COMINCIA FAR CALDO.
The Place of St. Mark is the heart of Venice, and from this beats her
life in every direction through an intricate system of streets and
canals that bring it back again to the same centre. So, if the slightest
uneasiness had attended the frequency with which I lost my way in the
city at first, there would always have been this comfort: that the place
was very small in actual extent, and that if I continued walking I must
reach the Piazza sooner or later. There is a crowd constantly tending to
and from it, and you have but to take this tide, and be drifted to St.
Mark’s--or to the Rialto Bridge, whence it is directly accessible.
Of all the open spaces in the city, that before the Church of St. Mark
alone bears the name of Piazza, and the rest are called merely _campi_,
or fields. But if the company of the noblest architecture can give
honor, the Piazza San Marco merits its distinction, not in Venice only,
but in the whole world; for I fancy that no other place in the world
is set in such goodly bounds. Its westward length is terminated by
the Imperial Palace; its lateral borders are formed by lines of palace
called the New Procuratie on the right, and the Old Procuratie on the
left; [Footnote: In Republican days the palaces of the _Procuratori di
San Marco_.] and the Church of St. Mark fills up almost its whole width
upon the east, leaving space enough, however, for a glimpse of the
Gothic perfection of the Ducal Palace. The place then opens southward
with the name of Piazzetta, between the eastern façade of the Ducal
Palace and the classic front of the Libreria Vecchia, and expands and
ends at last on the mole, where stand the pillars of St. Mark and St.
Theodore; and then this mole, passing the southern façade of the Doge’s
Palace, stretches away to the Public Gardens at the eastern extremity
of the city, over half a score of bridges, between lines of houses and
shipping--stone and wooden walls--in the long, crescent-shaped quay
called Riva degli Schiavoni. Looking northward up the Piazzetta from the
Molo, the vision traverses the eastern breadth of the Piazza, and rests
upon the Clock Tower, gleaming with blue and gold, on which the bronze
Giants beat the hours; or it climbs the great mass of the Campanile
San Marco, standing apart from the church at the corner of the New
Procuratie, and rising four hundred feet toward the sky--the sky where
the Venetian might well place his heaven, as the Moors bounded Paradise
in the celestial expanse that roofed Granada.
My first lodging was but a step out of the Piazza, and this vicinity
brought me early into familiar acquaintance with its beauty. But I
never, during three years, passed through it in my daily walks, without
feeling as freshly as at first the greatness of this beauty. The church,
which the mighty bell-tower and the lofty height of the palace-lines
make to look low, is in nowise humbled by the contrast, but is like
a queen enthroned amid upright reverence. The religious sentiment is
deeply appealed to, I think, in the interior of St. Mark’s; but if its
interior is heaven’s, its exterior, like a good man’s daily life, is
earth’s; and it is this winning loveliness of earth that first attracts
you to it, and when you emerge from its portals, you enter upon
spaces of such sunny length and breadth, set round with such exquisite
architecture, that it makes you glad to be living in this world. Before
you expands the great Piazza, peopled with its various life; on your
left, between the Pillars of the Piazzetta, swims the blue lagoon, and
overhead climb the arches, one above another, in excesses of fantastic
grace.
Whatever could please, the Venetian seems to have brought hither and
made part of his Piazza, that it might remain forever the city’s supreme
grace; and so, though there are public gardens and several pleasant
walks in the city, the great resort in summer and winter, by day and by
night, is the Piazza San Marco. Its ground-level, under the Procuratie,
is belted with a glittering line of shops and caffè, the most tasteful
and brilliant in the world, and the arcades that pass round three of its
sides are filled with loungers and shoppers, even when there is music
by the Austrian bands; for, as we have seen, the purest patriot may then
walk under the Procuratie, without stain to the principles which would
be hopelessly blackened if he set foot in the Piazza. The absence of
dust and noisy hoofs and wheels tempts social life out of doors in
Venice more than in any other Italian city, though the tendency to this
sort of expansion is common throughout Italy. Beginning with the warm
days of early May, and continuing till the _villeggiatura_ (the period
spent at the country seat) interrupts it late in September, all Venice
goes by a single impulse of _dolce far niente_, and sits gossiping at
the doors of the innumerable caffè on the Riva degli Schiavoni, in the
Piazza San Marco, and in the different squares in every part of the
city. But, of course, the most brilliant scene of this kind is in St.
