Mrs. Hugh Fraser

Venice, Bride of the Sea—Its Glorious Children—Pledge of the Crown of Thorns—The Miracle of Saint Saba’s Relics—Intellectual Humility and Faith—St. Mark, Patron of the Venetians—Theft of the Saint’s Remains from Alexandria—Reception in Venice—Early History—Tales of Hardships—The Gate of the Damsels—Legends of the Saint.

There is hardly a street or a building in Venice that cannot flower with some whisper of legend, if the soil of its story be but cultivated with determination; but a house-to-house search would involve the labour of years; and, though the pursuit of legend is doubtless an enthralling business, yet life is a small package, and it is difficult enough to find a room in it for all that it has to contain.

Still, if I am fortunate enough to lead some, through the lure of the legend, to the serious study of the history from which the legend is culled, my labour will have been repaid many times over. In the rush and scurry of to-day, when excitement is mistaken for labour and bustle for speed, scholarship—that is to say, the real and serious study of real and serious subjects—has become, except for the illustrious few, a thing of the past; but those few have gathered together, for our benefit, a precious mass of material, a rich harvest of romance wherewith we can brighten many a heavy hour; so let us wander into the garden, culling as we go, and acknowledging our heartfelt gratitude to those who planted it at the cost of such infinite toil.

The Bride of the Sea, seen from the distance, seems to rise like a softly coloured pearl from the misty embrace of the waters, and the effect is one of such awesome charm that, for a while, the mind can hardly carry the suggestions that crowd in upon it. What Venice contains! Is there any city in the world, save only Rome and Jerusalem—the cradle and the House—that can compare with that jewel-case?

The home, in one way or another, of Titian, Tintoretto, Giorgione, Veronese, and Barbari—the story of Venice is so illuminated with the glory of her children that its tragedy is almost lost in it, as black rocks emerge with their surroundings in the glint of the mid-day sun. From its meagre beginnings—a few slivers of land, half covered by the sea, where some hundreds of exiles took refuge and sheltered themselves in huts of mud and osier, down through the ages, she comes like an Easter “Gloria”—first a whisper, then a murmur, and then, from note to note, onwards and upwards, to the crashing splendour of her triumph.

Venice has grown old now, and she is content to doze in the sun’s warmth and to dream of the golden past. Her gates are open now to inquisitive sightseers, and one can imagine her smile of amusement when, every now and again, some impudent brat digs her in the ribs, Ruskin-like, and bellows his fortnight-formed opinions of her in her ear.

“Oh, you were beautiful!” they cry, “but what a shocking condition of ignorance and idolatry you did live in! Of course you could not be expected to be as wise as Manchester or as spiritually enlightened as Piccadilly Circus—still!”

“Still?” she answers mildly. “I once held the Crown of Thorns in my hand—did you know that? It was a very long time ago—seven hundred years and more—but I did.”

It was soon after the death of John of Brienne, when the revenues of France were so eaten up by wars—with Bulgaria among others (it seems queer to think that that state which has been fighting the battle of the Crown so gallantly should once have been the cause of the pawning of the Crown!)—that the government of the Regency was compelled to open subscriptions for a loan. The one movable thing of value which they possessed was the Crown of Thorns, and this was given in pledge to a certain Albert Nerosini, as representing the Venetian and Genoese merchants who had taken up the loan (one wonders that some of them were not struck dead for the impious sacrilege!). It was taken from its resting-place in the chapel of the Bouillons, and, after the term of the loan had run out and the payment of the note was not forthcoming, by an arrangement with a rich Venetian banker, made in order to evade a scandal (one cannot help thinking that it was a little late in the day to be talking about a “scandal”), it was transferred for the sake of safety to the Church of Pantocrates, in Constantinople, whence, in the case of the Regency failing in the performance of its agreement, the banker was at liberty to remove it to Venice and keep it there for a further term of four months; also, it was agreed that if the money was not paid by the 19th of June, 1238, the Crown should become the property of the mortgagee.

We are not told what the Holy Louis IX of France said when he came to hear of this transaction, but when we remember that in those rough times even the most saintly of men were apt to “let fly” upon lesser occasions and under far less temptation, one can imagine. He acted, however, with commendable promptitude and sent off two Dominicans on the spot to Constantinople to redeem the relic from pawn and bring it back, if possible, to their own country—a congenial task, no doubt, to the sons of St. Dominic.

