I was returning one morning from sketching, when I was surprised, and almost alarmed by the apparition of our facetious friend D., who had just arrived from the South. He had already got into apartments on the Grand Canal, with two brother artists who had accompanied him, and seemed as fully bent as ever on the perpetration of new jokes. Stepping into his gondola, which was a peculiarly neat one, and manned by two red-scarfed Gondolieri in livery, we rowed off to the Accademia, where we hoped to fall in with Mack and others. This collection contains the finest specimens of the Venetian school of painting, famous more particularly for its perfection of colour. Of this school, Titian is the chief ornament. At the commencement of the sixteenth century, and before his extraordinary talent was much known, this great painter held an office under the Ducal government, and painted the portraits of several successive doges. One of Barberigo, a Venetian noble, is said to have first established Titian’s fame, and this at the early age of eighteen, but it was not until he had secured the patronage of Alfonso, Duke of Ferrara, that he began to derive any pecuniary benefit from his works, and even this was so limited that he was always poor. It remained for Charles the Fifth, who honoured Titian with his personal friendship to establish thoroughly the renown of the great painter, and at the court of that monarch, he passed many years of his life, returning in his old age to his native land, where he was cut off by the plague which visited Venice in 1576.
The “Accademia dei belli arti,” contains Titian’s most celebrated picture—the Assumption of the Virgin. This is unquestionably one of the finest productions in the world, perhaps second only to the “Transfiguration” of Raffaelle in the Vatican. Many artists were engaged in making copies of this painting at the time of our visit. Most of these were very faithful imitations of the great original, but we were more particularly struck with one by an American artist, whose picture when finished, was to serve as an altar-piece in his native town of Cincinnati. The accuracy of the drawing was extreme, while the colouring of such portions as were finished was the admiration of all, and K—— had seldom the satisfaction of pursuing his art in peace and quiet. The facilities afforded to young artists at Venice, in the way of copying, are very great, and might be advantageously adopted by the authorities of some other and larger galleries in the north of Italy.
Besides the works of Titian, there are pictures by Paul Veronese, and Giorgione, Pordenone and Tintoretto, and a host of other painters of this particular school, which it is needless to describe. There are also many private galleries in Venice, all of which possess more or less attraction for the lovers of the art, and are easily accessible.
Having devoted an hour or two to the Belli Arti, I followed D. to his gondola, and was not a little surprised as we passed the soldiers on duty there, to see them formally present arms. Never before had the “cinque cento” beaver, and black velvet paletot produced so great a sensation. I had remarked a similar proceeding as we ascended the steps leading to the Accademia, but concluded that some great man had passed up unnoticed by us. The salute was now undoubtedly intended for ourselves, but what could possibly induce it. D. declared he had been treated in a similar way at the Police-office, and some other places, and thought the fellows were trying to make a fool of him. The cause was soon explained. The gondola which he had hired, at the recommendation of the waiter at his hotel, belonged to the Principessa G——, who had quitted Venice a few weeks previously on a journey, and the plate-glass windows were blazoned with the arms of her family. The mistake never occurred when the windows were not drawn out. It appears that when a family leaves the city, their gondolas, instead of being locked up in the boat-house, are let out on hire by their retainers: this is sometimes done with the consent of the owner, as in the present instance, but it more frequently happens that the servants turn the practice to their own account.
The Passeggiata, or promenade, is an interesting sight, and one may there witness the perfection of gondola management. These occur usually twice in the week, the spot chosen being either the clear portion of the Giudecca, opposite the Riva delle Zattere, or under the public gardens, in the Canal of St. Marc. The surface of the water is then covered with the noiseless and graceful vehicles of Venice, whose sombre-looking coverings have been removed, that the fair occupants may the more readily be seen and admired. Here also is the open barca, with its striped canopy of red and white, contrasting pleasantly with the sable hue of the old regime, whose colour no one has yet been sufficiently bold to depart from. All the boats are rowed by two men, as none would appear at the passeggiata with a single gondolier. Speed is a great desideratum, and all is rushing and gliding—the barcaruoli seem in their own proper element, and vie with each other in parading their skill, cutting and cleaving with their sharp prows, or dashing along in one mass, like a vast floating raft of gondolas. The forward rower having no room to ply his oar, quietly unships it, and leaves to the other the task of keeping up the motion, and now the forced propinquity to the fair occupants of other gondolas is agreeably perplexing, and a severe tax is imposed upon the watchfulness of maiden aunts, and sharp-sighted duennas, (who can detect in a moment the faintest occhiata,) for the hook of a walking-cane, if used as a grapnel, will keep you firmly alongside, and within whispering distance, of the fairest belle of Venice. At the turning point, all is confusion, as each gondolier is striving to tack as short as possible, and get the lead. The spray raised by the hundreds of busy oars, glistens in the rays of the declining sun, and splashes unceremoniously into the faces of the promeneurs. The strains of Mercadante and Verdi mingle with the salt breeze of the lagune, which may here be enjoyed in all its purity. It is untainted even by the presence of a solitary cigar. No one smokes at the passeggiata; it is not the thing. And then we all get fixed again into a mass, but on looking round, we find we have lost the fair face which had so charmed us during the last course. Our next-door neighbours are, on one side, the great French lady, who takes four daily breakfasts at the Florian, and on the other, a boat-load of Austrian officers, who are enjoying a forced reprieve from their pipes. The walking-cane is at a discount, so giving a wink to Antonio, and a sly push to the gondolas of the officers and fat lady, we hasten to take up a more advantageous position.
FOOTNOTES:
[37] For many months I had rooms in a court opening out of the Frezzaria, one of the most thickly populated thoroughfares of Venice, and although my bed-room looked out over a canal of most questionable appearance, I cannot recollect having ever remarked any unpleasant exhalation.
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE CAFFES OF VENICE—THE “FLORIAN”—THE “IMPERATORE D’AUSTRIA”—PIAZZA—VENETIAN HAWKERS—MUSICIANS—MERCHANTS OF CAROMEL—THE SCHIAVONI—ITALIAN CARDS—THE BIRRARIE—SAN MOISE—AN ACCORDEON PLAYER—QUINTAVALLE—QUEER FISH—DINING-ROOMS—SERENADES—NIGHT ON THE GRAND CANAL—THE RIALTO—SAN LAZZARO—MALAMOCCO—CHIOGGIA—CAPTAIN ROVERE IN DANGER.
As I have devoted some few pages to the trattorie and coffee-houses of Rome, it would hardly be fair to leave those of Venice unnoticed. Every one knows the peculiar appearance of the Piazza di San Marco, with its oriental-looking church and lofty bell-tower, and its rows of glittering arcades. Under one of these porticoes, whose massive columns support the building called the Procuratie Nuove, is the Caffé Florian, a house which has been but once closed for the night, during the last hundred years. It has indeed no doors, unless a few glass frames, to keep out the cold winds of winter, can be so denominated. This is the quietest and most fashionable of the Venetian Caffés, and being also the most expensive, is much patronized by the English, and others who visit the city. There are others on each side of the Florian, and in other parts of the square, but none of equal repute. Near the south-west corner of the Piazza, is a modest-looking little house, with the imposing title of the “Imperatore d’Austria.” I tried almost all the caffés in the square before I could make up my mind which was the most eligible, and decided at last upon taking my morning meal at the quarters of the great Ferdinando, where I generally fell in with some one or other of my acquaintance.