best antiques. I pass over all such as I had seen before at Mannheim or
elsewhere, and mention only new acquaintances. A Cleopatra in intense
repose, with the asp coiled round her arm, and sinking into the sleep
of death;--a Niobe shrouding with her robe her youngest daughter from
the arrows of Apollo;--some gladiators;--a winged genius, resting in
his flight;--some philosophers, both in sitting and standing postures.
They are works from which, for thousands of years to come, the world
may receive delight and instruction, without ever being able to equal
with their thanks the merits of the artists.
Many speaking busts transported me to the old glorious times. Only I
felt, alas, how backward I am in these studies; however, I will go on
with them--at least I know the way. Palladio has opened the road for
me to this and every other art and life. That sounds probably somewhat
strange, and yet not so paradoxical as when Jacob Böhme says that, by
seeing a pewter platter by a ray from Jupiter, he was enlightened as to
the whole universe. There is also in this collection a fragment of the
entablature of the temple of Antoninus and Faustina in Rome.
The bold front of this noble piece of architecture reminded me of the
capitol of the Pantheon at Mannheim. It is, indeed, something very
different from our queer saints, piled up one above the other on little
consoles after the gothic style of decoration,--something different
from our tobacco-pipe-like shafts,--our little steeple-crowned towers,
and foliated terminals,--from all taste for these--I am now, thank God,
set free for ever!
I will further mention a few works of statuary, which, as I passed
along these last few days, I have observed with astonishment and
instruction: before the gate of the arsenal two huge lions of
white marble,-the one is half recumbent, raising himself up on his
fore-feet,--the other is lying down: noble emblems of the variety
of life. They are of such huge proportions, that all around appears
little, and man himself would become as nought, did not sublime objects
elevate him. They are of the best times of Greece, and were brought
here from the Piraeus in the better days of the Republic.
[Sidenote: Venice.]
From Athens, too, in all probability, came two bas-reliefs which have
been introduced in the church of St. Justina, the conqueress of the
Turks. Unfortunately they are in some degree hidden by the church
seats. The sacristan called my attention to them on account of the
tradition that Titian, modelled from them the beautiful angel in his
picture of the martyrdom of St. Peter. The relievos represent genii
who are decking themselves out with, the attributes of the gods,--so
beautiful in truth, as to transcend all idea or conception.
Next I contemplated with quite peculiar feelings the naked colossal
statue of Marcus Agrippa, in the court of a palace; a dolphin which is
twisting itself by his side, points out the naval hero. How does such a
heroic representation make the mere man equal to the gods!
I took a close view of the horses of S. Mark's. Looking up at them from
below, it is easy to see that they are spotted: in places they exhibit
a beautiful yellow-metallic lustre, in others a coppery green has run
over them. Viewing them more closely, one sees distinctly that once
they were gilt all over, and long streaks are still to be seen over
them, as the barbarians did not attempt to file off the gold, but tried
to cut it off. That, too, is well: thus the shape at least has been
preserved.
A glorious team of horses,--I should like to hear the opinion of a
good judge of horse-flesh. What seemed strange to me was, that closely
viewed, they appear heavy, while from the piazza below they look as
light as deer.
* * * * *
_October 8_, 1786.
Yesterday I set out early with my tutelary genius for the "Lido," the
tongue of land which shuts in the lagunes, and divides them from the
sea. We landed and walked straight across the isthmus. I heard a loud
hollow murmur,--it was the sea! I soon saw it: it crested high against
the shore, as it retired,--it was about noon, and time of ebb. I have
then at last seen the sea with my own eyes, and followed it on its
beautiful bed, just as it quitted it. I wished the children had been
there to gather the shells; child-like I myself picked up plenty of
them; however, I attempted to make them useful; I tried to dry in them
some of the fluid of the cuttle fish, which here dart away from you in
shoals.
On the "Lido," not far from the sea, is the burial place of Englishmen,
and a little further on, of the Jews: both alike are refused the
privilege of resting in consecrated ground. I found here the tomb of
Smith, the noble English consul, and of his first wife. It is to him
that I owe my first copy of Palladio; I thanked him for it here in his
unconsecrated grave. And not only unconsecrated, but half buried is
the tomb. The "Lido" is at best but a sand-bank (_daune_): The sand is
carried from it backwards and forwards by the wind, and thrown up in
heaps is encroaching on every side. In a short time the monument, which
is tolerably high, will no longer be visible.
