Chapter XIV: The Treasures of the Piazza

There is a world of interest in the bronzes, mosaics, and marbles of Venice, many of which are in and about the Piazza of San Marco. Perhaps something should first be said about this spot, already so frequently mentioned, and in which the whole history of Venice seems to centre; but when I think of writing it the words of the double of the Rev. Frederic Ingham occur to me with great force: "There has been so much said, and, on the whole, so well said, that I will not occupy the time."

To quote some of these "well-said" things seems far the wisest course. Mr. Howells says:--

"The Place of St. Mark is the heart of Venice, and from this beats new life in every direction, through an intricate system of streets and canals, that bring it back again to the same centre.... 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 S. Marco merits its distinction, not in Venice only, but in the whole world. I never, during three years, passed through it in my daily walks, without feeling as freshly as at first the greatness of its beauty.

"The church, which the mighty bell-tower and the lofty height of the palace lines make to look low, is in no wise 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 {260} winning loveliness of earth that first attracts you to it, and when you emerge from its portals, you emerge 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.

"Whatever could please, the Venetian seems to have brought within and made a 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 S. Marco."

In his delightful "Italy," Taine, after declaring Venice to be the pearl of that country, not equalled by anything he has seen, says:--

"The admirable Piazza, bordered with porticos and palaces, extends rectangularly its forests of columns, its Corinthian capitals, its statues, its noble and varied arrangement of classic forms. At its extremity, half Gothic, half Byzantine, rises the Basilica, under bulbous domes and tapering belfries, its arcades festooned with figures, its porches laced with light columns, its arches wainscoted with mosaics, its pavements incrusted with colored marbles, and its cupolas scintillating with gold; a strange mysterious sanctuary, a sort of Christian mosque in which cascades of light vacillate in ruddy shadows like the wings of genii within the purple, metallic walls of subterranean abodes. All this teems with sparks and radiance. A few paces off, bare and erect like a ship's mast, the gigantic Campanile towers in the air, and announces to distant mariners the time-honored royalty of Venice. At its base, closely pressed to it, the delicate _loggetta_ of Sansovino seems like a flower, so many statues, bas-reliefs, bronzes, and marbles, whatever is rich and imaginative of living and elegant art, crowd around it to adorn it...

"Like a magnificent diamond in a brilliant setting, the Ducal Palace effaces the rest.... Never has the like architecture been seen; all here is novel. You feel yourself drawn out of the conventional: you realize that outside of classic or Gothic {261} forms, which we repeat and impose on ourselves, there is an entire world; that human invention is illimitable; that, like Nature, it may break all the rules, and produce a perfect work after a model opposed to that to which we are told to conform."

Ruskin's words rush out, and seem to tumble one over the other in their haste to express his seething thought:--

"A multitude of pillars and white domes, clustered into a long low pyramid of colored light; a treasure-heap, it seems, partly of gold and partly of opal and mother-of-pearl, hollowed beneath into fine great vaulted porches, ceiled with fair mosaic, and beset with sculpture of alabaster, clear as amber and delicate as ivory,--sculpture fantastic and involved, of palm-leaves and lilies and grapes and pomegranates, and birds clinging and fluttering among the branches, all twined together into an endless network of buds and plumes; and in the midst of it the solemn forms of angels, sceptred, and robed to the feet, and leaning to each other across the gates, their figures indistinct among the gleaming of the golden ground through the leaves beside them, interrupted and dim, like the morning light as it faded back among the branches of Eden, when first its gates were angel-guarded long ago.

"And round the walls of the porches there are set pillars of variegated stones, jasper and porphyry, and deep-green serpentine spotted with flakes of snow, and marbles that half refuse and half yield to the sunshine, Cleopatra-like, 'their bluest veins to kiss,'--the shadow, as it steals back from them, revealing line after line of azure undulation, as a receding tide leaves the waved sand; their capitals rich with interwoven tracery, rooted knots of herbage, and drifting leaves of acanthus and vine, and mystical signs, all beginning and ending in the cross; and above them, in the broad archivolts, a continuous chain of language and of life,--angels, and the signs of heaven, and the labors of men, each in its appointed season upon the earth ... until at last, as if in ecstasy, the crests of the arches break into a marble foam, and toss themselves far into the blue {262} sky in flashes and wreaths of sculptured spray, as if the breakers on the Lido shore had been frost-bound before they fell, and the sea-nymphs had inlaid them with coral and amethyst."

