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

by Samuel Bevan

The pigeons of St. Mark’s are proverbially respected, and many legends are told concerning them. Some one, it appears, left as a legacy, a sum of money to be exclusively devoted to the purchase of food for these Penates of the Venetians, which are exceedingly numerous, and swarm upon the roofs of the Church of St. Marc, and adjacent buildings. They are fed every day precisely at noon, and no sooner do the bronze figures on the Clock Tower swing round upon their pivots, in readiness for the first stroke of twelve, than the air is partially darkened by the clouds of pigeons, that sweep over the square, hitching and perching upon the ledges and window-sills of the Procuratie Veechie. Grain is then scattered from an open window, and although the sight is of every day occurrence, the table-d’hôte of the pigeons is watched with eagerness by the surrounding crowd. We were much struck with one circumstance in connexion with these birds. On a certain day in the year, all the clocks in the city are silent, and we expected that the pigeons would have been nonplused. Never were we more mistaken. No bell sounded, nor did the figures move, yet precisely as the gold hands on the dial of the Clock Tower reached their zenith, the pigeons, whose stomachs were not to be cheated, were seen flocking in from all quarters to their usual meal.

The weather becoming cooler, and having derived considerable benefit from the advice and attention of Dr. T——g, I began to think of turning my face once more towards Rome, and never having been at Ancona, resolved to take advantage of a little steamer plying between that port and Venice two or three times a month. My friend Luish had already set off with some acquaintance for Florence, and most of my other associates were dispersed in different directions. I therefore took leave of such few as remained, and engaged my berth at an office in the Piazza. It appeared that I had chosen an unfavourable time for making a sea-trip, as the weather had been for some days very stormy, and on repairing on board, I was told by the captain, that he could not venture to put out to sea that day. This happened three times in succession, until I began to regret that I had paid my fare, for I know few things more annoying than to be at loose ends in a place, with your portmanteau packed, your bedroom let to another occupant, and yourself uncertain at what moment you may be called upon to join your ship. On the third day we got off at the hour of noon, with about twenty-five passengers, all bound for Ancona, the majority of whom were priests and monks; but there was also a German artist with his family, of the name of Heinrich, whom I found very agreeable. We had not been long in the Adriatic, before our captain seemed bitterly to regret that he had left the friendly shallows of the lagunes. Our ill-built little steamer, rolled uneasily in the heavy sea, and as night closed in, we had anything but a pleasant prospect before us. Most of the passengers were soon rendered insensible to the peril of our situation: prostrated by sea-sickness they lay stretched upon the deck, careless alike of the combat of the elements, and of the torrents of salt water which swept over us, and poured down the badly-closed hatchways. Not being myself a sufferer in this respect, I was enabled to render some little assistance to the wife and little girls of the Herr Heinrich, and managed with some difficulty to get them stowed away, three in a berth, in one of the upper bed-places. The sailors declared that the monks, who had betaken themselves to their beads, were the cause of our ill-luck, while the captain, who appeared a poor weak-minded man, lost all command over himself and ship, and indulged in deep potations. The sailors, however, stuck unflinchingly to their duty, and in this state of affairs I went below to see if I could get any rest. The water was rolling about in the cabin, and hat-boxes and other light packages were carried hither and thither in the utmost confusion. The pitching of the vessel was quite fearful, and even had my fears allowed of my sleeping, any attempt thereat would have been absurd. I squeezed myself, however, into a berth, and had only just done so, when, by a sudden lurch, an enormously exaggerated friar, who had been lying in a state of semi-torpor immediately above me, toppled out of his berth, and upsetting in his descent the table, which was loaded with clothes and other articles, splashed heavily into the water beneath. A minute sooner, and I must have been annihilated. How the good man had ever managed to reach the berth from whence he had fallen, I cannot tell. But it was no time for reflection. Though a little stunned, the poor friar got upon all fours, in an attempt to find his legs, but fright and sickness had rendered him weak, and losing his equilibrium, he was speedily carried beyond my reach by another lurch, and as I had no mind to exchange my comparatively comfortable position for a wrestling-match with a sick Capuchin, in half-a-fathom of dirty water, I waited until a third lurch brought him back again, when I grappled him, and held on tight till he righted.

