very core, from which everything radiates, only to return. If you lose
yourself in Venice, and go on walking, you will be sure to find your
way back to the piazza sooner or later. At eight o'clock the piazza
was at its very gayest. Nothing could be more lively, more amusing. It
was lined with cafés--the cafés "Suttil," "Quadri," "Costanza," and
"Florian"; which last reminds one very much of the "Café Royal" in
Paris, and was certainly quite as famous. The old proprietor of this
restaurant was greatly patronised by the Venetian nobility, who were
loud in their praises both of himself and of his viands. The first
Florian lived in the time of the Empire. There is a charming
story told of him and the artist Canova. The old hotel-keeper was very
much troubled with gout, and Canova, to whom Florian had rendered many
services, modelled the affected leg in plaster, in order that he might
have a shoe made which would fit exactly, and so ease the pain. No
doubt (but this is pure surmise) Florian favoured the artist, in
return for his kindness, with a dish of his famous "sorbet au
raisins."
[Illustration: A WOMAN OF THE PEOPLE]
Street vendors of all kinds swarmed in the piazza at
night--flower-girls of the most obliging natures, who, if you would
not buy their wares, would thrust a bouquet into your hand gratis (you
were, of course, supposed to repay them at some other time). There
were musicians of every sort and kind--some with guitars; others with
mandolines; some playing selections from the operas; others singing
"Funiculi" and "Santa Lucia" in high tenor voices; deep-chested,
bronze-faced men who explained that they were once operatic stars, but
were now reduced, by the injustice of managers and the villainous
tempers of the prima donnas, to street singing. There were men who
went about selling frosted fruits on long sticks, crying "Caramel,
caramel!" and giving descriptions of their wares in almost every
European language. People of all races were there--red-faced
Englishmen and fair women, with their rosy daughters in sailor hats,
on the way from Switzerland, the respectable English father explaining
St. Mark's with a comprehensive wave of the hand. There were
Frenchmen, Americans, Austrians, Italians, either talking volubly or
deadly quiet; Greeks, with long bluish-black hair floating out behind
them, and caps with silk top-knots (these were captains of small
vessels coming from Cyprus and Syria, and they went to the Café della
Costanza, where they could procure mocha and the pipe they loved
best); and young Venetian gentlemen who spent their lives for the most
part in drifting from one café to another, generally handsome,
well-dressed men with immaculate linen and pointed beards carefully
cut, carrying long canes, and the lightest of kid gloves (their main
object seemed to be to stare at all the pretty women); and Austrians,
smart, good-natured people, who frequented their own cafés, with much
talk and laughter and rattling of swords. Now and then one saw
Venetian women of the upper classes on the piazza, but very rarely.
They were extremely indolent and lazy, and seldom went out. The
weather, they would tell you, was never sufficiently fine: there was
too much sun, or a sirocco was coming, or a cloud threatened rain: the
slightest thing deterred them. Often the utmost exertion a Venetian
woman would allow herself in the day was to pass from her sofa to her
balcony to breathe the freshness of the flowers. Consequently, she had
a complexion which was extremely delicate, a sort of pearly whiteness.
Sometimes she would take a turn or two in the piazza with her husband
or brother as cavalier, and languidly sip anise and water at the Café
Florian.
For the most part the ancient aristocracy of Venice lived in
retirement and were very poor. They dwelt in palaces whose walls were
covered with priceless paintings by great masters, with which they
would not part. They dined off a dish of polenta or fried fish, which
a valet brought from a tavern near by. Their poverty and the fear of
spies and informers combined in making society in Venice extremely
reserved. It was impossible for a stranger to penetrate into the
midst.
In summer, in the months of the dog-star, those few among the
patricians who were well-to-do flew to their villas on the banks of
the Brenta, on the mainland. They returned to Venice in winter, only
because, they said, the odours from the lagoons at that time were
unhealthy and caused fever. Those who had no country houses, and could
not afford to travel, shut themselves up in their palaces and drew
down their blinds until it was the fashionable time to appear. In the
dead season there were no lamps lit in the great entrances, and the
palaces were silent. The family lived in the back rooms on the top
story. The rest of the house was let. Most of the palaces were built
round courtyards, and the contessa might go thither as often as she
pleased to interview tradesmen and bargain for fish--there at least
she would be free from espionage.
