The Innocents Abroad

Chapter 23

The Venetian gondola is as free and graceful, in its gliding movement, as

a serpent. It is twenty or thirty feet long, and is narrow and deep,

like a canoe; its sharp bow and stern sweep upward from the water like

the horns of a crescent with the abruptness of the curve slightly

modified.

The bow is ornamented with a steel comb with a battle-ax attachment which

threatens to cut passing boats in two occasionally, but never does. The

gondola is painted black because in the zenith of Venetian magnificence

the gondolas became too gorgeous altogether, and the Senate decreed that

all such display must cease, and a solemn, unembellished black be

substituted. If the truth were known, it would doubtless appear that

rich plebeians grew too prominent in their affectation of patrician show

on the Grand Canal, and required a wholesome snubbing. Reverence for the

hallowed Past and its traditions keeps the dismal fashion in force now

that the compulsion exists no longer. So let it remain. It is the color

of mourning. Venice mourns. The stern of the boat is decked over and

the gondolier stands there. He uses a single oar--a long blade, of

course, for he stands nearly erect. A wooden peg, a foot and a half

high, with two slight crooks or curves in one side of it and one in the

other, projects above the starboard gunwale. Against that peg the

gondolier takes a purchase with his oar, changing it at intervals to the

other side of the peg or dropping it into another of the crooks, as the

steering of the craft may demand--and how in the world he can back and

fill, shoot straight ahead, or flirt suddenly around a corner, and make

the oar stay in those insignificant notches, is a problem to me and a

never diminishing matter of interest. I am afraid I study the

gondolier's marvelous skill more than I do the sculptured palaces we

glide among. He cuts a corner so closely, now and then, or misses

another gondola by such an imperceptible hair-breadth that I feel myself

"scrooching," as the children say, just as one does when a buggy wheel

grazes his elbow. But he makes all his calculations with the nicest

precision, and goes darting in and out among a Broadway confusion of busy

craft with the easy confidence of the educated hackman. He never makes a

mistake.

Sometimes we go flying down the great canals at such a gait that we can

get only the merest glimpses into front doors, and again, in obscure

alleys in the suburbs, we put on a solemnity suited to the silence, the

mildew, the stagnant waters, the clinging weeds, the deserted houses and

the general lifelessness of the place, and move to the spirit of grave

meditation.

The gondolier is a picturesque rascal for all he wears no satin harness,

no plumed bonnet, no silken tights. His attitude is stately; he is lithe

and supple; all his movements are full of grace. When his long canoe,

and his fine figure, towering from its high perch on the stern, are cut

against the evening sky, they make a picture that is very novel and

striking to a foreign eye.

We sit in the cushioned carriage-body of a cabin, with the curtains

drawn, and smoke, or read, or look out upon the passing boats, the

houses, the bridges, the people, and enjoy ourselves much more than we

could in a buggy jolting over our cobble-stone pavements at home. This

is the gentlest, pleasantest locomotion we have ever known.

But it seems queer--ever so queer--to see a boat doing duty as a private

carriage. We see business men come to the front door, step into a

gondola, instead of a street car, and go off down town to the

counting-room.

We see visiting young ladies stand on the stoop, and laugh, and kiss

good-bye, and flirt their fans and say "Come soon--now do--you've been

just as mean as ever you can be--mother's dying to see you--and we've

moved into the new house, O such a love of a place!--so convenient to the

post office and the church, and the Young Men's Christian Association;

and we do have such fishing, and such carrying on, and such

swimming-matches in the back yard--Oh, you must come--no distance at all,

and if you go down through by St. Mark's and the Bridge of Sighs, and cut

through the alley and come up by the church of Santa Maria dei Frari, and

into the Grand Canal, there isn't a bit of current--now do come, Sally

Maria--by-bye!" and then the little humbug trips down the steps, jumps

into the gondola, says, under her breath, "Disagreeable old thing, I hope

she won't!" goes skimming away, round the corner; and the other girl

slams the street door and says, "Well, that infliction's over, any way,

--but I suppose I've got to go and see her--tiresome stuck-up thing!"

Human nature appears to be just the same, all over the world. We see the

diffident young man, mild of moustache, affluent of hair, indigent of

brain, elegant of costume, drive up to her father's mansion, tell his

hackman to bail out and wait, start fearfully up the steps and meet "the

old gentleman" right on the threshold!--hear him ask what street the new

British Bank is in--as if that were what he came for--and then bounce

into his boat and skurry away with his coward heart in his boots!--see

him come sneaking around the corner again, directly, with a crack of the

curtain open toward the old gentleman's disappearing gondola, and out

scampers his Susan with a flock of little Italian endearments fluttering

from her lips, and goes to drive with him in the watery avenues down

toward the Rialto.

