Chapter XI: An Autumn Ramble

The artist has gone on a tramp in the Alps, and now begins the long neglected sight-seeing,--a pure delight in the golden October days. There is no such haste in the early morning as in the summer time, and it is usually ten o'clock when I have read my papers, written my letters, and Anita is ready to go with me with her never-failing luncheon-basket; for we do not like to be bound to return at a fixed hour, and we never know quite where we shall be when we are hungry, so we take our _collazione_ with us. As a rule we are home again at four, just in good time for a cup of tea and a rest before dinner. When the summer is over, it is delightful to feel that the gondola is not obligatory, to use it only for excursions on the lagoons, for views on the Grand Canal, for moonlit evenings, and when one is indolent. Venice is quite another place when one walks and makes the acquaintance of the curious, characteristic _campi_ and _calli_, as well as of some of the people. One of the most charming walks is along the Riva degli Schiavoni, ending at the Arsenal, after various detours.

Passing through the Piazzetta, we turn to the left on the Molo. This side of the Ducal Palace is beautiful in spite of the disproportion in the height of the lower story; this is caused by the rising of the sea-level, which is said to average three inches in a century, and consequently the pavement must be raised; if this is correct, the columns {203} of the palace must be fifteen inches below the present pavement. The entire _loggie_ on this side of the palace are the work of the Bon family; the designs on the capitals of the columns are very curious, illustrating mediæval allegories and legends which symbolize justice and good government. The windows are fine, and the balcony in the centre is richly ornamented; the bas-reliefs are wrought with great delicacy and skill.

From the Ponte della Paglia, at the end of the Molo, we have the best possible view of the Bridge of Sighs, which Howells calls a "pathetic swindle," and not without reason. It was not built until the end of the sixteenth century, since which there has been but one victim of political imprisonment. But there it hangs, high in air, "a palace and a prison on each hand." Looking up from the Paglia it is most effective, although vulgar prisoners only have passed over it to their death. No doomed Foscari or Carmagnola ever saw it; and perhaps its greatest interest is from that much-worn line of Byron's, "I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs."

Passing the Paglia, we are on the Riva degli Schiavoni, in front of the Carceri, or public prison. As the apartments of the _Signori di Notte_ (heads of police) were on this side, it was not made to look like a prison. Below are rustic arches, above which Doric columns, on pedestals, support a fine cornice with consoles in the frieze. The upper rooms are now used for convicts and the windows are grated. One can but wonder how it would seem to be there, shut off from the world, and gaze out on the beautiful Church of San Giorgio Maggiore and the lagoon beyond, with the ever-changing aspect of the divinely colored waters; to watch the multitudes of steamers, gondolas, and other boats passing and re-passing; to listen to the sound of steps and voices on the Riva, and to all the different songs and cries from the boats. It must be {204} maddening. Was it the effect of the restless waves that Saint John watched from Patmos, in his exile, that made him say, "And I saw a new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and the first earth were passed away; _and there was no more sea_"?

Passing another bridge, we turn into a curious vaulted passage at the left which leads to the beautiful Church of San Zaccaria; it is three centuries and a quarter old, and the third which has been erected on this spot. Architects lavish praises on it; Fergusson says: "One of the finest of the early façades of Italy is that of San Zaccaria at Venice."

In 854 Pope Benedict III. visited Venice, and the Abbess of San Zaccaria succeeded in obtaining from his Holiness the gift of the bodies of Santa Sabina and San Pancrazio and other sacred relics. After these treasures had been received, the Doge Tradenigo paid a visit of devotion to this favored shrine, and the abbess presented to him the splendid Ducal Beretta. It was studded with rare gems, having in the centre a large diamond surrounded by twenty-four pear-shaped pearls; above the diamond was a ruby of dazzling brilliancy, and in the front a cross was woven which contained twenty-three emeralds and other precious stones. The Doge made a solemn promise that each year he, and his successors after him, would visit San Zaccaria at Easter, in solemn procession, and wearing the precious Beretta.