Whilst engaged in these little recreations, I suddenly became sensible that we had got into smooth water, and with the pleasing anticipation that we might by accident have hit Ancona, I was hastening on deck, when a slight shock which followed the stoppage of the engines, set us all off rolling again. Day was now just beginning to dawn, and as the light increased, a beautiful and well-sheltered bay was revealed to our view. The sailors had run us on a sandy shore, within sight of the town of Pola, on the coast of Istria, and I began to think the wind that blows nobody any good, must indeed be an ill one, inasmuch as many travellers have gone scores of miles out of the regular beaten track, to visit the ancient city, near which we were now safely stranded. The sight of terra-firma restored spirits to our whole party, though they were most of them considerably astonished at finding themselves as far as ever from Ancona. As soon as we could land, a proceeding rendered easy by the assistance of some of the good folk from Pola, we walked to the town, and entering by one accord its little church, each in his own way returned thanks for our deliverance from the perils of the deep.

Being told that our vessel would not again put to sea, until the swell had somewhat abated, we had ample time before us to view the antiquities of Pola. The amphitheatre or arena, is the great lion of the place, and stands about half-a-mile from the town, close to the shore, which in many places is rocky and precipitous. The outer wall of this relic of Roman magnificence, remains perfect, evincing the great extent of the building; but the interior is nearly all in ruins, saving a few of the masses of masonry, which formerly supported the raised seats. The whole interior is clogged up with heaps of rubbish, overgrown in parts with weeds and brambles, and possesses a most forlorn appearance. Viewed from the outside, the arena forms a splendid ruin, the effect being much enhanced by its peculiar and picturesque situation. Pola seems to have been once fortified with a strong wall, of which the remains are tolerably perfect in places, and there is also a Roman arch in good preservation, called, I believe, the Porta Aurea, but the worthy people of the place seem to know very little indeed either about its history, or the remains, which alone render it of consequence in the eyes of the few travellers who visit it. There is a miserable inn in the little piazza, but the sudden irruption of five-and-twenty hungry steam-boat passengers, whose appetites had been whetted to an alarming degree, by the inside-out experience of the preceding night, caused such a run upon the eatables, that by the time we had finished our breakfast, there was a partial famine in the place, and we had to make our dinner off fish and vegetables.

At five o’clock, our Captain, who had recovered his erring senses, recalled us on board, but it was ten at night before the steam was up, and our little vessel once more fairly afloat. Our voyage to Ancona, though stormy enough, proved less boisterous than that of the night before, and I believe we were all very glad to turn our backs upon the still agitated water.

At the custom-house, I had some little difficulty in passing my few valuables, without paying a heavy duty. The Pope’s douaniers were extremely curious, and a portable sketching apparatus, which I had with me, unfortunately attracted the attention of the whole posse of searchers. I thought the best way was to humour them, and therefore opened my camp-stool, drew out a ready stretched piece of prepared paper, squeezed a few dabs of paint upon the pallette, and might perhaps have finished by caricaturing the whole lot, had not a more considerate officer taken compassion on me, and desired me to shut up my shop, an order I obeyed with the greatest alacrity. The result of my delay was, that my travelling companions had appropriated all the rooms in the “Albergo della Pace,” and I had to seek a bed elsewhere.

I rose early the next day, in order to visit the old Cathedral church and a triumphal arch, erected on the Mole, in honour of Trajan. I also called upon my friend Heinrich, the German artist in acquarelle, who had already engaged a vettura, to convey himself and family to Rome. After some little bargaining with the driver, I secured a seat in the coupè as far as Fuligno, having pretty much determined to make a halt of a few days at Assisi, before returning to my old quarters in the Via Sistina.

