seven miles from Venice, and a pathway is made to it through the sea
by stakes. The island is for the most part a waste of wild sea moor.
Grey and lifeless in colour, it is a desolate place, and you feel as
if you were at the end of the world. At one time it was extremely
populous; but now it is impossible to live there, because the marshes
breed malaria. Any count whose title and estates the Venetians deem
improbable they call "the count from Torcello." One passes six miles
of the most beautiful scenery on the way thither. The entrance is by a
canal, and the banks on either side are covered with dwarf bushes and
lilac trees. Thirteen hundred years ago the grey moorland looked much
as it does now--except that where a city stood the cattle feed, what
was once the piazza of the city is a grassy meadow, and a narrow
pathway is the only street. Two hundred years after the invasion of
Attila, the inhabitants of Aquileia and Altinum, with their most
precious possessions, flew from their houses to the island of
Torcello. Now there is scarcely a sign of human habitation; and only
the ruins of an old quay, an ancient well, foundations of marble
buildings, a great church, and a campanile, are left to show what at
one time was a populous city, which was called the mother of Venice.
By the remains of these buildings one can see that they were
constructed by men in great distress, seeking a shelter, yet not
wishing to attract the eyes of their enemies by their splendour. The
church of Torcello shows force and simplicity of character, and a
certain reverent religious feeling on the part of its founders.
Everything is on a small and humble scale. The columns which support
the roof are no higher than a man. Yet these columns are of pure Greek
marble, and the capitals are enriched with delicate sculpture. One
sees everywhere in this church an earnest and simple desire to do
honour to God in the temple they were erecting, and that it should not
form too great a contrast to the churches they had loved and seen
destroyed. Torcello is equally delightful in springtime and in autumn.
In spring the orchards are in full bloom, and the hedges throw their
pink and white sprays of thorn against the sky. In autumn the water
meadows are a shimmer of purple and red from the masses of feathery
lavender that grow there. It has much the same colour and feeling as a
Scotch moor. Torcello is interesting from its venerable traditions,
its desolation, its wildness, and its profound silence.
There are many expeditions on which one could go if one had the time
to spare. For example, there is an island near Torcello called San
Francisco in Deserto. The name is well applied: St. Francis' island
certainly stands in a desert. There is still an islet monastery of the
Franciscan order. The brethren show you with much enthusiasm a stone
coffin in which the founder of the convent was in the habit of lying
in order to acclimatise himself to the sensation of death. Also there
is pointed out a penitential cell which was once inhabited by the
saint, and a tree (said to have sprung from his staff) which he
planted. This legend may sound mythical; but perhaps it may not
be so. It is quite possible for a staff, even if it has lain by for
some time, to shoot out in several places in green sprigs; and one of
these, cut in proper manner, might easily take root and grow into a
tree. The real charm of the island lies in the garden of the
monastery, where narcissus are abundant and there is a great avenue of
cypresses, the finest in Venice.
[Illustration: IN MURANO]
Triporti is different: in fact, no other island of the lagoon is quite
like it. Here are great sweeps of sandy land covered with coarse grass
and heather and pools of brackish water. The island is more or less
uncultivated, and the air is full of strange aromatic odours from the
sea. It is a marvellous place to bathe in: the sand is fine and soft
and yellow, and the sea lies wide open before you, warm and limpid.
If you have any doubt as to where Murano is, look for a great black
cloud hovering over an island; and you may be sure that there are the
glass factories of Murano. Glass-making is the only industry now
practised in the lagoon. The factories are no longer numerous, Murano
having declined from her ancient splendour. The secret of the magician
is exposed; and Murano has no longer the monopoly of bevelled
mirrors, great glasses, and crystal balls. Such work is executed in
Birmingham quite as well as in Murano. The old art is lost. Still,
Murano is interesting. There is perhaps more life in it than in any
other of the islands. Workmen sift glass upon the pavement; women, at
the doors, sit busily knitting, or stringing beads; fishermen, clothed
in a dark greenish grey, are disentangling their nets, which hang over
the boats in apparently inextricable confusion; there are street
vendors of all kinds, calling out the nature of their wares to the
passerby. There are five thousand inhabitants in the city of Murano.