We see the ladies go out shopping, in the most natural way, and flit from

street to street and from store to store, just in the good old fashion,

except that they leave the gondola, instead of a private carriage,

waiting at the curbstone a couple of hours for them,--waiting while they

make the nice young clerks pull down tons and tons of silks and velvets

and moire antiques and those things; and then they buy a paper of pins

and go paddling away to confer the rest of their disastrous patronage on

some other firm. And they always have their purchases sent home just in

the good old way. Human nature is very much the same all over the world;

and it is so like my dear native home to see a Venetian lady go into a

store and buy ten cents' worth of blue ribbon and have it sent home in a

scow. Ah, it is these little touches of nature that move one to tears in

these far-off foreign lands.

We see little girls and boys go out in gondolas with their nurses, for an

airing. We see staid families, with prayer-book and beads, enter the

gondola dressed in their Sunday best, and float away to church. And at

midnight we see the theatre break up and discharge its swarm of hilarious

youth and beauty; we hear the cries of the hackman-gondoliers, and behold

the struggling crowd jump aboard, and the black multitude of boats go

skimming down the moonlit avenues; we see them separate here and there,

and disappear up divergent streets; we hear the faint sounds of laughter

and of shouted farewells floating up out of the distance; and then, the

strange pageant being gone, we have lonely stretches of glittering water

--of stately buildings--of blotting shadows--of weird stone faces

creeping into the moonlight--of deserted bridges--of motionless boats at

anchor. And over all broods that mysterious stillness, that stealthy

quiet, that befits so well this old dreaming Venice.

We have been pretty much every where in our gondola. We have bought

beads and photographs in the stores, and wax matches in the Great Square

of St. Mark. The last remark suggests a digression. Every body goes to

this vast square in the evening. The military bands play in the centre

of it and countless couples of ladies and gentlemen promenade up and down

on either side, and platoons of them are constantly drifting away toward

the old Cathedral, and by the venerable column with the Winged Lion of

St. Mark on its top, and out to where the boats lie moored; and other

platoons are as constantly arriving from the gondolas and joining the

great throng. Between the promenaders and the side-walks are seated

hundreds and hundreds of people at small tables, smoking and taking

granita, (a first cousin to ice-cream;) on the side-walks are more

employing themselves in the same way. The shops in the first floor of

the tall rows of buildings that wall in three sides of the square are

brilliantly lighted, the air is filled with music and merry voices, and

altogether the scene is as bright and spirited and full of cheerfulness

as any man could desire. We enjoy it thoroughly. Very many of the young

women are exceedingly pretty and dress with rare good taste. We are

gradually and laboriously learning the ill-manners of staring them

unflinchingly in the face--not because such conduct is agreeable to us,

but because it is the custom of the country and they say the girls like

it. We wish to learn all the curious, outlandish ways of all the

different countries, so that we can "show off" and astonish people when

we get home. We wish to excite the envy of our untraveled friends with

our strange foreign fashions which we can't shake off. All our

passengers are paying strict attention to this thing, with the end in

view which I have mentioned. The gentle reader will never, never know

what a consummate ass he can become, until he goes abroad. I speak now,

of course, in the supposition that the gentle reader has not been abroad,

and therefore is not already a consummate ass. If the case be otherwise,

I beg his pardon and extend to him the cordial hand of fellowship and

call him brother. I shall always delight to meet an ass after my own

heart when I shall have finished my travels.

On this subject let me remark that there are Americans abroad in Italy

who have actually forgotten their mother tongue in three months--forgot

it in France. They can not even write their address in English in a

hotel register. I append these evidences, which I copied verbatim from

the register of a hotel in a certain Italian city:

"John P. Whitcomb, Etats Unis.

"Wm. L. Ainsworth, travailleur (he meant traveler, I suppose,)

Etats Unis.

"George P. Morton et fils, d'Amerique.

"Lloyd B. Williams, et trois amis, ville de Boston, Amerique.

"J. Ellsworth Baker, tout de suite de France, place de

naissance Amerique, destination la Grand Bretagne."

