Chapter I: Part 1

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VENICE

VENICE

: BY MORTIMER MENPES :
TEXT BY DOROTHY MENPES
PUBLISHED BY ADAM AND
CHARLES BLACK·LONDON·W

Published May 1904
Reprinted 1906, 1912

CONTENTS

PAGE

ARRIVAL AND FIRST IMPRESSIONS 3

HISTORY 17

A GLIMPSE INTO BOHEMIA 39

ARCHITECTURE 55

ST. MARK'S 77

PAINTERS OF THE RENAISSANCE 91

STREETS, SHOPS, AND COURTYARDS 125

THE ISLANDS OF THE LAGOON 149

SOCIAL UPS AND DOWNS 173

GONDOLAS AND GONDOLIERS 193

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

1. Crossing the Piazza _Frontispiece_

FACING PAGE

2. Grand Canal, showing Tower of St. Geremia 2

3. A Pink Palace 4

4. Palazzo Pisani 6

5. The Salute at Sunset 8

6. A Ruined Palazzo 12

7. Palazzi on the Canal 14

8. Giudecca 16

9. San Giorgio Maggiore 20

10. Off the Giudecca 22

11. St. Maria delle Misericordia 26

12. The Custom House and Church of Santa Maria della
Salute 28

13. At Chioggia 30

14. Church of San Geremia 32

15. The Bridge of Sighs and Straw Bridge 34

16. On the Grand Canal 36

17. The Bridge of Sighs 38

18. Palace in a By-Canal 42

19. The Orange Door 44

20. An Unfrequented Canal 50

21. St. Mark's Basin 52

22. Hotel Danieli 54

23. Porta della Carta 56

24. Grand Canal looking towards the Dogana 58

25. A Famous Palazzo 60

26. Entrance to the Grand Canal 62

27. Panorama seen from St. Mark's Basin 64

28. The Dogana and Salute 66

29. Palazzo Contarini degli Scrigni 68

30. Santa Maria della Salute 72

31. Palazzo Mengaldo 74

32. Ospedale Civile 76

33. St. Mark's 78

34. Palazzo Danieli 80

35. Francesca 82

36. St. Mark's Piazza 86

37. Scuola di San Marco 88

38. A Quiet Waterway 90

39. Canal Priuli 94

40. Osmarin Canal 98

41. A Sotto Portico 102

42. A Narrow Canal 108

43. Bridge near the Palazzo Labia 110

44. The House with the Blue Door 112

45. Canal in Giudecca Island 114

46. The Orange Sail 118

47. A Quiet Rio 120

48. Humble Quarter 122

49. Rio di San Marina 124

50. A Squero or Boat-building Yard 126

51. The Weekly Wash 128

52. A Back Street 130

53. The Wooden Spoon Seller 138

54. Work Girls 142

55. Chioggia Fish Market 150

56. Chioggia 154

57. In Murano 158

58. Mrs Eden's Garden in Venice 160

59. Timber Boats from the Shores of the Adriatic 162

60. By a Squero or Boat-building Yard 164

61. In a Side Street, Chioggia 166

62. Santa Maria della Salute 168

63. Rio e Chiesa degli Ognissanti 174

64. A Campiello 176

65. Fishing Boats from Chioggia 178

66. A Woman of the People 180

67. Chioggia 184

68. The Fish Market 190

69. Midday on the Lagoon 196

70. A Traghetto 200

71. Marietta 204

72. Bambino 208

73. A Squero or Boat-building Yard in Venice 212

74. Under the Midday Sun 214

75. The Rialto 218

ARRIVAL AND FIRST IMPRESSIONS

There is no city more written about, more painted, and more misrepresented, than Venice. Students, poets, and painters have combined in reproducing her many charms. Usually, however, Venice is described in a hurried, careless way: the subject is seldom gone deeply into, and studied as it should be, before attempting to compile a book. It is only one who has been there, and observed the life and characteristics of the people for years, who can gain any true perception of their character. Those who have not been to Venice must needs know by heart her attractions, which have been so persistently thrust before the public; but unless half a dozen really excellent books have been read concerning her, the city of their imaginations must be a theatrical Venice, unreal and altogether false. Normally one feels that the last word about Venice has been said--the last chord struck upon her keyboard, the last harmony brought out. But this is by no means the case. There are chords still to be struck, and harmonies still to be brought out: her charm can never be exhausted. The last chord struck, no matter how poorly executed it may be, goes on vibrating in our ears, and all unconsciously we are listening for another. How strange this is! Why should it be so? What other cities impress us in the same way? Oxford perhaps, and Rome certainly. These are the only two which come to my mind at the moment. They are the cities of the soul, round which endless romantic histories cling, endless dear and glorious associations. Perhaps the reason why one never tires of books on Venice, or of pictures of Venice, is that they none of them fulfil one's desires and expectations--they never express just what one feels about her--there is always something left unsaid, something uninterpreted; and one is always waiting for that. It is impossible to express all one feels with regard to Venice. One feels one's own incompetence terribly. Try as you may, you can only give one day, one hour, one aspect of sea and sky, only the four seasons, not all the myriad changes between;--only four times of the day--dawn, mid-day, twilight, and night--not the thousand melting changes, not the continual variations. It is not a panorama, not a magnificent view permanent before one's gaze. The cloud forms will never be quite the same as you see them at a certain moment; the water will never be again of that particular shade of green; the reflection of a pink palace, with the black barge at its base laden with golden fruit, will never again be thrown upon the water quite in that same way; there will not always be that warm golden light bathing sea and sky and palace; that particular pearly-grey mist in the early morning will never recur, never quite that deep blue-black of night with the orange lights and the steely water.