But the sea--it is a grand _sight!_ I will try and get a sail upon it
some day in a fishing-boat: the gondolas never venture out so far.
* * * * *
_Oct._ 8, 1786.
On the sea-coast I found also several plants, whose characters
similar to others I already knew, enabled me to recognize pretty well
their properties. They are all alike, fat and strong-full of sap and
clammy,--and it is evident that the old salt of the sandy soil, but
still more the saline atmosphere, gives them these properties. Like
aquatic plants they abound in sap, and are fleshy and tough, like
mountainous ones; those whose leaves shew a tendency to put forth
prickles, after the manner of thistles, have them extremely sharp
and strong. I found a bush with leaves of this kind. It looked very
much like our harmless coltsfoot, only here it is armed with sharp
weapons,--the leaves like leather, as also are the seed-vessels, and
the stalk very thick and succulent. I bring with me seeds and specimens
of the leaves. (_Eryngium maritimum._)
The fish-market, with its numberless marine productions, afforded
me much amusement. I often go there to contemplate the poor captive
inhabitants of the sea.
* * * * *
_Venice, Oct._ 9, 1786.
A delicious day from morning to night! I have been towards Chiozza, as
far as Pelestrina, where are the great structures, called _Murazzi_,
which the Republic has caused to be raised against the sea. They are of
hewn stone, and properly are intended to protect from the fury of the
wild element the tongue of land called the Lido, which separates the
lagoons from the sea.
[Sidenote: Venice.]
The lagunes are the work of old nature. First of all, the land and
tide, the ebb and flow, working against one another, and then the
gradual sinking of the primal waters, were, together, the causes why,
at the upper end of the Adriatic, we find a pretty extensive range of
marshes, which, covered by the flood-tide, are partly left bare by the
ebb. Art took possession of the highest spots, and thus arose Venice,
formed out of a groupe of a hundred isles, and surrounded by hundreds
more. Moreover, at an incredible expense of money and labour, deep
canals have been dug through the marshes, in order that at the time of
high water, ships of war might pass to the chief points. What human
industry and wit contrived and executed of old, skill and industry
must now keep up. The Lido, a long narrow strip of land, separates
the lagunes from the sea, which can enter only at two points--at the
castle and at the opposite end near Chiozza. The tide flows in usually
twice a-day, and with the ebb again carries out the waters twice, and
always by the same channel and in the same direction. The flood covers
the lower parts of the morass, but leaves the higher, if not dry, yet
visible.
The case would be quite altered were the sea to make new ways for
itself, to attack the tongue of land and flow in and out wherever
it chose. Not to mention that the little villages on the Lido,
Pelestrina, viz., S. Peter's and others would be overwhelmed, the
canals of communication would be choked up, and while the water
involved all in ruin, the Lido would be changed into an island, and the
islands which now lie behind it be converted into necks and tongues of
land. To guard against this it was necessary to protect the Lido as far
as possible, lest the furious element should capriciously attack and
overthrow what man had already taken possession of, and with a certain
end and purpose given shape and use to.
In extraordinary cases when the sea rises above measure, it is
especially necessary to prevent it entering at more than two points.
Accordingly the rest of the sluice-gates being shut, with all its
violence it is unable to enter, and in a few hours submits to the law
of the ebb, and its fury lessens.
Otherwise Venice has nothing to fear; the extreme slowness with which
the sea-line retires, assures to her thousands of years yet, and by
prudently deepening the canals from time to time, they will easily
maintain their possessions against the inroads of the water.
I could only wish that they kept their streets a little cleaner--a duty
which is as necessary as it is easy of performance, and which in fact
becomes of great consequence in the course of centuries. Even now in
the principal thoroughfares it is forbidden to throw anything into the
canals: the sweepings even of the streets may not be cast into them.
