4 with teks rte Hattt aii Sri teeet are rhe eee tarts erect aoe et erste sisy ~< - Sh tate Ss whet att rag heey es 3-4 SS pebers < > = TSG oo ‘3 by wr ern 31 aMeqiys: tapers ete Siena ? from Paris — Life in Venice;” the original one reap- pearing only in January, 1853, when the chapter on Florence was published in /e Pays. ‘That chapter ends 6 abe robe ofa che obo che hs cbr cbecde ecko cde cbocde eee cde che chee ere we are Te re ere eve ore ENE ROD YT FON abruptly, before Gautier has fairly entered upon the study of the city, its monuments, and its art treasures. As for Rome and Naples, there is not a word about them. Venice swamped the rest of Italy, not only because, as he tells us, he had spent a much longer time there than he had planned to do, but because when he began to write of this city of his dreams he could not stay his pen; the theme was congenial and the words came of themselves; one scene called up another, one picture reminded him of another masterpiece not yet seen — and on, on he went, forgetful of all else in that fair land save of the fact that he was in Venice, that Venice was lovely, that he adored it, and that he must make every one of his readers adore it too. It should be added that Gautier, who quite recog- nised the fact that he had not done justice to Florence, and had not written a line about Rome, intended to continue his book until he had treated these two cities and Naples in the same way as Venice; but, alas! the project was never carried out, no more than many another which he caressed for a time, and when in 1875 the “Travels in Italy” appeared in book form with the sub-title “Italia,” that was the end of the attempt to complete the story of the trip. 7 LALALALLALEALALAL LALA LL LSA TRAW Es TUN I TVanom, Of course it would have been interesting to pussess all Gautier had to say about the Eternal City and the City of Flowers, but it may be affirmed that it would not have been as characteristic, as deeply marked with intense feeling, with warm, passionate love of the subject. To him Italy meant Venice, and Venice Italy. The other places were no doubt interesting and attrac- tive, and the painter-half of him could delight in the Tribuna and the Loggie, but the whole of him was wrapped up in San Marco and the Campanile, in San Giorgio Maggiore and the Dogana, in the Lido and the Grand Canal. He had given his readers the very cream of Italy at the outset; neither he nor they could care for aught else after that. Yet more. He had been essentially Romanticist ; he had carried out the ideas of the school and laid stress on the very points which constituted, for Hugo and his followers, the chief value of the new art, now, alas! no ionger new and already being replaced by a truer and more satisfactory form. Picturesqueness, colour, exoti- cism, quaintness, eccentricity, grotesqueness, splendour, abundance of poetical epithets, wealth of imagination, gorgeousness of description, stateliness and variety of scene — these were called for by all Romanticists, and 8 bhbbbeebeebedetbteteet tte FNIR RO DUCTION these he gave in abundance. There might be —there was another Venice besides the exquisite city he saw, with its “pirate basilica,” its gallery of palaces, its won- drous prospects, its squalid quarters —there was the Venice of history, the one Montesquieu and Saint Réal knew, the oligarchical republic so long the Mistress of the Seas; there was the Venice groaning under the yoke of the Austrian, that mourned while its masters feasted. Of this one he has given us a glimpse, but no more. Then the Venice of the Venetians themselves, with its own mode of life, its own peculiarities of thought, its own characteristic manners, —the actual living Venice; but that he speaks not of and thinks not of. The reason for this is not far to seek. The whole Romanticist school laid the greatest stress on externals, and cared little or nothing for deep and minute analysis of feeling or passion. It was impulsive, not logical ; emotional, not rational; passionate, but superficial. It was carried away by its feelings, by its nerves; it could not dwell long on any ‘one subject; assiduous, persevering, laborious, minute study was repugnant to its character. It loved to flit from one picturesque subject to another. It craved for whatever was novel ; 9 Seebcb chek bk ch cb cbdcbdecbab ecb ecb heck TRAVELS IN ITALY it revelled in the sensational. It was opposed to the psychology of the writers of the seventeenth century who saw in Man the one and only subject worthy of engrossing their attention ; it was hostile to the scep- ticism of the eighteenth century, that scorned tradition and turned legend into ridicule. The Romanticist school had little thought for man; the environment, the background, the stage-setting were more im- portant in its eyes. Accuracy in matters historical it flouted too readily; the important thing was that history should be attractive, brilliant, richly coloured, striking. And it is much in this way that Gautier understood Venice. It is the splendid scene, the long line of pal- aces, the flowing waters of the canals, the lofty cam- paniles bathed in rosy light, the glistering mosaics, the picturesque attitudes of the gondoliers that he repro- duces with unrivalled skill. It is a magnificent back- ground, a superb scene made ready for some great human drama, and in this respect his description is un- equalled and wholly satisfactory. He has done exactly what he started out to do. His programme is fulfilled to the letter, and his book is the work of an artist and a poet that sees marvellously well, and makes his reader | Ke) gebbhbhbSbteehttth dete tee INTRODUCTION see with him. Victor Hugo himself could not make the scenes more lifelike. The book is full of poetic feeling, of ardent love of beauty, of the deep sentiment of art. Bara weak point here and there, there are few finer bits than the account of the arrival in Venice, —a “© Rain, Steam and Speed” that recalls Turner; few more heartfelt and exquisite farewells than his adieu to Venice, which even Byron’s ‘Adieu to thee, fair Rhine!” or Walter Scott’s “¢ Harp of the North, fare- well! ”? do not surpass. There can, indeed, be no fare- well to the Venice Gautier saw and which he makes his readers see. It is the poetic image, the idealised vision which for ever remains in the memory. itae ‘ ip ny pay yi ‘ be Lea: foe Pavers LOMO. Se aI TITS BEELLALELELALLALALALALL LLL TRAVELS IN ITALY chet cde ohooh he heh ch abe che teccbechcbe cheb chabeck hoe We e7e eye ate wre eFe wre eee oro ome Lili Lcd Pee Ono MIA G GOR ie S soon as we had crossed the crest which separates Switzerland from Italy, I was struck by the extreme difference in the temperature. On the Swiss slope the weather had been delightful, — soft, balmy, and bright, — but on the Italian there blew an icy wind, and great, mist-like clouds swept constantly over us. The cold was the more bitter by contrast with the previous warmth. The rain accompanied us on our way until we reached Lago Maggiore. At early dawn the sky be- gan to clear, though vast banks of black and dark-gray clouds from which still fell occasional showers, rose behind the mountains on the other side of the lake. The road follows the shore past endless gardens and villas with white peristyles, roofs of curved tiles, and terraces covered with luxuriant vines upborne by gran- ite supports. On the terraces, which frequently rise 15 bebbebbbbtbtettttbttttted REV EAE IN ees one above another, and which are turned into carefully cultivated gardens, bloom all manner of flowers and shrubs. I noticed repeatedly and not without astonish- ment, for it was the first time that I had come across them, great clumps of gigantic blue hortensia. The three Borromean Islands, Isola Madre, Isola Bella, and Isola dei Pescatori, are situated in the north- © ern part of the lake, which forms a sort of an elbow, one end of which is turned towards Domo d’ Ossola. Originally these islands were barren rocks. Prince Vitaliano Borromeo had loam brought there and built gardens of European reputation. I purposely use the word ‘“built,”’ for masonry plays a great part in them, as it does indeed in nearly all Italian gardens, which are architectural works rather than gardens. Isola Madre consists, like Isola Bella, of a series of terraces rising one above another, and surmounted by a palace. Isola Bella, which is very plainly seen from the road, has a wealth of turrets, of slender spires, of statues, fountains, porticos, colonnades, vases, and of the rich- est architectural decoration. "There are even trees, — cypresses, orange trees, myrtles, lime trees, Canada pines; but plainly vegetation is a mere accessory. The very natural idea of putting verdure, flowers, and 16 chs abate obs oe abe abe oe oboe abe cdot obec boob ce feeb cde oe lobe LAGO MAGGIORE sward into a garden was an after-thought, like all nat- ural ideas. Some distance farther the arcaded houses of Isola dei Pescatori show their bases laved by the waters of the lake; their rustic aspect contrasting pleas- antly with the somewhat pretentious pomp of Isola Madre and Isola Bella. The islands, seen from the shore, do not justify the enthusiastic descriptions which have been written of them. The seven terraces of Isola Bella, ending in unicorns and Pegasi, have a theatrical aspect which scarcely fits in with the Borromean motto, *¢ Hlumilitas,” inscribed everywhere. Isola Madre, with its square terraces supporting a square mansion, is symmetrical and dull, and one cannot but wonder that these two islands should have been celebrated so enthusiastically. Both the lake and the road are very fullof life. On the lake are fishing-boats, ferry-boats and pyroscaphs which ply between Sesto Calende and Bellinzona; on the road ox-carts, carriages, and foot-passengers carry- ing the inevitable umbrella. The peasant women, sometimes pretty, are afflicted with goitre like the Valaisian women. ) On approaching Arona, a colossal statue of Saint Carlo Borromeo which overlooks the lake, is seen on 2 17 TRAVELS IN ITALY a hill to the right. It is, next to the Colossus of Rhodes and the Colossus of Nero at the Maison Dorée, the loftiest statue ever made. ‘The saint, in an attitude full of nobility and simplicity, holds a book in one hand and with the other appears to bestow his bless- ing on the land he protects and which lies outstretched at his feet. Arona has a thoroughly Spanish look. The houses have projecting roofs and balconies, the lower windows are grated, and on the walls are painted panels and madonnas. At the inn we came upon an inner court adorned with pillars and galleries just as in Andalusia. The lake ends at Sesto Calende, where the Ticino issues from Lago Maggiore. Sesto Calende is on the farther bank and the stream is crossed by a ferry, for the Milan road passes through that little town. I rather liked Sesto Calende. It was market day, a piece of luck for a traveller, for market day brings from the country districts numbers of typical peasants whom otherwise it would be very difficult to come across. Most of the women wore a striking and very effective head-dress. ‘Their hair, plaited and rolled carefully at the back of the head, was held in place by thirty or forty silver pins arranged in the form of an aureole, 18 kkekeebebretetteeteteetetes LAGO MAGGIORE that showed above the head like the dentellations of a comb; a larger pin adorned at each end with enormous metal olives passed through the chignon; the whole recalling the head-dress of the Valencian women. These pins, called spontonz, are rather costly, and yet I have seen them worn by poor women and young girls with frayed skirts and bare and dusty feet. No doubt they sacrificed to this piece of luxury other objects of prime necessity, — but is not the prime necessity for women to be beautiful, and are not silver pins prefer- able to shoes ? The Austrian dominions begin at Sesto Calende ; the other shore of the lake is Piedmontese. It is at Sesto Calende that for the first time one comes upon the tight-fitting blue trousers and the white tunics of the Austrians. I must not leave Sesto Calende without sketching the portrait of a young woman upon the threshold of a shop, the dark interior of which formed a warm, strong background, against which she stood out like a head by Giorgione. Her beauty was of the purest Southern type. Her black eyes shone like coals under her amber brow; her complexion was of that uniform tone, that faccia smorta which is in no wise sickly, 19 ALELLAEALLHELLALAALLLALL AALS ALLS TRAY EICS AN: Dae and which merely indicates that passion concentrates all the blood in the heart; her thick, close, shining hair, curling in short waves, swelled on her temples as if the wind had blown it out, and her neck and shoulders formed a clean and splendid line. She let me look at her quietly, without self-consciousness or coquetry, guessing that I was either a painter or a poet, perhaps both, and kindly let me enjoy one aspect of her beauty. The Austrian postilions wear a picturesque costume, consisting of a green jacket with yellow and black aiguillettes, jack-boots, a hat with a copper band, and on the hip the horn which recurs so often in Schubert’s melodies. It is notable that in every country the pos- tilion who drives civilisation by post, since civilisation and travelling are synonymous, is one of those who longest remain faithful to local colour. He is the Past driving the Future and cracking his whip. From Sesto Calende to Milan the road is bordered with vineyards and groves of trees, which grow most luxuriantly and vigorously. 'The foliage bounds the view on all hands, and you travel between two lines of verdure kept fresh by running brooks. A splendid avenue of trees indicates the approach to the city, 20 che te abe ole be abe ahs cbr cl abr obo ceed ob ab ole ale ole ob abo ole oleae Cie ee ee CTO oe CTO ae OF Ue OHO CPS awe UTS EAGO UMA G GIO R'E which has a very majestic appearance from this side. The Triumphal Arch, under which could easily be placed the Carrousel Arch and which almost rivals in size the Arc de l Etoile, gives to the entrance a monumental character borne out by the other build- ings. On the summit of the arch an allegorical figure of Peace drives a bronze car drawn by six horses. At the four angles of the entablature are equerries mounted on prancing brazen steeds and holding wreaths. “Two colossal figures of river-gods leaning upon urns are placed against the huge panel on which is inscribed the votive inscription; and four pairs of Corinthian columns mark the divisions of the monument, separate the cornice, and form three distinct arcades. The central one is astonishingly high. Having passed through this archway, one enters the Nuevo Parco, which appeared to me almost as large as the Champ de Mars in Paris. On the left rises a vast amphitheatre intended for manoeuvres and open- air performances; at the back rises the old castle; and beyond, against the blue sky, stands out like silver filigree the white silhouette of the Duomo, which has in no wise the form of a dome. Duomo in Italy is a generic term and does not imply a cupola. 21 ALEDE HAA ESA AAA ete tts TRAV IES AEN YA As soon as one enters the streets, the height of the buildings, the coming and going of the people, the gen- eral cleanliness and comfort make the tourist feel that he is in a living capital, quite a rare thing in Italy, where there are so many dead cities. Numberless carriages travel rapidly along the flagged tracks, some- what like stone rails, set in the pebbly pavement. The houses look like mansions, the mansions like hotels, the hotels like palaces, the palaces like temples. Everything is grand, regular, majestic, if somewhat pompous. On all sides are seen columns, architraves, and balconies of granite. Milan is somewhat like both Madrid and Versailles, with a spruceness which Madrid lacks. The resemblance to Spain which I have already spoken of strikes one at every step, and I cannot help noting it again, for I am not aware that it has been remarked upon previously. “The windows are hung with great white and yellow striped blinds, the shops have curtains of the same colour, which recall the Spanish tendidos; the women of the middle class and those who are not in full dress, wear the mezzaro, a sort of black veil which imitates the mantilla very closely. ‘The illusion would be almost complete, were it not destroyed by the presence of the Austrians. x 4 bbb bbb bb bbb bbb bbe LAGO MAGGIORE I had been told to go to the best hotel in Milan, the Hotel de la Ville, in the Corso Servi (now Corso Vit- torio Emanuele), which fully deserves its reputation. The facade is a very good piece of architecture, adorned with pilasters, brackets, and busts of celebrated Italians, orators, painters, poets, historians, and warriors. ‘The Staircase, worthy of a royal residence, is covered from top to bottom with remarkable stucco work and paint- ings of incredible richness and amazing workmanship. The ceiling is particularly remarkable. It represents various mythological subjects, with monochromes, bassi- relievi, pilasters, and flowers so brilliant and so admira- bly painted that Diaz would envy them. All the rooms are decorated with equal care and taste; the smallest hallways and corridors are splendid and inter- esting. As for the dining-room, the luxuriance of the ornamentation is overpowering. Eight colossal cary- atides, alternately male and female, watch the traveller at his meals and intimidate him with their fixed stony glance. These caryatides support a ceiling divided into compartments of unimaginable richness. Every- where festoons, carvings, pendentives, imitation gems and gilding more brilliant than reality can possibly be. This will suffice to give an idea of Milanese luxury. che beatae oe abe abe abe ofr abe ote to cte ce ale cleo obese abe RAIVIETES EN (DD Aa ee It is so much the habit of travellers to speak ill of hotels and hotel-keepers that I here do this superb establishment the justice it deserves. I shall have enough descriptions of an entirely different kind to contrast with this one. 24 HE Duomo naturally attracts every tourist in ) Milan at once; it dominates the city, of which it is the centre, the attraction, and the wonder. You proceed forthwith, even on a night when there is no moon, to note at least its general outline. The Piazza del Duomo is somewhat irregular in form. Its houses with their massive pillars and their saffron-coloured awnings, composed of buildings erected irregularly and varying in height, set off the cathedral admirably. Buildings often lose more than they gain by being cleared of their surroundings. This has been proved in the case of several Gothic monuments which were not, as had been supposed, spoiled by the stalls and hovels which had gradually grown up beside them. Besides, the Duomo is entirely isolated. But I think that nothing is better for a palace, a church, or any other regular edifice than to be surrounded by incoherent structures which bring out its noble proportions. 25 che cto ob oe oe he a oho he cba ce cbocbe ecb che ace chee cb oe bo abe Te OTe ye Ore ete OTe wre OTe OTe TRAV ESS. SIN ete ais The first effect produced upon the sight-seer who looks at the Duomo from the Square, is its dazzling appearance. [he whiteness of the marble contrastiny with the blue of the heavens is most striking; the church is like a vast lace of silver laid upon a back- ground of lapis-lazuli. That is the first impression, and it is also the last; when I think of the Duomo at Milan, it appears to me thus. The Duomo is one of the few Gothic churches in Italy, but the Gothic is very different from ours. It does not exhibit the simple faith; it has not the dread, mysterious, and darksome depth, the emaciated forms, the upspringing from earth to heaven, the austere character which sets aside beauty as too sen- sual, and uses matter only in so far as it enables it to rise towards God. The Italian Gothic is elegant, graceful, and brilliant, such as might be devised for fairy palaces and used for the construc- tion of Alcazars and mosques just as well as for a Catholic temple. Its delicacy allied to its whiteness gives it the appearance of a glacier with its innu- merable aiguilles, or of a gigantic concretion of stalactites. It is difficult to believe that it is the handi- work of man. 26 The facade is exceedingly simple. It consists of an acute angle like the gable of an ordinary house, bor- dered by marble lacework. ‘The wall, which has no projecting portion or order of architecture, is pierced by five doors and eight windows, and divided by six groups of fluted columns, or rather, of ribs ending in hollowed points surmounted by statues, with the inter- stices filled by brackets and niches which support and shelter figures of angels, saints, and patriarchs. Behind these spring up, like the pillars of a basilica, a crowded forest of finials, pinnacles, and minarets, of aiguilles of white marble, andthe central spire, which looks as if it had been crystallised in the air as it springs into the sky to a dizzying height, carrying close to the heavens the Virgin who stands upon its utmost point, one foot upon the crescent. On the centre of the facade are inscribed the words, * Marie nascenta,’ which form the dedication of the cathedral. Begun by Gian Galeazzo Visconti, and continued by Lodovico il Moro, the modern basilica was com- pleted by Napoleon [. It is the largest church next to Saint Peter’s at Rome and the Cathedral at Seville. The interior is majestic and noble in its simplicity. Rows of columns in pairs divide it into five naves. 2] teteeettttetetettttttttes RCA BAS aN TD eal These groups of columns, in spite of their real mass, appear light on account of the slender proportions of the shafts. Above their capitals rises a sort of open and richly sculptured gallery, in which are placed statues of saints; then the ribbing continues and meets at the summit of the vaulting, adorned with trefoils and Gothic interlacements painted with such wonderful perfection that the eye would be deceived if here and there the bare stone did not show through the broken plaster. In the centre of the transept cross an opening sur- rounded by a railing enables one to look into the chapel in the crypt where rests Saint Carlo Borromeo within a crystal bier covered with silver plates. Saint Carlo Borromeo is the most venerated saint in this part of the country ; his virtues and his behaviour at the time the plague raged in Milan made him popular and keep his memory green. At the entrance of the choir, on a bay adorned by a crucifix surrounded by adoring angels, hangs the fol- lowing inscription in a weoden frame: “ Attendite ad petram unde excisi estis.” On either side rise two magnificent pulpits of metal, supported by superb bronze figures and overlaid with 28 silver bassi-relievi, the workmanship of which is more valuable than the material even. The panels of the organ, placed not very far from the pulpit, were painted by Procacini, if I am not mistaken, and around the choir run the stations of the Cross, carved by Andrea Biff, and some other sculptures. The weeping angels who mark the stations have varied attitudes and are delightful, though somewhat effeminate. The general impression is of religious simplicity ; a soft light in- duces recollection; the great pillars spring to the vault- ing with a feeling of aspiring faith; no obtrusive detail destroys the majesty of the ensemble. The general plan of the building is grasped at a glance. The splen- did elegance of the exterior seems to be veiled in mys- tery and to become more humble. The exterior is perhaps pagan in its lightness and whiteness, but the interior is unquestionably Christian. The sacristy contains treasures which did not sur- prise me, for I had seen the wardrobe of Our Lady of Toledo, one single dress of which, covered with black and white pearls, is worth seven millions, but the sac- risty at Milan, none the less, contains incredible riches. I shall first mention, because art must always take precedence of gold and silver, a fine “ Flagellation of 29 Christ ” by Cristoforo Solari, called il Gobbo, a Milan- ese painter, and a painting by Daniele Crespi repre- senting a miracle of Saint Carlo Borromeo, a work of masterly power and great ferocity of inspiration; next, the silver busts of the bishops, of Saint Sebastian, and Saint Thekla, the patroness of the parish church, stud- ded with rubies and topazes; a golden cross starred with sapphires, garnets, smoky topazes, and rock crys- tals; a magnificent eleventh-century copy of the Gos- pels, presented by Bishop Ribertus, written in gold throughout and bearing upon its covers, which are chased in the Byzantine style, a Christ wearing a skirt and accompanied by the four symbolical figures, the lion, the ox, the eagle, and the angel; a pail for holy water made of ivory and provided with silver-gilt handles in the shape of chimeras ; a pyx by Benvenuto Cellini, which is a wonder of elegance and delicacy ; the feather mitre of Saint Carlo Borromeo ; and pic- tures in silk by Lodovico Pellegrini. In the corner of one of the naves, before ascending to the roof, I glanced at)a monument adorned with allegorical figures in bronze by Leone Leoni (Aretino) from the designs of Michael Angelo, in a superb, vio- lent style. The roof itself, bristling with finials and 30 supported with flying buttresses which form ‘corridors in perspective, is composed, like the rest of the build- ing, of great slabs of marble. It rises far above the highest buildings in the city. A bas-relief, admirably carved, is set within each flying buttress. Each turret bears twenty-five statues. I do not believe that any- where else are so many carved figures contained within a similar space; the statues of the Duomo, which number 6716, would people a town of fair size. I had read of the church in Morea, painted in the Byzan- tine style by the monks of Mount Athos, which con- tains no less than three thousand figures, large and small, but this is nothing by the side of the Duomo at Milan. Among the statues is one by Canova, a Saint Sebastian, and an Eve by Cristoforo Solari, charming in its sensual grace, which is somewhat surprising in such a place. From the roof one has a noble prospect of the Alps, the Apennines, and the plains of Lombardy. In the distance are seen the white and black courses of the church at Monza, where is preserved the famous iron crown which Napoleon placed on his own head when he was crowned King of Italy, saying at the same time: “God has given it to me. Woe to him who 31 bbb beh bebe bbebbeb bad DRAYV Bass tl ANY Lea Pe touches it The crown is of gold and precious stones like every other crown, and owes its name to a small iron band which encloses it, and which, it is claimed, is forged out of a nail of the true cross, so that it is at once a jewel anda relic. A special permit is needed to see it since it acquired additional value by being placed upon Napoleon’s august brow, but an accurate copy is exhibited. ‘The ascent of the open-worked spire is in no wise perilous, although it is likely to alarm people subject to vertigo. ‘The light stairs wind in the turrets and lead to a balcony above which there is only the pyra- midion of the spire and the statue which crowns the building. I shall not try to describe in greater detail this gigan- tic basilica ; it would take a whole volume; I shall be satisfied, as a mere artist, with its general aspect and a surprising impression. On returning to the street and walking around the church, one notices on the lateral facades and on the apse the same multitude of statues and bassi-relievi. It is like a mad orgy of sculpture, an incredible heaping up of wonders. Around the cathedral thrive all sorts of small trades, — second-hand book-stalls, open-air opticians, and even 22
Te Aree
ing of nothing or of everything while looking at San-
sovino’s Loggetta at the foot of the Campanile, or at
the blue sea and the island of San Giorgio at the end
of the facade.
On the capitals of verd antique which support this
arch crouch two apocalyptic monsters, strange shapes
seen by Saint John in his hallucinations in the Isle of
Patmos. The one, which has a hooked beak like an
eagle, holds a small heifer with its legs drawn up under
itself; the other, which is half lion and half griffin, has
driven its claws into the body of a child thrown cross-
wise; one of the claws seems to be putting out the
victim’s eye. The angle is formed by a detached,
squat pillar which bears a shaft of five smaller pillars
on its broad capital. In the vaulting of this open
. portal, covered with a veneer of various marbles, there
is a mosaic representing an eagle holding a book in its
talons.
The second story shows on the gable arches two
finely posed statues of the cardinal virtues: Strength
caressing a tame lion, which’ fawns like a joyous dog,
and Fortitude holding a sword with the air of a Brada-
mante. ‘The sacristan has christened one of these
Venice, and the other Queen of Sheba.
84.
cde oso ob doe deo aedec eco oe che check kok
SAN MARCO
Incrustations in malachite, various enamels, and two
small angels in mosaic.holding out the cloth which
preserved the impression of the Divine Face; a great,
barbaric Madonna presenting her Son to be worshipped
by the faithful, flanked by two lamps which are lighted
every evening; a bas-relief of peacocks displaying their
tails, which comes perhaps from some old temple of
Juno; a Saint Christopher bearing his burden ; capitals
of basket-work most charmingly capricious, — these
are the riches which this side of the Basilica offers to
the stroller on the Piazetta.
The other lateral facade looks upon a small square
which is the continuation of the Piazza. At the en-
trance crouch two lions in red marble, cousins-german to
those in the Alhambra by the quaint fancifulness of
their shapes and the grotesque ferocity of their faces and
their manes. They are polished to a wonderful degree,
for from time immemorial the little ragamuffins of
Venice have spent their days in climbing on top of
them and using them as vaulting horses. At the back
rises the palace of the Patriarch of Venice, of modern
construction, which would bea pretty dull building were
it not thrown into the shadow by San Marco; and on
the side, the old facade of the church of San Basso.
85
TORVA VARNEeS* AN “FMA
be che obs obs of abs obs abe os ole cb cb ele ole abs ols ol obs obs che ofr ofp oh ok
This facade is somewhat less ornamented than the
other. It is overlaid with discs, mosaics, enamels,
ornaments, arabesques, of all times and of all countries,
birds, peacocks, curiously shaped eagles like the alerions
and martlets of heraldry. ‘The lion of Saint Mark also
plays its part in the symbolical menagerie. The tym-
pana of the porches are filled either with small windows
surrounded by palms and arabesques, or with incrus~
tations of antique or Byzantine fragments. In the
medallions are carved men and animals fighting. A
closer examination would no doubt reveal the bull of
Mithra struck in the neck by the priest, and thus no
religion would be wanting in this artlessly pantheistic
temple. Surely this must be Ceres seeking her daughter,
a branch of burning pitch pine in each hand by way of
a torch, and riding on a car drawn by two bronze
dragons. It might be a Hindoo idol, so archaic is the
style and so much does it recall the carvings of Per-
sepolis. It is a curious pendant to a Sacrifice of
Abraham in bas-relief which must be ascribed to the
earliest period of Christian art.
Another bas-relief composed of two lines of sheep,
six on either hand, looking at a throne and separated by
two palm branches, interested me greatly, for I should
86
have liked to know its meaning. In vain I endeav-
oured to make out the inscription in Gothic or abbre-
viated Greek letters which no doubt states the subject.
It may be that the sheep are meant for cows; in that
case the bas-relief would represent Pharaoh’s dream.
An antique fragment set in the wall somewhat farther
away represents an adept being initiated into the Eleu-~
sinian mysteries, and placing a crown upon a mystic
palm. This does not prevent Saint George from
showing on the archivolt on a throne in the Greek
style, and the four Evangelists, Saint Mark, Saint John,
Saint Luke, and Saint Matthew, marching along the
tympanum, the gables, and the vaulting, either alone or
accompanied by their symbolical animals.
The portal which opens into that arm of the cross
formed by the Basilica, is surrounded by a broad, double
moulding, carved and open-worked, presenting a de-
lightful bloom of scrolls and foliage and angels. A
lovely Virgin forms the keystone. Above the door
rises a horseshoe arch like those of the Mosque at
Cordova, an Arab fancy seasonably corrected by a very
Christian and pretty Nativity, most devotional in feel-
ing. Beyond that I need mention only a Saint Chris-
topher, apostles, and saints in checkered frames of
87
theeteeetebetebbbeebe dst
TRAVBHS WN AMRAILY
white and red marble, and a pretty Virgin, seen full
face, her hands bent as if in blessing, placed between
two angels kneeling in worship.
I have spoken of a porphyry head placed on the bal-
ustrade above the short shaft on which bankrupts were
exposed. According to a popular tale, the accuracy of
which I do not warrant, Count Carmagnola, after great
services done to the Republic, having sought to seize
the power for himself, the Council of Ten, conciliating
justice and gratitude, had him beheaded, and then
erected to his memory a monument which consists of
this pedestal and porphyry head, a strange statue from
which the body is wanting, and the head of which on
the balustrade seems to be exposed as a leader of male-
factors is exposed in a cage; but the pillory is San
Marco, the sacred place, the Capitol and palladium of
Venice. When the hero was tortured to compel him to
make the confession needed, according to the ideas of
the time, to insure his condemnation, his arms, which had
valiantly fought for the state, were spared, and his feet
were placed in the fire; a strange mingling of deference
and cruelty which is well in harmony with the legend.
The basilica of San Marco is entered, like a temple
of antiquity, by an atrium, which anywhere else would
88
tetbetettttdtetttbtttectttts
SAN MARCO
be a church. The three red marble slabs in the pave-
ment mark the spot where the Emperor Frederick Bar-
-barossa knelt to the proud Pope Alexander III, saying,
“© Non tibi, sed Petro,’ to which the Pope replied, “Et
Petro et mihi.’ How many feet, since the twenty-third
day of July, 1177, have worn away the imprint of the
knees of the great Emperor, who now rests within the
cavern of Kaiserslautern waiting until the crows cease
to fly over the mountain. Three bronze doors, in-
crusted, inlaid, and enamelled with silver, covered with
figures and ornaments, and opening into the nave,
come, it is said, from Saint Sophia’s at Constantinople.
One of them is signed Leon de Molina. At the end of
the vestibule on the right is seen through a grating the
Zeno Chapel with its bronze retable and tomb. The
statue of the Virgin, placed between Saint John the
Baptist and Saint Peter, is called the Madonna della
Scarpe (the Madonna of the Shoe), from the golden shoe
on her foot worn away by the kisses of the faithful.
This metallic decoration has a curiously severe aspect.
The vaulting of the atrium represents, in mosaic, Old
Testament subjects: first, for all religious history
begins with a cosmogony, the Seven Days of the
Creation as told in Genesis, placed in concentric com-
89
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DRAW EIS ML NG Arey
partments. The archaic barbarity of the style has a
wild and primitive mysteriousness which suits the
sacred subjects. The stiff drawing is as absolute as
dogma, and appears to be rather the hieroglyph of a
mystery than a reproduction of nature. ‘This is what
gives to these rough Gothic images a power and a
commanding look which more perfect works _ lack.
The blue, starry globes, the blue and silver discs
which represent the firmament, the sun, and the
moon, the many lines which figure the separation
between water and land, and that curious personage
with impossible gestures, whose right hand creates
animals and trees of impossible shape and who bends
like a mesmeriser over the first man asleep, the min-
gling of angular lines and of brilliant tones strike the
eye and the mind like an inextricable arabesque and
a deep symbolism. The verses of Scripture traced in
antique characters, complicated by abbreviations and
double letters, add tothe hieroglyph a genetic aspect.
It is, indeed, a world arising out of chaos. The Tree
of the knowledge of good and evil, the Temptation,
the Fall, the Expulsion from Paradise, complete the
cosmogonic and primitive cycle, the quasi divine period
of humanity.
go
tettteeteetetteteteotttttttes
SA Ne A.R.C:O
Farther on, Cain slays Abel after having seen his
own sacrifice rejected by the Lord; Adam and Eve
cultivate the ground by the sweat of their brow; the
bP)
legend “Increase and multiply” is artlessly translated
by a pair of lovers. “The four columns engaged against
the wall above these mosaics are merely ornamental, for
they sustain nothing, and are of Oriental white and black
marble, exceedingly rare. They were brought from
Jerusalem, and tradition holds that they formed part of
Solomon’s Temple. Assuredly Hiram, the architect,
would not think them out of place in San Marco.
In the next arch Noah, in accordance with the com-
mandment of the Lord and in anticipation of the flood,
is seen building the Ark, into which are entering two
by two all the animals in creation,—an admirable
subject for a simple-minded mosaic worker of the
fifteenth century. Most curious it is to see outspread
upon the golden background the fantastic zodlogy
which smacks of heraldry, arabesques, and the signs
of travelling menageries. The Flood is most formi-
dable and sombre indeed; it is entirely different from
the much bepraised taste of Poussin. “The foam of the
waves mingles quaintly with the fast falling rain;
the raven and the dove coming forth from the Ark, the
GI
ALALHEALLELELPAELALL LL LAL ELSA
TRAY Bae 5 il NIG aom
sacrifice of thanksgiving, — nothing is wanting. That
closes the antediluvian cycle. Verses of Scripture
which wind in and out everywhere like the inscriptions
in the Alhambra and which form part of the orna-
mentation, explain each phase of the vanished world.
The idea is ever side by side with the image; the
Word soars everywhere over its plastic representation.
The story, interrupted by the entrance porch, which
is adorned with mosaics, the Virgin with archangels
and prophets, is continued under the other arches.
Noah plants the vine and gets drunk; Japhet, Shem,
and Ham, blackened by the paternal curse, go forth,
each to found a race of humankind; the Tower of
Babel raises to the heavens the artless anachronism
of its Byzantine architecture, and calls down on itself
the attention of God, annoyed at being so closely ap-
proached; the confusion of tongues compels the work-
men to give up their work; the human race, which
until then was single and spoke the same language, is
now about to begin its long pilgrimage through the
unknown world in order to recover its title deeds and
to reconstitute itself.
The next arches, placed, the first in the vestibule,
the others in the gallery opposite the Hall of Lions,
Qg2
ttpttbttetttttetettttttte
SAN MARCO
contain the story of the Patriarch Abraham in detail,
that of Joseph and Moses, with a company of prophets,
priests, evangelists, — Isaiah, Jeremiah, Elias, Samuel,
Habbakuk, Saint Alipius, Saint Simeon, and innumer-
able others who are in groups or lines in the arches, in
the pendentives, in the keystones, wherever can be
placed a figure which cares neither for comfort nor
anatomy, and does not mind breaking its arm or leg
in order to adorn an out-of-the-way angle.
All these biblical legends, full of artless details of
curious Oriental fashions, produce a superb and strange
effect on the golden background, the brilliancy of which
darkens them and brings them out. ‘These old mosaics,
probably the work of Greek artists brought from Con-
stantinople, are much more agreeable to me than more
modern mosaics which attempt to be pictures; for in-
stance, the one which covers the gallery wall on the
San Basso side, below the story of Abraham, and which
represents the Judgment of Solomon from cartoons by
Salviati. Mosaic, like painting on glass, should not
seek to imitate nature. Cleanly drawn, typical forms,
plain colours, broad local tones, golden backgrounds,
entirely removed from the idea of a painting, — these
are suitable to it. A mosaic is opaque stained glass,
93
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TRA'VAVES ST NOOR EAE Y
just as stained glass is transparent mosaic. ‘The
palette of the master mosaic-worker is composed of
stones, that of the stained-glass painter of gems; neither
the one nor the other should seek absolute truth.
At the end of a gallery, in the tympanum of a door,
I greatly admired a Madonna seated on a throne be-
tween Saint Peter and Saint John, presenting the Child
Jesus to the faithful. It is one of the finest in San
Marco. The head, with its great fixed eyes which pene-
trate you without looking at you, is imperial and impe-
rious in its gentleness. One could swear that Helena
or Irene embroidered in Byzantium the cushion on which
she rests. The Mother of God, as the Greek mono-
gram calls her, and the Queen of Heaven could not be
represented in more majestic fashion. Certain crudities
of drawing, which might be considered hieratic, impart to
this figure the look of an idol, or an ezkon, to make use
of the expression of the Greek Christians, which seems
to me indispensable for devotional subjects. Under the
gallery there are three tombs, one of which, noticeable
for its antiquity, represents Jesus Christ and the Twelve
Apostles ranged in a row above a line of thuriferz.
To close the description of the interior of Saint
Mark, let us enter the Baptistery, which communicates
94
SA NeUM A.R.C ©
with the cathedral by a door. ‘The altar is formed of
a stone brought from Mount Tabor in 1126 by Doge
Domenico Michiele. What the Spaniards call the
retable, the Italians /a pala, and the French the altar-
piece, is here a Baptism of Jesus Christ by Saint
John, placed between two angels carved in bas-relief.
Saint Theodore and Saint George on horseback are
placed on either side, and above there is a great mosaic
of the Crucifixion, with the Holy Women, against a
background of gold of architectural design. The mo-
saic in the vaulting represents Jesus Christ in glory,
surrounded by a great circle of heads and wings ar-
ranged concentrically. It gleams, sparkles, shimmers,
flames with a strange impression of whirling ; arch-
angels, thrones, powers, virtues, principalities, cherubs,
and seraphs mingle their oval faces and cross their
purple wings so as to form an immense rose, like a
Turkish carpet. At the feet of the Almighty writhes
Satan in chains, and conquered Death grovels before
the triumphant Christ.
The next arch, most singular in aspect, exhibits the
Twelve Apostles each baptising Gentiles of a different
country. The catechumens are, according to the
ancient custom, plunged in a basin up to the armpits,
95
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TR AWE SEeS fe N Vela Ast ey
and the lack of perspective gives them constrained atti-
tudes and piteous looks which make the baptism re-
semble a torture. The apostles, with exaggerated eyes
and harsh, fierce features, look like executioners and
torturers. Four Fathers of the Church, Saint Jerome,
Saint Gregory, Saint Augustine, and Saint Ambrose, are
placed in the pendentives. The black crosses with
which their dalmatics are covered, have a sinister and
funereal look. This is, indeed, the general character
of the baptistery. The mosaics are of the greatest
antiquity. “They are the oldest in the church, are fero-
ciously barbarous, and tell of an implacable and savage
Christianity.
In the arch of the vaulting there is a great medallion
representing Christ in a most terrible aspect ; no longer
the well-known, gentle, fair-haired Christ, the young,
blue-eyed Nazarene, but a severe and dread Christ, with
a long, gray, wavy beard like that of God the Father,
for the Father and the Son are coeternal. Eternal
wrinkles mark His brow, and His mouth is contracted,
ready to launch anathemas., He seems to despair of
the salvation of the world He has saved, or to repent
of His sacrifice. Siva, the god of destruction, could
not have a more sombre and threatening look in the
g6
kkebebtbbteeettetttdsettttes
SAAT ING Ay RCo ©
subterranean pagoda at Ellora. Around this avenging
Christ are grouped the prophets who foretold His
coming.
On the walls is told the story of Saint John the
Baptist : the angel announcing to Zacharias the birth
of the Precursor; his life in the desert, clad in the
rough skins of beasts; the baptism of Christ in the
Jordan, a mosaic more Hindoo than Byzantine, and
more Caribbean than Hindoo in character, so eccentric
is the appearance of the thin body and the waters
figured by blue and white stripes; Herodias dancing
before Herod; the Beheading of the Baptist and the
bringing in of the head upon a silver dish, which was a
favorite subject of Juan Valdes. In these latter mosa-
ics Herodias, wearing a long dalmatic edged with vair,
recalls the dissolute empresses of Constantinople, the
great courtesans of the Lower Empire, — Theodora,
for instance, luxurious, lascivious, and cruel. A singu-
lar symmetry marks the banquet scene. While Hero-
dias brings in the head on one side, a servant man
on the other brings in a pheasant on a dish. Food and
murder thus mingled have an artlessly horrible effect.
