Sand and Canvas: Narrative of adventures in Egypt with a sojourn among the artists in Rome

by Samuel Bevan

The Piazza di San Marco, is the most agreeable of breakfast parlours: turn which way you will, something amusing is sure to present itself. Itinerant vendors of odd wares wait upon you every two or three minutes, and no sooner are you fairly seated, and commencing the perusal of some article in the day’s journal, than a dirty-looking fellow flings at your feet a large wooden box, and keeps a steady eye on your boots. This is your Venetian shoeblack. Then a handsome woman with a wide Leghorn hat, presents you with three pinks and a daisy, tied up with white thread, and retires with a low curtsey. This is your purveyor of flowers during the period of your stay, and clever indeed will you be if you can escape from Venice without paying a heavy flower-rate. Next comes a tray-full of shells and seaweed, with an announcement of “Doe Zwanziger tooto,”[38] on the part of a half-drunken old sailor, who will never cease to dunn and bore you until you have either purchased or capsized his trumpery. Do not think for a moment that you will be allowed to swallow that coffee in peace,—the short lady who has just turned the corner is the Jewess Carolina, and you instinctively feel that you are victimized to the extent of a cotton shirt and two or three handkerchiefs. This is your hosier and draper, “by appointment.” A cigar is next thrust close to your face, with a confidential whisper of “Contrabbando Signore!” This is your cigar merchant, who grows, manufactures, and brands his own tobaccos (!) in the neighbouring island of the Giudecca.

In the evening you will find that most of the hawkers have disappeared, although their places are usurped by others, whose mestieri are to some, quite as annoying. The new comers are for the most part musical, and fill up the interludes between the performances of the Kinski band, though there is one young lady, who presumes upon the strength of a shrill, false voice, and tinny-sounding guitar, to introduce a Venetian canzonetta into one ear, whilst “I Lombardi,” or “Nabuco,” are poured into the other. No sooner have the band finished the last piece on the programme, than a flute and two fiddles enter upon the scene. One of the latter, the violino primo, is exceedingly clever, and plays all over the instrument, and behind his back, and looks, and I have no doubt fancies that he is, a second Paganini. At all events, he is an admirable violinist, and if his harmony is correct, his marvellous ways of producing it are hardly to be censured. His companion is a young girl, who is also a clever performer, though to my mind, the violin seems out of place when in the hands of a female.

I must not omit to mention the vendors of Caromel, who glide about the caffés in the evening, with large dishes of this really eatable commodity. It consists of various sorts of ripe fruits, coated with a transparent covering of sugar, and that your finger-ends may not come in contact with the candy, the merchant presents you with a large tooth-pick of lance-wood, with which you impale a peach, plum, or bunch of grapes, as the case may be, paying about one halfpenny per pezzo. The scene in the Piazza about the hour of twilight, is very unique and striking,—the centre of the square and the arcades which surround it on three sides, serve as a promenade, the latter being brilliantly lighted with gas, both from the shops and caffés, and from lamps hung at the centre of each arch. At the “Florian,” and the “Militaire,” immediately opposite, there are chairs provided for such as prefer listening to the regimental music, and cooling themselves with acqua marena.[39] Nearer the Piazzetta is a small caffé frequented almost exclusively by Greeks and Smyrniotes, whose outrè costume contrasts strangely with the less showy dress of the Italians. These get away as far as they can from the music, which hath but little charms for them. Cherrystick pipes, and the rattle of dominoes are far more to their taste, and in these do they indulge, until the approach of midnight recalls them to their vessels.

Let us now wander from the Piazzetta, to the neighbouring Riva dei Schiavoni, where as soon as we have passed the Hotel Danielli, we shall come upon a scene quite as original and no less amusing than that of San Marco. Here is a whole host of coffee-shops of a second-rate character, frequented by mariners, and the lower order of Venetians. Forms are arranged under awnings of canvas, which serve as a shelter both from the fierce sun, and the cold sea wind. Here also may be seen the caromel merchant, but his appearance is less scrupulously clean than that of old Gigi of the Piazza, whose jean jacket and white apron are upon a par with the quality of his fruit. On the Schiavoni there are little open-air theatres and peep-shows, and Cassandro goes through his performance many times every evening, to amuse a laughing crowd of old women and boys. At the open doors of the marine store dealers, whole families play at cards, and squabble over greasy effigies of swords and spoons, instead of spades and diamonds, totally heedless of the crowd of persons who pass by them in a continued stream, between San Marco and the busy neighbourhood of Castello and the docks.