When one lives in Venice one becomes absolutely in sympathy with the place. One feels her beautiful colour; but it is quite another story when one comes to reproduce it. Words cannot describe nor brush portray it. Thousands have attempted to paint Venice; but few have succeeded. The Venetians themselves, loving their country, painted her continually; but even they could only give one aspect of her. The pictures of Venice by Venetian masters are chiefly of her pomp and glory, her State functions and her water fêtes. However, one finds marvellous glimpses of landscape work in some of the great masterpieces--sweeps of sky above the heads of some of the Madonnas, skies in which one can feel the shimmer of light so characteristic of Venice, the blending of the tones and the flaming glory of the sunset sky. Turner, too, caught the radiant, shimmering, bright and opalescent qualities of the lagoon scenery; but even his palette could not cope with the ever-changing colour.

One must be either hot or cold with regard to Venice. You cannot be lukewarm. The magic of her spell begins to work upon you immediately you arrive. Most of us imagine what the place will be like before we reach it. We people it in our dreams, and visualise it for ourselves--canals, palaces, streets, the general appearance of things. This imaginary city has no foundations save those which are supplied by pictures and stories.

One's first impressions are always those which one remembers longest, and one's first impressions of Venice are surpassingly beautiful. In the train, arriving, you catch glimpses of flashes of light in the darkness, more strangely fantastic than anything you could imagine; you traverse a long causeway stretching over the lagoon; you see the water on either side of you, jet black, stretching on indefinitely; the train seems to float on air; you cannot see the bridge--nothing but sky and water. You arrive at a large terminal station, and step into the gondola which is to take you into Venice. Into most cities one arrives in a whirl and shriek of engines amid smoke and bustle; but Venice is different. One arrives in a gondola. The water is of a clear pale green; the banks are scrubby grass and mud. One watches the silver prow of the gondola as it shoots forward, the sea air blowing keen and salt. You realise that you are in a wide canal, and that there are buildings on either side of you, looming up white and gaunt, with here and there a lantern glimmering at their base. It is strange to see a city rising thus out of the sea. Venice seems double: one sees it in the substance and in the reflections on the water.

After gliding along for some time you turn up narrow water lanes, devious and branching, running by low stonework, very complicated in their turnings. There are doors with water creeping up their steps, striped posts looking like spectres, and arches everywhere. Strange figures, like phantoms in a dream, appear in the gloom; black gondolas, like funeral biers, lie silently at the base of the houses; and the water laps dully at the steps. The silence of the waterways is deathlike after the rush and noise of a long journey; each shape that passes looks ghostly in the dim light; it is like a city of eternal sleep, a city of death. What a perfect background it would make for melodrama or for tragedy! No crime or intrigue could be too terrible to happen within those unfathomable shadows! A brigand might pass within that heavy half-opened oak door silently and unnoticed. A corpse with a stiletto buried in its breast might be gliding by in that black gondola. One would be quite surprised and somewhat shocked on lifting the felce to discover a fat and florid tradesman returning from supper with a friend. Venice is not a fitting background for such a sordid everyday scene. She is much better suited to the romances of Maturin, Lewis, and Ann Radcliffe; to the Great Bandit, the stories of the Three Inquisitors, the Council of Ten, masked spies, and pitfalls.

In the daytime one recognises Venice as the Venice of Canaletto, of Bonington, and of Wild. There is that same vague, luminous atmosphere, full of rays and mists; the coming and going of gondolas or galiots; the landing-place of the Piazzetta, with its Gothic lanterns ornamented by figures of the saints, fixed on poles and sunk into the sea; the vermilion façade of the Ducal Palace, lozenged with white and rose marble, its massive pillars supporting a gallery of small columns. With all this one has been familiar through the pictures of the masters whom I have mentioned; but the real Venice is still more beautiful, still more wonderful, still more fantastic.

