Great Cities Through Travelers' Eyes

by Peter Furtado

  We continued our walk to the public gardens, which it is said were made by the French, who delight in a promenade; in any other city they would seem poor, but in Venice they are a great acquisition: we met crowds of people there and on the road; many pretty girls and women; but not any, I think, of extraordinary beauty; they wore good clothes and were dressed neatly. I never found a great variety of colours; there was no fashionable, or prevailing colour; each wore what fancy, taste, or the want of taste, dictated.

  1851 JOHN RUSKIN

  English art critic Ruskin (1819–1900) is renowned as the greatest celebrant of Venice and its architecture. His finely wrought description of the exterior of St Mark’s cathedral remains a classic of 19th-century artistic writing.

  A yard or two farther, we pass the hostelry of the Black Eagle, and, glancing as we pass through the square door of marble, deeply moulded, in the outer wall, we see the shadows of its pergola of vines resting on an ancient well, with a pointed shield carved on its side; and so presently emerge on the bridge and Campo San Moisè, whence to the entrance into St Mark’s Place, called the Bocca di Piazza (mouth of the square), the Venetian character is nearly destroyed, first by the frightful facade of San Moisè, which we will pause at another time to examine, and then by the modernizing of the shops as they near the piazza, and the mingling with the lower Venetian populace of lounging groups of English and Austrians.

  We will push fast through them into the shadow of the pillars at the end of the ‘Bocca di Piazza’, and then we forget them all; for between those pillars there opens a great light, and, in the midst of it, as we advance slowly, the vast tower of St Mark seems to lift itself visibly forth from the level field of chequered stones; and, on each side, the countless arches prolong themselves into ranged symmetry, as if the rugged and irregular houses that pressed together above us in the dark alley had been struck back into sudden obedience and lovely order, and all their rude casements and broken walls had been transformed into arches charged with goodly sculpture, and fluted shafts of delicate stone.

  And well may they fall back, for beyond those troops of ordered arches there rises a vision out of the earth, and all the great square seems to have opened from it in a kind of awe, that we may see it far away – a multitude of pillars and white domes, clustered into a long low pyramid of coloured light; a treasure-heap, it seems, partly of gold, and partly of opal and mother-of-pearl, hollowed beneath into five great vaulted porches, ceiled with fair mosaic, and beset with sculpture of alabaster, clear as amber and delicate as ivory – sculpture fantastic and involved, of palm leaves and lilies, and grapes and pomegranates, and birds clinging and fluttering among the branches, all twined together into an endless network of buds and plumes; and, in the midst of it, the solemn forms of angels, sceptred, and robed to the feet, and leaning to each other across the gates, their figures indistinct among the gleaming of the golden ground through the leaves beside them, interrupted and dim, like the morning light as it faded back among the branches of Eden, when first its gates were angel-guarded long ago. And round the walls of the porches there are set pillars of variegated stones, jasper and porphyry, and deep-green serpentine spotted with flakes of snow, and marbles, that half refuse and half yield to the sunshine, Cleopatra-like, ‘their bluest veins to kiss’ – the shadow, as it steals back from them, revealing line after line of azure undulation, as a receding tide leaves the waved sand; their capitals rich with interwoven tracery, rooted knots of herbage, and drifting leaves of acanthus and vine, and mystical signs, all beginning and ending in the Cross; and above them, in the broad archivolts, a continuous chain of language and of life – angels, and the signs of heaven, and the labours of men, each in its appointed season upon the earth; and above these, another range of glittering pinnacles, mixed with white arches edged with scarlet flowers – a confusion of delight, amid which the breasts of the Greek horses are seen blazing in their breadth of golden strength, and the St Mark’s Lion, lifted on a blue field covered with stars, until at last, as if in ecstasy, the crests of the arches break into a marble foam, and toss themselves far into the blue sky in flashes and wreaths of sculptured spray, as if the breakers on the Lido shore had been frost-bound before they fell, and the sea-nymphs had inlaid them with coral and amethyst.