I love this sort of people. A lady passenger of ours tells of a

fellow-citizen of hers who spent eight weeks in Paris and then returned

home and addressed his dearest old bosom friend Herbert as Mr.

"Er-bare!" He apologized, though, and said, "'Pon my soul it is

aggravating, but I cahn't help it--I have got so used to speaking

nothing but French, my dear Erbare--damme there it goes again!--got so

used to French pronunciation that I cahn't get rid of it--it is

positively annoying, I assure you." This entertaining i***t, whose name

was Gordon, allowed himself to be hailed three times in the street

before he paid any attention, and then begged a thousand pardons and

said he had grown so accustomed to hearing himself addressed as "M'sieu

Gor-r-dong," with a roll to the r, that he had forgotten the legitimate

sound of his name! He wore a rose in his button-hole; he gave the French

salutation--two flips of the hand in front of the face; he called Paris

Pairree in ordinary English conversation; he carried envelopes bearing

foreign postmarks protruding from his breast-pocket; he cultivated a

moustache and imperial, and did what else he could to suggest to the

beholder his pet fancy that he resembled Louis Napoleon--and in a spirit

of thankfulness which is entirely unaccountable, considering the slim

foundation there was for it, he praised his Maker that he was as he was,

and went on enjoying his little life just the same as if he really had

been deliberately designed and erected by the great Architect of the

Universe.

Think of our Whitcombs, and our Ainsworths and our Williamses writing

themselves down in dilapidated French in foreign hotel registers! We

laugh at Englishmen, when we are at home, for sticking so sturdily to

their national ways and customs, but we look back upon it from abroad

very forgivingly. It is not pleasant to see an American thrusting his

nationality forward obtrusively in a foreign land, but Oh, it is pitiable

to see him making of himself a thing that is neither male nor female,

neither fish, flesh, nor fowl--a poor, miserable, hermaphrodite

Frenchman!

Among a long list of churches, art galleries, and such things, visited by

us in Venice, I shall mention only one--the church of Santa Maria dei

Frari. It is about five hundred years old, I believe, and stands on

twelve hundred thousand piles. In it lie the body of Canova and the

heart of Titian, under magnificent monuments. Titian died at the age of

almost one hundred years. A plague which swept away fifty thousand lives

was raging at the time, and there is notable evidence of the reverence in

which the great painter was held, in the fact that to him alone the state

permitted a public funeral in all that season of terror and death.

In this church, also, is a monument to the doge Foscari, whose name a

once resident of Venice, Lord Byron, has made permanently famous.

The monument to the doge Giovanni Pesaro, in this church, is a curiosity

in the way of mortuary adornment. It is eighty feet high and is fronted

like some fantastic pagan temple. Against it stand four colossal

Nubians, as black as night, dressed in white marble garments. The black

legs are bare, and through rents in sleeves and breeches, the skin, of

shiny black marble, shows. The artist was as ingenious as his funeral

designs were absurd. There are two bronze skeletons bearing scrolls, and

two great dragons uphold the sarcophagus. On high, amid all this

grotesqueness, sits the departed doge.

In the conventual buildings attached to this church are the state

archives of Venice. We did not see them, but they are said to number

millions of documents. "They are the records of centuries of the most

watchful, observant and suspicious government that ever existed--in which

every thing was written down and nothing spoken out." They fill nearly

three hundred rooms. Among them are manuscripts from the archives of

nearly two thousand families, monasteries and convents. The secret

history of Venice for a thousand years is here--its plots, its hidden

trials, its assassinations, its commissions of hireling spies and masked

bravoes--food, ready to hand, for a world of dark and mysterious

romances.

Yes, I think we have seen all of Venice. We have seen, in these old

churches, a profusion of costly and elaborate sepulchre ornamentation

such as we never dreampt of before. We have stood in the dim religious

light of these hoary sanctuaries, in the midst of long ranks of dusty

monuments and effigies of the great dead of Venice, until we seemed

drifting back, back, back, into the solemn past, and looking upon the

scenes and mingling with the peoples of a remote antiquity. We have been

in a half-waking sort of dream all the time. I do not know how else to

describe the feeling. A part of our being has remained still in the

nineteenth century, while another part of it has seemed in some

unaccountable way walking among the phantoms of the tenth.

