Venetian school is, however, to the Florentine much as Rossini's
Barbiere to Dante's Divina Commedia. Here all is color, vitality,
energy. The superabundance of life and of temperament does not allow the
severer deliberations of thoughtful art. The finest picture of this
school, the Assumption of Titian, is the intense embodiment of the
present, an ideal moment that presupposes no antecedent and no
successor. It is as startling as a sudden vision. But it is a vision of
life, not of paradise. The Madonna is a grand, simple, human woman,
whose attitude is more rapt than her expression. She stands in the
middle of the picture, upon a mass of clouds, which two pendent cherubs
deliciously loop up. Above, the Eternal Father, wonderfully
foreshortened, looks down upon her. Beneath, the apostles are gazing at
the astonishing revelation. All is in the strongest drawing, the most
vigorous coloring. Yet the pale-eyed Raphaels have more of the inward
heaven in them. For this is a dream of sunset, not of transfiguration.
So great a work of art is, however, a boon beyond absolute criticism.
Like a precious personality, its value settles the account of its being,
however widely it may depart from the standard recognized in other
things.
In the same hall is the last work of Titian, a Pieta, or figure of the
dead Christ upon his mother's knees. This picture is so badly placed
that its effects can only be inferred, absolute glare and darkness
putting out its light and shade. Far from the joyous allegro of Titian's
characteristic style, the coloring presents a greenish pallor, rather
negative and monotonous. The composition of the picture is artistic,
tonic, and harmonious; its expression high and pathetic. The ebbing tide
of the great master's vitality left this pearl on the shore of time.
The Presentation of the Virgin in the Temple, by Titian, is another of
the famous pictures in this collection. The Virgin is represented as a
maiden of ten years, ascending the steps of the temple at Jerusalem.
The figure and the steps are both of them seen in profile. Her pale-blue
dress is relieved by an oblong glory which surrounds her from head to
foot. More famous is a large Paul Veronese, representing Christ at
supper in the house of the Pharisee. The richness of the Venetian
costumes, the vigor and vitality of the figures, give this picture its
great charm. It is no nearer to Christ and Jerusalem "than I to
Hercules." A large painting by a French artist, in this hall, replaces
the great Paul Veronese taken to Paris by Napoleon I.,--the Cena,--and,
to my mind, replaces it very poorly. The huge paintings of Tintoretto
are among the things that amaze one in Venice. How one hand, guided by
one brain, could, in any average human life, have covered such enormous
spaces of canvas, is a problem and a puzzle. The paintings themselves
are full of vigor, color, and variety. But one naturally values them
less on account of their great number. Of course, in the style of
Raphael or Perugino, a single life could not have produced half of them.
The Venetian school is sketchy, and its figures often have more toilet
than anatomy.
I am almost ashamed to speak of these pictures at all, since I speak of
them so inadequately. Yet, gentle reader, all is not criticism that
criticises, all is not enthusiasm that admires. Copious treatises are
written on these subjects by people who know as little of them as is
possible for a person of average education. Americans have especially to
learn that a general tolerable intelligence does not give a man special
knowledge in matters of art. Among the herd of trans-Atlantic travellers
who yearly throng these galleries, they know most who pretend least to
know.
A brief interval of rest and dinner enabled us to visit the Armenian
Convent at San Lazzaro. For this excursion two rowers were requisite.
Starting at five P. M., we reached the convent in half an hour. It
stands upon an island which its walls and enclosures fill. The porter
opens to us. We have a letter of introduction from Ex-Consul Howills to
Padre Giacomo, and bring also a presentation copy of the late consul's
work on Venice. The padre receives us with courteous gravity. We make
acquaintance with his monkey before we make acquaintance with him. The
monkey leaps on the neophyte's hat, tears off a waxen berry, and eats
it. His master thoughtfully leads us through the dreamy rooms and
passages of the convent. Here is the room that Byron occupied; here is
his name, written in Armenian in his own hand. Here also is Prince
Plonplon's name, written by him in the book of illustrious visitors.