It was a long journey that they had to make before they completed their mission, for the Imperial government had not liquidated its obligations, and the owner had already hired a ship to convey the Cross, and had set sail some time before the two monks arrived at the Golden Horn. But they tracked it to Venice, and there they obtained an audience with the Doge, Tiepolo, who must have been in an extraordinarily good temper, for him, for he seems to have made no objections, either to the audience or to taking them in person to St. Mark’s, where he showed them a golden casket, sealed with his own arms, wherein lay the treasure they sought.

Louis IX had picked his men well, they paid the mortgagee instantly, and as instantly claimed the restitution of the Crown. It is rather difficult to see upon what they based their claim, but it was a pious age and they seem to have had no great difficulty in obtaining the surrender of it, for they were well on their way home before any question arose upon the subject between the Imperial government of Constantinople and the banker from whom they had redeemed the Crown.

Upon their return to Paris, Louis took the Crown in procession to the Sainte Chapelle, which had been built especially to contain it, carrying it in his own hands and walking barefoot and in his shirt through the streets, and there it remained for many centuries, to attest the devotion and piety of the Royal Saint.

The Venetians appear to have been ardent collectors of sacred objects at all times, for it is related that, as early as 992, a certain Pietro Barbolano, afterwards Doge, having been sent upon a diplomatic mission to the Byzantine Court, came across the remains of Saint Saba and conceived an ardent desire to transport the holy body to his own country. In parenthesis, and without in the least impugning the moral sense of either party to the transaction, the bargaining that followed between Barbolano and the officials, for the purchase of the Saint’s remains, makes queer reading. There seems to have been no hesitancy in haggling for the relics, and no sense of any sordidness or sacrilege.

Even the storm that descended upon Barbolano on the night of his embarkation does not seem to have carried any message to him, but the priests were alarmed and begged him to reconsider his intention. But he, being on the spot with his two sons and some servants, soon had the casket on board, and set sail. The weather cleared up and equable winds soon brought them to the Venetian shore, when Barbolano ordered the chest to be transferred from the ship to his own house, which stood next to the Church of Sant’ Antonino at Olivolo. But the casket would not move. So heavy had it grown that no human agency could be found to lift it an inch; and, while they were still struggling with it, the bell of the Campanile began to peal so violently as to make the great tower rock.

A crowd speedily assembled, and Barbolano, grasping the message of the bell and the meaning of the casket’s weight, fell on his knees and said: “We will carry it into the Church, for the will of the Saviour has been declared that the body shall rest in the shrine dedicated to his servant, St. Antoninus!”

Immediately the casket became as light as a feather, when it was conducted with all pomp to Sant’ Antonino and laid upon the altar. As the casket touched the stone, the bell of the Campanile ceased its clamour; and then, over the remains, appeared a Dove of wonderful whiteness of plumage, which only disappeared after the “Te Deum” had been sung and the services concluded. An altar was built for St. Saba behind the choir, and the casket was placed in the Treasury of the Church.

It is told besides how, on that same evening when the “Piovano” of Sant’ Antonino was strolling about his garden, among some rose trees which he had recently planted there, he noticed a flower of such unearthly beauty that he immediately ascribed it to the miracle which he himself had just witnessed.

I can almost see the smiles with which many good people will read this little story, but permit me to suggest, with all the most kindly and friendly feelings possible, to such that, once the human intelligence—and I care not whose it is—is permitted to grapple, unaided, with the possibilities of an Infinite Power, spiritual destruction is the invariable result. “Whosoever shall fall upon this stone shall be broken—but on whomsoever it shall fall it shall grind him to powder!”

Legend and fact, faith and inspiration are so intermingled that to separate and classify them is impossible to any intelligence not directly inspired. But it is not a bad thing to bear in mind, if only for the sake of acquiring that intellectual humility without which the production of good work is impossible, that the veriest fool can disbelieve. It requires no brains or study whatever; but to grasp and retain faith, based on conviction, and supported by reason, is an extremely difficult task, even for the strongest mind. Indeed, were it not for the grace of the Almighty aiding, I think very few, if any, could accomplish it.