Its grand canal is almost as broad as that of Venice. The beautiful
palaces, with their doors and windows of marble,--some of red Verona
marble, some deeply enriched with mouldings, others with arcades of a
singular grace and delicacy--are now inhabited by the very poorest of
the poor. The church of San Donato, the Matrice or mother church of
Murano, stands in a field of fresh green grass. It is said that a
virgin appeared in a vision to its founder, Otho the Great, showing
him this very meadow overgrown with scarlet lilies, and bidding him
erect a church there in her honour. Murano, on the whole, is a
dreary little town. Wealth, beauty, and elegance have passed away; the
country is devoted to cabbages and potato patches. Still, it has charm
even in its decay. How beautiful Murano must have been at the time
when Cardinal Bembo and so many famous literati lived there! It must
have been an earthly paradise, with its luxurious vegetation, lordly
palaces, and magnificent gardens. In this city the horse is a quaint
and unexpected animal. He is not wanted. He is quite as ridiculous and
useless as a unicorn would be in the streets of London. He annoys one,
this strange beast,--making one think of mountains, valleys, fields,
trees, streets, and carriages, at a time when one is eager to be
satisfied with sparkling lagoons, gondolas, and a palace for hotel.
[Illustration: MRS. EDEN'S GARDEN IN VENICE]
The gardens in Venice have a character all their own. They are highly
prized, for space is scarce. The soil is rich, formed of lagoon mud;
but only certain plants will grow freely in it--because of the salt
air. The variety that will bloom, however, is quite enough to make a
good show--flowering and aromatic shrubs, roses (especially banksia),
most bulbs, and (blooming the finest and happiest of all in Venetian
soil) carnations, the "garofoli" which play so large a part in Italian
love-stories.
On the Giudecca there are two gardens, each quite different from the
other in character and appearance, but both illustrating what a
Venetian garden may be like. In one all the resources of art and
wealth have been brought to bear, and there is a succession of
brilliant beds of colour. In the middle is a green oasis, a kind of
English orchard, where the turf is as fine and as velvety, as deep and
green, as that of any English lawn, and the orchard trees throw a
delicate tracery of flickering shadows. There are beds of splendid
colour, varying with the seasons. In fact, there is almost an Oriental
lavishness about this garden: the scent of the flowers is almost
oppressive. The other garden is not less beautiful; but it is set
apart for profit rather than for pleasure. There are aisles upon
aisles of vine-covered pergolas, crossing one another; and one can
saunter down these cool promenades for hours, absolutely bareheaded. A
narrow strip is divided from the rest of this garden by a thick hedge.
Here, in one glorious mass, are all the flowers that will grow freely
in Venice--the flame-coloured trumpets of the bigonici, by bowers of
roses over-arching walks, banksias festooning the walls, and one
corner completely filled by a splendid _Daphne odorifera_ which by her
perfume draws the butterflies. However, one cannot quite
understand the spirit that prompted Alfred de Musset to write those
verses the last of which runs:--
À Saint Blaise, à la Zuecca,
Dans les prés fleuris cuellir la verveine;
À Saint Blaise, à la Zuecca,
Vivre et mourrir là.
[Illustration: TIMBER BOATS FROM THE SHORES OF THE ADRIATIC]
There are now at Saint Blaise no pastoral and poetic places where
lovers could stroll hand in hand by the pale moonlight: the gardens,
somewhat marshy, are cultivated principally for market purposes. The
Giudecca Canal is the commercial harbour of Venice. The churches of
Redentore and Maggiore lie on the farther side of it. In this canal a
group of small vessels lie all day long at anchor--twenty or thirty of
them, laden with wood brought from the Istrian coast, and sold in
Venice. When it has been disposed of, the captain calls his crew from
the distant cafés and wine-shops, releases the watch-dog from his post
on deck, weighs anchor, and creeps down the Adriatic to reload again
with fuel. This is all the Venetian commerce of to-day--this and a few
beads, glass, wood-carving, lace, and bric-à-brac, such as would
scarcely load a modern trading-ship. Nine hundred years ago the trade
of Venice was important. By the close of the eleventh century, the
city was commercially supreme in Europe. Yet she manufactured nothing.