After showing it, the padre offers another book, for commonplace
visitors, in which he invites me to enter my name: I humbly comply. We
visit the chapel, which is handsome, and the pleasant garden. The
printing establishment interests us most. These Armenian fathers are
great polyglots, and print books in a variety of languages. Padre
Giacomo, who speaks good English, shows us an Armenian translation of
Napoleon's Life of Julius Caesar, which we are surprised and rather
sorry to see. We afterwards hear it suggested that the expense of this
work has probably been borne by the French emperor himself, with a view
to the Eastern question. Among the antiquities of the convent we find a
fine Armenian manuscript of the fourth century; among its modern
curiosities, a book of prayers in thirty languages. In the refectory is
a pulpit, from which one monk reads aloud, while the others dine.
Connected with this convent is a college for the education of Armenian
youths, either for the priesthood or for active life. Another
institution, in Venice proper, receives from this those scholars who
decide upon an ecclesiastical profession. Padre Giacomo had already
bought Consul Howill's book for the convent library. He led us, lastly,
into a small room, in which are kept the publications of the convent, to
be sold for its benefit. Here we made a few purchases, and took leave,
trusting to see Padre Giacomo again.
One of my earliest acts in Venice, after the first preliminaries of
living, was to get from a circulating library the first volume of Mr.
Ruskin's Stones of Venice. I have never been a reader of Mr. Ruskin, and
my position towards him is that of an outside unbeliever. I shun his
partisans and disbelieve his theories. The title of this book, however,
seemed to promise a key to the architectural mysteries of the mirror
city, and I, taking him at his word, reached out eagerly after the same.
But Mr. Ruskin's key opens a great many preliminary doors before
admitting you to the point desired, and my one busy week was far too
short to follow the intricacies of his persuasions. I could easily see
that the book, right or wrong, would add to the pleasure and interest of
investigating the city. Mr. Ruskin is an author who gives to his readers
a great deal of thought and of study. His very positive mode of
statement has this advantage; it sums up one side of the matter so
exhaustively as to make comparatively easy the construction of the
opposite argument, and the final decision between the two. Yet, while
the writer's zeal and genius lead us to follow his reasonings with
interest, and often with pleasure, his judgment scarcely possesses that
weight and impartiality which would lead us to acquiesce in his
decisions. Those who fully yield to his individual charm adopt and
follow his opinions to all extremes. This already shows his power. But
they scarcely become as wise as do those who resist, and having fully
heard him, continue to observe and to think for themselves. And as, in
Coleridge's well-known lines, anxiety is expressed as to the human
agency that can cleanse the River Rhine when that river has cleansed the
city of Cologne, we must confess that our expectations always desire the
man who shall criticise Mr. Ruskin, when he has criticised to his full
extent. For there is one person whom he cannot criticise, and that is
himself. To do this would involve a deliberation of thought, an
exactness of style, to which even Mr. Ruskin cannot pretend.
With his help, however, I did observe the two granite columns in the
Piazzetta, to whose shafts he gives fifteen feet of circumference, and
to their octagonal bases fifty-six, a discrepancy exceeding the
difference which the eye would measure. But he certainly ought to know.
And I found also the columns brought from St. Jean d'Acre, which are, as
he does not mention, square, and of a dark marble, with Oriental
capitals and adornments. And I sought out, in the church of SS. Giov. e
Paolo, two dogal monuments, of which he praises one and criticises the
other with stress. The one praised is that of Doge Mocenigo; the other,
that of Doge Vendramin. I did not find in either a significance to
warrant the extensive notice he gives them. Having learned, with great
satisfaction, that the artist of the monument which "dislikes" him was
afterwards exiled from Venice for forgery, he proceeds to speak of "this
forger's work," allowing no benefit of doubt. And this was my account
with Mr. Ruskin, so far as the Stones of Venice are concerned; for time
so shortened, and objects so multiplied, that I was constrained
thereafter to dispense with his complicated instruments of vision, and
to look at things simply with my own eyes.
