From the Oak to the Olive Part 12

Of the two Armenian priests, the younger held himself aloof, as if he understood full well the inconveniences of sympathy--a dry, steely, well-balanced man, without enthusiasm, but fine in temperament, well bred, and with at least the culture of a man of the present world. But Pere Michel, the elder, was more willing to impart his mental gifts and experiences to such as would hear them. And he was a man of another age, with obsolete opinions, which he produced like the unconscious bearer of uncurrent coin.

Here is a little specimen of his talk, the subject being that of dreams and revelations: "What is to happen, that G.o.d alone can know. But that which is already happening, or which has happened at a distance, this the _demonio_ may know and reveal. And he will reveal it to you in a dream, or in a vision, or by a presentiment."

"But what does the _demonio_ get, Pere Michel, for the trouble of revealing it to us?"

"The satisfaction of making men superst.i.tious?"

_Non c'e male, Pere Michel._ And what, thought I, is the chief advantage of being pope, cardinal, arch-priest, confessor? The satisfaction of making men superst.i.tious. At another time I remarked upon the fact that the monasteries in Greece are usually situated at some height on a mountain side. "They are of the order of St. Basil," said the old man; "he always loved the retirement of the mountains, and his followers imitate him in this." Pere Michel had a pleasant smile, with just enough of second childhood to be guileless, not foolish. And I may here say that the Armenian priesthood appear to me to have quite an individuality of their own, corresponding to no order of the Romish priesthood with which I am acquainted.

The excessive heat of the cabins and after deck one day induced me to head a valorous invasion of the forward deck, followed by as many of the sisterhood as I was able to recruit. The steamer being a very long one, we had to make quite a journey before we entered that almost interdicted region, crossing a long bridge, and pa.s.sing the captain's sacred office.

We carried books and work; our _fauteuils_ followed us. And here we found cool breezes and delicious shade. The sailors and deck pa.s.sengers lay in heaps about the boards, taking their noonday nap in a very primitive manner. We profited by this discovery so far as to repeat the invasion daily while the voyage lasted.

But it came to end sooner than one might suppose from this long description. We had left Syra on Sunday night; on Thursday afternoon we landed in Trieste. Farewell, Turco-Italians, Austro-Italians, Sieben Gebirgers, Transylvanians, Dalmatians, ladies, babies, priests, and all.

When shall we meet again? Scarcely before that great and final a.n.a.lysis which promises to distinguish, once for all, the sheep from the goats.

And even for that supreme consummation and its results, all of you may command my best wishes.

FRAGMENTS.

Up to the point last reached, my jottings down had been made with tolerable regularity. Living is so much more rapid than writing, that an impossible babe, who should begin his diary at his birth, would be sure to have large arrears between that period and the day of his death, however indefatigable he might be in his recording. A man cannot live his life and write it too; hence the work that men who live much leave to their biographers. So, of the s.p.a.ce that here intervened between Trieste and Paris, I lived the maximum and wrote the minimum; that is, the little death's-head and cross-bone mementos with which the diary is forced to record the spot at which each day fell and lay, together with the current expenses of its interment. In some places even these are wanting, and the stricken soul, looking over the diary, cries out, "O, my leanness!" or words to that effect. Yet the poor doc.u.ment referred to shall help us what it can, beginning with the return from cheap, cosy Trieste to that polished jewel of the Adriatic, which now s.h.i.+nes doubly in its new setting of liberty.

We went, as we came, in the Lloyd steamer, declining, however, to engage a state-room, mindful of the exceeding closeness of that in which we suffered on our outward voyage. The embarkation was made, like that from Venice, at the mysterious hour of midnight; and we, coming on board at half past ten, secured such sofa and easy-chair privileges as moved the wrath of a high-talking German party who came at the last moment, and shouted for a quarter of an hour the a.s.sertion that his Damen were fully equal, if not superior, to any other Damen on board the steamer, and that if the other Damen had places, his surely ought much more to have them. The cameriere merely shrugged his shoulders, and we failed to be convinced that our first duty would be to vacate our limited accommodations, and stand at large for the benefit of these or any other virgins of the tardy and oily description. The blatant champion thereon took himself and his Damen up stairs. We reserved to ourselves the good intention of sharing our advantages with them at a later period, when the pa.s.sage of the present acerbity should make intercourse possible.