If you climb up on any height and look down upon the lagoon, you will see a sight never to be forgotten. You will imagine that it is a dream which has taken shape, a vision of fairy-land. The sea is dotted with craft of all kinds. There is a continuous movement of boats--gondolas, sailing vessels, and steam-boats pouring forth volumes of black smoke and making a disturbance on the peaceful lagoon. The water is limpid, the light radiant; a row of stakes on the lagoon marks the channels which are navigable for ships. There is the island of San Giorgio, with its red steeple, its white basilica, surrounded by a girdle of boats, and looking like a sheet of burnished silver. There is the Giudecca, a maritime suburb of Venice, turning towards the city a row of houses and towards the sea a belt of gardens; it has two churches, Santa Maria and the Redentore. There is San Clemate, at the back of the Giudecca, a place of penitence and of detention for priests under discipline; Poreglia, where the vessels are quarantined; and the little island of St. Peter, almost invisible in the distance. The only black cupola is that of St. Simeon the Less. Those of the other churches are silvery. The clouds and the islands seem to mingle one with the other, and are as baffling as the mirage in a desert. On a fine day in Venice there is a certain brilliant crystalline clearness sharpening every outline; every tower and dome stands out sharp and clear against the sky, making the colours burn. There is colour everywhere: even the islands in the distance are blue and distinct. There is colour in the groups that saunter by, in the sapphire water, and in the cloudless heavens. The air is warm and still; the streets are full of people, walking and loitering at the doors of the shops; sunbeams dance on the rippling water; spring is everywhere. As evening comes on the colours grow richer and deeper; scarlet clouds float across the amber sky; the canal takes on the hues of the upper air, and is a rippling mass of liquid topaz and molten gold, in rapid succession changing from gold to orange, and from orange to deepest crimson. In the soft hazy light, against the rose tone of the sky, the cupolas of the islands and the palaces seem to float, shimmering with the hues of mother-of-pearl, mysterious, dream-like, not like solid stone. The soft lap of the water breaks the silence; the vaporous mists float upwards. Across the light drifts a line of fishing boats, their great brown sails set. A streak of flame-colour strikes on the windows of Venice, a flush of orange and rose. Then in a second the sun is gone, and a brief space of doubt ensues, when day hangs trembling in the balance; then night settles on the lagoon. A hundred bells ring out over the city, clashing and clamouring together in one brazen peal. Soon the peal subsides. The evening breeze springs up mild and sweet from the sea, and the soft and mellow cry of "Stali! Ah Stali!" is heard everywhere. It is the hour when all that is poor and unlovely melts into ethereal beauty. The water is a deep blue-black, save for rippling trails of light from the lamps, which shine like golden stars from the prows of the gondolas. The moon rises, nearly full, and is veiled by hazy clouds; the outlines of the bell towers of the palaces are pale and delicate in the soft light. The stillness of the water streets is soothing, and the prattle of the city falls gently on the ears.

No matter how prosaic or how unimpressionable one may be, one soon grows into sympathy with the atmosphere of Venice. It is almost impossible to avoid becoming sentimental as one floats in one's gondola at night, with the twinkling stars above and the twinkling splashes below. One almost unconsciously builds romances round the palaces tottering to decay. Venice is always ready to charm and allure you. It is hard to believe that somewhere there is a working, active, busy life going on. But indeed no one in Venice seems to be in earnest. It is as if the present time does not count, as if it were but an echo of what passed long years ago. People work without aim or energy, and when they suffer it seems as if they were but mumming. A sweetness and a docility steal into one's soul, and one feels that one can do nothing but drift on for ever in this pleasant idleness. Harsh voices become modulated; cross-grained, querulous natures are sweetened; even the flat-faced, spectacled tourists, when they step from the railway station into a gondola and glide into the mystic water city, alive with a myriad glistening lights, develop unconsciously, and despite themselves, into delightful people.

On the day when I arrived in Venice, as I was wandering down a lane beyond the Canareggio Canal, I found myself in the Jewish part of the city. It is a fetid and pestilential place. There is about it nothing pleasant, or wholesome, or attractive. The stonework is cracked and rotten. The houses, streaked with dirt, bend over into the water with the weight of years. Most of them are nine stories high, grimy and dirty, and speckled with green spots. There is not a straight line anywhere, and not a whole pane of glass--paper is the substitute. Now and then one sees a patch of plaster on a house; but for the most part the plaster has fallen away, revealing the crumbly red bricks beneath. It gives one a sickening feeling--this terrible poverty, solitude, and neglect. Everything is strange, sullen, mysterious. Men and women with curved noses and eyes set like burning coals in their pale faces glide noiselessly along with furtive glances. The children are half naked, and play about on benches in the streets. I have seen poverty-stricken Jewish quarters before, but never anything so sad as this. The sordidness and terrible despair of it make one's heart ache. There are no green fields and trees to alleviate the misery of the people. Yet, I suppose, the condition of the Jew was worse in the old days. Certainly the injustices and insults which once were prevalent do not occur now. The Christian to-day is on more or less friendly terms with the Jew. They meet one another on the exchange; they talk together, and partake of each other's hospitality.