We have seen famous pictures until our eyes are weary with looking at

them and refuse to find interest in them any longer. And what wonder,

when there are twelve hundred pictures by Palma the Younger in Venice and

fifteen hundred by Tintoretto? And behold there are Titians and the

works of other artists in proportion. We have seen Titian's celebrated

Cain and Abel, his David and Goliah, his Abraham's Sacrifice. We have

seen Tintoretto's monster picture, which is seventy-four feet long and I

do not know how many feet high, and thought it a very commodious picture.

We have seen pictures of martyrs enough, and saints enough, to regenerate

the world. I ought not to confess it, but still, since one has no

opportunity in America to acquire a critical judgment in art, and since I

could not hope to become educated in it in Europe in a few short weeks, I

may therefore as well acknowledge with such apologies as may be due, that

to me it seemed that when I had seen one of these martyrs I had seen them

all. They all have a marked family resemblance to each other, they dress

alike, in coarse monkish robes and sandals, they are all bald headed,

they all stand in about the same attitude, and without exception they are

gazing heavenward with countenances which the Ainsworths, the Mortons and

the Williamses, et fils, inform me are full of "expression." To me there

is nothing tangible about these imaginary portraits, nothing that I can

grasp and take a living interest in. If great Titian had only been

gifted with prophecy, and had skipped a martyr, and gone over to England

and painted a portrait of Shakspeare, even as a youth, which we could all

have confidence in now, the world down to the latest generations would

have forgiven him the lost martyr in the rescued seer. I think posterity

could have spared one more martyr for the sake of a great historical

picture of Titian's time and painted by his brush--such as Columbus

returning in chains from the discovery of a world, for instance. The old

masters did paint some Venetian historical pictures, and these we did not

tire of looking at, notwithstanding representations of the formal

introduction of defunct doges to the Virgin Mary in regions beyond the

clouds clashed rather harshly with the proprieties, it seemed to us.

But humble as we are, and unpretending, in the matter of art, our

researches among the painted monks and martyrs have not been wholly in

vain. We have striven hard to learn. We have had some success. We have

mastered some things, possibly of trifling import in the eyes of the

learned, but to us they give pleasure, and we take as much pride in our

little acquirements as do others who have learned far more, and we love

to display them full as well. When we see a monk going about with a lion

and looking tranquilly up to heaven, we know that that is St. Mark. When

we see a monk with a book and a pen, looking tranquilly up to heaven,

trying to think of a word, we know that that is St. Matthew. When we see

a monk sitting on a rock, looking tranquilly up to heaven, with a human

skull beside him, and without other baggage, we know that that is St.

Jerome. Because we know that he always went flying light in the matter

of baggage. When we see a party looking tranquilly up to heaven,

unconscious that his body is shot through and through with arrows, we

know that that is St. Sebastian. When we see other monks looking

tranquilly up to heaven, but having no trade-mark, we always ask who

those parties are. We do this because we humbly wish to learn. We have

seen thirteen thousand St. Jeromes, and twenty-two thousand St. Marks,

and sixteen thousand St. Matthews, and sixty thousand St. Sebastians, and

four millions of assorted monks, undesignated, and we feel encouraged to

believe that when we have seen some more of these various pictures, and

had a larger experience, we shall begin to take an absorbing interest in

them like our cultivated countrymen from Amerique.

Now it does give me real pain to speak in this almost unappreciative way

of the old masters and their martyrs, because good friends of mine in the

ship--friends who do thoroughly and conscientiously appreciate them and

are in every way competent to discriminate between good pictures and

inferior ones--have urged me for my own sake not to make public the fact

that I lack this appreciation and this critical discrimination myself. I

believe that what I have written and may still write about pictures will

give them pain, and I am honestly sorry for it. I even promised that I

would hide my uncouth sentiments in my own breast. But alas! I never

could keep a promise. I do not blame myself for this weakness, because

the fault must lie in my physical organization. It is likely that such a

very liberal amount of space was given to the organ which enables me to

make promises, that the organ which should enable me to keep them was

crowded out. But I grieve not. I like no half-way things. I had rather

have one faculty nobly developed than two faculties of mere ordinary

capacity. I certainly meant to keep that promise, but I find I can not

do it. It is impossible to travel through Italy without speaking of

pictures, and can I see them through others' eyes?

If I did not so delight in the grand pictures that are spread before me

every day of my life by that monarch of all the old masters, Nature, I

should come to believe, sometimes, that I had in me no appreciation of

the beautiful, whatsoever.

