He stands in the foreground of my mind-picture of the Rialto,—hung about from neck to waist-band with rude wooden cages of chirping linnets, canaries and the less expensive goldfinch, the petted “cardellino” of the lower classes. Their fondness for the lively little creature and his comparative worthlessness in the esteem of bird-fanciers gives meaning to Raphael’s lovely “Madonna del Cardellino,” and interprets the tenderness in the eyes of the Divine Child as He arches His hand over the nestling offered him by John.
S. Giovanni e Paolo ranks second to S. Marco in size, impressiveness of architecture and historical interest. It is the burial-place of the Doges. The last of their number, Manini, sleeps in the more modern church of the Gesuiti (the Jesuits). “Æternitati suo Manini cineres” is his only epitaph. His predecessors repose pompously in the old church, begun in the 13th century and completed in the 15th. It feels and smells like an ocean cave. So strong is the briny dampness of flavor that one would hardly wonder to find sea-weed washed up in the chapel-corners. Pietro Mocenigo,—as great in war as Tomaso Mocenigo was in statecraft and finance, has a liberal share of the right aisle. Fifteen statues surround the mausoleum constructed “from the spoils of his enemies.” In the grave he could not relax his hold upon their throats.
“The only horses in Venice!” said a friend to me, once, in showing a photograph of St. Mark’s “team.”
He had been twice to Venice, but he must have skipped SS. Giovanni e Paolo. Whether or not the Doges were, in life, adepts in noble horsemanship, they are addicted to equestrian statues after death. Very high amid the prevailing dampness, stand and paw their marble coursers on the lids of sarcophagi, as stamping to arouse their slumbering masters, and upon wall-shelves and niches. The Chapel of the Rosary, founded in 1571, as a thank-offering of the Republic for the victory of Lepanto, is now a smoke-blackened shell,—the valuable contents, including the original of Titian’s “Death of St. Petrus, Martyr,” having been destroyed by fire in 1868.
The pictured wealth of Venice had not been conceived of by us prior to this visit. Fresh from Florentine galleries as we were, our day in the Accademia delle Belle Arti was a banquet enjoyed the more because it was unexpected. Our surprise was the result of a want of reflection, since we knew that Giorgione, Titian, Tintoretto and Paul Veronese were Venetians. Still, as men and prophets go, that was hardly a reason why we should behold their master-pieces in honored places in their native, or adopted city. Titian’s “Presentation of Mary in the Temple,” and “John the Baptist in the Wilderness,” Bonifazio’s “Banquet of Dives,” “Jesus in the House of Levi” by Paul Veronese—(how well we all know artists and subjects through the “blessed sun-pictures,” and engravings!) are in the Academy of Fine Arts, a suppressed monastery of modest dimensions and appearance, devoted now to better uses than of yore.
The Bridge of Sighs is another covered bridge, but with a level floor and grated, instead of shuttered windows. A row of gargoyles grin upon the lower arch. An allegorical figure which, we guessed, was St. Mark, occupies the centre of the frieze,—a lion on each hand. The Bridge looks like a place accursed. We did not quite like to pass under it. It spans a narrow canal, shut in from the sunshine by the Palace of the Doges on one side, a dingy, darksome prison on the other. The water is inky-black in their shadow. A chill wind draws through the passage on the hottest day. The last glimpse of the world framed by the barred windows, could not have heightened the hardship of leaving it. The prisons are empty dungeons, the walls exuding cold sweats; badly-lighted and worse-ventilated. There is nothing in them to recompense one for the discomfort and depression of a visit.
We entered the Palace of the Doges by the Giant’s Staircase:—
“The gory head rolled down the Giant’s stairs.”
Of course we quoted the line; knowing the while, that Marino Falieri’s head nor foot ever touched the stately flight. He was beheaded, at eighty years of age, at the top of another staircase the site of which is occupied by this. We saw the place where his name should be in the Great Hall of the Doges. The walls are covered with miles of historical canvas. Tintoretto’s gigantic picture,—said to be the largest oil-painting in the world—of “Paradise” fills one end of the chamber. On the other sides are scenes from the history of the Crusades,—notably of the Venetians’ participation in the Holy Wars. The portraits of the Doges are upon the frieze close to the ceiling. We gave none a second glance. The whole procession of ermine and purple mantles and peaked beards did not interest us one-hundredth part as much as did a sable blank directly over the coronation of Baldwin of Flanders by one of the Dandolos.
“Hic est locus Marino Falieri, decapitati pro criminibus.”