The Christian may despise the Jew; but he has the grace to keep the feeling to himself, for the Jew possesses a great part of the trade of the city, and in money matters has ever the upper hand. He is educated, intellectual, patriotic, and calls himself a Venetian. If he is rich he lives in a fine new house on the Grand Canal and is owner of other houses. An instinct of the poorer class of Jews in Venice is to set up pawnshops and lend money to tradesmen in times of necessity. The Jews are decidedly useful. In the old days they were driven into exile; but they were soon called back. They were made to wear a yellow badge, distinguishing them from Christians. They were not allowed to buy houses or lands, or to exercise any trade or profession excepting that of medicine. They were given a dwelling-place in the dirtiest, unhealthiest part of the city, and called it a Ghetto, meaning a congregation. It was walled in. The gates were kept by Christian guards, who were paid by the Jews, and opened the doors at dawn, closing them at sunset. The Jews were not allowed to emerge on holidays or feast days, and two barges full of armed men watched them night and day. A special magistracy had charge of their affairs. Their dead were buried in the sand on the seashore. Thither the baser of the Venetians made it a habit to go on Mondays in September, to dance and make merry on the graves. The Jews were made to pay tribute to Venice every third year.

In spite of all hardships and deprivations, they flourished. As the Christians became poor, the Jews waxed rich. They were not again expelled from the city. They were never disturbed in their Ghetto by actual ill-treatment and violence, excepting on one occasion, when a charge was brought against them of child murder. So the Jews lived peacefully in their own quarter until, with the advent of modern civilisation, their prison walls crumbled away, and some of them went forth from the Ghetto and fixed their habitations in different parts of the city. Many Jewish families, however, cling to the spot made sacred for them by so much suffering and humiliation. Even to this day, although the Jews are distributed everywhere throughout the length and breadth of Venice, never a Christian comes to dwell in the Ghetto. Very many Jews still live there. Some of the women are handsome, with Oriental grace, delicate, sensitive, highly bred. The only time when the Ghetto has at all a picturesque appearance is the autumn. Then the air is filled with white floating particles, feathers of geese, which seem to be plucked by the whole force of the populace. You see on every doorstep groups of Hebrew youths plucking geese, and on looking into the interior you will observe strings of the birds suspended from the rafters, while an odour of roast goose greets your nostrils wherever you may go.

HISTORY

With her pomp and pageantry, her wealth of art, her learned academies, her schools of painting, and her sumptuous style, Venice at the prime of her life was great, dazzling, splendid. Her navy was supreme. Her nobles were the richest in Europe. This opulence and this pride led to her downfall. She was unable to resist the temptation of building herself an empire on the mainland, thereby causing jealousy among the other Italian States. Rome became fearful of her own safety, and, with the intention of crushing the Republic, formed the League of Cambray. Rome did not achieve her object; but Venice was weakened by the blow, and misfortune after misfortune fell upon her. The passage round the Cape of Good Hope was discovered; which took commercial trade with the East out of her hands, and left her no longer the mart of Europe. Then came the great battles with the Turk, in which both blood and money of Venice flowed in vain. Europe was either powerless or too indifferent to help. Gradually the strength of Venice was broken. She declined and sank. Still, the rigidity and the power of endurance of the Venetian constitution were marvellous. She kept a semblance of life long after the heart had ceased to beat. The constitution of the State was the most elaborate imaginable, and not easily brought to nothing. Nevertheless, although there were occasional flashes of the old brilliancy of Venice, her day was over. The last of her Doges yielded the State to Napoleon without a blow. Laying the ducal biretta on the table, he called to his servants, "Take it away: I shall not use it more."

When the first refugees came from the mainland and started life on the islands of the Archipelago, the mud-banks of Torcello and Rivoalto, they little thought that they were founding a city which was to be the admiration of the whole world, that her navy would ride supreme in all known waters, that Venice was to be the pride of the Adriatic. When those early people, the Veneti, from whom the Venetians take their name, drove in their first stakes and built their wattled walls, they could not have foretold that this was to be the greatest of mediæval republics, the centre of the commerce of Europe. Nature helped Venice handsomely. Had the channels been deeper, men-of-war might have entered and conquered the city. Had the waves been stronger, the airy structure that we know as Venice would have been supplanted by the ordinary commercial seaport. Had there been no tide, for sanitary reasons the city would have been uninhabitable. Had the tide risen any higher than it rose, there would have been no water entrances to the palaces, the by-canals would have been filled up, and the character of the place spoiled.