Mark’s Place, which has a night-time glory indescribable, won from
the light of uncounted lamps upon its architectural groups. The superb
Imperial Palace--the sculptured, arcaded, and pillared Procuratie--the
Byzantine magic and splendor of the church--will it all be there when
you come again to-morrow night? The unfathomable heaven above seems part
of the place, for I think it is never so tenderly blue over any other
spot of earth. And when the sky is blurred with clouds, shall not the
Piazza vanish with the azure?--People, I say, come to drink coffee, and
eat ices here in the summer evenings, and then, what with the promenades
in the arcades and in the Piazza, the music, the sound of feet, and the
hum of voices, unbroken by the ruder uproar of cities where there are
horses and wheels--the effect is that of a large evening party, and in
this aspect the Piazza, is like a vast drawing-room.
I liked well to see that strange life, which even the stout,
dead-in-earnest little Bohemian musicians, piping in the centre of the
Piazza, could not altogether substantialize, and which constantly took
immateriality from the loveliness of its environment. In the winter the
scene was the most purely Venetian, and in my first winter, when I had
abandoned all thought of churches till spring, I settled down to steady
habits of idleness and coffee, and contemplated the life of the Piazza.
By all odds, the loungers at Florian’s were the most interesting,
because they were the most various. People of all shades of politics met
in the dainty little saloons, though there were shades of division
even there, and they did not mingle. The Italians carefully assorted
themselves in a room furnished with green velvet, and the Austrians and
the Austriacanti frequented a red-velvet room. They were curious to look
at, those tranquil, indolent, Italian loafers, and I had an uncommon
relish for them. They seldom spoke together, and when they did speak,
they burst from silence into tumultuous controversy, and then lapsed
again into perfect silence. The elder among them sat with their hands
carefully folded on the heads of their sticks, gazing upon the ground,
or else buried themselves in the perusal of the French journals. The
younger stood a good deal about the doorways, and now and then passed
a gentle, gentle jest with the elegant waiters in black coats and white
cravats, who hurried to and fro with the orders, and called them out in
strident tones to the accountant at his little table; or sometimes these
young idlers make a journey to the room devoted to ladies and forbidden
to smokers, looked long and deliberately in upon its loveliness, and
then returned to the bosom of their taciturn companions. By chance I
found them playing chess, but very rarely. They were all well-dressed,
handsome men, with beards carefully cut, brilliant hats and boots, and
conspicuously clean linen. I used to wonder who they were, to what order
of society they belonged, and whether they, like my worthless self, had
never any thing else but lounging at Florian’s to do; but I really know
none of these things to this day. Some men in Venice spend their noble,
useful lives in this way, and it was the proud reply of a Venetian
father, when asked of what profession his son was, “_È in Piazza!_”
That was, he bore a cane, wore light gloves, and stared from Florian’s
windows at the ladies who went by.
At the Caffè Quadri, immediately across the Piazza, there was a scene
of equal hopefulness. But there, all was a glitter of uniforms, and
the idling was carried on with a great noise of conversation in
Austrian-German. Heaven knows what it was all about, but I presume the
talk was upon topics of mutual improvement, calculated to advance the
interests of self-government and mankind. These officers were very
comely, intelligent-looking people with the most good-natured faces.
They came and went restlessly, sitting down and knocking their steel
scabbards against the tables, or rising and straddling off with their
long swords kicking against their legs. They are the most stylish
soldiers in the world, and one has no notion how ill they can dress when
left to themselves, till one sees them in civil clothes.
Further up toward the Fabbrica Nuova (as the Imperial Palace is called),
under the Procuratie Vecchie, is the Caffè Specchi, frequented only by
young Italians, of an order less wealthy than those who go to Florian’s.