The nuns of this sisterhood also gave a part of their garden to enlarge the Piazza of San Marco, and proved themselves as generous and public-spirited as they were opulent.

From the ninth to the twelfth century the Doges were buried in San Zaccaria; and the same Tradenigo who received the Beretta was assassinated in front of the church, where the column now stands. Its architecture {205} is semi-Byzantine, except in the choir, which is Gothic. The pentagonal tribune is beautiful, with its circular arches below and its pointed arches above, which are exquisite in proportion and effect.

Near the door of the sacristy is the monument of the "Michelangelo of Venice," Alessandro Vittoria. He began this funeral monument thirteen years before he died! The bust is by his own hand, and the whole work is very interesting.

But that which holds us longest in San Zaccaria is the picture of the Virgin and Child, with four saints, by the adorable Giovanni Bellini. It is not one of his best, but it is a glorious picture. In 1797 it made the sad and disgraceful journey to Paris, and the restorers have not improved it; but in spite of all, we love it, and before we go away must also see the same master's small picture of the Circumcision, in a chapel of the choir, which is very much admired.

As we return to the Riva and pass on to the Ponte del Sepolcro, a very different sort of interest is aroused by the sight of the inscription upon the house which now replaces the Casa del Petrarca. The Palazzo delle due Torri was given to the poet in 1362 by the Republic, in return for a portion of his library. This frank statement of a perfectly creditable business transaction is somewhat of a shock to those who have thought of Petrarch as a disinterested benefactor of Venice. But we must remember that he was now nearly threescore years of age; he had exhausted the romance of his life long before; he had attempted to make peace between the Italian powers in vain; he abominated the manner in which wars had come to be made, by employing the mercenaries who brought with them pestilence and death; and he longed for a peaceful home for his old age more than for anything else.

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With what comfort he must have settled himself in his luxurious house on the Riva; how differently must he have felt from those prisoners in the Carceri, of whom we have spoken, when he gazed upon the broad harbor and heard the bustle of the port! That it all appealed to him is proved by the following extract from one of his letters:

"See the innumerable vessels which set forth from the Italian shore in the desolate winter, in the most variable and stormy spring, one turning its prow to the east, the other to the west; some carrying our wine to foam in British cups, our fruits to flatter the palates of the Scythians, and, still more hard of credence, the wood of our forests to the Ægean and Achaian isles; some to Syria, to Armenia, to the Arabs and Persians, carrying oil and linen and saffron, and bringing back all their diverse goods to us."

He soon gathered around him a choice circle of friends; Boccaccio came to visit him and remained three months. What a picture is presented to our imagination when Petrarch reminds the great story-teller of their "nocturnal rambles on the sea, and that conversation enlightened and sincere"! He urges him to come again in this wise: "The gentle season invites to where no other cares await you but those pleasant and joyful occupations of the Muses, to a house most healthful, which I do not describe because you know it." It is not thus that we are apt to think of Laura's lover, or of the author of the Decameron; but in Venice they seem to have been two quiet old men seeking peace and health.

An interesting occasion when Petrarch played an important part was that of the great tournament which terminated the festivities after the capture of Crete in 1364. He sat beside the Doge in a balcony behind the horses of St. Mark. The balcony was as splendid as the richest awnings and hangings could make it, and the ducal {207} robes and crown were in strange contrast to the black gown and hood of the Laureate. Did he take pleasure in the thought that his fame as a poet would be known to future millions who would not be able to call the name of a single Venetian among the thousands who were there assembled? Surely it was a pleasant episode in Petrarch's life, this time in Venice; but it was all too short, and ended most unhappily.

After four years on the Riva, in that "house most healthful," a number of the patrician _giovinastri_--all infidels and much puffed up with their little learning--after discussing their philosophies with Petrarch came to the grave decision that he was "a good but ignorant man"! To us it is absurd that this great poet should have given a serious thought to such folly; but the same sort of young men had driven Marino Faliero to such straits that he turned traitor. Petrarch showed his pain and indignation in a milder way, by quitting Venice to return no more. This was certainly the worse for Venice, since he imparted to the Republic the only poetical association connected with its palmy days. No poet with a name to live was born of that nation of wise statesmen, bravo soldiers, cunning merchants, and glorious artists. We can but wonder if it would have comforted him to know that the first exquisite book from the Aldine press in Venice, more than a century and a quarter after his death, would be his own poems and printed in fac-simile of his own handwriting!