One's imagination is inclined to run riot in Venice. One gilds, and romances, and fills the city with pomp and pageantry, ornamenting the canals with State barges, the piazza with noble men and fair women, and the Ducal Palace with illustrious Doges. But far more interesting is it to see Venice as she really is, in her own simple strength. Think of the more rugged Venice, that city built by strong and patient men against such terrible odds, and in so wild and solitary a spot. In order to gain some idea of Venice as she was in those early days, it is well to go out in a gondola at low tide, when the canal is a plain of seaweed. As your gondola makes its way down a narrow channel, you have some conception of the difficulties with which the founders of Venice had to contend. To the narrow strips of land, long ridges guarding the lagoon from the sea, ill sheltered from the waves, the few hundred stragglers came. Their capital, Padua, had been destroyed by the northern hordes, and they took shelter in the islands of the lagoon. So desolate and wind-swept were these islands that one can scarcely imagine men disputing possession of them with the flocks of sea-birds. They were impelled by no whim, however: they were exiles driven by necessity. Here they looked for a temporary home, lived much as the sea-birds lived, and were quite fearless. The soil, composed chiefly of dust, ashes, and bitumen, with here and there a layer of salt, was rich and fertile. This was in the fifth century of our era, of which period there are but few Venetian records.

Still, one thing is certain: the Veneti were not a primitive or barbarous people. Fugitives as they were, they were for the most part of high birth and associations. They had character and intelligence. In their mud huts they possessed a social distinction and a political training such as would have graced the most sumptuous of palaces. In quite early days they began to put their heads together and to form a definite system of polity. Year by year the little community was added to. Battle and bloodshed continued on the mainland, and men and women flocked to the islands. It is curious to notice how rank and social distinction assert themselves. Blood will out. Wherever human beings are gathered together, whether on the islands of the Adriatic or on those of the South Seas, and however sorry their plight or great their general misfortune, different grades will become visible. Men and women will place themselves one above the other, the master and the man, the mistress and the maid--such is the law of humanity all the world over. Calamity did not in the long run have much effect upon the higher class of refugees, and the position of the lower classes was not bettered. Sympathy had levelled social distinctions for a time; but that was not for long. Soon, in the natural course of events, when the little colony grew into a city, and the origin of the Veneti had faded almost into a tradition, the various ranks became distinct. True, they lived as sea-birds live, one kind of food common to both, and one kind of house sheltering both; but the poor man and the rich did not live in equality.

As the community grew in importance they began to cultivate their islands and to build unto themselves ships. By force of necessity, they became expert in all matters of navigation, as agile on the water as on land, fearless. They acquired a better means of navigation and a wider knowledge of the lagoons than any other State possessed. Then they began to be attacked. With great courage and determination, Venice resisted all her foes--Gothic, Lombard, Byzantine, and Frank. Her position was peculiar, vague. She acknowledged a certain allegiance to the Court of Byzantium; yet by her acts she recognised the supremacy of the kingdoms on the mainland. Neither Byzantium nor Ravenna, and not Padua, could claim the lagoons. Venice was marvellously diplomatic. She drew from East and West exactly what she wanted to make her a nation by herself. While she pretended allegiance to several empires, she was in reality struggling for independence. In the stillness of the lagoon and the freedom of the sea air, the germs of individuality grew and flourished. They had a congenial soil and fitting nutriment. It is wonderfully interesting to watch the progress of the little State--the diplomatic way she went to work: how when she was weak and unable to stand alone she feigned allegiance to a stronger Power, yet never bound herself by written word; how she played one Power against the other; and how in the end, when sufficiently strong, under the shelter of her various foster-mothers, she struck out for freedom boldly.

There is a letter from Cassiodorus, Prefect of Theodoric the Great, which throws light upon the relations of Venice with the Goths. Theodoric endeavoured to veil his power over Venice under the guise of alliance or of hospitality. At the time of the famine in 520 he came to their rescue with provisions. This gave him a certain hold over the Venetian people. It imposed upon them a debt which was not to be easily discharged. A letter written by Cassiodorus in 523 is neither more nor less than a demand to the Venetians to bring supplies of oil, wine, and honey, which the islands possessed, to the Goths. The letter, which is of florid style, is one long sneer veiled in delicate flattery. Cassiodorus explains that the Venetians own certain ships, that they are well built, that the sea is an easy path to them; and he begs that the vessels will transport the tributes of Istria to the shores of his country. By this letter one realises that the Venetians had already a reputation as pilots and mariners, and knew well how to thread in and out the channels of the lagoons. Theodoric was a generous and powerful neighbour, and the only homage the Venetians could give the Goths in return was their water service; but they felt their weakness and dependence deeply, and were continually waiting for an opportunity to better their position. Consequently, when the war broke out, after Theodoric's death, between his successors and the Greek Emperor, the Venetians struggled to make themselves of value, and took an active share in the operations. They sided with the Lombards, and conveyed a large reinforcement of Lombard mercenaries to their destination. That was the beginning of their intimate connection with Constantinople. Two churches were erected in commemoration of the services of the islanders. These were built of costly materials, probably obtained from buildings on the mainland which were partially destroyed by the invaders. The Venetians were enabled to transport these treasures in their ships.