The cabin soon became insufferably hot and close. After various ineffectual attempts at repose, in a cramped position on the sofa, with a shawl bundle for a pillow, I went on deck, where I at least found fresh air and darkness, the blazing lamp in the cabin being enough, of itself, to banish sleep. Every available spot here was occupied by groups or single figures, whose _tout ensemble_, what with the darkness and their draping, const.i.tuted a very respectable gallery of figures, much resembling the conspirators in Ernani, or Mme. Tussaud's Chamber of Horrors, in the absence of the illuminating medium. I unconsciously seated myself on one sleeping figure, which kicked and cried, O! With difficulty I found a narrow vacancy on one of the side benches, after occupation of which I wrapped my shawl about me, and gave up to the situation.

"For we were tired, my back and I."

Seasick women sobbed and gasped around me, not having, as we, graduated in the great college of ocean pa.s.sage. The night was very black.

Presently a form nestled at my right. It was the elder neophyte, disgusted with the cabin, and willing to be anywhere else. The moon rose late, a de-crescent. The whole time was amphibious, neither sleeping nor waking, neither day nor night. Suddenly, a perceptible chill seized upon us; a little later the black sky grew gray, and the series of groups that filled the deck were all revealed, like hidden motives in the light of some new doctrine. The sunrise was showery, and attended by a rainbow. The people bestirred themselves, stretched their benumbed limbs, and shook their tumbled garments into shape. Black coffee could now be had for ten sous a cup, and _cafe au lait_ for twenty, with a crust of bread which defied gnawing. The diary says, "L. and I grew quite tearful as we saw beautiful Venice come out of the water, just as we had seen her disappear. At the health station we were fumigated with chloride of lime--an unpleasant and useless process. We arrived opposite the Piazzetta at half past seven A. M. The captain was kind in helping us to find our effects and to get off. The gondoliers asked five francs for bringing us to our lodgings, and got them. The Barbiers could not receive us at our former snug abode, but monsieur went round to show us some rooms in Palazzo Gambaro, which he offered for seven francs _per diem_. We were glad to take them. Went to Florian's cafe for breakfast, visited San Marco, and then proceeded to install ourselves in our new lodging. Ordered a dinner for six francs, which proved abundant. Took a long sleep,--from one to four P. M.,--having only dozed a little during the night. Our lodgings are very roomy and pleasant--two large rooms well furnished, and two smaller ones. We expect to enjoy many things here, and all the more because we now know something of what is to be seen."

This expectation was fully realized during the week that followed, although the meagre entries of the diary give little a.s.sistance in recalling the strict outlines of the brilliant picture. It was now height of season in Venice. The grand ca.n.a.l was brilliant, every evening, with gondolas, and gondoliers in costumes. Now we admired full suits of white, with scarlet sashes, trimmed with gold fringe, now gray and blue, edged with silver. Now an ugly jockey costume, got up by some Anglo-maniac, insulted the Italian _beau-ideal_, and, indeed, every other. For the short coat and heavy clothes, suited at once to the saddle and the English climate, were utterly unsuited to the action of rowing, as well as to the full bloom of an Italian summer. I cannot help remarking upon this unsightly livery, because it was an eyesore, and because it was obviously considered by its proprietor as a brilliant success. In stylish gondolas, the rowers are two in number, and always dressed in livery. The fas.h.i.+onables, in height of millinery bliss, float up and down the grand ca.n.a.l, until it is time for the rendezvous on the Piazza. As you pa.s.s the palaces, you often see the gondola in waiting below, while in a balcony or arched window above, the fresh, smiling faces make their bright picture; and the domestic stands draped in the white opera-cloaks or bournooses. And I remember a hundred little nonsensical songs about this very pa.s.sage in Venetian life.

"Prent'e la gondoletta, Tutt'e serena il mar, Ninetta, mia diletta, Vieni solcar il mar Il marinar, che gioja--che gioja il marinar!"

Which I translate into English equivalency as follows:--

The two-in-hand is waiting, The groom is in his boots; The lover's fondly prating, The lady's humor suits: Susanna! Susanna!

What joy to flog the brutes!

What joy, what joy in driving!

What joy, what joy to drive!