As a matter of fact, it was pleasant to be in Venice at that season.
The heat was less: the sun did not bake the ground as it did on the
mainland. Owing to the sirocco which blew across the water, the air
was cool and sweet. Human beings, however, are ever the slaves of
custom, and it was the fashion for Venetian noblemen to spend the
summer months on the Brenta. The river scenery had a fascination for
them, just as the Thames has for Londoners. All along the banks were
rows of little, bright, stuccoed villas, somewhat flimsy, each with
its patch of garden and its shrubbery at the back, where the
family sat all day. Now and then one saw a nobleman's palace breaking
the line of somewhat uninteresting houses. Such was the magnificent
villa at Stra, belonging to a princely Venetian family, with its great
sweeps of green lawns, its orangeries, its alleys, and quaintly cut
yews. Venetians love nature when it has been trimmed by man. Certainly
the banks of the Brenta are very beautiful, especially in spring, when
the water is covered with lilies of yellow and white, and the banks
are lined with scented flags, and the larks tip the surface of the
water with violet wings and sing as they mount against the sun. It is
not unlike the scenery of some quiet English stream.
[Illustration: CHIOGGIA]
This custom of spending the summer months in the suburbs of Venice was
called "villeggiatura." It was one of the gayest times of the year for
the Venetians. They lived by night. All day long they lay behind
closed blinds, while the sun parched and baked the ground. Only from
five o'clock in the afternoon until four in the morning could they be
said to live. Then they held dances, card-parties, and flirtations.
During these hours, when the temperature was low, amusement and
pleasure reigned supreme; but no sooner did the sun begin to rise
than, as surely as Cinderella disappeared at the stroke of twelve, the
gay society of the Brenta vanished, and the place lay dead and silent
once more under the intolerable glare.
How different society in Venice was in the early days! Then the houses
were marvels of luxury; the finest wit, the most brilliant
conversation, and the most delightful music were to be heard in
Venice. It was not in the houses of the old aristocracy that the most
brilliant people--painters, writers, poets, and politicians--assembled.
It was in the houses of women who were looked upon as more or less
shady persons, whom no Venetian gentleman would dream of introducing
to his wife. The wives of the aristocracy were seldom seen except at
public functions. They took much the same position in society as the
"honoured interior" takes in Japan at the present day. (The geisha,
although she is infinitely more entertaining, has no social status
whatever.) The Venetian lady of quality, unlike the "honoured
interior," dressed in the most magnificent style. In the estimate of
her husband nothing was too gorgeous or too costly for her to wear.
Among all those of the larger towns of northern Italy, Venetian women
of the sixteenth century were the first to wear needle-point.
Although the ideal woman of that time had to be tall, a Venetian
mother never troubled herself about the height of her daughter. At any
moment she could transform the girl's dwarfish stature to that of a
splendid giantess by the use of a pair of high pattens, which were
unnoticed beneath the long stiff dress. Neither was the colour of the
hair a source of inconvenience. Should a girl's locks be of a mousey
nondescript shade, her mother, instead of using injurious dyes, made
her daughter sit every day for three hours in the front balcony where
the sun shone the brightest, dressed in a crownless hat, so that her
tresses might be pulled through it, and a very broad brim, in order
that her face should not be tanned. Then the damsel's maid would sit
and comb her mistress's hair, bleaching in the sun. Girls were never
dressed so richly as their mothers. In fact, the uniform dress was
very simple, generally plain black or white. When they went to church
they wore long white veils, or falzulo, and on ordinary occasions long
gauzy silk ones, through which they could see, yet not be seen. On her
marriage day the girl was first introduced into society, and saw the
bridegroom for the first time. After marriage the rules which ordered
her life were not nearly so restricting.