Much to the anger of the Paduans, Venice was growing very rapidly, and was gradually, by sheer competence, absorbing all the coast and river trade. Longinus paid a visit to Venice, begging that she would procure means of transport for his people. This was granted; but he endeavoured to force the Venetians to accept the suzerainty of his master, which was immediately refused in a grand and sovereign manner. The Venetians declared that, amid much toil and labour, and in the face of many hardships from Hun, Vandal, Goth, and Lombard, God had helped and protected them in order that they might continue to live in the watery marshes. They proudly stated that this group of islands was an ideal habitation, and that no power of emperor or prince should take it from them. It was impossible to attack them, they maintained, unless by the sea; and of that they were assured masters. This reception must have impressed Longinus. In place of a weak little State requiring the protection of his country, he found the Venetians a fierce and self-reliant people. He could obtain only a very vague promise from the diplomatic Venetians. They would acknowledge the Emperor as overlord, they said, but only on their word of honour: they would take no oath of fealty. Still, the rule of the Lombard over Venice was of longer duration than that of any other State.

A great trouble beset Venice at about this period. When the first settlers began work on the islands, each little group had a separate life, its people retaining as far as possible the customs, the religion, and the constitution of their ruined homes on the mainland. The largest townships which sprang up on the Lido were Heraclea, Jesolo, and Malamocco. These gradually grew together into a federation of twelve communes, each governed by its own tribune; and the tribunes had regularly a general assembly for the settlement of such business as affected the common interests of the lagoon. Jealousy and civil feuds, however, sprang up among the islanders, as one after another endeavoured to acquire supremacy. Heraclea tried to take the lead, and to destroy Jesolo; but she in her turn was attacked, and razed to the ground, by Malamocco. The civil trouble well-nigh caused the destruction of Venice. The tribunes intrigued; family rose against family, clan against clan; and there was terrible bloodshed. For nearly two years and a half the Republic was in anarchy. The constitutional evil sapped the general prosperity, obstructed trade and industries, and brought property to havoc. Had it continued much longer, the people would have frittered their strength away in private quarrels, and the State of Venice might never have emerged; but pressure from the mainland was brought to bear on Venice, and it became necessary for the various committees to consolidate as one body and sweep away the perils that were confronting them. The Lombards were becoming bolder and bolder. The Monarchy grew and grew, and at last the Republic of Venice feared that it might desire to add the islands of the Adriatic to its dominions.

This awoke Venice from lethargy. It was the peril of the sea that formed and completed her. The pressure was very severe. East and West were beginning to ask her very plainly to choose on which side and under whose protection she intended to place herself, and they did not intend to wait long for an answer. Venice, subtle and diplomatic, put off the evil hour as long as she possibly could; but her policy became obvious soon. She could no longer feign fealty first to one Empire and then to another, and meanwhile struggle for independence. The time had come for action. The critical moment was at hand. Either she must put herself under protection of the East or of the West, or declare her independence. Any course was dangerous, perhaps fatal. Out of the three possible issues, Venice chose the most perilous, severing herself from both East and West. The result was fortunate. Thrown upon her own resources, she saved herself by energy.

King Pippin invited Venice to join in a war. Venice refused, and prepared to defend herself, trusting in the courage of her men and the intricacy of the lagoon. From north and south King Pippin could concentrate his forces upon Venice, and victory seemed easy; but he had forgotten the natural defences of the sea-bound city. He did not know the shoals and deeps of the sea home. A life's study would scarcely have taught him. A certain noble assumed the lead of the Venetian people. He commanded them to remove their wives, children, and goods to a little island in mid lagoon--Rialto, impregnable from land or sea. This done, the fighting men took up positions on the outlying islands, and awaited the attack of the Franks. Pippin seized on Brondolo, Chioggia, and Palestrina, and tried to press his squadron on to the capital; but the shoals stopped him. His ships ran aground; his pilots missed the channels; and the Venetians pelted them with darts and stones. For six months Pippin struggled; but the Venetians kept him at bay by their network of canals and their oozy mud-banks. They shook off every assault. In the summer there came a rumour that an Eastern fleet was approaching. Pippin tried one more appeal to the Venetians, begging them to own themselves his subjects. "For are you not within the borders of my kingdom?" he said. "We are resolved to be the subjects of the Roman Emperor," they answered, "and not of you." The King was forced to retire. This great victory seemed to have the effect of consolidating the Venetians effectively. They agreed thenceforward to work together for the common cause. War had completed the union of Venice. She had emerged from her trial an independent State. There was no more internal discord. Venetian men and Venetian lagoons had made and saved the State. The spirit of the waters, free, vigorous, and pungent, had passed during the strife into the being of the people.

