Venice
Page 13
Away to the west, beyond the railway station, a noble double causeway strides across the water to the mainland. The prime fact about twentieth-century Venice is that the city is no longer an island. The causeway is a symbol, at once sad and high-vaulted, of Venice’s lost supremacies. In her heyday Venetian communications were entirely maritime, and a highly organized system of boats linked the city with the mainland by four principal routes: through Fusina and the Brenta canal to Padua; through Mestre to Udine and Austria; through Pellestrina and Chioggia to the Po and Lombardy; through Treviso to Friuli. So long as Venice was a city-State, facing the ocean, her difficulties of landward communication were a positive advantage. In the fifteenth century, though, she established a mainland empire, setting up the winged lion in Padua, Ravenna, Verona, Treviso, Vicenza, Brescia, Bergamo, Belluno – half-way across Italy, to the approaches of Milan. Becoming at last a European Power, her outlook slowly changed: and by the final days of the Republic, when she was inextricably entangled in Italian affairs, the idea of a bridge to the mainland was being earnestly discussed. The Doge Foscarini carefully considered it, as a means of injecting some new commercial guts into the flaccid body politic, but decided instead to revive the languishing glass industry and merchant navy. Napoleon, so it is said, ordered his engineers to survey the ground for bridge-piles. A group of Italian business men, in the early 1840s, launched a company to finance a railway line to Venice. And the Austrians, in 1846, actually built a bridge. It linked Venice by rail with Vicenza, and it horrified the world’s romantics (Ruskin likened it to ‘a low and monotonous dockyard wall, with flat arches to let the tide through it’).
It stands there today, 3,000 yards long, supported upon 222 arches, and provided with forty-eight explosive chambers, for easy demolition in emergencies. It brings about 100 passenger trains each day into Santa Lucia station, where the tourists, struggling out of their wagons-lits, are whisked bemused into gondolas and launched directly into the Grand Canal. There were once plans to have the trains puffing into the very heart of the city: they were to pass behind Giudecca on an elevated line, and end beside Palladio’s church on the islet of San Giorgio Maggiore. Other nineteenth-century visionaries proposed a dual bridge, dividing at the entrance of the city, one part to run away across the lagoon to the Lido and Chioggia, the other to end at the island of Murano, to the north.
One bridge it remained, though, for nearly a century, until the railway line had become an essential part of the Venetian scene, and had extended into a meshwork of sidings beside the docks, and the city had long been accustomed to the wail of its sad steam-whistles in the night (now no longer to be heard, alas, above the hubbub of the motor-boat engines). A prolonged and bitter controversy preceded the building of the second causeway, the road bridge. On the one side stood the pontisti, the men of progress, who wanted ever closer links between Venice and the great modern world, with ‘the heart of Italy beating against her own’: on the outer side were the traditionalists, the lovers of things old and honoured, who wished to keep their Venice as close to virginity as was physically possible, and who argued on a spectacular variety of premises, from the danger that a second bridge would stifle the flow of tides and kill the city by malaria, to the possibility that the rumble of cart-wheels would weaken the foundations of its buildings.
Thus they stood as exemplars of a perennial Venetian dispute: whether to modernize the Serenissima, or preserve her. Through any modern book on Venice this problem runs as a leitmotiv, tingeing every page with the thought that Venice, as we see her now, may not last much longer, and giving her future a microcosmic quality. The conflict between old and new, between the beautiful and the profitable, between progress and nostalgia, between the spirit and the crank-case, is one that involves us all: and in Venice you may sense it, if you are not too obsessed with the tourist sights, crystallized and in synthesis. It is not decided yet. Even Mussolini at first forbade the building of another bridge, and said that if he could have his way he would destroy the railway too: but in Anno X of his dictatorship, 1931, the pontisti won their particular campaign, and the motor causeway was completed. It has eight more arches than its companion, and swings away from it, as they enter the city side by side, to end with a bang at the Piazzale Roma in a cruelly expensive clutch of multi-storied car parks.