Petrarch retired to Arqua del Monte, a quiet little town in a valley of the Euganean Hills, where he lived peacefully, visited by his friends and enjoying the many proofs that came to him of the appreciation which the scholars of his time had for his character and works. In 1373, again he went to Venice with Francesco Carrara Novello, who was to make submission as the proxy of his father, {208} after the treaty at the termination of the Carrarese War. Again, the Laureate addressed the Doge, the peers, and senators, as the Apostle of Peace; it was his valedictory at Venice. In July, 1374, he was found dead in his library at Arqua.

"But knock, and enter in.
This was his chamber. 'T is as when he went;
As if he now were in his orchard-grove.
And this his closet. Here he sat and read.
This was his chair; and in it, unobserved,
Reading, or thinking of his absent friends,
He passed away as in a quiet slumber."

While thinking thus of the happenings on this very Riva five centuries agone, we pass through the narrow calle which leads to the campo of San Giovanni in Bragora. The pictures in this church are very interesting, and the font by Sansovino is beautiful; but to-day the Palazzo Badoer especially appeals to me, and yet one must almost regret having seen it since the restorers--Heaven save the mark!--have spoiled it. If the ghosts of the seven Badoer Doges ever walk this way, what must they think of the squares of red and white marble in which it is now dressed?

What a family they were, descended from Tribunes of the Rialto in the time of Theodoric the Goth; and to what good purpose they swayed the Ivory Sceptre during seventy-four years. It was Badoer II. who erected the first chapel in the Ducal Palace for the body of Saint Mark, which came to Venice during his reign. A daughter of Badoer IV. was an abbess of San Zaccaria, and many of the sons of these Doges entered the Church; but theirs was a proud, brave, just, and patriotic race, better suited to governing the Republic than to the offices of Holy Church. In their day the Doges were absolute monarchs, and the Badoeri gave almost constant domestic tranquillity to Venice, and won the hearts of the Venetians.

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And now we are in the broadest street of Venice, the Via Garibaldi. It leads to the Giardini Pubblici, which is a park rather than a garden, and was made by Napoleon in 1807. The space was gained by the destruction of four churches, as many monasteries, and a hundred houses, none of which are now missed. It is a pleasant place to take luncheon, with a lovely panorama before us, to which the boats and their ever-fascinating sails give life and cheerfulness. Beyond the canal of the Giudecca rises the dome of the Redentore; the square tower of the Dogana and the cupolas of the Salute make a striking effect against the cloudless sky; well round to the right we see the top of the Campanile behind the Ducal Palace, and before us, the island of San Giorgio Maggiore, with its picturesque church and fine clock-tower, seems very near.

Undoubtedly, all this is best at sunset with the golden west for a background; indeed, few points are so favorable for watching the glorious death of day, especially if one lingers while the fires die out and even the more delicate tints fade away. Then a mysterious indistinctness steals over all the distant objects, but now so clearly cut against the flaming sky. There was a reality and emphasis about these towers and spires, the canals, and all the moving objects that made them a part of a work-a-day, practical world, but in the dusky twilight the outlines run together; we see and do not see the true forms of the various parts of Santa Maria della Salute, but a beautiful whole remains; even the nearer San Giorgio becomes mysterious; the smaller features disappear, while the whole is profoundly impressive and grand, seeming to clothe itself with the night, as if retiring into its own world of peaceful and solemn repose.

