It is well known, observes a celebrated literary character that, in
Venice, the gondoliers know by heart long passages from Ariosto and
Tasso, and are wont to sing them in their own melody. But this talent
seems at present on the decline:—at least, after taking some pains, I
could find no more than two persons who delivered to me, in this way, a
passage from Tasso.
There are always two concerned, who alternately sing the strophes. We
know the melody eventually by Rousseau, to whose songs it is printed;
it has properly no melodious movement, and is a sort of a medium
between the canto fermo and the canto figurato; it approaches to the
former by recitativical declamation, and to the latter by passages and
course, by which one syllable is detained and embellished.
I entered a gondola by moonlight; one singer placed himself forwards,
and the other aft, and thus proceeded to St. Georgio. One began the
song: when he had ended his strophe, the other took up the lay, and so
continued the song alternately. Throughout the whole of it, the same
notes invariably returned; but, according to the subject matter of the
strophe, they laid a greater or a smaller stress, sometimes on one, and
sometimes on another note, and indeed changed the enunciation of the
whole strophe, as the object of the poem altered.
On the whole, however, their sounds were hoarse and screaming: they
seemed in the manner of all rude, uncivilised men, to make the
excellency of their singing in the force of their voice: one seemed
desirous of conquering the other by the strength of his lungs, and so
far from receiving delight from this scene, (shut up as I was in the
box of the gondola) I found myself in a very unpleasant situation.
My companion, to whom I communicated this circumstance, being very
desirous to keep up the credit of his countrymen, assured me that this
singing was very delightful, when heard at a distance. Accordingly we
got out, upon the shore, leaving one of the singers in the gondola,
while the other went to the distance of some hundred paces. They now
began to sing against one another, and I kept walking up and down
between them both, so as always to leave him who was to begin his part.
I frequently stood still and hearkened to the one and to the other.
Here the scene was properly introduced. The strong declamatory, and,
as it were shrieking sound met the ear from far, and called forth
the attention: the quickly succeeding transitions, which necessarily
required to be sung in a lower tone, seemed like plaintive strains
succeeding the vociferations of emotion or of pain. The other,
who listened attentively, immediately began where the former left
off, answering him, in milder or more vehement notes, according as
the purport of the strophe required. The sleepy canals, the lofty
buildings, the splendour of the moon, the deep shadows of the few
gondolas, that moved like spirits, hither and thither, increased the
striking peculiarity of the scene, and, amidst all these circumstances,
it was easy to confess the character of this wonderful harmony.
It suits perfectly well with an idle, solitary mariner, lying at length
in his vessel, at rest on one of these canals, waiting for his company,
or for a fare, the tiresomeness of which situation is somewhat
alleviated by the songs and poetical stories he has in memory. He often
raises his voice as loud as he can, which extends itself to a vast
distance over the tranquil mirror, and, as all is still around, he is,
as it were, in a solitude, in the midst of a large and populous town.
Here is no rattling of carriages, no noise of foot passengers: a silent
gondola glides now and then by him, of which the splashing of the oars
are scarcely to be heard.
At a distance he hears another, perhaps utterly unknown to him.
Melody and verse immediately attach the two strangers; he becomes the
responsive echo to the former, and exerts himself to be heard, as he
had heard the other. By a tacit convention, they alternate, verse for
verse; though the song should last the whole night through, they
entertain themselves without fatigue; the hearers, who are passing
between the two, take part in the amusement.
This vocal performance sounds best at a great distance, and is then
inexpressibly charming, as it only fulfils its design in the sentiment
of remoteness. It is plaintive, but not dismal, in its sound, and, at
times, it is scarcely possible to refrain from tears. My companion,
who otherwise was not a very delicately organised person, said, quite
unexpectedly:—“_e singolare come quel canto intenersce, e molto più
quando lo cantano meglio_.”
I was told that the women of Libo, the long row of islands that divides
the Adriatic from the Lagouns, particularly the women of the extreme
districts of Malamocca and Palestrina, sing in like manner the works
of Tasso to these and similar tunes.
They have the custom, when their husbands are fishing out at sea, to
sit along the shore, in the evenings, and vociferate these songs,
and continue to do so with great violence, till each of them can
distinguish the responses of her own husband at a distance.
How much more delightful and more appropriate does this song show
itself here, than the call of a solitary person, uttered far and wide,
till another equally disposed shall hear and answer him! It is the
expression of a vehement and hearty longing, which yet is every moment
nearer to the happiness of satisfaction.
_Curiosities of Literature._