In 1614 certain regulations were passed with regard to dress and
household extravagances--the amount of money to be spent on dress,
liveries, gondolas, jewellery, feasts and entertainments, gold and
silver plate, and even the dishes and the menus of dinner-parties. All
these were limited.
The earliest nobility consisted of twenty-four families who ruled as
tribunes over the twelve islands of the lagoons that formed the
Venetian State. Some of these families are still represented in
Venice. In the year 1296 a rigid and definite aristocracy was formed.
Those who held chief places in the management of the State, whether
they were noble or they had gained importance through their riches,
determined to establish themselves as the permanent rulers of Venice,
and to close the doors of office against all parvenus. Thenceforward
only near relations of those who sat in the Great Council could be
recognised as members of the caste. The twenty-four families,
nevertheless, had distinction, and were called the "old houses."
Admission to the Venetian nobility was rarely conferred on anyone save
foreign princes or distinguished generals. Now and then, when the
State was sorely in need of money, a Venetian family was ennobled; but
for the most part the aristocracy guarded their privileges most
zealously.
In the days of her decadence, in the eighteenth century, the
tightly-laced, lackadaisical men and the hooped and brocaded women of
Venetian society lived a curious, aimless, artificial life. Their
greatest pleasure seems to have lain in gossiping, eating, drinking,
and generally struggling to kill time. It was an inane life, frigid,
without freedom, without heart, without strong emotion. All pleasures
seem to have been carried out by rule. Even the laughter and the jokes
were artificial. There can be but small wonder that society fell into
broken fortunes.
The ideal nobleman of to-day is a stronger, more active, finer person
altogether than his senatorial ancestor. His character is healthier.
He adopts more or less a country life. He owns property on the
mainland, and is very much occupied in trying to make it pay. He rears
cattle, grows crops, makes wine on his own premises, is interested in
silk-growing and in model farms, and competes for agricultural prizes
offered by the Government. His Venetian palace does not interest him
greatly. He spends a few months there in the season, gives one or two
large entertainments, and is constantly making alterations and
improvements; but his heart is in the country, and he leaves Venice
for his rural palazzo on the slightest pretext. This Venetian noble of
to-day thinks a great deal of himself. His temper is haughty, and
there is no softness or geniality about him. Nevertheless, he is a
decided improvement.
What society there is still to be found in Venice is constituted by
foreigners, mainly English and American. One of the great things to be
done is to take a gondola and go to the Canal of the Slaves, beyond
the public gardens on the island of St. Peter--to the home of an old
fisherman celebrated for his fish dinners. This fisherman's cottage is
just as celebrated in Venice as the Trafalgar Hotel in London, or the
Ship Tavern at Greenwich, or La Rapée in Paris. Here, however, is a
more picturesque environment--boats drawn up on the yellow sand, nets
stretched to dry in the sun, planks forming a landing-place in front
of the houses--all is very simple. One eats the fish dinner in a
garden, under an arbour shaded by vines, where flowers and edible
vegetables grow in charming but ill-kept confusion. The host is
jovial; his wife, a great authority, is the cheerful mother of
many children.
[Illustration: THE FISH MARKET]
One finds on one's travels that each city has its local and peculiar
dish--Marseilles its "bouille à baisse"; Venice its "soupe au
pidocchi"--mussels, gathered in the lagoons and canals, flavoured with
spices and aromatic herbs. Personally, I would rather this Venetian
viand were not so classical; but you would touch the people to the
quick if you refused their offering. After it come oysters from the
arsenal, eels and mullet from Chioggia, fried sardines, white wine of
Policella, and fruits from the hills of Este, Marselice, and
Montagnana. At the end of the repast one is presented with a bouquet
from the garden.
GONDOLAS AND GONDOLIERS
No conveyance in this world is more delightful than the gondola. In
appearance it is undoubtedly the most beautiful vessel in the world.
