our gondola and allowed the gondolier to take us where he pleased, to
drift about in the by-canals. I wanted my impressions of Venice to be
quite haphazard. We glided in the gondola past marble palaces--green
palaces, pink palaces, blue palaces, all toned and variegated with
age. Venice struck me as being a highly-coloured city, the most
brilliantly coloured I had ever seen. It was not, as most cities are,
merely a background for brightly-dressed figures: the buildings
themselves were coloured, and the gondolas and the figures were black
and sombre. Every wall, every doorway, was coloured. We glided past a
series of crazy old doorways of blues, greens, and vermilions. Each
door was broken with many changes of colour, and the red, rusty
ironwork above, just where it caught the sun, was of a rich golden
sienna. Certainly Venice is the most highly-coloured city in the
world. How different from the impressions one finds in Bond
Street--the vicious water-colours in which the artist always insists
on orange and vermilion sails and crisp, flowing reflections that have
been painted on slanting tables: the water-colours that are so sought
after and so saleable! That Venice is vividly coloured I admit; but
there is a scumble over the city. Age has toned it. The pink palace
reflected in the green water is totally unlike the pink palace of the
blobby water-colours. There are blues, and violets, and old-rose
tones, and a certain bloom in it that these artists never seem to
give. And to a certain extent these pictures handicap one: one feels
annoyed to think that Venice should be so caricatured. You see the
Bridge of Sighs at daybreak; you see the Salute by moonlight; and
somehow you cannot forget these eternal water-colours. There is a
certain resemblance, sufficient to irritate.
[Illustration: THE ORANGE DOOR]
Indolence was upon us. Already we were becoming apathetic. There was
something about the atmosphere that encouraged a delightful
languor. The residents said it was the sirocco. The sirocco seemed
answerable for many deficiencies: it was always being blamed. Later,
when we came in touch with the artists, we found that it was the
normal excuse for not working. We discovered groups of them sitting
about in the square drinking, and when we asked them if they had done
any work they all said, "No: there is a sirocco on now: of course, we
can't work." Venice is overrun with artists; yet how few you see at
work! Here and there you will find a stray one in a gondola painting,
but very rarely. We were drifting about idly. Our gondolier was quite
a part of the picture--young, very handsome, with a musical voice. And
I began in a dreamy way to muse as I watched him. My thoughts went
back for the moment to the Thames--to an old gentleman toiling in a
punt. He was once a handsome young gondolier like this one, gracefully
piloting a gondola through the canals of Venice; but now he had grown
old on the Thames. There is no doubt that the gondola is made for
Venice: it is futile to try it elsewhere. And then the colour is
right. The gondola ought to be black. It became so naturally and as a
matter of economy. People used to spend too much money on their
gondolas, and colours had to be forbidden.
I was in a dreamy mood, and I began to wonder what became of the
handsome young gondoliers--they were all handsome and all young. They
could not remain so for ever. What became of the old ones? I soon
learnt. When gondoliers grew to be too old for their tasks they
drifted on to the landing-stages. There we saw them, with marvellous
crooks, catching the gondolas and drawing them into the proper places.
I examined these sticks, and was surprised to find that some of them
were of very great value. The gondolier prizes and decorates his stick
just as a bootblack tends his stand: only, where the bootblack has
coppers and bits of tinsel, the Venetian has pure gold coins dating
back to the time of the Doges. This love of collecting and cherishing
beautiful things is characteristic of the peasant people of Venice.
Women will spend their savings in inches of gold chain, which they
join together into long strings, and sometimes a woman will have
festoons of gold chain collected for two or three generations. It is
their way of investing money.
We drifted along all the afternoon through the canals, being hooked
on to different landing-stages by these old gentlemen; and we came to
the conclusion that this was really the end of our handsome gondolier.
We were anxious to meet the artists of Venice, and had been told of a
certain restaurant, the Panada, where they generally congregated.