The baptismal font is formed of a basin of marble with
a bronze cover, the dasst-relievi on which, modelled in
7 97
che obs abe abs oe obs able obs ole abs be brcle bess abe obs be cba crab abe abe of
TLR AV ETE SS) SUN, ST eee
1545. by Desiderio of Florence and Tiziano of Padua,
both pupils of Sansovino, recall the motive of the story
of Saint John. ‘The statue of the saint, also in bronze,
is by Francesco Segala, and forms an admirable crown
to the work. Against the wall is the tomb of Doge
Andrea Dandolo.
Let us now enter the Basilica. Above the door is a
Saint Mark in Pontifical vestments, from a cartoon of
Titian’s by the Zuccatto brothers, which suggested to
George Sand the subject of a charming novel, ‘The
Master Mosaic Workers.” The brilliancy of the
mosaic explains why jealous rivals accused the clever
artists of having employed paint instead of making
use of ordinary means. On the inner impost stands
Christ between His Mother and Saint John the Bap-
tist; this mosaic is in good Lower Empire style,
imposing and severe.
Nothing can be compared to San Marco in Venice,
neither Cologne nor Seville, nor even Cordova with its
mosque. ‘The effect is surprising and magical. ‘The
first impression one has is of entering a golden cavern
studded with gems, splendid and sombre, sparkling and
mysterious ; one wonders whether it is within a build-
ing or an immense jewelled casket that one stands, for
98
Skebeteeetetestette tet tee
Cre ore ee WTO fe OFS CTO
SAN MARCO
all ideas of architecture are upset. he cupolas, the
vaulting, the architraves, the walls, are covered with
small tubes of gilded crystal of unchanging brilliancy,
made at Murano, on which the light gleams as on the
scales of a fish, and which form a background for the
inexhaustible fancy of the mosaic workers. Where the
golden background stops at the top of the pillars, begins
a plating of the most precious and varied marbles.
From the vaulting hangs a great lamp in the shape of a
four-armed cross with ffeurs de lys suspended from a
golden ball of filigree work, of marvellous effect when
the lights are lighted. Six pillars of wavy alabaster,
with gilded bronze capitals in the most fantastic Corin-
thian style, support elegant arches above which a gallery
runs almost entirely around the church. The cupola
forms, with the Paraclete as an axle, with palms for.
spokes, and the Twelve Apostles for the circumference,
a vast wheel of mosaics.
In the pendentives tall, serious-looking, black-winged
angels stand out against a background illumined by
gleams of tawny light. The central dome, which
rises at the intersection of the arms of the Greek
cross which forms the plan of the Basilica, presents
within its vast cupola Jesus Christ seated upon a rain-
ye
ALALEALLLALLAALALE LALA L LAS
TR AYV ES 0 Nae a ee
bow in the centre of a starry circle supported by two
pairs of seraphim. Below him the Divine Mother,
standing between two angels, worships her Son in
glory; and the Apostles, each supported by a quaint
tree, which represents the Garden of Olives, form the
celestial court of their Master. The theological and
cardinal Virtues are between the columns of the win-
dows of the smaller dome which lights the vaulting.
The Four Evangelists, seated under canopies in the
shape of castles, are writing their precious books at the
base of the pendentives, the extreme point of which is
filled with emblematic figures pouring from urns in-
clined upon their shoulders the four rivers of Paradise,
— Pison, Gihon, Tigris, and Euphrates.
In the next cupola, the centre of which has in a
medallion the Mother of God, the four symbolical ani-
mals of the Evangelists, in chimerical and astounding
attitudes, free for once from the guardianship of their
masters, guard the sacred manuscripts with a wealth of
teeth, claws, and big eyes which would shame the drag-
ons of the Hesperides. At the end of the apse, which
shows dimly behind the high altar, is seen the Re-
deemer, of gigantic and disproportionate size, made so
intentionally, according to the Byzantine custom, to
IO0O
BLEDEL ALLELLEALAALLL ALLELE ALS
SAN MARCO
mark the distance between the Divine Person and the
weak creature. If that Christ were to rise, he would,
like the Olympian Jupiter, break through the roof of
the temple.
The atrium of the Basilica tells the Old Testament
story ; the interior tells that of the New Testament in
full, with the Apocalypse by way of epilogue. The
Basilica of San Marco is a great golden Bible, illus-
trated, illuminated, adorned, a missal of the Middle Ages
on a great scale. For eight centuries past the city has
been reading that monument as if it were a book of
pictures, and has never wearied of its pious adoration.
By the image runs the text. Everywhere ascend,
descend, and meander legends in Greek, in Latin,
Leonine verse, sentences, names, maxims, specimens
of the caligraphy of every country and every age.
Everywhere the black letter marks the golden page
amid the variety of the mosaics. It is even more
the Temple of the Word than the church of Saint
Mark; an intellectual temple which, careless of all the
orders of architecture, was built with verses of the old
and the new faith, and ornamented by the exposition
of the doctrine. I wish I could convey the dazzling
and bewildering impression caused by that world of
IOI
ch oe eo ae be be eae cbe cece cee baobab abc cl of ce
ome wre eTe ww qe re OFS ome CES GO em
TRAV GES. TN wie Am
angels, apostles, evangelists, prophets, doctors, figures
of all kinds, which people the cupolas, the vaulting, the
pediments, the arches, the pillars, the pendentives, —
every little bit of wall. Here the genealogical tree of
the Virgin spreads out its thick branches which have
for fruits kings and holy personages, filling a vast panel
with its curious bloom; there shines a Paradise, with
its glory, its legions of angels and of the blessed. ‘This
chapel contains the story of the Virgin; that vaulting
contains the drama of the Passion, from the kiss of
Judas to the appearance of the Holy Women, not for-
getting the Agony in the Garden of Olives and Cal-
vary. All those who have testified to Jesus, either by
prophecy, preaching, or martyrdom, have been admitted
to this great Christian Pantheon. Here is Saint Peter
crucified head down, Saint Paul beheaded, Saint Thomas
in the presence of the Indian king Gondoforo, Saint
Andrew suffering martyrdom; not a single servant of
Christ is forgotten, not even Saint Bacchus. Greek
saints whom we Latins know but little of swell this
great multitude: Saints Phocas, Dimitri, Procopius,
Hermagoras, Euphemia, ‘Dorothea, Erasma, Thekla,
all the lovely exotic flowers of the Greek calendar,
which may well be painted in accordance with the
LO?
SAN MARCO
9?
recipes of the “ Manual of Painting ”’ of the monk of
Aghia-Labre, bloom on trees of gold and branches of
gems.
At certain hours of the day, when the darkness
deepens and the sun sheds but a faint light under the
vaulting, the poet and the seer behold strange effects.
Tawny gleams suddenly flash from the golden back-
ground, the small crystal tubes sparkle in spots like the
sea in the sunshine, the contours of the figures tremble
in the glimmering network, the silhouettes, clearly
marked just now, become fainter, and the stiff folds of
the dalmatics seem to soften and wave; a mysterious
life revives the motionless figures; the staring eyes live,
the arms, with their Egyptian gestures, move; the frozen
feet begin to walk; the cherubs display their eight
wings ; the angels exhibit their long azure and purple
plumes nailed to the wall by the implacable mosaic
worker; the genealogical tree shakes its leaves of green
marble; the lion of Saint Mark stretches itself, yawns,
and licks its armed paws; the eagle sharpens its beak
and ruffles its feathers; the ox turns on its litter and
chews the cud; the martyrs rise from their gridirons or
descend from their crosses; the prophets converse
with the Evangelists, the doctors talk to the young
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tittretebbebeetttttetttttott tes
WRAY Tee Ss) SN ae Sie
saints, who smile with porphyry lips ; the characters in
the mosaics become processions of phantoms which
ascend and descend along the walls, move along the
galleries, and pass before you in the waving gold of
their glory. You are dazzled, bewildered; you are
under the spell of a hallucination. The real meaning
of the cathedral, its deep, mysterious, solemn meaning
seems then to become plain. It appears to be the
temple of a Christianity anterior to Christ, a church
built before religion was. The centuries are lost in
infinite perspective. Is not the Trinity a trimourta ?
Is it Horus or Krishna whom the Virgin holds in
her lap? Is it Isis or Parvati? Does that figure on
the cross suffer the passion of Jesus or the trials of
Vishnu? Are we in Egypt or in India? — in a temple
of Karnak or ina pagoda of Juggernath? Are these
figures in constrained attitudes very different from the
processions of coloured hieroglyphs which twist and
turn around the pylons and sink in the passages?
When the eye descends from the vaulting to the
ground, it sees on the left a small chapel dedicated to
a miraculous Christ, which, having been struck by a
profane hand, shed blood. ‘The dome, supported by
columns of excessive rarity, all of which are of black
1O4
bebbbbtt td teeetttttttttts
SeNeN AR OC @
and white porphyry, is closed by a ball formed of the
largest agate in the world.
At the back extends the choir with its balustrade, its
porphyry columns, its row of statues carved by the
Massegne brothers, and its great metal cross by Jacopo
Benato. It has two pulpits in coloured marble, and
an altar which shows under a dais between four
columns of green marble carved like Chinese ivory by
patient hands, which have inscribed upon it the whole
story of the Old Testament in small figures a few
inches in height. ‘The altar-piece, called the pala d’oro,
is placed within a case, painted in compartments in the
style of the Lower Empire. The pala itself is a daz-
zling mass of enamels, cameos, niello, pearls, garnets,
sapphires, gold and silver work, and painting in gems,
representing scenes of the life of Saint Mark, sur-
rounded by angels, apostles, and prophets. The pala
was made in Constantinople in 976 (1105) and re-
arranged in 1342 by Giambi Bonsegna. The second
or cryptic altar behind the high altar is remarkable only
for its four columns of alabaster, two of which are
extraordinarily transparent. Near the altar is a won-
derful bronze door in which Sansovino set by the side
of his own the portraits of his great friends, Titian,
105
BEALE ALE ALLS AALALALS
ewe OTe oye oT eee we
ROA Vil Gh AN ‘Valerie
Palma, and Aretino. ‘The door leads to a sacristy on
the vaulting of which blazes a wondrous mosaic in
arabesques, executed by Marco Rizzo and Francesco
Zaccato from drawings by Titian. Nothing richer,
more elegant, or more beautiful can be imagined.
It would take more space than | have at my disposal
to describe in detail the chapels of Saint Clement, of
the Madonna dei Mascoli, in which there is a magnifi-
cent retable by Nicolo Pisano, and the treasures of art
met with at every step: now an alabaster Madonna
with her bambino, exquisitely suave, now a bas-relief
charmingly wrought, in which the peacocks’ tails form
a halo, or a Turkish arch embroidered with Arab lace-
work and checker-work of enamelled arabesques; then
a pair of bronze candelabra, chased in a way to dis-
courage Benvenuto Cellini, — some object of art either
curious or venerable.
The mosaic pavement, which waves like the sea in
consequence of the age and the settling of the piles,
presents the most astounding medley of arabesques,
scrolls, fleurons, lozenges, and interlacing checker-work,
storks, griffins, open-mouthed, winged, and taloned
chimeras, ramping and climbing like the monsters of
heraldry. One is fairly terrified and confounded by
106
dasha bt LELDLAEAL SL ALALALE LLY
SAN MARCO
the creative power displayed by men in this ornamental
fancifulness; it is a world as varied, as numerous, as
swarming as the other, but which draws its forms from
itself alone.
How much time, care, patience, and genius, how
much cost must have been involved for eight centuries
in consummating this immense mass of riches and
masterpieces! How many golden sequins have been
melted into the glass of the mosaics! How many
antique temples and mosques have yielded up their
pillars to support these capitals! How many quarries
have been exhausted to provide the slabs for the pil-
lars and the overlayings of Verona brocatelle, of portor,
of lumachella, of red alabaster, of cyphisus, of veined
granite, of mosaic granite, of verd antique, of red
porphyry, of black and white porphyry, of serpentine
of jasper! What armies of artists, following each
other from generation to generation, have drawn,
chased, and carved in this cathedral! Even leaving
out the unknown, the humble workmen of the Middle
Ages, lost in the night of time, who buried themselves
in their work, what a long line of names might be
drawn up worthy of being inscribed on the golden book
of art! Among the painters who furnished cartoons
107
BEDE A ALA LS ASA Se eee teeter
TRAWE Gs (iN Wide
for the mosaics, — for there is not a single painting in
the sanctuary, are numbered ‘Titian, Tintoretto,
Palma, Padovanino, Salviatino, Aliense, Pilotti, Sebas-
tian Rizzi, Tizianello; among the master mosaic-
workers, at the head of whom must be placed old
Petrus (author of the colossal Christ at the back of
the church), are the brothers Zuccati, Bozza, Vincenzo
Bianchini, Luigi Gaetano, Michele Zambono, Giacomo
Passerini; among the sculptors, all men of prodigious
talent, whom one is surprised to find are not better
known, Pietro Lombardi, Campanetti, Zuanne Alber-
ghetti, Paolo Savi, the brothers della Massegne, Jacopo
Benato, Sansovino, Pietro Zuana, delle Campania,
Lorenzo Breghno, and many others, any one of whom
would suffice to make an epoch illustrious.
In front of the church rise the three standards, sup-
ported by the bronze pedestals of Alessandro Leopardi
which represent marine deities, and chimeras exquisite
in workmanship and polish. The three standards were
formerly those of Cyprus, Candia, and Moro, the
three maritime possessions of Venice; now on Sundays
the black and yellow banner of Austria alone waves in
the breeze which comes from Greece and the Orient.
108
bhbebetbebbehebbbbke bed
EEA le L Ny LL ALY
Poebetbtttetbtttebbttttt bet
ere wre vFe
eee On ht RY IDOGES
|e AHE Palace of the Doges, in its present form,
dates from the time of Marino Faliero, and
has replaced an older building founded
about 814 under Angelo Participazio and continued by
different doges. Marino Faliero it was who caused
to be built in 1355 the existing facades on the Molo
and the Piazzetta. The building proved unlucky to
both the Doge and the architect: the former was be-
headed, the latter hanged.
The strange edifice, which was at once a palace, a
Senate house, a Court house, and a prison under the
government of the Republic, is entered by an exquisite
door on the San Marco corner between the pillars of
Saint Jean d’Acre and the enormous squat column
which bears up the whole weight of the mighty white
and rose marble wall that imparts such striking origi-
nality to the Palace of the Doges. This door, called
della Carta, is ina charming architectural style, orna-
mented with slender pillars, trefoils, and statues, and,
109
de ded obs b deck bob chard edeck oh hoch
Ce CTO WHO Oe wie Ue ey
TRAVELS UN irae
of course, the inevitable winged lion and Saint Mark.
It leads through a vaulted passage into the great inner
court. This peculiar placing of the entrance, outside,
as it were, the building to which it leads, has the
advantage of not interfering in any way with the unity
of the facade, which is broken by no projection save
that of the monumental windows.
Above the huge, heavy column of which I have
spoken there is a fierce looking bas-relief representing
the Judgment of Solomon. ‘The medizval costumes
and a certain savageness in the execution make it diffi-
cult to recognise the subject. On the other side,
towards the sea, are the figures of Adam and Eve, and
on the angle cut by the Ponte della Paglia, the Sin of
Noah. The old man’s arm, carved with fine Gothic
dryness, shows every muscle and every vein.
On the Piazzetta, on the second story, two columns
of red marble mark the place where were proclaimed
sentences of death, a custom which still persists. “The
thirteenth capital of the lower gallery, counting from
Saint Mark, is also highly praised. It contains in eight
compartments as many ages,of human life very cleverly
rendered. For the matter of that, all the capitals are
_in exquisite taste and wonderfully varied; there are no
IIO
THE PALACE OF a Boots
two alike. They contain monsters, angels, children,
fantastic animals, biblical or historical subjects, mingled
with scrolls, acanthus leaves, fruits, and flowers. Sev-
eral bear half-effaced inscriptions in Gothic characters.
There are seventeen arches on the Molo and eighteen
on the Piazzetta. |
The Porta della Carta leads to the Giants’ Staircase,
which is in no wise gigantic in itself its name being
due to two colossi some twelve feet in height, by
Sansovino, representing Neptune and Mars, placed on
pedestals at the top of the stairs. It leads from the
court to the second gallery, which runs within as well
as without the palace, and it was built under the rule
of Doge Agostino Barberigo by Antonio Rizzi. It is
in white marble, and decorated by Domenico and Ber-
nardino of Mantua with arabesques and trophies in
.very low relief, but so perfect as to drive to despair all
decorators, jewellers, and niello workers in the world.
It ceases to be architecture; it is goldsmith’s work
such as Benvenuto Cellini and Vechte alone could pro-
duce. Every bit of the open-worked balustrade is a
marvel of invention; the arms and the helmets of each
bas-relief, all dissimilar, exhibit the rarest fancifulness
and are in the purest style; the very steps themselves
IIIf
LLELAAALELLALAALALALAALALAL
TR ANE LScil NIA
are inlaid with exquisite ornaments. And yet who
knows about Domenico and Bernardino of Mantua?
Human memory, already overladen with hundreds of
illustrious names, refuses to remember more, and con-
signs to oblivion some which deserve to be glorious.
At the foot of the stairs are placed, where is usually
found the railhead, two baskets of fruit worn by the
hands of people who ascend. ‘The statues of Neptune
and Mars, in spite of their great size and the exagger-
ated prominence of the muscles, are somewhat weak,
considered zsthetically, but set off by the architecture,
they have a proud and majestic look. On the plinth
is the artist’s name, who, I consider, did far better
work in his statuettes of the Apostles and in the
door of the sacristy of San Marco.
On turning around at the top of the stairs, one sees
the inner side of Bartolommeo’s facade covered with
volutes, slender columns, and statues, with vestiges of
blue colouring starred with gold in the pediments of the
arches. Among these statues, one especially is ex-
ceedingly remarkable. It represents Eve, and is the
work of Antonio Rizzi of Verona in 1471. Its
charming form exhibits a certain Gothic timidity of
style, and its ingenuous pose recalls with adorable
Li2
$tttttt¢¢et¢¢teetttteeetee
DURE BR AoA Ge On ITE oD OGES
awkwardness the attitude of the Venus of Medici, the
pagan Eve. ‘The other facade, which looks upon the
Cisterns, was built in 1607 in the Renaissance style,
with pillars and niches holding antique statues brought
from Greece, representing warriors, orators, gods, and
goddesses. A clock and a statue of Doge Urbino, the
work of Gio Bandini of Florence, complete the severe
and classical facade.
On looking at the centre of the court are seen what
appear to be magnificent bronze altars. They are the
openings of the cisterns, by Nicolo de Conti and
Francesco Alberghetti. Ihe one is of 1556, the other
of 1559, and both are masterpieces. ‘They represent,
besides the usual griffins, sirens, and chimeras,
various aquatic subjects drawn from Scripture. It
is impossible to imagine the richness, the invention,
the exquisite taste, the perfection of carving, the
finish of the work of these well margins, which
are improved by the polish and the patina of time.
Even the interior of the cistern mouth, overlaid
by bronze plates, is enriched by a damasked design
in arabesques. The two cisterns are said to hold
the best water in Venice, therefore they are greatly
frequented, and the ropes by which the pails are pulled
8 EE
Stitceedeeeettetetesetetet
TRAN EUS 31 NT aes
up have worn in the bronze edges grooves two or three
inches deep.
Nowhere else in Venice is there a better place to
study the interesting class of women water-carriers,
whose beauty is somewhat gratuitously famous, in my
opinion, for if I did see a few pretty ones, I saw
very many more ugly and old. ‘Their costume is
rather striking. ‘They wear tall men’s-hats of black
felt and a long black skirt which comes up under
their arms like an Empire gown; their feet are bare,
as well as their legs, although they sometimes wear
on the latter a sort of knemis or footless stocking,
like the peasants of the Valencian Huerta. ‘Their
chemise, of coarse linen, plaited on the bosom and
with short sleeves, completes their dress. “They carry
the water on their shoulders in two pails of red
copper which balance. Most of these women are
Tyrolese.
At the very moment when I stopped at the head
of the staircase, there was bending over the brazen
margin of Nicolo de Conti’s cistern one of these
young Tyrolese, who was pulling up with difficulty,
—— for she was short and delicate, —a full pail of
water. Her neck showed, under the masculine head-
114
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alle 28> abs oe obs obs alle atte obo abe abe aboche ole ofr obs eb ofp obe abe ofr alle ofp obs
THEYPVUAICH IOP THE YVDOGES
dress, her pretty, fair hair and the upper part of her
white shoulders, on which the hot sun had not yet
tanned the snows of the mountain. A painter would
have found in this a subject for a pretty picture.
Personally I greatly prefer to the habit of walking
between two pails the Spanish and African manner
of carrying the water on the head in an amphora held
in equilibrium. Women thus gain an astonishing
nobility of port. By the way they stand and walk,
one would think they were antique statues. But I
have talked enough about water-carriers.
Near the Giants’ Staircase is seen an inscription
framed in with ornaments and figures by Alessandro
Vittoria, recalling the passage of Henry III through
Venice, and farther along, in the gallery at the en-
trance to the Golden Staircase, two statues by An-
tonio Aspetti, — Hercules, and Atlas bending under
the starry firmament, the weight of which the robust
hero is about to take on his bull neck. This ex-
ceedingly magnificent staircase, ornamented with stucco
work by Vittoria and paintings by Gianbattista was
built by Sansovino, and leads to the Library which
now occupies several rooms in the Palace of the
Doges.
115
ttebeebetetttttettttbtk bh:
PRIA VEL So TN “lal Ary
The former assembly hall of the Great Council
(Sala del Maggior Conseglio) is one of the largest
in existence. The Court of the Lions at the Al-
hambra could easily be put within it. One is struck
with astonishment on entering, for, thanks to an effect
frequent in architecture, the hall appears to be very
much larger than the building which contains it.
Sombre and severe wainscoting, in which bookcases
have taken the place of the stalls of the former
senators, serves as a plinth to immense paintings
which run around the wall, broken only by the win-
dows, under a line of portraits of the doges, and a
colossal ceiling gilded all over, incredibly rich and
exuberant in ornamentation, with vast compartments,
square, octagonal, oval, with branches, volutes and
rocaille, in a style not very appropriate to the style of
the palace, but so grandiose and magnificent that it
fairly dazzles one. One of the sides of the hall —
that in which is the entrance door — is filled com-
pletely by a gigantic “ Paradise”? by Tintoretto, which
contains a whole world of figures. The sketch of
a similar subject in the Louvre may give an idea of
this composition, of a kind which suited the fiery
and disorderly genius of that virile artist who so
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tebbbtbeettttttettttttttee
THE PALAGE OF THE DOGES
thoroughly bore out the meaning of his name, Jacopo
Robusto; for it is a robust painting, and it is a pity
that time has darkened it so much. The murkiness
which covers it would suit a picture of Hell equally
as well as a picture of Paradise. Behind this canvas
there exists, it is said, an old painting of Paradise
done on the wall in green camaieu by Guariento of
Padua in the year 1365. It would be interesting
to compare the green paradise with the black. It
takes Venice to have one painting upon another.
The hall is a sort of Versailles Museum of Vene-
tian history, with the difference that although the
exploits represented are less, the painting is far supe-
rior. No more marvellous prospect can be imagined
than this vast hall covered all over with these pompous
paintings in which the Venetian genius excelled, most
skilful as it was in the arrangement of great works.
On al] sides there is the shimmer of velvet, the sheen
of silk, the sparkle of taffeta, the brilliancy of gold
brocade, the bossing of gems, the heavy folds of
stiff dalmatics, the fantastic chasing of cuirasses and
morions, damascened with light and shade and re-
flecting gleams like mirrors. The sky fills in with
the blue peculiar to Venice the interstices of the white
117
chy ofa abe oe oe ake oh abe abe che beads cece che che ch chee oh ook
ahs atte one
aR AY Virb. NY a eee
pillars, and on the steps of the marble staircases stand
splendid groups of senators, of warriors, of patricians
and pages, which form the usual population of a
Venetian painting. The battles exhibit an indescrib-
able chaos of galleys with three-storied castles, tops,
look-outs, triple banks of oars, towers, war machines,
overthrown ladders bringing down clusters of men;
an amazing mingling of galley drivers, of galley slaves,
of sailors, of men-at-arms, killing each other with
maces, cutlasses, and barbarous engines; some bare
to the belt, others dressed in singular harness or in
Oriental costumes in capricious and eccentric taste,
like those of Rembrandt’s Turks; all swarming and
fighting, against a background of smoke and fire, or
on waves which throw up between the galleys their
long, green crests ending in flakes of foam. It is
regrettable that in many of these paintings time has
added its smoke to that of battle, but imagination
profits by the loss to the eye. Time gives more
than it takes from the pictures it works over. Many
masterpieces owe a portion of their merit to the
patina with which the ages have gilded them.
Above these great historical paintings runs a series
of portraits of Doges by Tintoretto, Bassano, and
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i ee
thee de ote he che cdo te he che obec obec abe che che chee che chock
THE PAL A@ HOLD inne DOGES
other painters. Generally they have dark and
repellent faces, although they are beardless, contrary
to the generally accepted opinion. In one corner
the eye stops at an empty black frame which marks
a break as sombre as a tomb in the chronological
gallery. It is the place which should have been filled
by the portrait of Marino Faliero, as is told in the
inscription: Locus Marini Phaletri, decapitati pro cri-
minibus. Every efigy of Marino Faliero was also de-
stroyed, so that his portrait is not to be found. It
is said, however, that there is one in the possession
of a Verona amateur.
Let me add concerning Marino Faliero that he
was not beheaded at the top of the Giants’ Staircase,
because that staircase was not built until one hun-
dred and fifty years later, but at the opposite angle
at the other end of the gallery on the landing of a
stair since destroyed.
I shall name, without pretending to describe them
in detail, the most celebrated halls in the palace: the
Sala dei Scarlatti, the mantelpiece of which is cov-
ered with marble reliefs of the most delicate work-
manship. ‘There is also placed over it a very curious
marble bas-relief representing Doge Loredano kneel-
11g
LELLAEALLDLALLALLALLALLL ELS
TRAVELS! i NY Pe Ae
ing before the Virgin and Child accompanied by
several saints. It is a capital work by an unknown
artist. [he Sala dello Scudo, where were placed the
arms of the living Doge; the Sala dei Filosofi, in
which there is a very beautiful chimney-piece by
Pietro Lombardi; the Stanze dei Stucchi, thus named
on account of its ornamentation. It contains paint-
ings by Salviati, Pordenone, and Bassano, —a Ma-
donna, a “ Descent from the Cross,” and a “ Nativity.”
The Banquet hall, where the Doge gave state dinners,
—diplomatic dinners, as one would say to-day. It
has a portrait of Henry III by Tintoretto, strongly
painted and very handsome, and opposite the door a
warmly painted ‘ Adoration of the Magi,” by Boni-
fazzio. ‘The Sala delle Quattro Porte, preceded by
a square hall the ceiling of which, painted by Tin-
toretto, represents ‘ Justice handing the sword and
the scales to the Doge Priuli.” The four doors are
decorated by statues of fine port by Giulio del Moro,
Francesco Caselli, Girolamo Campagna, Alessandro
Vittoria; and masterpieces of painting, among others
one representing the “ Doge Marino Grimani kneeling
before the Virgin, with Saint Mark and other saints,”
by Contarini; and another of Doge Antonio, also
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beobbbbbbbeettdbbettdktectes
eras Camon ) Cres DOGES
kneeling before Faith, by Titian, a splendid, golden
painting in which simplicity is in no wise diminished
by the ceremonious style. [he compartments of the
ceiling were designed by Palladio, the stucco work
is by Vittoria and Bombarda, from the designs of
Sansovino. A “Venice” by Tintoretto, led by Jupi-
ter over the Adriatic in the centre of a court of deities,
fills the central compartment.
Let us pass next from this hall into the Ante Col-
legio, the waiting-room of the ambassadors, designed
by Scamozzi. The envoys of the various powers
who came to present their letters of credit to the
Most Serene Republic, cannot have felt in a hurry
to be introduced; the masterpieces accumulated in this
splendid antechamber would enable one to wait patiently.
The four paintings placed near the door are by Tinto-
retto, and are among his best. I know of none to equal
them save the “ Adam and Eve,” and the “ Abel and
Cain” in the Academy of Fine Arts. The subjects
are: ‘ Mercury and the Graces,” “The Forge of
Vulcan,” ‘¢ Pallas, accompanied by Joy and Abundance,
driving away Mars,” “ Ariadne consoled by Bacchus.”
The marvel of this sanctuary of art is the “ Rape
of Europa”? by Paolo Veronese. The lovely maid is
I21
bebbbt be tttetcette td tcettctdt
TRAV ETS! TN PIC eae
seated as upon a silver throne upon the back of the
divine bull, whose snow-white chest breaks into the
blue sea, which seeks to reach with its amorous
ripples the feet of Europa, which she draws up with
a childish dread of wetting them,— an ingenious de-
tail in the “* Metamorphoses ” which the painter was
careful not to forget. Europa’s companions, not
knowing that the god has taken the noble form of
that handsome animal so gentle and so familiar, crowd
upon the bank and cast garlands of flowers at it, un~
aware that Europa, thus carried away, is going to
give her name to a continent and to become the
mistress of Zeus with the black eyebrows and the
ambrosial hair. How beautiful show the white shoul-
ders, the fair neck with the tressed hair, and the
lovely, round arms! Over the whole of that mar-
vellous painting, in which Paolo Veronese seems to
have reached the highest point of perfection, there
is a glow of eternal youth. The sky, the clouds,
the trees, the flowers, the ground, the sea, the carna-
tion, the draperies, all seem flushed with the light of
an unknown Elysium. All is warm and fresh like
youth, seductive like voluptuousness, calm and pure
like strength. There is no mannerism in the care-
I22
EL EB oAd ean aks OF THE ‘DOGES
fulness, no unhealthiness in the radiant joy. In the
presence of that canvas,—this is high praise for
Watteau,— I thought of the “* Departure for Cythera;”’
only, you must substitute for the lamps of the Opera
the splendid daylight of the East, for the dainty dolls
of the Regency in their dresses of ruffled taffeta, su-
perb bodies in which Greek beauty assumes a softer
erace under the touch of Venetian voluptuousness,
and which yielding and living draperies caress. If
I had to choose a unique work in all Veronese’s,
this is the painting I should prefer. It is the finest
gem in his rich casket of jewels.
On the ceiling the great artist has placed his dear
Venice upon a golden throne with the rich breadth and
the abundant grace of which he knows the secret.
When he paints his Assumption, in which Venice
takes the place of the Virgin, he always manages to
find new azure and new beams.
The magnificent mantelpiece by Aspetti, the stucco
cornice by Vittoria and Bombarda, the blue camaieus
by Sebastian Rizzi, the pillars of verd antique and
cipolin framing in the door complete this wondrous
decoration, which is marked by the most beautiful
of all luxury, the luxury of genius.
422
LLELEALALALLALAAAALALL LA
AOR A VIRSLS “IN Slee
The reception-room or Collegio comes next. Here
we find again Tintoretto and Paolo Veronese, the one
tawny and violent, the other azure and calm, the
former best on great walls, the second on vast ceilings.
Tintoretto has painted in this hall *¢ Doge Andrea pray-
ing to the Virgin and Child,” the “ Marriage of Saint
Catherine,” the “* Doge Dona,” the “ Virgin under at
baldacchino,” and the ‘Christ adored by the Doge
Luigi Mocenigo.” On the other wall Paolo Veronese
has represented Christ enthroned, with the personifica-
tion of Venice by his side; Faith and Angels who
hold out palms to Sebastian Venier, who became
Doge afterward and won the famous victory over
the Turks at Cursolari on Saint Justina’s day, —
the latter saint figures in the painting, the famous
proveditore Agostino Barberigo, who was. slain in
that battle, and the two figures, on either side, of
Saint Sebastian and Saint Justina in grisaille, the one
in allusion to the victor’s name, the other to the date
of the victory.
A magnificent ceiling contains in its compartments
the complete deification of Venice by Paolo Veronese,
who was particularly fond of this subject. As if this
apotheosis did not suffice, Venice again figures above
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decked dade och ch obec check oh check
REE VPAMSAGHAIOE OE (DOGES
the window with crown and sceptre in a painting by
Carletto Cagliari.
I feel that in spite of myself, the nomenclature
grows apace, but at every step I am stayed by a
masterpiece. How can I help it? I shall be unable
to tell you everything,—let your own imagination
work. There are also in the Palace of the Doges
three wondrous rooms which I[ have not even named:
The Hall of the Council of Ten, of the Senate, of
the Inquisitors of State, and many more. Place the
‘“¢ Apotheosis of Venice” cheek by jowl with the “ As-
?
sumption of the Virgin ” on the ceilings and the walls ;
make the Doges kneel before the one or the other of
these Madonnas, with mythological heroes and gods of
fable; place the lion of Saint Mark near the eagle
of Jupiter, the Emperor Frederick Barbarossa near
Neptune, Pope Alexander III near a short-skirted
Allegory ; mingle with stories drawn from the Bible
and Virgins under baldacchinos, captures of Zara full
of remarkable episodes out of a canto in Ariosto, the
surprise of Candia, and massacres of Turks; carve
the jambs and the lintels of the doors, load the cor-
nices with stucco-work and mouldings, set up statues
in every corner, gild everything which has not been
125
TR A VETS “T Noelia
painted by the brush of a great artist; say to yourself:
«¢ All those who worked here, even the unknown, had
twenty times the talent of the celebrities of our day,
and the greatest masters wore their lives out in this
place’’;——and then you may have a faint idea of
splendours which beggar description.
Near the door of one of these halls is still to be
seen, though its prestige of terror is lost now that it is
reduced to the condition of an unused letter-box, the
old Lion’s Mouth into which informers cast their de-
nunciations. All that is left is the hole in the wall;
the mouth itself has been pulled away. A sombre
corridor leads from the Hall of the Inquisitors of State
to the Leads and the Wells, which have given rise
to so many sentimental declamations. Undoubtedly
there can be no fine prisons, but the truth is that the
Leads were large rooms covered over with lead, the
material generally used in Venice for roofing, and
which does not involve any particular cruelty; also,
the Wells were in no wise below the level of the
Lagoon. I visited two or three of these dungeons.
I expected architectural phantasmagoria in the taste of
Piranesi, — arches and squat pillars, winding stairs,
complex gratings, enormous rings made fast in mon-
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Tee Pp A eer PD O.GES
strous blocks, narrow slits letting fall a greenish light
upon the damp pavement, —and to be admitted by a
jailer wearing a foxskin cap with the tail hanging
down, and bunches of keys clanking at his girdle. As
a matter of fact it was a venerable guide, looking like
a Paris janitor, who preceded me, candle in hand,
through narrow, dark passageways. ‘Ihe wainscoted
cells had a low door and a small opening opposite the
lamp hanging from the ceiling of the passageway. A
wooden camp bed was in one corner. It was close
and dark, but in no wise melodramatic; a_philan-
thropist designing a cell could not have done worse.
On the walls are to be read some of the inscriptions
which weary prisoners engrave with a nail on the walls
of their tomb: signatures, dates, short sentences
drawn from the Bible, philosophical thoughts suitable
to the place, a timid aspiration for liberty ; sometimes
the cause of the imprisonment, as in the inscription
which relates that a captive was imprisoned for sacri-
lege, having given food to a dead man. At the en-
trance to the corridor I was shown a stone bench on
which were seated those who were secretly put to
death in the prison. A fine cord passed around the
neck and twisted garote fashion strangled them after
Lay
kettbettttttttttttttt tts
TRAV EC'S) DN aoe
the Turkish mode. These clandestine executions
occurred only in the case of prisoners of state con-
victed of political crimes. The deed done, the body
was put into a gondola through a door which opens on
the Canal della Paglia, and it was thrown overboard
with a cannon-ball or a stone tied to the feet in the
Orfanello Canal, which was very deep and where
fishermen were forbidden to cast their nets. Ordinary
assassins were executed between the two pillars at the
entrance to the Piazzetta.
The Bridge of Sighs, which as seen from the Ponte
della Paglia looks like a cenotaph suspended over the
water, is nowise remarkable internally. It is a covered
double corridor, separated by a wall, which leads from
the Ducal Palace to the prison, a severe, solid piece of
work by Antonio da Ponte situated on the other side
of the Canal and which looks upon the side facade of
the palace supposed to have been built from the de-
signs of Antonio Ricci. “The name of Bridge of Sighs
given to this tomb which connects two prisons prob-
ably arose from the plaints of the unfortunates as they
proceeded from their cells to the tribunal or from the
tribunal to their cells, broken by torture or driven des-
perate by condemnation. At night the canal, closed in
128
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bbtetebetettttetbttttt tee
PHeEGe AL AGHEOH THE DOGES
by the high walls of the two sombre edifices lighted
only by occasional lights, looks most sombre and mys-
terious, and the gondolas which glide along bearing
a couple of lovers, seem to be bound, with a burden,
for the Orfanello Canal.
I also visited the former apartments of the Doge,
which have lost all their primitive magnificence save
an exceedingly ornamental ceiling divided into hex-
agonal compartments gilded and painted. Within
these compartments, concealed by the foliage and the
roses, was cut an invisible hole, through which the
Inquisitors of State and the members of the Council
of Ten could spy at any hour of the day and night
what the Doge was doing. ‘The walls, not satisfied
with listening through an ear, as in the prison of
Dionysius, looked through an open eye, and the Doge,
victorious at Zara and Candia, heard, like Angelo,
steps in the wall and felt himself mysteriously and
jealously watched.
9 129
P “HE Grand Canal is to Venice what the
Strand is to Londonythe Rue Saint-Honoré
to Paris, the Calle d’Alcala to Madrid, —
the chief artery of the city. It is in the shape of a
reversed S, the centre of which cuts into the city in
the direction of San Marco, while the upper point ends
by the island of Santa Chiara and the lower by the
Dogana near the Giudecca Canal. It is cut about
the centre by the Rialto.
The Grand Canal at Venice is the most wonderful
thing in the world; no other city affords so fair, so
strange, so fairylike a prospect. Equally remarkable
specimens of architecture may be met with elsewhere,
but none under such picturesque conditions. Every
palace has a mirror in which it can gaze upon its own
beauty ; the splendid reality is duplicated by a lovely
reflection ; the water lovingly laves the feet of these
beautiful facades bathed in a golden light and cradles
them in a double heaven. ‘The smaller vessels and
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PHE EG RAN DD’ CANAL
the larger boats which can ascend the canal seem
moored on purpose to fill up the foreground for the
greater advantage of scene painters and water-colour
painters. |
Every wall tells a story, every house is a palace,
every palace a masterpiece and a legend. With every
stroke of the oar, the gondolier calls out a name which
was as well known in crusading days as to-day, and this
goes on for more than half a league. ‘The list of pal-
aces would fill up five or six pages. Pietro Lombardi,
Vittoria, Sansovino, Sammichelli, the great Veronese
architect, Domenico Rossi, Visentini designed and
superintended the building of these princely dwellings ;
to say nothing of the marvellous anonymous artists of
‘the Middle Ages who erected the most picturesque
and the most romantic, those which give to Venice its
peculiar stamp and individuality.