No measures, however, are taken to prevent the rain, which here falls
in sudden and violent torrents, from carrying off the dirt which is
collected in piles at the corner of every street, and washing it into
the lagunes--nay, what is still worse, into the gutters for carrying
off the water, which consequently are often so completely stopped up,
that the principal squares are in danger of being under water. Even in
the smaller piazza of S. Mark's, I have seen the gullies which are well
laid down there, as well as in the greater square, choked up and full
of water.
When a rainy day comes, the filth is intolerable; every one is cursing
and scolding. In ascending and descending the bridges one soils one's
mantle and great coat (_Tabarro_), which is here worn all the year
long, and as one goes along in shoes and silk stockings, one gets
splashed, and then scolds, for it is not common mud, but mud that
adheres and stains that one is here splashed with. The weather soon
becomes fine again, and then no one thinks of cleaning the streets. How
true is the saying: the public is ever complaining that is ill served,
and never knows how to set about getting better served. Here if the
sovereign-people wished it, it might be done forthwith.
* * * * *
_Venice, Oct._ 9, 1786.
Yesterday evening I ascended the tower of S. Mark's: as I had lately
seen from its top the lagunes in their glory at flood time, I wished
also to see them at low water; for in order to have a correct idea
of the place, it is necessary to take in both views. It looks rather
strange to see land all around one, where a little before the eye fell
upon a mirror of waters. The islands are no longer islands--merely
higher and house-crowned spots in one large morass of a gray-greenish
colour, and intersected by beautiful canals. The marshy parts are
overgrown with aquatic plants, a circumstance which must tend in time
to raise their level, although the ebb and flow are continually shaking
and tossing them and leave no rest to the vegetation.
[Sidenote: Venice.]
I now turn with my narrative once more to the sea.--I there saw
yesterday the haunts of the sea-snails, the limpets, and the crab, and
was highly delighted with the sight. What a precious glorious object
is a living thing!--how wonderfully adapted to its state of existence,
how true, how _real_ (_seyend_). What great advantages do I not derive
now from my former studies of nature, and how delighted am I with the
opportunity of continuing them! But as the present is a matter that
admits of being communicated to my friends, I will not seek to excite
their sympathy merely by exclamations.
The stone-works which have been built against the inroads of the sea
consist first of all of several steep steps; then comes a slightly
inclined plane, then again they rise a step, which is once more
succeeded by a gently ascending surface, and last of all comes a
perpendicular wall with an overhanging coping--over these steps--over
these planes the raging sea rises until in extraordinary cases it even
dashes over the highest wall with its projecting head.
The sea is followed by its inhabitants;--little periwinkles good to
eat, monovalve limpets, and whatever else has the power of motion,
especially by the pungar-crabs. But scarcely have these little
creatures taken possession of the smooth walls, ere the sea retires
again, swelling and cresting as it came. At first the crowd knows not
where they are, and keep hoping that the briny flood will soon return
to them--but it still keeps away; the sun comes out and quickly dries
them up, and now begins the retreat. It is on these occasions that
the pungars seek their prey. Nothing more wonderful or comical can be
seen than the manœuvres of these little creatures, with their round
bodies and two long claws (for the other spider-feet are scarcely
worth noticing). On these stilted fore-legs, as it were, they stride
along watching the limpets, and as soon as one moves itself under its
shell on the rock, a pungar comes up and inserting the point of his
claw in the tiny interstice between the shell and the rock turns it
over, and so manages to swallow the oyster. The limpets, on the other
hand, proceed cautiously on their way, and by suction fasten themselves
firmly to the rocky surface as soon as they are aware of the proximity
of their foe. In such cases the pungar deports himself amusingly
enough; round and round the pulpy animal who keeps himself safe beneath
his roof will he go with singular politeness; but not succeeding with
all his coaxing and being unable to overcome its powerful muscle, he
leaves in despair this intended victim, and hastens after another who
may be wandering less cautiously on his way.
I never saw a crab succeed in his designs, although I have watched for
hours the retreat of the little troop as they crawled down the two
planes and the intermediate steps.
* * * * *
_Venice, Oct. 10,_ 1786.