We made various visits to the Cathedral of San Marco, whose mosaic
saints, on gold backgrounds, greet you in the portico with delight. The
church is very rich in objects of art and in antiquities. It has columns
from Palestine, dogal monuments, tessellated pavements, in endless
variety. But the mosaics in the sacristy were for me its richest
treasure. They comprise the conscientious labors mentioned by George
Sand, in her Maitres Mosaistes. The easy arch of the ceiling allows one
to admire them without the painful straining usually entailed by the
study of fresco or other ceiling adornment. In a small chapel we were
shown a large baptismal font brought from Palestine, and the very stone
on which John Baptist's head was cut off!
We went in, one Sunday, hoping to see the famous _palle d'oro_, an
altar-covering in massive gold, exhibited only on rare Festas, of which
this day was one. But while we wedged ourselves in among the crowd, one
of our party descried a boy with the pustules of small pox still fresh
upon his face. We fled in precipitation, marvelling at the sanitary
negligence which allows such exposures to take place at the public risk.
We visited the Church of the Scalzi (Barefooted Friars), and found it
very rich in African and other marbles. It boasts some splendid columns
of _nero antico_. One of the side chapels has four doors executed in
Oriental alabaster, together with simulated hangings in _rosso antico_,
the fringe being carved in _giallo_. Another was adorned with oval slabs
of jasper, very beautiful in color and in polish. The ceiling, painted
in fresco by Tiepolo, was full of light and airy grace.
From this, we went to the Church of the Gesuiti, in high repute for the
richness of its adornments. We found it a basilica, its sides divided by
square piers, and the whole interior, piers and walls, covered with a
damasked pattern wrought in verd antique upon a ground of white marble.
The capitals of the piers were heavily gilded. The baldecchino of the
high altar was dome-shaped, and covered on the outside with a scolloped
pattern in verd antique, each scollop having a slender bordering of
white marble. The baldecchino is supported by four twisted columns
formed of small rounded pieces of verd antique closely joined together.
The pulpit has a heavy marble drapery, with simulated fringe, all in the
pattern already mentioned. The whole is more luxurious than beautiful.
Its art bears no proportion to its expense. To those who think of the
Jesuits in general as I do, it will hardly stand as a monument of
saintly service and simplicity. Near the high altar rest the ashes of
the last Doge of Venice. The spot is designated by a simple slab,
forming part of the pavement. On it is written, "_AEternitate suoe
Manini cineres_."
We visited two very good collections of antiquities, in one of which we
found the door of the Bucentaur, and its banner of crimson silk, with
gilded designs. Here were portraits of doges, curious arms, majolicas,
and old Venetian glass, much finer than that of the present day. Here
also are collected many relics of Canova, the most interesting of which
are the small designs for his great works. Over the door of this museum
stands a pathetic inscription to the effect that Michel Correr,
"_vedendo cadere la patria_" had collected here many things of patriotic
and historical interest.
But these prosaic recounts are only the record of actual steps. The
charm, the delight of Venice they do not and cannot express. My
recollections of the city invest her with a solemn and stately
personality. I did not see her bowed beneath the Austrian yoke,
betrayed, but not sold, refusing to be cajoled and comforted. That
cloud was removed. The shops were busy and prosperous, the streets
thronged with people, the canals gay with gondolas, bearing also barges
and large and small boats of very various patterns. The Piazza was
filled at night with social groups of people, less childish, methought,
than other Italians, and with a more visible purpose in them. Still, the
contrast of the past and present, no longer shameful and agonizing, was
full of melancholy. Venice can never be what she has been. The present
world has no room for a repetition of her former career. But she can be
a prosperous and happy Christian commonwealth, with her offices and
dignities vested in her own sons, with education and political rights
secured to all her children. And this is better, in the present day,
than to be the tyrant of one half of the world, the fear and admiration
of the other. For Peace, now, with open hands, bestows the blessings
which War formerly compelled with iron grasp and frowning brow. The true
compulsion now is to compel the world to have need of you, by the
excellence of your service. Industry has a deeper mine of wealth than
piracy or plunder can ever open. A man's success is in strict proportion
to his use; and the servant of all is the master of all. So the new
Venice for which I look is to be no more like the old Venice than the
new Jerusalem will be like the city of David. Moral grandeur must make
her great. Justice must make her people happy. And so beautiful and
delightful is she, that I cannot help echoing the Psalmist's
exclamation, "Pray for the peace of Jerusalem! They shall prosper who
love thee!"