In comparison with the above, how curiously commonplace was Goethe, with his very practical queries, when first he saw the Horses of St. Mark: "A glorious team of horses,--I should like to hear the opinion of a good judge of horse flesh. What seemed strange to me was that, closely viewed, they appear heavy, while from the piazza below they look light as deer." To me the mystery in which they are veiled is their chief attraction. We know that the brave old Dandolo sent them from Constantinople to be one of his most striking monuments.

In this temple porch,
Old as he was, so near his hundredth year,
And blind,--his eyes put out,--did Dandolo
Stand forth, displaying on his crown the cross.
There did he stand, erect, invincible,
Though wan his cheeks, and wet with many tears,
For in his prayers he had been weeping much;
And now the pilgrim and the people wept
With admiration, saying in their hearts,
"Surely those aged limbs have need of rest!"
There did he stand, with his old armor on,
Ere, gonfalon in hand, that streamed aloft,
As conscious of its glorious destiny,
So soon to float o'er mosque and minaret,
He sailed away, five hundred gallant ships,
Their lofty sides hung with emblazoned shields,
Following his track to fame. He went to die;
But of his trophies four arrived erelong,
Snatched from destruction,--the four steeds divine,
That strike the ground, resounding with their feet,
And from their nostrils snort ethereal flame
Over that very porch,
SAMUEL ROGERS.

We know that one of these horses was transported on the galley of Domenico Morosini, and that by some accident a piece was broken off of one of its hind legs, which {263} fragment the Senate allowed the valiant admiral to keep as a souvenir of his experiences. He placed it on a console of the façade of his house at St. Augustine, where Sanuto saw it, as he tells us in his chronicles. We know of their journey to Paris in 1797, and of their return in 1815. We know that they weigh but a few pounds less than a ton each; but who made them, and where and when? We know that it is said that they were treasures of Alexandria, and were carried to Rome by Augustus after he defeated Mark Antony, 30 B.C. But who can tell what Cleopatra thought of them? We know that it is said that five Roman emperors placed them on as many triumphal arches in the Eternal City, and then Constantino took them off to the New Rome to grace his Hippodrome. But when all these sayings are said, who knows?

Above them is the winged Lion of St Mark, that had such a curiously opposite effect on the minds of the Venetians and those of their enemies, imparting his traditional boldness to the former, and dissipating whatever of that quality existed in the latter. This lion is ubiquitous in Venice, and can be found of almost any age required; but this one is very modern. He is brave in his coat of gold, and the field of azure sown with golden stars which makes his background is very becoming. He rests one paw on the open book to emphasize the words "Pax tibi Marce Evagelista meus." Above him towers the statue of that saint whose symbol he is, the lion-hearted Mark,--the saint whose crumbling bones below, in the great Basilica, seem by some subtle spell to have made invincible the hearts and arms of those who look to him as their protecting guardian.

Rising from the pavement below, and towering far above the Bronze Horses, are the three cedar _pili_ (flag-staffs), from which in the old days floated the banners of Cyprus, Candia, and the Morea, ever recalling to the {264} Venetians the glorious victories they had gained. On Sundays and festivals the Italian colors are now seen on these masts, rising from the same magnificent bronze pedestals which have held them almost four hundred years, and which, according to ancient pictures, must have replaced still older ones. These were given by Paolo Barbo in 1501 and by the Doge Leonardo Loredano in 1505, and were all the work of Alessandro Leopardo. If the graceful tritons and sirens chiselled there could speak, how many questions we should like to ask them!