In connexion with other places of public resort, I may mention the Birrarie or supper-gardens, so much frequented by the middle class of Venetians. Of these, perhaps the most patronized is that of the Campo San Moisè, where, on a fine evening, the beer-shop of the Saint is filled with respectable citizens, and their wives and daughters. Venice is famed for its good beer, which, by the way, is a commodity very different from that brewed by us, being there a wholesome and refreshing beverage and used only as such. The Birraria of San Moisè, is a little plot of ground entirely hemmed in by surrounding houses, and ornamented with trellis-work and creepers. The walls are painted in the quaint style of fresco, peculiar to the gardens of Italy, representing lakes and mountains, and fierce bandits peeping over rocks, with delightful villas and terraces, and gigantic vases of aloes. At the far end is a Roman scene, painted by Signor Caffi, which is very cleverly executed, and throws into the shade the fabulous monstrosities of the side walls. Here one may meet with the bistecca Inglese, intended, as its name implies, to represent the genuine beef-steak, and is invariably the first item mentioned by the waiter, to every customer in a straw hat and a blouse. It ranks in the same class with the French “biftek,” and is served in molten butter. The musicians I have already mentioned, as well as a host of singers and improvisatori, make the round of the Birrarie, when they have finished with the Piazza, and I noticed for many weeks among other retailers of sweet sounds, an accordéon player who had arrived as near to perfection as the powers of his instrument would allow. I had the curiosity one evening to question him, and discovered to my astonishment, that he had manufactured it entirely himself. He had been bound apprentice to a barber in Padua, and had taken as a bad debt from some brother chin-scraper, an imperfect and damaged accordeon, one of the earliest that had found its way across the Alps from Germany. Thenceforward his whole time was devoted to the study of his new instrument. Having a quick ear and ready hand, he soon managed to repair it, and running away from his master, who was in truth quite tired of his perpetual grinding, he played about in the streets till he had earned enough to buy some tools, and then came to Venice, where he shortly manufactured a perfect instrument. I visited him at his house in the Castello, and found him busy at work, and to judge from the neatness of his rooms, and the appearance of his wife and children, I should say he blows his bellows at the various Birrarie to very good purpose.

The Blackwall of Venice is a spot called Quintavalle, where, at a dirty little house, close to the shore, the lovers of fish may find it in great variety. Sardelli will be found an excellent substitute for white-bait, and require neither punch, nor brown bread and butter, while the Calamajo is a delicacy which may be had here in perfection. This curious fish is caught in great quantity in the lagunes, and at the Lido. I have seen whole acres of them hung up to dry in the sun, while the ground has been stained black with their liquid seppia. We generally repaired to Quintavalle, after any little squall or interval of bad weather, at which times fish were plentiful, and not unfrequently would the landlord astonish us with the sight of some extraordinary monster of the deep, which had been driven into the shallows, and found its way into the nets with the smaller fry. The old man is a collector of these odd fish, which he preserves in spirits, to adorn his rooms.

No one would willingly leave his hotel to dine in a Venetian trattoria, saving for the sake of curiosity, as their appearance is, for the most part, anything but inviting. But with those that betake themselves to furnished apartments, and have neither kitchen nor cook, the case is different, and we on the far side of the Grand Canal, were necessitated either to get our meal at the cook-shop, or go without it. We tried, I believe, nearly all the eating-houses in Venice, and carried our researches to an extent, that in such a cause, would have been perfectly absurd, had we not, during these voyages of discovery, very thoroughly explored the city. We got, indeed, little other benefit by our trouble, as no restaurant proved so clean and comfortable, as that of the Caffé Haus, in a little square just out of St. Marc’s, and exactly opposite the house once occupied by Canova.

Shortly after my arrival in Venice, I was present at a grand passeggiata, got up by the Italian artists, in honour of Prince Frederic, and the Due de Modene. These nocturnal serenades occur only in the season, when Venice is full of visitors, and on this occasion, the display was more than usually grand, on account of the exalted rank of the strangers who were to assist. A large barge, suitably fitted up with seats, and having on board the necessary accommodation for a portion of the Kinski band, was towed from the Piazzetta at about ten o’clock, into the Grand Canal, surrounded by some hundred of gondolas. The night was literally as dark as pitch, but we had no sooner passed the Dogana, than a light was exhibited from the prow of the barge, which would almost have shamed the “Bude.” At the same time arose a burst of music, which re-echoed from the palaces on either side, attracting their inmates to the balconies. The noble Church of the “Salute” was illumined from the water’s edge to the figure of Charity surmounting the cupola, the more prominent portions of its architectural features, standing out in bright relief from the black shadows. But the effect was of short duration: in another minute we were again enveloped in the darkness, relieved at intervals by a blaze of light from the palace windows.

As we passed up the canal, our already large fleet of gondolas was increased by the accession of others, which put off from all quarters to join us. Vocal serenades were performed under particular windows, by a chorus of well-accorded voices, and the famous cantatrice La Frezzolina Poggi, was favoured with one of particular brilliancy, as well as a display of various coloured lights, which created a beautiful effect upon the surrounding objects. Continuing our course, we paused under the Rialto, illuminating its spacious arch with a blaze of fireworks, and causing it to resound with so formidable and doubly encored a barcarole, that I fear some of the more quietly disposed of that region, must have thrust their heads under the clothes, and grumbled “Seccatura!” even if they did not go so far as to wish us all consigned to the same watery depth as the fastidious Count in “Beppo.” Having made the giro of the Grand Canal, and back again to the Piazzetta, those on the barge adjourned to their supper, and Luish and I to our beds.

Venice is certainly the very spot of all others for serenades, and a summer night seldom passes, but the twanging of guitars and mandolins may be heard in her quiet canals. If the echoes of Tasso are no longer extant, the gondoliers of the present day are equally familiar with “Com’e gentil!” and “Or’ che in cielo,” one or other of which generally “meets the ear” of any one dwelling upon the Grand Canal, in the course of an evening. No matter how poor the voice, or wretched the melody, the Venetian lady never fails to acknowledge with courtesy the compliment thus intended, unless indeed, as sometimes happens, the serenade emanates from a pair of lungs too palpably coarse and plebeian to arouse any feeling of pleasure or obligation, in which case the nocturnal disturber either exhausts himself before bare walls and dark balconies, or is unhesitatingly told to move on.