ASIDE from the cathedral of St. Mark’s, the Doge’s Palace and the Academy or Venetian gallery of old masters, I could find little of artistic1 significance in Venice—little aside from the wonderful spectacle of the city as a whole. As a spectacle, viewed across the open space of water, known as the Lagoon2, the churches of San Giorgio Maggiore and Santa Maria della Salute3 with their domes4 and campaniles strangely transfigured by light and air, are beautiful. Close at hand, for me, they lost much romance which distance gave them, though the mere5 space of their interiors was impressive. The art, according to my judgment6, was bad and in the main I noticed that my guide books agreed with me—spiritless religious representations which, after the Sistine Chapel7 in Rome and such pictures as those of Michelangelo’s “Holy Family” and Botticelli’s “Adoration of the Magi” in the Uffizi at Florence, were without import. I preferred to speculate on the fear of the plague which had produced the Salute and the discovery of the body of St. Stephen, the martyr8, which had given rise to San Giorgio, for it was interesting to think, with these facts before me, how art and spectacle in life so often take their rise from silly, almost pointless causes and a plain lie is more often the foundation of a great institution than a truth. Santa Maria didn’t save the citizens of Venice from the plague in 1630, and in 1110 the Doge Ordelafo Faliero did not bring back the true body of St. Stephen from Palestine, although he may have410 thought he did,—at least there are other “true bodies.” But the old, silly progress of illusion, vanity, politics and the like has produced these and other institutions throughout the world and will continue to do so, no doubt, until time shall be no more. It was interesting to me to see the once large and really beautiful Dominican monastery9 surrounding San Giorgio turned into barracks and offices for government officials. I do not see why these churches should not be turned into libraries or galleries. Their religious import is quite gone.
In Venice it was, I think, that I got a little sick of churches and second- and third-rate art. The city itself is so beautiful, exteriorly10 speaking, that only the greatest art could be tolerated here, yet aside from the Academy, which is crowded with canvases by Bellini, Tintoretto, Titian, Veronese and others of the Venetian school, and the Ducal Palace, largely decorated by Tintoretto and Veronese, there is nothing, save of course St. Mark’s. Outside of that and the churches of the Salute and San Giorgio,—both bad, artistically11, I think,—there are thirty-three or thirty-four other churches all with bits of something which gets them into the catalogues, a Titian, a Tintoretto, a Giorgione or a Paolo Veronese, until the soul wearies and you say to yourself—“Well, I’ve had about enough of this—what is the use?”
There is no use. Unless you are tracing the rise of religious art, or trying to visit the tombs of semi-celebrated persons, or following out the work of some one man or group of men to the last fragment you might as well desist. There is nothing in it. I sought church after church, entering dark, pleasant, but not often imposing12, interiors only to find a single religious representation of one kind or another hardly worth the trouble. In the Frari I found Titian’s famous Madonna of the411 Pescaro family and a pretentious13 mausoleum commemorating14 Canova, and in Santa Maria Formosa Palma Vecchio’s St. Barbara and four other saints, which appealed to me very much, but in the main I was disappointed and made dreary15. After St. Peter’s, the Vatican, St. Paul’s Without the Walls in Rome, the cathedrals at Pisa and elsewhere, and the great galleries of Florence, Venice seemed to me artistically dull. I preferred always to get out into the streets again to see the small shops, to encounter the winding16 canals, to cross the little bridges and to feel that here was something new and different, far different and more artistic than anything which any church or museum could show.
One of the strangest things about Venice to me was the curious manner in which you could always track a great public square or market place of some kind by following some thin trickling17 of people you would find making their way in a given direction. Suddenly in some quite silent residence section, with all its lovely waterways about you, you would encounter a small thin stream of people going somewhere, perhaps five or six in a row, over bridges, up narrow alleys18, over more bridges, through squares or triangles past churches or small stores and constantly swelling19 in volume until you found yourself in the midst of a small throng20 turning now right, now left, when suddenly you came out on the great open market place or piazza21 to which they were all tending. They always struck me as a sheep-like company, these Venetians, very mild, very soft, pattering here and there with vague, almost sad eyes. Here in Venice I saw no newspapers displayed at all, nor ever heard any called, nor saw any read. There was none of that morning vigor22 which characterizes an American city. It was always more like a quiet village scene to me than any aspect of a fair-sized city. Yet because I was412 comfortable in Venice and because all the while I was there it was so radiantly beautiful, I left it with real sorrow. To me it was perfect.