Consider, as you prop yourself against the wall of the Campanile (you cannot fall out, for there is a wire mesh to prevent suicides) how these two bridges have affected the character of Venice. First, they ended any pretence of insular Republican independence. Manin’s forces, it is true, breached the railway bridge and defended it against all comers: but it is almost inconceivable that a city so intimately linked with the mainland could long have maintained its sovereignty, except as a kind of joke or fiscal fiddle. Secondly, the bridges weakened the isolation of the Venetian character. Many more mainland Italians followed the railway into the lagoon; many more Venetians visited the hinterland; the inbred, introspective complex of Venetian society was cracked. Thirdly, the causeways brought an influx of new life and vigour into the city, helping to account for the strange and sudden renaissance of 1848. They fostered trade, they encouraged tourism, and they did something to revive the languishing entrepôt activity of the port.
Finally, the bridges shattered a myth. They dispelled some of the gilded mystery of Venice, laid her open to the Cook’s tour and the family motorist, forced her, willy-nilly, half-way into the modern world. She became, as she remains, an ex-island. Modern Venice begins, not at the distant entrances of the lagoon, where the sea shimmers beyond the lighthouses, but down there at the causeway, behind the petrol pumps and the station platforms. When you leave the bell-chamber, clutching your photographer’s ticket (‘Reddy in Two Hours, Garanted Perfect’), and pushing your way diffidently but firmly into the lift, mark the causeways black on your mind’s map of Venice, and keep the rose-red for the canals.
12
‘Streets Full of Water’
The life-stream of Venice arrives on wheels – her goods and her visitors, even the poor cattle for her municipal slaughter-house: but once at the station or the Piazzale Roma, all this mass of men and material, this daily army, must proceed by water or by foot. Thomas Coryat, before he visited Venice, met an English braggart who claimed to have ‘ridden through Venice in post’: this was, as Coryat indignantly discovered, ‘as gross and palpable a fiction as ever was coyned’. Nobody ever rode through Venice in post, and there are still no proper roads in the city, only footpaths and canals. ‘Streets Full of Water’, Robert Benchley cabled home when he first arrived there, ‘Please Advise’.
The only wheels in Venice proper are on porters’ trollies, or perambulators, or children’s toys, or on the antique bicycles used by a few taciturn knife-sharpeners as the motive force for their grindstones. To grasp what this means, go down to the causeway in the small hours of the morning, and see the convoys of trucks and trailers that wait there in the half-light to be unloaded – scores of them every morning of the year, parked nose to tail, with their drivers sleepy at the wheel, and their bales and packing-cases bursting from the back. Some of this material will be loaded into ships and taken to sea: but most of it must be conveyed into Venice, on barges, rowing-boats, trollies, and even in huge conical baskets on the backs of men. The bridges of the lagoon have linked Venice irrevocably with the mainland: but she remains a wet-bob city still, in which Chateaubriand, who so rashly complained about her wateriness a century and a half ago, would feel no less irritated today.
The central artery of Venice is the Grand Canal, and from that incomparable highway the smaller canals spring like veins, through which the sustenance of the city is pumped daily, like insulin into the system of a diabetic. There are said to be 177 canals, with a total length of twenty-eight miles. They follow old natural water-courses, and meander unpredictably through the city, now wide, fine and splendid, now indescribably tortuous. The Grand Canal is two miles long; it is seventy-six yards wide
at its grandest point, and never less than forty; it has a mean depth of about nine feet (thirteen feet at the Rialto bridge, according to the Admiralty Chart); and it is lively with incessant traffic. Other Venetian waterways are infinitely less imposing – they have an average width of twelve feet, and the average depth of a fair-sized family bath-tub. One canal goes clean under the church of Santo Stefano, and you can take a gondola along it if the tide is low; others are so narrow that only the smallest kind of boat can use them, or so short that there is only just room for their names on the map.