A wash of waters, a play of lights, a breeze that cools like the
perfumed water of the Narguile, a constant interchange of accents
musically softened from the soft Italian itself, which seems hard in
comparison with them; rows of palaces that have swallowed their own
story; churches modelled upon the water like wax-flowers upon a mirror;
balconies with hangings of yellow-brown and white; dark canals, that
suggest easy murders and throwing over of victims; music on the water;
robust voices, of well-defined character; columns and arches, over which
Mr. Ruskin raves, and which for him are significant of religion or
irreligion; resolute-looking men and women; a world of history and
legend which he who has to live in to-day can scarcely afford time to
decipher,--this is Venice as I have seen her, and would see her again.
Rejoice, O sister cities, that she is free. Visit her with your golden
rain, O travellers; with your golden sympathy, O poets! Enrich her,
commerce! Protect her, Christian faith of nations, for she is
free--free!
To me she is already a recollection. For after the days of which I have
so briefly told, a far summons carried me to an elder land, a more
mournful mystery. Looking, but not loving my last, I packed the
wearisome trunk, paid for the nights and dinners, owing little else at
my lodging. A certain nightingale, who, at eight precisely every
morning, broke in upon my slumbers with delicious singing, did not
figure in the bill. But remembering his priceless song, I almost regret
my objections to certain items set down in the account against me. And I
had a last row in the gondola, and a last ice in the Piazzetta, and,
last of all, a midnight embarkation on board the Austrian steamer for
Trieste. Farewell, Sebastiano, my trusty gondolier. I shall not hear you
cry, "Oh, juine" (giovine) again. I see the line of the Piazzetta,
defined by the lamps. Brightly may they burn; glad be the hearts that
beat near them. And now they are all out of sight, and the one outside
light is disappearing, too. Farewell, wonderful Venice. Thou wert
painfully gotten together, no doubt, like other dwelling-places of man.
Thou camest of toiling and moiling, planning, digging, and
stone-breaking. But thou lookest to have risen from the waters like a
dream. And this wholeness of effect makes thee a great work of art, not
henceforth to be plundered by the powerful ones of the earth, but to be
cherished by the lovers of beauty, studied by the lovers of art.
I will return upon my steps to mention one feature in the new Venice, a
small and obscure one, whose significance greatly interested me. Having
heard of a Protestant Italian congregation in the neighborhood of one of
the great Catholic temples, I turned my steps one evening towards one of
its meetings, and found, in a large upper chamber, a numerous assemblage
of Italians of various grades, chiefly people of the poorer class, who
listened with attention to a fervent address from a young clergyman of
their own nation. The discourse had much of the spirit of religion,
little of its technic, and was thereby, I thought, the better adapted
to the feeling of the congregation. A sprinkling of well-dressed men was
observable. A prayer followed the discourse, in which the auditors
joined with a hearty amen. This little kernel of Protestantism, dropped
in a field so new, gave me the assurance of the presence of one of the
most important elements in the progress and prosperity of any state, to
wit, that of religious liberty.
It is quite true that the sects under whose protection the Protestant
Venetian church has sprung up--the Scotch and Swiss Presbyterians--can
in no sense be considered as exponents of liberal ideas in religion.
Calvinism, _per se_, is as absolute as Catholicism, and as cruel. The
Calvinistic hell is but an adjourned Inquisition, in which
controversialists have as great satisfaction in tormenting the souls of
their opponents as Torquemada had in tormenting their bodies. Yet
Calvinism itself is a rough and barbaric symbolization of great truths
which the discipline of Catholicism tended ever more and more to
distance from the efficient lives of men. The principle of individual
responsibility, the impossibility of moral action without religious
liberty, the inward character of religious acts and experiences, in
contradistinction to the precepts and practice of a religion which had
become all form, all observance. These ideas, gathered together by a
vigorous mind, and made efficient by the constitution of a sect or
party, were capable of regenerating modern Europe, and did so. For it
will be found that all of its Protestant piety ran within the bounds of
this somewhat narrow channel. But even here, the liberalizing
influences of time are irresistible, and although the cruel and
insufficient doctrines are still subscribed to by zealous millions, the
practice and culture of the church itself become more and more liberal.