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The one remaining city of Italy that I was yet to see, Milan, because already I had seen so much of Italy and because I was eager to get into Switzerland and Germany, was of small interest to me. It was a long, tedious ride to Milan, and I spent my one day there rambling23 about without enthusiasm. Outside of a half-dozen early Christian24 basilicas, which I sedulously25 avoided (I employed a guide), there was only the cathedral, the now dismantled26 palace and fortress27 of the Sforzas masquerading as a museum and the local art gallery, an imposing affair crowded with that same religious art work of the Renaissance28 which, one might almost say in the language of the Milwaukee brewer29, had made Italy famous. I was, however, about fed up on art. As a cathedral that of Milan seemed as imposing as any, great and wonderful. I was properly impressed with its immense stained-glass windows, said to be the largest in the world, its fifty-two columns supporting its great roof, its ninety-eight pinnacles30 and two thousand statues. Of a splendid edifice31 such as this there is really nothing to say—it is like Amiens, Rouen, and Canterbury—simply astounding32. It would be useless to attempt to describe the emotions it provoked, as useless as to indicate the feelings some of the pictures in the local gallery aroused in me. It would be Amiens all over again, or some of the pictures in the Uffizi. It seemed to me the newest of all the Gothic cathedrals I saw, absolutely preserved in all its details and as recently erected33 as yesterday, yet it was begun in 1386.
The wonder of this and of every other cathedral like it that I saw, to me, was never their religious but their413 artistic significance. Some one with a splendid imagination must always have been behind each one—and I can never understand the character or the temper of an age or a people that will let anything happen to them.
But if I found little of thrilling artistic significance after Rome and the south I was strangely impressed with the modernity of Milan. Europe, to me, is not so old in its texture34 anywhere as one would suppose. Most European cities of large size are of recent growth, just as American cities are. So many of the great buildings that we think of as time-worn, such as the Ducal Palace at Venice, and elsewhere, are in an excellent state of preservation—quite new looking. Venice has many new buildings in the old style. Rome is largely composed of modern tenements35 and apartment houses. There are elevators in Perugia, and when you reach Milan you find it newer than St. Louis or Cleveland. If there is any medieval spirit anywhere remaining in Milan I could not find it. The shops are bright and attractive. There are large department stores, and the honk-honk of the automobile36 is quite as common here as anywhere. It has only five hundred thousand population, but, even so, it evidences great commercial force. If you ride out in the suburbs, as I did, you see new houses, new factories, new streets, new everything. Unlike the inhabitants of southern Italy, the people are large physically37 and I did not understand this until I learned that they are freely mingled38 with the Germans. The Germans are here in force, in control of the silk mills, the leather manufactories, the restaurants, the hotels, the book stores and printing establishments. It is a wonder to me that they are not in control of the Opera House and the musical activities, and I have no doubt that they influence it greatly. The director of La Scala ought to be a German, if he is not. I got a first suggestion of Paris in the414 tables set before the cafés in the Arcade39 of Vittorio Emanuele and had my first taste of Germany in the purely40 German beer-halls with their orchestras of men or women, where for a few cents expended41 for beer you can sit by the hour and listen to the music. In the hotel where I stopped the German precision of regulation was as marked as anywhere in Germany. It caused me to wonder whether the Germans would eventually sweep down and possess Italy and, if they did, what they would make of it or what Italy would make of them.
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1
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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lagoon
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| n.泻湖，咸水湖 | |
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salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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4
domes
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| n.圆屋顶( dome的名词复数 )；像圆屋顶一样的东西；圆顶体育场 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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exteriorly
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| adv.从外部，表面上 | |
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artistically
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| adv.艺术性地 | |
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12
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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13
pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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commemorating
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| v.纪念，庆祝( commemorate的现在分词 ) | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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16
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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18
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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sedulously
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| ad.孜孜不倦地 | |
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dismantled
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| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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brewer
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| n. 啤酒制造者 | |
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30
pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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32
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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33
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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34
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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tenements
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| n.房屋，住户，租房子( tenement的名词复数 ) | |
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automobile
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| n.汽车，机动车 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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38
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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39
arcade
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| n.拱廊；(一侧或两侧有商店的)通道 | |
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40
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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41
expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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