Like all other poetical visions, these, once seen, speedily become matters of course. Still, we found always a fairy element in the "_Gita in gondoletta_." Our gondolier had always a weird charm in our eyes. He seemed almost a feudal retainer, a servant for life or death. His shrewd glance showed that he was not easily to be astonished. He could tip over an obnoxious person in the dark, stab at a street corner, carry the most audacious of letters, and deliver the contraband answer under the very nose of high-snuffing authority. Nought of all this did we desire of him: in fact, nothing but safe conduct and moderate charges. Yet we admired his mysterious talents, and wondered in what unwritten novels he might have figured. For, indeed, the watery streets of Venice, no less than her gondoliers, suggest the idea of romantic and desperate adventure. What balconies from which to throw a rival, dead or alive!

What silent, know-nothing waters to receive him! What clever a.s.sistants to aid and abet!

But enough of the evening row, which ends at the Piazzetta. Here you dismiss your man-at-oars, naming the hour at which you shall require his presence, he being meanwhile at liberty to sleep in his gondola, or lo leave it in charge with a friend, and to follow you to the Piazza, where you will amuse yourself after your fas.h.i.+on, he after his. Here the banners are floating, the lights glancing, the band stormily performing.

Florian's cafe is represented by a crowd of well-dressed people sitting in the open air, with the appliances of chair and table covered by their voluminous draperies. If you arrive late, you may wait some time before a table, fourteen inches by ten, is vouchsafed to you. Ices are very good, very cheap, and very small. Tea and bread and b.u.t.ter are excellent. While you wait and while you feast, a succession of venders endeavor to impose upon you every small article which the streets of Venice show for sale. Shoes, slippers, alabaster work, sh.e.l.l work, tin gondolas concealing inkstands, nets, bracelets, necklaces,--all these things are offered to you in succession, together with allumettes, cigars, journals, and caramels, or candied fruits strung upon straws.

If you are mild in your discouragement of these venders, they will fasten upon you like other vermin, and refuse to depart until they shall have drawn the last drop of your change. I found a brisk charge necessary, with appeals to Florian's _garcon_, after whose interference, life on the Piazza became practicable.

To the mere enjoyment of good victuals, with squabbles intervening, may be superadded the perception of fas.h.i.+onable life, as it goes on in these regions. When your eyes have taken the standard of light of the Piazza, you recognize in some of the groups about you persons whom you have seen, either in the balcony or in the gondola. Here are two young women whom I saw emerge from a narrow pa.s.sage, this evening, rowed by a fine-looking servant, who stood bareheaded, and one other. They have diamond earrings, fas.h.i.+onable bonnets, and dresses dripping from a baptism of beads. One by one a group of young men, probably of the first water, forms about them. One of the ladies is handsome and quiet, the other plain and voluble. The latter becomes perforce the prominent figure in what goes on, which indeed amounts to nothing worth repeating.

These were on my right. On my left soon appeared a lady of a certain age, with "world" written in large letters all over her countenance. She chaperons a daughter, got up with hair _a l'Anglaise_, whose pantomimic countenance suggests that she has been drilled by an English governess with _papa_, _prunes_, _prism_, or some equivalent gymnastic. When addressed, she looks down into her fan, and rolls her eyes as if she saw her face in it. And lady friends come up: "Ah, marchesa! ah, signora contessa!" and the young bloods, hat in hand. So here we are, really, on the borders of high life, without intending it. And the baroness introduces a female relative--_una sorella maritata_--who has been handsome, and whose smile seems accustomed to fold the cloak of her beauty around the poverty of her character. And there is coffee, and there come ices. The ladies sip and gossip, the beaux come and go, talking of intended _villeggiaturas_; for the greatest social ill.u.s.tration for an Italian is that of travel. A third group immediately in front of us shows a young lady in an advanced stage of ambition, attired in a conspicuous tone, accompanied by quieter female relatives and a young boy. She regards with envious eyes the two popular a.s.sociations on my right and left. She is dying to be noticed, and does not know how to manage it. And while I take note of these and other vanities, beggars whine for pence, or insist upon carrying off our superfluous bread or cake, for which, indeed, we must pay; but they eat the bread before your eyes with such evident relish that you are satisfied.