In the evening, then, we landed, and went thither to dine. The artists
who went to the Panada, we had been told, were those who had "let
themselves go" more or less--who had been taken hold of by the sirocco
and had settled down to loafing. When they first arrived in Venice
they went to wine-shops, little dark places, and dined off macaroni
and harsh drink. The Panada was more or less organised for the
convenience of artists. In the first place, you were not bored by
having to tip waiters--a duty that is always trying to an artist who
is in between two exhibitions. And nearly all the Panada artists were
in that condition. They had nearly all had exhibitions in Bond Street
which had been "great artistic successes"--in other words, they hadn't
sold any pictures. Another point about the Panada that appealed to the
artist was that his bills could run on indefinitely. The bills did
run: in fact, the only things that seemed to be at all active in
Venice, in spite of the sirocco, were the bills. The Panada was a
paradise! Who could resist it? The cooking was excellent, as cooking
must always be where painters are, for they are very particular
people. The Panada was perfect; the Panada had a sanded floor; the
Panada was the noisiest restaurant in Italy. It was our first
experience of Bohemia, the painter's world, in Venice; and we sat
there, over our untouched dinner, fascinated--fascinated by the
general noise and confusion, fascinated even by the unsavoury smells.
It was not clean; there was a great deal of smoke, and so much talk!
The guests seemed to be screaming and talking at once in all the
languages of the world. Two words I heard continually--"breadth" and
"simplicity." Here and there was a little talk of "mediums" and
"technique," but not much. It was generally broad principles that were
discussed. There was no mistaking these groups of men. They were
artists to their finger-tips in everything save work. They dressed
like artists, talked like artists, and behaved like the artists one
reads about in novels: the Ouida artists. They wore neckties reaching
down to their waists, collars two sizes too large and cut very low;
their hands were always a little soiled, and their finger-nails never
quite clean. The waiters also were soiled. They were very toney
indeed, and very apathetic--toes turned inwards, heads bent slightly
forward. They were dejected from want of variety: there was no
uncertainty in the Panada as to tips. They came in on the aggregate
and received lump sums; but there was a general depression about the
people that waited. All were soiled at the Panada--the waiters, the
artists, and the linen. But we very soon began to talk of this dirt as
tone, and then it didn't seem to matter so much. Everything seemed to
be worked on more or less artistic principles. There were quaint
decorative dishes. The puddings were pink; the butter was stained; and
altogether it required great habits to enjoy food at the Panada. By
perseverance, I was told, it was possible to acquire an appetite.
There were tables of different sizes, and groups of artists belonging
to different sects--some antagonistic, some sympathetic: Dottists, and
Spottists, and Stripists. Sometimes when the Dottists and Spottists
happened to be friends for the minute they would join their tables
together and make one long one. But this was only now and then.
Usually the groups in the Panada were formed of twos. Often genius
sat alone. Now and then, when a big picture was sold, the restaurant
was very festive: the artist had a dinner-party, to which everyone had
been invited. But generally it was a small water-colour that was sold,
and the party went off to a small café down by a side canal. There was
one man who got himself up to look like King Charles, and he was King
Charles to the life! Long hair rested on his shoulders, and an
enormous tie adorned his neck; his trousers and waistcoat were
fringed, and his boots and beard were pointed. He had a coat of velvet
that through age had become marked with an opalescent mottle. If he
stood in front of an age-toned palace you never knew which was coat
and which was palace. He possessed no earthly goods, but paid his way
all over the world by painting portraits. He would either cut you out
in black paper for fivepence or draw an elaborate portrait in pastel
for one franc fifty. This celebrated man came up to us, and began to
paint our portraits. Before we knew where we were he had cut out,
dry-pointed, and stippled us; and melted away, leaving behind him a
whole tableful of works of art, side by side with his bill. Then
another man introduced himself to us, and explained that this was
quite the usual thing for "King Charles" to do. He pointed out
how romantic and interesting it all was: he seemed quite convinced
that the place was full of romance.
[Illustration: AN UNFREQUENTED CANAL]
For us Bohemia had lost its romance. We felt that we had been green,
grass-green, and that (to use a vulgarism) the gilt was off the
gingerbread. The room was becoming stuffy; the Bohemians were noisy
and dishonest; and the waiters, no longer toney, were dirty. So we
paid our own bill and "King Charles's," and left the Panada and
romance for the open air.