This triumph was really the birth hour of Venice, and the people look back upon it with joy. The victory over King Pippin is cherished to this day as one of the finest events in history. The Venetians realised the peril of the sea from this attack. Also they realised the peril of the mainland from the Hunnish invasion. They then effected a compromise, and chose as the future home of their State a group of islands mid-way between the sea and the land, then known as Rialto, but thenceforth to bear the proud name of Venice. Venice in this union of her people declared her nature, so infinitely various, rich, pliant, and free, that to this day she awakens and in some measure satisfies a passion such as we feel for some person deeply beloved. Her people then struggled to attain from infancy to manhood. For the first time they had learned their own power, and union gave them strength. They began to create their Constitution, that singular monument of rigidity and durability which endured, with hardly a break in its structure, for ten centuries. They built with vigour and enthusiasm that incomparably lovely city of the sea. The aristocracy of Venice emerged. Her empire extended, following the lines of her commerce, in the East. St. Mark was substituted for St. Theodore as patron saint. The crusades were used as a means to conquer Dalmatia, and to plant the lion in the Greek Archipelago. Venice clashed with Genoa, and emerged victorious. Wealth flowed into her State coffers and her private banks. The island of Rialto proved the advantage of its situation, and established a claim for gratitude as the asylum of Venice in her hour of need. The Venetians had seen that the mainland was unsafe, and the attack of Pippin showed that there was danger on the sea. Thus, experience leading to the choice of the middle point, in 810 the seat of the Government was removed to Rialto under Angelo Badoer as Doge. Rialto became a sacrament of reconciliation between Heraclea and Malamocco. It was the glory of Venice that of all parts of Italy she alone remained unscathed by the foreign ravages of the fifth century and the conquest of the eighth. Venice alone was left out of all Italy's ruin. She alone escaped pure and undefiled.

This marvellous period of her history--the repulses of the Franks and the creation of her State--requires no embellishments; yet the Venetians loved to gather a mythology of persons and events. Cannon-balls of bread, they say, were fired into the Frankish camp in mockery of Pippin's hope of strong Rialto surrendering. Then, again, there are the stories of the old woman who lured the invader to his final effort when half his forces were lost; of the canal Orfano, which ran with foreign blood, and won its name from the countless Frankish hordes that day made desolate; of the sword of Charles, which was flung into the sea when the Emperor acknowledged his repulse and cried, "As this my brand sinks out of sight, nor ever shall rise again, so let all thoughts of conquering Venice fade from out men's hearts, or they will feel, as I have felt, the heavy displeasure of God." All these stories were absolutely untrue; but they were born of a pardonable pride.

The Venetians held their country in a singularly powerful devotion. Possibly this was because they were so closely shut in on these few little islands, precious morsels of land snatched from the devouring sea. Certain it is that they toiled for the State as no other nation has toiled before or since. They were determined that Venice should be great, that she should be beautiful; and century after century of Venetians devoted their lives to this work, sinking their own interests in hers. The Republic was before everything. Wherever one goes in Florence, one finds traces of great and famous men of all periods and of all crafts--painters, poets, writers, statesmen,--in every square, in every street, you are reminded of them; their spirits and their works live with you wherever you may go. But in Venice, where are they? There is the city--yes: there is that; and there are the archives, the annals of the city, histories without number, marvellous histories;--but the familiar figures, the great men that we honour and look for,--they are not here. Venice herself was the centre of all their aspirations, all their affections. She was erected as would be a treasure-heap: all the choicest and all the best were there. One knows but little, for example, of the great painters--the men, with beautiful thoughts, who filled the churches and the palaces with untold splendour, glowing sunshine. Their works are left, and their names; but no more. It seems as if they must have kept one another down, that Venice alone might shine.

If one wishes to study the history of Venice, there is no difficulty. Historic documents without number are accessible. Every period, every vogue, every year, is carefully studied and commented upon by keen observers, men of the greatest talents. These records glow with life and energy. In quite early days, when the Republic was in its infancy,--when there was no aristocracy, no great and powerful State,--even the fishermen and the merchants and the salt manufacturers had a longing to chronicle the doings of the community. The palaces which were being built, and the churches,--all these they wished to have chronicled for ever. Numberless historians there were, and all nameless--men of extraordinary skill and genius. Embellishments and fables abound; but on the whole these histories, written with great realism, bring back a vivid picture of the State. No Venetian ever tires, ever did tire, of the history of his country. It is the one subject that is of endless interest to him. The trade of Venice, her ceremonies, her treaties, her money, the speeches of her orators--all are chronicled.

