasioned me
some peculiar reflections. It is evident that the eye forms itself by
the objects, which, from youth up, it is accustomed to look upon, and
so the Venetian artist must see all things in a clearer and brighter
light than other men. We, whose eye when out of doors, falls on a dingy
soil, which, when not muddy, is dusty,--and which, always colourless,
gives a sombre hue to the reflected rays, or at home spend our lives in
close, narrow rooms, can never attain to such a cheerful view of nature.
[Sidenote: Venice.]
As I floated down the lagunes in the full sunshine, and observed
how the figures of the gondoliers in their motley costume, and as
they rowed, lightly moving above the sides of the gondola, stood out
from the bright green surface and against the blue sky, I caught the
best and freshest type possible of the Venetian school. The sunshine
brought out the local colours with dazzling brilliancy, and the shades
even were so luminous, that, comparatively, they in their turn might
serve as lights. And the same may be said of the reflection from the
sea-green water. All was painted "chiaro nell chiaro," so that foamy
waves and lightning flashes were necessary to give it a grand finish
(_um die Tüpfchen auf sie zu setzen_).
Titian and Paul have this brilliancy in the highest degree, and
whenever we do not find it in any of their works, the piece is either
damaged or has been touched up.
The cupola and vaulting of St. Mark's, with its side-walls,--are
covered with paintings--a mass of richly colored figures on a golden
ground; all in mosaic work: some of them very good, others but poor,
according to the masters who furnished the cartoons.
Circumstances here have strangely impressed on my mind how everything
depends on the first invention, and that this constitutes the right
standard--the true genius--since with little square-pieces of glass
(and here not in the soberest manner), it is possible to imitate the
good as well as the bad. The art which furnished to the ancients
their pavements, and to the Christians the vaulted ceilings of their
churches, fritters itself away in our days on snuff-box lids and
bracelets-clasps. The present times are worse even than one thinks.
* * * * *
_Venice, October 8_, 1786.