Across from this caffè is that of the Emperor of Austria, resorted to
chiefly by non-commissioned officers, and civilian officials of lower
grade. You know the latter, at a glance, by their beard, which in Venice
is an index to every man’s politics: no Austriacante wears the imperial,
no Italianissimo shaves it. Next is the Caffè Suttil, rather Austrian,
and frequented by Italian _codini_, or old fogies, in politics: gray old
fellows, who caress their sticks with more constant zeal than even the
elders at Florian’s. Quite at the other end of the Procuratie Nuove is
the Caffè of the Greeks, a nation which I have commonly seen represented
there by two or three Albanians with an Albanian boy, who, being dressed
exactly like his father, curiously impressed me, as if he were the young
of some Oriental animal--say a boy-elephant or infant camel.
I hope that the reader adds to this sketch, even in the winter time,
occasional tourists under the Procuratie, at the caffè, and in the
shops, where the shop-keepers are devouring them with the keenness of
an appetite unsated by the hordes of summer visitors. I hope that the
reader also groups me fishermen, gondoliers, beggars, and loutish boys
about the base of St. Mark’s, and at the feet of the three flag-staffs
before the church; that he passes me a slatternly woman and a frowzy
girl or two through the Piazza occasionally; and that he calls down the
flocks of pigeons hovering near. I fancy the latter half ashamed to
show themselves, as being aware that they are a great humbug, and
unrightfully in the guide-books.
Meantime, while I sit at Florian’s, sharing and studying the universal
worthlessness about me, the brief winter passes, and the spring of the
south--so unlike the ardent season of the north, where it burns full
summer before the snows are dried upon the fields--descends upon the
city and the sea. But except in the little gardens of the palaces, and
where here and there a fig-tree lifts its head to peer over a lofty
stone wall, the spring finds no response of swelling bud and unfolding
leaf, and it is human nature alone which welcomes it. Perhaps it is for
this reason that the welcome is more visible in Venice than elsewhere,
and that here, where the effect of the season is narrowed and limited
to men’s hearts, the joy it brings is all the keener and deeper. It is
certain at least that the rapture is more demonstrative. The city at all
times voiceful, seems to burst into song with the advent of these
golden days and silver nights. Bands of young men go singing through the
moonlit streets, and the Grand Canal reëchoes the music of the parties
of young girls as they drift along in the scarcely moving boats,
and sing the glories of the lagoons and the loves of fishermen and
gondoliers. In the Public Gardens they walk and sing; and wandering
minstrels come forth before the caffè, and it is hard to get beyond the
tinkling of guitars and the scraping of fiddles. It is as if the city
had put off its winter humor with its winter dress; and as Venice in
winter is the dreariest and gloomiest place in the world, so in spring
it is the fullest of joy and light. There is a pleasant bustle in the
streets, a ceaseless clatter of feet over the stones of the squares, and
a constant movement of boats upon the canals.
We say, in a cheap and careless way, that the southern peoples have no
_homes_. But this is true only in a restricted sense, for the Italian,
and the Venetian especially, makes the whole city his home in pleasant
weather. No one remains under a roof who can help it; and now, as I said
before, the fascinating out-door life begins. All day long the people
sit and drink coffee and eat ices and gossip together before the caffè,
and the soft midnight sees the same diligent idlers in their places. The
promenade is at all seasons the favorite Italian amusement; it has its
rigidly fixed hours, and its limits are also fixed: but now, in spring,
even the promenade is a little lawless, and the crowds upon the Riva
sometimes walk as far as the Public Gardens, and throng all the wider
avenues and the Piazza; while young Venice comes to take the sun at St.
Mark’s in the arms of its high-breasted nurses,--mighty country-women,
who, in their bright costumes, their dangling chains, and head-dresses
of gold and silver baubles, stride through the Piazza with the high,
free-stepping movement of blood-horses, and look like the women of some
elder race of barbaric vigor and splendor, which, but for them, had
passed away from our puny, dull-clad times.