On both banks follow uninterruptedly facades equally
charming and diversely beautiful. Next to a Renais-
sance building with its superimposed pillars and orders,
stands a medieval palace in the Gothic and Arab style
of which the Palace of the Doges is the prototype,
with traceried balconies, arches, trefoils, and dentellated
acroter; then a facade overlaid with coloured marbles
131
Shhh t beds tte hth tt Etettee
TRAVELS vING hiya
and adorned with medallions and brackets; then a
great rose-coloured wall with a vast pillared window.
You meet with every possible variety, — Byzantine,
Saracen, Lombard, Gothic, Romanesque, Greek, and
even rococo architecture; pillars and columns, Gothic
and Roman arches, fantastic capitals full of birds and
flowers brought from Acre or Jaffa, or Greek capitals
found among Athenian ruins, mosaics and bassi-relievi,
classic severity ana the elegant fancifulness of the Re-
naissance. It is an immense open-air gallery, in which
one can study from a gondola the progress of art dur-
ing seven or eight centuries. How much genius, talent,
and money have been expended in a space trav-
ersed in less than an hour! What prodigious artists,
and what intelligent and splendid lords! What a pity
that the patricians who caused such beautiful palaces
to be built should now exist only in the paintings of
Titian, Tintoretto, and Moro!
Even before reaching the Rialto there rises on the
left as you ascend the canal, the Palazzo Dario in the
Lombard-Gothic style of the fifteenth century; the
Palazzo Venier, the corner of which shows, with its
ornaments, its precious marbles, and its medallions,
also in the Lombard style; the Academy of the Fine
132
LLALAADE ESE AA HSA A ELLA SEL
THE GRAND CANAL
Arts, the old Scuola di Santa Maria della Carita, with
its classical facade surmounted by a Minerva with a
lion; the Palazzo Contarini degli Scrigni, the work
of Scamozzi; the Palazzo Rezzonico with its three
superimposed orders; the two Palazzi Schiavoni,
where lives Natale Schiavoni, a descendant of the
famous painter of that name, who has a gallery of
paintings and a beautiful daughter, the living repro-
duction of a canvas painted by her ancestor; the
Palazzo Foscari, easily known by its low door with
its two stories of slender pillars supporting Gothic
arches and trefoils, where formerly lodged the sover-
eigns who visited Venice, and now deserted; the
Palazzo Balbi, on the balcony of which princes leaned
to watch the regattas which took place on the Grand
Canal with so much brilliancy and magnificence in the
heyday of the Republic; the Palazzo Pisani, in the
German pointed style of the fourteenth century ; and
the Palazzo Tiepolo, very stylish and comparatively
modern, with its two elegant pyramidions. On the
right, close to the Hotel de |’Europe rises between two
tall buildings a lovely palazzino which consists of a
window and a balcony,— but what a window, and
what a balcony! A lace-work of stone scrolls and
nae.
BLEDEL ALA APA SSS eetteeteeet
TRA YE LS “UN oe eae
tracery! Farther on, the Palazzo Corner della Ca
Grande, built in 1532, one of the best works of San-
sovino; the Palazzo Grazzi, now the Hotel de ’Em-
pereur, the marble staircase of which is adorned with
beautiful orange trees in pots; the Palazzo. Corner
Spinelli ; the Palazzo Grimani, a powerful piece of
work by Sammichelli, the lower marble course of
which is adorned by a double fret of striking effect,
— it is now the postoffice; the Palazzo Farsetti, with
a pillared peristyle and a long gallery of slender col-
umns running along the whole facade, now occupied
by the municipal offices. I might say, as does Don
Ruy Gomez de Silva to Charles V in “ Hernani,”
when showing his ancestors’ portraits, “I pass many,
and of the best.” I shall, nevertheless, mention the
Palazzo Loredan and the ancient dwelling of Enrico
Dandolo, the victor of Constantinople. Between the
valaces there are houses equally good, whose chimneys,
ending in turrets, turbans, and flower vases, diversify
very agreeably the great architectural lines.
Sometimes a traghetto (landing) or a piazzetta like
the Campo San Vitale, for instance, which lies oppo-
site the Academy, makes a pleasant break in this long
line of monuments. “The Campo, bordered by houses
134
oe abe ahs abe abe obs ob alle obs ole alle alls olls obo ob ole ole obs ole offs offs ofp
telnet — Silt — elit — Sadi — Salli —4 ay
THE GRAND AR
coloured with a bright, cheerful red, contrasts most
happily with the vine leaves of a tavern arbour;
that red dash in that line of facades, more or less
darkened by time, pleases and rests the eye. You
can always find a painter there, palette in hand and
paint-box on his knees; and the gondoliers and the
handsome girls, whom these rascals always attract,
pose naturally, and from being admirers are turned
- into models.
The Rialto, which is the handsomest bridge in
Venice, has a very grand, monumental look. It spans
the canal with a single bold, elegant arch. It was
built in 1588-1592, when Pasquale Cicogna was
Doge, by Antonio da Ponte. It replaced the old
wooden drawbridge.
Two rows of shops separated in the centre by an
arcaded portico and giving a glimpse of the sky, line
the sides of the bridge, which may be crossed by any
one of three ways, —the roadway in the centre, and
the two outer pavements with their marble balustrades.
In the immediate neighbourhood of the Rialto, which
is one of the most picturesque points on the Grand
Canal, are crowded together the oldest houses in Ven-
ice with their flat roofs, on which are planted posts for
455
LLALD ALE EA bed ehh ttete bese
TRAVELS LANE DE Asie
awnings, with tall chimneys, portly balconies, stairs
with disjointed steps, and great patches of red wash,
the broken plaster in which shows the dark walls and
the foundations turned green by contact with the
water. ‘There is always near the Rialto a mob of
boats and gondolas, and stagnant islets of crafts moored
and drying their brown sails which are sometimes
adorned with a great cross. Shylock, the Jew who
hungered for Christian flesh, had his shop on the Rialto,
which is honoured by having furnished the setting of a
scene to Shakespeare.
On either side of the Rialto are grouped on both
banks the Fondaco dei Tedeschi, whose walls, coloured
with doubtful tints, suggest frescoes by Titian and
Tintoretto like vanishing dreams; the Fish Market,
the Grass Market; the Fabbriche Vecchie, erected
by Scarpagnino, in 1520, and the Fabbriche Nuove
erected by Sansovino in 1535, in a ruinous condition,
and in which are installed different government offices.
These ruinous Fabbriche, with their red tones and their
wondrous shades due to age and neglect, must drive
the municipality to despair and cause the deepest joy
to painters. Under the arcades swarms a busy, noisy
population which ascends and descends, goes and
136
she he oe bebe obo che oh abe te beck bebe coche echo ch oho che
THE GRAND CANAL
comes, buys and sells, laughs and shouts. ‘There
fresh-caught tunny is sold in red slices, and mussels,
oysters, crabs, and prawns are carried away in basket-
fuls; while under the arch of the bridge, where is con-
stantly heard a sonorous echo, sleep the gondoliers in
the shade, awaiting customers.
Still proceeding up the canal, there is seen on the
left the Palazzo Corner della Regina, so named from
Queen Cornaro. The building, which is by Dome-
nico Rossi, is exceedingly elegant. “The sumptuous
palace is now the Monte di Pieta, or pawn office.
The Armenian College, which is not far off, is an
admirable building by Baldassare de Longhena, of a
rich, solid, and imposing architecture. It was formerly
the Palazzo Pesaro. On the right rises the Palazzo
della Ca d’Oro, one of the loveliest on the Grand
Canal. It belongs to Mlle. Taglioni, who has had it
restored most intelligently. It is embroidered, dentel-
lated, traceried all over in a Greek, Gothic, barbaric
taste, so contrasting, so light, so aerial that it seems
to have been made on purpose for the home of a sylph.
Mlle. Taglioni has taken pity on these poor, abandoned
palaces. She pensions a number of them, which she
keeps up out of sheer pity for their beauty. Three or
37
BEEALAADLLALAAAL ALLA AAADAL ALLS
TRA WE ISS NY er ae
four were pointed out to me which she has charitably
restored.
Now look at these mooring posts painted blue and
white with golden fleurs de lys. “They mean that the
former Palazzo Vendramin Calergi has become a semi-
royal dwelling. It is the home of Her Highness the
Duchess of Berry, and she is certainly better lodged
there than in the Marsan Pavilion; for this palace, one
of the finest in Venice, is a masterpiece of architec-
ture, and the sculpture is wonderfully fine. There
is nothing prettier than the groups of children
holding the shields on the arches of the windows.
The interior is full of precious marbles. Two
porphyry columns, of such wondrous beauty that
they alone are worth the cost of the palace, are
much admired.
I have not yet spoken of the Palazzo Moncenigo,
where dwelt Byron, yet my gondola skirted the marble
steps where, her hair blowing wild, her feet in the
water, in rain and in storm, the girl of the people,
the nobleman’s mistress, welcomed him on his return
with these tender words: “ You great dog of the
Madonna! Is this the kind of weather to go to the
Lido in?” The Palazzo Barberigo also deserves
138
ALDDAALDLAE SSAA ALeSAt tte
Ae ieher Ghee DCA N AT
mention. I did not see its twenty-two ‘Titians
which the Russian consul has under seal, having
purchased them for his master, but it still contains
some very fine paintings, and the carved and gilded
cradle intended for the heir of the noble family, —
a cradle which might be turned into a tomb, for the
Barberigos, like most of the old Venetian families,
are extinct. Of nine hundred patrician families
inscribed on the Golden Book, there are scarcely fifty
left to-day.
The old Fondaco de’ Turchi, so much frequented in
the days when Venice held the trade of the East and
of India, has two stories of Moorish arches which have
fallen in or which are filled up by hovels that have
grown there like poisonous mushrooms.
At about the point where opens the Cannaregio are
seen traces of the siege and of the Austrian bombard-
ment. Some of the shells fell on the Palazzo Labbia,
which was burned, and have marked the unfinished
facade of San Geremia. As one draws away from the
centre of the city, life diminishes, many windows are
closed or boarded over, but that very sadness has a
beauty of its own. It is more easily felt by the soul
than by the eyes, which are treated constantly to the
Be,
A basses IN ITALY
most unexpected effects of light and shade of varied
fabbriche, which are the more picturesque for their
ruined condition, to the perpetual movement of the
waters and the blue and rose tint which forms the
atmosphere of Venice.
140
i
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i
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tttitetttebtettht
DivAigioeaylN jl LAL Y,
che che hecho be abe che tre che che cece be oe obec
CFO. OTe OFS ETS 25 OTS CTO BHO OTE CFE
ie
ie
tie
i
iene NY VEIN Te
S I intended to make a prolonged stay in
A Venice, I took up my abode at the corner
of the Campo San Moisé, whence I looked
out both on the Square and the Canal. At the back
of the Square stood the church of San Moisé, with its
flashy and eccentric rococo facade, with its violent and
almost savage exaggeration; not the tasteless, soft, old-
fashioned rococo that we are accustomed to in France,
but a robust, strong, exuberant, inventive, capricious
bad taste. The volutes twist like stone flourishes, the
brackets jut out unexpectedly, the architraves are
broken by deep cuts, carved allegories lean on the
pediments of the arches in Michael-Angelesque pos-
tures ; the statues, with their swollen contours and their
manifold draperies, pose in their niches like Hectors or
dancing masters; the founder’s bust on top of its
pedestal is so formidable, with its great moustaches,
that it seems to be the very likeness of Don Spavento.
Nevertheless, the foliage, close set like the leaves of a
che choo bso oh oh oe oh te chee decde eee abe cde ce oe choc
TRAV ETS * DINO I hae
cabbage, the hollowed rock-work, the napkin-like car-
touches, the columns with bracelets, the carelessly
carved figures, the overlay of extravagant ornamenta-
tion, produce a rich and grandiose effect, in spite of
good taste offended by every detail, but offended by a
vigorous imagination.
This truculent facade is connected by a flying bridge
with its tower, a diminutive of the Campanile on the
Piazza San Marco. In Italy architects have always
been bothered by the bells; they either do not wish to
or do not know how to connect them with the main
building. “They seem to have been influenced in spite
of themselves by the pagan temples, and to have looked
upon the Gothic steeple as a deformed superfluity, a
barbarous excrescence. They have turned it into an
isolated tower, a sort of belfry, and apparently ignore
the splendid effects of ecclesiastical architecture in
the North. This by the way. I shall have more
than once to repeat this remark.
The entrance to San Moisé is covered by a heavy
portiere of piqué leather, which, when it is raised, allows
a glimpse from the Square of gleams of gilding, of
starry tapers in a transparent shadow, and gives passage
to warm puffs of incense which mingle with the sounds
142
ae oe abs obs ols ob che oe ole be che brads ofa als ale abe abs on obs ole alle abate
ore CFO HO GO VFO VFO VIG VTS Sie Vie ape die ele wie wie
ER EgaN VENICE
of the organ and of the prayers. ‘The campanile has
no sinecure. It clangs and chimes the livelong day ; in
the morning it is the Angelus, then Mass, then vespers,
then the evening prayer. Its iron tongue is scarcely
ever silent; nothing tires out its bronze lungs.
Close by, separated by a lane as narrow as the nar-
rowest callejon in Granada or Constantinople, which
leads to the traghetto on the Grand Canal, rises in the
shadow of the church the presbytery, a sombre facade
washed with a faded red tint, pierced with gloomy
windows heavily grated, which would strike a dissonant
note in this bright Venetian picture did not quantities
of wall plants, falling in wild disorder, brighten it up
somewhat with their tender green, and a charming
Madonna, above a poor-box, smile between two lamps.
The three or four houses opposite contain a baker’s
shop, a flower shop — the window of which, filled with
small pots, shows tulips in bloom and rare plants sup-
ported by sticks and provided with scientific labels, —
and a general dealer’s shop on the corner on the canal
side, — all of them whitewashed, diapered with green
shutters, rayed with balconies, and surmounted by those
turban-topped chimneys which give to Venetian roofs
the aspect of a Turkish cemetery.
143
ed
teeetttetetttettttetttte
WOR A VES: JIN As
On one of these balconies appeared very often a
signora who, so far as the distance allowed me to
judge, was pretty. She was almost always dressed in
black and handled her fan with Spanish dexterity. It,
struck me | had already seen her somewhere. On
thinking the matter over, I recollected that it was in
Charles Gozzi’s “ Memoirs.”
On the open face of the Square towards the landing-
place there is a single-arched marble bridge which
spans the canal and connects the Campo with the lane
on the opposite bank leading to the Campo San
Maurizio. ‘The canal finishes at one end with one of
those perspectives with which the views of Venice
have made every one familiar: tall houses, rosy above,
green below, their tops in the sunshine and their bases
in the water, arched windows by the side of modern
square windows, chimneys swelling out into the shape
of flower pots, long, striped awnings hanging over the
balconies, golden or brown tiles, house tops crowned
with statues standing white against the sky, landing-
posts painted in bright colours, water gleaming in the
shade, boats moored, or skimming -with their black
sides past the marble staircases, producing unexpected
effects of light and shadow. This water-colour, life size,
144
debcbobk eek ch babbbdchcb cheb chad choo
LIFE IN VENICE
was hung up outside my window on the other side of
the canal. At the other end, the canal, again spanned
by a bridge, opened out into the Canalezzo and showed
a glimpse of the entrance wall of the Dogana di Mare
and the bronze Fortune turning in the wind on its
golden ball, as well as the rigging of vessels too large
to enter the narrow waterways.
Seated under my balcony and pufing Levantine
tobacco, I shall now make a sketch of Venetian life.
It is morning. ‘The white smoke of the cannon-shot
from the frigate which denotes the opening of the port,
rises from the lagoon, the angelic salutation clangs from
the numerous campaniles inthe city. Patrician and
middle-class Venice is still sound asleep, but the poor
devils who spend the night on staircases, on the steps of
palaces, or on the bases of columns, have already left
their beds and shaken the night dew from their damp
rags. The boatmen at the traghetti are washing their
gondolas, brushing the cloth and the /¢/z:, polishing the
iron of their prows, shaking the black leather cushions and
the Persian carpet which lies on the floor of their craft,
and getting their boats in order, ready for customers.
The heavy craft which bring provisions to the town
begin to arrive from Mestre, Fusino, Zuecca, —a sort
} Xe) 145
bbbbbebetbetbebbbbdbb bebe
eve CTO CFO oe oe
DRAWS DN aa
of maritime suburb, bordered with buildings on one
side and gardens on the other, — from Chioggia, Tor-
cello, and other points on the mainland or the islands.
These boats, heaped up with fresh vegetables, grapes,
and peaches, leave behind them a delightful odour of
greenness which contrasts with the briny smell of the
boats laden with tunny, mullets, poulps, oysters, pidocchi
(mussels), crabs, shell-fish, and other fruits of the sea, as
the picturesque Venetian expression has it. Others,
bringing wood and coal, stop at the water-gates
to deliver their goods, and then resume their peaceful
course. Wine is brought, not in barrels as with us,
nor in goat-skins as in Spain, but in great open tubs
which it dyes with its purple darker than blackberry-
juice. ‘The epithet “ black,’ which Homer never fails
to add to the word wine, is admirably suited to the
wines of Friuli and Istria.
The water which is to fill the cisterns is brought in
the same way, for Venice, in spite of its aquatic situa-
tion, would die of thirst like Tantalus, for it has not a
single spring. Formerly the water was fetched from
the Brenta Canal at Fusino; now artesian wells supply
most of the cisterns. There is scarcely a campo with-
out one. The mouths of these reservoirs, surrounded
146
bebebbbertttetdttttttetest
LAME NV ENC E
by a wall like that of a well, have provided Venetian
architects and sculptors with the most delightful motives.
Sometimes they turn them into Corinthian capitals
open in the centre; sometimes into mouths of mon-
sters, or again, they wind around the tambour of bronze,
marble, or stone, bacchanals of children, garlands of
flowers and fruit, unfortunately worn away too often
by the rubbing of the ropes and the copper pails.
These cisterns, filled with sand in which the water
remains cool, imparta peculiar appearance to the
squares. [hey are open at certain times, and women
come to draw water from them as did the Greek slaves
from the fountains of antiquity.
There! two gondolas have run foul of each other.
As you see their halberd irons striking, they look like
two angry swans picking at each other’s feathers.
One of the gondoliers did not hear, or heard too late
the warning cry, a sort of yell in an unknown jargon.
The dispute grows warmer, and the two champions
blackguard each other like Homeric heroes before a
battle. Standing on the poop, they are brandishing
their sweeps. You fancy they are going to brain each
other. Chere is no fear of that; it is much ado about
nothing. The “corpo di Baccho” and other oaths fly
147
SLAALAKALALALLLAEEKAAE ALE LALL LAA
RA ViEOES TN Ay,
from one boat to the other; but soon mythological
oaths are insufficient. Insult and blasphemy are ex-
changed with increasing intensity. Calling heaven into
their quarrel, they blackguard their respective saints,
and it is noticeable that the vituperation becomes more
outrageous as the craft get further apart. Soon nothing
is heard but hoarse croaks which are lost in the distance.
Now passes an official gondola with the Austrian
ensign in the stern, bearing a stiff, cold functionary,
his breast covered with decorations, on his way to
some inspection; another is carrying around phleg-
matic English tourists; a third, slender as a skate,
flies mysteriously and discreetly towards the open sea.
The hangings of the fée/ze pulled down and the blinds
drawn up shelter two lovers who are going to lunch
together at the Punta di Quintavalle. Another,
heavier and broader, bears under its white and blue
awning a worthy family going to bathe at the Lido, on
the shore whose fine sand still preserves the hoof-
prints of Byron’s horses.
Now the church opens, and there emerges a red
procession bearing a red bier, which is placed in a red
gondola, for the mourning colour here is red. ‘The
dead is being shipped off to the cemetery situated on an
148
—
tebbrttbetdbtthbbbdddbb ttt
LIFE IN VENICE
island on the way to Murano. The priests, the
bearers, the candlesticks, and the church ornaments are
placed in another gondola, which goes first. Go and
sleep, poor dead man, under the salt sand, under the
shadow of an iron cross by which the gulls will sweep
For a Venetian’s bones the mainland would be too
heavy a covering.
When any one dies in Venice, there is posted up
on his house and upon the neighbouring houses, by way
of information, a printed placard giving the name, the
age, the birthplace, the cause of death, and a certificate
that the dead received the Sacraments, that he died
like a good Christian; and asking the faithful to pray
for him.
But away with these melancholy thoughts! The
wake of the red boat has disappeared. Let us forget
it as the wave does, which preserves no marks. It is
of life, and not of death that we must think.
On the bridge are coming and going young girls,
working girls, shop girls, servants, with a chemise and
a skirt under their long shawl. On their necks are
rolled up long plaits of the reddish hair so dear to the
Venetian painter. I salute from my window these
models of Paolo Veronese, who pass by without remem-
os
149
LELeELEELSSSSeettttetttes
TARA V HLS .) TN) CT Ay
bering that they posed three hundred years ago for the
“© Wedding at Cana.” Old women, hooded with the
national badte, hasten on to get to Mass in time, for
the last stroke is sounding from San Moise. Austrian
soldiers in blue trousers, black boots, and gray
tunics walk across the bridge, which sounds under their
heavy, regular steps, as they carry to some barracks the
wood for the kitchen or the victuals for breakfast.
Ilustrissimi, old ruined nobles, who yet have the grand
air, with their clean, worn clothes, are going to
Florian’s, the meeting-place of the aristocracy, to drink
the excellent coffee, the recipe for which was trans-
mitted to Venice by Constantinople, and which is not
equalled anywhere else. Elsewhere, perhaps, these
ghosts of the past would call forth a smile, but the
Venetian people love their nobility, which was always
kindly and familiar.
Nothing is done in the ordinary way in this quaint
city. The street musical instruments, instead of being
carted on the backs of the players, are carried along by
water; the grinding organs travel in gondolas. ‘There
is one passing now under my balcony, one of those big
organs made in Cremona, the home of good violins.
Nothing could be more unlike those boxes which make
150
ase chee oe ah oe he che ae te ctecde tech check chee ob cet
LW Bea eV ENGL Es:
dogs howl with anguish at the corners of our squares.
Drums, triangles, and tambourines transform these into
a complete orchestra, to the strains of which dance a
number of marionettes contained within the frame. It
is like an opera overture wandering around. More
than one gondola turns out of its way to enjoy the
music longer, and the harmonious craft proceeds,
followed by a little dilettante flotilla which traverses
the canal in its wake.
Now let us look towards the Square; the picture is no
less animated there. The open-air kitchen is working,
the stoves are blazing, sending up a smell of smoke
and the somewhat disagreeable perfume of hot oil.
Stews have an important place in Italian life. Sobriety
is a Southern virtue which is usually backed by idleness,
and there is very little cooking done in the houses.
People buy from these open-air kitchens pastes, cakes,
bits of poulp, or fried fish ; and many, who do not stand
on ceremony, eat their purchases on the spot.
The cook himself is a tall, stout, jolly fellow, a sort
of obese Hercules or Palforio, with bright red cheeks,
hooked nose, rings in his ears, shining black hair
curled in small curls like Astrakhan lamb’s wool. He
turns around like a king on his throne, having about
151
tebtbhtbrbbetttbettbbttb tds
TRAVELS. TN Ue aes
him three or four rows of shining stamped copper
dishes like antique bucklers hanging from the rails
of triremes.
The dealer in pumpkins, a vegetable which Vene-
tians are very fond of, also exhibits his wares in quan-
tities which look like cakes of yellow wax, and which
he sells in slices. A young maiden from her window
signs to the dealer and drops at the end of a string a
basket, in which she hauls up a piece of pumpkin pro-
portionate to the amount of money she sent down.
This convenient fashion of marketing is entirely in
accord with Venetian laziness.
A group has collected in the centre of the Campo, to
which are speedily added all the passers-by and all the
idlers who have come from the bridge, and who are
proceeding by the lane at the side of the church to the
Frezzaria or to the Piazza San Marco, the two most
frequented places in Venice. A space left clear in the
centre of the group is occupied by a poor wretched
beggar wearing a mournful hat, dressed in a lamentable
coat and ragyed trousers. By his side is a hideous old
woman, a sort of witch, as wretchedly clothed as the
man. A covered basket is placed on the ground before
them. A rough-haired dog, sordid, thin, but with the
2
keeedbbtberteetetetttetttt tts
An eee LE NCE
intelligent look of an academic animal trained to all
sorts of exercises, gazes at the old couple with that
human look which a dog has with its master; it seems
to be awaiting a sign or an order. The old man
gives a command; the dog dashes to the basket
and raises one of the sides of the cover with its teeth.
It remains in it for a few seconds, then pushing the
other side of the cover with its nose, it comes out
triumphantly, holding in its mouth a small piece of
folded paper which it places at the feet of the woman.
{t does this several times, and the spectators snatch
from each other the papers thus brought from the
basket. The dog is drawing numbers for the lottery.
Those which it brings out at certain times are bound
to win. The gamblers of both sexes, who are very
numerous in Venice as in all wretched countries, in
which the hope of sudden fortunes won without work
acts powerfully upon the imagination, place the greatest
trust in the numbers thus fished out by the dog. As I
beheld the deep wretchedness and the hungry look of
the couple, and the thin flanks of the dog whose num-
bers were to win so many crowns, I asked myself why
these poor devils did not turn to better advantage the
means of wealth which they distributed so generously
has
khEbEALE eS eeetettttttetet
DPRAWE LS DN: die
to others for a few sous. ‘That very natural reflection
did not occur to any one. Perhaps the guessers of
lottery numbers are like witches, who cannot foretell
their own future; clairvoyant for others, they are blind
where they themselves are concerned. If it were not
so, these two poor wretches would have been greatly to
blame for not being millionaires at least.
Venice is full of lottery offices. ‘The winning num-
bers written upon placards framed in flowers and rib-
bons in fantastic blue, red, and gold figures, excite the
cupidity of the passers-by. At night they are brilliantly
lighted with lamps and tapers. “The favourite num-
bers, the numbers which must infallibly win in accord-
ance with the calculations dear to lottery players, are
also exhibited with much pomp... Certain gamblers
who obstinately stick to these imaginary systems
buy them at any cost, and stake, in spite of
numerous disappointments, their amounts, which
they double or treble in accordance with mathematical
progression.
I took a turn in the Public Gardens, a great place
planted with trees and making a sort of obtuse angle
in the scene, the point ending in a hillock on which is
a café frequented by travelling musicians. Children
aul
dedeckobde deck bch bbc bebe hbk deh
ore ro =e am de
ELE VN VENICE
and young girls amuse themselves rolling down the
gentle slope covered with fine grass.
The sight ranges over the lagoon. One sees
Murano, the island of glass-makers; San Servolo with
its lunatic hospital, and the low line of the Lido with
its sand-hills, its taverns, and its polled trees. Rows of
posts indicating the depth of the water, form lanes in
this shallow sea on which float masses of seaweed.
The prospect is enlivened by the continual coming and
going of sails and boats.
The Public Gardens on féte days contain the love-
liest collection of Venetian beauties. It is there that
one can study the Venetian type which Gozzi describes
as biondo, bianco e grassoto.
Necessarily the presence of the Austrians must have’
modified the Venetian type, although marriages are rare
on account of national antipathy ; but one still meets
with the models of Giovanni Bellini, Giorgione, ‘Titian,
and Veronese.
The young girls walk about in groups of two or
three, almost all bareheaded, wearing with much taste
their splendid fair or brown hair. The dark meri-
dional type is rather rare among women in Venice,
although frequent among men. I had already noticed
155
tebekebeebeetetetetttttettttst
TRAVELS UN IS Ane
that fact in Spain at Valencia, where the men have
black hair, olive complexions, with the tanned, wan
look of a tribe of African Bedouins, while the women
are as fair, fresh, and rosy as Lancashire farmer girls.
I saw a great many lovely faces, but though I re-
member them very well, it would be difficult to repro-
duce them without a pencil. I shall merely try to
suggest the general features. The lines of the face,
without being as perfect as those of the Greeks, which
are of almost architectural regularity and which are the
very type of beauty, have nevertheless a rhythm lack-
ing in Northern faces, which are more worn by
thought and the numberless troubles of civilisation.
The nose is neater and cleaner in form than Northern
noses, which are always marked by something unex-
pected and capricious. ‘The eyes, too, have that shin-
ing placidity which is unknown with us and which
recalls the clear, quiet glance of an animal. They are
very often black in spite of the fair colour of the hair.
On the lips is seen that smorfia, a sort of disdainful
smile very provoking and charming, which imparts so
much character to the heads of the Italian masters.
The Venetians have most lovely necks and shoul-
ders. Nothing can be imagined more beautiful or
156
bebe h hsb ss tehetetteet tts
PE et VCE INOUE,
more finely rounded. The necks partake at once of
the swan and the dove as they bend and swell; and all
sorts of wild hair in rebellious curls escaped from the
comb, play on them with changes of light, flashes of
sunshine, effects of shadow which would delight a
painter. After taking a walk in the Public Gardens
one is no longer surprised at the golden splendour of
the Venetian school. What had been taken for a
dream of art is often but the imperfect reproduction of
reality.
157
N my way back to the Piazzetta I saw some
() young gentlemen as fond of aquatic prowess
as our Parisian club men, driving their gon-
dolas at full speed against the quay wall. When they
were within a few inches of the stone revetment, they
stopped their craft short by a sudden stroke of the oar.
This sport is graceful and exciting. When you see
the gondola flying so fast, you are sure that it will be
smashed to pieces, but that never occurs, and the fun
begins all over again. It is in the same way that
Turkish and Arab riders send their horses at full
gallop against a wall and pull them up on all fours,
making the immobility of repose follow upon the rush
of speed. The ancient Venetians may have seen these
equestrian fantasias in the Atmeidan at Constantinople
and adopted them for use in their own country, where
the horse is, so to speak, a chimerical creature. More
than one young patrician even now puts on the tradi-
tional jacket, cap, and sash, and drives his own gon-
158
abe obs ob ole obs abe ole cle obbe obs cdo cle che obo obs ols obs ob abe be of ofp che
Me oe whe ore ere ete wre one OTe OTe HO WTS
obs che obs obs obo
SOND ORER RSa AND SUNSETS
dola himself with great skill. Strangers also are fond
of doing so, especially the English, who are a nautical
people.
There are lovely sunsets in Paris. When you leave
the Tuileries by the Place de la Concorde, as you turn
towards the Champs-Elysées, it is difficult not to be
dazzled by the magnificent spectacle: the masses of
trees, and the Egyptian obelisk, the wonderful prospect
of the great avenue, the magnificent arch which opens
on space, form a splendid setting for the orb which
expires in splendour more brilliant to our eyes than
that of day. But there is something finer still, and
that is a sunset at Venice when you are coming from
the Lido, Quintavalle, or the Public Gardens.
The lines of houses of the Giudecca, broken by the
dome of San Redentore; the point of the Dogana di
Mare with its square tower; the two domes of Santa
Maria della Salute, form a marvellous sky line which
stands out boldly as the background of the picture.
The island of San Giorgio Maggiore, nearer us, sets it
off with its church, its dome and brick campanile, — a
diminutive of the. greater Campanile which is seen on
the right, above the old Library and the Palace of the
Doges. All these buildings bathed in shadow, for the
159
LELLELLELELELALELL ASE L ES
TRAV BLS’ ING PEA DT
light is behind them, are of azure, lilac, and violet
tones, on which stands out black the rigging of the ves-
sels at anchor. Above them is a conflagration of
splendour, an outburst of beams. The sun sinks in
masses of topaz, rubies, amethysts, which the wind
changes incessantly as it alters the forms of the clouds.
Brilliant rays spring between the two cupolas of the
Salute. Sometimes, according to the point of view,
Palladio’s belfry cuts in two the orb of the sun.
This is all very beautiful, but the wondrous spectacle
is made finer by being repeated in the water. The
sunset has the Lagoon for a mirror. All the light, all
the rays, all the fire, all the phosphorescence, ripple
over the waves in sparks, spangles, prisms, and trails of
flame, shining, scintillating, flaming, swarming lumi-
nously. “The tower of San Giorgio Maggiore, with its
opaque shadow stretching afar, shows black against the
conflagration, which increases its height in the strangest
fashion and makes it seem as if its base were within
an abyss. ‘The outlines of buildings appear to float
between two heavens or between two seas. Is it the
water which reflects the sky, or the sky which reflects
the water? The eye hesitates, and all is confounded
in one vast dazzling splendour.
160
tkbbbhbeobbbeeebtbeebe bed
GONDOLIERS AND SUNSETS
I was landed at the traghetto della Piazzetta in the
midst of a rout of gondolas, and I went on to the
Piazza through the arcades of the Old Library of San-
sovino, now the Viceroy’s palace.
It is on the Piazza at about eight in the evening that
life in Venice reaches its maximum of intensity. It is
impossible to see anything more cheerful, lively, and
amusing. The setting sun lights up with the most
brilliant rosy red the facade of San Marco, which seems
to blush with pleasure and to sparkle radiantly under
the dying beams. A few late pigeons fly back to the
cornices or the gables, where they will sleep until morn-
ing, their heads under their wings.
The Piazza is lined with cafés, like the Palais Royal
in Paris, which it resembles in more than one respect.
These cafés are in no wise remarkable from the point
of view of their decoration, especially if they are com-
pared with the splendid establishments of the kind
which Paris possesses. [hey consist simply of very
plain rooms, rather low-ceiled, in which no one ever sits
except in the worst winter days. Coffee, which is ex-
cellent in Venice, is served on copper trays, with a
glass of water which the Venetians spend hours in
drinking. Ices and iced drinks are noticeable only for
II 161
abe cbr obs os obs obs obo ob che ole abe bn ebe obe ole ofr obv ole abe obs obs ole elle ole
OTs oe ote OTe obs Cre are eTe OF Cle aye OW WO wTe vee owe
TRAV EDS DN BASE
their low price, and are far from equalling the exquisite,
refined Spanish iced drinks. ‘The only special thing I
found was a grape sherbet, very cool and tasty.
The customers sit under the arcades or on the Piaz-
zetta itself, on which are placed before each café
wooden benches and tables. Formerly tents and striped
awnings were raised in thecentre of the Square; that
picturesque custom has vanished. Striped blinds are
also becoming rare. “They are too often replaced by
hideous strips of blue cloth very much like cooks’
aprons. Civilised people say they are less showy and
in better taste.
Very trig and free and easy looking flower-girls
swarm on the Square and amuse passers-by and cus-
tomers with their pretty requests. When you refuse
to buy, they laughingly give you a small bunch and
run away. It is not customary to pay them at once,
it would be rude, but from time to time you give
them a small coin by way of a gift. The flower-
girls are followed by vendors of iced fruits who shout,
“Caramel! caramel!” in deafening fashion. Their
stock consists of candied grapes, figs, pears,. and
prunes, which they carry in_ baskets.
Venetian women of the upper class are most de-
162
Bete tt th. cde obs obs obs obs obs obs cboobs abe abe chs chsths she chs che shoe
We Oe aie C60 one C1o wie OFF wie ee Ve Re eae ese iv die eiw dee ai Vie caw
GONDOLIERS AND SeWAN SHES
lightfully indolent and lazy. “They have forgotten how
to walk, through using the gondola. Even in this fine
climate, it takes an uncommon combination of circum-
stances to induce them to venture forth. The sirocco,
sunshine, a threatening shower, or a too fresh sea-breeze
are sufficient to make them stay at home. ‘The great-
est exercise they take is going from their sofa to the
balcony to breathe the perfume of the great flowers
which bloom so splendidly in the moist, warm air of
Venice. Their idle and confined life gives them an
indescribably delicate, mat, white complexion.
If by chance the weather is exceptionally fine, a
few of them may walk two or three times around
the Piazza San Marco, when the band is playing in
the evening, and they rest long in front of the Café
Florian in company with their husbands, brothers, or
cavaliere servente.
Formerly Levantines were very numerous in Ven-
ice. Their pelisses, their dolmans, their full coats
of bright colours showed picturesquely among the
crowd which they traversed impassible and grave.
They are not so frequently met with now that com-
merce has been largely transferred to Trieste, but
Greeks are often met, with their caps the blue silk
163
che che oe oe oe os oe oe oh abe oe cece oe obe che oooh cbr oh ob check
EPFRAVELS. IN: DT ADDY
tassel of which falls upon the shoulders, their temples
shaved, their hair falling behind, their characteristic
features and their handsome national dress, which con-
trasts strikingly with the hideous modern costume.
These Greeks, who, most of them, are only merchants,
or skippers of Zante, Corfu, Cyprus, or Syra vessels,
have a remarkably majestic port, and the nobility
of their antique race is imprinted on their features as
on a golden book. ‘They repair in groups of three or
four to the corner of the Piazza, to the Costanza
Café, which enjoys the monopoly of supplying the
children of the Levant with coffee and pipes.
Around the cafés wander street musicians, who
perform operatic selections, and tenors singing Lucia
or some other air of Donizetti with the rich voices
and the admirable, instinctive Italian facility which
so closely imitates talent that one may be deceived
by it. Chinese marionettes, which differ from ours
in that the background of the picture is black and
the figures are white, show swiftly one after an-
other under the canvas awning. A group forms in
the centre of the square. The tenor is but little
listened to, the Chinese marionettes are deserted by
the spectators, the caramel sellers cease their monot-
164
bebeetteetetettetecetcetee
OR Ner Orbs homer NDF oUIN SETS
onous cry, chairs are turned half around, everybody
is silent. “The desks have been arranged, the music
distributed, the military band arrives, the prelude is
heard, and they begin. It is the overture to “ William
Tell.’ The overture over, the crowd withdraws.
Soon there are only a few people walking about, and
birrichini, a sort of ruffans whose most honest busi-
ness is selling smuggled cigars. Though you may
still read in the accounts of modern travellers that
night is turned into day in Venice, it is none the
less true that by midnight the Piazza is deserted, but
this will not prevent tourists, on the faith of old
accounts which refer to customs fallen into desuetude
since the fall of the Republic, from repeating for the
next fifty years that the Piazza San Marco swarms
with people until daylight. ‘That was true enough
when the apartments above the arcades of the Pro-
curatie Vecchie and Nuove were occupied by gam-
blers and casinos, in which crowded all night a company
of nobles, adventurers, and courtesans, —a_ perpetual
carnival in which nothing was lacking, not even the
mask, and of which Casanova de Seingalt has given
such interesting descriptions in his ** Memoirs.”
The offices of the brokers, the shops in which are
165
ttetbretbetettttdbbbtbtdbtts
AR AoVe EY LS.) Il Netgear
sold the Murano glass-ware, shell and coral necklaces,
and models of gondolas, those which sell views, maps,
and engravings of Venice, had closed one after an-
other. The only places left open were the cafés and
the tobacco shops.
It was time to get back to my gondola, which
was waiting for me at the Piazzetta landing. ‘The
moon had arisen, and nothing is more delightful than
an excursion by moonlight along the Grand Canal
or the Giudecca. It is a romantic situation which
an enthusiastic traveller cannot omit on a beautiful,
bright August night. I had another reason for wan-
dering on the lagoon at a time when it would have
been wiser to vanish within my mosquito net. Who
has not heard of the gondoliers singing the ottavi of
‘Tasso, and barcarolles in the Venetian dialect, so
lisping and broken that it resembles a child’s first
attempts? The gondoliers have long since ceased to
sing, and yet the tradition is not quite lost; the older
men do preserve within their memories some episodes
of “ Jerusalem Delivered,’ which they are willing
enough to recollect in return for a heavy tip and a
few jars of Cyprus wine. Like the maidens of Ischia
who put on their beautiful Greek costumes for Eng-
166
INGO oleae No CUIN SB ES
lishmen alone, the gondoliers will sing their melodies
only when well paid for doing so. |
When we had got some distance out in the great
Canal of the Giudecca, which is almost an arm of
the sea, about opposite the Jesuit church, the white
facade of which was silvered by the moon, my gon-
dolier, after having wetted his whistle, sang in a
guttural, deep, somewhat hoarse voice, but which was
heard a long way over the water, with prolonged
cadences, “ La Biondina in Gondoletta,” ‘ Pronta la
Gondoletta,”
Shepherds.”