In the piazza the band was playing the popular music that one knows so
well from the barrel organs. Instinctively one thought of London,
Soho, and performing monkeys. But this impression was swept away when
I saw the picture that presented itself before me in St. Mark's. What
an extraordinary change had come over the piazza since dinner! A swarm
of locusts might have settled upon Venice--a dark, seething mass,
clustering round the walls of St. Mark's and filling up every inch of
space. They were pilgrims from Russia, thousands of them--men, women,
and children--on their way to Rome--poor peasants who had saved up for
this pilgrimage during their whole lifetime, sleeping the sleep of
the righteous, their bodies pressed close against the holy walls of
St. Mark's as though for sympathy. It was a dark-coloured crowd, all
dressed in black, with big capes and long boots and little astrachan
caps,--a strong silhouette of black against the brilliant background
of St. Mark's. It was a marvellous picture, and pathetic. These
peasants seemed to be waiting for a greater, deeper joy, when they
would be transformed to new creatures and fly back to their native
land on the wings of a beautiful faith. The moon herself shone down
upon them caressingly, lighting up many a weary, travel-worn face,
turning their sombre hues to silvers, and greens, and violets. St.
Mark's, with this dark mass of people at her base, seemed almost
flippant by contrast.
[Illustration: ST. MARK'S BASIN]
This was a night of contrasts! The dirt and filth of the little
restaurant, with its noisy Bohemians: and then the quiet night, a
clear, bright, silvery blue night such as one only sees in Venice; the
weary pilgrims and the sumptuous cathedral; the dainty lightness and
gracefulness of St. Mark's and the broad, simple, strong tower rearing
her head into the sky--the Campanile, now, alas! no more than a
memory. It was a picture such as you see but once in a lifetime. This
building of precious stones, one of the most beautiful in the
world, so rich with gold and mosaic, jewels, marbles, and lapis
lazuli, that even in the cold blue light of the moon and a few dim
gas-lamps it seemed to be dancing and sparkling with colour,--this,
and the sleeping peasants in their rags--what a contrast!
Then, again, what a contrast suddenly to turn from these dark groups
to the jewellers' shops and the huge windows full of glittering
Venetian glass! To see the gaily-dressed crowds sipping their coffee
outside Florian's famous café that had never been closed during three
hundred years! Here was nothing but brightness and gaiety. An
excellent band played in the middle of the piazza. Smartly-dressed
young men and military officers in pale blue uniform strolled about
the square, quite conscious that they were being regarded favourably
by girls and their mothers sitting at the coffee-tables. Florian's was
an ideal place for the artist. It was never shut. It was quite the
fashionable thing to drink coffee there after dinner, and one had the
chance of talking to one's friends and acquaintances. Fascinating
fruits were brought round to us--grapes, and figs, and almonds dipped
in caramel sugar and stuck on to sticks. The men smoked cigars as long
as those smoked in Burma. So capacious were they that they put them
on little stoves in the way a woman heats her curling-tongs, and by
the time they had drunk their coffee the cigars were probably alight.
When the band had stopped playing we went to Bauer's to drink beer.
And so ended a typical day in the life of an artist in that most
fascinating city on the waters.
[Illustration: HOTEL DANIELI]
Thanks to the kindness of Mr. Bozzi, the manager of the well-known
Danieli's Hotel, who often piloted me about the intricate network of
streets, I became familiar with many of the unfrequented quarters,
which, as a rule, remain absolutely unknown to the tourist.
[Illustration: PORTA DELLA CARTA]
ARCHITECTURE
In architecture one finds a history of Venice. It is the most definite
expression, the most faithful embodiment, of the local genius. It
presents realistically the daily life and thought and work of a bygone
race. The intense love of the early Venetians for colour shows itself
in the gleaming gold, the veined marble, and the white sculpture.
Another of their affections is symbolised by the frequent introduction
of children in the sculptured works. There are children of all
periods, of all appearances, illustrating various of the changes in
thought and in ideals that were continually coming to pass. Those of
the earlier time are sturdy, strapping youngsters, with a purposeful
look about them; whereas the children of the fifteenth century are
fat, chubby, and uninteresting.