“_È la stagion che ognuno s’innamora;_”
and now young girls steal to their balconies, and linger there for
hours, subtly conscious of the young men sauntering to and fro, and
looking up at them from beneath. Now, in the shady little courts, the
Venetian housewives, who must perforce remain indoors, put out their
heads and gossip from window to window; while the pretty water-carriers,
filling their buckets from the wells below, chatter and laugh at their
work. Every street down which you look is likewise vocal with gossip;
and if the picturesque projection of balconies, shutters, and chimneys,
of which the vista is full, hide the heads of the gossipers, be sure
there is a face looking out of every window for all that, and the
social, expansive presence of the season is felt there.
The poor, whose sole luxury the summer is, lavish the spring upon
themselves unsparingly. They come forth from their dark dens in
crumbling palaces and damp basements, and live in the sunlight and the
welcome air. They work, they eat, they sleep out of doors. Mothers of
families sit about their doors and spin, or walk volubly up and down
with other slatternly matrons, armed with spindle and distaff while
their raven-haired daughters, lounging near the threshold, chase the
covert insects that haunt the tangles of the children’s locks. Within
doors shines the bare bald head of the grandmother, who never ceases
talking for an instant.
Before the winter passed, I had changed my habitation from rooms near
the Piazza, to quarters on the Campo San Bartolomeo, through which the
busiest street in Venice passes, from St. Mark’s to the Rialto Bridge.
It is one of the smallest squares of the city, and the very noisiest,
and here the spring came with intolerable uproar. I had taken my rooms
early in March, when the tumult under my windows amounted only to a
cheerful stir, and made company for me; but when the winter broke, and
the windows were opened, I found that I had too much society.
Each campo in Venice is a little city, self-contained and independent.
Each has its church, of which it was in the earliest times the
burial-ground; and each within its limits compasses an apothecary’s
shop, a mercer’s and draper’s shop, a blacksmith’s and shoemaker’s shop,
a caffè more or less brilliant, a green-grocer’s and fruiterer’s, a
family grocery--nay, there is also a second-hand merchant’s shop where
you buy and sell every kind of worn-out thing at the lowest rates. Of
course there is a coppersmith’s and a watchmaker’s, and pretty certainly
a wood-carver’s and gilder’s, while without a barber’s shop no campo
could preserve its integrity or inform itself of the social and
political news of the day. In addition to all these elements of bustle
and disturbance, San Bartolomeo swarmed with the traffic and rang with
the bargains of the Rialto market.
Here the small dealer makes up in boastful clamor for the absence of
quantity and assortment in his wares; and it often happens that an
almost imperceptible boy, with a card of shirt-buttons and a paper
of hair-pins, is much worse than the Anvil Chorus with real anvils.
Fishermen, with baskets of fish upon their heads; peddlers, with trays
of housewife wares; louts who dragged baskets of lemons and oranges back
and forth by long cords; men who sold water by the glass; charlatans who
advertised cement for mending broken dishes, and drops for the cure of
toothache; jugglers who spread their carpets and arranged their temples
of magic upon the ground; organists who ground their organs; and poets
of the people who brought out new songs, and sang and sold them to the
crowd;--these were the children of confusion, whom the pleasant sun and
friendly air woke to frantic and interminable uproar in San Bartolomeo.
Yet there was a charm about all this at first, and I spent much time in
the study of the vociferous life under my windows, trying to make out
the meaning of the different cries, and to trace them back to their
sources. There was one which puzzled me for a long time--a sharp,
pealing cry that ended in a wail of angry despair, and, rising high
above all other sounds, impressed the spirit like the cry of that bird
in the tropic forests which the terrified Spaniards called the _alma
perdida_. After many days of listening and trembling, I found that it
proceeded from a wretched, sun-burnt girl, who carried about some
dozens of knotty pears, and whose hair hung disheveled round her eyes,
bloodshot with the strain of her incessant shrieks.