I had committed the mistake of bringing my singer
and the episode of “ Erminia among the
with me instead of putting him in a boat at a dis-
tance and listening to him from the shore, for the
music is pleasanter farther away than near, but be-
ing more of a poet than a musician, I wanted to hear
the lines.
167
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TRAVELS IN Tie
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THE ARSENAL—FUSINE
T was fine, and the’fancy took me, on seeing the
| beautiful sky, to go to breakfast at Franco
Porto on the Island of San Giorgio Maggiore ;
turning the opportunity to account to visit Palladio’s
beautiful church, the red belfry of which shows to
such advantage against the lagoon. The facade has
been somewhat retouched by Scamozzi. The interior
contains, besides the inevitable huge paintings by Tin-
toretto, — the robust artist who painted acres of master-
pieces, —columns of Greek marble, gilded altars, stone
and bronze statues, an admirable choir in carved wood-
work representing different scenes in the life of Saint
Benedict, which recalled to me the wonderful wood
carvings by Berruguete in the Spanish cathedrals. A
pretty bronze statuette, placed on the choir rail on the
right as you enter, represents Saint George, and is
remarkable as being the most admirable likeness ever
made of Lord Byron. ‘This anticipated, and as it
were, prophetical portrait struck me greatly. The
168
HLEAAALAAAAAADAAALLAAL ELSA
THE ARSENAL—FUSINE
head of the Greek saint is the most elegant, disdainful,
aristocratic, thoroughly English that it is possible to
conceive; even the lips are contracted by the sneer
of the author of “Don Juan.” I do not know
whether the noble lord, who lived in Venice for a
long time and who must have visited the church of
San Giorgio Maggiore, noticed as I did that unique
resemblance, which must certainly have flattered him.
Behind the church, which is built on the point of
the island looking towards the Piazzetta and where the
Austrians have established a battery of guns, stretch
the warehouses and basins of the Franco Porto. You
traverse, after having passed through a gate guarded
by custom-house inspectors, great courts surrounded by
high arcades, and reach a sort of tavern and osteria, the
rendez-vous of sailors and gondoliers, who there enjoy
the pleasure of drinking wine duty free, very much as
our Paris workmen go and get drunk outside the city.
The place is always filled with people, and the cus-
tomers overflow outside on benches around wooden
tables shaded by the church. Porters pushing hand-
carts loaded with bales move in and out among the
drinkers, whom they look at enviously, and by whom
they will come and sit down when they have earned
169
need
deseo soe oe oe os oe ob eck decbeceecke de cdech check
TRAVELS IN ITALY
the few sous needed for their frugal orgies. Opposite
the tavern a great empty warehouse looking like a
casemate, whitewashed, with grated windows looking
out upon a deserted lane, serves as a refuge to people
who are troubled by the somewhat noisy gaiety out-
side, and lovers who seek solitude.
There you are served with Adriatic ¢rig/i (mullets)
so appetising, so golden red, so bright, so brilliant in
tone that you would eat them simply on account of
their colour, even were they not the very best fish in
the world. Peaches, grapes, a jar of Cyprus wine,
and coffee compose a breakfast exquisite in its simplic-
ity, and if by chance you have a good Havana cigar
which you can smoke in your gondola as you return
towards the Riva degli Schiavoni, I do not quite see
what more you want in order to be happy, especially
if the night before you have received satisfactory letters
from home.
It is early, and before going to Fusine I shall have
time to visit the Arsenal; not the interior, for that is
now forbidden, but I am more interested in admiring
the Lions of the Piraeus, trophies won by Morosini
during the Peloponnesian War, than vessels in process
of building and endless rows of guns.
170
IN, _ a
che be cheb oe che abe oh ae cba heeds cheba oe chee abe che eae abel
we ere a Ow we ate wie ene
THE ARSENAL—FUSINE
The two colossi in Pentelic marble lack the zodlogi-
cal truthfulness which Barye would undoubtedly have
imparted to them, but there is something so proud, so
grandiose, so divine,—if one may say so of animals,
— about them that they produce a striking impression.
Their golden whiteness stands out admirably against
the red facade of the Arsenal, which is composed of
a portico covered with meritorious statues which the
nearness of the splendid lions causes to look like dolls,
and of two crenellated towers of red brick with bands
of stone like the houses of the Place Royale in Paris.
Though they are trophies of a defeat, they still pre-
serve their haughty, superb, proud look, and these
lions seem to’ remember in the City of Saint Mark the
antique Minerva.
The gloomy loneliness of the Arsenal, with its vast
basins, its covered building-sheds, in which it is said
a galley could be built, rigged, equipped, and launched
in one day, recalled to me the Arsenal at Cartagena in
Spain, which was so active in the days of the invincible
Armada. It was from this Venetian Arsenal that
started the fleets that went to conquer Corfu, Zante,
Cyprus, Athens, and all the rich, fair islands of the
Archipelago; but Venice was Venice then, and the
171
tebbbteobtettttdbbbbtddt dds
TR AW) Has oN ot Aa
Lion of Saint Mark, now gloomy and defamed, had
teeth and claws like the fiercest of heraldic monsters.
We passed between San Giorgio and the Giudecca
Point, skirting closely its gardens and enclosures full
of vines and fruit trees, and entered the lagoon
properly so-called.
The sky was absolutely clear, and the light was so
brilliant that the water shone like a sea of silver and
the sky line was absolutely invisible. The islands
showed like little brown spots, and distant craft seemed
to sail in mid-heaven. ‘The railway bridge, a gigantic
work which links Venice with the mainland and which
I saw far off on the right, offered a singular effect of
mirage. Its numerous arches, repeated in the still,
blue water, formed perfect circles and resembled those
strange, round Chinese doors which are seen upon
screens; so that the architectural fancy of Pekin
seemed to have built this quaint avenue for the city of
the Doges, the sky line of which, broken by numerous
belfries and topped by the Campanile surmounted with
its golden angel, showed in the most picturesque and
unexpected fashion.
After having passed a fortified island, bearing on its
summit a charming statue of the Madonna and a very
172
che robe ofr oe oe oe che chs abe obese fecha cde alec sob ce oe oale
wre oTe e7e ofS wTO
TEEPE SAGRiS pera 1 —— BES TNE:
ugly Austrian sentry, I followed one of the canals
in the lagoon buoyed by a double row of poles which
mark the places where the water is sufficiently deep;
for the lagoon is a sort of salt marsh which the ebb and
flow of the tide prevent from stagnating, but which is
never more than three or four feet deep except along
certain lines deepened by nature or by man. Some of
the piles have at the top little miniature diptychs made
by pious sailors, which contain images and statues of
the Madonna. The gracious protectress, who is called
in the litanies Stella Maris, Star of the Sea, is there in
her element. ‘These Madonnas in the water are
touching. Undoubtedly the Deity is present every-
where, and His protection falls from heaven as quickly
as it rises from the sea, but the pious belief in a more
immediate succour, the protectress being transported
into the very midst of the peril, has something child-
ishly charming and poetic about it. I am very fond of
these Venetian Madonnas, washed by the salt mists and
struck by the wing of the passing gull, and I willingly
say, as I pass them, “‘ 4ve, Maria, gratia piena!”
The blue line of the Euganean Mountains showed
faintly ahead against the tender blue of the sky, rather
as a vein of deeper azure than a terrestrial reality.
rae
oh fe ob ahs oe oh oh ok oh abe dh checke decked obec dhe cheek
ATR ACViEGIS® 4. UN; Dighgaviegy
The trees and houses on the shore, which I could
already perceive, seemed on account of the curve of the
sea to plunge half-way into the water, and the red
campaniles on the islands appeared to spring from the
wave like great branches of coral. A low shore
covered with varied vegetation lay before me. I
sprang out of the gondola; I had reached Fusine.
The ravages of the war had not been repaired at
Fusine. Some of the houses, half ruined by cannon-
balls, smashed by shells, spoiled, with their broken
white walls, amid the luxuriant vegetation, looked like
bones forgotten on a battlefield. AQ little rustic chapel
is intact, either because it was respected during the fight,
or because the dwelling of God was restored before that
of men. ‘The rich, damp soil, impregnated with
marine salts, enriched with vegetable detritus, heated
by the vivifying sunshine, has given birth in loneliness
and solitude to a whole wild flora of those lovely plants
which are called weeds because they are free. It is a
virgin forest on a small scale. Wild oats wave on the
edge of the ditches, the hemlock expands its umbellz
of greenish white, the wild mallow spreads its curled
leaves and its pale-rose flowers, the wild convolvulus
clings with its silver bells to the branches of brambles ;
174
Shboh bee bbbebbbbhtbbb bbe
eTe e7e efe ore eTe eve ore wre
THE ARSENAL—FUSINE
the grass, which comes up to your knees, is diapered
with innumerable unnamed flowers, little spangles of
gold, azure, or purple cast here and there by the great
colourist to break the uniform green tint. By the
banks of the canals the water-lily displays its great
viscous, heart-shaped leaves and its yellow flowers, the
spear-head of the sagittaria trembles in the breeze, the
loosestrife, with its willow-like leaf, bends under the
weight of its purple spikes, the iris sends up its dagger-
like leaf; the ribboned reeds, the flowering rushes,
are mingled in the wildest and most picturesque dis-
order. Elders, hazels, shrubs, and trees which no one
trims, cast a shadow flecked with sunshine over this
rich mass.
Quick, swift lizards with quivering tails traverse like
arrows the narrow path where the tree-frog conceals
itself in the rut full of rain water. Bands of frogs
dive under the grasses of the Brenta as you pass by.
A beautiful water-snake fearlessly indulges in the most
graceful convolutions.
Weirs and locks, forming breaks in the scene, retain
the water here and there; light brick arches, which
serve the double purpose of counterforts and of bridges,
frequently span the canal; but all is half ruinous, and
AS)
tebbbtbbedeeteeehe tt ddd dds
WeR AV Ess) TN Gael Aves
invaded by the vegetation which slips into the place of
the bricks or the stone. This neglect is regrettable
from the point of view of the engineer, but from that
of the painter it is quite otherwise. If moss cover the
revetments, if wall plants disjoin the stones, if the
reeds end by filling up the canals, it all looks well in
the landscape.
On returning, the gondolier took me through water-
Janes with which I was not previously acquainted.
Decaying cities are like dying bodies; life, confined
to the heart, little by little deserts the extremities.
Streets become depopulated, old quarters become soli-
tary, the blood lacks the strength to flow through the
veins. ‘The entrance to Venice, coming from Fusine,
is mournful. Only a few boats bringing goods from
the mainland glide slowly over the sleeping waters
by the side of the deserted houses. Palaces of exqui-
site architecture are windowless; the openings are
closed by rough boards. The whitewash on the aban-
doned houses chips away, the moss spreads its green
carpet over the substructures, shells and seaweed cling
to the water-steps which crabs alone now ascend. At
the windows of the few inhabited houses are rags hung
out to dry, sole indication of the life of the wretched
176
$ttetetetetttett tt etttes
THE ARSENAL—FUSINE
households which have taken refuge there. Occasion-
ally a magnificently wrought iron grating, a balcony
with complicated ornamentation, a broken coat of
arms, slender marble columns, a mask, a sculptured
cornice on a wall cracked, blackened, and guttered by
the rain, degraded by carelessness, betoken former
splendour and mark the palace of a patrician family
which has died out or sunk into poverty. As one
proceeds the painful impression is gradually removed,
life is renewed, and it is with pleasure that one enters
again upon the animated Grand Canal or the Piazza
San Marco.
Time had seemed short to me at Fusine; it was
already the dinner hour. The crabs which swarm in
the canals were beginning to show their ugly bodies
and their crooked claws above the line traced by the
water at the foot of the houses; a performance which
they go through every evening at six o’clock as punc-
tually as if regulated by a chronometer.
I dined that day at the Campo San Gallo, a square
behind the Piazza in a German gasthoff, where I
enjoyed the change from the vini nostrani to a glass of
Minich beer. I dined there in the open air under an
awning striped saffron and white, side by side with
1002 177
French painters, German artists, and Austrian officers ;
the latter short, fair, slender young fellows in close-fit-
ting, elegant uniforms, very polite, very well-bred, with |
Werther-like faces and quite free from soldierly man-
ners. ‘The conversation was usually zsthetic, broken
here and there by a complicated, laborious joke, a
remembrance of Jena, Bonn, or Heidelberg.
In the centre of the Campo rose the margin of a
well where the women of the neighbourhood and the
Styrian water-carriers came to draw water at certain
hours. At the back was a little church bearing the
arms of the Patriarch of Venice, the door of which,
closed by a curtain, sent out a faint perfume of incense
to mingle with the smells from the gasthoff kitchen,
and from which the sound of prayer and of organ
notes mingled with discussions on art and philosophy.
From time to time some bat-like old women, their
heads concealed within black hoods, vanished within
after raising the portiére.
Young girls, bareheaded and draped in_ brilliant
shawls, passed by, fan in hand, smile on lip, brushing
gently aside with their feet the festooned flounces of
their skirts, and instead of entering the church, went
into a narrow lane which leads from the Campo San
178
soe abe oe be oboe oe oe cba de cede de oe oe obec coche abe lob
mo ae ore we wie ene
Aki by OAKS bawene is — BUS TNE
Gallo to the Piazza. There passed by also stout
priests with honest, jolly faces, going to some evening
service. ‘They wore purple stockings like bishops, and
red shoes like cardinals, which, it is said, is a privilege
of the Quarter San Marco, the patriarchal metropolis.
On a modest-looking house opposite the gasthoff was
a slab in marble bearing a Latin inscription. It was
there that Canova died. I cannot resist the pleasure
of copying the beautiful and touching inscription,
which may be translated thus for the benefit of ladies
who do not know Latin, and of men who have for-
gotten it: “ This house of the Francesconi, which he
had preferred to more sumptuous hospitality because
of the candour of a former friendship, Canova, easily
prince of sculptors, consecrated with his last breath.”’
After I had despatched my modest repast, seeing
nothing interesting on the theatre posters which
covered the arcades of the Procuratie, I traversed the
streets aimlessly, which is the best way to become
acquainted with the familiar life of a people; for books
speak scarcely of anything but monuments and remark-
able things, leaving out all the characteristic details and
the innumerable, almost imperceptible differences which
remind you constantly that you are in a foreign land.
BA9
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LABAV ELS IN: el ee
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T the entrance to the Grand Canal, by the
yA side of the white church della Salute and
opposite the red houses of the Campo di
San Vitale — a point of view made illustrious by Can-
aletto’s masterpiece —rises the Academia di Belle
Arti, where, thanks to the late Count Leopoldo Cicog-
nara, have been collected a large number of the treas-
ures of the Venetian School. ‘The arcaded facade is
from the design of Giorgio Massari, and the sculptor
Giacarelli is the author of the “ Minerva seated upon
a Lion,” which decorates the attic.
When the Venetian School is spoken of three names
at once recur to the mind: Titian, Paolo Veronese, and
Tintoretto. “They seem to have been born spontane-
ously, like flowers, of the azure of the sea under a
warm beam of sunshine. By the side of them one
puts Giovanni Bellini and Giorgione, and that is all. I
am speaking of the public and of ordinary amateurs
who have not seen Italy, and who have not made a
180
KLEAAKKALEALEPSELAA ALAA ALA
OEE ean 10-1: WIRY:
special study of Venetian painting. Yet there exists a
whole series of artists, almost unknown, but admirable,
who preceded the great men whom [| have mentioned,
as dawn precedes day, less brilliant, but. more tender
and fresher. ‘I"hese older Venetians join to all the art-
less delicacy, all the unction, all the suavity of Giotto,
Perugino, and Hemling, an elegance, a beauty, and a
richness of colouring which these never attained. It is
remarkable that the paintings of the school of colourists
have almost all turned black; the harmony of the tints
has disappeared under smoky varnish, the g/acis is faded,
the first sketch shows through the overlaying; while
the works of the school of line painters, with their
timid and minute methods, their lack of thick colouring,
‘their very simple local tone, preserve incomparable
brilliancy and youth. ‘These panels and canvases, an-
terior often by as much as a hundred years to the
famous paintings, seem, but for the style which indi-
cates the date, to have been painted yesterday. ‘They
still possess the bloom of novelty ; the ages have passed
over them without leaving any trace. ‘There is no re-
touching, no re-painting about them. Is it because
the colours used by these men were purer, chemistry
not being then sufficiently developed to adulterate them
181
We ee wTe OTe ore OFS ame OFS ewe Gre OF are wre ove
TROAW Beat S:. IN Cae
abe abe obs ols obs obs oll ols obs ob alle ofle ole of ole abr abe ols os che ab obs obey ols
or to invent other colours of uncertain effect and doubt-
ful permanence? Or is it that the tones, left almost
pure, as in illuminations, have preserved the same value
as on the palette. I will not attempt to decide the
question, but the fact, more marked here, is true of -all
schools which preceded what is called the Renaissance
of art. “The older a painting is, the better it is pre-
served. A Van Eyck is fresher than a Van Dyck, an
Andrea Mantegna than a Raphael, and an Antonio de
Murano than a Tintoretto. Frescoes exhibit the same
difference ; the most modern are the most damaged.
I was prepared, in a way, by the masterpieces scat-
tered through the galleries of France, Spain, England,
Belgium, and Holland, for the marvels of Titian, Paolo
Veronese, and ‘Tintoretto, nor did these great men dis-
appoint me. ‘They faithfully kept all the promise of
their genius, —but I expected that. On the other
hand I experienced a delightful surprise on beholding
the works, little known outside of Venice, of Giovanni
and Gentile Bellini, Basaiti, Marco Roccone, Mansueti,
Carpaccio, and others whose names would make a cata-
logue were I to give them. It was like a new world.
To find Venetian brilliancy in Gothic simplicity, the
beauty of the South allied to the somewhat stiff forms
182
cob oe abe oe oh che oe ch be che cbecbectecte cleo cfc cb of ae ce
i eae Los IVEY:
of the North, Holbeins as richly coloured as if painted
by Giorgione, paintings by Lucas Cranach as elegant
as those of Raphael, was a wondrous piece of good
fortune, and I felt it perhaps more than was proper ;
for in my first burst of enthusiasm I was not far from
considering the illustrious masters, the eternal glories
of the Venetian School, as corrupters of taste and great
men of the decadence, — somewhat like those Neo-
Christian Germans, who drive Raphael from the para-
dise of Catholic painters because, in their opinion, he
is too sensual and too pagan.
If I were writing a history of Venetian painting and
not an account of a trip, I should begin by Nicolo
Semiticolo, the oldest in the series, who goes back to
1370, and I should come down chronologically to
Francesco Zuccarelli, the last of them, who died in
1790; but the gallery is not so arranged, and this sys-
tem, which should be followed everywhere, would not
agree with the real places occupied by the pictures,
which are hung up simply in accordance with their
size.
The Academy of the Fine Arts, as is well known,
occupies the old Scuola di Santa Maria della Carita.
Of the original decoration there remains a very hand-
183
Sktbeeteeteetttetttt ttt tts
TRAWEAIS. IN dag
some ceiling in the first hall, which is the Salon Carre,
the Tribuna of the Academy of Fine Arts. It is a cas-
ket in which the finest gems are placed in the most
favourable light ; the Koh-i-noors, the Grand Moguls,
the Regents, and the Sancys of this rich Venetian mine,
the veins of which have furnished such precious, pictur-
esque gems.
Each great master of Venice is represented here by
an eminent example of his talent, the masterpiece of
his masterpieces, —one of those supreme paintings in
which genius and talent, inspiration and skill are mingled
in proportions not easy to recover, a rare conjunction
even in the life of sovereign artists. On that day the
hand could do whatever the mind willed, as in that
place of which Dante speaks, “‘ where one can what
one wills.”
Basaiti’s “ Calling of the Sons of Zebedee ” has
many of the characteristics of the German School in
the artlessness of the details, in the somewhat gray
softness of tone, and in a certain melancholy unusual
in the Italian School. The Nuremberg master would
not disavow the landscape, at once fantastic and real,
the Gothic castles with their pepper-pot turrets, their
drawbridges and barbicans on the banks of the Lake
184
shook oh ok ok oh deh oh che chee cbechecbecbecb hecho che ack
TE PRG Buoys
of Tiberias, and a Chioggia or Murazzi fisherman
would have no fault to find with the Péote and the nets
rendered so simply and faithfully. The Christ is
earnest and suave; the faces of the two apostles who
are going to give up the catching of fish for the catch-
ing of men breathe the liveliest faith.
A stop must be made also before the “ Saint Francis
receiving the Stigmata,” by Francesco Beccarucci di
Conegliano, which is very fine. The painting is
divided into two parts. In the upper is seen the saint
holding out his hands for the divine imprints, a glorious
resemblance with the Saviour which he has earned
through his devotion. In the lower part is a crowd of
saints and blessed, for the most part belonging to the
order of Saint Francis, and rejoicing in the miracle.
It contains beautiful ascetic heads; it is filled with
deep religious feeling, and is perfect though somewhat
dry in execution. When these old paintings, apparently
cold and constrained, are looked at attentively, they
become animated little by little, and finally exhibit ex-
traordinary vivacity; yet they are marked neither by
much knowledge of anatomy nor by much muscular or
fleshy development. ‘The figures, embarrassed, look
like timid people who wish to speak to you and dare
185
TRAVELS TN St pA Lay.
not, and are turning over the best way to express what
they feel. Their gestures are often awkward, but their
faces are so kindly, so sweet, so childishly sincere, that
you understand their half-spoken words, and they remain
forever in your memory. It is because, under their
awkward appearance, they possess a small thing which
is lacking in masterpieces of technical skill, —a soul.
I own frankly that I have a horror of the Bas-
sanos. heir everlasting paintings of animals turned
out from their factory and scattered throughout Europe,
wretched shoddy work reproduced mechanically, more
than justify my aversion; but I am bound to confess
that the ‘ Resurrection of Lazarus” by Leandro
Bassano is worth a good deal more than the en-
trances and exits from the Ark, the pastorals and
the rustic parks with cattle and sheep and a bending
woman in a red skirt, which drive to despair every
visitor to picture galleries.
Let me mention also the “ Wedding of Cana” by
Padovanino, a large, fine composition, broad and cor-
rect in execution, a painting praiseworthy in every
respect, and which anywhere else would be accounted
a masterpiece; and let me come to a curious paint-
ing by Paris Bordone, which represents a gondolier
186
debe bbb bob bbc beh bdo oh beet
Te ove CFO UFO OFS CTS Sie aie we whe
TEL Be ae A Tb Es Miecy
restoring the ring of Saint Mark to the Doge. The
moment chosen is that at which the gondolier is
kneeling before the Doge. The composition is very
picturesque. There is a great line, in perspective,
of heads of senators, dark or bearded, most lordly in
character; spectators are crowding on the steps in
skilfully contrasted groups, while the beautiful Vene-
tian costume is seen in all its splendour. As _ in
nearly all the paintings of this school, architécture
has a large place in the picture. Beautiful porticos
in the style of Palladio, filled with people coming and
going, form the background. This painting has the
peculiarity, rather infrequent in the Italian school, —
which is mostly occupied in reproducing religious or
mythological subjects, of representing a popular
legend, a scene of manners, a romantic subject, in a
word, such as Delacroix or Louis Boulanger might
have chosen and treated in accordance with their talent.
This gives it a characteristic appearance and a per-
sonal attractiveness.
The pearl of the Museum at Madrid is a Raphael ;
the gem of the Museum at Venice is a Titian, a mar-
vellous painting, long forgotten and then recovered,
for Venice possessed this masterpiece unawares for
187
Sebbbttttttttetttt ett tte
BRAS R TS SO. IN aan
many a year. Relegated to an old and little fre-
quented church, it had disappeared under the slow
accumulation of dust and cobwebs; the subject it-
self could scarcely be made out. One day an ex-
pert connoisseur, Count Cicognara, was struck with
the appearance of the darkened figures, and suspect-
ing the hand of the master under the marks of neglect
and wretchedness, rubbed a corner of the canvas.
The noble painting, preserved intact under the layer
of dust like Pompeii under its mantle of ashes, ap-
peared so youthful and so fresh that the Count was
certain that he had come across a work by a great
master, — an unknown masterpiece. He managed to
master his feelings and proposed to the priest to ex-
change that huge, uncared-for painting for a fine,
brand-new, clean, shining picture handsomely framed,
which would do honour to the church and please the
faithful. The priest joyfully accepted, smiling to
himself at the eccentricity of the Count, who was
giving a new picture for an old one and did not ask
something into the bargain.
Cleansed from the filth which soiled it, Titian’s
« Assumption ” appeared radiant. It is one of the
largest paintings by the master, and the one in which
188
theo heh che he che dh ch ch cbecbe beaded abe dheche ech oh do
TEE eae pelo TOMY,
he has reached the highest point. “The composition
is balanced and distributed with infinite art. The
upper portion, which is arched, represents Paradise,
—the Glory, to use the ascetic Spanish expression.
Groups of angels confounded and disappearing in a
flood of light to incalculable depths, like sparkling
stars against flame, brilliant gleams of eternal light,
form a halo around God the Father, who issues from
the depths of the Infinite with the motion of a soar-
ing eagle, accompanied by an archangel and a seraph
upholding the crown and the nimbus. This figure
of Jehovah, seen head and body strongly foreshortened
horizontally, like a divine bird, with a mass of
flying drapery outspread like wings, amazes by its
sublime boldness. If it be possible for a human
brush to clothe the Deity in a human figure, un-
doubtedly ‘Titian has succeeded in doing so. Almighty
power, eternal youth shine on the white-bearded face.
Since the Olympic Jupiter of Phidias, never has the Lord
of Heaven and Earth been more worthily represented.
The centre of the picture is occupied by the Vir-
gin Mary, who is raised, or rather surrounded, by a
band of angels and of souls of the blessed. She needs
no help to ascend to heaven. She rises through the
189
LEDELALDLAALALLALALALL ELS
gabe Jib LN eee
upspringing of her robust faith, the purity of her soul,
lighter than the most luminous ether. ‘There is posi-
tively in that figure an incredible power of ascen-
sion; and yet to attain that effect, Titian did not
have recourse to slender form, to clinging draperies,
to transparent colour. His Madonna is a very real,
a very living woman, of a beauty as solid as that of
the Venus of Milo or the Venus of the Tribuna at
Florence; full, rich draperies with numerous folds
float around her; and yet nothing is more celestially
beautiful than that tall, strong figure with its rose-
coloured tunic and its azure mantle. In spite of the
mighty voluptuousness of the body, the glance shines
with the purest virginity.
In the lower part of the painting the Apostles are
grouped in various skilfully contrasted attitudes of
ecstasy and surprise. [wo or three small angels,
who connect them with the middle portion of the
composition, seem to be explaining the miracle. The
heads of the Apostles, of various ages and characters,
are painted with surprising vigour and lifelike reality.
The draperies have the breadth and fulness character-
istic of Titian, who was at once the richest and the
simplest of painters.
190
he abe obs ahs ale obs ole obs obs abe cle che obs abe ole os obs ells os ole eb obs of ob
Gla Bae oe) Td Vie
As I looked at that Virgin and compared it in my
mind with other Virgins by different masters, I re-
flected how marvellous, how ever new a thing is art.
The number of variations which Catholic painters
have made upon this theme of the Madonna, without
ever exhausting it, astounds and confounds the im-
agination ; but when one reflects upon it, one under-
stands that under the conventional type each painter
has reproduced at one and the same time his dream of
love and the incarnation of his own talent.
Thanks to the dusty layer which covered it for so
many years, the “ Assumption”’ shines with youthful
brilliancy. The centuries stayed their steps for it,
and we enjoy the supreme delight of seeing a paint-
ing by Titian as it came from his palette.
Opposite Titian’s “ Assumption” has been placed
Tintoretto’s “ Saint Mark delivering a Slave,” as the
most robust picture and the one best fitted to form a
pendant to so splendid a masterpiece. Tintoretto is
the king of violent painters. He has incredible fury
in composition, vigour in execution, and boldness in
foreshortening, and the “Saint Mark” may pass for
one of his fiercest and most audacious paintings. The
subject is the patron saint of Venice coming to the
IgI
beteettttteetettttttttes
TeRAWE DES TN. i TAS
aid of a poor slave, whom a barbarous master tor-
ments and tortures because of the obstinate devotion
of the poor fellow to the saint. ‘The slave is stretched
on the ground on a cross, surrounded by busy tor-
turers who are making a vain effort to fasten him to
the infamous tree. The nails turn back, the mallets
break, the axes fly in pieces. More merciful than
men, the instruments of torture are blunted in the
hands of the torturers;. the spectators look at each
other and whisper in astonishment, the judge bends
over the tribunal to see why his orders are not exe-
cuted; while Saint Mark, in one of the most violent
foreshortenings a painter ever risked, dives from
heaven to earth, without clouds, wings, cherubs, with-
out any of the aerostatic means usually employed in
sacred pictures, as he comes to deliver the man who
believes in him. This vigorous figure, with the
muscles of an athlete and the proportions of a colos-
sus, flying through the air like a rock hurled by a
catapult, produces the strangest effect. The draw-
ing is so marvellous that the massive saint sustains
himself and does not fall. It is a downright tour de
Jorce. If to this be added that the picture is so
_ strong in tone, so appropriate in its contrasts of light
1g2
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trtrtrtoebbbbttebtettes
TLE Been DE My:
and shadow, so vigorous in detail, so harsh and
violent in touch that the most intense Caravaggios
and Spagnolettis, if placed by the side of it would
look like rosewater, some idea may be had of a
painting which, in spite of some barbarisms, still pre-
serves in its accessories the architectural, abundant
and sumptuous aspect peculiar to the Venetian school.
There are also in the same room an ‘ Adam and
Eve” and an “ Abel and Cain” by the same painter ;
two magnificent paintings worked out like studies,
which are perhaps the most perfect piece of work, so
far as execution goes, produced by him. Against a
background of soft, mysterious green, the distant foli-
age of Eden,— or rather, the wall of the studio, —
stand out two superb bodies, of a brilliantly warm
white, of living carnation, powerfully real. It is prob-
able that Eve holds out to Adam the fatal apple,
which justifies the placing of two nude personages in the
open air; but no matter, for never did two more beau-
tiful bodies, never did whiter and softer flesh come to
life under the brush of a colourist. Tintoretto, who
had written on the wall, “The drawing of Michael
Angelo and the colouring of Titian,” has in this paint-
ing carried out at least one half of his programme.
13 193
The companion painting of “ Abel and Cain”
breathes all the savage fury that one expects from such
a subject and such a painter. Death, the consequence
of the fall of our first parents, enters on the young
earth in a formidable shadow, wherein are rolling the
murderer and his victim. In one corner of the paint-
ing is a horrible detail: the head of a sheep cut off and
bleeding. Is it the victim offered up by Abel, or a
symbol that innocent animals are also to bear the
penalty of Eve’s curiosity ?
Bonifazzio is an admirable artist. His ‘ Wicked
Rich Man” is a thoroughly Venetian painting. It
lacks neither the handsome women with their hair
rolled up in tresses, with strings of pearls, dresses of
velvet and brocade, nor the splendid lords in gallant and
courteous attitudes, the musicians, pages, negroes, nor
the damask tablecloth richly covered with plate of gold
and silver, the dogs playing on the mosaic pavement, and
this time smelling at the rags of Lazarus with the mis-
trust of well-bred animals, nor the terraces with balus-
trades on which the wine is cooling in antique craters,
nor the white columns between which the sky shines
out deeply blue; only, Paolo Veronese’s silvery gray
here has an amber tint; the silver is gilded. Bonifaz-
194
te
abe ol abe ab cls ele als ebro aby cb cdo abe abe cb abe abo che ef abe ee abe eho ole
THE Pre 1) Ee VIEY:
zio, who painted portraits, gave to his heads something
more intimate than did the author of the four great
feasts and of the ceilings of the Palace of the Doges,
accustomed as he was to look at subjects from the
decorative point of view. The faces in Bonifazzio’s
painting, studied and individually characteristic, posi-
tively recall the patrician types of Venice, which so
often posed to the artist. The anachronism of the
costumes shows that Lazarus is but a mere pretext,
and that the real subject of the painting is a banquet of
lords with courtesans, their mistresses, in one of those
beautiful palaces which plunge their marble feet into
the waters of the Grand Canal.
Let us not pass too quickly before these ‘* Apostles,”
of such fine port, so rich in colour, and so religiously
grave, as is not always the case in the Venetian school,
especially in the second half of the sixteenth century,
when the pagan ideas of the Renaissance made their
way into art and developed the sensualist tendencies of
these splendid masters. The Academy of the Fine Arts
possesses a great number of Bonifazzio’s works. In
this room alone, besides the “« Wicked Rich Man ” and
the “ Apostles,” there is an “¢ Adoration of the Magi,”
“Christ and the Woman Taken in Adultery,” “Saint
195
~ RAVELS “IN See
Jerome and Saint Catharine,” “ Saint Mark,” ‘ Jesus
Enthroned surrounded by Saints,’’ —all of them paint-
ings of the highest merit, which stand being placed
in company with those of ‘Titian, Tintoretto, and
Paolo Veronese.
A great painter, little known in France, is Rocco
Marconi, an artist whose style is pure and whose feel-
ing is deep. He is a sort of Italian Albert Direr, less
fantastic and chimerical than the German, but with a
sort of archaic calm in his manner which makes him
appear older than his contemporaries, as does Ingres
among Delacroix, Decamps, Couture, Muller, and
Diaz. The heads in his “ Christ between Saint John
and Saint Paul”? have much character and nobility,
the folds of the draperies are very tasteful, and the
group in its firm colour stands out well against the
sky dappled with clouds.
Here on the wall is a whole line of the old Vene-
tians that I spoke of as we entered the Academy of the
Fine Arts, suave, pure, ingenuous, gentle, and charm-
ing. Giovanni Bellini, Cima da Conegliano, and Vit-
torio Carpaccio each offer us the same subject, one
which was sufficient for the whole of the Middle Ages
and gave birth to thousands of masterpieces, — the
196
tebebbbetteeeebeteedttes
THE ACADEMY
Madonna and Child Enthroned, surrounded by saints,
usually the patrons of the giver; a custom which
makes pedants complain of anachronism under the
pretext that it is not natural that Saint Francis of
Assisi, Saint Sebastian, and Saint Catharine, or any other
saint, should happen to be in the same frame as the
Blessed Virgin, and that the costumes of the Middle
Ages should be mingled with the draperies of antiquity.
These critics have failed to understand that to a living
faith there is no such thing as time or place, and that
nothing is more touching than the bringing together of
the idol and the devotee; a genuine bringing together,
for the Madonna was then a living, contemporary,
actual being, she entered into every one’s life, she was
the ideal of all timid lovers, the mother of all those
who sorrowed; she was not relegated to the very con-
fines of heaven, as incredulous ages, under pretext of
respect, do with their gods. Men lived on a familiar
footing with her, confided their griefs and their hopes
to her, and no one would have been surprised to see her
appear in the street in company with a monk, a cardinal,
a nun, or any other holy personage. The more readily,
therefore, did one allow in a painting a combination
which shocks purists, but which is really deeply Catholic.
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WO OFS are OFS OFS WO WTO OT ee es
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For my part I am very fond of these thrones and
baldacchinos so preciously and delicately ornamented,
of these Madonnas holding their Child upon their laps,
with their simple golden nimbus, as if colour were not
brilliant enough for them, of these little angels playing
on the viol, the rebec, or the angelica. Yes, in spite
of my love for pagan art, I love also these artless
Gothic painters; these Fathers of the Church carrying
great missals under their arms, wearing the cardinal’s
beretta, Saint George in his knightly armour, Saint
Sebastian chastely nude, a sort of Christian Apollo,
who, instead of shooting arrows, is pierced by them;
the priests, the saints, and the monks in beautiful
figured dalmatics and white or black gowns with many
small folds; these young virgins leaning on a wheel and
holding a palm, maids of honour of the Celestial
Queen; all the loving and devout suite which humbly
groups itself at the foot of the representation of the.
apotheosis,of the Virgin Mother. It seems to me that
this somewhat hieratic arrangement better fulfils the
requirements of the church painting properly under-
stood than compositions worked out from the realistic
point of view. ‘There is in this sort of composition a
sacred rhythm which must strike the eye of the faithful.
198
whe oso obs ols abl abe abe obs oe be cree ob strobe ofa ob cle abe of abe ol
ore one =< oS owe Fe WTO VFO OTe TO
Beye A DE MEY
The aspect of the image itself, so necessary in devo-
tional subjects, in my opinion, is preserved, and art is
in no wise the loser, for if individuality is bounded on
the one hand, it is entirely free on the other. Each
artist marks his individuality in the execution of the
work, and these paintings, formed of the same ele-
ments, are perhaps the most personal of all. The
feathered musicians of Carpaccio are unlike those of
Giovanni Bellini, although they are tuning their guitars
at the feet of the Virgin on the steps of an almost
identical baldacchino. The winged virtuosi of Car-
paccio are more elegant, have a more youthful grace;
they look like pages of a noble house. ‘Those of
Giovanni Bellini are more artless, childish, babyish ;
they perform their music with the zeal of country
choristers watched by their priest. All of them are
charming, but their gracefulness is different and marked
by the character of the painter.
The “ Holy Family ” of Paolo Veronese is composed
in the rich and bountiful taste so familiar to that
painter. Ofcourse the amateurs of absolute truth will
not find here the humble interior of the poor carpenter.
The column of rose Verona brocatella, the splendid
figured curtain, the skilfully broken folds of which
199
teebbettetettttttttceddde
DRAW BS) OUN ePAL AY
form the background of the painting, betoken a princely
home, but the “ Holy Family” is rather an apotheosis
than a realistic representation of Joseph’s humble
household. ‘The presence of Saint Francis offering
a palm, of the priest in his cloak, of the saint
with her golden hair tressed on the back of her
head, the regal seat on which is enthroned the divine
Mother presenting her Child to worship, suffice to
prove this.
In the second room there is an immense painting,
“The Feast at the House of Levi,” one of the four
great banquet-pieces by Paolo Veronese. “The Louvre
bP]
possesses two of them, the “‘ Wedding at Cana,” and
the “Supper at the House of the Magdalen.” They
are of the same size as the one at Venice. All have
the same broad, rich, easy composition, the same silvery
brilliancy, the same air of festivity and joy; in all are
seen those dark-complexioned men with their rich dal-
matics of brocade, the fair women covered with pearls,
the negro slaves offering dishes and ewers, the children
playing on the steps of balustraded stairs with great
white greyhounds; the columns, the marble statues ;
the beautiful, bright turquoise-blue sky which fairly
‘deceives when, on drawing back, one looks at it
200
she ob of che che che ek bh hob bebe cbc ecb ob bot
THE ACADEMY
framed in by the door of the next room like a view in
a panorama. Paolo Veronese is perhaps, without ex-
cepting Titian, Rubens, and Rembrandt, the greatest
master of colour that ever lived. He has not the
yellow tone of Titian nor the red tone of Rubens, nor
the dark tone of Rembrandt. He paints luminously,
with amazing accuracy; no one understood better
than he did the relation of tones and their relative
values. He obtains by juxtaposition tints of exquisite
freshness which apart would seem gray and earthy.
No one possesses to the same degree the bloom and
flower of light.