In the early stage of her history Venice was a Greek rather than an
Italian city, and her buildings were of Byzantine type. That is
easily explained. During her first great period Venice was connected
by sea with Constantinople and the East, but cut off by the lagoons
and marshes from Lombardy and the rest of Italy. Only a few of the
Byzantine buildings remain. The period is principally marked by the
precious stones and coloured marbles encrusted in the brickwork, and
by the ancient reliefs inserted in the blank walls of churches and
houses. Among Byzantine buildings St. Mark's comes first. The existing
building began to be constructed at the close of the tenth century;
and Byzantine architects worked at it for nearly a hundred years. It
was largely remodelled afterwards, and was altered in decoration
during the different reactions of architecture; but the bulk of it
belongs to the early period, and is in the pure Byzantine style. Parts
of it remind one greatly of St. Sophia in Constantinople, on the lines
of which, I believe, St. Mark's was partially modelled. There were
many Gothic additions in the shape of pinnacles and pointed gables
above the chief arches, just sufficient intrusion of the Gothic
element to add a touch of bizarre extravagance; and in the sixteenth
century many of the old mosaics were superseded by jejeune Renaissance
compositions, of no decorative value, incongruous with the
general scheme. Nevertheless, the church as a whole, as I have said,
still remains essentially Byzantine. The main fabric of the façade
represents the original Byzantine Romanesque building, and is in
almost every particular similar to the picture of the church given in
the thirteenth-century mosaic. The turreted pinnacles and the false
gables are Gothic additions of the fifteenth century--merely screens
of decoration with no roof behind. The building is truly Oriental. In
the shape of a Greek cross with four equal arms, it faces west, and
has a high altar and a presbytery at the east end. It was first of all
the domestic chapel of the Doge's Palace, and then the shrine of the
body of St. Mark the Evangelist. Everywhere one sees the motto, "Pax
tibi, Marce, Evangelista mea" ("Peace to thee, Mark, my Evangelist").
There are the symbols of all the four evangelists,--Luke, a bull;
Mark, a lion; John, an eagle; Matthew, an angel. There are scenes from
the life of Christ--the Adoration of the Magi and Annunciation to the
shepherds.
[Illustration: GRAND CANAL LOOKING TOWARDS THE DOGANA]
Venice in the Byzantine period must have been a city of great
architectural wealth and splendour,--far in advance of other Italian
towns, although, of course, destitute of the engineering glories of
France and Germany. One can tell this by the few remaining Byzantine
palaces,--very few of them are purely Byzantine. There is the
magnificent Palazzo Loredan, one of the most beautiful of all the
palaces on the Grand Canal, and a splendid example of the Byzantine
Romanesque period. It has about it a distinct tinge of Oriental
feeling; the capitals of some of the columns are exquisitely
beautiful, and there are not many Gothic alterations. Next to this
palace comes the Palazzo Farsetti, Romanesque of the twelfth century,
simpler in style and with less ornamentation. It is really more nearly
pure Romanesque than Byzantine, and shows no Oriental influence
whatever. It is graceful and dignified. The "Fondaco dei Turchi," a
very early Byzantine Romanesque palace, assumed its name in the
seventeenth century, when it was let to the Turkish merchants of
Venice. Originally a twelfth-century palace, it has recently been so
much restored as to have lost all its air of antiquity and the greater
part of its earlier interest, although it still represents
symbolically the splendid homes of the Byzantine period. It is much
like St. Mark's, and is the only surviving example of a building all
in one style. The arches, the capitals, the shafts, the parapets
and decorative plaques, are modernised, to be sure; but they are
typical if not original, and give one a very good idea of what the
Grand Canal must have been like before the invasion of the Gothic
style and the Renaissance.
[Illustration: A FAMOUS PALAZZO]
One gleans a very good idea by means of these palaces of how extremely
civilised and peaceful Venice must have been at that early period. In
northern Europe the homes of mediæval nobles were dark and gloomy
castles built mainly for defence, having single heavy oak doors
studded with nails, and great iron gates and drawbridges; there were
no openings in the ground floors, and the windows above were small and
grated. For Venice such fortifications were unnecessary. Her palaces
were airy and graceful; for she was protected from the outside by her
moat of lagoons, and from the inside by her strong internal
Government. These ancient buildings, the "Fondaco dei Turchi" and the
rest, were even then gentlemen's palaces, always open and undefended,
the homes of pleasure, with free means of access, broad arcades,
plenty of light, and presenting a general air of peace and security.