Their usefulness varies according to the tide, and the tide itself varies according to the time of year. The maximum spring tide is probably about seven feet, and the average rise and fall (at the Dogana entrance to the Grand Canal) is just over two feet. These fluctuations drastically alter both the appearance and the efficiency of the city. ‘Like the tide – six hours up and six hours down’, is how a Venetian saying describes the supposedly mercurial character of the citizenry. When the tide is low, the underpinnings of the Venetian houses are revealed in all their green and slimy secrecy. The bottoms of the canals are laid hideously bare, putrescent with rubbish and mud, and some of the smaller waterways almost dry up altogether, so that no boat with a propeller can use them. But when the swift scouring tide sweeps in from the Adriatic, clean, fresh and young, swelling down the Grand Canal and seeping through all its tributaries – then the whole place is richened and rejuvenated, the water surges into the palace doorways, the dead rats, broken dolls and cabbage-stalks are flushed away, and every canal is brimming and busy. Sometimes an exceptional spring tide topples over the edge, flooding the Piazza of St Mark, and people go to their favourite café in gondolas, or hilariously pole their boats about among the colonnades. And once every few centuries the canals freeze over, as you may see in an enchanting picture at the Ca’ Rezzonico, and the Venetians build fires upon the ice, skate to the islands of the lagoon, and impertinently roast their oxen in the middle of the Grand Canal.
The canals have tempered the impact of the causeway. Venice is no longer an island, but her people are still islanders by temperament, for life in roadless Venice is still slow, erratic and sometimes infuriating, and totally unlike existence in any other city on the face of the earth. The Venetian business man can never summon his Alfa. The Venetian urchin cannot leap whistling upon his bicycle. The housewife has to take a boat to market, and the small boy has to walk each morning across a cavalcade of bridges, through a maze of alleyways, to be at school on time (the parents, if of nervous disposition, can often follow his progress half-way across the city, by mounting a powerful telescope on the terrace).
Trade and traffic churn their way heavily through the Venetian watereways, sometimes so busily and so uncomfortably that the whole place feels clogged and constipated with slow movement. The entire organization of one’s private life is governed by the presence of the water. I was once leaning over the Grand Canal with a Venetian acquaintance when she suddenly breathed an extended and despondent sigh, surveyed the canal from one end to the other, and exclaimed: ‘Water! Nothing but water! If only they’d fill the thing up, what a road it would make!’
The canals, some of which have ninth-century origins, have been successfully deepened to allow the passage of larger boats: but they also act as the drains of Venice, and are continually silting themselves up. Until the sixteenth century several rivers flowed through the middle of the lagoon, and they brought so much sediment with them that at one time the canals of Venice were almost choked, and you could walk from the mainland to the city without wetting your feet. The rivers were then diverted to the edges of the lagoon, and today the only mud that enters is sea-mud, to be swept out by the tide again each day. Every year, though, a mountain of excrement falls into the canals, and if you wander about Venice at low tide you will see, sometimes well above the water-line, the orifices by which, in the simplest possible process, most of the city’s sewage leaves its houses. (Many houses nowadays have septic tanks, emptied periodically into barges: but here and there you may still see, jutting from the façades of old palaces, the little closets that used to act as the lavatories of Venice, emptying themselves directly into the water beneath, like the external privies that are attached to the hulls of Arab dhows.)
Tons of muck flows into the canals each day, and gives the crumbling back-quarters of Venice the peculiar stink – half drainage, half rotting stone – that so repels the queasy tourist, but gives the Venetian amateur a perverse and reluctant pleasure. Add to this the dust, vegetable peel, animal matter and ash that pours into every waterway, in defiance of the law, over the balconies and down the back-steps, and it is easy to conceive how thickly the canal-beds are coated with refuse. If you look down from a terrace when the tide is low, you can see an extraordinary variety of rubble and wreckage beneath the water, gleaming with spurious mystery through the green; and it is horrible to observe how squashily the poles go in, when a pile-driver begins its hammering in a canal.