The devotion of the Venetian to St. Mark is as great as that of the southern sailors to St. Antoninus. They were always a pious people and had carried about with them many relics, so that some discussion (probably tinged with acridness, since in these matters each had his peculiar devotion for his own) took place as to the choice of a holy patron, for the new settlement, when the descendants of the pioneers found themselves in a position to honour one with a suitable edifice—an insurance, so to speak, of the continued attention of the Almighty.

There was a legend, no doubt the smoke of some far-off fire of fact, that St. Mark the Evangelist had been shipwrecked upon the shore of Rialto and that, on landing there, he heard a voice from the emptiness of the island that said, “Pax tibi, Marce, Evangeliste meus” (Peace be with thee, oh, Mark, my evangelist!), words which afterward became the motto of the Republic.

St. Mark thereupon grew in honour among the Venetians, until he had assumed the position of Patron, and it was not long before the idea of bringing back his body, which reposed at Alexandria, began to take hold of the common mind. But, unfortunately, Alexandria was in the hands of the Mussulman, and the Emperor had forbidden any intercourse with the unbelievers, even for the purposes of commerce.

Now the Emperor’s interdictions were not to be lightly disobeyed, life and fortune being the usual penalty; but the Emperor was far away and St. Mark could hardly refuse to have any one going on such an errand in his keeping. He was an Evangelist, too—a mighty man and one who stood very near to the throne; so, commending themselves to his protection, two Venetians, merchants and navigators—Burno da Malamoceo and Rustico da Torcello—fitted out a very fast boat with merchandise for the East, and set sail, leaving no address.

When they reached Alexandria, they stayed on board until the evening, and one can imagine them sitting on the deck and watching the slow setting of the sun over the blue waters, their eyes straying hungrily to the city as it faded, shade by shade, into an amethystine obscurity.

They were running more risks than that of the Emperor’s wrath that night, and they must have talked long ere they arrived at a plan of action for getting the body of the Saint on board. It would not be tamely surrendered, that was sure; in fact, as they knew, it would not be surrendered at all. They would have to take it, and, besides, transport it through the city afterwards.

When at last the night gathered the world into its mantle, they left the ship and were rowed ashore, when, taking their courage in their hands, they hurried through the soft eastern dusk towards the Basilica where the body was kept. How they came to know their way to it, history does not say, and that tangled maze of buildings which was Alexandria must have been a business to thread, seeing that they spoke no language which the common people in the streets understood. However, they eventually arrived at the Basilica and opened communication with the men in charge of the Church.

They seem to have gone straight to the point, for in a very short while they succeeded in bribing these latter (one can only speculate on what they must have been compelled to pay!) and in obtaining possession of the treasure. That done, they placed it in the bottom of a cart and filled the latter with as much salt-pork as the mules could draw, knowing well that no Mohammedan, however casual, would touch the unclean meat or even approach it, after which they retraced their way through the sleeping city and smuggled their prize on board.

They slipped out to sea while it was still dark, and, the wind holding, made the return journey swiftly. Coming near to their destination, they sent on a light boat to carry the good news and to give the city and its rulers time enough to arrange for the triumphal reception which they were sure would not be grudged to the freight they were bringing.

Nor were they disappointed. The population came down to the shore of the Lagoon en masse, and the four greatest nobles of Venice carried the casket on their shoulders to the private chapel of the ducal palace, where it was to lie in state until a church could be built for it, amid cries of “Viva San Marco” that swept over the city and from island to island.

And it was thanks to the Evangelist that the scattered factions in Venice drew together again and became true Venetians, for their allegiance to him bound them gradually to each other.

The early history of Venice is a succession of wars, foreign and internecine, as has been the experience of every tribe and race that has risen above the common herd. She came to greatness in battle, and sank to littleness in peace. Without strife—without the continuous necessity of keeping herself in readiness for self-defence—she relapsed, like all the rest, and sank into insignificance. Muscles unused will soon become useless, and this result will gradually affect the whole system.

As early as 809, she was important enough to attract the enmity of Charlemagne, who sent a fleet under his son Pepin to the skirts of the Lagoon. Then it was that Venice awoke to find herself a cause, for, in the face of the Franks, the partisan warfare ceased and under Badoer the Venetians stood together, back to back, and succeeded in handling Pepin hard enough to make him see the wisdom of leaving them in peace in their islands afterwards.