But at whatever hour one comes, this garden seems deserted, except on the one September Monday when it is the custom to picnic here. To-day we leave it quite empty, {210} and walk along the Riva of the Rio di Sant'Anna, making our way to the _calle larga_ and the bridge which connects Venice with the island called San Pietro, or Olivolo, or Quinta Valle. Early in the history of Venice this island became important; and the first large church of the Republic, built here among the olives, was made the patriarchal church, and so continued until Napoleon bestowed that honor on San Marco, and converted the patriarchal palace of San Pietro into a barrack. After 766 the Bishop of Olivolo was an important man; he could not have been very wealthy, since his income depended on the mortuary tax, from which he was called _Vescovo de' Morti_ (the Bishop of the Dead), and on an annual poll-tax of three hens from the people of a certain district.

One evening in June, 836, as the Doge Badoer III. was leaving San Pietro after vespers, unattended, as was his custom, he was seized by a number of bravoes, who compelled him to submit to the tonsure and then hurried him to a neighboring convent, where he was securely lodged. To kidnap a Doge of Venice was a most high-handed and extraordinary proceeding, and it is gratifying to know that his enemy who caused it to be done, was not elected to fill the vacancy he had created.

It was also at San Pietro di Castello, as the church came to be called, that the "Brides of Venice" were wed. By ancient custom, on Saint Mary's Eve, January 31, twelve poor virgins, endowed by the Republic, came here with their lovers, parents, kinsfolk, and friends; the brides were dressed in white with their hair hanging loosely about the shoulders, and each one with her dower in a little box suspended by a ribbon around her neck. Many boats dressed with flags and flowers bore the happy company over the canals towards Olivolo.

The Doge and the chief officers of State assisted at the ceremony, and the Bishop preached a sermon and pronounced {211} a blessing on all these fortunate young people, who went away wedded and joyous. But in 939 a most unhappy interruption occurred. The pirates of Trieste, who knew all about this wholesale wedding, hid themselves near by until all the assembly had entered the church, and then, rushing in, just as the brides were to be given away, they seized them, even at the foot of the altar, and before the Venetians could comprehend the danger, the maidens were in the barks of the pirates and sailing towards Trieste!

No such outrage as this had ever been perpetrated in Venice, and the Doge Sanudo II. summoned the people to arms with the bell of the Campanile. The trunk-makers offered their boats, which were near at hand, and the Doge with the lovers and friends of the brides were soon in hot pursuit, and erelong hundreds of other boats followed. They soon overtook the Istrians, and killed almost every one of them in the conflict which ensued. The rescued brides were taken back to the usual festivities of the evening, which were greatly enhanced by their gratitude at being delivered from the unusual dangers that had threatened them.

After this episode the Festa delle Marie was established. Twelve dolls were dressed in bridal costume, and carried around the Piazza in procession; but this dumb show did not satisfy the Venetians, and was soon replaced by a solemn procession of twelve virgins attended by the Doge and the clergy. They paid a visit of ceremony to the parish of Santa Maria Formosa, where the trunk-makers who originated this _festa_ welcomed them most hospitably. Tradition says that when these men requested the Doge to institute this Andata, he asked,--

"And what if it should rain?"

"We will give you hats for your head; and if you are thirsty, we will give you drink," answered they.

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Accordingly, each year, the Doge received two bottles of Malmsey, two oranges, and two hats, on one of which was his own coat-of-arms, and that of the reigning Pope on the other. In the thirteenth century such extravagance had crept into this ceremonial that the brides wore crowns of gold adorned with precious stones, and cloaks of cloth of gold, and all in the procession were treated to wine and sweetmeats. This was continued until 1379, when the War of Chioggia interrupted all Venetian merry-makings; and on account of its cost, and a certain license of conduct which had been indulged in its celebration, the Festa delle Marie was discontinued.

Another delightful story in Bandello relates that Elena was secretly married to Gerardo, and separated from him by the same cruel fate that presides over many secret marriages, and on the eve of an enforced marriage she fell into a death-like trance and was laid in a sarcophagus in San Pietro. On that very evening a more propitious fate brought Gerardo home from Syria. When he learned of Elena's death, he rushed to the church, snatched her from the tomb, and carried her off; in his embrace she again found life, and the sorrowing parents gladly forgave these most interesting young people.

