From the Oak to the Olive: A Plain record of a Pleasant Journey

by Julia Ward Howe

I am almost ashamed to speak of these pictures at all, since I speak of them so inadequately. Yet, gentle reader, all is not criticism that criticises, all is not enthusiasm that admires. Copious treatises are written on these subjects by people who know as little of them as is possible for a person of average education. Americans have especially to learn that a general tolerable intelligence does not give a man special knowledge in matters of art. Among the herd of trans-Atlantic travellers who yearly throng these galleries, they know most who pretend least to know.

A brief interval of rest and dinner enabled us to visit the Armenian Convent at San Lazzaro. For this excursion two rowers were requisite. Starting at five P. M., we reached the convent in half an hour. It stands upon an island which its walls and enclosures fill. The porter opens to us. We have a letter of introduction from Ex-Consul Howills to Padre Giacomo, and bring also a presentation copy of the late consul's work on Venice. The padre receives us with courteous gravity. We make acquaintance with his monkey before we make acquaintance with him. The monkey leaps on the neophyte's hat, tears off a waxen berry, and eats it. His master thoughtfully leads us through the dreamy rooms and passages of the convent. Here is the room that Byron occupied; here is his name, written in Armenian in his own hand. Here also is Prince Plonplon's name, written by him in the book of illustrious visitors. After showing it, the padre offers another book, for commonplace visitors, in which he invites me to enter my name: I humbly comply. We visit the chapel, which is handsome, and the pleasant garden. The printing establishment interests us most. These Armenian fathers are great polyglots, and print books in a variety of languages. Padre Giacomo, who speaks good English, shows us an Armenian translation of Napoleon's Life of Julius Cæsar, which we are surprised and rather sorry to see. We afterwards hear it suggested that the expense of this work has probably been borne by the French emperor himself, with a view to the Eastern question. Among the antiquities of the convent we find a fine Armenian manuscript of the fourth century; among its modern curiosities, a book of prayers in thirty languages. In the refectory is a pulpit, from which one monk reads aloud, while the others dine. Connected with this convent is a college for the education of Armenian youths, either for the priesthood or for active life. Another institution, in Venice proper, receives from this those scholars who decide upon an ecclesiastical profession. Padre Giacomo had already bought Consul Howill's book for the convent library. He led us, lastly, into a small room, in which are kept the publications of the convent, to be sold for its benefit. Here we made a few purchases, and took leave, trusting to see Padre Giacomo again.

One of my earliest acts in Venice, after the first preliminaries of living, was to get from a circulating library the first volume of Mr. Ruskin's Stones of Venice. I have never been a reader of Mr. Ruskin, and my position towards him is that of an outside unbeliever. I shun his partisans and disbelieve his theories. The title of this book, however, seemed to promise a key to the architectural mysteries of the mirror city, and I, taking him at his word, reached out eagerly after the same. But Mr. Ruskin's key opens a great many preliminary doors before admitting you to the point desired, and my one busy week was far too short to follow the intricacies of his persuasions. I could easily see that the book, right or wrong, would add to the pleasure and interest of investigating the city. Mr. Ruskin is an author who gives to his readers a great deal of thought and of study. His very positive mode of statement has this advantage; it sums up one side of the matter so exhaustively as to make comparatively easy the construction of the opposite argument, and the final decision between the two. Yet, while the writer's zeal and genius lead us to follow his reasonings with interest, and often with pleasure, his judgment scarcely possesses that weight and impartiality which would lead us to acquiesce in his decisions. Those who fully yield to his individual charm adopt and follow his opinions to all extremes. This already shows his power. But they scarcely become as wise as do those who resist, and having fully heard him, continue to observe and to think for themselves. And as, in Coleridge's well-known lines, anxiety is expressed as to the human agency that can cleanse the River Rhine when that river has cleansed the city of Cologne, we must confess that our expectations always desire the man who shall criticise Mr. Ruskin, when he has criticised to his full extent. For there is one person whom he cannot criticise, and that is himself. To do this would involve a deliberation of thought, an exactness of style, to which even Mr. Ruskin cannot pretend.

With his help, however, I did observe the two granite columns in the Piazzetta, to whose shafts he gives fifteen feet of circumference, and to their octagonal bases fifty-six, a discrepancy exceeding the difference which the eye would measure. But he certainly ought to know. And I found also the columns brought from St. Jean d'Acre, which are, as he does not mention, square, and of a dark marble, with Oriental capitals and adornments. And I sought out, in the church of SS. Giov. e Paolo, two dogal monuments, of which he praises one and criticises the other with stress. The one praised is that of Doge Mocenigo; the other, that of Doge Vendramin. I did not find in either a significance to warrant the extensive notice he gives them. Having learned, with great satisfaction, that the artist of the monument which "dislikes" him was afterwards exiled from Venice for forgery, he proceeds to speak of "this forger's work," allowing no benefit of doubt. And this was my account with Mr. Ruskin, so far as the Stones of Venice are concerned; for time so shortened, and objects so multiplied, that I was constrained thereafter to dispense with his complicated instruments of vision, and to look at things simply with my own eyes.

