An Architect's Vacation

III.

THE VENETIAN DAY.

WHEN we open our blinds in the early morning, a gray fog envelops all Venice. We can just see the gondoliers, at the boat-landing beneath us, burnishing with laborious care the steel prows and the brass sea - horses that deck their craft. But little by little the fog grows transparent, and the two pale domes of St. Mary of Safety, shimmering with the tints of an opal in the early sunlight, define themselves on the pale blue sky. The Venetian day has begun.

If any single building in Venice is conspicuous not only as a beautiful, but as a characteristic and unique landmark, it is this white-domed church. Many neighboring cities possess towers that resemble those of Venice. In fact, there are one or two others here in Venice that are so confusingly like the great Campanile that we cannot reckon its towering mass as peculiar to Venice alone. St. Mark’s Church is too hidden to be a prominent landmark in a general view, and the Ducal Palace is too simple in outline to count by itself as a noticeable feature from a distance. But from every side of approach the coupled domes of Santa Maria della Salute nobly mark the entrance to the Grand Canal. It is not often that such signal success awaits the architect who conceives a general scheme so unusual and so fantastic. Still more rarely does this happen when he is bound by the dogmas and proportions of classic orders. It is true, one does not find here extreme purity of detail, yet whether seen on the canal side, where, reached by a beautiful flight of steps, the church rises above a deserted little piazza, or from the side of the Giudecca, where its domes and twin towers soar above a green grove of trees, it forms a wonderful and successful composition ; and its general mass is perhaps the most beautiful that any Renaissance church can offer.

Besides, as is fitting in Venice, its white walls rise visibly from the sea, and its pearly domes are reflected upon a mile or two of green waters. Venice would doubtless be beautiful if it did not thus front upon and mirror itself in these broad expanses of shining sea ; but what an added charm this gives to it! We go to Venice, perhaps, thinking to study architecture, and the sparkling lagoon with its craft and sea life quite entices us away from buildings. With a fresh breeze we leave the Riva, and gradually the city grows distant, and, hanging between sea and sky, fades away into such opalescent and translucent hues as its glass - workers have caught and imprisoned in their handiwork of beaker and vase. The green waters are flecked with whitecaps. Fishing burchios, with dragnets spread and sails half raised, drift broadside with the wind. Up through the winding channel, that is marked by long lines of piles, come huge trabaccoli with bellying sails banded and starred with red and yellow. Very handily do these great boats tack and sail to windward. Both they and the bragozzi of Chioggia are boxlike, flat-bottomed structures, with no centre or weather boards ; and the secret of their power lies in the great rudder which goes far below the boat’s bottom, and forms a most effective centre-board that can be raised in shallow waters. Their rounded bows end in extraordinary curves, and on each side of the bow is carved and painted an immense eye. “ What are they for ? “ we ask of the gondolier. “ Yon would not look right, signori,” says he, “ without eyes, and my gondola would look queer without its steel prow ; ” and in like manner, and because it always has thus been adorned, the trabaceolo must have its useless eyes, and has had them since Greeks rowed from Athens to Syracuse, or Romans cruised off the Carthaginian shore.

A wealth of color, orange, or red, or brown, or pale blue, is given to the views of the lagoon by the sails of all these craft. We see them in every variety, as the fishing-boats cruise outside of Chioggia and along the coast by Rimini and Ancona. When the fishermen come to Venice very early on Sunday morning to mass, and to market, their boats, draped with loosehanging sails and drying nets, are moored in picturesque masses along the Riva and against the wooded banks of the Public Gardens. They look like a row of brilliant butterflies sunning their outspread wings. One sail bears on its glowing surface a huge Madonna, another a flying horse, and still others crosses, circles, and bands, all broadly sponged by rude hands upon the canvas. The forecastle, also, is adorned with sacred paintings and carvings, and an angel is painted on either side of the stern. A handsome crew, looking and talking like pirates and cutthroats, are thus surrounded by holy pictures and images. Each sailor wears an amulet around his neck, and at the masthead swings a tangled flag-vane decked with pious emblems and surmounted by the cross.

When we leave the broad and silvery stretches of the lagoon, how green and silent are the hshallow, smooth waters as the gondola glides by the white dome and turrets of the church at the Campo Santo, or through the dull canals of Murano, amid heavy-laden barges and by deserted houses ! By such ways we come to where the lonely tower of Torcello keeps watch over wide expanses of flat and marsh. Remembering that we are architects, we hastily look at the Byzantine capitals and ambones in the chill death-stricken church, and come back, shuddering at the damp and the cold, to find the azure sky, the fresh greensward, the distant snow-clad Alps, and the farstretching luminous waters of the lagoon more beautiful and enchanting than ever.