Having all these associations with San Pietro in mind, I had long wished to go there, but I found little to detain me. The Campanile (1474) is stately and fine, but the church (1594-1621) is not interesting. There is little to notice within. Two pictures by Marco Basaiti are soft and graceful, as are all his works; and the faces of the saints seem to express enjoyment of their placid melancholy. Near one of the altars is an ancient Arabian seat or throne, said to have been used by Saint Peter at Antioch. It was given to the Doge Pietro Gradenigo by Michele Paleologo in 1310. The curious inscriptions on the back are thought to be in Arabic.

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Retracing our steps to the Via Garibaldi, we turn into the corte nuova, and soon stand where one is sure to be impressed with the power and grandeur of Mediæval Venice.

The first Doge of the Falieri had the honor to found the Arsenal, than which nothing could be more important in that "City of the Sea." There is a fascination in thinking of the time when the ringing hammers were swung by brawny arms, when the pitch was always boiling, and the primitive vessels of the Middle Ages were built with a miraculous rapidity; but in the eight centuries that have rolled away since its foundation there has never been a time when the Arsenal of Venice was not of great interest, as it still is.

Formerly, more than now, it seemed to be the ever-flowing fountain of Venetian greatness; for no matter by what enemy the Republic was threatened or attacked, no matter whether the danger was to her commerce or her territory, it was to the Arsenal she turned for strength. To repulse her own enemies, whether they were Saracens from the East, Genoese from the West, or pirates from all quarters, her Arsenal must furnish her with ships and arms; and in order to increase her wealth, the sea must be an open field to traffic and enterprise. To insure this, her ships must be many and fine; and, in short, but for her Arsenal she could never have attained or preserved her empire of the waters.

And now, although the workshops are not teeming with artisans, and the forges are not blazing as of old, it is not difficult to imagine the thousands and tens of thousands of men who here forged and welded the real strength of the beloved Republic.

The Venetians, among modern nations, first built ships on a truly great scale. Their galleys were enormous in power; their transport ships could carry a thousand men {214} with their stores; their galeasses permitted sixteen hundred men to fight on board, while they carried fifty pieces of heavy artillery, and had their prows made cannon proof. Naturally the nations with whom they disputed the sea endeavored to build ships equal to those of Venice; but she always had one advantage, in that even the small vessels bore at least fifteen guns, and the Venetian gunners were good marksmen.

Even to the end of the thirteenth century, however, the Arsenal was not firmly established, and vessels were built in temporary dockyards, wherever room was found. But with the beginning of the fourteenth century the Senate determined on making the Arsenal so fine and so strong that it could not be taken by an enemy. It was constantly guarded, and many attempts were made to destroy it. At the end of the fifteenth century it was under the care of a special magistracy, and sixteen thousand ship-builders and thirty-six thousand seamen were employed in Venice.

The three magistrates or keepers of the Arsenal were appointed for a term of thirty-two months, and were obliged to inhabit three official houses, called Paradiso, Purgatorio, and Inferno. Each keeper was on duty fifteen days at a time, during which he slept within the fortification, kept the key in his room, and was answerable with his head for the safety of the place. But one passage led out of the Arsenal,--that to the iron gate which opens on the small campo. With the exception of the great lions now at the entrance,--brought from Greece in the seventeenth century,--the exterior has changed but little in three centuries and a half.

Small arms and artillery were made here, as well as ships; and in each department the superiority of the manufactures resulted from the skill of the workmen and the quality of the materials used. The ship timber, after {215} being carefully selected and brought from various countries, was floated near the Lido for ten years to season it. The different parts of the vessels were cut and fitted in the workshops with such exactness that they could be put together with marvellous rapidity. It is said that when Henry III. of France visited Venice, a galley was put together and launched in two hours, while he was at a banquet; and during the famous League, before the battle of Lepanto, for one hundred days a new galley left the Arsenal each morning.