But alas! the only bronzes of the Piazza that give any sign of life are the two Moors on the top of the Torre dell' Orologio, and they only to strike the bell which each time reminds us that we have one hour less in Venice. There is a story that one of these Moors is a murderer, but not with malice aforethought. A poor workman, unconscious of the hour, was within the swing of the Moor's hammer, and so was thrown to his death below.

The azure and gold dial on this tower gives much information. The Italian hours, one to twenty-four, the quarters of the moon, and the twelve signs of the zodiac are there. On the upper story, above the dial, is a gigantic lion, with the starry background which he seems to affect, and beneath him is a gilded statue of the Virgin Mary. During the month of May, at certain hours, a door near her opens, and the Magi appear, pass before her, salute her with their crowns, and disappear by another door.

When all this happens at a quiet midnight hour, when the weird moonlight leaves much in shadow, bringing out only the most prominent objects, as the Moors and the Magi come to life, one involuntarily looks around, expecting to see the lion between the Clock Tower and the church shake his mane and come down from his block, to hear the horses neigh, and to behold a long line of saints {265} and angels who have left their dizzy heights to walk around the square in grand procession.

There are few objects in all Venice which have a greater variety of interesting associations than the Campanile, which so dominates the city and the surrounding sea that from its summit the fleets that have sailed away for war and for the pursuits of peace have been watched for many centuries, and followed by prayers and blessings until lost in the dim distance.

From this same height, what anxious eyes have been strained to catch the first glimpse of victorious, home-coming galleys! Or, in times of need, as during the Chioggian War, it was from the Campanile that the welcome aid-bearing vessels were first seen; and in all times of great events, for joy or sorrow, it was the tocsin of the Campanile that called the people to the Piazza to hear the news and take counsel for action. Nine hundred and ninety-two years has it performed these offices; and could a diary have been written of all its experiences, what book would be more wonderful?

Until 1518 there hung, from a projecting beam half-way up the tower, a wooden cage, grated with iron bars, in which some criminals were placed to endure the changes of the weather, as well as hunger and thirst, so long as life should last; for but meagre supplies of bread and water were let down to the cage from the top of the tower. Perhaps it was the influence of the golden angel which crowns the Campanile, and is kind enough to turn with every wind that blows, that wrought the merciful reform; for the cage was banished within a few months after he assumed the most commanding position in the Republic.

We are told that in the old days there were four bells rung from the tower for different purposes. _La marangola_ sounded at dawn to call the laboring-classes to their {266} work; _la sestamezzana_ announced the opening of the official bureaux; _la trottera_ called the councillors to their duties; and the bell _del malefizio_ was the knell that tolled during executions. About 1670 a fifth great bell was brought from Candia, which was heard only on Ascension Day, when the Doge espoused the Adriatic.

All lovers of Venice can sympathize with Arthur Hugh Clough, and will remember with delight the view from the Campanile, when for the first time the intricacies of this charming labyrinth can be unravelled,--

"My mind is in her rest; my heart at home
In all around; my soul secure in place,
And the vext needle perfect to her poles.
Aimless and hopeless in my life, I seemed
To thread the winding byways of the town
Bewildered, baffled, hurried hence and thence,
All at cross purpose ever with myself,
Unknowing whence or whither. Then, at once,
At a step, I crown the Campanile's top,
And view all mapped below; islands, lagoon,
An hundred steeples, and a myriad roofs,
The fruitful champaign, and the cloud-capt Alps,
And the broad Adriatic."

During the Crusades, in the cities of the East where the Christians were in power, it was customary to assign to each nation that had aided in the conquest a quarter in which they could live and worship in their own church. But at St. Jean d'Acre it happened that the Venetians and Genoese, enemies as they were, used the Church of St. Sabbas in common. As might have been foreseen, quarrels arose, and both claimed the building as exclusively their own. So fierce did the troubles become that at length the Genoese burned the church, with other buildings of the Venetian quarter. Such an insult could not be borne, and under Lorenzo Tiepolo the Venetians completely defeated the Genoese. In proof of the complete triumph of the Republic, two richly sculptured pillars, a {267} part of the gateway of St. Sabbas, and a low column of red porphyry were sent to Venice. Naturally these were placed in the beloved Piazza; and the Senate decreed that the pillars should stand between the church and the Ducal Palace, at the inner entrance to the Piazzetta. The short column near by, at the southwest corner of San Marco, was put to good use, and called the "Pietra del Bando." From it the laws of the Republic, the sentences of banishment, and other important decrees were promulgated.

