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    Chapter 23

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    Chapter 24
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    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 idiot, 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 negro, 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. Negroes 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.
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