The Venetians have never been much daunted by this substratum. In the fifteenth century they burnt joss-sticks, and ground scents and spices into the soil, to take away the smells: but not long ago even the most fashionable families used to bathe regularly in the Grand Canal, and I am told there was a notice near the Rialto sternly warning passers-by that it was ‘Forbidden To Spit Upon The Swimmers.’ As late as the 1980s ragamuffins and wild young blades of the place, in the sweltering summer evenings, were often to be seen taking wild dives into the murk from bridges and quay-sides, and you might sometimes observe fastidious boatmen, with expressions of unshakeable hygiene, carefully washing out their mugs and basins in the turgid fluid of a backwater.
The civic authorities, though, are necessarily obsessed with sanitation. Much of the foul refuse of Venice, like the mud, is washed away by the tide, without which the city would be uninhabitable – ‘the sea rises and falls there’, as a fifteenth-century visitor said, ‘and cleans out the filth from the secret places’. The rest must be removed by man. For centuries each canal was drained and scoured by hand every twenty years or so (culs-de-sac more often, because the tide does not wash through them): only the Grand Canal escaped – it has only been emptied once, when a fourteenth-century earthquake swallowed its waters in an instant and left it dry for two weeks. For nearly thirty years the job has been neglected, so that many of the canals are severely silted, and the effluences that flow into them are obliged to ooze elsewhere. There was a scheme in the early 1990s to dredge them all by mechanical means, but for myself I shall always remember the old shovelling processes as one of the elemental Venetian experiences.
It used to be an ominous sight for the householder, when a boatload of respectable men in overcoats appeared outside her back door, painting numbers in red paint upon the walls: for it meant that her canal was the next to be drained, exposing the bed in all its horror. A vile miasma would then overcome the quarter. The inhabitants shuttered their windows and hastened about with handkerchiefs over their mouths, and far down in the gulley of the empty waterway, beneath the ornate doorways and marble steps of the palaces, you might see the labourers toiling in the sludge. They had erected a little railway down there, and they stood knee-deep in black glutinous filth, throwing it into tipper-trucks and wheeling it away to waiting barges. Their bodies, their clothes, their faces were all smeared with the stuff, and if you engaged them in conversation their attitude was one of numbed but mordant resignation.
A wonderful variety of boats has been developed by the Venetians over the generations, to make the best use of their unorthodox highways. Their very first chronicler, visiting the wattle villages of their original island settlements, remarked upon the boats tied up outside every house, for all the world as other people kept their horses. Today the ordinary Venetian is not generally a waterman, and looks at the canals with a mixture of pride and profound distrust; but sometimes you see a motor-boat driver, waiting for his patron, who does not bother to moor his cra
ft, but stands on the quayside holding it with a loose rope, precisely as though it were a champing horse, and he a patient groom in a stable-yard. In the Natural History Museum there is a prehistoric canoe, dug up from a marsh in the lagoon, and now preserved in a fossilized condition. It looks almost as old as time itself, but in its blackened silhouette you can clearly recognize the first developing lines of the gondola.
If you take an aircraft over Venice, and fly low above her mottled attics, you will see her canals thick with an endless flow of craft, like little black corpuscles. Every kind of boat navigates the Venetian channels, for every kind of purpose, and many are unique to the place. There is the gondola, of course. There is the sandolo, a smaller but no less dapper boat, also rowed by one standing oarsman, facing forward. There is the vaporetto, which is the water-bus. There is the motoscafo, which is the motor launch. There is the topo, and the trabaccolo, and the cavallina, and the vipera, and the bissona, not to speak of semi-mythical rigs like the barcobestia, or ceremonial barges like the bucintoro, or skiffs from the two old Venetian rowing clubs (the Querini and the Bucintoro), or frisky outboards, or sleek speedboats, or dustbin barges, or parcel-post boats, or excursion launches, or car ferries, or canoes paddled by visiting German students, or inflatables with outboard engines, or yachts, or schooners from Yugoslavia, or naval picket boats, or the smelter’s barge with a billowing furnace on it, or ambulance boats, or hearses, or milk-boats, or even the immaculate humming cruise-ships that sail into the wide canal of Giudecca from Athens, the Levant or the Black Sea.