Like most characteristic objects appertaining to Venice, it is
suitable to the place: in fact, it is the outcome of the place. There
is nothing strange or unnatural about Venice. Everything there seems
to have come about through force of necessity, and is therefore
perfectly beautiful. Even as the hansom cab suits London, or the
'rickshaw suits Japan, or the jaunting-car suits Ireland, so the
gondola is the vessel for Venice. You cannot separate the lagoon from
the gondola. One completes the other. Without either Venice would be
impossible. The gondola alone can wend its way through the intricate
water-streets of the Queen of the Adriatic.
There is no indication of movement whatever in a gondola. The craft
has no springs, no cogs, no jarring wheels or oily machinery, no
vibration. Simply one sees the palaces glide by in front of one, and
hears the water making a lapping noise under the bows. The gondolier
is out of sight. Nothing blocks your view of sea and sky, save the
slender steel ferro at the prow. The gondola is built for leisure: one
cannot quite imagine it, let us say, in America. It is a historic
vessel, with a flavour of sentiment and antiquity about it, built by a
leisured people for idleness, not for business or for hurry. It is
long and slender, flat-bottomed, and tapers towards each end, where it
rises considerably above the water. It draws but little water, and has
much the form of a skate. The felce (cabin), placed somewhat astern,
is draped with black cloth, which can be removed in the summer-time to
make room for a striped awning. This, however, the true Venetian
loathes: rather than use it, I am sure, he would be willing to swelter
under the felce. On each side of the cabin there is a window, which
can be closed in three separate ways--by a bevelled Venetian glass let
down; by a blind with movable blades; by a strip of cloth dropped
over.
[Illustration: MIDDAY ON THE LAGOON]
The gondola is made to hold four people. There are morocco cushions on
either side. As the seats are very low, you are supplied with two
silken cords with handles, to assist you to rise. As the cabin is too
small to turn in, one must enter a gondola backwards. The woodwork is
carved according to the wealth of the owner or the taste of the
gondolier. Sometimes it is very elaborate. Above the door is generally
a copper shield on which the coat-of-arms of the owner is engraved,
surmounted by a crown; on the felce there hangs, in a small frame, an
image of the Holy Virgin, or of St. Mark, or of St. Theodore, or of
St. George, or of some saint for whom the gondolier has a special
devotion. The lantern also hangs here--a custom which, as the gondolas
sometimes run without the star in front, is gradually dying out. On
account of the coat-of-arms, the saint, and the lantern, the left is
the place of honour: there the ladies are placed, or any aged or
distinguished person. There is in the felce a sliding panel, through
which one can communicate with the gondolier on emergency. At the prow
there is a halberd-like piece of iron, smooth and polished, called
"the ferro," much like the finger-board of a violin. This serves for
decoration, for defence, for counterpoise to the rower in the stern,
and to test the height of the bridges. It is the pride of the
gondolier to keep this always as bright as silver. Often when a crowd
of gondolas are moored thickly about the landing-stage, the ferro is
used as a wedge, by the aid of which boats can be divided. The rower
plies his oar standing on a small platform on the poop, not far behind
the cabin, and facing the direction in which the gondola is to move.
The skill with which the gondolier manages his graceful craft is
extraordinary. He stands quite upright on the poop, one foot placed
firmly in front of him, and throws the weight of his body forward on
his oar to such an extent that one fears he may follow it into the
water. It is only by long habit that he can procure the necessary
balance. The gondola is sensitive to the least impression, and the
downward stroke has the effect of sending the boat round. It is only
by turning the blade in the water, and raising it gradually upward,
that the gondola can be kept straight. The oar rests in a fork,
beautifully designed to allow free movement. The gondolier, sole
director of his craft, uses the oar sometimes as a paddle, and
sometimes as a boathook. He rows always on one side. Under the hands
of an efficient man, the gondola glides over the water like a living
thing, turning the corners of canals with great precision.
Sometimes on festa days the gondoliers practise feats, such as setting
the vessel full-tilt and with all their might against the stone wall
of a quay, going with such rapidity that you expect man and boat to be
dashed to pieces. Just at the last moment, with a powerful turn of the
oar that is interesting to watch, he stops dead at the base of the
quay, sometimes nearly grazing it. In much the same way, in the At
Maidan of Constantinople, long ago, Arab and Turkish horsemen charged
against stone walls and suddenly pulled up.