The composition of the ‘“ Annunciation” by the
same painter is curious. The Virgin Mary, kneeling
at one end of a long canvas, the central part of which
-is filled in by elegant architecture, awaits modestly the
arrival of the Angel, relegated to the other end of the
painting and which seems to be wafted towards her
on its open wings with its angelic salutation. ‘This
arrangement, contrary to the rule which places in the
centre of a canvas the group upon which attention is
directed, is a brilliant caprice which would have failed
had it been attempted by any other than Paolo
Veronese.
201
The Academy possesses an inestimable treasure, the
last painting done by Titian, that patriarch of his art,
who lived through the century and whom the plague
surprised still at work at the age of ninety-nine. ‘The
painting, of a grave and melancholy aspect, the funeral
subject of which seems to be a presentiment, represents
a “Deposition from the Cross.” The sky is dark,
a livid light illuminates the body piously upborne by
Joseph of Arimathea and Mary Magdalen. They are
both sad and downcast, and seem by their hopeless
attitudes to despair of the resurrection of the Master.
They are evidently wondering with secret anxiety
whether that body anointed with spices and ointments
which they are going to place within the sepulchre will
ever emerge from it. And indeed, never did Titian
paint so thoroughly dead a body. ‘There is not a drop
of blood left under the greenish skin and in the bluish
veins; life has withdrawn from them forever. The
‘‘Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane” in Saint
Paul’s, the ‘“ Pieta”’ in Saint Denis-du-Saint-Sacra-
ment, by Eugéne Delacroix, alone can give an idea of
the sinister and painful picture in which for the first
time the great Venetian lost his unchanging serenity.
The shadow of approaching death seems to combat the
202
she chs abe a fe oh ch oe oh abe oe cdecbe cbr cbe adeeb cde oe che be obec
hhh Evrae AD E Miy
light of the painter who always had sunshine on his
palette, and casts a twilight chill over the painting.
The hand of the artist stopped in death before he had
finished his task, as is testified by the inscription in
black letters in the corner of the canvas: ‘The
work which Titian left unfinished, Palma respectfully
completed and offered to God.” This noble, touching,
and religious inscription turns the painting into a
monument. Certainly Palma, himself a great painter,
must have approached tremblingly the master’s work,
and his brush, clever as it was, must doubtless have
hesitated and wavered many a time as it was laid on
the touch of Titian.
If the Academy possesses the Omega of the
painter’s life, the Alpha is also found there in the shape
of a great picture, the subject of which is the ‘ Presen-
tation of Mary in the Temple.” ‘This work was
painted by Titian when almost a child; tradition says
at the age of fourteen, which seems to me rather pre-
cocious in view of the beauty of the work. Bringing
the matter down to likelihood, “ The Presentation of
Mary ” assuredly goes back to the painter’s extreme
youth, All the qualities of the artist are seen in this
juvenile work; they were developed more fully later,
203
abe obs ol ole obs abe os alls abe alle ole abn cbs ofle ols obe ole obs ole cbr cbr ole ce oe
THR AWEFRLISS DN. AIC Aa
but they exist already very visibly. “Ihe splendour
of the architecture, the grand port of the old men,
the abundant and fine drawing of the draperies, the
great effects of tone, the manly simplicity of execu-
tion, —all these things reveal the master in the
child. The luminous and bright colour, which the
sunshine of mature age will gild with warmer reflec-
tions, possesses already the virile solidity, the robust
consistency which are the distinctive characteristics
of ‘Titian.
He is, in my opinion, the only wholly healthy artist
who has appeared since the days of antiquity. He has
the mighty and strong serenity of Phidias; there is
nothing feverish, troubled, restless in him; the modern
malady has not laid its hands upon him. He is beauti-
ful, robust, and tranquil like a pagan artist of the finest
epoch. His superb nature unfolds itself complacently
in a warm azure, under a warm sun, and his colour
recalls the beautiful antique marbles gilded by the
brilliant light of Greece. There is no groping, no
effort, no violence; he attains the ideal at the first
attempt, without a thought. A calm, vivacious joy
lights up his whole work. Only he does not seem to
suspect the existence of death, save perhaps in his last
204
whe obs abe abs os obs als oe obs abs obs cbr clle obs ono ob ob ob ale ce obs oe alle
wre ore ere ae ome wee ode
PH Eee A DE MY
painting. Without sensual ardour, without voluptuous
intoxication, he exhibits to the gaze amid purple and
gold, the beauty and the youth, all the amorous
poetry of the feminine body, with the impassibility
of a God exhibiting Eve to Adam. He sanctifies
nudity by an expression of supreme repose, of ever
fixed beauty, of the realisation of the absolute which
makes the freest of the antique works so chaste. He
alone has painted a woman who might, without appear
ing poor and mean, lie down by the side of the resting
woman on the Parthenon.
Giorgione has painted an episode of the fisherman
bringing to the Doge the ring of St. Mark. It is the
battle between Saint George and Saint Theodore and
the fiends. However much [ admire the warm, living,
rich colour of Giorgione in his “ Pastoral Concert,” I
confess I care very little for the painting in the Acad-
emy of the Fine Arts at Venice.
Rocco Marconi’s ** Descent from the Cross ”’ has all
the serious qualities, all the unction of the Gothic
masters, their tranquil symmetry, and a richness of
tone and a bloom of colour which the great paintings
in its vicinity do not diminish. ‘The dead Christ,
recalling by His bloodless flesh the mat pallor of
205
cheb he ho he he cheb dochecbe shee cde oh cde
ID RAG aE S) LIN ila AS Lae
the Host, is sleeping softly on the Virgin’s breast
supported by a Magdalen of tender and delicate
beauty, whose splendid fair hair falls in a golden
cascade down a magnificent dress of figured: damask
of a rich, sombre purple like the ruby. Is it in the
blood of the beloved heart that your dress has been
dipped, O Magdalen, or in the drops falling from
your own?
Padovanino has a “ Virgin in Glory ” after the Span-
ish manner, but I am not very much struck, in spite
of the great talent displayed in it, by the vast, apoca-
lyptic painting by Palma the younger, “The Tri-
umph of Death.” Saint John, seated upon the rock
at Patmos, gazes with upraised pen, ready to fix it on
his parchment, at the formidable vision which is un-
rolled before him: Justice and War ride upon sombre
steeds, and Death, upon his great pale horse, cuts in
the human harvest ears which fall in sheaves of bodies
along the edges of the road. Except Tintoretto, who
with his tawny colour and violent touch can represent
terror and tragedy, these gloomy subjects are generally
ill-suited to Venetian painters, whose happy tem-
perament delights in the azure of the sea and of the
sky, in the whiteness of marble and of flesh, in the
206
ob otek cbe oh oh hohe be be dec cece ch heed ede ob dock
REA AY 1D) EB May
gold of hair and brocade, and the brilliant patterns of
flowers and stuffs.
A very curious painting by Gentile Bellini is “ The
Procession on the Piazza San Marco of the Relics pre-
served by the Brotherhood of Saint John,” at the time
when Jacopo Salis is making his vow to the Cross.
No more complete collection of the costumes of the
day can be imagined; the patient and minute touch of
the artist has allowed no detail to escape him; nothing
is sacrificed, everything is rendered with Gothic consci-
entiousness. Every head must certainly be a portrait,
and a portrait as accurate as a photograph, with the
colouring in addition. ‘The appearance of the Piazza
San Marco, such as it was then, is as true as an archi-
tectural drawing. ‘The old Byzantine mosaics, which
were restored later, adorn the portals of the old basilica,
and —a point to be noted —the belfries are gilded all
over, which was never really the case. But the bel-
fries were to have been gilded, as a matter of fact.
The Doge Loredan needed, to carry on the war, the
sequins intended to pay for the gilding, and the plan
was not carried out. There is no trace of it left save
in the painting of Gentile Bellini, who had provision-
ally gilded his Saint Mark.
207
Lekkehbekbbeheba bbb ett
5 IN ITALY
A certain miracle of a cross fallen into the water
from the top of a bridge in Venice, the bridge of Saint
Leon and Saint Laurent, greatly interested the painters
of that day. The Academy contains no less than
three important paintings of this curious subject, one
by Lazzaro Sebastiano, one by Gentile Bellini, and a
third by Giovanni Mansueti. ‘These paintings are
most interesting, forming exceptions to the customary
types of Italian painting, which turns in the narrow
circle of devotional and mythological subjects and
rarely touches the familiar scenes of real life. ‘The
monks of various orders, the patricians, the common
people who are jumping into the water, swimming and
diving in order to find the holy crucifix fallen within
the canal, exhibit the strangest appearance. On the
banks is the crowd in prayer, watching the result of
the search. ‘There is especially a line of ladies kneel-
ing with clasped hands, covered with gems and pearls,
in short-waisted dresses as in the time of the Empire,
which exhibits a number of profiles set off one by the
other with Gothic artlessness, and of extraordinary
finish, beauty, elegance, and purity. In these paintings
the old houses of Venice are seen, with their red walls,
their windows with Lombard trefoils, their terraces
208
tebbbebbbbbbbbbbbbbb td
DHE VAC AUD: FE MAY
surmounted by posts, their wide-topped chimneys, the
old bridges spanned by chains, and the gondolas of
other days, which are not. the shape of modern ones.
There is no /e/ze, but an awning stretched upon hoops,
nor does any one of them have the sort of fiddle-head
in polished iron which serves as a counterpoise to the
rower placed at the poop. ‘They are also much less
slender.
Most elegant, most graceful, most juvenile is the
series of paintings in which Vittorio Carpaccio has de-
picted the life of Saint Ursula. Carpaccio possesses
the ideal charm, the youthful grace which Raphael ex-
>
hibits in the “ Marriage of the Virgin,” one of the first
and perhaps the most charming of his pictures. It is ~
impossible to fancy more artless turns of the head,
more angelically coquettish attitudes. ‘There is espe-
cially a young man with long hair, seen from behind,
whose cape with a velvet collar is half slipping from
his shoulder, who is so proudly, so youthfully, and so
seductively beautiful that he looks like Praxiteles’ Cupid
wearing a mediaeval costume, or, rather, like an angel
to whom it has occurred to dress himself up as a Vene-
tian magnifico. I am surprised that the name of Car-
paccio is not better known. He possesses all the
14 209
tHhebbbtbbetetetdt dtd dteetese
TO RAW HEMICS (ATEN ei A oa
youthful purity and all the graceful charm of the first
manner of the painter of Urbino, and in addition the
wondrous Venetian colour, which no other school was
able to equal.
The Pinacoteca Contarini, the bequest of that lordly
amateur of the arts who gave to the Museum his col-
lection of arms, statues, vases, carved furniture, and
other precious things, contains choice specimens of the
Venetian and other schools. I will mention the “ Pil-
grims of Emmats,’’ by Marco Marzali, painted with
almost German dry minuteness; Andrea Cardegli’s
“Child Jesus, Saint John, and Saint Catharine,” whose
fair heads stand out against the green landscape back-
ground seen through a window; a “ Virgin and Child
with the Young Saint John,” by Giovanni Battista
Cima, somewhat dry and cutting too harshly against a
background of blue mountains ; a “ Marriage of Saint
Catharine,” and a “ Madonna and Child” by Francesco
da Fiesolo, very sweet, pretty, and fresh, charming in its
morbidezza. The triptych of “ Fortune,” by Giovanni
Bellini is remarkable for its allegorical inventions. In
the centre panel a nude woman stands upon an altar,
accompanied by angels or Cupids playing on the drum ;
on the side panels a nude youth, crowned, a cloak on
210
cede be che oh ob che che hehe ce cbecbobedbcbe obeche oe cbe ok ob det
THE ACADEMY
his shoulder, offers presents to a warrior who avoids
him ; a woman holding a ball, her hair tressed into the
shape of a helmet, stands in a boat, while Cupids play
amid the waves like Tritons.
Callot’s etchings please me much more than his
paintings, the authenticity of which is more or less
doubtful. There is in the Pinacoteca Contarini a
“Fair”? by the Nancy engraver, swarming with Bohe-
mians, charlatans, beggars, lansknechts, stealing, play-
ing tricks, begging, drinking, gambling, —a view of
that picaresque world which he knew so well; but
the artist is not as skilful with the brush as with
the graver.
Let me close with the gem, the pearl, the star of
this museum, — a “ Madonna and the Child Jesus” by
Giovanni Bellini. ‘The subject is worn out, has been
treated a thousand times, and yet it blooms with eternal
youth under the brush of the old master. What does
it consist of ? A woman with a child on her knees, —
but what a woman! Her face pursues you like a
dream, and once you have seen it you never forget it.
It is of impossible beauty, and yet strangely true; it is
of immaculate virginity and penetrating voluptuousness ;
supreme disdain in infinite sweetness. I seemed, as I
211
chee ob che ek che cde de cbecbe becdech ch che dheobe ch chee
TR AVCR RAS” PNY VV RATE
beheld that painting, to be looking at the incarnation
of my secret dreams surprised in my soul by the artist.
Every day I spent an hour in mute worship at the feet
of the celestial ideal, and never could I have left Venice,
if a young French painter, taking pity on me, had not
made me a copy of that beloved head.
22
debbobck bbb cb babes cheb oh cet
Ue eee IN’ AT Y
LLEAAEEAL EASELS LLtt
che steale abe ob
ib
THE STREETS—THE EMPEROR’S
FETE DAY
HE streets of Venice are rarely mentioned,
although they exist in great numbers, and
writers describe the quaintness of the canals
and gondolas alone. The absence of horses and car-
riages gives to Venetian streets a peculiar appearance.
By their narrowness they resemble the streets of Orien-
tal cities. As the area of the islands is limited, and the
houses generally very high, the narrow lanes which
separate them look like saw-cuts in enormous blocks of
stone. Certain ca//es in Granada and certain London
alleys very closely approximate them.
The Frezzaria is one of the most animated streets of
the city. Jt is quite six to eight feet wide, and is
therefore analogous to the Rue de la Paix in Paris. It
is in this street chiefly that are to be found the gold-
smiths who manufacture those delicate little golden
chains as tenuous as hairs, which are called jaserons,
and which are one of the characteristic curiosities of
213
RAEDLAELLELLLAELALA LL ALLL SASL
RUA VEE) LNG tee
J
Venice. With the exception of these chains and a few
rough gems set in silver for sale to country people,
which an artist may think picturesque, these shops have
nothing remarkable. ‘The fruiterers’ shops have splen-
did stalls. “Ihe heaps of blooming peaches, the quan-
tities of golden, amber-coloured, transparent grapes
coloured with the richest tints, shining like gems, and
the grains of which, strung in the form of necklaces
and bracelets, would admirably adorn the neck and
arms of some antique Mznad, are beautifully fresh and
admirably grouped. “The tomatoes mingle their brilliant
scarlet with the golden tints and the watermelon shows
its rosy pulp through the cleft in its green skin. Al!
these lovely fruits, brightly lighted by gas-jets, show
rarely well against the vine leaves upon which they are
laid. It is impossible to regale one’s eyes more agree-
ably, and often, without being hungry, I purchased
peaches and grapes through sheer love of colour. I
recall also certain fishmongers’ stalls covered with little
fishes so white, so silvery, so pearly, that I felt like
swallowing them raw, after the manner of the ichthy-
ophagists of the Southern seas, for fear of spoiling their
tints. I could understand, on seeing them, the barbar-
ous custom of ancient banquets, which consisted in
214
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THE EMPEROR’S FETE DAY
watching the death of murenas in crystal vases in order
to enjoy the opal tints which they assumed in their
death throes.
In the evening these streets are extremely animated
and brilliant. The stalls are illuminated @ giorno, and
the narrowness of the street prevents the light being
scattered. “Ihe cook shops and the pastry shops, the
osteria, the taverns, the numerous, cafés, bloom and
blaze; there is a constant going and coming of people.
Every shop, without a single exception, has its minia-
ture chapel adorned with a Madonna, in front of which
are placed lighted lamps or tapers and pots of artificial
or natural flowers. Sometimes it is a statuette in col-
oured plaster, sometimes a smoky painting, sometimes
a Greek image with a Byzantine gold background, or
a simple modern engraving. “The Madonna replaces
in devout Italy the Lares of antiquity. ‘This form of
the worship of the Virgin, so touching and poetic, has
but few, if any, dissenters in Venice, and the followers
of Voltaire would, so far, be ill-satisfied with the progress
of enlightenment in the ancient city of the Doges. At
nearly every street-corner, at nearly every descent of a
bridge, there is in a niche, behind a grating or a glass
pane, a Madonna on an altar adorned with wreaths of
215
bbobbbbbebttbebbbtbte tee
TaR AWE TSS (PNA
elder pith, necklaces of glass beads, paper flowers,
dresses of silver lace, and all the pious rags with which
the artless Southern faith overloads with childish
coquetry the objects of its adoration. Candles and
lamps continually burn before these altars covered
with ex-votos, silver hearts, wax legs, women’s
breasts, paintings of shipwrecks seamed by lightnings,
of burned houses, and other catastrophes, in which
the wonder-working Virgin invariably turns up at
the right moment. Near these chapels there is
always some old woman praying, some young girl
on her knees, some sailor making a vow or fulfilling
it, and also at times people whose dress indicates
that they belong to a class which with us does not
possess so much faith, and leaves the religion of
Christ to the common people and to servants.
Contrary to preconceived ideas, I found Italy more
devout than Spain.
One of these chapels, near the Ponte della Paglia
on the Riva degli Schiavoni, has always a large number
of worshippers, either because it happens to be upon a
frequented street, or because it possesses some peculiar
privilege or immunity. ‘There are also every here and
there alms-boxes for the benefit of souls in Purgatory.
216
abe che abs obo obs of abe obs abe abe cle cba che obs of obs obs ofp oe ole ce of ofp of
ite BMP RORY S UP EADE DAY
The small coins dropped into them pay for masses for
the poor forgotten dead.
Next to the Frezzaria, the street which leads from
the Campo San Moisé to the Campo de Santa Maria
Zobenigo is one of those which offer to a stranger
the greatest number of points worthy of observation.
Many lanes open into it as into an artery, for it con-
nects the banks of the Grand Canal with the Piazza
San Marco. The shops remain open longer than else-
where, and as it is nearly straight, forestier7 traverse it
without being afraid of losing their way; avery easy
thing to do in Venice, the maze of streets, complicated
by canals and blind alleys, being so perplexing that it has
been found necessary to mark by a succession of stones,
on which are cut arrows indicating the way, the road
from the Piazza to the railway station, situated at the
other end of the city, near the Church degli Scalzi.
How often have I enjoyed losing myself at night in
that labyrinth out of which a Venetian alone can find his
way! After having followed a score of streets, traversed
some thirty lanes, crossed ten canals, ascended and de-
scended as many bridges, plunged at hazard into sotto-
portict, I have found myself just where I started from.
These walks, for which I chose moonlight nights, en-
217
Pa
abate ab boobs abe abo abe arable abe cece ook cl babe oe oe oo ob
Cre ae ote OF vie ore owe
TORAW EES 2 DINGS as ie
abled me to see Venice in its secret aspect, and from
numerous picturesque and unexpected points of view.
Sometimes I came upon a great palace half in ruins,
faintly showing in the shadows, thanks to a silvery
beam; the panes left in its broken windows gleaming
suddenly like scales or mirrors; now a bridge tracing
its black arch against a stretch of bluish water over
which floated a light mist; farther on a trail of red fire,
falling from a lighted house upon the oily darkness of
a sleeping canal; at other times a deserted square on
which stood out quaintly the top of a church covered
with statues which in the obscurity looked like spectres ;
or else a tavern where were gesticulating like demons
gondoliers and facchini, their shadows projected upon
the window; or else a half-opened water-gate through
which a mysterious figure sprang into a gondola.
Once I thus reached a really sinister lane behind the
Grand Canal. The high houses, originally covered
with the red tint which is usually found upon old
Venetian buildings, had a fierce and truculent aspect.
Rain, damp, neglect, and the absence of light at the
bottom of this narrow cut had little by little killed the
colour of the facades and made the wash run. A faint
reddish tint still marked the walls and looked like
218
the fe che che che he he be oh abe cece ecto cheb che oe elece ol oboe
wre TO CS IS WHE WTS OTD
THE EMPEROR’S FETE DAY
blood insufficiently cleansed off after the commission of
acrime. Oppression, chilliness, terror, stole out from
these sanguinolent walls; a sickly odour of saltpetre
and well water, a mouldy smell reminiscent of prisons,
cloisters, and cellars, seized me as [ entered it. At
the blind windows there was no gleam of light, no
appearance of life. The low doors, studded with rusty
nails, their iron knockers worn by time, seemed inca-
pable of ever opening. Nettles and wall plants grew
on the thresholds and seemed not to have been trodden
for a long time back by any human foot. A lean,
black dog which sprang suddenly out of the shadow
like a jack-in-the-box, began to bark furiously and
plaintively at the sight of me, as if it were unaccus-
tomed to meet men. It followed me for a short time,
tracing around me windings after the fashion of the
poodle that accompanied Faust and Wagner on their
walk; but looking at it fixedly, I said to it in Goethe’s
words: “ Unclean animal, in vain you bark and ope
your mouth. You shall never swallow my monad.”
These words seemed to astonish it, and seeing itself
discovered, it disappeared, uttering a lamentable howl.
Was it a dog ora larva? This is a point which I pru-
dently prefer to leave undecided.
210
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wre ee OF ote
PSR AMEE S27) DN Da
I greatly regret that I do not possess Hoffmann’s
talent to turn that sinister street into the scene of a
terrifying and strange tale, such as “ The Deserted
House,” or “The Eve of Saint Sylvester,” in which
alchemists fight over a manikin, and hurl their micro-
scopes at each other in a whirlwind of monstrous
visions. ‘Ihe dark windows were meant to frame in
the bald, wrinkled, grimacing heads, decomposed by a
continuous metamorphosis, of Master Tabracchio, Spal-
lanzani, Leuwenhoeck, Swammerdam, of Counsellor
Tusman and Recorder Lindhorst. If (Gozzi, the
author of the “ Contratempi,” who believed himself the
victim of the hatred of wizards and hobgoblins whose
tricks he had discovered and whose secrets he had told
in his fairy pieces, ever traversed this solitary lane, he
must have met with some of the amazing misadven-
tures reserved, apparently, for the poet of “ Turandot,”
“The Love of the Three Orange Trees,” and the
“ Blue Monster.” But Gozzi, who felt the invisible
world, must certainly have always avoided Barristers’
Street at the hour of twilight.
On returning from one of these fantastic trips,
during which the city had struck me as being more
deserted than usual, I went to bed feeling rather mel-
220
FRO OFS CHS OFS Oe C80 che OTe VN ote je woe ee
THE "EMPEROR? 5 oh ft LEAS
ancholy, after having sustained against a monstrous
mosquito — buzzing like a wasp, waving his an-
tennz, and twisting his proboscis like the god Ganesa,
and making his saws screak with the most audacious
ferocity —a terrible combat in which I was defeated
and whence I issued full of many poisoned wounds. I
was beginning to sink into the black ocean of sleep, so
like death that the ancients called it its sister, when,
through my dense somnolence I heard low rumours,
distant thunder, and the sound of terrifying voices.
Was it a tempest, a battle, a cataclysm of nature, a
combat between demons? Such was the question which
occurred to me as I woke. Soon a deafening clamour
tore through my last vestige of sleep as forked lightning
through a black cloud. ‘The copper discs of the cym-
bals sounded like the clash of armour, gongs vibrated
with hollow roar, the big drum boomed like a Malay or
a hundred bulls, the ophicleides and trumpets let loose
metallic hurricanes, the cornets a piston shrieked rag-
ingly, the little flute made desperate efforts to rise
above the noise and overtop it. All the instruments
rivalled each other in riot and hurly-burly. It sounded
like a Festival by Hector Berlioz going adrift at night
on the waters. When this musical whirlwind passed
O21
LLELLELLALLLEALALALLAL LLL ELLA
aR AM EIS OTN Te Ania
under my balcony, I seemed to hear at one and the
same time the trumpets of Jericho and the clarions of
the Last Judgment. A tempest of bells, ringing full
swing, formed the accompaniment.
The tumult proceeded towards the Grand Canal
amid the red glare of many torches. It struck me
that the serenade was somewhat uproarious, and I
pitied with all my heart the fair for whom this mon-
strous nocturnal racket, this colossal hubbub, was
bP
intended. ‘Her lover is not very discreet,” thought
I to myself, “and he is not afraid to compromise his
beauty. A guitar, a violin, a theorbo would, in my
opinion, have been sufficient.” I was just falling
asleep as the noise died away, when a white blinding
flash struck on my closed eyes like the livid lightnings
illuminating the darkness of the deepest night, and a
frightful explosion which made the panes rattle and the
house tremble from top to bottom, broke the silence.
I leaped three feet into the air, wondering whether it
was a thunderbolt falling into the room, or the siege of
Venice resumed without notice and a shell bursting
through the ceiling and plumping down on me in the
midst of my sleep. Similar deafening detonations were
repeated every fifteen minutes until morning, to the
D272
she ob obs aby abs aby ale abe che oly abe coals abe ele cb obs ofr abe er abl abe abe alle
pi CPO TO CFS SIS SIH VIS wEN
TH hiv esROIReS FEE DAY
serious damage of my windows and my nerves. ‘They
seemed to come from a very near point, and every time
a livid flash foretold them. Between the discharges
deep silence, the silence of death; none of the noctur-
nal sounds which are like the breathing of sleeping
cities. In the midst of the uproar Venice, mute,
seemed to have sunk and lost itself in the lagoons.
Every window was dark; not a single gondola lantern
starred the profound darkness.
The next morning the riddle was read to me: it
was the féte day of the Emperor of Austria; all this
excitement was in honour of the German Casar. The
batteries of the Giudecca and of San Giorgio Maggiore
fired right opposite me, and many window-panes in the
neighbourhood had been smashed. With dawn the
row recommenced worse than ever. The frigates
fired alternately with the batteries; the bells clanged in
the innumerable belfries of the city; file firing and
volley firing rattled over all at regular intervals. “The
burnt powder, rising everywhere in thick clouds was
the incense destined to tickle the nostrils of the mas-
ter, if from the height of his throne in Vienna he hap-
pened to turn his head towards the Adriatic. It seemed
to me that in all these homages to the Emperor there
223
LELALALALALLALALAL“LAL?’? LLL ALS
TRAE GS SENSE TARE
was a certain ostentation of artillery, a certain double
meaning in the musketry firing. These festival com-
pliments in the form of cannon-shots had a second
purpose, and one did not need to be clever to under-
stand it.
I hastened to the Piazza. A Te Deum was being
sung in the Basilica. The garrison in full dress was
drawn up in a square on the Piazza, kneeling and ris-
ing at a sign from the officers, as the service proceeded.
A brilliant staff, covered with gold lace, was in the
centre, sparkling brightly in the sunshine. Then at
certain intervals the muskets were raised together, and
admirably sustained file firing sent flying into the
skies great white clouds of terrified doves. The poor
pigeons of San Marco, terrified by the tumult and
believing that, in violation of their immunities, they
were to form the materials for an immense stew, did
not know which way to turn. Crazed with terror
they collided with each other in mid-air, struck against
cornices, and flew off at top speed between domes and
chimneys. Then, when silence came again, they
returned to peck seed familiarly at their usual place
at the very feet of the soldiers, so strong is the force
of habit.
224
dhdbecheledh ch ecb de obec cba abdbeche eb cbebheh hed
THE EMPEROR’S FETE DAY
All this was going on in the midst of complete soli-
tude. The Piazza, always swarming with people,
was deserted; a few strangers only were moving about
in small, isolated groups under the arcades of the Pro-
curatie; the infrequent spectators who were not
foreigners betrayed their German origin by their fair
hair and their square faces. There was not a sing.e
woman’s face at any window, and yet the sight of
handsome uniforms worn by good-looking officers is
appreciated in every country in the world by the more
graceful half of humankind. Venice, suddenly de-
populated, looked like one of those Oriental cities in
Arab tales, which have been laid waste by an angry
enchanter. ‘This uproar in deep silence, this excitement
in emptiness, this vast display of force in isolation, had
something strange, painful, alarming, supernatural about
it. I felt a deep and singular impression in the pres-
ence of a people apparently dead, while its oppressors
exulted in their joy, of a city which suppressed itself
in order not to be present at the triumph... The zon est
raised to the state of manifestation, muteness that is a
threat, absence that means revolt are the resources of
the despair to which despotism drives the slave. As-
suredly a universal howl, a general curse hurled against
15 225
che oe beck be be abe oe oe oe fected dele cbc cece school
we wT
TR AVE IGS “Ne ae
the Emperor of Austria could not have been more
forcible. As Venice could not protest otherwise, it
had surrounded the féte with void.
The discharges of artillery continued the whole day,
and the regiments manceuvred on the Piazza and the
Piazzetta, with myself as their only spectator. Weary
of this monotonous diversion, I went for my favourite
walk on the Riva degli Schiavoni, on which strolled a
few Greeks and Armenians. There my ears were
again torn by the guns of the frigate anchored in the
port. At every discharge a poor little dog, tied by a
rope to the mast of a Zante or Corfu vessel, sprang
forward mad with terror and circled as far off as his
leash allowed him, protesting as best he could against
that stupid noise and yelping as if the sound hurt him.
[ was quite of the dog’s opinion, and as I was not tied
by a cord, I sailed off to Quintavalle, where I dined
under the arbour at a sufficient distance from that hate-
ful military uproar.
That evening there was no one at the Café Florian.
Those who have lived in Venice can alone conceive
the deep meaning of the fact. The flower girls, the
caramel vendors, the exhibitors of Chinese shadows,
and even the ruffians had disappeared. Chairs, benches,
226
che bectecle be dec hhc ech chee oh chk
THEVEMPEROR?CS FRETE DAY
and galleries were deserted alike; there was not a soul
even in the church, as if it were useless to pray toa
God who left the people in slavery. I do not know
whether, that evening, the little tapers before the
Madonnas at the street corners were lighted. The
band at the retreat played, im deserto, a magnificent
overture, German music too, — an overture by Weber,
if I remember it rightly.
Not knowing what to do with myself at the close of
this lugubrious evening, I entered the Apollo Theatre.
The auditorium looked like the interior of a colum-
barium; the empty and sombre boxes, like niches from
which the coffins had been removed. A few squads
of Austrian soldiery were scattered upon the empty
benches ; some dozen German functionaries, with their
wives and children, tried to look as if they were many,
and to simulate the public which had abstained from
coming. But apart from the soldiers, the huge place did
not hold more than fifty spectators. A wretched com-
pany played sadly and discontentedly behind smoking
footlights a poor translation of a French play. A cold
sadness, a deadly weariness fell from the ceiling like a
wet, icy mantle. The dark theatre wore mourning for
the liberty of Venice in the very face of the Austrians.
227
all obs obs obs ob aby obs ole obs alle ole be ole oben clle obs oll obs obe obs ole oe obs ele
Jee ems OTe Cee CFO OF CFO we ove ave
TeRIA VEE ESS); TING eae a
The next day the sea-breeze had carried away the
smell of the powder, and the doves, reassured, swept
down like snowflakes upon the Piazza San Marco,
while all Venice was ostentatiously stuffing itself with
ices at the Café Florian.
228
tttebeottettetttbtdttbits
Wings N LPALY
AN BIAGGIO—THE CAPUCHIN
CONVENT
VERY one, at least once in his life, has been
unable to get rid of a musical phrase, a line
of poetry, an expression dropped in conver-
op)
sation, heard by chance, and which pursues him every-
where with the invincible obstinacy of a spectre.
A monotonous voice murmurs in your ear the ac-
cursed theme, a dumb orchestra plays it within your
brain, your pillow repeats it, and your dreams whisper
it; an invisible power forces you to mutter it stupidly
from morning to night, as a devotee repeats his
somnolent litany.
For a week past a song of Alfred de Musset’s, an
imitation, no doubt, of some old popular Venetian
poetry, had fluttered about my lips, twittering like a bird,
without my being able to drive it away. In spite of
myself, I hummed in the most incongruous situations :
«© At San Biaggio, on the Zuecca, you were very, very
happy, at San Biaggio. At San Biaggio, on the Zuecca, we
were happy indeed.
229
<< But to remember it, will you take the trouble? But to
remember it, and to return to it?
<< At San Biaggio, on the Zuecca, in the flowery meads
yervain to pick; at San Biaggio on the Zuecca, there to live
and die.’’
The Zuecca —short for the Giudecca — was be-
fore me, separated only by the breadth of the canal,
and nothing was easier than to go to that San Biaggio
which the song describes as a sort of Cytherea, a
languorous El Dorado, the earthly Paradise of love,
where it would be sweet to live and die. A few
strokes of the oars would have taken me to it; but
knowing that one should never land upon fairy shores
lest the mirage should vanish into haze, I continued
to be unbearable with my refrain, “* At San Biaggio on
>
the Zuecca,” which was turning into what is called in
painters’ studios a bore. So my travelling companion,
who for a week had borne with that cantilena as unen-
durable as the humming of a mosquito, unable to put
up with it any longer, said sharply one morning to our
young gondolier as he stepped into the craft, “ To San
Biaggio on the Zuecca.” In order to break me of it,
he was going to take me into my dream and my
refrain, which is an excellent homceopathic remedy.
230
be oh ob of one abe obs obs obs ob obs obo ele obs ob of See ete obo ele obs abe obo ols
SAN BIAGGIO—CAPUCHIN CONVENT
Never a flowery mead did I come across at San
Biaggio, and to my great regret, no vervain could [|
pluck. Around the church stretch market gardens
in which vegetables take the place of flowers. Dis-
appointed though I was, I could not help admiring
the very fine grapes and splendid pumpkins. It is
probable that when the song was written the point
of the island was waste ground, the fresh grass of
which was diapered with flowers in the springtime,
and lovers walked hand in hand, looking at the moon.
An old Venetian guidebook describes the Zuecca as
a place full of gardens, orchards, and delightful spots.
Poetic enthusiasm is killed when one finds instead
of a dainty flower with tender colours and penetrat-
ing perfume, blooming on the green sward, big pump-
kins turning yellow under broad leaves, and from that
moment I ceased to sing, “* At San Biaggio on the
Zuecca.”
In order to turn my trip to account, I proceeded
along the island to the church del Redentore, situated
near the Capuchin convent. ‘The church possesses
a fine Greek facade, elegant in style and harmonious
in proportion, such as Palladio knew how to design.
It is a kind of architecture which satisfies people of
231
betkbeebeeeeeeeeedt ddd ter
PRVAWREAES. \D INS eee
taste by its sobriety, its purity, and its true classicism.
At the risk of being charged with being a barbarian,
I confess that these facades give me very slight pleas-
ure. In the case of Catholic churches, I believe
only in the Byzantine, Romanesque, or Gothic styles.
Greek art was so appropriate to polytheism that it is
very difficult for it to express any other thought ;
hence churches built in accordance with its princi-
ples lack wholly the religious impress, in the sense
which we attach to that word. The luminous se-
renity of antiquity, with its perfect rhythm and its
logical forms, cannot render the vague, infinite, and
mysterious meaning of Christianity; the unchange-
able happiness of paganism does not understand the
incurable Christian melancholy, and Greek architec-
ture produces, as far as temples go, only palaces,
exchanges, ball-rooms, and museums, more or less
ornamented, in which Jupiter would be very com-
fortable, but in which Christ finds it difficult to
dwell,
But once the style of architecture is accepted, it
must be admitted that the church del Redentore shows
well on the banks of the canal in which it is reflected,
with its great monumental staircase of seventeen
232
aoe eo oe be ae oe ok be cece cece cde ecto oat
SAN BIAGGIO—CAPUCHIN CONVENT
marble steps, its triangular gable, its Corinthian col-
umns, its bronze doors and statues, its two pyramid-
ions, and its white dome which is so effective at
sunset when you are travelling in a gondola between
the Public Gardens and San Giorgio Maggiore.
The church was built in fulfilment of the vow of
the Senate at the time of the plague of 1576, which
caused frightful mortality in the city, and killed, among
other illustrious personages, Titian, the patriarch of
painting, laden with years and glory. The interior
is very simple, and even somewhat bare. Whether
the funds gave out or for some other reason, the
statues which appear to fill the niches along the nave
are mere shams, skilfully done in grisaille by the Cap-
uchin Father Piazza. The niches themselves are
real, but the statues, painted upon wooden boards
cut out to shape, betray the sham by the lack of
thickness when looked at in profile; if looked at
from the front, the illusion is perfect.
As regards the paintings, it is the old story: Tin-
toretto, Bassano, Paolo Veronese. There are such
numbers of excellent paintings in Venice that one
almost gets tired of them, and ends by believing that
in those days it was no more difficult to paint a
#33
aoe chee fe he chao oe he cect ceed ce ec ree oh tec
Sed we oe
LURAY eats ©. ING eek
splendid Venetian picture than it is to-day to scrib-
ble an article currente calamo; yet I advise the tourist
to look at a Giovanni Bellini, of the greatest beauty,
which adorns the sacristy. The subject is the Blessed
Virgin and the Child Jesus between Saint Jerome
and Saint Francis. The divine Mother contemplates
with profound adoration the Child sleeping in her
lap. Little smiling angels playing the guitar, flutter
on an ultramarine background. Every one knows
with what delicacy, with what refinement of senti-
ment, with what purity Giovanni Bellini paints scenes
to which his brush is accustomed; but in this one,
besides the artless charm of the composition, the
Gothic fidelity of drawing, and the somewhat dry
carefulness of the modelling, there is a brilliancy of
colour, a golden warmth of tone which presages
Giorgione ; consequently some connoisseurs attribute
this painting to Palma Vecchio. I believe it is by
Giovanni Bellini. The unusual brilliancy of the col-
ouring is due simply to the more perfect preservation
of the painting. Venice is so naturally the place
for colour that gray is impossible, even for line
painters, and the most severely Gothic enrich their
asceticism with Giorgione’s amber.
234
choke as oboe ob abe ob oe abe ce aoade che ce feeb ce abo bale abs shee
ate wie ae
SAN BIAGGIO—CAPUCHIN CONVENT
Two or three Capuchins engaged in prayer would
have given to this church, had the light been less bril-
liant, the look of one of those paintings by Granet
which were so much admired a score of years ago.
The good fathers were perfectly posed; all they needed
was the dab of brilliant red on the ear. Another was
humbly sweeping the choir, and I asked him whether
we might visit the monastery. He very politely
granted our request, and made us enter by a small side
door leading from the church into the cloister.
I had long felt a desire to see the interior of an in-
habited monastery. In Spain I had been unable to
satisfy this religious and picturesque desire. The
monks had just been secularised, and the monasteries,
as was the case in France after the Revolution, had
become national property. I had walked in melan-
choly fashion through the Carthusian Convent at
Miraflores near Burgos, where I met only a poor old
man dressed in a dark costume, something between a
peasant’s and a priest’s dress, smoking his cigarette
near a brazero, who guided me along the deserted pas-
sages and the abandoned cloisters on which opened
the empty cells. At Toledo the Monastery of San
Juan de los Reyes, a splendid ruined building, held only
a5)
TRAV ELS! 9EN) ARE
a few timid lizards and stray snakes which, at the
sound of our steps, disappeared under the nettles and
débris. The refectory was almost entire, and above
the door a frightful painting exhibited a rotting body.
The object was to kill the sensuality of the meals,
which were, nevertheless, served with hermit-like aus-
terity. “The Carthusian Convent at Granada held only
turtles, which dived heavily into the water from the
edge of the fish-pond at the approach of visitors; and
the magnificent convent of San Domingo, on the
slope of Antequerula, listened in deep solitude to the
murmur of its fountains and of its laurel woods.