But the most interesting columns stand at the opposite end of the Piazzetta, at the entrance from the lagoon. So typical were they of the spirit of Venice that they were duplicated in other cities under her sway. On one is a statue of that young Syrian warrior who stood the early Venetians in good stead as their patron saint, and still stands there upon the crocodile, at the chief entrance to the city, crowned by a nimbus, holding a shield on his right arm, and a sword in his left hand.

Opposite St Theodore, on the second column, is one of the many lions of St. Mark, with the open book. This one, alas! was desecrated by the French, and the gospel words replaced by the legend "Droits de l'Homme et du Citoyen," which caused a witty gondolier to say that "Saint Mark had turned over a new leaf." This lion made a part of the brazen menagerie that went to Paris in 1797, and returned to Venice in 1815. During his stay there he was appropriately lodged in the Invalides, no doubt suffering keenly the pains of dislocation. We must not forget that the Columns themselves have an interesting history. They form a sort of open door to the Piazzetta from the Molo, and are the first objects to attract the attention of the stranger who enters Venice from the sea. These two and another were brought from the islands of the Archipelago in 1127. One sank entirely out of sight, {268} and has never been found, and these two lay on the shore a half-century before any one succeeded in raising them. But when the Doge Sebastiano Ziani promised any _grazia onesta_ that might be asked by any man who could erect them on the Piazzetta, Niccolò il Barattiere (Nick the Blackleg) placed them on their pedestals, and demanded that gambling, which was forbidden elsewhere in Venice, might be carried on between the pillars. For some time this privilege brought wealth to the family Barattiere, and ruin to so many others that the Senate resorted to a cunning device to render the promise of the Doge of no effect. It was decreed that all public executions should occur "between the Columns," which made the place of such ill omen that no one could be enticed to come there for any "chance" that could be offered.

As the criminals mounted the scaffold, they were accustomed to turn and look at a Byzantine Madonna, high on the wall of San Marco, and repeat the _Salve Regina_. A lamp burns before this Madonna at night to commemorate the remorse of the Ten for having unjustly executed Giovanni Grassi in 1611. Ten years later the truth was known; a pardon was published, and this Madonna set up in remembrance of Grassi, and as a warning against hasty and unjust judgments.

The Piazzetta has well been called the antechamber of the Piazza. It is the chief resort of the gondoliers; and at all hours of the day there is a procession of men, women, and children, carrying water from the Ducal Palace,--the best water in all Venice. The two splendid bronze cisterns from which the water is taken are more than three centuries old; and besides the debt due them for good water, an almost equal one is owing them as the centre of the picturesqueness by which they are daily surrounded.

Entering by the splendid Porta della Carta, one sees {269} these cisterns in the midst of the great inner court, the four façades of which are covered with reliefs and figures that symbolize Christianity and mythology with apparently equal approbation. Mars and Neptune seem quite at ease in the society of Adam and Eve; and such a wilderness of boughs and plants, of blossoms and vines, and such numbers of griffins, fawns, and goats as can rarely be seen with a _coup d'œil_ make a bewildering whole which may well be studied in detail. But great powers of concentration are needed if much of this is not forgotten while observing the moving, living actors in the scene around these wells.

The water-bearers come and go, carrying vessels of all sizes, forms, and colors. Some who are strong and seem to be in haste quickly fill their cans and jars, and go away. Others, more at leisure, put down their burdens and stay to tell and hear the gossip of the day. The variety of faces, young and old, of dress and manners, and especially of gestures, is most remarkable. The two distinctive charms of this court, the artistic past and the picturesque present, make it always fascinating, no matter how often seen; and if one would here study Rizzo and Sansovino, it is sometimes necessary to shut the eyes and think of what is to be done, or the human nature of to-day will prove itself far more absorbing than the sculpture of the past.

