“It was perhaps the sea-fogs that spoiled their throats. Or the exposure in all weathers, signore. The signora would observe that a gondolier’s life was one of hardship, summer and winter. He had no breath to spare for singing. Misericordia, not a great deal! Nor heart for it when the sposa and bambini must have their mouths filled with food. And polenta dearer every season!”
We were Antonio’s friends before we landed at the Hôtel Luna, and had engaged him for a moonlight excursion upon the Grand Lagune that very night. We hired him for the day, next morning, and upon several other successive forenoons.
For Venice did not bore us. The Piazza S. Marco was just around the corner from our quiet but excellent hotel—a matter of a hundred steps, perhaps, on dry land—and the Basilica of S. Marco—the attraction of Venice to us. Prancing over the great entrance are the four bronze horses, stolen from the triumphal arch of Nero by Trajan to adorn his; from Trajan by Constantine for the new city of his founding and name; from Constantine by Doge Dandolo for the Venetian Cathedral; from Venice by Napoleon I. for the arch in the Place Carrousel, finally, restored by the Emperor Francis to St. Mark’s. They are sturdy roadsters, with good “staying” qualities, if one may judge from their build and history, in no wise jaded by their travels and changes of climate, and look fresh, but not impatient for another start.
The pigeons feed in the Piazza at two o’clock every day. It is “the thing” for strangers and native-born strollers to congregate here at that hour to witness the spectacle. About ten minutes before the bell strikes, the birds begin to assemble, crowding the roofs, eaves and window-sills of the surrounding buildings, preening and billing and cooing, with the freedom of privileged guests. At the stroke of the bell they rise, as one bird, into the air for a downward swoop upon the scattered grain. The pavement is covered in an instant with a shifting mass of purple and gray plumage, and the noise of fluttering and murmuring, of pecking bills and clicking feet fills the square. A bevy of their remote ancestors brought, six hundred years ago, dispatches of such importance from the besieged island of Candia to Admiral Dandolo’s fleet, that he sent the carrier-pigeons to Venice with the tidings of his success in taking the island, and the aid they had rendered him. They were put upon the retired list and fed at the public expense—they, their heirs and assigns forever.
The best photographs—and the cheapest—in Italy are to be bought upon the Piazza San Marco. Florian’s celebrated café, is there, and countless shops for the sale of Venetian glass and beads—bijouterie of all sorts, and for the general robbery of travelers—the rule being to ask twice the value of each article when the customer is a foreigner, and to “come down” should the victim object to the proposed fleecing.
The mosaic floor of San Marco billows like the Mer de Glace, having settled in many places. The decorations of façade and interior are oriental in character and color. St. Mark, after much post mortem travel, rests under the high altar. The altar-piece is of enameled silver and gold plate, fretted with jewels. A canopy of verde antique overshadows the holy sepulchre. A second altar is behind the chief shrine. The canopy of this rests upon four columns, curiously twisted. The two forward ones are of alabaster, and semi-translucent.
“Brought hither from Solomon’s Temple after the destruction of Jerusalem,” affirmed our cicerone.
“By whom?”
The inevitable shrug and grimace, embodying civil surprise at the query, and personal irresponsibility for the tradition.
“Ah! the signora can answer that as well as I who have never thought of it until now. Doubtless”—flashing up brilliantly—“San Marco, himself! Who more likely?”