The Capuchin convent on the Zuecca was quite
unlike these wonderful edifices with their long white
marble cloisters, their elegantly carved arcades, marvels
of the Middle Ages or of the Renaissance, their courts
planted with jessamine, myrtles, and rose laurels, their
upspringing fountains, their cells through the windows
of which one could see the soft, silvery blue of the
Sierra Nevada. It was not one of those magnificent
refuges in which austerity is but an additional delight
to the soul, and in which a philosopher would be
as happy as a Christian. “The cloister was bare of
architectural ornaments: low arcades, short pillars, a
236
dedechdbd kdb ch ch ch bobchehbb beh cheb he
58 wie we
SAN BIAGGIO—CAPUCHIN CONVENT
prison yard rather than a promenade for reverie. An
ugly roof of staring red tiles covered the whole build-
ing; there was not even the severe and sad bareness,
the gray, cold tones, the dimness of light which are
favourable to thought; a harsh, brilliant light crudely
lighted up the wretched details and brought out their
commonplace meanness. In the garden, of which one
caught a glimpse, there were rows of cabbages and
vegetables of the harshest green, — not a shrub, not a
flower, everything was sacrificed to strict usefulness.
I next entered the interior of the convent, which is
cut by long passages at right angles to each other.
At the end of the passages there were chapels made
in the wall and coloured with coarse frescoes in honour
of the Madonna or some saint of the order. The
windows, with their panes set in lead, admitted light,
but did not produce those effects of light and shade
which painters know so well how to turn to account.
It seemed as though everything had been calculated in
that building to produce the greatest possible amount of
ugliness in the smallest possible space. Here and there
were hung engravings pasted on canvas representing in
innumerable small medallions all the saints, cardinals,
prelates, and illustrious personages of the order, —a
231
DRA VBA OSS LIND ul eye eae
whe of obs ole oe ol elle abe abe ole abe obo abs ober obey obs ole obe of ole obs ols ofe of
sort of genealogical tree of this impersonal and ever
renewed family. Low doors marked at regular inter-
vals the long white lines of the walls. On each was
inscribed a religious reflection, a prayer, or one of those
brief Latin maxims so full of thought. An image of
the Virgin or a portrait of a saint, the object of special
devotion on the part of the inhabitant of the cell, was
added to the inscription.
A great tiled roof covered, without touching them,
the cells of these monastic bees, like a cover placed
upon rows of boxes.
A bell sounded, calling either to a repast, to prayer,
or some other ascetic exercise. “The doors of the cells
opened, and the passages, but now deserted, were filled
with a troop of monks, who walked on two by two
with bowed heads, their great beards spread over their
breasts, their hands crossed within their sleeves, as they
moved towards the part of the convent to which the
bell was calling them. When they raised their feet,
the sandals, as they dropped from their heels, tapped
on the floor in a very monastic and lugubrious fashion
and gloomily timed their spectral march. Some forty
of them passed before us, and I saw nothing but heavy,
dull, brutish faces without any character, in spite of
238
oho abe obs obs ob obs obs obs of abe ofp abo ells oho ole obs obs obs ots obo gio vin obs abe
Cpe GO CHO CFO CFO OTO OHO O48 Vie Vie SY ae
SAN BIAGGIO—CAPUCHIN CONVENT
their beards and their shaven polls. How different
they were from the monk of San Servolo, consumed by
fervour, calcined by faith, worn by macerations, and
whose feverish eye shone with the light of the future
life, an ecstasy betraying delirium, — Daniel among
the lions.
Certainly I had entered the convent with respectful,
if not pious intentions. If I do not myself possess
faith, | admire it in others, and if I cannot be a be-
liever, at least I can understand others being so. I
was therefore prepared to feel all the austere ardour of
the cloister, and I was rather cruelly disappointed.
The convent produced on me the effect of a lazaretto,
of a lunatic asylum, or a barracks. The repulsive
odour of a human menagerie rose to my nostrils and
sickened me. It has been said of some holy person-
ages that they were filled with the madness of the
cross, stultitiam crucis; it seemed to me that these
monks had the idiocy of the cross, and in spite of my-
self my mind rebelled and I blushed at such a degrada-
tion of creatures made in God’s image. I was ashamed
that a hundred men should collect in such a hole to be
dirty and stink in obedience to certain rules in honour
of Him who has created eighty thousand different kinds
239
she ob abe oy abe ae obo be cbr cbr clrcle cheba bral free ceo abe oe
ere ere ove we wie wie vie
(aRCAW TLS ON +e Ate
of flowers. The loathsome incense revolted me, and I
felt towards these poor Capuchin fathers involuntary
secret horror.
When I left the convent two of the fathers who had
business in Venice, asked us to take them in our gon-
dola across the Giudecca. Through humility they
would not accept the place of honour in the /é/ze
which we offered them, and they remained standing by
the prow. ‘They looked rather well thus. Their
gowns of brown stuff fell in two or three heavy folds
which Fra Bartolommeo would not have disdained
when painting the gown of Saint Francis of Assisi ;
their bare, sandalled feet were very handsome, the great
toe separated and the other toes long, like those of
antique statues. I gave them a few pence to say some
Masses on my behalf. The sceptical ideas which had
worried me during the whole of my visit justified such
Christian submission on my part, and if it was the devil
who had suggested them to me, he must have been
badly tricked and bitten his tail like an angry monkey.
The good priests took the money, slipped it into the
fold of their sleeve, and seeing that I was such a good
Catholic, they gave me a few copper-plate engravings,
which I have carefully preserved: Saint Moses the
240
EOS eh oh ode she che oho he he che che che che obo oh cha che she che ode ohe
CFO OFS oFe wTe UFO one vie vie te we
SAN BIAGGIO—CAPUCHIN CONVENT
prophet, Saint Francis, a few other bearded saints, and
a certain Veronica Giuliana, a Capuchin abbess (abba-
dessa cappuccina), with her head thrown back and her
eyes filled with ecstasy, like those of Saint Teresa of
Spain, who pitied the devil because he could not love.
We landed the good fathers at the Traghetto di
Moise, and soon they disappeared in the narrow lanes.
My day had not been very favourable to my illusions.
At San Biaggio on the Zuecca, pumpkins had taken the
place of vervain, and where [ had expected to find a
sombre cloister with livid monks after the fashion of
Zurbaran, I had found an ignoble home of Capuchins,
with monks like those in Schlesinger’s coloured litho-
graphs. The latter disappointment was peculiarly pain-
ful to me, for I had long caressed the dream of ending
my days under a monk’s cowl in some handsome Italian
or Portuguese convent, at Monte Casino or Maftra, —
and now I did not feel at all like doing so.
16 241
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LRAY ELS JN [va
che che obs obo abe che abe be oho abe abe abe cde che obo abe she cde che obo be fe obec
whe ae oF OFS OOS
CARDURA HB SiACN DS Guat Ges
I'TH the exception of San Marco, a marvel
\) \) which has no parallel save the mosque at
Constantinople and that at Cordova, the
Venetian churches are not remarkable for their archi-
tecture, or at least do not astonish a tourist who has
visited the cathedrals of France, Spain, and Belgium.
Save a few of the older and more interesting ones, they
are all of the time of the Renaissance, and in the rococo
style which very quickly followed in Italy the return to
classical traditions. The former are in the style of
Palladio; the latter in a particular style which I shall
call the Jesuit. Nearly all the old churches in the city
have unfortunately been restored in one or the other of
these styles. Certainly Palladio, as is proved by so
many noble buildings, is an architect of great merit, but
he had not the least Catholic feeling, and he was better
fitted to rebuild the temple of Diana at Ephesus and of
Zeus Olympius than to construct a basilica for the
Nazarene or any one of the martyrs of the Golden
242
che cbe oe ate abe che chao oe a cece chert cbc cde ae ote ee
= = = .
Peruse PiowaeN DD) Se VoL E
Legend. He sucked like a bee the honey of Hymettus,
and flew by the passion-flowers.
As for the Jesuit taste, with its gibbous domes, its
swelling pillars, its pot-bellied balustrades, its volutes
like flourishes, its puffy cherubs, its wretched angels,
its napkin-like cartouches, its chicories the size of cab-
bages, its unhealthy affectations, and its extravagant or-
namentation which looks like excrescences on diseased
stone, I confess that it inspires me with insurmount-
able repugnance. It is more than unpleasant, — to
me it is disgusting. Nothing, in my opinion, is more
contrary to the Christian idea than that loathsome
heaping up of devout knick-knacks, that ugly, ungra-
cious luxury, overdone, heavy, like the luxury of a
new-made rich man, which causes the chapel of the
Most Blessed Virgin to resemble the boudoir of an
Opera chorus-girl.
The Church degli Scalzi is in this style, and is a
model of extravagant richness. The walls, overlaid
with coloured marbles, represent vast hangings of silk
damask with white and green borders; the frescoed ceil-
ings by Tiepoletto and Lazzarini, bright, light, clear in
tone, with rose and azure as the keynote of the colour-
ing, would be admirably suited to a ball-room or a
243
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TRAV BILS? TN SAS
theatre. The place must have looked lovely when it
was filled with powdered abbés and fine ladies in the
days of Cazenova and Cardinal de Bernis, while a
musical Mass by Porpora was being performed by the
violins and the chorus of the Fenice. Indeed, it
would be the most natural thing in the world in such
a place to worship the Eternal to a gavotte tune.
How greatly I prefer the low Romanesque arches, the
squat porphyry pillars, the antique capitals, the barbaric
images standing out against a golden background in
Byzantine mosaics, or the slender vaulting, the light
columns, and the trefoil tracery of Gothic cathedrals.
These architectural defects, — to which one has to
be resigned in Italy, for all the churches are built more
or less in that taste, are compensated for by the
number and beauty of the objects of art contained in
the buildings. Even if one does not admire the cas-
ket, the jewels it holds compel admiration. Every-
where one comes upon Titian, Paolo Veronese,
Tintoretto, Palma Vecchia, and Palma the younger,
Giovanni Bellini, Padovanino, Bonifazzio, and other
great masters. Every chapel has its own museum, of
which a king would be proud. This very Church
degli Scalzi, once you put up with the bad taste of it,
24.4
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O70 OTe UFO OF CFE CTD ain SIO
Prete Lh ho eAIN DIS COOL E
contains some remarkable details. Its broad staircase
of Verona brocatella, its handsome twisted pillars of red
French marble, its giant prophets, its touchstone balus-
trades, its mosaic gates have a certain style about them
and do not lack for grandeur. It contains a very fine
painting by Giovanni Bellini, a “ Virgin and Child,”
a magnificent bronze bas-relief by Sansovino repre-
senting scenes from the life of Saint Sebastian, and a
group less severely artistic, but charming, by Toretti,
Canova’s master, —a Holy Family, Saint Joseph, the
Virgin, and the Child Jesus. The Virgin has a deli-
cate, plump face, the head is coquettishly posed, and
her hands and feet are aristocratically small. She looks
like a duchess of the court of Louis XV, and might
very well represent Madame de Pompadour. Angels
like ballet dancers accompany this pretty, worldly
group. Assuredly it is not religious, but this man-
nered and clever grace has a charm of its own,
and the decadent sculptor is still a great artist.
The Church of San Sebastiano, built by San Serlio,
is in some sort the Pinacothek and the Pantheon of
Paolo Veronese. He worked in it for years, and rests
there forever in the blaze of his masterpieces. His
tombstone is surmounted by his bust, and bears his
24.5
whee abe ote che heck he abe ch bec echoed teclec chabeh
TRAVELS 21 N Olel Ape
coat of arms, three trefoils on a field which I could
not make out. We may admire this “Saint Sebas-
tian” by Titian, with its fine old-man’s head, its
superb and magisterial port, and the pretty, artless
movement of the child who holds the holy bishop’s
mitre. But I shall hasten on to the lord of the place,
Paolo Caliari. The “Three Marys at the Foot of
the Cross” are noticeable by the splendid composition
and the richness of breadth characteristic of this painter,
whom no one equalled in the art of filling spaces in
great paintings. Brocade and damask are broken into
rich folds, swell in splendid patterns, and the Christ
from his cross of sorrows cannot help a faint half-
smile, for the joy of being so admirably painted soothes
his sufferings. “The Magdalen is adorably beautiful;
her great eyes are filled with light and tears, a tear
trembles on her purple lips like a raindrop on a rose.
The landscape background is unfortunately painted
somewhat too much like a stage-setting, and its ill-con-
nected distances are plainly weak to the eye. “The
Presentation of Christ in the Temple” is also a very
remarkable painting, in spite of the exaggeration of the
figures placed in the foreground; but the head of
Saint Simeon is full of divine feeling, and is marvel-
246
lously painted, while the Child Jesus is foreshortened
in the most amazing manner. In a corner of the
painting a dog, with its nose turned up sadly, seems to
bay at the moon. Nothing explains the presence of
this isolated animal, but Paolo Veronese’s fondness for
dogs, especially for greyhounds, is well known. He
has put dogs in all his paintings, and the church of
San Sebastiano happens to possess the one and only
picture in which he did not put any, so that it is
pointed out as a unique curiosity in the master’s
work. I was unable to verify for myself the accuracy
of the statement, but as I think it over, it does seem
to me that a painting by Paolo Veronese always recurs
to one’s mind accompanied by a white greyhound, just
as a painting by Garofalo is always adorned and signed
with his invariable carnation.
The purest gem of those picturesque diamonds is
the “ Martyrdom of Saint Mark and Marcellus, en-
couraged by Saint Sebastian.” Art can scarce go
farther, and this picture must be reckoned among the
seven wonders of human genius. What marvellous
colour and drawing in the group formed of a woman
and a child, which the glance first falls upon as one
looks at the picture! What ineffable emotion, what
—_——.
247
SF ce ee
TRAW ELS 2EN PA
celestial resignation overspread the faces of the two
saints already radiant with the coming glory, and
how charming is the woman’s head seen in three-
quarters above the shoulder of Saint Sebastian, —
young, fair, filled with emotion, her glance sad and
solicitous. [he head, which is all that is visible of
the figure, is so accurate in movement, so perfect
in drawing, that the rest of the body can easily be
guessed behind the group which conceals it; you
can follow the lines down to the extremities, so
exact is the anatomy. It is said that the Saint
Sebastian is a portrait of Paolo Veronese him-
self, and the young girl that of his wife. They
were both then in the flower of their age, and
she had not yet bloomed out into the full, heavy,
matronly beauty which is characteristic of her in the
portraits we have of her—among others that in the
Pitti Palace in Florence. The stuffs, the jewels,
the accessories, all are finished with the extreme
care and conscientious elaboration of early works,
when an artist labours only to satisfy his genius and
his art. It is almost immediately below this painting
that the artist is buried. Never did a more bDril-
liant lamp gleam over the shadow of the tomb, and
248
oo bea ke abe ake oe oe che a cade ele abe cl cece ce esha
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the masterpiece shines above the dead like a dazzling
apotheosis. .
The “Coronation of the Virgin”? is shown in the
midst of a blaze, a display, a sparkling of light which
never existed save on Paolo Veronese’s palette. In
an atmosphere of molten gold and silver which passes
through the hair of the Christ, floats in mid-air a
Mary of such celestially human beauty that your heart
beats as you bow your head. The ‘Coronation of
Esther by Ahasuerus”’ is of incomparable grandeur
and richness of tone. Here Paolo Veronese gave
full scope to his splendid manner; pearls, satins,
velvets, and brocades gleam, shimmer, _ sparkle,
and are broken by luminous folds. The warrior
in the foreground, careless of the anachronism of his
armour, has a proud and manly port; the inevitable
great dog is well placed, evidently thorough-bred,
and feels that it is an honour to be painted by Paolo
Veronese.
In the upper portion of the church, in a part almost
invisible from below, there are great monochromes
by the master painted with exceeding lightness and a
very fine effect. Damp, time, and the lack of atten-
tion have begun to destroy them; an Austrian shell
249
TRAV EDs) UN@ Tage
which burst through the ceiling has scarred them with
a broad cicatrice.
The sacristy also contains paintings by Veronese,
but they belong to his early youth, when his yet timid
genius was feeling its way.
There are several explanations of the prodigious
number of paintings by him in this church: first, that
he was specially devoted to Saint Sebastian; next, and
more romantic, that having murdered a rival, he was
compelled to seek refuge in this place, which he em-
bellished out of gratitude during his long leisure hours ;
according to others again, the painter concealed himself
for two years in San Sebastiano in order to escape the
vengeance of a Senator, a caricature of whom he had
exhibited on the Piazza San Marco. I repeat these
stories for what they are worth, without taking the
trouble to criticise them.
Santa Maria Gloriosa dei Frari is not in the hideous
classical or Jesuit taste of which I was speaking a
moment ago. Its ogees, its lancets, its Romanesque
tower, its great walls of red brick give it a much more
religious aspect. Above the doorway is a statue of the
Saviour. “The church, built by Nicolas Pisano, is of
the year 1250. It is here that Canova is buried. The
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Cre RG Et SgeaN.DY SGU OLE
monument which the artist had designed for Titian,
modified in some respects, was used for him. I do not
much admire it; it is pretentious, theatrical, and cold.
At the foot of a green marble pyramid placed against
the wall of a chapel gapes the black door of a vault,
towards which winds a procession of statues placed
on the steps of the monument; at the head walks a
funeral figure, bearing a sepulchral urn; behind, genii
and allegorical figures carrying torches and garlands of
flowers. ‘Io counterbalance this portion of the com-
position, a great nude figure, which I believe is symboli-
cal of the brevity of life, leans upon a torch which it is
putting out, and the winged lion of Saint Mark sadly
leans its head upon its paws in a_ pose analogous
to that of Thorwaldsen’s famous lion. Above the
door two genii hold a medallion portrait of Canova.
The monument is all the poorer and the meaner in
idea and execution that the Santa Maria dei Frari is
full of the most effective ancient monuments in the
finest style.
The equestrian statue of General Colleoni, which
looks uncommonly well upon a bronze horse, first
strikes the eye as one comes up the canal to the small
Square at the back of which rises the Church di San
251
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TRAVELS JN? aoe
Giovannie San Paolo. Although built in the thirteenth
or fourteenth century, the church was not consecrated
before 1430. [he pediment of the fagade is pretty, the
circular arcade which surmounts it is wondrously carved
with flowers and fruits. People go there chiefly to see
“ The Martyrdom of Saint Peter” by ‘Titian, a paint-
ing so precious that it has been forbidden to sell it
under penalty of death. I like this artistic ferocity ;
it is the only case in which it seems to me that capital
punishment should be inflicted. Yet, other paintings
by ‘Titian seem to me as worthy as this one, in spite
of its beauty, of such jealousy on the part of Venice,
and I had formed an idea of it different and greater
than the reality turned out to be. The scene is in a
wood. Saint Peter has fallen ; the executioner has caught
him by the arm and is raising his sword ; a priest flees
in terror, and in the sky appear two angels ready to
receive the martyr’s soul. The executioner is admira-
bly drawn; he threatens and insults in rare fashion;
a brutal, furious expression marks his face; his eyes
shine under a low brow like that of a tiger; his nos-
trils are dilated and scent blood. But perhaps there
is too much terror and not enough resignation in the
face of the Saint. He sees the sword only, the cold
252
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CRU CIES 770N DD! S@wOiL E
steel of which will presently be thrust between his
ribs, and he forgets that in the azure above soar celes-
tial messengers with palms and crowns. He looks too
much like an ordinary man condemned to death, whose
throat is about to be cut and who is sorry for it. As
for the monk, he is thoroughly frightened and filled
with terror, but he does not run off properly. His
body, much foreshortened, is ungainly; his legs are
thrown back as he runs, his arms go one way and his
head another. If the composition may be criticised,
one has, on the other hand, to kneel in admiration be-
fore the magnificent landscape, so grand, so severe, so
full of style, before the simple, manly, robust colouring,
the broad and grand execution, the impassible masterli-
ness of touch, the proud maestria which reveals the
god of painting. ‘Titian, as I have said, is the single
artist whom the modern world can oppose to anti-
quity for calm strength, tranquil splendour, and eternal
serenity.
I might mention the funeral monuments which cover
the walls: the altar of San Domenichino, on which
the history of the saint is modelled ina series of bronze
basst-reevi by Mazza of Bologna; ‘Tintoretto’s
“Christ on the Cross;” the magnificent carvings
253
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T RAW BLS sD Naa
in the chapel of Santa Maria degli Rosi; the
“© Coronation of the Virgin,’ by Palma Vecchio ; —
but in achurch where there is a Titian, you see
nothing but Titian; he is the sun that extinguishes all
the stars.
San Francesco della Vigna, with its red and white
belfry, also deserves to be visited. There is near the
church a curious cloister, enclosed with gratings of
dark wood, which surrounds a sort of green filled with
wild mallow, nettles, hemlock, asphodel, burdocks, and
other plants found in ruins and cemeteries, among which
rises a grotto of rock-work and shells, within which is
placed an effigy of Saint Francis, in wood or coloured
plaster, a sort of devotional toy or Jesuit’s fancy.
Under the damp and mouldy arches of the cloister,
among the tombs worn by time and inscriptions which
are illegible, I noticed on a stone slab a gondola carved
in very low relief but still quite plain. It is placed
over a gondoliers’ vault like the tomb of the Zorzi of
Cattaro in the church of San Sebastiano. Each traghetto
thus had its own separate burial-place.
At San Francesco della Vigna I saw a painting by
Fra Antonio da Negroponte, remarkable for its beauty
and its preservation. It is the only one by that
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painter which I have ever come across. I had never
before heard his name, and yet it deserves to be
known. The Virgin enthroned is dressed in a gown
of gold brocade and a mantle figured with flowers
painted in the most delicate manner. Ai little girl
holds up the corner of the mantle with an air of in-
genuous devotion, while the Virgin looks lovingly
at the Child Jesus lying in her lap. The Virgin’s
head, with its exquisite delicacy, would do honour to
Giovanni Bellini, Carpaccio, Perugino, Diirer, and
the purest and most suave of the older masters. She
is fair, and her golden hair, painted with great care,
melts into the splendour of a trefoiled nimbus en~
crusted with precious stones after the Byzantine fash-
ion. Above, from within the ultramarine of an
artless paradise, the Eternal Father gazes upon the
sacred group in a satisfied and majestic pose. “I’wo
handsome angels hold garlands of flowers, and behind
the throne, covered with gold-work and enamels like
that of an empress of the Lower Empire, bloom
masses of roses and lilies which recall the sweet
names given to the Virgin in the litany.
The work is painted with slow minuteness and in-
finite patience, which seem to have paid no heed to
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TRAVELS -lNe See
time and which betray the ample leisure of the clois-
ter; for Negroponte was a monk, as shown by the
inscription upon the painting: “ Pater Antonio Ne-
groponte pinxit.”” But his extreme minuteness in no
wise diminishes the grandeur of the impression or the
imposing effect, while the richness of the colouring
rivals the brilliancy of the gold and the ornaments
in relief. It is at one and the same time an image
and a jewel, as, in my opinion, paintings intended for
the worship of the faithful should be. In that case
art is improved by the hieratic and mysterious luxury
of the idol. The Madonna of Fra Antonio da Ne-
groponte at San Francesco della Vigna thoroughly
fulfils these conditions, and stands perfectly being
placed near “The Risen Christ” by Paolo Veronese,
“The Martyrdom of Saint Laurent” by Santacroce,
and the “ Madonna” by Giovanni Bellini, which is
one of his best works, though unfortunately it is
placed in an obscure chapel.
One should not neglect to visit San Pantaleone, if
only to see the huge ceiling painted by Fumiani,
representing different episodes in the life of the saint,
his martyrdom and his glorification. Since the days
of monastic stiffness and mnissal-like artlessness of
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LLLLAALLALALAAPESLLALALA LALLA ASA
CROC H Baa PAN ID) S60 OLE
Fra Antonio da Negroponte many years have passed
and art has progressed. Whence is it, then, that
this ceiling, which, so far as bold facility goes, equals
Lemoine’s ceiling in the Hall of Hercules and Luca
Giordano’s frescoes at the Escorial, leaves you cold
in spite of the skilful foreshortening, of the elusive
painting, and all the resources and tricks of execu-
tion? It is because in this case the means are the
end, the hand works more quickly than the brain, and
there is no soul in that vast composition suspended
above your head like an actress at the Opera by
plainly visible cords. The driest, most constrained,
most unskilful Gothic possesses a charm which is
lacking in all these great, mannered painters, so clever,
so quick, so skilful, so expeditious in their mode of
work,
In the Church of Santa Maria della Salute there is
a superb ceiling by Titian, “ The Murder of Abel by
Cain,’ which is painted with masterly vigour and
dash. It is at once calm and violent, like all the
thoroughly successful works of this unrivalled painter.
The church was built by Baldassare Longhena. ‘The
white cupolas have a very graceful curve. One hun-
dred and thirty statues with flying draperies and ele-
17 257
chee he he ae ae be oh che che cece echo echo che lnc ae obec
TRAVELS INDI hee
gantly mannered poses surround the cornice. When
I lived in the Hotel de Europe a very pretty Eve,
in the costume of her day, smiled at me every morn-
ing from that cornice in a rosy ray of sunshine which
flushed her marble with modest blushes. Religion
is not prudish in Italy, and it willingly puts up with
nudity when it is sanctified by art. |
I might continue indefinitely this pilgrimage from
church to church, for they all contain treasures which
deserve to be described; but I have no intention of
writing a guide-book, so we shall go straight to the
Scuole di San Rocco, an elegant building composed
of two orders of superimposed Corinthian columns
which at one-third of their height are coupled by an
exceedingly pretty fillet.
San Rocco, as every one knows, enjoys the priv-
ilege of curing the plague, so he is greatly venerated
in Venice, which is particularly exposed to the pest
through its relations with Constantinople and the
Levant. The statue of the saint shows upon the
bare thigh a horrible, inflamed boil, for the saints are
homceopaths and cure only the diseases which they
suffer from. The plague is treated by a plague-
stricken saint, ophthalmia by a martyr whose eyes have
258
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OPC TU PermneN 1) t S eo OLE
been put out, and so on; it is really a case of similia
similibus. Leaving the medical question aside, no
doubt it was thought that these blessed personages
would sympathise more deeply with evils from which
they had suffered themselves.
In the Scuole di San Rocco there is a low hall
painted throughout by ‘Tintoretto, that tremendous
worker, and on ascending a magnificent and monu-
mental staircase by Scarpagnino, there are on the right
and on the left, as if to justify the name and patronage
of the plague-stricken saint, different scenes in the
great Venetian epidemic which might illustrate the
cholera in Paris. These cadaverous paintings are,
those on the right by Antonio Zanchi, those on the
left by Pietro Negri.
It is also in the Scuole di San Rocco that is to be
seen the masterpiece of Tintoretto, that fertile and
uneven artist who passed from the sublime to the
wretched with prodigious facility. The immense
painting represents in full development the bloody
drama of Calvary. It occupies the whole of the end
of a large hall. ‘The sky, painted, no doubt, with that
blue Egyptian ash which has played such unpleasant
tricks on the artists of that day, has most unpleasant
259
ALEK? EE SESSA ete eettse
TR AW REISS fl No Aa
false tones, which certainly could not have existed
before that deceitful colour had darkened. It has also
curiously darkened the background of the “ Pilgrims at
Emmaus ” by Paolo Veronese. The defect is quickly
forgotten, however, so quickly do the groups in the
foreground attract the attention of the spectator after
he has looked at the picture fora moment. The Holy
Women around the cross form the most profoundly
despairing group that human grief can dream of}; one
of them, wrapped in her mantle, is prostrate, and sobs
in the most pathetic and desolate fashion. A negro,
who is endeavouring to raise the cross to which is
fixed one of the thieves, is standing on tiptoe with an
awkward, unnatural motion, but his figure is painted,
like all the others, so vehemently and so furiously that
you cannot help admiring it. Never did Rubens,
Rembrandt, Géricault, or Delacroix in their most
feverish and turbulent sketches, attain such dash, such
rage, such ferocity. On this occasion Tintoretto fully
deserved his surname Robusto. It is impossible to
carry vigour farther. It is violent, exaggerated, melo-
dramatic, but possessed of a supreme quality, strength.
This painting, which shines with the splendour of
sovereign art, makes one forgive the artist many acres
260
dob bbb bb bbb bb
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of the smoky, black canvases which one meets with
in every palace, church, and gallery, and which are the
work of a dyer rather than of a painter. “The “ Cruci-
>
fixion ”’ is dated 1565.
Before leaving, a very beautiful ‘‘ Christ’ by Titian
must be looked at, for its deep expression of grief, and
also some lovely altar doors carved in 1765 by Phili-
berti with exquisite delicacy and amazing perfection of
work. ‘These carvings, which are precious in spite of
their modern date, represent different events in the life
of San Rocco. “The wood-work in the upper hall is
also very remarkable, but if we are to admire every-
thing, we shall never get through.
261
NE day I was wandering at haphazard through
() the unfrequented parts of Venice, for I like
to learn something else about cities than
that side of them which is drawn, described, and told
by everybody, and I am always curious, having paid
my legitimate tribute of admiration, to raise the mask
of monuments which every city wears on its face by
way of concealing its ugliness and its wretchedness.
From lane to lane, by dint of crossing bridges and
losing my way, I got beyond the Cannaregio into a
Venice which is quite unlike the pretty Venice of
water-colour paintings. Half-ruinous houses with °
windows boarded up, deserted squares, empty places
on which clothes were drying upon cords and ragged
children were playing, barren shores on which ship-
wrights were calking boats amid thick clouds of smoke ;
abandoned churches smashed by Austrian shells, some
of which had burst even at this extreme distance;
262
THE GHETTO—MURANO—VICENZA
canals with green, stagnant water in which floated old
mattresses and vegetable detritus, formed an ensemble
of wretchedness, solitude, and neglect which made a
painful impression upon me. Artificial towns con-
quered from the sea, like Venice, need riches and
splendour; they require all the luxury of art and the
magnificence of architecture to make up for the loss
of nature. Ifa palace by Scammozzi, with its marble
balconies, its pillars, and staircases, looks well on
the banks of the Grand Canal, nothing, on the other
hand, is more saddening than a wretched house falling
to pieces between sky and water, and on the founda-
tions of which crawl water-beetles and crabs.
I had been walking for some time through a
labyrinth of lanes which often brought me back to
my starting-point. I noticed with surprise the ab-
sence of all religious emblems at the corners of the
streets. There were no chapels, no Madonnas adorned
with ex-votos, no carved crosses on the squares, no
effigies of saints, not one of the outward signs of
devotion which are so frequent in the other quarters of
the city. Everything looked strange, foreign, and mys-
terious. Curious forms glided furtively and slowly
along the walls with an air of terror. Nor were the
263
LekebLELLAALLAELALLALALAL ALS
TRAWE WS (TN? PAsker
. faces of the Venetian type. Hooked noses, black eyes,
sallow complexions, thin cheeks, pointed chins, all
told of a different race. The wretched, shiny, dirty
rags which these people wore were particularly sordid,
and denoted cupidity rather than poverty, an avaricious
wretchedness voluntary rather than involuntary, and
calculated to inspire contempt rather than pity.
The lanes grew narrower and narrower; the houses
rose like babels of superimposed hovels, as if in search
of air that could be breathed and light to be reached
above the shadow and the filth, in which crawled
deformed beings. Several of these houses were nine
stories high, —nine stories of rags, filth, and vile in-
dustries. All the forgotten diseases of the lazar-houses
of the East seemed to cling to these deathly walls;
the damp marked them with plague spots as if they
were gangrened, the saltpetre efflorescence looked
like the rugosities, warts, and boils of plague patients ;
the plaster broke away, like a diseased skin, in scaly
pellicles. | There was not a_ single perpendicular
line; everything was out of plumb. The windows,
blear-eyed, blind, or squinting, had not one whole
pane; pieces of paper bound up as best they could
the wounds of the glass. Poles like withered arms
264
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THE GHETTO—MURANO--VICENZA
shook indescribable rags above the passer-by ; mattresses
hideously soiled were endeavouring to dry in the sun
on the edge of open, black windows. Here and there
the remains of a cement formed of broken bricks and
plaster gave to some of the facades less decrepit than
the others an unwholesome redness like that which
marks the cheek-bones of a consumptive patient or of
low prostitute who has rouged her face. These
houses were not among the least ugly and the least
repulsive; they seemed to be health in death, vice
in misery. Which is the more horrible, a perfectly
livid body or one with its yellow face rubbed with
vermilion ? |
Ruinous bridges, their arches bending like old men
bowed down by the weight of years, and ready to fall
into the water, connected these masses of shapeless
hovels, separated by stagnant, muddy canals, black as
ink, green as sanies, filled with filth and detritus of all
kinds which the tide was powerless to carry off, for it
could not stir the heavy, thick, stagnant water, which
resembled a Stygian swamp or a river of hell.
At last I came upon a broad square, fairly paved, in
the centre of which showed the open mouth of a cis-
tern. At one of the corners rose an edifice of a more
265
HAELAALLALLLEALALLALL ALL ALS
DRAW GAS) NA
human aspect, over the door of which was an inscrip-
tion carved in Oriental letters, which I recognised as
being Jewish characters. The riddle was solved.
This fetid, purulent quarter was simply the Ghetto,
the Jewry of Venice, which has preserved the sordid-
ness characteristic of the Middle Ages.
Probably, if one were to enter these rotten, cracked
houses rayed with loathsome mould, one might find in
them, as in the Jewries of old, Rebeccas and Rachels
of radiant Oriental beauty, stiff with gold and gems
like Hindoo idols, seated on the most costly Smyrna
carpets amid vases of gold and wondrous riches heaped
together by paternal avarice; for the poverty of the
Jew is merely external. If Christians indulge in sham
luxury, Israelites indulge in sham poverty. Like cer-
tain insects, they roll themselves in the dirt and turn
mud-colour in order to escape their persecutors. This
habit, acquired in the Middle Ages, has never yet been
lost by them, although nothing justifies it at present,
but they keep it up with the unbending obstinacy of
their race.
The building with the Hebraic inscription was a
synagogue. I entered it. A fine staircase led me up
into a large, oblong room wainscoted with well carved
266
the ea oe oe oe oe oe ee ected che cde oo of chee oe oo
ore ae ote
THE GHETTO—MURANO—VICENZA
woodwork and hung with splendid red damask of the
Indies. The Talmud, just like the Koran, forbids its
sectaries to reproduce the human form, and considers
art an idolatrous practice; consequently the synagogue
is as bare as a mosque or a Protestant temple, and can-
not equal the splendour of Catholic cathedrals, however
wealthy the faithful may be. Jewish worship, which
is wholly an abstraction, is poor to the eye; —a pulpit
for the rabbi who explains the Scriptures, a gallery
for the singers who chant the psalms, a tabernacle in
which are enclosed the Tables of the Law, and that
is all.
I noticed in the Synagogue a great number of brass
chandeliers adorned with balls and the arms twisted
in the Dutch taste, such as are often seen in paintings
by Gerard Dow and Mieris, especially in the painting
of “The Paralytic,” which engraving has made so
popular. Probably these chandeliers came from Am-
sterdam, the northern Venice, which also contains
many Jews. ‘The superabundance of illumination is
not surprising, for seven-branched candlesticks, lamps,
and torches recur constantly in the Bible.
The Jewish cemetery is at the Lido. The sand
covers it, vegetation grows over it, and children do
207
TRAVELS IN ITALY
not scruple to trample and dance on the overturned or
broken tombstones. When they are reproached with
their irreverence, they artlessly reply, “They are only
Jews.” In their eyes a Jew and a dog are one and
the same thing. ‘The field is not a cemetery, it is a
common sewer. In Spain, at Puerto de Santa Maria,
I met with something of the same sort. A negro, an
attendant in the bull ring, had just been killed by a
bull. He had been carried away, and I was much
moved. ‘Don’t worry,” said a neighbour to me, “it
is only a negro.” Yet, Jew or negro, they are men.
But how long will it be before we can teach that fact
to the children of barbarians?
The Christians sleep more peacefully on the small
island of San Michele on the way to Murano. They
are laid under the salt sand, which must be sweet to
the bones of a Venetian, and the gondolas salute their
crosses as they pass.
Murano has fallen from its antique splendour. It is
no longer, as formerly, the wizard of imitation pearls,
mirrors, and glassware. Chemistry has revealed its
secrets ; it no longer possesses the monopoly of beau-
tiful bevelled mirrors, of tall glasses, of delicate flasks
with milky spirals, of crystal balls that look like
268
THE GHETTO—MURANO—VICENZA
tears of the sea, of glass beads which clink on the loin-
cloths of Africans. Bohemia does just as good work,
Choisy-le-Roi does better; art at Murano has remained
stationary amid universal progress. I visited one of
the glass-works where were being manufactured small
coloured beads.
Murano contains another curiosity, which I was
shown with some pride,—a horse, an animal more
rare in Venice than the unicorn, the griffin, the chimera,
or the flying ram of nightmares. In vain would
Richard call, “A horse! a horse! my kingdom for
]??
a horse I rather enjoyed meeting that worthy
quadruped, the existence of which I was beginning to
forget. Meeting with it made me somewhat homesick
for the mainland, and J returned to Venice very
thoughtful. It struck me that it was a long while
since I had seen plains or mountains, cultivated fields,
roads bordered by trees, streets traversed by carriages ;
it seemed to me that nothing was pleasanter than the
cracking of whips and the jingling of the bells of
post-horses.
269
oh feo tech he decks ede che decbe tech cbecdecdecbcbeah ob check
DBA ELS: TN Te ee
téete¢¢e¢e¢ettetettttttttthe
1 Eel oid be Jad bape
HE season was growing late, my stay in
| Venice had been prolonged beyond the
limit which I had settled on in the general
plan of my trip. I delayed my departure from week to
week, from day to day, and always had some good rea-
son for remaining. In vain did light vapours begin to
rise in the morning over the lagoon, or sudden showers
compel me to take refuge in a church; in vain when I
wandered in the moonlight on the Grand Canal did the
chill night-air force me sometimes to close the win-
dow of the gondola, —I insisted on setting at naught
the warnings of autumn. I was always remembering
a palazzo, a church, or a picture which I had not seen.
I must visit, before leaving Venice, the white church of
Santa Maria Formosa, made illustrious by the famous
Santa Barbara, so splendidly posed, so heroically beau-
tiful, which Palma Vecchio painted; and the palazzo
of Bianca Capello, with its remembrances of a love-
legend thoroughly Venetian and full of romantic
270
S$eeeeeeettetetetttere
PADUA
ie
i
>
charm; the strange and splendid church of San Zac-
caria, in which there are a marvellous altar-piece bril-
liant with gold by Antonio Vivarini, given by Helena
Foscari and Marina Donato, and the tomb of the
great sculptor Alessandro Vittoria, —
«<< Oui vivens vivos duxit de marmore vultus, — ”’
>
a splendidly conceited epitaph, justified for once by a
world of statues.
Sometimes it was something else, — an island I had
forgotten, Mazorbo or Torcello, which has a curious
Byzantine basilica and Roman antiquities, or a pic-
turesque facade on an unfrequented canal which I[
must sketch, —a thousand reasons of this kind, every
one excellent, but which were not the real ones, al-
though I did my best to believe they were. I yielded,
in spite of myself, to the melancholy which seizes
upon the most determined traveller when he is to
leave, perhaps forever, a country he has long desired
to see, a place where he has spent beautiful days and
lovelier nights.
There are certain cities which one leaves as if they
were a beloved friend, with swelling breast and tearful
eyes; chosen countries where one is more easily happy
than elsewhere, to which one dreams of returning to
271
TRAV) Ege SC Nal Asie
die, and which shine in the sadness and the troubles of
life like an oasis, an E] Dorado; divine cities where the
weary are at rest and to which remembrances fly back-
obstinately. Granada was for me one of these celes-
tial Jerusalems which glow under a golden sun in the
blue mirage of distance. I had thought of it since
childhood, I left it with tears, and I very often regret
it. Venice shall be for me another Granada, perhaps
even more regretted.