A huge chimney on the outside of one house on the canal attracts us. We land, and a whole family welcomes us to a table where steaming polenta is served for the midday meal. This huge chimney, like many another at Burano and Chioggia, serves a fireplace large enough to have windows in it and a seat all around the hearth. One can walk all about in these fireplaces, and they make one think of winter evenings and northern climes. But after all, an architect hardly comes to Venice to study such cosy nooks, and it would seem as if even the enticing green lagoon should not call him away from such a city of palaces. In fact, sooner or later, the palaces do assert their right to admiration. One is then most forcibly struck with their essentially modern character. Whether Gothic or Renaissance, the palace façades are free and open, with rows of windows and airy galleries, — truly modern fronts. It was an original and clever notion of the Gothic palace builders to frame in their great masses of windows with broad bands enriched with dog-tooth or carving. Colored materials also lend to the Gothic palaces their charms, and serpentine and porphyry toned by the hand of time enliven these gracious buildings with their soft hues. Cusp and arch and balcony and trefoil and cornice assume elegant curves. There is no rudeness or coarse picturesqueness, such as often characterizes northern Gothic work. A front like that of Desdemona’s house would not look rough or uncouth, nor out of keeping with modern life, in any modern city. It is the northern Gothic detail become polished and refined and modern. No wonder that when the English Gothic revival was at its height, thirty years ago, its disciples drew inspiration from Venice. Without such help, they found it a difficult problem to turn an English or French mediæval façade, with great wall surfaces and a few pointed windows, into a modern front, where the essential thing is to permit floods of light to penetrate a deep building.

As we float down the Grand Canal, we pass one by one the great Renaissance palaces, and we are again struck, as in the case of the Gothic palaces, not only with their grandeur, but with their modern character. In designing great buildings to-day, much help may be gained by studying these rich, well-lighted, stately fronts. But to any one who has been studying Renaissance detail at Urbino or Rome, or among the tombs of Florence, or who cares for the work of Donatello and Mino da Fiesole, the carving on this Renaissance work in Venice, beautiful though it be, is yet a disappointment. We can say this, even remembering the dainty work that covers the church of the Miracoli. It may be the material in which it is wrought, or it may be the touch of the workman, but, despite its amount and richness, there is something hard and mechanical about the Venetian Renaissance carving, and it falls far short of the Florentine and Roman standard. Perhaps, as the architecture of Venice is so largely one of incrustation and of applied and inlaid marbles, we unconsciously miss the serious solid stonework of Florence and Rome, or the rugged qualities of the terra cotta of more northern cities. To be sure, the great later palaces are built of solid stone, but in them we should be glad to find even the carving we criticise in the earlier palaces. We may agree to except Sansovino’s stately library, but in the others the carvings and the details seem clumsy and out of scale. We long to see these superb masses carried out with mouldings and carving such as adorn the Cancelleria or Farnese, or the other Renaissance palaces in Rome, or the Pandolfini and Rucellai palaces in Florence, and with details such as Bramante and Alberti and Peruzzi would have permitted in their work. But after wondering, as we float along the Grand Canal, how the architects of these imposing piles were satisfied with such clumsy detail, we enter the grand apartments in the Doges’ Palace. Here Scamozzi and Palladio and Sansovino worked hand in hand with Tintoretto, Veronese, Titian, and Bonifazio, to record the victories and the glory of their country. All over the walls are paintings of the naval combats of Venice. Galleys with many banks of oars charge upon Saracens and Genoese, and amid the golden frames and azure skies of the ceilings Venice sits enthroned, and the heroes and heroines both of Parnassus and of the Old Testament lend their vigorous sensuous presence to give color and life to the surrounding decorations. Nowhere have painter, carver, and architect worked in better accord, and nowhere with more brilliant results. What a stately series of chambers ! What combinations of dark paneling and gorgeous gold frames and decorative coloring ! They are the most splendid and sumptuous rooms in Europe, — so wonderful, so handsome, so sumptuous, that they make a distinct architectural impression on every one.