Venice was looked upon by Italy very much as we look upon America. She had no long and glorious history--at least, no history of anything beyond handicraft--no literature, no ancient manuscripts. The Florentines, on the other hand, had a great enthusiasm for ancient history. They were proud of their descent, and gloried in looking back to a long Etruscan civilisation. When one visits Florence, there is no difficulty in gathering knowledge concerning her great men of any period. Their shadows walk in her streets; their memories will never fade. You meet them everywhere--the painters, the monks, the gallants, the statesmen,--the individualities of the men who were the makers of Florence. The Venetians had no sympathy with the Florentines. They could not understand the Florentine desire to live with the past rather than the present. There are very few names which stand out prominently in the history of Venice, names concerning which a great deal is known; but there are one or two stories that are picturesque and popular, stories which are ever fresh to the Venetians. One is of a prince, the beheaded Doge Marino Faliero,--not at all an important incident in Venetian history, but one that is very dear to the hearts of the people, because of its melancholy. The prince was a man of hasty temper and haughty nature, and could brook no slight to his dignity. Once a bishop kept him waiting, and that worthy, for his misdemeanour, received, to the astonishment of everyone, a sound box on the ear. Before he came to the throne, Faliero was of great service to the State. He was offered the throne of Venice at the age of seventy-six, and married a young and beautiful woman. The story runs that a young gallant called Michele Steno, having been turned out of her presence, insulted the lady and her husband by pinning an impudent message to the chair of the Doge. The young man was brought before the "Forty," excused on the plea of his age and impetuosity, condemned to prison for two months, and banished from Venice for a year afterwards. This slight punishment for so grave an offence stung Faliero to the quick. He felt that, though he occupied the Venetian throne, he had scarcely more power than the beggar at his gate. All his life he had been an active, energetic man, a ruler of men; his word had been law, and his counsels listened to with respect and acted upon. Now he was powerless. He was insulted by the young nobles, and had no power to punish them; his authority was entirely disregarded. This state of things grew worse and worse. Two of his old friends also were insulted by noblemen. At last Faliero's temper could endure no longer. In the April of 1355 he formed a conspiracy, and tried to assert his supremacy. Six months after his triumphant arrival in Venice as Doge, an old man and friendless, enraged at the insults offered to him, he struck one mad and foolish blow for freedom. The plot was betrayed on the eve of the catastrophe. The conspirators were strung up in one long ghastly line on the piazza. Faliero himself was beheaded at the foot of the stairs where a few short months before he had sworn the _promissione_ on assuming the office of Doge.

A GLIMPSE INTO BOHEMIA

On one occasion we arrived at Venice early in the morning. I was frightened at the darkness and the stillness, and the tall black houses looming high above us: it seemed that brigands must be lurking there, ready to murder us. Absolute silence reigned, except for mysterious sounds as if melodious voices were calling a refractory dog--"Puppy," "Puppy," "Puppy," we heard on every side. It was the warning of the gondoliers as they passed one another in the darkness. I longed for some accustomed natural noise. If only something would fall and make a splash! The silence set one's nerves on edge. We hired a gondola, and glided swiftly and silently out into the darkness, our gondolier's ringing voice joining the chorus of "Puppy." And so dexterously did he handle his dainty craft that, even as we turned corners and passed other gondolas in the pitch-black darkness, not a sound was made, not a splash. I felt like beating the water with the palms of my hands to make a disturbance. This silent gliding went on for about twenty minutes, until suddenly we drew up by an enormous silver-grey palace down a side canal, one of the largest palaces in Venice, with broad marble steps and badly-made deal doors. After some time the doors were opened, and an old lady appeared, bowing and talking in rapid Italian. She led us up the steps and through a colossal hall of marble, all marble, with staircases on either side leading on to spacious landings, into a suite of rooms that seemed more like the state apartments of a king than those of an ordinary hotel.

One of the first things I did when I awoke in the morning was to get out on to the roof of the palace and look about me. I always ask to be directed on to the roof when I arrive at a new place. And there I remained the whole morning, painting, deaf to the pleadings of my friends that I should come down and eat. It was the chimneys that fascinated me! From the decorative standpoint they were quite startling. Chimneys, chimneys, everywhere, and such chimneys--grouped into pictures in every direction! There were clusters of twos, and clusters of threes; and wherever there were spaces that could be used for decoration they were used to the full. Each one of these chimneys seemed to have its own particular character. Some bulged out at the top in graceful lines; some were square and stolid; others were light and airy. At the base of some bloomed a blaze of flowers from the roof gardens. Each one was different. When I learned that a book had been published on the chimneys of Venice I was not in the least surprised.

When my friends were able to tear me away from chimneys we got into 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.

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.