But the treasure-house of rare and precious antiques in Venice is the Basilica of San Marco. On the exterior, besides the Bronze Horses, there are numerous fragments from more ancient edifices which bear witness to the good taste and the acquisitiveness of the old Venetians. Within and without are more than five hundred pillars of rare marbles, mostly Oriental. During the building of the Basilica all Venetian vessels that sailed to the East were obliged to bring back a contribution to San Marco. Many {270} of the pillars in the façade have Armenian and Syriac inscriptions, having once adorned older edifices; and tablets with ancient sculptures, of which no history can be given, are inserted in the walls. Of the three doors which open from the vestibule into the church, that on the right is believed to have been taken from St. Sophia, in 1203; and the eight marble columns on each side this entrance came from the same temple. An ancient Greek altar, with bas-reliefs of dolphins and children, supports the basin for holy water; and within the baptistery the mass of granite which forms the altar is said to be the stone on which Christ stood when he preached to the people of Tyre, or, as another tradition says, upon which he rested by the gate of Tyre, whence it was brought to Venice in 1126 by the Doge Domenico Michieli.

The Pala d' Oro is a remarkable specimen of Byzantine art. It is only seen on high festival days, when the candles are lighted in front of the high altar, in the splendid candelabra given by the Doge Cristoforo Moro in the middle of the fifteenth century.

This altar screen was originally intended to decorate the front of the altar. It was ordered to be made in Constantinople by the Doge Pietro Orseolo in 976, and was not brought to Venice until 1105, when it was enlarged and enriched by Venetian artists, and this process repeated in 1209 and 1345. Naturally the splendor it has gained detracts from its original value. It was Byzantine; it is now also Gothic and Venetian. The inscriptions are both in Greek and Latin; and, on the whole, it is inferior in workmanship to other specimens of European gold and enamel work of the Middle Ages. That portion which was made in Constantinople consists of a picture in enamel or gold, enriched with chasing, pearls, cameos, and precious stones. This Pala is a fitting symbol of the Basilica, which is as composite in its architecture {271} and as incongruous in its detail as it is splendid and imposing as a whole.

The canopy above the altar of the Holy Sacrament is supported by four spiral fluted pillars, said to have been brought from the Temple of Solomon. The bronzes by the Italian masters, here and there all over the Basilica, are of great interest. They date from the twelfth century, two of the doors from the vestibule into the church having been executed between 1100 and 1112. The five outer doors, made by the Venetian goldsmith Bertuccio, were finished in 1300. The bronze tomb of Cardinal Zeno is a magnificent specimen of the art of Lombardo and Leopardo (1505-15). It was decreed by the Republic to be placed in the chapel which the Cardinal had built. The statue of the Cardinal, surrounded by figures symbolic of his virtues, the lovely Madonna della Scarpa (golden shoe), with Saints Peter and John the Baptist, the two lions in colored marbles, and the mosaics of the twelfth century, make this chapel a wonderful treasure-house, and a worthy tribute to one who loved his Venice with supreme affection.

The Treasury of St. Mark once contained the finest collection of Byzantine jewelry in the world; and despite the demands made on it by the Republic in its emergencies, and the ravages of the robbers of 1797, it is still rich. It contains interesting reliquaries, chalices, cups, and similar objects in crystal, Oriental agate, gold, and silver, ornamented with enamels and precious stones. The reliquary containing a portion of the True Cross was given to St. Sophia, in 1120, by the Empress Irene. Among the other remarkable relics, all of which are in rich and costly reliquaries, are said to be a morsel of the skull of Saint John the Baptist and a bone from the arm of Saint George.

The altar of the Virgin Mary is continually surrounded {272} by worshippers. A picture of the Virgin, believed to have been painted by Saint Luke, is there. It is usually veiled; but on certain festival days it is taken into the Piazza, also on occasions of plagues or other public afflictions, and there the people flock to make their prayers and vows.