  1883 HENRY JAMES

  Several novels by American writer Henry James (1843–1916) concerned well-to-do Americans visiting in Europe. He lived much of his life in England and travelled widely in Europe, and his accounts of his travels appeared in several American magazines. They were collected in his Portraits of Places (1883).

  The danger is that you will not linger enough – a danger of which the author of these lines had known something. It is possible to dislike Venice, and to entertain the sentiment in a responsible and intelligent manner. There are travellers who think the place odious, and those who are not of this opinion often find themselves wishing that the others were only more numerous. The sentimental tourist’s only quarrel with his Venice is that he has too many competitors there. He likes to be alone; to be original; to have (to himself, at least) the air of making discoveries. The Venice of today is a vast museum where the little wicket that admits you is perpetually turning and creaking, and you march through the institution with a herd of fellow-gazers. There is nothing left to discover or describe, and originality of attitude is completely impossible. This is often very annoying; you can only turn your back on your impertinent playfellow and curse his want of delicacy. But this is not the fault of Venice; it is the fault of the rest of the world. The fault of Venice is that, though it is easy to admire it, it is not so easy to live in it. After you have been there a week, and the bloom of novelty has rubbed off, you wonder whether you can accommodate yourself to the peculiar conditions. Your old habits become impracticable, and you find yourself obliged to form new ones of an undesirable and unprofitable character. You are tired of your gondola (or you think you are), and you have seen all the principal pictures and heard the names of the palaces announced a dozen times by your gondolier, who brings them out almost as impressively as if he were an English butler bawling titles into a drawing room. You have walked several hundred times round the Piazza, and bought several bushels of photographs. You have visited the antiquity-mongers whose horrible sign boards dishonour some of the grandest vistas in the Grand Canal; you have tried the opera and found it very bad; you have bathed at the Lido and found the water flat. You have begun to have a shipboard-feeling to regard the Piazza as an enormous saloon and the Riva degli Schiavoni as a promenade deck. You are obstructed and encaged; your desire for space is unsatisfied; you miss your usual exercise….

  The canals have a horrible smell, and the everlasting Piazza, where you have looked repeatedly at every article in every shop window and found them all rubbish, where the young Venetians who sell bead-bracelets and ‘panoramas’ are perpetually thrusting their wares at you, where the same tightly buttoned officers are for ever sucking the same black weeds, at the same empty tables, in front of the same cafés – the Piazza, as I say, has resolved itself into a sort of magnificent treadmill. This is the state of mind of those shallow inquirers who find Venice all very well for a week; and if in such a state of mind you take your departure, you act with fatal rashness. The loss is your own, moreover; it is not with all deference to your personal attractions that of your companions who remain behind; for though there are some disagreeable things in Venice, there is nothing so disagreeable as the visitors. The conditions are peculiar, but your intolerance of them evaporates before it has had time to become a prejudice. When you have called for the bill to go, pay it and remain, and you will find on the morrow that you are deeply attached to Venice.

  VIENNA

  Vienna, founded by the Celts and built by Romans, became capital of the Holy Roman Empire under the Habsburgs in the 15th century; after the dissolution of the empire in 1804, it remained capital of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and then the Dual Monarchy of Austria-Hungary, to 1919. The
city, with its strategic position on the Danube, was unsuccessfully besieged by the Ottomans twice — by Suleiman the Magnificent in 1529 and Mehmed IV in 1683.

  It has been the cultural centre of Central Europe, with particularly strong musical heritage — it was Mozart’s hometown in his final years. As capital of the republic of Austria in the 20th century, it became a frontline location of the Cold War.

  1480 ANTONIO BONFINI

  Bonfini (1434–1503) was an Italian poet and historian based at the court of the king of Hungary. In 1480, during the reign of Frederick III, he wrote ‘In praise of Vienna’, beginning with the words: ‘Vienna is one of the most beautiful cities of the barbarians.’