Very different is the gondola in the hands of an amateur. Many are the
duckings that ensue. Some of the young patricians, however,
occasionally don the traditional jacket, cap, and girdle of a
gondolier, and guide their own craft in a remarkably graceful manner.
Few people have any knowledge of the real meanings of the gondoliers'
cries, some of which are peculiarly sweet and characteristic. When a
man wants to pass on the left, and does not intend to use the backward
stroke, he cries, "Premi!" If, on the other hand, he wishes to pass on
the right, he cries, "Stali!" Sometimes, if when turning a dangerous
corner he wishes to be especially emphatic, he cries, "Premi! Premi!"
and "Stali! ah, Stali!" The gondola can be stopped immediately,
however great the rate at which it is travelling, by placing the blade
in front of the fork. If a man is really expert he stops his gondola
very suddenly, making a great deal of foam with his oar. When stopping
a gondola thus the gondolier cries, "Sciar!" As you approach the
landing-stage a crowd of ragamuffins, old and young, called
"crab-catchers," come forward, holding in their hands staffs, with
bent nails attached, with which to secure your gondola as you place
your foot on shore.
The gondolier is a voluble, gossiping person. He loves to have a chat
at the top of his voice with another of his kind, and to scream
repartee across the water. He enjoys nothing more than a quarrel,
especially with a man who is across the canal. Invariably they pass
from pertinent observations on their personal appearances to
defamation of their women. If such language were used at close
quarters on either bank they would come to blows. I once saw two
gondolas hook on to each other by mistake with their iron axes, and
I shall never forget the discussion that ensued. It made one's
blood literally curdle! The men looked like two angry sea-birds
pecking at each other as they pulled and pulled in their endeavour to
release themselves. When this had been accomplished they stood
upright, each on his own poop, brandishing their oars as though they
longed to kill. As a matter of fact, there is rarely any violence
among Venetians except in language. "Body of Bacchus!" one shouts.
"Blood of David!" the adversary answers. These mythological oaths
being not sufficiently comforting, they continue: "Low crab!"
"Sea-lion!" "Dog!" "Son of a cow!" "Ass!" "Son of a sow!" "Assassin!"
"Ruffian!" "Spy!" Having reached the worst taunt in their vocabulary,
they take to cursing the rival saints. "The Madonna of thy landing is
a street-walker who is not worth two candles!" one will cry. "Thy
saint is a rascal who does not know how to make a decent miracle!" the
other will rejoin. The profanity becomes more terrible as the distance
between them increases. Possibly next time they meet they will drink a
glass of wine together without remembering the quarrel.
[Illustration: A TRAGHETTO]
The gondolier is a more intelligent person than the ordinary hackman.
He knows all the histories of the different places of interest, and
relates them for the benefit of foreigners. He has a few words of
French and English. Of course, he is a rogue by nature, and will cheat
you on every possible occasion; but that conduct is common to the
carriers of all countries. And there is something very frank and
amusing about the way in which they commit their petty thefts. A
gondolier likes to serve Englishmen or Americans, who pay good prices;
but a German is beyond his comprehension. The Teuton either goes by
the tariff or walks--an eminently foolish act, in the gondolier's
opinion.
Every gondolier belongs to a traghetto (ferry-boat station), from
which gondolas cross over to Venice from various points on the
Giudecca. These traghette have been established for centuries--no one
knows exactly how long; but certainly they were in existence in the
fourteenth century. To a gondolier a traghetto is, as it were, a club.
There are sixteen traghette. Each is governed by its own laws and
constitutions, which are still strictly kept; each has its own
history, archives, and parchment documents. By this society are
regulated the gondolier's wages, the limits of his obedience, his
holidays, everything appertaining to his welfare. There is at each
traghetto a little house in which the gondoliers can sit and gossip
and mend their boats.