She was supreme simply by the exercise of the merchant's calling. She
was Europe's greatest ship-owning power and commercial head. Her
merchants, conveying cloth, velvet, serge, canvas, various precious
and commercial metals, glass beads, and other goods, received in
return drugs, spices, dyes, precious stones, rugs, silks, brocades,
cotton, and perfumes, which were sold at a high rate of profit. The
population of Venice was then two hundred thousand; the annual exports
were valued at ten million ducats; there were three hundred sea-going
vessels, eight thousand sailing vessels, three thousand smaller craft,
seventeen thousand mercantile sailors, and a powerful navy with eleven
thousand able-bodied seamen.
San Giorgio is of note as the place for red mullet from the Adriatic.
Nothing equals the fish: none other is so appetising, so red and fresh
in colour--one would feel inclined to eat of it if only for its hue.
The best place to procure mullet is in a certain tavern where
gondoliers and sailors mostly congregate: here they can drink wine
free of duty. The tavern is invariably filled with such men, all
stretched out on benches round the table. San Giorgio is the
place for sunsets also: from nowhere else in the lagoon can one see
such a marvellous variety, such changes of sea and sky. The church
possesses a wonderful Entombment by Tintoretto.
[Illustration: BY A SQUERO OR BOAT-BUILDING YARD]
San Servolo is a very small island beyond San Giorgio, yet one of the
brightest jewels in the coronet of the lagoon--almost entirely covered
with buildings.
Burano has a population of some nine thousand. The people are chiefly
engaged in fishing and in towing. One sees boatfuls of them returning
from the sea; and lines of them towing heavy mud-filled barges on the
way to Pordenone, all the men stepping in time with one another and
bending to the rope with a will. There is something statuesque about
these toilers. With their long, cleanly-moulded limbs, they remind one
of ancient Egyptian bronzes. The sculptor would find plenty of scope
in Burano. The people, however, are of evil repute by heredity. They
are the scapegoats of the lagoon. If anything goes wrong, the blame is
always laid upon them. They work harder and receive less pay than the
inhabitants of any other island. In the old days terrible quarrels
used to arise among the women, either in the market-place or when they
sat in their doorways making that exquisite lace for which the town
is famous. To the present day lace is made at Burano, and even now the
women quarrel over their work. If one did not know the language, one
would not imagine that they were quarrelling--the dialect is so soft
and sweet, the words dying away in a kind of sigh.
Mazzorbo is connected with Burano by a long wooden bridge. There are
very few houses here, and very few inhabitants. The island is given up
to flower gardens and the cultivation of fruit. Every day boats laden
with fruit, to be sold at the Rialto, are sent to Venice. Most of the
inhabitants of Mazzorbo are extraordinarily beautiful and sweet of
nature. These characteristics are very often found among those whose
business is chiefly connected with mother earth. Gardeners of all
nationalities are generally gentle and charming persons.
San Lazzaro is where the Armenian monks spend their quiet lives, happy
in the study and culture of their gardens. This convent of theirs is a
gem of colour set on the lagoon, painted a deep crimson and looking
like some gorgeous tropical flower. There is a terraced walk in the
garden, and the cloister is rich in flowers and planted with cypress
and oleander trees. It is a place in which to bask in the sun,
and watch the crabs fighting with one another on the sloping wall. One
can see the sun setting behind the Euganian hills, and watch the first
stars appear and the piazza lights shine out.
[Illustration: IN A SIDE STREET, CHIOGGIA]
Malamocco is not often visited by strangers; yet there is much that is
beautiful in the place, and a certain old-world air that fascinates
one. It is a good deal older than Venice; and its people, friendly and
clean persons, are always careful to explain to you that they are not
Venetians. The famous white asparagus, for which the evil-smelling mud
makes excellent soil, grows plentifully in Malamocco.
San Elena was once an exceedingly lovely island. It lies near to the
city, and is only a short distance from the public gardens. The grave
of Helen, mother of Constantine the Great, at once an empress and a
saint, is said to have been here. There was also a very beautiful
Gothic cloister. Now the old monastery walls have been pulled down,
and a hideous iron factory has been erected; the quiet convent
cemetery has been dug up, and the crosses have been thrown aside to
make way for iron-girded workshops.
For expeditions on the lagoons it is always well to choose a pearly,
silvery-grey day, when everything is delicate in colour and mellowed
by a semi-transparent haze. The lagoons are not always grey and calm.