By and by this palls upon you. You have seen and heard enough. The society to which you belong is over the water. Here your heart finds no place; and from the crowd of strangers even your lodging and quiet bed seem a refuge. So you settle with Florian's _garcon_, close your account with all beggars for the night, wander to the Piazzetta, and cry, "Bastiano!" and he of the mysterious intelligence sooner or later responds. You give a penny to the crab,--the man who superfluously holds the boat while you get in,--and are at home after a brief dream of smooth motion under a starry sky. And in this way end all midsummer days in Venice. Not so smooth, however, is your climbing of three flights of stone stairs in the dark, with thumping and b.u.mping. But you are up at last, and Gianetta--the shrewd maid--receives you with a candle-end.

Frugal orders for breakfast, and to rest, with the cherubs of the mantel-piece watching over you.

For over the said mantel-piece, two fair, fat babes, modelled in flat-relief, playfully contended for the mastery, their laughing faces near together, their swinging heels wide apart, as the festoon required.

Elsewhere in the same relief were arabesques with birds and flowers.

This bedroom of ours has been a room of state in its day. A pa.s.sage-way and dressing-room have been taken from its stately proportions, and still it remains very s.p.a.cious for our pretensions. Our _salon_ is larger still, and largely mirrored. Two of its windows give upon a leafy garden, whose tree-tops lie nearer to us than to their owners. Its furniture has been hastily thrown together, and is mostly composed of odds and ends. But one of its pieces moves our admiration. It is a toilet table, enclosing a complete set of utensils in the finest Venetian gla.s.s--basins, ewers, toilet bottles and gla.s.ses, and the little boxes for soap and powder, all cut after the finest pattern. This toilet was made for a royal personage, a queen of something, whose effects somehow seem to have been sold at auction in these parts.

Another relic of her we discover in a bureau entirely incrusted with mother-of-pearl, an article that makes one's mouth water, if one has any mouth, which all men, like all horses, have not. The doors which divide our sitting from our sleeping room are at once objects of wonder and of fear to us. Their size is monstrous, and each of them hangs, or rather clings, by the upper hinge, the lower being dismounted. These doors are left all day at a conciliatory angle between closing and opening. We fear their falling on our heads whenever we approach them. We hear vaguely of some one who shall come to put them in order; but he never appears. Our own veteran, arriving at last, sets this right in as summary a manner as he has dealt with other nuisances. For the veteran, worn with travel, does arrive from Greece one morning, rowing up to our palace just as we have stepped from it to meet our gondola. He has a tale to tell like the wanderings of Ulysses. But between this event and those that precede it, the diary shows the following important entry:--

Thursday, Aug. 1.--To Malamocco this A. M., with three rowers--our own, and two others, who received one florin between them. The row, both in going and returning, was delightful. Arrived at Malamocco, the men demanded one franc for breakfast, and disappeared within the shades of the Osteria. This is a small settlement at the very entrance of the lagoons. It was strongly fortified by the Austrians. The heat, however, did not permit us to inspect the fortifications. We saw little of interest, but visited the church and a peasant's house. One of the daughters was engaged in stringing beads for sale. The beads were in a tray, and she plunged into them a bunch of wire needles some six inches in length, each carrying its slender thread. The merchant, she said, came weekly to bring the beads, and to take away those ready strung for the market. "To earn a penny, signora," said the mother, a substantial-looking person, wearing large gold earrings. The houses here looked very comfortable for people of the plain sort. The men seemed to be mostly away, whether engaged in fis.h.i.+ng, or following the sea to foreign parts. On our way back we stopped at San Clementi, an ancient church upon a little island, now undergoing repairs. Within the church we found a marble tabernacle with solid walls, built behind the high altar. It may have been forty feet in length by twenty in breadth, and twelve or more feet in height. A ma.s.sive door of bronze gave entrance to this huge strong-box, which was formerly used as a prison for refractory priests. We found the interior divided into two compartments. The larger of these was fitted up as a chapel; the smaller had served as the cell of confinement. The altar was erected at the part.i.tion which separated the two, and a grating inserted behind the altar figure allowed the prisoner the benefit of the religious services carried on in the chapel.

The dreariness of this little prison can scarcely be described. No light had it, unless that of a lamp was allowed. A church within a church, and within the inner church a place of torment! This arrangement seemed to violate even the Catholic immunity of sanctuary. Think of the unfortunate shut up within on a feast day, when faint sounds of outward jubilee might penetrate the marble walls, and heighten his pain by its contrast with the general joyous thrill of life. Think of the cheerless ma.s.s or vespers vouchsafed to him,--no friendly face, no brother voice, to sweeten wors.h.i.+p. And if he continued recalcitrant, how convenient was this isolation for the final disposition to be made of him! _De profundis clamavit_, doubtless, and the church did not know that G.o.d could hear him.