At last I am able to say that I have seen a comedy; Yesterday at the
theatre of St. Luke, was performed "_Le Baruffe-Chiozotte_," which
I should interpret the Frays and Feuds of Chiozza. The "_dramatis
personæ_," are principally seafaring people, inhabitants of
Chiozza, with their wives, sisters, and daughters. The usual noisy
demonstrations of such sort of people in their good or ill luck--their
dealings one with another, their vehemence, but goodness of heart,
common-place remarks and unaffected manners, their naïve wit and
humour--all this was excellently imitated. The piece, moreover, is
Goldoni's, and as I had been only the day before in the place itself,
and as the tones and manners of the sailors and people of the sea-port
still echoed in my ears and floated before my eyes, it delighted me
very much, and although I did not understand a single allusion, I was,
nevertheless, on the whole, able to follow it pretty well. I will now
give you the plan of the piece:--it opens with the females of Chiozza
sitting, as usual, on the strand before their cabins, spinning, mending
nets, sewing, or making lace; a youth passes by and notices one of them
with a more friendly greeting than the rest. Immediately the joking
begins--and observes no bounds; becoming tarter and tarter, and growing
ill-tempered it soon bursts out into reproaches; abuse vies with abuse;
in the midst of all one dame more vehement than the rest, bounces
out with the truth; and now an endless din of scolding, railing, and
screaming; there is no lack of more decided outrage, and at last the
peace-officers are compelled to interfere.
[Sidenote: Venice]
The second act opens with the Court of Justice. In the absence of
the _Podestà_ (who as a noble could not lawfully be brought upon the
stage) the _Actuarius_ presides. He orders the women to be brought
before him one by one. This gives rise to an interesting scene. It
happens that this official personage is himself enamoured of the first
of the combatants who is brought before him. Only too happy to have
an opportunity of speaking with her alone, instead of hearing what
she has to say on the matter in question, he makes her a declaration
of love. In the midst of it a second woman, who is herself in love
with the actuary, in a fit of jealousy rushes in, and with her the
suspicious lover of the first damsel--who is followed by all the rest,
and now the same demon of confusion riots in the court as a little
before, had set at loggerheads the people of the harbour. In the third
act the fun gets more and more boisterous, and the whole ends with a
hasty and poor denouement. The happiest thought, however, of the whole
piece, is a character who is thus drawn,--an old sailor who from the
hardships he has been exposed to from his childhood, trembles and
falters in all his limbs, and even in his very organs of speech, is
brought on the scene to serve as a foil to this restless, screaming,
and jabbering crew. Before he can utter a word, he has to make a long
preparation by a slow twitching of his lips, and an assistant motion
of his hands and arms; at last he blurts out what his thoughts are on
the matter in dispute. But as he can only manage to do this in very
short sentences, he acquires thereby a sort of laconic gravity, so that
all he utters sounds like an adage or maxim; and in this way a happy
contrast is afforded to the wild and passionate exclamations of the
other personages.
But even as it was, I never witnessed anything like the noisy delight
the people evinced at seeing themselves and their mates represented
with such truth of nature. It was one continued laugh and tumultuous
shout of exultation from beginning to end. I must, however, confess
that the piece was extremely well acted by the players. According
to the cast of their several parts, they had adopted among them the
different tones of voice which usually prevail among the inhabitants of
the place. The first actress was the universal favorite, more so even
than she had recently been in an heroic dress and a scene of passion.
The female players generally, but especially this one, in the most
pleasing manner possible imitated the twang, the manners, and other
peculiarities of the people they represented. Great praise is due
to the author, who out of nothing has here created the most amusing
_divertissement._ However, he never could have done it with any other
people than his own merry and lighthearted countrymen. The farce is
written throughout with a practised hand.
Of Sacchi's company, for whom Gozzi wrote (but which by-the-by is now
broken up), I saw _Smeraldina_, a short plump figure, full of life,
tact, and good humour. With her I saw _Brighella_--a slight well-made
man and an excellent actor, especially in pantomime. These masks which
we scarcely know except in the form of mummings, and which to our minds
possess neither life nor meaning, succeed here only too well as the
creation of the national taste. Here the most distinguished characters,
persons of every age and condition, think nothing of dressing
themselves out in the strangest costumes, and as for the greater part
of the year they are accustomed to wander about in masks, they feel no
surprise at seeing the black visors on the stage also.