They have their moods. I have seen a fair green sea grow black beneath
a sudden storm. Sometimes Venice will appear blue and rosy, the smooth
sea as green as in Canaletto's pictures, the white cupolas of Santa
Maria della Salute and the silver domes of St. Mark's standing out as
on an azure background. Then great masses of grey clouds will come up,
the sea is festooned with foam, and black gondolas skim over the water
like swallows flying before a storm. Sometimes the sky is clear and
the light vivid, the water shines like silver, and one cannot tell the
horizon from the sea; the islands appear like brown specks, and the
ships seem to be sailing in the sky. At others the sea, under an east
wind, is cold and hard as steel. In winter the lagoons are wrapped in
damp mists, so thick that, however good a navigator you may be, you
must needs lose your way; steamers and gondolas loom out and then
disappear, swallowed up by the dense wall of vapour, and the shipping
looks ghostly, tall and gaunt.
[Illustration: SANTA MARIA DELLA SALUTE]
Away out in the remote and unfrequented regions of the lagoon are
small isolated huts, mud-plastered, single-roomed cabins, built on
piles, which guard certain valli, to which the fish are driven in the
spring, to spawn. These consist of deep ditches surrounded by
palisades of wattled cane. Here the men stay sometimes for days,
fishing with nets, or standing upright in the long light boats waiting
for their prey. Some of the valli have the most uncanny names: one is
"The Val dell' Inferno," and another "The Val dei Sette Morte." Of
this last there is a terrible story, which has taken deep root in the
imagination of the people. Six fishermen were living in a valle. They
had with them a boy, who, when they went out on the lagoon, stayed at
home to cook for the men. One day, when they were returning with their
boatload, they found the body of a drowned man floating out to sea.
They picked the body up and laid it on the prow. The boy came to meet
them, crying that breakfast was ready. When they were seated at their
meal he asked why they had not brought the man who was lying in the
prow. The fishermen said, jokingly, that he had better go and call
him. This the child did, but soon returned with the news that he had
shouted to the man in the prow, who had neither moved nor answered
him. "Go again," said the men. "He is a deaf old fool. You must shout
and swear at him." The child went once more to the boat, and shouted
and swore at the man; but still he would not wake. "Go out again and
shake him by the leg, and tell him that we can't wait until doomsday
for him," said the fishermen. So the boy went, climbed into the boat,
and shook the man by the leg. This time the man in the prow sat up and
said, "What do you want?" "Why don't you come?" asked the boy. "They
can't wait until doomsday for you." "Go back," he said, "and tell them
I am coming." The boy went back to the hut, and told the men, who were
laughing and joking over their meal, that it was all right: the man in
the prow was coming. At this the fishermen turned very pale and
laughed no more. Then they heard heavy footsteps coming slowly up the
path; the door was pushed open; the dead man came in, and sat down in
the boy's place, making seven at the table. The eyes of the other six
were fixed on the seventh, their guest. They could neither move nor
speak. The blood grew colder and colder in their veins. When the sun
rose and shone in at the window, it shone on seven dead men sitting
round the table in the valle.
Despite this tale, Venetian people are bright and essentially
practical. They are not deeply imaginative. Horrors, weird fancies,
and love of the preternatural are quite foreign to the Italian
temperament.
[Illustration: RIO E CHIESA DEGLI OGNISSANTI]
SOCIAL UPS AND DOWNS
A great change came over society in Venice early in the latter half of
the nineteenth century. The people were dull, and sullen, and poor.
They resented their political position bitterly. The feeling with
which they were possessed was their great hatred of the Austrians.
They did not hate the Austrians individually; but they did
politically, and therefore socially. If you wanted to know the
Austrians, you could not know the Venetians: if you were friendly with
either, you must cold-shoulder the others. Society in Venice was
divided into two distinct sections. Once gone over to a side, you had
no withdrawal. If a girl intermarried she was cut off for life from
her family. Whatever the Venetian can or cannot do, he can certainly
hate, and that well. He may be dull and dispirited; but he is fiercely
patriotic, and his hatred of the Austrian was very strong. Most of
the nobility were exiled. The rest kept severely to themselves. They
never attended popular festivities, and even among the poorer classes
of Venetians very few old customs were kept up. The people felt keenly
the contrast of what had been and what was. A bridge of boats was
still built over the water to the church of the Redentore; but it was
very little used. The carnival, which was wont to last for six weeks,
was kept up but a single night; and then it was a farcical show. Only
a few dressed-up beggars tore through the streets, singing songs at
the cafés for drinks, and they were looked upon by the crowd with
melancholy scorn.