The diary does not record our second visit to the Armenian convent, which took place in these days. I do not even find in its irregular columns any mention of a franc which I am sure I paid to the porter, and which, I faintly hope, has been put to my credit elsewhere. Despite this absence of _pieces justificatives_, the visit still remains so freshly in my memory that I may venture to speak of it. The elder neophyte not having been with us before in Venice, the convent was new ground to her.

We who had already seen it felt much more at home on the occasion of our second visit than of our first. For Padre Giacomo had answered our invasion by a friendly call; and did we not now know him to be a most genial and hospitable person? Had we not, moreover, made ourselves familiar with his religion, on our late voyage, by frequent converse with two priests of his profession? Did I not possess Father Michel's views concerning the _demonio_, as well as his version of the Book of Job? And of Pere Isaak did I not know the polished, uncommunicative side which covered his intimate convictions, whatever they may have been? The Armenian ladies, too,--had they not made me free of the guild? One of them had shown me her prayer-book. The other, being but fifteen years of age, had no prayer-book. So, with an a.s.sured step, we entered the sacred parlor, and demanded news of Padre Giacomo, and of his monkey. And the father came, smiling a little better than before, but with a sweet Oriental gravity. And he showed us again the library, and hall, and chapel, with the refectory, from whose cruel pulpit one brother is set to read while the others feast. We saw again the printing presses, worked by hand. And in the sacristy he commanded two of the younger brethren to bring the chiefest embroidered garments, reserved for high occasions, judging of us unjustly by our s.e.x. And these satin and velvet wonders were, indeed, embossed with lambs, and birds, and flowers, in needlework of silver and gold, and of various colors, meet for the necks of them that divide the spoil. And we saw also a very fine mummy, as black, and dried, and wizened, as any old Pharaoh could be. A splendid bead covering lay over him, in open rows of blue and white, with hieroglyphic-looking men in black and yellow. This covering had been lately cleaned and repaired at the gla.s.s-works of Murano, as Padre Giacomo recounted with pride. He showed us in the old part of the work some curious double beads, which Venice itself, he said, was unable to imitate. The colors were as fresh and clear as if the mummy had clothed himself from the last fancy fair, with a description of afghan well suited to the Egyptian climate.

Having done justice to this human preserve, the padre now regaled us with a preparation of rose leaves embalmed in sugar. He also bestowed upon us one of the convent publications, a tolerable copy of verses composed on the spot itself by the late Louis of Bavaria, celebrating its calm and retirement. I myself could have responded to the royal _suspiria_ with one distich.

"Here no people comes to beg thee, Here no Lola comes to plague thee."

As we pa.s.sed from the building to the garden, the wicked monkey, chained and lying in wait, sprang at my hat, and, s.n.a.t.c.hing my lilac veil, bore it off with a flying leap of animal grace and malice. Padre Giacomo anxiously apologized for his pet's misconduct, which was certainly surprising. But the monkey's education, as every one knows, is dependent, not upon precept, but upon example, and Padre Giacomo's example, to the monkey, was only a negative. We parted from our cloistered friend, sincerely desiring, if not hoping, to see him again.

Of our last day in fairest Venice the diary gives this meagre account:--

Sunday, August 4. Early to Piazza, where we encountered the Bishop of Rhode Island. At San Marco's, visited Luccati's beautiful mosaics in the sacristy. The three figures over the door are especially fine--Madonna in the middle, and a saint on either side. A colossal cross adorns the ceiling, and the wall on one side is occupied by figures of twelve prophets; on the other, by the twelve disciples. The cross almost seems to bloom with beautiful devices. Luccati was imprisoned, they say, in the Piombi.

To the Italian Protestant service, held in a good hall in the neighborhood of the Church of San Giovanni e Paolo. The hall was densely crowded. I found no seat, and barely room to stand. The audience seemed a mixed one, so far as worldly position goes, but was entirely respectable in aspect and demeanor, the masculine element largely predominating. Signor Comba, a young man, is quite eloquent and taking.