It seems to me that whenever I glory to think that for once I have

discovered an ancient painting that is beautiful and worthy of all

praise, the pleasure it gives me is an infallible proof that it is not a

beautiful picture and not in any wise worthy of commendation. This very

thing has occurred more times than I can mention, in Venice. In every

single instance the guide has crushed out my swelling enthusiasm with the

remark:

"It is nothing--it is of the Renaissance."

I did not know what in the mischief the Renaissance was, and so always I

had to simply say,

"Ah! so it is--I had not observed it before."

I could not bear to be ignorant before a cultivated n***o, the offspring

of a South Carolina slave. But it occurred too often for even my

self-complacency, did that exasperating "It is nothing--it is of the

Renaissance." I said at last:

"Who is this Renaissance? Where did he come from? Who gave him

permission to cram the Republic with his execrable daubs?"

We learned, then, that Renaissance was not a man; that renaissance was a

term used to signify what was at best but an imperfect rejuvenation of

art. The guide said that after Titian's time and the time of the other

great names we had grown so familiar with, high art declined; then it

partially rose again--an inferior sort of painters sprang up, and these

shabby pictures were the work of their hands. Then I said, in my heat,

that I "wished to goodness high art had declined five hundred years

sooner." The Renaissance pictures suit me very well, though sooth to say

its school were too much given to painting real men and did not indulge

enough in martyrs.

The guide I have spoken of is the only one we have had yet who knew any

thing. He was born in South Carolina, of slave parents. They came to

Venice while he was an infant. He has grown up here. He is well

educated. He reads, writes, and speaks English, Italian, Spanish, and

French, with perfect facility; is a worshipper of art and thoroughly

conversant with it; knows the history of Venice by heart and never tires

of talking of her illustrious career. He dresses better than any of us,

I think, and is daintily polite. n*****s are deemed as good as white

people, in Venice, and so this man feels no desire to go back to his

native land. His judgment is correct.

I have had another shave. I was writing in our front room this afternoon

and trying hard to keep my attention on my work and refrain from looking

out upon the canal. I was resisting the soft influences of the climate

as well as I could, and endeavoring to overcome the desire to be indolent

and happy. The boys sent for a barber. They asked me if I would be

shaved. I reminded them of my tortures in Genoa, Milan, Como; of my

declaration that I would suffer no more on Italian soil. I said "Not any

for me, if you please."

I wrote on. The barber began on the doctor. I heard him say:

"Dan, this is the easiest shave I have had since we left the ship."

He said again, presently:

"Why Dan, a man could go to sleep with this man shaving him."

Dan took the chair. Then he said:

"Why this is Titian. This is one of the old masters."

I wrote on. Directly Dan said:

"Doctor, it is perfect luxury. The ship's barber isn't any thing to

him."

My rough beard wee distressing me beyond measure. The barber was rolling

up his apparatus. The temptation was too strong. I said:

"Hold on, please. Shave me also."

I sat down in the chair and closed my eyes. The barber soaped my face,

and then took his razor and gave me a rake that well nigh threw me into

convulsions. I jumped out of the chair: Dan and the doctor were both

wiping blood off their faces and laughing.

I said it was a mean, disgraceful fraud.

They said that the misery of this shave had gone so far beyond any thing

they had ever experienced before, that they could not bear the idea of

losing such a chance of hearing a cordial opinion from me on the subject.

It was shameful. But there was no help for it. The skinning was begun

and had to be finished. The tears flowed with every rake, and so did the

fervent execrations. The barber grew confused, and brought blood every

time. I think the boys enjoyed it better than any thing they have seen

or heard since they left home.

We have seen the Campanile, and Byron's house and Balbi's the geographer,

and the palaces of all the ancient dukes and doges of Venice, and we have

seen their effeminate descendants airing their nobility in fashionable

French attire in the Grand Square of St. Mark, and eating ices and

drinking cheap wines, instead of wearing gallant coats of mail and

destroying fleets and armies as their great ancestors did in the days of

Venetian glory. We have seen no bravoes with poisoned stilettos, no

masks, no wild carnival; but we have seen the ancient pride of Venice,

the grim Bronze Horses that figure in a thousand legends. Venice may

well cherish them, for they are the only horses she ever had. It is said

there are hundreds of people in this curious city who never have seen a

living horse in their lives. It is entirely true, no doubt.

And so, having satisfied ourselves, we depart to-morrow, and leave the

venerable Queen of the Republics to summon her vanished ships, and

marshal her shadowy armies, and know again in dreams the pride of her old

renown.