  The city proper seems like a royal palace amid the surrounding suburbs; and yet several of these vie with it for beauty and grandeur. Entering the city you might fancy yourself walking among the buildings of a huge royal castle, so perfect is the disposition of all the houses. Everything delights the eye of the observer: each house seems to stand more proudly than its neighbours. You have to pause constantly to enjoy so many beauties. The houses of the great, in particular, look like palaces. Almost every house has, in addition to its front portion, a rear building with vast peristyles covered or uncovered, offering protection from the cold winds that blow from the surrounding heights. The dining rooms are often splendidly panelled with pine and heated with great stoves. The windows are all glazed; some of them are beautifully painted and protected with an iron trellis. The houses have bathrooms and kitchen offices and bedrooms which can be rented. All of them are provided with cellars to store wine and provisions. The luxury of the windows and mirrors is almost equal to the splendour of olden days. So many birds sing in their cages that you fancy you are walking through a sylvan glade.

  1665 EVLIYA ÇELEBI

  Mehmed Zilli, known as Evliya Çelebi (1611–1682), was an Ottoman traveller and diplomat for Sultan Mehmed IV. His Book of Travels covers much of Central Asia, the Middle East and eastern and Central Europe; his visit to Vienna was as part of a delegation to the emperor, and to assess the city’s defences in the event of an Ottoman decision to attack.

  The fortifications have eight principal gates with several others along the banks of the Danube. Where the land is low, the ramparts are almond-shaped and with some 27 bastions are a formidable piece of construction, a powerful defence with high walls and extensive cover, a menacing fortress and a veritable temple of paganism. May Allah allow it to fall into our hands.

  The shells which the Sultan Suleiman fired at the western fortifications still lie buried in the walls. Each year, though, monks come from other provinces and rebuild the damaged walls in accordance with their evil beliefs, and make them as strong as the castles of Alexander.…

  The air here is delightful, always evoking spring, so that everyone enjoys good health. The men, who live rather ascetically, may be thin but they live to a great age and are very fit.

  These Germans all wear black coats and French shoes. Because of the delicious air, their skin is white like camphor and their well-formed bodies are soft, like the flesh of an ear-lobe. Often the exquisite German boys have such a light skin that they appear very pale.

  In contrast to the young girls, the married women all display their bosoms which shine white as snow. They tie their dresses in a different way, towards the centre, which makes their ugly costumes appear even more out of shape. Thanks to Allah, the bosoms of their women are not like our ladies’ and as large as wash-tubs, but small like apples.

  The girls go everywhere with exposed skin and loose hair. Because the air and water are so fresh, they have a beauty and affection which is like a sun of gold.

  1716 LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU

  Montagu (1689–1762) was the wife of the British ambassador to Turkey, and they passed through Vienna on the way to take up that post. Her letters show a great interest in the practicalities of life in the places she visited.

  8 September This town, which has the honour of being the emperor’s residence, did not at all answer to my ideas of it; the streets are very close, and so narrow one cannot observe the fine fronts of the palaces, though many of them very well deserve observation, being truly magnificent, all built of fine white stone, and excessive high, the town being so much too little for the number of people that desire to live in it, the builders seem to have projected to repair that misfortune by clapping one town on the top of another, most of the houses being of five, and some of them six, storeys. You may easily imagine that, the streets being so narrow, the upper rooms are extremely dark, and what is an inconveniency much more intolerable in my opinion, there is no house that has so few as five or six families in it. The apartments of the greatest ladies, and even of the ministers of state, are divided but by a partition from that of a tailor or a shoemaker, and I know of nobody that has above two floors in any house, one for their own use and one higher for their servants. Those that have houses of their own let out the rest of them to whoever will take them; thus the great stairs (which are all of stone) are as common and dirty as the street.