He delivers himself clearly, and with energy. He criticised at some length the unchristian doctrines of the Romish church--this is part of his work.

The service ended, I pa.s.sed into the Church of San Giovanni e Paolo, and enjoyed my visit unusually. The vivid light of the day and hour made many of the monuments appear new to me. The doges in this, as in other churches, are stowed away on shelves, like mummies. Found a monument to Doge Sterno, dated early in the fifteenth century, and beside it the effigy of a youth designated as Aloysius Trevisano, aet. 23, deeply regretted, and commemorated for his attainments in Greek, Latin, and philosophy. The figure is rec.u.mbent, the face of a high and refined character, with the unmistakable charm of youth impressed upon it. The date is also of the fifteen century. From the church to the sacristy, to take a last look at the two pictures, t.i.tian's Death of St. Peter, martyr, and a fine Madonna of Gian Bellini. The t.i.tian was glorious to-day. It has great life and action. The Dominican in the foreground, who has his arm raised as if appealing to heaven and earth against the barbarous act, seems to have communicated a touch of his pa.s.sion to the two cherubs above, who bear the martyr palm. They are stormy little cherubs, and seem in haste to bring in sight the recompense of so much suffering.

Of the Protestant preaching I will once more and finally say, that it is a genuine missionary work, and commend it to the good wishes and good offices of those whose benefactions do not fear to cross the ocean. May it permanently thrive and prosper.

Of the pictures I can only say, that I doubly congratulate myself on having paid them my last homage before leaving t.i.tian's lovely city.

For, not long after, a cruel fire broke out in or near that sacristy, precious with carvings in wood and marble bas-reliefs; and all the treasures were destroyed, including the two pictures, only temporarily bestowed there, and many square yards of mult.i.tude by Tintoretto, bearing, as usual, his own portrait in a sly corner, representative, no doubt, of his wish to watch the effect of his masterpieces upon humanity at large. The Madonna by Bellini was a charming picture, but the St.

Peter is a loss that concerns the world. The saint, one hopes, has been comfortable in Paradise these many years. But the artist? What Paradise would console him for the burning of one of his _chefs-d'oeuvre_? He would be like Rachel weeping for her children, which reminds me that ideal parentage is of no s.e.x. The artist, the poet, the reformer, are father and mother, all in one.

We left Venice, the diary tells me, on the 5th of August, with what regret we need not say. The same venerable authority records a grave disagreement with the custom-house officers, of whose ministrations we had received no previous warning. So, two very modest pieces of dress goods, delayed in the making, caused me to be branded as a _contrabandista_, with a fine, and record to my discredit. I confess to some indecorous manifestations of displeasure at these circ.u.mstances.

The truth is, forewarned is forearmed. Venice is a free port, and the traveller who leaves her by railroad for the first time may not be aware of the strict account to which he will be held for every little indulgence in Venetian traffic. Now, to have the spoons presented to you in the house, and to be arrested as a thief when you would pa.s.s the door, is a grievous ending to a hospitable beginning. So it came to pa.s.s that I anathematized beautiful Venice as I departed, gathering up the broken fragments of my peace, past diamond cement. But here, in trunk-upsetting Boston, I bethink me, and confess. I was wrong, utterly wrong, O custom-house officers, when I frowned and stormed at you, contending inch by inch and phrase by phrase. You were neither unjust nor uncivil, although I was both. Only I still attest and obsecrate to the fact that I did not intend to smuggle, and entered your jealous domain with no sense of contraband about me. Yet to such wrath did your perquisitions bring me, that the angry thoughts slackened only at Verona, where the tombs of the Scaligers and the rounds of the amphitheatre compelled me to quiet small distempers with great thoughts.

At railroad speed, however, we visited these rare monuments. Can Grande and his horse looked flat and heavy from their eminence. We admired the beautiful iron screen of one of the tombs, hammer-wrought, and flexible as a s.h.i.+rt of mail. And we remembered Dante, paid two francs to the guardian of the enclosure, and drove away. The afternoon's journey whirled us past some strange antique towns, with walls and battlements, and at night we were in Bolsena, Germanice _Bottsen_. And when we asked the hotel maid if she had ever been in Verona, she replied, "O, no; that is in Italy." And so we knew that we were not.

FLYING FOOTSTEPS.