Venetian people of good family seldom went to the play or to the
opera. Austrian bands played there. The places of entertainment were
mostly kept up by foreigners, and were consequently not what they
might have been. To find good Italian opera one had to go to London or
to Paris. Still, the Venetians love music. It is born in them: they
have a passion for the art which nothing can subdue. Even the veriest
street urchin sings his gutter song with a fervour such as we do not
know of in the north. Despite the ban from which they suffered, the
theatres were not uninteresting. Scarcely any Italian can act
badly. Practically in every case he has the dramatic instinct. But
there was no gay buzz in the audience, no flitting from box to box.
The theatres were filled with Austrians, who took their pleasure
quietly. The artisans and other poor Venetians, who saved up their
money to go to the play, certainly did enjoy it. They cheered and
hissed with vehemence, and between the acts drank aniseed and water,
and ate candied fruits on sticks fashioned at the ends into
toothpicks.
[Illustration: A CAMPIELLO]
Marionette shows were very popular. The theatre was tiny, and the
stage was tiny; everything was arranged in accordance with the small
dimensions of the actors. The marionettes talked very volubly, so much
so that it was sometimes difficult to follow them. The plays, written
expressly for the marionettes, were of all descriptions, from
melodrama to farce. Sometimes there were ballets. The audience was
generally amusing. It consisted principally of boys. The hat was
passed round, and if the proprietor considered that there was not
sufficient money collected he would shout, "O you sons of dogs!" and
close the theatre.
If any Venetian of good family gave a ball or a party, he was looked
upon with suspicion by the poor, who had no holidays, no tips, small
trade, and large taxes. The Austrians gave balls and parties
occasionally, but not very often. They hated Venice, where they were
regarded as a pestilence, and shunned by all save their own
countrymen. This strange antagonism continued for a few years, until
the Austrian occupation ceased and Venice was united to the rest of
Italy.
The Emperor of Austria's birthday afforded a good example of the
inter-racial bitterness. All night long Austrian bands paraded the
streets, cannons were fired at intervals, and fireworks let off. It
seemed as though by unnecessary ostentation of artillery the Austrians
were endeavouring to reach the throne in Vienna. But a dead silence
reigned in Venice. Not a single Venetian was abroad. The Austrians had
their celebrations all to themselves. It was rather pathetic to see
them trying to work up joy and enthusiasm. Next morning the
celebrations were continued. Service was held in St. Mark's Church;
and the soldiers stood outside in the square in long rows, drawn to
attention, the sun shining on their resplendent uniforms and handsome
faces--a gallant array! Not a single Venetian showed himself. Not a
blind was drawn. Not one curious woman's face appeared at a
window. Even a Venetian servant girl would not have exchanged a
civility with an Austrian officer that day. There was a dreadful hush
everywhere. Venice was like a dead city. One felt that the people were
stuffing their ears, and covering their eyes, behind drawn blinds. The
Austrians tried hard to be jubilant and gay; but very obviously they
did not succeed. In the evening they went to the opera, endeavouring
to spread out and make more of themselves; but the large house was
practically empty. The day after that, Venetian life flowed back again
into its accustomed channels. The people were laughing and chatting
and filling all the eating-houses, as though making up for lost time.
One wondered what the antagonism would all end in.
[Illustration: FISHING BOATS FROM CHIOGGIA]
There was in Venice a committee which looked after Venetian interests.
On all the public anniversaries bombs were fired and flags were flown.
In all the Government Departments the committee placed spies, who were
so clever that they were seldom detected by the Austrians. Even in the
cathedrals those men would sometimes explode bombs. The antagonism
between the Venetian and the Austrian was shown in the piazza,
perhaps, more than elsewhere. The military band played there three
times a week, winter and summer,--played gloriously all the best
Italian airs. Much as they loved music, the Venetians walked up and
down the quay, or in the arcades. They would not enter the square
until the music was finished. Such was their pride! The cafés had no
longer their gay and lively reputation. Only at Florian's did the
Austrians and the Venetians sometimes intermingle--and that was
because of the foreigners. Usually the Venetians had their separate
cafés, and the Austrians theirs--the Quadri and the Specchi.