Situated as they were, they were the natural prey of freebooters of all sorts for centuries. It was an old custom with them that on the eve of St. Mary’s twelve poor girls, endowed by the State, should be married to their lovers in the Church of St. Peter the Apostle at Olivolo. On the 31st of January, 939, some corsairs who happened to be in the neighbourhood, resolved to abduct these Daughters of St. Mark, knowing that the general festa would make a surprise easy and defence difficult, if not impossible.

Now the parents and kinsfolk of the lucky virgins and their betrothed used to assemble on these occasions on the island of Olivolo, where stood the Church, and from the dawn the barks skimmed the canals, gaily dressed with flowers and flags, bearing the happy couples to San Pietro with their dowers and wedding presents; so the attackers, conducted by their chief Gaiolo, a renowned ruffian of that period, hid themselves the night before the festival in the thick woods of Olivolo, and the next morning, so soon as the procession had passed through the doors, they crossed the narrow canal and ran at the Church.

The rites had begun, and the brides were on the point of being handed over to their future husbands, when the doors were flung open and the Church was filled with armed and yelling men, who dragged the girls from the altars, flung them into their boats, and sped away for Trieste.

The Doge was the first to grapple with the situation and rushed out, accompanied by the maddened bridegrooms, and called every one within hearing distance to arms. Some boats belonging to the Trunk Makers of Santa Maria Formosa being near by, the Doge and his companions jumped in, seized the oars, and pulled with frenzied energy for the lagoon of Caorla, where the rapers still were. Thanks to their knowledge of their own waterways, they caught their enemies in a creek, now called the Porto delle Donzelle (the gate of the damsels) and, with ferocious delight, set upon them.

The fight was a prolonged and bloody affair, but the outraged lovers avenged themselves very completely, by all accounts, for hardly a corsair escaped, and the girls were carried back to Olivolo, when the interrupted rites were completed and the tide of enjoyment allowed to rise to unusual heights in the feasting that followed.

In later years, to commemorate the incident, twelve young girls used to pay a visit in the company of the Doge to the Trunk Makers of Santa Maria Formosa on that date. It is said that the custom was originated by the Trunk Makers themselves, who requested the Doge to make the visit and even went so far as to offer the latter a new hat, in case of rain, which often resulted in another custom, that of supplying the Prince on these occasions with two hats and two bottles of wine.

There are several legends of St. Mark extant, but perhaps the most interesting of them is one dating from a flood to which Venice was subjected, owing to a gigantic tidal disturbance in 1340.

It was on the 15th of February that the storm was at its worst, and by nightfall the dry land was almost submerged beneath the raging waters. A solitary sailor, hugging his cloak to himself, was standing in the windy downpour, as evening fell, on the Piazzetta of St. Mark’s, when he heard himself addressed by name and, turning, saw beside him a tall and venerable person, who spake in a tone of calm authority: “I am St. Mark the Evangelist. Take me over to San Giorgio!” The man hardly dared to move, but awe getting the better of fear, he obeyed, and ferried the saint to San Giorgio, where, waiting for them apparently, stood a stout looking personage, whom the terrified ferryman presently learnt to be St. George. As soon as the latter was on board, the Evangelist directed the sailor to proceed to the Lido, where a third traveller was added to the party, in the person of St. Nicholas.

The sailor, his fears calmed by the presence of three such holy ones, proceeded to carry out the Evangelist’s further instructions without hesitation, and rowed out into the tempest that was lashing the seas into a screaming fury. On they went, the waves, though mountain high, doing them no harm, until they seemed to be enclosed in caverns of water; and then, in an instant, they were surrounded by legions of devils, howling and whooping and leaping about in the air.

But these latter were not left long to triumph in the success of their wickedness. Any one of the three saints would, probably, have been strong enough to disperse them, but the combination was irresistible and, after a brief resistance, they were exorcised and sent packing. Then St. Mark held out a ring to the sailor, telling him to take it to the “Procuratori,” who would give him five ducats; and, before the man had time to recover his breath and voice his gratitude at the splendid reward, he found himself alone in the boat.