In truth, the Arsenal was a town by itself,--a town of foundries, forges, magazines of arms, and munitions of war, timber-yards, rope-walks, model-rooms, and warehouses; a town full of smoke, toil, and uproar. Dante had been here; and when he wished to describe a lake of pitch in which corrupt statesmen are immersed, in his Inferno, he thus begins:--

"In the Venetians' arsenal as boils
Through wintry months tenacious pitch, to smear
Their unsound vessels; for the inclement time
Sea-faring men restrains, and in that while
His bark one builds anew, another stops
The ribs of his that hath made many a voyage,
One hammers at the prow, one at the poop,
This shapeth oars, that other cables twirls,
The mizzen one repairs, and mainsail rent."

The _Arsenalotti_, as the workmen were called, had their own organization and certain privileges. They well merited the confidence of the Republic, which they called their "good mother;" and she wisely gave them pledges of her trust. The treasures of San Marco, the Mint, and the Bank were guarded by them. Whenever the Great Council assembled, the Guard of Honor before the Ducal Palace was elected from their number. Each new Doge was attended by _Arsenalotti_, when, after his election, he went through the city to receive the congratulations of {216} the people; and, above all, the Bucentaur was in their care when the Marriage with the Adriatic was celebrated.

We can readily understand that the destruction of the Arsenal was the first aim of the enemies of Venice. It was only by "eternal vigilance" that it was preserved, and the severest punishments were thought too mild for those who attempted its ruin. In 1428 a man suspected of being a tool of the Duke of Milan and of intending to burn the Arsenal was dragged at a horse's tail and then quartered in the Piazzetta. Certainly a man who would burn the Arsenal was not needed in Venice, and we are not surprised that the Council of Ten were of this opinion; but they might have used a more humane method in his taking off.

For example, in the Museum of this very Arsenal there are many instruments of torture that one would not care to have used, even for the worst criminal imaginable; but there is one curious little death-dealer that claims to give its victim no pain whatever. It is a sort of key with a spring, by means of which a poisoned needle is shot into the victim, who dies without discomfort or the loss of a particle of blood.

Going home from the Arsenal, we take a gondola; and as we glide along, we recall the curious _tableaux vivants_ which we have seen in this long ramble. All about the quarter of San Zaccaria we saw and heard the bead-stringers, as busy with their tongues as with their fingers. They are very skilful, and in their bright-colored handkerchiefs, with here and there a flower or gay comb or pin in their dark hair,--they know exactly how and where to put them in order to make the best effect,--they are picturesque, and some of them very handsome. They hold a tray of beads on the lap, and with a long needle, which carries the string, they dive among the beads at one end of the tray, push it quickly through the whole mass, and bring it up and out at the other end, {217} well laden with the fascinating, many-tinted little globes. They do it as if they enjoyed it, and meanwhile they talk with each other, have a few words with the passers-by, and amuse and scold the children who play around them.

From San Pietro one sees, on the opposite side the canal, a neighborhood much adorned with fishing-nets. They are spread or hung everywhere that they can be made to stay on, and at a distance the effect is curious and picturesque. Old sails, too, are being dried or mended, while new ones are cut, sewed, or painted. This last process is novel and interesting; and as Giacomo needed a new sail for the sandolo, we saw the operation. The colors used are principally red and orange, and more rarely a pale green and a heavy sort of blue. If by chance you see a distant sail with a spot of sky blue on it, you will find on nearer acquaintance that you were looking at the real sky through a rent in the sail. The colors are made by mixing a kind of earth with water and adding the coloring matter; and these colors are "set" by dipping the sail, when finished, in the sea, and drying it in the sun, repeating this several times. The colors are applied with a sponge instead of a brush; and when one sees in how rude a manner the painting is done, it seems a wonder that the results are so effective. The artist (?) simply walks around the edge of his design with his sponge full of color, and the broad, rough outline is made. A certain slap and dash puts in the details, and the background is laid on rapidly.

Our new sail had a red heart pierced by an orange arrow, on a blue field, and the outer border was in stripes of dull red and orange. It sounds uncommonly ugly on paper, but Giacomo and Anita were very proud of it; and after it was soiled and faded it was not bad, although the plain colors, or stripes and geometrical designs, are preferable, we think,--but we are not Venetian gondoliers or fishermen.

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