Has it ever happened to you to have but a few days
to spend with some beloved person? You look at her
long, fixedly, sorrowfully, to grave her features deeply
in your mind; you look at her in every way, study her
in every light, notice every particular sign, —the little
mole near the mouth, the dimple on the cheek or the
hand; you note the inflections and the harmony of her
voice; you try to preserve as much as you can of the
adored face, which absence will take from you and
which you will never again see but in your heart.
You cannot be apart, you must be together up to the
last moment; even sleep seems to be stolen from these
precious hours, and the talk is endless as you sit hand
in hand unaware that the light of the lamp is paling
and the gray dawn filtering through the curtains.
272
ene ete oF wTe eTe oTe
This was just my feeling with regard to Venice.
As the moment of departure approached, it became
dearer to me, its full value revealed itself as I was
about to lose it. I reproached myself with not having
turned my stay to better account; I bitterly regretted a
few hours of laziness, a few cowardly concessions to
the enervating influence of the sirocco. It seemed to me
that I might have seen more, taken more notes, made
more sketches, trusted less to my memory; and yet,
Heaven knows that I conscientiously fulfilled my duty
as a tourist. J was to be met with everywhere, in
churches, in galleries, at the Academy of the Fine Arts,
on the Piazza San Marco, in the Palace of the Doges,
in the Library. My weary gondoliers begged for rest.
I scarcely took time to swallow an ice at the Café
Florian or a soup of mussels and a pasticcio of polenta at
the Gasthoff San Gallo or at the tavern of the Black Hat.
In six weeks I had worn out three pairs of eyeglasses, a
pair of opera-glasses, and lost a telescope. Never did any
one indulge in such an orgy of sightseeing; I looked at
things fourteen hours a day without a stop. If I had
dared, I would have continued my visiting by torchlight.
During the last few days it became a regular fever
with me. I made a general round, a review, on the
18 y ly fi
ttetbebebeetrttedbbttttttes
TGR AV@EIES py luNg Tear
dead run, with the quick, sharp glance of a man who
knows the thing he looks at and goes straight to what
he wants. Like painters who ink the drawings which
they do not wish rubbed out, I strengthened by a new
remembrance the thousand sketches in my memory.
I saw again the beautiful Ducal Palace, built purposely
for a stage scene in a drama or an opera, with its great
rose-coloured walls, its white lacework, its two stories
of pillars, its Arab trefoils; wonderful San Marco, the
Saint Sophia of the West, the colossal reliquary of
Venetian civilisation, a gilded cavern, diapered with
mosaics, a vast heaping up of jasper, porphyry, alabas-
ter, and fragments of antiquity, a pirate cathedral en.
riched with the spoils of the universe; the Campanile,
which bears so high within the heavens the golden
angel, protector of Venice, and guards at its feet Sanso-
vino’s Loggetta carved like a gem; the Clock Tower,
gold and blue, on which, on a great dial, meander the
black and white hours; the Library, Athenian in its
elegance, crowned with graceful mythological statues,
sweet remembrance of neighbouring Greece; and the
Grand Canal, bordered by a double row of Gothic,
Moorish, Renaissance, and rococo palaces, whose ever
varying facades amaze one by the inexhaustible fancy
274
bebebettebtttttedttecetes
PADUA
and the perpetual invention of the details, which it
would take more than a man’s whole life to study; a
splendid gallery in which is exhibited the genius of
Sansovino, Scamozzi, Pietro Lombardi, Palladio, Lon-
ghena, Bergamasco, Rossi, Tremignana, and other
wondrous architects, to say nothing of the unknown
and humble workmen of the Middle Ages, who are not
the least admirable. JI went in my gondola from the
Dogana Point to Quintavalle Point in order to fix for-
ever in my memory that fairy sight which painting is
as powerless to render as are words, and I devoured
with desperate attention the mirage of the Fata Mor-
gana about to vanish forever so far as I was concerned.
Now, as I am about to bring to a close this account,
already too long, perchance, it seems to me that I have
told nothing and that I have but feebly expressed my
enthusiasm and given but a poor copy of my splendid
models. Every monument, every church, every gallery
calls for a volume, and I can scarcely afford a page.
Yet I have spoken only of what is visible; I have
avoided removing the dust from the old chronicles,
reviving forgotten remembrances, peopling with their
former inhabitants the deserted palaces; — for that
would have been a life work.
275
theese tbebetetteeteeeeee
UR AV BASS? SEN Sb eo
And now, at any cost, 1 must go. Padua, the city
of Ezzelino and of Angelo, calls me. Farewell, dear
Campo San Moisé, where I have spent such lovely
hours; farewell to the sunsets of the Salute, the moon-
light effects on the Grand Canal, the beautiful, golden-
haired girls of the Public Gardens, the pleasant dinners
under the vines of Quintavalle! Farewell to the
glorious art and the magnificent painting, to the splen-
did palaces of the Middle Ages, to Palladio’s Greek
facades! Farewell to the doves of San Marco and the
gulls of the lagoon, to the sea baths on the Lido shore,
to the trips in gondolas. Farewell forever, and if for-
ever, still forever fare ye well! The railway has
carried us off, and already the Venus of the Adriatic
has plunged her rose and white body within the azure
sea.
Padua is an ancient city which looks well against the
horizon, with its belfries,; domes, and old walls on
which swarms a multitude of lizards. Placed too near
a centre which draws all life to itself, Padua is a dead
city, and looks almost deserted. Its streets, bordered
by two rows of low arcades, are sad, and nothing
recalls the elegant and graceful Venetian architecture.
The heavy, massive buildings have a somewhat sour
276
seriousness, and the sombre porches at the foot of the
houses look like black mouths yawning with weariness.
I was taken to a huge inn, probably a palace in
olden days, the great remains of which, dishonoured
by vulgar use, must of yore have seen better company.
It was a journey from the hall to my room through
numberless stairs and passages; a map or Ariadne’s
thread was needed to find the way.
My windows opened upon a fair prospect. The
Brachiglione flowed at the foot of the wall, its banks
lined with old houses and long walls, above which rose
trees. Lines of stakes from which fishermen cast
their lines with the patience characteristic of the breed
in every country, huts with nets, and clothes drying at
the windows, formed a pretty subject for a water-colour
drawing.
After dinner I went to the Café Pedrocchi, famous
throughout Italy for its magnificence. It is classical,
monumental, full of pillars and columns, of ova and
palmettos, in the style of Percier and Fontaine, all very
large and very much in marble. The most curious
things about it are great geographical maps which
replace hangings and represent the different countries
of the world on a large scale. “This somewhat pedan-
27]
abe che oh of obs aby obs obs obs obs of cboabs che ohn ob» nota abe ob ob ole of obec
ow ete om ve ae wie wie aye we we we
TRAV BASS oLiNG Asie
tic decoration gives an academic air to the room, and
one would not be surprised to see a desk in the
place of the counter, with a professor in his gown
instead of the master of the café. But as Padua is a
university town, it is quite proper that the students
should be able to continue their studies while drinking
their coffee or eating their ices.
The University of Padua was famous formerly. In
the thirteenth century eighteen thousand youths, a na-
tion of students, followed the courses of its learned
professors, among whom later was Galileo, one of
whose vertebrz is preserved as a relic, —a relic of a
martyr who suffered for truth. ‘The facade of the
University building is very handsome; four Doric
columns give it a severe and monumental aspect; but
the class-rooms are empty and scarcely one thousand
students now frequent them.
The next day I proceeded to visit the cathedral dedi-
cated to Saint Anthony, who enjoys at Padua the posi-
tion of Saint Januarius at Naples. He is the genius
loci, the saint venerated above all others. If Cazenova
may be believed, he was in the habit of working no
less than thirty miracles a day. Certainly he deserved
his surname Thaumaturgist, but his prodigious zeal has
278
REALL ALLLALLALALE AL SEA LL
PADUA
considerably fallen off. However, the credit of the
saint has in no wise diminished, and so many masses
are ordered at his altar that the priests at the cathedral
and the days of the year are insufficient to say them.
To settle up matters, the Pope has permitted that at
the end of the year masses shall be said every one of
which is as good as a thousand, and in this way Saint
Anthony does not disappoint his faithful worshippers.
On the square near the cathedral rises a fine bronze
equestrian statue by Donatello, the first cast since the
days of antiquity, representing Gattomelato, a chief of
condottieril, a brigand who unquestionably does not
deserve such an honour; but the artist has given him
a splendid port and a proud look, with his Roman
emperor’s baton, and that is quite enough.
The church of San Antonio is composed of a num-
ber of cupolas and bell towers, and a great brick facade
with triangular pediment, above which rises a gallery
_ with ogees and pillars. ‘Three small doors cut in the
high arcade correspond to the three naves. The in-
terior is excessively rich, and is filled with chapels and
tombs in different styles. It contains specimens of the
art of various epochs, from the naive, religious, and
delicate art of the Middle Ages to the most extraordi-
a7
teteeetteettet ett tttttdteh
wo ewe ofo ate
TUR AAV eb GOING LT Ag ee
nary fancies of the rococo style. ‘The cloister is paved
with funeral slabs, and the walls disappear under the
monuments which cover them. I read a number of
the epitaphs, which were very fine, the Italians having
preserved the secret of lapidary Latin.
Santa Giustinia is a huge church with a bare facade
and an interior so plain as to be dull and mean. Good
taste is certainly desirable, but not too much of it, and
I must say I prefer to such bareness the mad exuber-
ance and the exaggerated scrolls of the rococo style.
A fine altar-piece by Paolo Veronese relieves the
nudity. If the church is dull and characterless, the
same cannot be said of the two giant monsters which
guard it, lying on the steps like faithful mastiffs.
Never did Japanese monsters present a more terri-
fying aspect than these fantastic animals, which are
something like hideous griffins, with the hind-quarters
of lions, the wings of eagles, and stupid, fierce heads,
ending in beaks pierced with oblique nostrils like those of
tortoises. ‘hese monstrous animals press to their breasts,
between their talons, a warrior on horseback wearing
medizval armour, and crush him with slow pressure,
with a vague look and without troubling about the
convulsive efforts of the myrmidon thus stifled.
280
What is the meaning of the knight caught with his
steed in the dread claws of these crouching monsters ?
What myth is concealed under that sombre sculptural
fancy? Do these groups illustrate a legend, or are
they simply the sinister hieroglyphs of fatality? I
could not make out, and no one could or would tell
me. The other day, on glancing over the album
which Prince Soltykoff brought back from India, I
found in the propylaa of a Hindoo pagoda exactly
similar monsters crushing an armed man against their
breast. Whatever may be the real meaning of these
terrifying groups, they recall confusedly vague remem-
brances of cosmogonic combats, battles between the
two principles of good and evil, — Ahriman overcom-
ing Ormuzd, Siva overthrowing Vishnu. Later on,
under the porch of the cathedral at Ferrara, I again
saw these two chimeras, but this time it was lions they
were crushing.
There is one thing one must not neglect to do in
Padua, and that is to pay a visit to the Madonna dell’
Arena, a church situated within a rich and luxuriant
garden, and which would certainly never be found if
one were not told of it. The whole of the interior
was painted by Giotto. No gallery, no ribbing, no
281
choy feo he be che oe ch te cbc eben cbc cde cde ce be shee
wre eve yn wre
WOR A Vibes CLANS eee
architectural division breaks the vast tapestry of the
frescoes. The general aspect is of a sweet, starry
azure, like a beautiful, calm sky; blue is the keynote
and gives the local tone. Thirty compartments of
great size, separated by mere lines, contain scenes of
the life of the Virgin and of her divine Son in detail.
They look like miniatures in a gigantic missal. The
personages, through an artless anachronism most pre-
cious to historians, are dressed in the costume of
Giotto’s day.
Below these compositions, charming in their suavity
and exhibiting the purest religious feeling, a painted
plinth exhibits the seven capital sins symbolised ingen-
uously, and other allegorical figures in excellent style.
A “ Paradise” and a “ Hell,” subjects which greatly
preoccupied the artists of that day, complete this mar-
vellous ensemble. ‘There are quaint and touching de-
tails in these paintings: children emerge from their
little coffins and ascend to Paradise with eager jy,
springing forward to play upon the flowery meads of
the celestial gardens; others hold out their hands to
their half-resuscitated mothers. I noticed that all the
devils and vices were stout, while the angels and _vir-
tues were slender and thin. The painter thus denoted
282
the preponderance of matter in some, and of mind in
others.
Let me note here a picturesque and physiological re-
mark. ‘The type of the Paduan women differs greatly
from that of the Venetians. In spite of the nearness
of the two cities, the Paduan beauty is more severe and
more classical. ‘Thick brown hair, well marked eye-
brows, a serious, dark glance, a pale olive complexion,
a somewhat full oval, recall the main features of the
Lombard race. The black cape which these lovely
women wear gives them, as they glide slowly along the
deserted arcades, a proud and shy look which contrasts
with the faint smile and the easy Venetian grace.
On the Piazza Salone stands the Palace of Justice, a
great building in the Moorish style, with galleries, pil-
lars, and denticulated crenellations, which contains the
largest room in the world perhaps, and recalls the Pal-
ace of the Doges at Venice. At the Scuole del Santo
there are glorious frescoes by Titian, the only ones
which this painter is known to have executed. ‘There
also are shown the instruments of torture, the racks, stra-
pados, pincers, boots, toothed wheels, saws, axes, which
were used upon the victims of Ezzelino, the most
famous tyrant that ever lived, by the side of whom
283
ae abe obs obs oe ob ole abby abe abe ob bn abe obo ells obs abv ol che oe obs ofc cle ofle
ere ee te ate ere ote je ove ore oe Fe
TRAWEAGS GUND GAG
Angelo is an angel of light. I had a letter to the am-
ateur who looks after this curious collection fit for an
executioner’s museum. I did not find him, to my
great regret, and I left the same afternoon for Rovigo,
quitting regretfully the delightful Lombardo-Venetian
kingdom, which lacks nothing save liberty.
KLEE DEA EPPS eA SLE ets
i ee eae Sal NG Al Abe
kktbeebetbbehbbbddhdbbhbche
FERRARA
N omnibus took us in a few hours from
Padua to Rovigo, which we reached in the
evening. While waiting for supper, I wan-
dered through the streets of the city lighted by a silvery
moon which enabled me to make out the outline of the
monuments. Low arcades, like those of the old Place
Royale in Paris, border the streets, and the alternations
of light and shadow formed long cloisters which that
evening recalled the effect of the stage setting of the
Nuns’ act in “ Robert le Diable.”” A few stray pass-
ers-by glided silently along like shadows; sorrowful
dogs bayed to the moon, and the city seemed asleep.
Every window was dark, with the exception of a few
cafés still lighted, in which customers, with a weary,
somnolent look, were eating ices and drinking coffee or
a glass of water, slowly, wisely, methodically, often
stopping to read a meaningless newspaper article, like
people who have lots of time to waste and try to get
along until it is time to go to bed.
285
choo ob abs os be ce oe obs he ecbecde che bach obe eof ee ee abe
ore oe Cre ore ofe re Fe Me OTe ene
TRAN AIS DING? [eters
The trip from Rovigo to Ferrara is in no wise. pic-
turesque,—a flat country with cultivated fields and
Northern trees, exactly like a French department.
The Po, with its yellow waters, is crossed; the low,
bare shores faintly recalling those of the Guadalquivir
below Seville. The turbulent Eridano, lacking the
tribute of the melting snow, seemed calm and peaceful
enough at the time.
Ferrara rises solitary in the centre of a flat country,
which is rich rather than picturesque. On entering by
the main street which leads to the square, the aspect
of the city is imposing and monumental. A palace,
reached by great steps, stands on the corner of this vast
space. I suppose it must be the Court-house or City
Hall, for people of all kinds came in and went out of
the great doors.
While I was wandering in the streets, satisfying my
curiosity at the expense of my appetite and stealing
from the sixty minutes given us for breakfast forty to
regale my eyes and fulfil my duty as a tourist, a strange
apparition rose suddenly before me, as unexpectedly
as a ghost at midday. It was a sort of spectre
masked with a black mask, its head covered with a
black hood, its body wrapped in a gown, or rather a
286
= = = J tS =
domino, braided with red, with a red cross on the shoul-
der, a brass crucifix hung around the neck, and a red
sash. It rattled in silence a small box in which
money was jingling. ‘This scarecrow, which had noth-
ing living about it but the eyes which shone through
the holes in its mask, shook two or three times before
me its box, in which, terrified, I dropped a handful of
bajoccht, not knowing for what charitable work this lu-
gubrious figure was begging. He resumed his way with-
out a word, with the most sinister, funereal clinking of
iron and money, holding out his box, in which every-
body hastened to drop some small coin. I inquired to
what order belonged this phantom, more terrifying
than the monks and ascetics of Zurbaran, who thus
walked about like a horrid, nocturnal vision in the
bright sunshine, realising in the street the nightmare
of bad nights. I was told that he was a penitent of
the Brotherhood of Death, begging money for the
purchase of coffins and for the purpose of saying
masses for poor devils who were to be shot down
that very day,—brigands or Republicans, I have
really forgotten which. These penitents have taken
on themselves the sad and charitable task of accom-
panying those who are condemned to death to the
287
che che abe che aba che he he he ot cde cde ech ch cheb bebe oho oleate
TR ASV GELS: clan ae Teagan
place of execution, to be with them in their last mo-
ments, to remove from the scaffold the mutilated body,
to place it in a bier, and to bury it in a Christian man-
ner. It is townspeople who devote themselves through
piety to these painful functions, and thus mingle a ten-
der, though vague and masked element with the cold,
implacable sacrifices of justice. These spectres seem
to stand between the victim and the executioner.
They are the timid protest made by humanity. Often
these Sisters of Mercy of the scaffold turn faint and
are more troubled than the condemned man himself.
Italy has preserved largely the methods of Doctor
Sangrado, and the breed of doctors whose system is
developed in kitchen Latin in the ceremony of the
‘“¢ Malade imaginaire ” has not yet disappeared. I say
this with due reservation of talents of the first order.
There are in the Peninsula numerous duplicates of
Messieurs Purgon, Diafoirus, Macrotin, Desfonandrés,
and other doctors of Moliére’s creation. People are
bled severely for the least indisposition. The barbers
are the operators, so on their shops are seen paintings
most surgically fantastic, and in these bloody subjects
the painters do not hesitate at any violence of tone,
and imagine contrasts which amaze colourists.
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It was market day, which gave some animation to
the city, usually so dull. I saw nothing characteristic
in the way of costumes. Uniformity is overrunning
everything. [he peasants of the neighbourhood of
Ferrara are very like ours, but for the Southern bril-
liancy of their black eyes and a certain pride of port
which reminds you that you are on classical ground.
Autumn products, grapes, pumpkins, pimentoes, toma-
toes, mixed with coarse pottery and rustic household
utensils, were heaped up on the square, amid which were
groups of people talking and buying. A few oxcarts,
much less primitive than those of Spain, a few asses with
wooden pack-saddles, were waiting with melancholy
patience until their masters had finished their business
and were ready to returnhome. The oxen, lying down,
were peacefully chewing the cud; the asses were grazing
the blades of grass growing between the paving-stones.
One thing peculiar to Italy is the open-air money-
changers. Their outfit is exceedingly simple, and con-
sists of a stool and a small table on which are ranged
piles of scudt, bajocchi, and other coins. ‘The changer,
crouched like a dragon, watches his little treasure with
a restless, yellow eye which exhibits constant dread of
thieves, who are not kept away by any gratings.
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The Cathedral, the facade of which rises on this
square, is in the Italian Gothic style, so inferior, in my
opinion, to Northern Gothic. The portal contains
some curious details. ‘The pillars, instead of resting
on bases like ordinary pillars, rest upon chimeras in the
style of those of the portal of Santa Giustinia at Padua.
These heavy, crushed chimeras revenge themselves for
the pain they suffer by tearing lions in the Ninevite
style, caught in their claws. ‘These caryatid monsters
writhe horribly under the enormous pressure and are
positively painful to look at.
The castle of the former Dukes of Ferrara, which is
a little farther on, has a fine feudal aspect. It consists
of a vast group of towers bound together by high walls,
topped by projecting lookouts, and rising from a great
moat full of water, which is crossed by a bridge closed
to the public. Let not, however, what I have just
said lead the reader to imagine a castle like those which
bristle on the banks of the Rhine. Italian Gothic has
not at all the same appearance as ours; no mould-
covered stones, no mossy statues, no curtains of ivy
falling over old, broken balconies, no traces of that rust
of time which to us is inseparable from the monuments
of the Middle Ages. Italian Gothic, in spite of its
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age, appears to be brand-new. It is white and rose,
pretty rather than solemn, somewhat troubadour; in
short, recalling the feudal clocks of the days of the
Restoration. The castle of the Dukes of Ferrara,
which is built of bricks and of stones turned red by the
sun, has a bright, juvenile air which detracts from its
imposing effect. It resembles too closely the stage-
setting of a melodrama.
It was in this castle that lived the famous Lucrezia
Borgia, whom Victor Hugo has depicted as so mon-
strous, while Ariosto speaks of her as a model of chas-
tity, grace, and virtue, —the fair Lucrezia, who wrote
letters breathing the purest love, and some of whose
silky, golden hair Lord Byron possessed. There
occurred the dramas of Tasso, of Ariosto, and of Gua-
rini; there were held the brilliant orgies, mingling
poisons and murders, which were characteristic of that
period in learned, artistic, refined, and wicked Italy.
It is proper to visit piously the very doubtful cell
wherein T’asso, crazed by love and grief, spent so many
years, according to the poetic legend which has arisen
since his day. I had no time to do so, and I did not
regret it much. The cell, of which I have a very
accurate drawing before me, has only its four walls
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with a low ceiling. At the back there is a window
grated with thick bars and an iron-studded door with
heavy bolts. It is most unlikely that in this obscure
hole, covered with cobwebs, Tasso was able to work
over his poems, to compose sonnets, to trouble about
the details of his dress, such as the quality of the vel-
vet of his beretta and the silk of his stockings, or
to worry about cookery either, such as the kind of
sugar which he wanted for his salad, that served him
not being fine enough, in his opinion. Nor did |
see Ariosto’s house,— another obligatory pilgrimage
Apart from the little credit which can be given to
these unauthenticated traditions, to these characterless
relics, I would rather seek for Ariosto in the *¢ Orlando
>
Furioso,” and for Tasso in * Jerusalem Delivered” or
Goethe’s splendid drama.
Life in Ferrara is concentrated on the Piazza
Nuove, in front of the church, and around the castle.
Life has not yet withdrawn from the heart of the city,
but as you go farther from that point, the pulsations
grow weaker, paralysis begins, death grows; silence,
solitude, and grass take possession of the streets. You
feel that you are wandering through a Thebaid peopled
by the shadows of the past, from which the living have
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disappeared like water that has dried up. There is
nothing so sad as to see the body of a city falling
slowly into dust in the sunshine and the rain; human
bodies at least are buried.
Bologna is a city with arcaded streets, like most cities
in this part of Italy. They are useful as a shelter
from the rain and sunshine, but they transform the
streets into long cloisters, absorb the light, and give the
towns a cold and melancholy aspect.
I had a letter of recommendation for Rossini, who
unfortunately was absent and wouid return only a few
days later.
I followed at chance a street which led me safely
into the square, where have been leaning for years
without ever falling the Torre delli Asinelli and the
Garisenda, which had the honour of furnishing an
image to Dante. ‘The great poet compares Antzus
bending towards the earth to the Garisenda, which
proves that the inclination of the tower of Bologna
goes back to the thirteenth century. ‘These towers,
seen by moonlight, had a most fantastic aspect. ‘Their
strange deviation from the plumb, giving the lie to all
the laws of statics and perspective, makes you giddy,
and causes the other buildings in the neighbourhood to
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seem themselves out of plumb. The Torre delli Asi-
nelli is three hundred feet high, and is three and a half
feet off the perpendicular. Its extreme height makes
it seem slender, and I can best compare it to one of
the great factory chimneys of Manchester or Birming-
ham. It rises from a crenellated base and has two
stories also crenellated, the second one somewhat nar-
rower. From the belfry which surmounts it there
comes down a series of iron rods which reach to the
foot of the building. ‘The Garisenda, which is only
about half as high as the Torre delli Asinelli, leans
over frightfully and causes its neighbour to appear
almost perpendicular. Although it has been leaning
over thus for six hundred years, one does not like
to stand on the side towards which it bends. You
always fancy that the moment of its fall has arrived,
and that you will be crushed under its stones. It
is a childish impulse of terror which it is difficult to
overcome.
If the moonlight enabled me to see the towers, it
was not sufficient to enable me to examine in the
museum the paintings by Guido, the three Carracci,
Domenichino, Albani, and the other great masters of
the school of Bologna.
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At four o’clock the next morning I dressed very
sleepily to take the stage-coach for Florence. I ob-
served a certain movement among the troops. It was
an execution which was preparing. Some twenty
people were to be shot that morning for political
reasons. I left Bologna with the same painful im-
pression which I had experienced at Verona and Fer-
rara and which awaited me at Rome;-— but the
thought of crossing the Apennines on that fine Sep-
tember day soon cleared away the lugubrious feeling.
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P “HE road from Bologna to Florence crosses
the Apennines, the backbone of Italy.
There are certain names which cast a spell,
even upon travellers most accustomed to disappoint-
ments. [The name of the Apennines is of them.
Unquestionably the mania for making comparisons is
a mistake, and it is unjust to expect one place to be
other than it is; but I could not help, from the top of
the stage-coach, thinking of the beautiful Spanish Sier-
ras of which no one speaks and whose unknown beauty
is far grander than that of the Italian mountains, which
are perhaps overpraised. I recalled a trip from Gra-
nada to Veles-Malaga across the mountains, along a
lonely track traversed by scarcely more than a couple
of travellers in the course of the year, and which sur-
passes all that can be imagined in the way of effects
of outline, light, and colour. I thought also of my
excursion into Kabylia, of the mountains gilded by
the African sun, of the valleys full of rose laurel,
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mimosas, arbutus, and mastic trees, through which
strayed rivulets inhabited by little tortoises; of the
Kabyle villages surrounded with fences of cactus, and
of the broken horizon lines, over which rose always
the mighty mass of Djourdjoura; and positively the
Apennines seemed to me mediocre in spite of their
classical reputation.
Although the road never climbs such abrupt steeps
as those of Salinas and Descarga in Spain, the hills are
sometimes bad enough to make it necessary to employ
oxen. It was an ever new pleasure to me to see the
slow animals come along, their heads bowed under the
yoke, their glistening noses, their great peaceful eyes,
their strong legs. ‘To begin with, they were always pic-
turesque in themselves, and then there was always with
them a rustic, wild oxherd, often of fine mien, with
tousled hair, steeple hat, and brown jacket, carrying
his goad like a sceptre. Besides, oxen to me always
mean a rough tableland, a high plateau whence one
enjoys unexpectedly a vast prospect, a blue panorama
of plains, mountains, and valleys, the horizon full of
towns and villas shimmering in the light and shadow.
As the slopes of the Apennines begin to sink towards
Florence, the landscape improves in beauty. Villas
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show upon the sides of the road, black cypresses rise
arrow-like, Italian pines outspread their green tops,
olive trees open their gray, sad foliage. ‘There is a
bustle of foot-passengers, horses, and carriages, betok-
ening the approach to a great, living city, a rare thing
in Italy, that ossuary of dead cities.
Night had fallen when we arrived at the San Gallo
Gate. For a city of pleasure and festivals, whose very
name is scented like a nosegay, Florence received us in
so strange a fashion that more superstitious persons
might have been repelled by the apparent evil omen.
In the very first street into which the stage-coach
entered, we met an apparition as dreadful as that of the
Cortés of Death met by the ingenious knight of La
Mancha in the neighbourhood of Toboso; only in our
case it was not the decoration of an auto sacramental,
but a horrid reality. Two files of black spectres,
masked, bearing resinous torches which shed a lurid
light with much thick smoke, walked, or rather ran
behind and before a catafalque borne on men’s shoul-
ders, and the outline of which could be vaguely made
out in the dun-coloured cloud of the funeral lights.
One of these spectres sounded a bell, and all murmured
with bocca chiusa under the beard of their masks the
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HLO@O REN CE
prayers for the dead in broken, stifled rhythm. A
single black spectre would issue from a house and
hastily join the sombre flock, which soon disappeared
at the corner of a street. It was a brotherhood of
Black Penitents who, according to their custom, were
following a funeral.
As soon as it was day, I looked out of the win-
dow to study the prospect unrolled before my eyes.
The Arno, muddy and yellow, flowed between two
stone quays, leaving half of its bed bare and show-
ing in places the slimy bottom strewn with potsherds,
rubbish, and detritus of all kinds. ‘The spell of Italian
names, which we meet with set in the verse of poets,
is so great that their sonorous syllables always awaken
in the mind an idea different from their aspect in
reality. In spite of one’s self, one imagines the Arno as
a stream with silvery waters, flowery, verdant banks
reached from terraces by marble staircases, and traversed
at night by boats bearing lights, their “Turkish carpets
dipping in the tide, and sheltering under their silken
awnings pairs of lovers. ‘The truth is that the Arno
should rather be called a torrent than a stream. It
flows intermittently according to the caprice of the wet
or dry weather, sometimes overflowing, sometimes a
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mere thread, and in Florence it resembles more the
scene between the Pont de |’Hotel-Dieu and the Pont-
Neuf than anything else. A few fishermen standing
in the water nearly up to their knees alone imparted
any animation to the river, which on account of the
constant change of height, carries only flat-boats ;
which is the more regrettable that the sea is very close,
the Arno flowing into it after having traversed Pisa.
The houses on the opposite side of the quay were
tall, of a sober and not very cheerful architecture. A
few domes and distant church-towers alone broke the
horizontal line. I caught sight, above the roofs of the
buildings, of the hill of San Miniato with its church
and its cypresses, the name of which had remained
fixed in my mind, although I had never been to Flor-
ence, after I had read Alfred de Musset’s “ Loren-
zaccio,” the twenty-fifth scene of which is thus
designated: “ Before the church of San Miniato at
Mount Olivet.”
The handsome Ponte Santa Trinita, designed by
Ammenato, rebuilt by Bartolommeo Ammanati, spanned
to the right the river with its three light surbased
arches. It thus offers less hold to the water in time
of flood and inundation. It is adorned with statues of
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PLOREN CE
the Four Seasons, which from a distance have a fairly
monumental effect. On the left was the Ponte alla
Carraja, one of the oldest in Florence, for it goes back
to the thirteenth century. Destroyed by an inundation,
it was rebuilt by Ammanati.
The general aspect of Florence, contrary to the idea
which one has of it, is sad. ‘he streets are narrow,
the houses high, the facades sombre and lacking the
Southern brightness which one expects to meet with.
The city of pleasure, the summer residence of rich and
elegant Europe, has a cross and dissatisfied look. Its
palaces resemble prisons and fortresses. Every house
seems to intrench itself and to defend itself against the
street. [he imposing, serious, solid architecture with
very few openings has preserved the mistrust charac-
teristic of the Middle Ages and seems to be constantly
prepared for some sudden attack of the Pazzi or the
Strozzi.
The Greeks had a particular way of expressing in a
single word the central or important place in a city or
country, — ophthalmos (the eye). Every great capital
has its eye. In Rome it is the Campo Vaccino, in
Paris the Boulevard des Italiens, in Venice the Piazza
San Marco, in Madrid the Prado, in London the
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Strand, in Naples the Via Toledo. Rome is more
Roman, Paris more Parisian, Venice more Venetian,
Madrid more Spanish, London more English, Naples
more Neapolitan in that particular privileged place than
anywhere else. The eye of Florence is the Piazza
della Signoria, a fine eye; for indeed, if you suppress
that square, Florence loses its meaning, it might just as
well be any other city.
The first view of the Piazza, with its graceful, pic-
turesque, complete effect, makes one understand at
once the mistake made in modern capitals like London
and Paris and Saint Petersburg, which, under the name
of squares, open up in their compact masses vast empty
spaces on which they exhibit all possible and impos-
sible failures in decoration. It is easy to understand
why the Carrousel and the Place de la Concorde are
nothing but great empty fields that absorb fruitlessly
fountains, statues, triumphal arches, obelisks, candelabra,
and gardens: all these embellishments, very pretty on
paper, very good also, no doubt, seen from the car of a
balloon, are practically lost to the spectator who cannot
see them all at once. A square, in order to produce a
fine effect, should not be too large; beyond a certain
limit, the glance fails to grasp everything. Next it
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must be bordered by different buildings of varied heights.
Tall buildings are elegant, and suitably circumscribe a
square. Every detail can then be made out. It is
just the difference between a painting standing up and
a painting lying down, upon which you have to walk in
order to see it.
The Piazza della Signoria at Florence combines all
the conditions of architectural picturesqueness, unity,
and variety. Bordered by buildings which are regular
in themselves but different one from another, it satisfies
the eye without wearying it by cold symmetry. The
Palazzo della Signoria, or Palazzo Vecchio, which at
once attracts attention through its imposing mass and
its severe elegance, stands at one of the corners of the
square instead of being in the centre. ‘This curious
position, fortunate in my opinion, but regretted by
those who can see nothing beautiful in architecture
save geometric regularity, is not due to chance, but to
a thoroughly Florentine reason. In order to attain
perfect symmetry, it would have been necessary to
build upon the detested ground belonging to the Ghi-
belline rebels, the proscribed house of Uberti. The
Guelph faction, then all powerful, would not allow the
architect, Arnolfo di Lapo, to do so. There are
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scholars who have cast doubts upon this tradition; I
shall not discuss the question here. What is quite
certain is that the Palazzo Vecchio is much improved
by the peculiarity of its position and thus leaves space
for the grand Fountain of Neptune and the equestrian
statue of Cosimo I. |
The Palazzo Vecchio ought really to be called a
fortress. It is a great mass of stone, without pillars,
without facade, without architectural orders, forming a
sort of huge square tower somewhat longer than it is
wide, dentellated with battlements, and topped by a
look-out which projects fairly well out. The stories
are marked by ogival windows which cut like loop-
holes the thick walls of the massive edifice, and in the
centre, like the donjon in the centre of a fortress, rises
a high, crenellated belfry with a dial on the face which
looks upon the square.
Time has gilded the walls with beautiful golden and
russet tones, that contrast superbly with the clear blue
sky, and the whole building has a haughty, romantic,
fierce aspect that fully comes up to the idea which
one has formed of the old Palazzo della Signoria,
that has witnessed, since the thirteenth century, when
it was built, so many intrigues, riots, violent deaths,
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FLORENCE
and crimes. The battlements of the palace, squarely —
built, show that it was carried to that height by the
Guelph faction; the bifurcated battlements of the
belfry indicate a reaction and the accession to power
of the Ghibelline faction. Guelphs and Ghibel-
lines hated each other so intensely that they pro-
claimed their opinion in the fashion of their clothing,
in the manner they cut their hair, in the way they
fortified their homes. They dreaded nothing so much
as to be mistaken one for the other, and made as
marked a difference as they could between themselves.
They had a private greeting, after the manner of the
Free Masons and the Companions of Duty. By the
characteristic crenellations, we may recognise in the old
palaces of Florence the opinions of the former owners.
The walls of the city are crenellated squarely after the
Guelph fashion, and the tower of the ramparts opposite
the Mall has the swallow-tailed Ghibelline crenellations.
Under the arches which support the upper portion of
the palace are painted in fresco the arms of the people
of the Commune and Republic of Florence. After the
expulsion of the Duke of Athens, whose romantic title
makes one think of Shakespeare’s ‘¢ Midsummer Night’s
Dream,” Florence was divided into four quarters and
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sixteen banners, four standards to a quarter, and each
had its arms.
The substructure of the Palazzo Vecchio consists of
steps which formerly were used as a tribune from
which the magistrates and demagogues harangued the
people.
Two marble colossi, ‘Hercules and Cacus,” by
Baccio Bandinelli, and Michael Angelo’s ‘ David,”
stand on guard by the gate like two giant sentries
whose relief has forgottenthem. Bandinelli’s “ Hercu-
les”? and Michael Angelo’s “ David,’’ have been sub-
jected to criticism and admiration which do not appear
to be entirely just. In my opinion, Bandinelli has
been too much depreciated and Michael Angelo over-
praised. ‘Iche “Hercules and Cacus” has a haughty
pride, a fierce energy, a feeling of grandeur, which
mark the artist of the first rank. Never did Florentine
exaggeration carry farther its swelling violence and its
boastful anatomy. ‘The network of muscles which
uplift the monstrous shoulders is of amazing force, and
Michael Angelo himself, when he saw this part moulded
separately, could not refrain from approving of it.
The torso of the Hercules has been greatly criticised
by contemporary artists and sightseers. It is true that
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every detail is wrought out to exaggeration, the deltoid
and pectoral muscles, the mastoidean ligaments, the
modelling and the projection of the ribs, are brought
out in extreme relief. It is an anatomical preparation
carried to the third power; the artist has forgotten to
put a skin over the bumps and projections, or rather,
he would not do it; hence the comparison of the torso
to a sack full of pine-cones. The reproach, which is
not undeserved, might be addressed to many another
Florentine artist, and even to the great Buonarotti.
Michael Angelo’s “ David,” besides the fact that it
represents in gigantic form a Biblical hero whose
stature was notoriously short, seems to me rather heavy
and commonplace, an infrequent defect in a master
so rigorously elegant. David is a great, stout, healthy
fellow, strong-backed, provided with solid pectoral
muscles and monstrous biceps, a powerful porter
waiting to load a sack on his back. ‘The way the
marble is worked is remarkable, and on the whole it is
a good study which would do honour to any other
sculptor than Michael Angelo, but it lacks the Olympic
and formidable maestria which is the characteristic of
the productions of that superhuman sculptor. [am
bound to add that the artist was not fully free. He
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drew his David from a huge block of Carrara marble
which had been cut a hundred years before by Simeone
da Fiesole, who had tried to make of it a colossus, but
had failed. Michael Angelo, then twenty-nine years
of age, took up the work, and as he played with it,
found a giant statue amid the shapeless attempts of
Simeone da Fiesole. Some defects of proportion in
the limbs, ——a lack of marble,— and chisel marks
plainly seen on the shoulders, denote the difficulty
the great sculptor experienced in carrying out this
singular tour de force, which consisted in putting one
statue into the skin of another. Michael Angelo
alone could indulge so strange a fancy.
Two other statues ending in Hermes, the one by
Bandinelli, the other by Rossi, were formerly used as
chain posts. That by Rossi represents a man ending
in an oak trunk, as a symbol of Tuscan magnanimity
and strength; Bandinelli’s, a woman with a crown on
her head and her feet caught in a laurel, the symbol of
the supremacy in arts and courtesy of this happy land.
Above the gate two lions support a cartouche with rays
bearing this inscription : —
«< Jesus Christ, Rex Florentini Populi, S. P. decreto electus,’’
As a matter of fact, Christ was elected King of Flor-
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Pe OREN CE
ence on the motion of Nicolo Capponi in the Council
of One Thousand, with the hope of securing popular
tranquillity, for Christ could not be supplanted or re-
placed by any one. Nevertheless, this ideal presidency
did not prevent the overthrowing of the Republic.
The outer court, into which one enters through this
gate, was restored by Michelozzo. His Renaissance
taste blooms out in the architecture. Elegant columns
supporting arches form a patio such as you find in
Spanish houses. A fountain by the sculptor Taddi,
from the designs of Vasari, built by order of Cosimo I,
is placed in the centre and completes the likeness. “The
basin is of porphyry ; the water springs from the mouth
of a fish choked by a beautiful bronze child, the work
of Andrea Mocchi. Above the arcades are painted in
fresco trophies, spoils, weapons, and prisoners chained
to medallions which bear the arms of Florence and of
the Medici.