In San Bartolomeo, as in other squares, the buildings are palaces above
and shops below. The ground-floor is devoted to the small commerce of
various kinds already mentioned; the first story above is occupied
by tradesmen’s families; and on the third or fourth floor is the
_appartamento signorile_. From the balconies of these stories hung the
cages of innumerable finches, canaries, blackbirds, and savage parrots,
which sang and screamed with delight in the noise that rose from the
crowd. All the human life, therefore, which the spring drew to the
casements was perceptible only in dumb show. One of the palaces opposite
was used as a hotel, and faces continually appeared at the windows. By
all odds the most interesting figure there was that of a stout peasant
serving-girl, dressed in a white knitted jacket, a crimson neckerchief,
and a bright-colored gown, and wearing long dangling ear-rings of
yellowest gold. For hours this idle maiden balanced herself half over
the balcony-rail in perusal of the people under her, and I suspect made
love at that distance, and in that constrained position, to some one in
the crowd. On another balcony, a lady sat and knitted with crimson yarn;
and at the window of still another house, a damsel now looked out
upon the square, and now gave a glance into the room, in the evident
direction of a mirror. Venetian neighbors have the amiable custom of
studying one another’s features through opera-glasses; but I could not
persuade myself to use this means of learning the mirror’s response to
the damsel’s constant “Fair or not?” being a believer in every woman’s
right to look well a little way off. I shunned whatever trifling
temptation there was in the case, and turned again to the campo
beneath--to the placid dandies about the door of the caffè; to the tide
of passers from the Merceria; the smooth-shaven Venetians of other days,
and the bearded Venetians of these; the dark-eyed, white-faced Venetian
girls, hooped in cruel disproportion to the narrow streets, but richly
clad, and moving with southern grace; the files of heavily burdened
soldiers; the little policemen loitering lazily about with their swords
at their sides, and in their spotless Austrian uniforms.
As the spring advances in Venice, and the heat increases, the expansive
delight with which the city hails its coming passes into a tranquiler
humor, as if the joy of the beautiful season had sunk too deeply into
the city’s heart for utterance. I, too, felt this longing for quiet,
and as San Bartolomeo continued untouched by it, and all day roared
and thundered under my windows, and all night long gave itself up to
sleepless youths who there melodiously bayed the moon in chorus, I was
obliged to abandon San Bartolomeo, and seek calmer quarters where I
might enjoy the last luxurious sensations of the spring-time in peace.
Now, with the city’s lapse into this tranquiler humor, the promenades
cease. The facchino gives all his leisure to sleeping in the sun; and
in the mellow afternoons there is scarcely a space of six feet square on
the Riva degli Schiavoni which does not bear its brown-cloaked peasant,
basking face-downward in the warmth. The broad steps of the bridges are
by right the berths of the beggars; the sailors and fishermen slumber in
their boats; and the gondoliers, if they do not sleep, are yet placated
by the season, and forbear to quarrel, and only break into brief clamors
at the sight of inaccessible Inglesi passing near them under the guard
of _valets de place_. Even the play of the children ceases, except in
the Public Gardens, where the children of the poor have indolent games,
and sport as noiselessly as the lizards that slide from shadow to shadow
and glitter in the sun asleep. This vernal silence of the city possesses
you,--the stranger in it,--not with sadness, not with melancholy, but
with a deep sense of the sweetness of doing nothing, and an indifference
to all purposes and chances. If ever you cared to have your name on
men’s tongues, behold! that old yearning for applause is dead. Praise
would strike like pain through this delicious calm. And blame? It is a
wild and frantic thing to dare it by any effort. Repose takes you to her
inmost heart, and you learn her secrets--arcana unintelligible to you in
the new-world life of bustle and struggle. Old lines of lazy rhyme win
new color and meaning. The mystical, indolent poems whose music once
charmed away all will to understand them, are revealed now without your
motion. Now, at last, you know _why_
“It was an Abyssinian maid”
who played upon the dulcimer. And Xanadu? It is the land in which you
were born!
The slumbrous bells murmur to each other in the lagoons; the white sail
faints into the white distance; the gondola slides athwart the sheeted
silver of the bay; the blind beggar, who seemed sleepless as fate, dozes
at his post.