But the most distinctive and interesting study in this Basilica is that of its mosaics. So numerous are they that much devoted attention must be given by one who would fully comprehend their order and meaning. Nothing less than Mr. Ruskin's exhaustive treatise on them is worthy to be offered to an intelligent student of symbolism in art; and although one derives great pleasure from the more superficial knowledge of these works, Mr. Ruskin speaks truly when he says that an understanding of the mosaics changes the whole impression and atmosphere of the Basilica. Having shown that the mosaics give an historical epitome of Christ's teaching, he says:--

"And this thought may dispose the reader to look with some change of temper upon the gorgeous building and wild blazonry of that shrine of S. Mark's. He now perceives that it was in the hearts of the old Venetian people far more than a place of worship. It was at once a type of the Redeemed Church of God and a scroll for the written word of God. It was to them both an image of the Bride, all glorious within, her clothing of wrought gold, and the actual Table of the Law and the Testimony, written within and without. And whether honored as the Church or as the Bible, was it not fitting that neither the gold nor the crystal should be spared in the adornment of it; that, as the symbol of the Bride, the building of the wall thereof should be of jasper, and the foundations of it garnished with all manner of precious stones; and that, as the channel of the Word, the triumphant utterance of the Psalmist should be true of it, 'I have rejoiced in the way of thy testimonies, as much as in all riches'?"

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In spite of the lavishness of gold, of red, and all the varied tones of marbles, bronzes, and mosaics with which San Marco abounds, there are few churches so severe and profoundly impressive. The mystical half-light which pervades it converts what might be a tawdry blaze into harmonious poesy of color, full of the sentiment of impassioned religion. All of spiritual emotion and aspiration is here expressed. One forgets the detail and remembers the whole, loses the actual in the ideal, and thanks God that in this modern, bustling, materialistic nineteenth century there still exist "an assemblage of saints, an infinite history, an entire legendary Paradise," like those of San Marco.

Again in the Piazza, and in the midst of its present life. If it be early morning, it is almost deserted, save for the softly cooing and carefully stepping pigeons. At ten or eleven o'clock it is full of practical life. The shops are brilliant with jewels, glassware, beads, laces, and innumerable objects of use and uselessness. There are many sellers and buyers of all sorts of ambulating merchandise,--from turtles and other shell fish, vegetables and fruits, hardware and matches, to the lovely nosegays and toothsome caramel. Gentlemen are persecuted by persistent shoeblacks and men who mysteriously whisper of Havana cigars, while the tourists, with red guide-books in hand, impatiently wave off both these intruders, and the guides who offer their services, and rush on to the Basilica or Palace, as if they feared that these wonders would disappear before their eyes. Oh, this wearisome hurry! At noon the energy of the venders is somewhat subdued, and they are glad to seek the shade of the arcades; and in the early afternoon, when all the world is taking its luncheon or its siesta, when the pavement is burning beneath the sun, the Piazza is again almost deserted.

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But with the evening, from all parts of the city, come those who wish to see the world, to hear the music of the military bands, to dine at the _cafés_, and meet the friends they are likely to find there. And soon the Piazza is like an immense salon, brilliantly lighted, full of guests of many sorts, from the elegantly dressed ladies with their attendant cavaliers, to the plainly dressed traveller and the unobtrusive Venetians, who come to gaze at all who throng their dear Piazza. The flower-girls, in pretty costumes, offer their nosegays with a deprecating air, which is irresistible. When the band stops playing, strolling musicians sing, or play the violin and harp. The brilliant cafés are thronged, and hundreds of men and women, who surround the little tables in the square, leisurely enjoy their _sorbets_, sip the delicious coffee, and smoke the Oriental tobacco. It will be midnight, perhaps some hours after that, when the Piazza is again silent, "when a bright sleep is on each storied pile," when the only sounds are the soft lapping of the water at the end of the Piazzetta and the distant music of some belated gondolier who sings, as ever,--

"Venite all' agile, Barchetta mia,
Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia!"

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