* * * * *
_Venice, October_ 11, 1786.
Since solitude, in the midst of a great crowd of human beings, is after
all not possible, I have taken up with an old Frenchman, who knows
nothing of Italian, and suspects that he is cheated on all hands and
taken advantage of, and who, with plenty of letters of recommendation,
nevertheless, does not make his way with the good people here. A man
of rank, and living in good style, but one whose mind cannot go beyond
himself and his own immediate circle--he is perhaps full fifty, and
has at home a boy seven years old, of whom he is always anxious to get
news. He is travelling through Italy for pleasure, but rapidly--in
order to be able to say that he has seen it, but is willing to learn
whatever is possible as he hurries along. I have shewn him some
civilities, and have given him information about many matters. While
I was speaking to him about Venice, he asked me how long I had been
here, and when he heard that this was my first visit, and that I had
only been here fourteen days, he replied: "_Il paraît que vous n'avez
pas perdu votre temps._" This is the first "testimonium" of my good
behaviour that I can furnish you. This is the eighth day since he
arrived here, and he leaves us to-morrow. It was highly delicious to
me, to meet in a strange land with such a regular Versailles'-man. He
is now about to quit me! It caused me some surprise to think that any
one could ever travel in this temper without a thought for anything
beyond himself, and yet he is in his way a polished, sensible, and well
conducted person.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Venice.]
_Venice, Oct._ 12, 1786.
Yesterday at S. Luke's a new piece was acted:--_L'Inglicismo in Italia_
(the English in Italy). As there are many Englishmen living in Italy,
it is not unnatural that their ways and habits should excite notice,
and I expected to learn from this piece what the Italians thought of
their rich and welcome visitors. But it was a total failure. There
were, of course, (as is always the case here,) some clever scenes
between buffoons, but the rest was cast altogether in too grave and
heavy a mould, and yet nob a trace of the English good sense: plenty of
the ordinary Italian commonplaces of morality, and those, too, upon the
very commonest of topics.
And it did not take: indeed, it was on the very point of being hissed
off the stage. The actors felt themselves out of their element--not on
the strand of Chiozza. As this was the last piece that I saw here, my
enthusiasm for these national representations did not seem likely to be
increased by this piece of folly.
As I have at last gone through my journal and entered some occasional
remarks from my tablets, my proceedings are now enrolled and left to
the sentence of my friends. There is, I am conscious, very much in
these leaves which I might qualify, enlarge upon, and improve. Let,
however, what is written, stand as the memorial of first impressions,
which, if not always correct, will nevertheless be ever dear and
precious to me. Oh that I could but transmit to my friends a breath
merely of this light existence! Verily to the Italian, "ultramontane"
is a very vague idea; and to me even--"beyond the Alps," rises very
obscurely before my mind, although from out of their mists friendly
forms are beckoning to me. It is the climate only that seduces me to
prefer awhile these lands to those; for birth and habit forge strong
fetters. Here, however, I could not live, nor indeed in any place where
I had nothing to occupy my mind; but at present novelty furnishes me
here with endless occupation. Architecture rises, like an ancient
spirit from the tombs, and bids me study its laws just as people do the
rules of a dead language, not in order to practise or to take a living
joy in them, but only in order to enable myself in the quiet depths of
my own mind to do honor to her existence in bygone ages, and her for
ever departed glory. As Palladio everywhere refers one to Vitruvius, I
have bought an edition of the latter by Galiani; but this folio suffers
in my portmanteau as much as my brain does in the study of it. Palladio
by his words and works, by his method and way, both of thinking and of
executing, has brought Vitruvius home to me and interpreted him far
better than the Italian translator ever can. Vitruvius himself is no
easy reading; his book is obscurely written, and requires a critical
study. Notwithstanding I have read it through cursorily, and it has
left on my mind many a glorious impression. To express my meaning
better: I read it like a breviary: more out of devotion, than for
instruction. Already the days begin to draw in and allow more time for
reading and writing.