It is interesting to notice the later Venetian architecture (as
exhibited in the Libreria and the Procuratie Vecchie), developed from
this early open and airy style. The native Venetian ideal seems to
have traversed all styles, and persisted through them all in spite of
endless architectural changes. The Grand Canal was the street of the
nobles--the finest street in the world, in the way of architectural
beauties. From end to end there are palaces of all periods, from the
Byzantine time to the eighteenth century, and all are palaces of the
ancient Venetian nobility. The Grand Canal is to Venice what the
Strand is to London and the Rue St. Honoré to Paris. It is the most
wonderful street in the world. There is nothing so bizarre, so
fairy-like, to be seen in any other city through the length and
breadth of the globe. It is a marvellous book wherein every family of
the Venetian nobility has signed its name. Every wall tells a story;
every house is a palace; each was erected by some well-known
architect. Pietro Lombardo, Scamozzi, Sansovino, Sammichele (the
Veronese), Selva, Vissenti--these were the men who drew the plans and
directed the construction of the houses; but unknown architects of the
Middle Ages built some of the most picturesque.
[Illustration: ENTRANCE TO THE GRAND CANAL]
There were palaces of all styles. After a palace of the
Renaissance comes one belonging to the Middle Ages in Gothic Arab
style, much like the Ducal Palace, with balconies, lancet windows, and
trefoils. Then there will be a palace adorned with great plaques or
medallions of differently coloured marbles; anon a great bare sweep of
rose-toned wall. All styles are here--Byzantine, Saracen, Lombard,
Gothic, Roman, Greek, and Rococo--fanciful capitals, Greek cupolas,
mosaic and bas-relief, classic severity combined with the elegant
fantasy of the Renaissance.
It is a gallery open to the sky, full of the art of seven or eight
centuries. Think of the genius and money and talent expended on this
one street by brilliant artists and munificent patrons! The Grand
Canal was originally one of the navigable channels by whose aid the
waters found their way, through the mud-banks, past the mouth of the
Lido to the open sea. It is the original deep water which first
created Venice. Up this canal the commerce of all countries used to
reach the city in the days of her splendour. The Rialto, the most
beautiful bridge in Venice, bestrides the canal in a single span. It
was built by Antonio da Ponte. There are two rows of shops upon it;
and one of the most picturesque scenes in the Grand Canal lies round
about it--old houses with platformed roofs, bulging balconies, and
stairways with disjointed steps.
It is interesting to watch how Byzantine architecture gave place to
Gothic when Venice began to conquer on the Italian mainland. Thus
Gothic architecture came in, and the conquest of Padua and Verona
completed it. The term "Gothic" is very elastic; but there are certain
points by which one can tell whether a building is Gothic or not. It
is Gothic if the roof rises in a steep gable high above the walls; if
the principal windows and doors have pointed arches and gables; if it
has a steep roof; if the arches are foliated--that is to say, if the
shapes of different leaves are cut into the stone to form a species of
delicate tracery like lacework, letting in the daylight. Foliation is
especially characteristic of Gothic architecture; some of the windows
in Westminster Abbey are foliated. Gothic architecture is very rough
and loose and irregular; yet it has a wonderful tenderness and
variation of design. Changeableness and variety are the great
requirements of perfect architecture. One should be enabled to derive
just as much pleasure and instruction from looking at a perfect piece
of architecture as from reading one of the finest of classic
books. Gothic architecture is essentially truthful and naturalistic.
The architects of this period were peculiarly fond of vegetation,
which is a sign of gentleness and refinement of mind. Gothic is
principally independent. It juts out continually with many pinnacles;
there is nothing broad, or uniform, or smooth, about a Gothic
building; it is variable, rough, and jutting, though, nevertheless,
graceful in the extreme. The materials were rougher then than in the
time of the Byzantine architecture, and to atone for this it was
necessary to introduce much workmanship.
[Illustration: PANORAMA SEEN FROM ST. MARK'S BASIN]
The artists were enthusiastic in their love of Nature, and felt deeply
all her changing and complex moods. For example, you may see the
difference between a Renaissance and a Gothic palace by imagining the
surroundings of the former, its background, gone. It would then be
deprived of its charm; whereas if you took a Gothic palace and placed
it anywhere, it would still be beautiful.