We made various visits to the Cathedral of San Marco, whose mosaic saints, on gold backgrounds, greet you in the portico with delight. The church is very rich in objects of art and in antiquities. It has columns from Palestine, dogal monuments, tessellated pavements, in endless variety. But the mosaics in the sacristy were for me its richest treasure. They comprise the conscientious labors mentioned by George Sand, in her Maîtres Mosaistes. The easy arch of the ceiling allows one to admire them without the painful straining usually entailed by the study of fresco or other ceiling adornment. In a small chapel we were shown a large baptismal font brought from Palestine, and the very stone on which John Baptist's head was cut off!

We went in, one Sunday, hoping to see the famous palle d'oro, an altar-covering in massive gold, exhibited only on rare Festas, of which this day was one. But while we wedged ourselves in among the crowd, one of our party descried a boy with the pustules of small pox still fresh upon his face. We fled in precipitation, marvelling at the sanitary negligence which allows such exposures to take place at the public risk.

We visited the Church of the Scalzi (Barefooted Friars), and found it very rich in African and other marbles. It boasts some splendid columns of nero antico. One of the side chapels has four doors executed in Oriental alabaster, together with simulated hangings in rosso antico, the fringe being carved in giallo. Another was adorned with oval slabs of jasper, very beautiful in color and in polish. The ceiling, painted in fresco by Tiepolo, was full of light and airy grace.

From this, we went to the Church of the Gesuiti, in high repute for the richness of its adornments. We found it a basilica, its sides divided by square piers, and the whole interior, piers and walls, covered with a damasked pattern wrought in verd antique upon a ground of white marble. The capitals of the piers were heavily gilded. The baldecchino of the high altar was dome-shaped, and covered on the outside with a scolloped pattern in verd antique, each scollop having a slender bordering of white marble. The baldecchino is supported by four twisted columns formed of small rounded pieces of verd antique closely joined together. The pulpit has a heavy marble drapery, with simulated fringe, all in the pattern already mentioned. The whole is more luxurious than beautiful. Its art bears no proportion to its expense. To those who think of the Jesuits in general as I do, it will hardly stand as a monument of saintly service and simplicity. Near the high altar rest the ashes of the last Doge of Venice. The spot is designated by a simple slab, forming part of the pavement. On it is written, "Æternitate suœ Manini cineres."

We visited two very good collections of antiquities, in one of which we found the door of the Bucentaur, and its banner of crimson silk, with gilded designs. Here were portraits of doges, curious arms, majolicas, and old Venetian glass, much finer than that of the present day. Here also are collected many relics of Canova, the most interesting of which are the small designs for his great works. Over the door of this museum stands a pathetic inscription to the effect that Michel Correr, "vedendo cadere la patria" had collected here many things of patriotic and historical interest.

But these prosaic recounts are only the record of actual steps. The charm, the delight of Venice they do not and cannot express. My recollections of the city invest her with a solemn and stately personality. I did not see her bowed beneath the Austrian yoke, betrayed, but not sold, refusing to be cajoled and comforted. That cloud was removed. The shops were busy and prosperous, the streets thronged with people, the canals gay with gondolas, bearing also barges and large and small boats of very various patterns. The Piazza was filled at night with social groups of people, less childish, methought, than other Italians, and with a more visible purpose in them. Still, the contrast of the past and present, no longer shameful and agonizing, was full of melancholy. Venice can never be what she has been. The present world has no room for a repetition of her former career. But she can be a prosperous and happy Christian commonwealth, with her offices and dignities vested in her own sons, with education and political rights secured to all her children. And this is better, in the present day, than to be the tyrant of one half of the world, the fear and admiration of the other. For Peace, now, with open hands, bestows the blessings which War formerly compelled with iron grasp and frowning brow. The true compulsion now is to compel the world to have need of you, by the excellence of your service. Industry has a deeper mine of wealth than piracy or plunder can ever open. A man's success is in strict proportion to his use; and the servant of all is the master of all. So the new Venice for which I look is to be no more like the old Venice than the new Jerusalem will be like the city of David. Moral grandeur must make her great. Justice must make her people happy. And so beautiful and delightful is she, that I cannot help echoing the Psalmist's exclamation, "Pray for the peace of Jerusalem! They shall prosper who love thee!"