We quitted Ancona at five in the morning, passing no fewer than three distinct dogana, at each of which we were overhauled, though fortunately without paying any duty. I found a trifling bribe go farther than a boat-load of quiet civility or resignation, a papal custom-house officer being devoid of all feeling save the modicum existing in his palms, which when tickled with a small coin, generally expand to the traveller’s advantage. On our arrival at Osimo, where our vetturino gave us some breakfast, we discovered to our chagrin, that our road would not lead us by Loretto, a disappointment for which we had to thank ourselves in not making a better bargain, and we had the mortification to catch a tantalizing glimpse only of the towers of “Our Lady,” to which we had all been anticipating a pilgrimage. Continuing our journey, we slept at Tolentino, at a most miserable and dirty inn, and were really glad when the waiter called us at the somewhat early hour of two (!) to resume our journey. It was of course quite dark, and moreover, was raining heavily. I went to the stable to call the driver, whom I found fast asleep between his jaded horses, and we experienced some of the shivering pleasures of vetturino travelling, as we waited for him to “put to.” The waiter endeavoured to increase our discomforts, by offering coffee and bread in the middle of the night, our coachman declaring that he had to pay for it, and that if we refused it, we should get no more. We enlightened him, however, by afterwards pulling up at a little inn at the foot of the Appenines, where we had our coffee, when we were able to enjoy it. About five in the afternoon we reached Fuligno, where I had to bid a temporary adieu to my friend Heinrich and his amiable family. The waiter of the hotel informed me that he had a little one-horse vettura, which would take me comfortably to Assisi for fifteen pauls, and closing with his offer, I agreed to set off next morning. It seemed, however, as if the rainy season had thoroughly set in—the water poured down in torrents, splashing in at the ill-closed windows of my old-fashioned vehicle, and I had a miserably wet ride, passing through the ancient town of Spello, and reaching Assisi about one o’clock. An old Roman acquaintance had recommended to me the Casa Carpinelli, whither I ordered the boy to drive, and found the family just sitting down to dinner. There were already two visitors in the house, one a countryman of my own, and the other a French artist, but I found excellent accommodation, and can offer a willing tribute of acknowledgment to the kind care of the Signor Lorenzo, who boarded and did for me, at the rate of three-and-a-half pauls per diem.

The Church of San Francesco is of course the lion of Assisi, and is a very fine specimen of early Gothic architecture, abounding also in rich frescoes, by Giotto and others. There are three distinct churches, one over the other, the lowest of the three being cut in the rock, which serves as the foundation of the entire building. Hundreds of pilgrims resort hither annually, to worship at the shrine of San Francesco, whose bones repose within this splendid temple. The convent of the order of Francescans is attached to the church, and standing out boldly as it does, from the face of the rock, has the appearance of a strong fortification. The church of Santa Chiara is also well worth a visit. It was formerly adorned with superb frescoes which, by command of some infatuated bishop, were covered with whitewash, and all but obliterated. There are yet a few remaining over the altar, and these serve by their beauty to increase the regret one feels at the fate of their companions.

I staid a few weeks at Assisi, spending the greater portion of my time in extended rambles through the neighbouring country, which, though offering but few subjects for the pencil, is beautifully wooded, and abounds with pleasing landscape. In the town I made many acquaintance, of whom the most entertaining was a musical shoemaker, whom I had called on with an order. I was I believe, whistling as I entered his little workshop, though I should hardly have known that I was so doing, had not my new friend exclaimed, “quello é un bel pezzo, Signore!” and I should still have been at a loss to know whether he alluded to my morceau, or to the leather in his hand, had he not, quick as thought, whipped out a Cremona, and played me the whole of the piece with remarkable precision and clearness. Giuseppe really did possess a soul above buttons, as I found out when I became better acquainted with him. He had fitted up a large room at the back of his house as a stanza di musica, where he instructed a number of young men of his acquaintance, in the mysteries of counterpoint.