The zeal for propagandism, which characterizes the less tolerant portion
of the Protestant sects, makes their ministration on new ground
efficient and valuable. The material hell, from which, in good faith,
they seek to deliver those who hear them, symbolizes the infinite danger
and loss to man of a life passed without the impulses and restraints of
religion. A more philosophic statement would be far less tangible to the
minds alike of teacher and disciple. Their intervention in communities
characterized by a low grade of religious culture is therefore useful,
perhaps indispensable. And while I value and prize my own religious
connections beyond aught else, I am thankful to the American missions
that support Waldense preaching in Italy. They at least teach that a man
is to think for himself, pray for himself; and their worship, even when
rudest and most uncultured, is more an instruction of the multitude than
a propitiation of the infinite love which is always ready to do for us
more and better than we can ask.
So, little Protestant congregation in Venice, my heart bids you God
speed! But may the love of God be preached to you rather than the
torment of fear, and may the simplicity and beauty of the Christian
doctrine and example preserve you alike from the passional and the
metaphysical dangers of the day.
GREECE AND THE VOYAGE THITHER.
"in a transition state."
We have left Venice. We have passed an intolerable night on board the
Austrian steamer, whose state-rooms are without air, its cabin without
quiet, and its deck without shelter. So inconvenient a transport, in
these days of steamboat luxury, makes one laugh and wonder. Trieste, our
stopping-place, is the strangest mongrel, a perfect cur of a city
(cur-i-o-sity). It is neither Italian, Greek, nor German, but all three
of these, and many more. The hotel servants speak German and Italian,
the shop-keepers also. Paper money passes without fight or _agio_ upon
the prices demanded. It seems to be par, with gold and silver at a
premium. Much Oriental-looking merchandise is seen in the shop windows.
The situation is fine, the port first rate.
Our consul here, Mr. Alex. Thayer, is the author of the Life of
Beethoven, already favorably known to the world as far as the first
volume. The second, not yet completed, is looked for with interest. Mr.
Thayer's kind attentions made our short stay in Trieste pleasant, and
our transit to the Austrian Lloyd's steamer easy, and within thirty-six
hours after our arrival we found ourselves embarked on board the latter,
_en route_ for Syra, where we should find another Austrian Lloyd waiting
to convey us to the Piraeus, the well-known port of Athens.
Our voyage began with a stormy day. Incessant rain soaked the deck. A
charming little upper cabin, cushioned and windowed like a luxurious
carriage, gave us shelter, combined with fresh air--the cordial of those
who "_coelum et animum mutant, quia trans mare current_." Here I
pillowed myself in inevitable idleness, now become, alas! too familiar,
and amused myself with the energetic _caquet_ of my companions.
An elderly Greek gentleman, Count Lunzi of Zante, with a pleasing
daughter; a young Austrian, accompanied by a pretty sister; an elderly
Neapolitan bachelor,--these were our fellow-passengers in the first
cabin. In the second cabin were eleven friars, and an intelligent
Venetian apothecary, with whom I subsequently made acquaintance. The
captain, a middle-aged Dalmatian, came and went. He wore over his
uniform a capote of India rubber cloth, which he laid aside when he came
into our deck-parlor for a brief sitting and a whiff of tobacco. The
gentlemen all smoked without apology. The little Greek lady soon became
violently seasick, and the Austrian maiden followed. The neophyte and
the Austrian brother felt no pang, but the neophyte's mother was dizzy
and uncomfortable. Count Lunzi and the Neapolitan kept up a perpetual
conversation in French, having many mutual acquaintances, whose absence
they found it worth while to improve. I blessed their loquacity, which
beguiled for me the weary, helpless hours. We went down to dinner; at
tea-time we were _non compos mensis_. The state-rooms below being
intensely hot and close in consequence of the rain, we all staid up
stairs as long as possible, and our final retreat was made in the order
of our symptoms.