  ’Tis true, when you have travelled through them, nothing can be more surprisingly magnificent than the apartments. They are commonly a suite of eight or ten large rooms, all inlaid, the doors and windows richly carved and gilt, and the furniture such as is seldom seen in the palaces of sovereign prices in other countries – the hangings the finest tapestry of Brussels, prodigious large looking-glasses in silver frames, fine japan tables, beds, chairs, canopies and window curtains of the richest Genoa damask or velvet, almost covered with gold lace or embroidery. The whole made gay by pictures and vast jars of japan china, and in almost every room large lustres of rock crystal.

  I have already had the honour of being invited to dinner by several of the first people of quality; and I must do them the justice to say, the good taste and magnificence of their tables very well answered to that of their furniture. I have been more than once entertained with fifty dishes of meat all served in silver, and well dressed; the dessert proportionable, served in the finest china. But the variety and richness of their wines is what appears the most surprising. The constant way is, to lay a list of their names upon the plates of the guests, along with the napkins; and I have counted several times to the number of eighteen different sorts, all exquisite in their kinds.

  1836 FRANCES TROLLOPE

  Frances Trollope (1779–1863) was a British writer who travelled in the United States in the early 1830s and wrote successfully about the life she found there. She repeated the formula with books about Brussels, Paris and Vienna; she also wrote almost one hundred novels. Novelist Anthony Trollope (see page 298) was her son.

  24 December A more than usual degree of animation has pervaded the whole town for some days past, occasioned by the preparations making to celebrate Christmas.

  The shops are vying with each other which shall display the most tempting assortment of articles in their different lines; and though the more extensive elbow room of London and Paris permits of larger shops and showrooms, they can display nothing more brilliant and more beautiful that what may be seen here.

  In the important matters of shawls, blonds [lace], velvets, silks, satins and so forth, it is quite impossible that they should be surpassed. The silversmiths and jewellers certainly exceed in their rich exhibitions those either of France or England, with the exception, perhaps, of the interior arcana of Rundel and Bridges, and of Hamlets. The show of ornamental glass is exquisitely and delicately beautiful, and might almost make one fancy oneself within the domain of some enchanter, so bright, so tasteful and so fanciful, in colour and in form, are the productions of the Bohemian manufactories.

  The windows of the confectioners do not indeed exhibit, as with us, plum-cakes majestic in their grandiose proportions and splendid ornaments; but, in revenge, they become magazines of bon-bons that dazzle the eyes as you enter among them, for they sparkle like grottoes with a thousand crystals. The art of working in sugar was never carried,
even in Paris, to greater perfection than it is here. You may find yourself eating all the fruits of the earth, whether in or out of season, while believing that you are only about to make your way through a sugar-plum.

  They are, beyond all contradiction, the prettiest-looking comestibles in the world: nevertheless, were I a Vienna lady, I would never permit the elegant pyramidical tray charged with them to travel round and round at my parties; for as each one is enclosed in a little dainty dish of scolloped paper, that it may reach the mouth without soiling the gloves, the consequence is that the purity of the drawing-room carpets must inevitably suffer; for it is not uncommon, after two or three entries of refreshments, to see the floor perfectly strewed with these sugar-plum cases.

  But all these extra preparations for enjoyment are by no means confined to the wealthier classes. At the corner of every street we see customers of quite the lower orders bargaining for trees, adorned with knots of many-coloured paper, in order to celebrate the Christmas. These trees, which, I believe, are always spruce-firs, are provided of every variety of degree, as to size and expense, by nearly every family in Vienna where there are young people. Nor is the custom peculiar to the capital; not a cottage in Austria, I am told, but has something of the same kind to solemnize this joyous season. The tree is called ‘the tree of the little Jesus’; and on its branches are suspended all sorts of pretty toys, bijous and bon-bons, to be distributed among those who are present at the fete. On the trees that are offered for sale in the streets, the place of more costly presents is supplied with an apple or a raisin, a chestnut, or a bit of gingerbread: but still they all show a gay and gala aspect to the eye, with their floating paper ribbons; and I have watched as much happy interest in the countenance of a poor body, while balancing between boughs that waved with streamers of pink, and others where blue predominated, as the richest lady could have felt, while selecting the most elegant and costly offerings for her friends.