Venice stands alone among cities in the number of such impressions offered to her visitors. The world does not contain many buildings the first sight of which sends a thrill tlirough the frame, and which become indelibly impressed on the memory. One does not forget the nave of Amiens cathedral, as the host is raised and solemn stillness broods over the crowds of ardent worshipers ; or St. Paul’s dome in London, raising its great cross above bridge and river and city into the murky sky ; or St. Ouen’s crown of Normandy, shooting its tangled traceries high above roof and pinnacle out of the green treetops in the little wooded park at Rouen ; or the stately grandeur of the Farnese palace ; or the awe-inspiring size of the mighty Coliseum. Such effective scenes are to be met with here and there in Europe, but they are more abundant in Venice than elsewhere. For here the church of St. Mark, within and without, is unique, and beyond comparison with any other Christian church ; the Salute and San Giorgio, the Ducal Palace and the Piazzetta, are certainly objects of the most wondrous grace; and possibly, to the architect, the interior of the Ducal Palace yields to none of them for the impression it leaves of grandeur, stateliness, and a familiar because modern type of beauty.

They let one wander at will around the lofts and galleries of San Marco. All through those “ dim caves of beaten gold” one can keep close company with the gaunt long-robed prophets, the whitewinged angels, the martyrs, and the patriarchs set in that golden firmament. Below us we see the worshipers kneeling in crowds on that wonderful storm-tossed pavement, and our eyes try to pierce the gloom where, under the sumptuous baldacchino, rest in splendor the much-traveled remains of St. Mark.

We emerge upon the outer galleries amid the forest of marble vegetation and the myriad statues of angels, prophets, and saints. We touch the Greek horses that were modeled perhaps in the days of Pericles, and then we look down with a momentary surprise on the sunlit Piazza, bright with the world of to-day, the smart Italian officers, the eager tourists, and the happy children from beyond sea feeding the doves of St. Mark.

To-day there is festa in San Marco, and an unusual vesper service at the high altar; so we descend, and from a dark corner watch the solemn evening pageant. In the deep shadows of the sanctuary blaze countless lights. The aged dignitaries, in rich and sparkling vestments, move here and there, and kneel and read, while younger men serve the incense and reverently bear the great books ; and all the while the white-robed choir of men in the gallery above sing the vesper music. As the loud organ begins to grow a little wearisome there is a sudden hush. Then on the stillness, from far aloft above the sanctuary’s gloom, is heard the sweet treble of a boys’ choir, and the harmony of their evening choral floats through the golden vaults. Three verses of what sounds like an old German hymn they sing ; simple, harmonious, innocent, solemn. Sweet choral from innocent throats ! Noble temple ! Worthy house of prayer ! rich as no other with gold, and color, and ritual, and rising clouds of incense !

The organ notes cease. The day dies. We grope our way through the darkly glittering church, and come out upon the Piazzetta, to find it also flooded with a golden haze. The white churches and palaces set against the golden sky are repeated in the golden waters, and the last rays of the setting sun permeate and glorify this new golden miracle.

Later, when the darkness of evening falls over the city, we turn the corner of Sansovino’s library and wander across the Piazzetta. The black vault of the sky is studded with sparkling stars, and above San Giorgio the full moon rides high, showering with its light the surrounding waters, and defining in dark masses the island church. Upwards shoots the slender tower above that long line of dome and nave, while the buildings of the port and the convent bring down the composition to the water-line. Yes, perhaps the interior of San Giorgio, though correct and refined, is cold and repelling. Perhaps the façade does lend itself to Mr. Ruskin’s criticisms so that he can bring himself to say that 舠 it is impossible to conceive a design more gross, more barbarous, more childish in conception, more severe in plagiarism, more insipid in result, more contemptible under every point of rational regard.” And yet the less critical observer must avow that, whether you call it stage effect or architecture, a great thing was done when the architect turned that wonderful site to such advantage, and gave to the world such a beautiful object as that graceful church. Certainly this mass of rose and amber, poised between the sky and the wide waters of the lagoon, is one of the few groups of building in this wide world which most appeals to the traveler, and which no visitor to Venice can ever forget.

The night advances. Tattoo is sounded ; across the moonlit waters we hear the bugles respond to the band, as the patrol marches merrily down the Riva degli Schiavoni. We look over to San Giorgio from beneath the awnings of our balcony. The black reflection of its tower comes in a long line to our feet across the silvery ripples. Gondolas flit here and there, and cross the dazzling track of the moonlight. Tinkling guitars sound from the barges. A tenor on the steps of the Salute sings, and from far up the canal the guitars and chorus send an answering refrain. Our day in Venice closes! "Venezia benedetta non te vogio piu lasar.” So sings the chorus as it floats away into the night; and then all is silence, save for the sound of lapping waves and the distant warning cry of a belated gondolier.

Robert Swain Peabody.