One of the most interesting rooms in the Palazzo
Vecchio is the great hall, which is of enormous dimen-
sions and has its legend. When the Medici were
driven away from Florence in 1494, Fra Girolamo
Savonarola, who was at the head of the popular upris-
ing, suggested the building of a vast hall in which the
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TRA WErieS? ONS Agioas
council of one thousand citizens could elect the magis-
trates and settle the affairs of the Republic. The
architect: Cronaca was charged with the work and
carried it out with such marvellous celerity that Fra
Savonarola caused the report to be spread that angels
came from heaven to help the masons, and continued
their work during the night. In this rapidly erected
building Cronaca displayed, if not all his genius, at least
all his skill. T"he plans and methods employed to resist
the strains in the framing of the great ceiling, which is
of enormous weight, are justly admired and have often
been studied by architects.
When the Medici returned and removed their resi-
dence from the palace which they had occupied on the
Via Larga to the Palazzo della Signoria, Cosimo desired
to change the council hall into an audience hall, and
ordered the presumptuous Baccio Bandinelli, whose
designs had captivated him, to make certain alterations.
The sculptor, however, had overestimated his talent as
an architect, and in spite of the assistance of Giuliano
Baccio d’Agnolo, whom he called to his help, he
worked for ten years without managing to get out of
the difficulties which he had himself created. It was
Vasari who raised the ceiling several feet, finished the
310
Copyright, 1901, by George D, Sproul
The Loggia dei Lanzi, the gem of the Piazza della Signoria
bia
bee.
at
work, and adorned the walls with a series of frescoes
still existing, representing scenes in the history of Flor-
ence, battles, and stormings of towns, —all travestied
after the antique manner, and mingled with allegories.
‘These frescoes, painted with intrepid and skilful medi-
ocrity are full of the commonplace exaggerated muscles
and anatomical tricks customary at that time among the
herd of artists. Although it is the history of Florence
which is illustrated, it looks as if the people were
Romans of old laying siege to Veia, or any other
ancient city of Latium, so that the frescoes look like
huge illustrations of “ De Viris [lustribus.”’ ‘This bad
taste is shocking. What have classical helmets, striped
cuirasses, and naked men to do with the war between
Florence and Pisa and Sienna?
I remarked a moment ago that colossal dimensions
are unnecessary to produce striking effects in architec-
ture. The Loggia dei Lanzi, the gem of the Piazza
della Signoria consists of a portico formed of four
arches, three on the facade and one on the side towards
the gallery of the Uffizi. It is a miniature monument,
but the harmony of proportion is so perfect that it gives
a sensation of comfort. The neighbourhood of the
Palazzo Vecchio with its great mass and its robust
311
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T-R A‘ Veeriss 3. EN Aisa
squareness brings out wonderfully the elegant lines of
the arches and the pillars. Its principal charm is that,
symmetrical in itself, it obeys the law of intersequence,
which governs the monuments that surround it and
which it interrupts. ‘T’his diversity gives to the square
a brightness which would have been quickly replaced
by monotony, if the arches had been repeated on each
side. [he capitals of the pillars of the Loggia are in
a Gothic and fantastic Corinthian style, in which the
rules of Vitruvius have not been carried out. This
fact in no wise diminishes their grace and their happy
proportions. An open-worked balustrade crowns the
building, which ends in a terrace of delicate and light
design. Its name, Loggia dei Lanzi, dates from the time
when the German spearmen or lancers had a barracks
not far from there. Its purpose was to shelter the
towns-people from sudden showers, and to enable them
to converse on their business and that of the city. It
was under this gallery, raised a few feet above the level
of the square, that magistrates were invested with their
functions, knights created, decrees of the government
published, and the people harangued as from a tribune.
The Loggia is a sort of open-air museum. The
“‘ Perseus’ by Benvenuto Cellini, the ‘ Judith” by
212
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ere ove oe CTO CFO OTE OTe WTS “TO
FLORENCE
Donatello, “ The Rape of the Sabines” by Giovanni
da Bologna are framed in within its arches. Six
antique statues, the cardinal and monkish virtues, by
Jacopo Pietro, and a Madonna by Orcagna adorn the
inner wall. “I'wo lions, the one antique, the other by
Flaminio Vacca, almost as good as the Greek lions in
the Arsenal at Venice, complete the ornamentation.
The “ Perseus”? may be considered the masterpiece of
Benvenuto Cellini, an. artist who is a great deal spoken
of in France, though really little known. The statue,
mannered in pose like all the works of the Florentine
school, which carried very far the affection of contour
and a desire for nobility in motion, is very seductive in
its juvenile grace. ‘This made-up pose, inferior no
doubt to antique simplicity, nevertheless has a great
charm ; it is elegant and cavalier-like. “The young hero
has just cut off the head of the unfortunate Medusa,
whose body, twisted with skilful boldness, forms, with
its mass of limbs writhing in agony, a footstool for the
conqueror’s foot. Perseus, turning away his face full
of compassion mingled with horror, holds in one hand
his curved sword and with the other raises on high
the petrifying, motionless, dead face with its hair of
writhing serpents. The pedestal, which is another
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masterpiece, is adorned with dassi-relevi containing
the story of Andromeda, small figures and foliage
which exhibit the talent of Benvenuto the goldsmith.
Below these small figures, which represent Jupiter
standing and brandishing a thunderbolt, runs the
threatening inscription :
<<'Te, fili, si quis leserit, ultor ero, —’”’
which applies as much to Perseus as to the artist.
This inscription with its double meaning, appears to be
a warning from the swordsman sculptor to critics, who
had better profit by it. Without being influenced by
this rodomontade, I frankly admire the Perseus for its
heroic grace and the beauty of its delicate form; it is a
charming statue, an exquisite gem; it is worth all the
trouble it has cost its author.
Donatello’s “ Judith” exhibits with rather alarming
and repulsive pride, the head of Holofernes cut off. It
fulfils under the arch of the Loggia the same function as
Foyatier’s “Spartacus”? opposite the Palace of the
Tuileries; only the warning of Spartacus is dumb,
while in order that Judith’s warning should be in no
wise ‘ambiguous, there is engraved on the plinth this
terrible inscription: ‘ Exemplum salut publ. cives pos-
~ uere MCCCXV.” Both the statues are in bronze.
314
Lhbbbeeeebetetbetteteetes
FLORENCE
The “Rape of the Sabines”’ offered Giovanni da
Bologna an admirable pretext for the exhibition of his
knowledge of anatomy, and enabled him to show human
beauty under three expressions; a beautiful young
woman, a vigorous man, and an old man still splendid.
The Fountain of Neptune by Ammanati, which
rises in monumental fashion at the corner of the
Palazzo Vecchio in the empty space left by the razing
of the home of the Uberti, is rich and grandiose in
aspect, although it is inferior to the designs of the other
artists which were rejected in favour of the favourite
architect of the Grand Duke Cosimo I. The god, of
colossal size, stands upon a shell drawn by four horses,
two of white marble and two of veined marble. “Three
Tritons play at his feet, and the water falls in numer-
ous jets into an octagonal basin, the four corners of
which are adorned with bronze statues representing
Thetis and Doris, marine deities, and children playing
with shells, corals, and madrepores. Eight satyrs, also
in bronze, masks and cornucopiz complete this rich
decoration, which exhibits already the pompous and
mythological taste of the fountains in the gardens
of Versailles, a taste which is believed to be French,
but which is really decadent Italian.
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The equestrian statue of Cosimo de’ Medici, the best
of the four which Giovanni da Bologna was lucky
enough to make during his artist’s life, is marked by
great ease and nobility. “The horse has a distinct mo-
tion in his short trot, the man sits well on the saddle
and is not ridiculously historical. The half real, half
historical costume of the Grand Duke has a fine monu-
mental effect. The statue is in bronze, and proved
very difficult to cast. Bassi-relievi representing scenes
in the history of Cosimo are placed on the four faces
of the pedestal. On one of them is seen the portrait
of a dwarf jester whom the Duke was very fond of.
I must also mention, as being on this splendid
square, the palace of the Ugoccini, said to have been
designed by Raphael ; its suave, pure style is indeed that
of the master. Also the Pisani Roof, a historical roof
which the Florentines caused the Pisan prisoners to erect
as a mark of contempt, which covers the Post-Office.
But I have described enough statues and palaces. Let us
take a carriage and go to the Cascine, the Champs-
Elysées of Florence, to see human faces and rest our
eyes after all this marble, stone, and bronze.
The Florentine type differs essentially from the
Lombard and Venetian types. We have no longer
316
FLORENCE
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the regular, pure outlines, the somewhat full oval, the
rich neck, and the happy serenity of form, the perfect
healthfulness of beauty which strike one on the streets
of Milan, where, as Balzac so truly says, ‘ Jani-
tors’ daughters look like queens’ daughters.” One
cannot understand in Florence the proud, pagan
epitaph of some count or another whose tomb
bore for sole inscription, “Fu bello e Milanese; ”
the grace and the bright gaiety of Venice are lacking
here.
Faces in Florence do not possess that antique cast
which yet exists in the rest of Italy after so many cen-
turies, so many successive invasions and so radical a
change in manners and religion. ‘They are plainly
more modern. If it is impossible to mistake on a
Paris boulevard a thoroughbred Neapolitan or Roman, a
Florentine might easily pass unnoticed among Parisians,
The strong Southern character which marks other Ital-
ians will not betray him. There is more caprice,
more unexpectedness in the features of the Floren-
tine men and women; thought and moral preoccupa-
tions leave visible marks on their faces and alter the
modelling in an irregular fashion which improves the
expression. The Florentine women, less beautiful!
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than those of Milan, Venice, or Rome, are more inter-
esting and appeal more to the mind. ‘Their eyes are
melancholy, their brow is at times dreamy, and some
of them have a look of vague suffering, a wholly
recent, Christian feeling which would be sought for in
vain on Greek and Roman statues. Amid the classical
Italian heads, the Florentine heads are bourgeois in the
deepest and best sense of the word; they express not
only the race, but the individual; they are not exactly
human, they are also social.
The Florentine artists, Andrea del Sarto, for in-
stance, lack the serene beauty of ‘Titian, the angelic
placidity of Raphael. They reproduce a type which is
at once humbler and more refined. One feels the
reality through their ideal; they do not put upon their
faces the mask of general regularity which the other
great Italian masters have perhaps used too often.
They venture oftener upon portraiture, and are not
afraid to make use of a certain ugliness in order to
reproduce character. On looking at their works one
understands how some of their heads, unquestionably
less beautiful than the types employed by the painters
of the Venetian or Roman school, produce a deeper
and more lasting impression.
318
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FLORENCE
These generalisations, — which, of course, are sub-
ject to numerous exceptions, for there are regular
Florentine heads, —are the result of observations I
have made in the streets, at the theatres, at church, and
on my walks; for is not the human face as worthy of
attention as architecture? Is not the model as good as
the picture, and the work of God as the work of art?
And if I have looked too attentively at some fair
passer-by, surely she was not more disturbed by it
than would be a column or a statue.
The place in Florence which is most favourable to
this kind of study, too frequently forgotten by artists in
love with antiquity or art, is undoubtedly the Cascine,
a sort of ‘Tuscan Champs-Elysées or Hyde Park where,
from three to five, crowd in buggies, tilburies, phaetons,
coupés, landaus, and victorias all the rich, noble,
elegant, and even pretentious people of the city. The
Cascine (which means “dairy ’’) is situated outside the
walls beyond the Frato Gate and extends along
the right bank of the Arno for about two miles to
the point where the Terzolli flows into the river.
Through great clumps of tall old trees, pines, green
oaks, cork trees, and other southern varieties, with
resinous trees of the North, run sandy roads which end
319
LELLEAEELELELELELLELELES
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TRAVABAINS TINS US AS
in a large open space equivalent to what the Spaniards
would call the Salon of this fashionable drive. The
great masses of verdure, bordered on the one hand by
the gently flowing stream of the Arno, on the other
framed in by the blue Apennines, the distant masses
of which are seen dotted with villas and hamlets, com-
pose in the splendid Southern light an admirable ensem-
ble which it is difficult to forget. “The Cascine has
something more artlessly rural than its companion
drives in Paris and London, and the influx of foreign
elegance does not deprive it of an Italian simplicity
graceful in its nonchalance. A very simple and quiet
country house belonging to the Grand Duke is buried
within this cool verdure, which Southern people appre-
ciate more than we do, no doubt, on account of its
rarity. In Spain I met with similar admiration for the
shades of the Park at Aranjuez watered by the Tagus
and filled with Northern trees.
Some years ago, Florence, especially before political
events had driven away rich tourists, was the drawing-
room of Europe. Thither, from all points of the hori-
zon, came the Englishman flying from his native fogs,
the Russian throwing off the snows of a six-months
winter, the Frenchman bound on the fashionable tour,
320
HEPA E ALE PLEA AAAALAALAALAA LLY
BUG RIAN CE
the German seeking simplicity in art, the singers, the
dancers who had retired from the stage, the doubtful
lives and fortunes, the fallen queens, the sweet couples
united at Gretna Green or simply before the altar of
nature, the women separated from their husbands for
some reason or another, the great ladies who had made
a mistake, the princesses having in their train tenors or
black-bearded youths, the dandies half-ruined at Baden
or Spa, the victims of cards or of Parisian credit, the
old maids dreaming of lively adventures; a whole
curious society mingled with much alloy, but bright,
witty, gay, looking for pleasure only, and spending
money with the greater carelessness that Italian luxury
is relatively economical. This influx of strangers
has somewhat diminished, yet the Cascine still offers,
from three to seven, according to the season, a very
brilliant spectacle.
When I reached it in my carriage, — for it would be
bad form to go on foot, although the distance from the
city is very small,—there was a very full reunion.
The day was fine, the air soft, and the sun sent bril-
liant beams from between the dappled clouds. The
open space of the Cascine was like a vast drawing-
room. The carriages, drawn up in line, represented
21 321
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the arm-chairs and sofas. Ladies in full dress reclined
in these carriages, the back seats of which were filled
with flowers. Their lovers and friends visited them,
just as one goes to call on a lady in her box at the
opera, and chatted standing on the steps. The riders
also took part in the conversation, seated upon spirited
animals which they held in, exciting them to make
them show off, bravely safe performances which always
make a man appear somewhat of a hero in the eyes of
the beloved. Meanwhile the flower girls with their
baskets, which are no sooner emptied than they are
filled again, pass from one carriage to another or stop
_ horsemen and foot-passengers. ‘They literally carry
out Virgil’s advice, —
<«¢ Manibus date lilia plenis.”
They even seem to give them, although in reality they
sell them. ‘They are not paid at once, but from time
to time you give them a small amount of silver or
something else, which is more gracious, for these ower
girls are usually young and pretty, there being a natural
attraction between young and pretty girls and flowers.
322
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Introduction
ERE is a characteristically Romanticist
work, or rather three works, the first of
which is boldly, almost offensively in-
tended as a demonstration of the Ro-
manticist theories of art and manners. Fortunio was
advertised, on its first appearance, as an “ Incredible
Tale.’ Was this meant as a concession to the com-
mon-sense and the artistic feeling of the readers of the
book? By no means. The accurate epithet was in-
tended rather to pique public curiosity, then whetted to
the utmost by the extravagances of the Romanticist
writers. The motive which inspired Gautier in the com-
position of this work, which even now enjoys considera-
ble popularity in France, was the desire to indulge to the
full his fervid imagination, and at the same time to make
another pronouncement in favour of his peculiar views
on art, peculiar in this that they ran counter to the
sober understanding of many able minds of the day and
3
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especially to the notions, imperfect and commonplace,
no doubt, of the mass of the readers of newspapers and
light literature. These views, however, were not pecu-
liar to Gautier in so far as he was a member of the
Romanticist school, and an important one at that.
All the young authors who had rallied round Victor
Hugo, recognised for some years past as the standard-
bearer of Romanticism, shared the opinions of Gautier
on the question of ‘Art for art’s sake,” and the conse-
quent necessity for shocking, as frequently and as
violently as possible, the sense of decency that in spite
of repeated attacks, still survived among the general
public.
The greatest and most celebrated authors of the
school, save Lamartine and Alfred de Vigny, had
adopted the courtesan, of the worst and most con-
temptible type, as the natural heroine of their lucu-
brations. The chief in person, the monumental,
cathedral, pyramidal Hugo, had devoted infinite pains
to the rehabilitation of the abandoned female. His
Marion de Lorme is too well known in this respect
to render more than a passing allusion to it necessary.
Alexandre Dumas had taken the woman in society and
adorned her adultery with all the flashy colours and fine
4
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ere awe oe are wre OTe ore ore Ure
INTRODUCTION
writing at his disposal. Petrus Borel, the lycanthrope,
wrote novels at once unintelligible and vile; the whole
band of hangers-on to the chief imitated the example set
by him, and sang the praises of the fallen woman in the
finest language they could command. It seemed as if
French society were composed exclusively of young
debauchees, old voluptuaries, and women, young and
old, rotten to the marrow. ‘The protests of the more
respectable readers and artists were treated with con-
tumely, hooted down, characterised as British cant and
puritanical hypocrisy, and declared to spring from an
impossibility on the part of the protestants to under-
stand art or anything connected with it.
Gautier, who never swerved from the application of
the doctrine, could not possibly remain behind in the
race, so his Fortunio, and, in a less degree, his Cleopatra
and Candaules, were intended as a declaration of princi-
ples, though he had already stated these principles with
sufficient clearness and vigour in his AZademaoiselle de
Maupin and its startling “ Preface.” Fortunio is in
every respect inferior to that celebrated novel, and
although Gautier declared that the ‘‘ Incredible Tale,”
like the novel, was intended to be and actually was an
exposition of Beauty in the highest and purest form, no
5
ALELAEALELAALALLALALL ELA ELA
FORTUNIO
comparison is possible between the genuine feeling for
beauty, albeit too often enveloped in sensuality, which
is the characteristic trait of MJademoiselle de Maupin,
and the merely sensual and gross, nay, usually coarse
and repellent Fortunio. The absurdities and extrava-
gances which abound in this tale, and which recall the
similar but more talented performances of the senior
Dumas in the same line, lack everything that in the
works of the latter attracts and retains the reader.
The adventures of the hero in Gautier’s absurdity
are merely idiotically impossible. The adventures of
Monte-Christo are improbable, assuredly, but not wholly
wild and devoid of a shade of possibility. Besides,
there is dramatic force and effect in all of Dumas’
work, and there is absolutely none in Fortunio. It is
so painfully plain that the author desires to startle,
shock, and irritate decency and common-sense, that he
ends by failing in his purpose. He actually wearies
one, though it must be owned that this is truer of the
foreign reader and of the more refined French public
than of the mass of devourers of light literature, For-
tunio, as has been stated, being still one of the most
popular of Gautier’s books, and even very modern
critics still expressing admiration for it.
6
BLELALALLALLALALALLALALELS
INTRODUCTION
Most of the performances of Fortunio are childishly
ridiculous, where they are not low and disgusting.
The description of the orgy with which the book
begins, and in which Gautier evidently revels, may
have pleased the Romanticists of his day, but it is
merely sickening now. Neither art nor beauty in any
form redeems this passage from wearisomeness. Nay,
more: it is Gautier’s evident intention to amaze his
reader by a description of the most splendid luxury and
to impress on the contemned Jdourgeois the fact that a
Romanticist is intimately acquainted with all the details
of the most refined wealth and taste. He simply suc-
ceeds in proving that he, like Hugo, his master and
exemplar, is one of the most thorough-paced bourgeois
that ever gaped in amazement and surprise at scenes
that offer, in reality, neither real splendour nor real
artistic interest.
Next to this motive — the stupefying of the average
reader and the insistent proclamation of the doctrine
of “Art for art’s sake,””—the most striking feature
of the work is the additional proof it affords of the
contempt of the Romanticists for woman. ‘They
looked upon her as merely a plaything destined to
satisfy the carnal lusts of their heroes —and possibly
ENS EES aE NESE ESET EE ee
Lheebdeteetetteebebtt teeters
FORTUNIO
themselves — or to play the part of an ornament in a
room or at a feast, exactly like the vases and golden
cups they are so fond of piling on tables and side-boards.
In most of the Romanticist dramas and novels — with
the exception, already noted, of Lamartine and Vigny —
the part played by woman is that assigned to her in the
East: that of ministering to the sensual satisfaction of
man. In the whole range of that form of the litera-
ture of France, there are but few examples of female
characters treated sympathetically and reverently. The
wretched beings upon whom Gautier lavishes all the
skill of an artist, are wholly contemptible, and not even
his assertion, borrowed from Hugo, that the love Musi-
dora feels for Fortunio suffices to wash away all her
sins and to transform her into a pure and honourable
woman, not all his casuistry can reconcile the reader to
the acceptance of that character as that of a woman,
any more than Hugo’s magic verse accomplishes the
same purpose in his Marion de Lorme. ‘The tale is
deliberately meant to be astonishingly immoral and im-
proper, and yet it utterly fails of its purpose. It is
simply absurd. The reader feels that there is beauty
in the words, in occasional suggestions, but as for
admiring the characters or being in the slightest degree
8
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IN VRGOD WU CT ION
influenced to evil by the pranks of the extremely inane.
Fortunio, he knows himself entirely safe from any such
temptation.
The other two tales, One of Cleopatra’s Nights and
King Candaules, are both infinitely superior to For-
tunio. In both, Gautier has sought a sensual subject
in order to apply once more his doctrine of Art,
but in these two cases, and especially in the latter,
genuine feeling for beauty and for the dramatic have
swamped the merely gross side of the subject. The
exotic has helped Gautier; an archeologist might find
reason to differ with him and to criticise some of the
details, but the general effect of the two tales is dis-
tinctly strong and interesting. ‘There is a story —
there is practically none in Fortunio; there is a drama,
and a bloody one, quite in keeping with the manners
of the times described; there are force and power, both
of which are lacking in the other work; there is con-
sistency in the characters of Cleopatra and of Nyssia.
Indeed, in the latter there is a glimpse of a higher ideal
of woman; of a woman to whom chastity and self-
respect mean something, and who is the more attrac-
tive on that account. ‘There is some analysis of senti-
ments and motives; not very deep, no doubt, but more
7
LEEAKALEAEALLALLALAAALA LLL ELLE
FORTUNIO
than one meets with usually in the works of Romanti-
cist writers.
Gautier’s love of plastic beauty, his fondness for
spectacular pomp, his enjoyment of the vast, the
mighty, the huge, the colossal, his passionate love
of colour in its most dazzling as well as in its most
delicate manifestations, combine in these two tales to
enchant and delight the reader. Here is no mere bal-
derdash, no absurd attempt to amaze the profanum vul-
gus, whom he hates so cordially, but an artistic and
dramatic representation of scenes from long vanished
civilisations, from realms of tradition and legend, in
which the imagination may freely indulge in its wildest
flights, and yet is more under control because the desire
to be archeologically accurate and to prove that a
Romanticist can be reliably erudite checks the excesses
in which Gautier has previously revelled.
Fortunio was published serially in /e Figaro, from
May 23 to July 24, 1837. It then bore the title
! Eldorado, and the name was changed only on the
publication in book form in 1838. Another edition
appeared in 1840, and in 1845 it was included in the
Nouvelles, of which it has ever since formed part.
One of Cleopatra’s Nights was written for la Presse,
1 fe)
LLALEALALALASASS LALA ALS
LNT N@sD UC T LON
in which it was published in instalments from Nov-
ember 29 to December 6, 1838. It is not prob-
able that the subject was suggested to Gautier by the
Ruy Blas of Victor Hugo, though the general drift
is similar, and Gautier no doubt had talked Ruy
Blas over with his great chief. In the original draft
of the tale, Gautier introduced a verse from Hugo’s
drama, which he excised later when the story was
included in the Nouvelles. As for King Candaules,
it is later in date, appearing in /a Presse from Octo-
ber 1 to 5 in the year 1844, and being subsequently
included in the same volume as the other two tales
here given. It is enthusiastically lauded by Victor
Hugo in a letter to the author, dated October 4,
1844, and reproduced by the Vicomte de Spoelberch
de Lovenjoul in his admirable Histoire des ceuvres
de Théophile Gautier, to which the editor is indebted
for the bibliographical details of Gautier’s works.
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EORGE was entertaining his friends at
supper. Not all of them, for they num-
bered two or three thousand, but a few
of the lions and tigers of his private
menagerie.
His suppers were so famous for their brilliancy,
elegance, and delicate sensuality, that it was considered
a piece of luck to be invited to them; but it was
difficult to obtain the favour, and few could boast of
having their names habitually inscribed on the list of
fortunate ones. A man had to be a very high liver
indeed, tried by fire and water, before he could be
admitted into the sanctuary.
As for the women, the conditions were still harder,
—the most perfect beauty, the most refined corruption,
and not more than twenty years of age. Hence it will
be readily supposed that there were not many women
at George’s supper, although the second condition is
apparently easy enough to fulfil. There were four
I5
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che che oe ob obs che abe che be che he che afe he che che che che che abe abe he abe abe
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that evening, four superb, thorough-bred creatures, half
angels, half devils, with hearts of steel in breasts of
marble, miniature Cleopatras and Imperias, the most
delightful monsters imaginable.
Although there was every possible reason why the
supper should be exceedingly gay, it was, on the con-
trary, rather dull. Pleasant fellows, excellent cookery,
very old wines, very young women, candles enough to
deaden the noonday light,—all the elements which
usually go to make up human enjoyment were com-
bined in proportions rarely met with, yet a shadow of
dulness had fallen upon every brow; George himself
found it difficult to conceal a feeling of disappointment
and annoyance which his guests seemed to share.
The party had sat down to table on leaving the
Bouffes, that is, at about midnight. A magnificent
clock by Boulle, placed upon a pedestal inlaid with
tortoise-shell, was about to strike one o’clock, and
vet the guests had only just taken their seats. An
empty chair denoted that some one had failed to come,
and so the supper had begun with the unpleasant sen-
sation of disappointed expectation, and dishes which
were no longer at their best; for it is with cookery as
with love, there is a moment that never recurs, and
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which it is extremely difficult to seize upon. The
absentee must unquestionably have been very highly
thought of by the company, for George, who was a
gourmand after the manner of Apicius, would not have
waited fifteen minutes for a couple of princes.
Musidora, the most piquant of the four deities,
uttered a soft sigh like the cooing of a sick dove,
which meant, “I am going to spend a gloomy evening
and to be horribly bored. ‘The party has started
wrong, and these young fellows look like undertakers.”
“¢ Heaven blast me!” said George, breaking between
his fingers a very costly Venetian glass, bell-shaped on
a spiral stem rayed with milky lines. ‘The broken
glass scattered over the cloth, in lieu of dew, a few
drops of old Rhine wine more precious than Orient
pearls ; “it is one o’clock and that confounded Fortunio
is not here! ”
The handsome girl was seated by the empty place
intended for Fortunio, so was completely alone on that
side. [he seat had been reserved for Fortunio as a
place of honour, for Musidora belonged to the highest
ranks of the aristocracy of beauty, and she certainly
lacked only a sceptre to be a queen. Possibly she might
have obtained it in a poetic age, or in those fabulous
2 17
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days when kings married shepherdesses. It is not quite
certain, either, that Musidora would have accepted a
constitutional monarch. She appeared not to be en-
joying herself; she had even yawned once or twice
quite openly. She cared for no one among the guests,
and her self-love not being interested, she remained
cold and gloomy as if she had been alone.
Until Fortunio turns up, let us cast a glance over
the room and the guests. ‘The room itself has a rich
and splendid air. ‘The walls are wainscotted in oak set
off by dull gold arabesques. A richly carved cornice,
supported by children and monsters, runs around the
room. ‘The ceiling is formed of cross beams covered
with ornaments and carvings, and upon the golden
background of the compartments have been painted
female faces in the Gothic taste, but with more free-
dom and grace of manner. Between the windows are
placed sideboards and tables in antique breccia sup-
ported by silver dolphins with gilded eyes and fins,
whose twisted tails form capricious volutes. The side-
boards are laden with silver plate engraved with coats
of arms, and flagons of strange shapes holding curious
liqueurs. Full, thick curtains of orange-red velvet
hang before the stained-glass windows, which are pro-
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vided with triple shutters to prevent any noise from
outside being heard within, or from within being heard
outside. A great mantelpiece of carved wood fills
up the end of the room. ‘Two caryatids with jut-
ting breasts and swelling hips, their long hair falling
in waves, two living figures worthy of Jean Goujon
or Germain Pilon, support on their shoulders a trans-
verse shelf delicately carved and covered with foliage,
the finish of which is admirable. * Above, a bevelled
Venetian mirror, very narrow and placed horizontally,
sparkles within a magnificent frame. A perfect forest
is flaming within the vast chimney, lined with white
marble, with two great bronze dragons, their wings
provided with claws, for andirons. “Three chandeliers
of rock crystal covered with wax tapers hang from the
ceiling like bunches of a miraculous vine. “Twelve
candelabra in gilt bronze, in the form of slaves’ arms,
spring from the wainscotting, each holding in its fist
a bouquet of strange flowers whence white tapers
issue like lighted pistils; to cap this splendour, and
by way of ornaments above the doors, four fabulously
beautiful Titians with all their glow of passion, all
their wealth of warm golden colour, Venuses and mis-
tresses of princes, proudly enthroned in their divine
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LLELEALLAALALLALLLLLL ALS
we of one ots awe wre oy
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nudity in the red shadow of curtains, smiling with
the self-satisfaction of women who are sure of being
eternally beautiful.
Count George prized these paintings highly, and he
would have given away twenty-five dining-rooms such
as the one I have just described rather than one of his
pictures. In poverty, if poverty could have come to
him, he would have pawned his father’s portrait and
his mother’s ring, before consenting to sell his beloved
Titians. It was the one thing which he possessed of
which he was proud.
In the centre of this great room, imagine a large
table covered with a damask tablecloth with Count
George’s coat of arms woven in, with the coronet and
motto of his house. A chased centre-piece, represent-
ing tiger and crocodile hunts with Indians riding on
elephants, plates of Japan or old Sévres china, glasses
of all shapes, silver-gilt knives, and all that is nec-
essary for drinking and eating delicately and long.
Around the table four lost angels, Musidora, Arabella,
Phcebe, and Cynthia, charming girls, trained in fatherly
fashion by the great George himself and surnamed zn-
comparable. Between them six young men, not one of
whom was old, contrary to custom, and whose smooth
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and restful faces expressed the indolent security and the
patrician self-possession of people who are the happy
possessors of two or three hundred thousand a year and
the greatest names in France.
George, as master of the house, is lying back in a
great arm-chair of Cordova leather, the others are on
smaller chairs of the shape now called Mazarin, made
of ebony and upholstered with cherry and white silk
damask of exquisite rarity.
The company is served by little naked negroes with
plum-coloured trunk hose, necklaces of glass beads
and golden armlets and anklets such as are seen in
the paintings of Paolo Veronese. ‘These little negroes
move around the table with monkey-like agility and
help the guests to the costliest wines of France, Hun-
gary, Spain, and Italy, contained, not in ignoble bottles,
but in beautiful Florentine vases of silver-gilt admirably
chased ; yet, in spite of their quickness, they scarcely
manage to serve every one rapidly enough.
Over all this regal elegance and luxury, over the
crystals, bronzes, gilding, a flood of light so brilliant
that the least detail is illumined and flames strangely ;
a torrent of silver light which leaves no place in shadow
save underneath the table, a dazzling atmosphere rayed
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by iris and prismatic beams which might dull less glori-
ous eyes and diamonds than those of the incomparable
Musidora, Arabella, Phoebe, and Cynthia.
On George’s right, next to Fortunio’s empty chair,
is seated Musidora, the beauty with the sea-green eyes.
She is at most eighteen years of age. Never has im-
agination dreamed of a more suave and chaste ideal.
She might be mistaken for a living vignette from
Thomas Moore’s “ Loves of the Angels,”’ so limpid
and diaphanous is she, and she appears rather to illu-
mine than to be illumined herself. Her hair, so fair
that it melts into the transparent tones of her skin,
falls upon her shoulders in lustrous curls. A simple
band of pearls, something between a frontlet and a
tiara, keeps the two golden waves which fall on either
side of her brow from scattering and meeting. Her
hair is so fine and silky that the least breath lifts it and
makes it wave. A dress of a very pale green colour
figured with silver sets off the ideal whiteness of her
bosom and her bare arms, round which twist two
bracelets in the form of emerald serpents with diamond
eyes, painfully realistic. These form her sole orna-
ments. Her pale face, which exhibits inexpressible
youth in its heyday, is of the highest type of English
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beauty. A light down, like the bloom of a fruit, softens
its delicate contours, and the flesh is so delicate that the
light penetrates and illumines it within. ‘That divinely
pale oval face, with the two masses of fair hair, the
eyes moist with vaporous languor, and the child-like
mouth with its moist lustre, has an air of modest mel-
ancholy and plaintive resignation very remarkable on
such an occasion. To look at Musidora, one would
think she was a statue of Modesty placed by chance in
a house of ill-fame.
But with a little care one notes certain less angelic
glances, and at the corner of the tender rosy mouth
shows now and then the tip of the serpent’s tongue ;
yellow gleams irradiate the limpid eyes like golden
veins in antique marble, and impart to the glance a
soft cruelty characteristic of the courtesan and the
kitten. At times the brows are feverishly agitated by
deep, repressed ardour, and the eyes are filled with moist
light as if a tear spread without overflowing.
The lovely girl sits with one arm hanging down, the
other outstretched on the table, her lips half-parted,
her full glass before her, her glance wandering around.
She is borne down by that immeasurable weariness
known to those only who have very early gone to
=a)
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excess in everything, and as far as Musidora is con-
cerned, there is no novelty left save in virtue.
“Come, Musidora,” said George, “you are not
drinking.’”’ And taking the glass which she had not
yet touched, he put it to her lips, and pressing it
against her teeth, he poured the liquor drop by drop
into her mouth. Musidora allowed him to do so with
the utmost indifference.
“Do not torment her, George,” said Phoebe, half
rising ; “¢ when she is in one of her sad fits you cannot
get a word out of her.”’
““ By Jove!” replied George, putting down the glass ;
“Tf she will neither drink nor speak, I shall kiss her,
so that she shall not be wholly unsociable.”
Musidora turned her head away so quickly that
George’s lips merely touched her earring.
“Oh,” said George, “‘ Musidora is becoming mon-
strously virtuous. Soon she will allow no one to kiss
her but her lover, — and yet I had taught her the very
best of principles. Musidora virtuous and Fortunio
absent! that makes a pretty poor supper.”
Since the much wished-for Fortunio has not yet
arrived, and I cannot begin my story without him, I
shall ask the reader’s permission to sketch the portraits
24
tteteetbreeeetcetetettteretee
of Musidora’s companions, much in the way in which
one hands a book of engravings or of sketches to a
person who has to wait. Fortunio, who shall, if you
please, be the hero of this tale, is a young man usually
very punctual, and some important reason must have
delayed him and kept him at home.
Phoebe resembles Apollo’s sister, save as regards
chastity, and that is why she has assumed the name,
which strikes her as both a madrigal and a piece of
irony. She is of tall, willowy stature, and in her port
has something of the warlike pride of the huntress of
antiquity. Her delicate nose, with its rosy, sensual
nostrils runs into her brow almost without a change.
Her long, slender eyebrows, her narrow eyelids, her
round, well-shaped mouth, her slightly curved chin
make her closely resemble a Greek medal. She wears
a costume piquant in its originality: a dress of silver
brocade cut in the shape of a tunic and held on the
shoulders by large cameos, silk stockings of the utmost
fineness flushed with the rosiness of the flesh, and
shoes of white satin, which with their crossed ties
closely imitate cothurns. A crescent of diamonds
fixed in her hair as black as night and a necklace of
stars complete her costume.
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Phoebe is Musidora’s dearest friend, or rather her
dearest foe.
Cynthia, enthroned at one end of the table between
two handsome young fellows, one of whom is her ex-
lover and the other her coming lover, is a regular,
serious Roman beauty. She has nothing of the sprightly
grace and the ever evident coquetry of Parisian women.
She is beautiful, she knows it, and rests tranquil in the
consciousness of her all-powerful charms, like a warrior
who has never been defeated. She breathes slowly and
regularly, much like a sleeping child; her gestures are
simple and quiet, her movements few and rhythmical.
At this moment she is leaning her chin upon the
back of her wondrously shapely white hand, her little
finger capriciously turned up, and the turn of her wrist
and the pose of her arm recalling the fine, mannered
poses admired in the paintings of the old masters.
The black hair with blue reflections, separated in
simple bandeaux, shows the little white ears which
have never been pierced and stand out a little from
the head like those of Greek statues. Warm brown
tones soften the transition between the deep black of
her hair and the rich pallor of her brow. Some light
hairs on the temples diminish the stiffness of her clearly
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arched brows, and golden tones which increase in
intensity as they ascend towards the back of the neck,
gild it harmoniously and show off richly in the supple,
firm flesh the three lovely folds of Venus’ necklace.
Her firm, mat shoulders look like the marble which
Canova washed with water saturated with oxide of iron
to soften its dazzling crudity and to remove the shine
of the polish. Cleomenes’ chisel never produced any-
thing more perfect, and the most exquisite contours
caressed by art are as nothing by the side of this
magnificent reality.
When she wants to look to one side, she does so
without turning her head, by turning her eyes alone,
so that the blue crystal, brightened by a broader glance,
is illumined with unctuous brilliancy indescribable in
its effect. “[hen, when she has seen, she brings her
dark eyes slowly back to their place, without interfering
with the immobility of her marble mask.
In the pride of her beauty, Cynthia rejects all dress
as an unworthy artifice. She has but two gowns, one
of black velvet, the other of white watered silk. She
never wears collars or earrings, not even a finger-ring.
What ring, what collar, could possibly be worth as
much as the spot they would cover. One day she
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replied with Cornelian pride to a woman who had
asked to see her dresses and gems, and who, astonished
at this excessive simplicity, inquired how she dressed on
gala days and ceremonies: “I take off my gown and
take out my comb.”
That evening she was in demi-toilette, wearing her
black velvet dress next to the skin without a chemise
or a corset.
As for Arabella, I scarce know what to say of her,
save that she was a charming woman. Supreme grace-
fulness marked her every motion. Her gestures were
so soft, so harmonious, that they were rhythmic and
musical. She was a Parisian of Parisians. She could
not be called beautiful exactly, and yet there was about
her such an exciting zest, so highly spiced with airs
and graces and manners peculiar to herself, that her.
lovers themselves would have maintained that there
was no woman on earth so perfect in beauty. Her
somewhat capricious nose, eyes not very large but
sparkling with wit, a slightly sensual mouth, pale rosy
cheeks framed in by silky brown hair, composed the
most adorably saucy face imaginable. For the rest,
she had small feet, slender hands, a well shaped figure,
neat, well turned ankles and wrists, — every mark of
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being thorough-bred. I will spare you the description
of her dress. You must be satisfied with knowing that
she was dressed in the fashion of to-morrow.
“Come! there is no doubt that Fortunio is playing
>
us false,” cried the host, swallowing a deep draught of
Constantia wine. ‘I have a great mind, when I next
meet him, to propose that we should cut each others’
throats.”
“TI am of your opinion,” said Arabella, “for it is
not easy to meet my lord Fortunio. Chance is the
only one clever enough to do so. I wanted to meet
him, — not to cut his throat, far from it; but I could
not find him, though I looked for him in every place
where he might be, next in every place where he might
not be. I went to the Bois de Boulogne, to the
Bouffes, to the Opera, yes, even to church! and no
more met Fortunio than if he had never lived. Fortu-
nio is not a man, he is a dream.”
“¢ What was it that you were in such a hurry to ask
of him?” said Musidora, with a lazy glance at
Arabella.
“