Since I’ve been here, all sorts of dates have become staples of my annual pilgrimage through the months — dates which never had any significance for me because they didn’t have anything to do with me. Like most dates, today excepted.
Take May 5. No, I don’t mean Cinco di Mayo. It’s not Florence Nightingale’s birthday. Not the first publication of Don Quixote. Not the invention of WD-40. All events worth observing but they don’t have much to do with Venice.
Death mask of Napoleon (Library Company of Philadelphia).
May 5, just so you know, was the Death of Napoleon. In case this still doesn’t matter to you, your city probably wasn’t starved, raped, mutilated, and then sold into slavery. Probably. So anyway, May 5 is, in fact, a day worth remembering, however briefly.
But, I hear you cry, this is March, not May. I realize that. I just wanted to say that March 5, which comes to nobody’s mind except Lino’s (and now mine), claims just as important a place in my calendrical memory. And I wasn’t even there.
March 5, as Lino tells me every year (“Who knows why this date has remained so fixed in my mind?” he asked this morning), was the Battle of the Great Frozen Eel.
On the night between March 4 and 5, he went out in the lagoon to fish.
“There was hoarfrost in the bottom of my boat,” he starts out, to set the scene, and to point out how cold it was. March is famous for pulling tricks like that — it snowed here day before yesterday.
Neither sleet nor snow nor fog nor gloom of night stays the letter carriers, and should the gondoliers be less than they?
He fishes for a couple of hours out in the lagoon. “I got all kinds of great stuff,” he says (I’m freely translating). “Seppie. Passarini [European flounder]. And an eel.”
The fact of there being an eel isn’t so remarkable — the lagoon version has a lovely pale-green belly — but considering that he fishes with a trident, they’re pretty tricky to spear. So this was a sort of bonus.
All the fish are tossed into a big bin. He continues fishing. It continues to be really cold.
Finally he rows home, lugs the bin upstairs and dumps the contents into the kitchen sink.
The eel makes a clunk. It’s frozen solid in the curled-up shape it was forced to assume in the bin. “That didn’t happen to the passarini,” Lino adds, “but the eel was hard as stone. So I began to run tepid water on it to soften it up.”
“All of a sudden” — (I love this part, it’s like a fairy tale when the witch or prince or stolen baby appears) — “all of a sudden, I see its gills begin to move.” He makes a slowly-moving-gills motion with his hand.
“My God! It was still alive!” Astonishing, if you believed, as I — and obviously Lino — would have, that freezing would kill a creature. But the gills were definitely moving. And shortly thereafter, the rest of the eel was also moving. A lot.
“You should have seen what that eel was doing in the sink,” Lino goes on. Naturally it’s slithering like crazy, trying to get out, but naturally it is failing. And naturally Lino is trying to grab it, but it cleverly has a slippery skin to prevent that.
“Finally I took a dishtowel and grabbed it using that,” he says. “It still wasn’t easy. I managed to pin it down and made a couple of cuts” (in whatever part of the body was convenient). Then, when it began to slow down, he continued with the usual procedure of dispatching and cleaning eel, which I will not describe to you. Anybody who wants to know can write to me.
So remember March 5, sacred to the memory of the gallant eel who didn’t realize he was better off frozen hard as stone.
Today marks the 100th anniversary of the first flight in Venice. This might sound like a quaint bit of trivia, if one didn’t know (which one is about to) how important Venice was in the history of Italian and also, may one say, European, aviation.
So pull your minds for a moment from the canals and consider the heavens. I myself am not a connoisseur of the aeronautical, but I am always interested in history, especially in “firsts,” especially if they actually mattered.
On February 19, 1911, Umberto Cagni took off from the beach in front of the Excelsior Hotel on the Lido in his Farman II airplane, and made six brief flights, in spite of the fog. (ACTV, please note.) On March 3, better weather encouraged him to fly, for the first time ever, over Venice.
A few months later, on September 19, 1911, the first airmail flight in Italy departed from Bologna and landed on the Lido. That is to say, Venice.
The symbol of an airplane just above the word “Lido” marks the location of Nicelli airport.
Geography is destiny, as Napoleon observed, and Venice’s position was obviously as valuable to air transport as it had been for centuries to shipping. At that time, the Lido was largely uninhabited, making it the ideal place to establish an airport.
The airport is open to visitors, especially those who want to take a helicopter ride over Venice and the Lagoon (www.heliairvenice.com).
The first was built in 1915, a military base on the northernmost part of the Lido, which was active during World War I. Then, in 1935, with some major variations, it became the Aeroporto Nicelli, and air became yet another way, in the march of progress, to get to Venice. Flights on Ala Littoria and Transadriatica connected the famously watery city to points scattered around Europe. Even to Baku, if you happened to be going that way.
Nicelli immediately became the scene of extremely glamorous arrivals, as movie stars deplaned on the grassy runway to attend the Venice Film Festival. This continued until 1960, when Marco Polo airport opened on the mainland.
As shown on the map displayed in the airport, Venice remained at the center of things into yet another century.
So far I may have made it sound as if all these things were accomplished by an occult hand. But of course many hands were involved, among which none were more important than those of the late Lt. Col. Umberto Klinger.
Klinger, a native Venetian, was already a celebrity by the time he created the Officine Aeronavali at Nicelli, a large workshop dedicated to repairing and maintaining airplanes.
A glimpse of Klinger on the cover of a book written by his daughter.
A highly decorated pilot in World War II, with more than 5,000 hours of flight to his credit, 600 of which were in combat, he earned 5 silver Medals of Military Valor. He also served as Chief of Staff of the Special Air Services of the Italian Air Force, not only organizing the activities of squadrons of Savoia-Marchetti S.75s (troop transports or bombers), but also flying them himself, often at night, over enemy territory. He was president of the first passenger airline in Italy (Ala Littoria), and four other companies. Far from being a mere figurehead, Klinger raised Nicelli to the level of the second airport in Italy.
So much for the history lecture. Now we have to move into the darkened halls of humanity, where to do justice to even the bare outlines of the story of Umberto Klinger you’d need to resort to dramatic opera. Verdi! thou should’st be living at this hour, but you’re not; to the people who knew him, though, the name of Klinger creates its own music. Especially those who remember his last day.
Lino, for example.
Lino went to work for the Aeronavali as an apprentice mechanic at Nicelli in 1954, at the age of 16. He often saw “Comandante Klinger,” and even spoke with him on various occasions. Right up to today, Lino pronounces his name with reverence and regret. This wasn’t unusual — Klinger was by all accounts a powerfully charismatic man admired for his courage, respected for his skill, but with a special gift for inspiring real love.
In 1925, Transadriatica was one of the first passenger airlines in Italy; its first route connected Rome and Venice. This poster promotes the link between Venice and Vienna.
The Aeronavali flourished, with hundreds of employees working on aircraft of all sorts, from the Italian Presidential plane to cargo and passenger planes of many different companies. When Marco Polo airport opened on the mainland in 1960, the Aeronavali moved to the mainland with it.
Then politics began to set in. The broad outlines of what is undoubtedly a hideously complicated story are that certain elements in Rome, wanting to gain control of the company in order to place it under state, rather than private, administration, began to create financial problems for Klinger. The Aeronavali kept working, but payments from the Ministry of Defense were mysteriously not coming through. And the unions, manipulated by the aforementioned political factions, began to stir up discontent.
Lino remembers the increasingly tense meetings of the workers and the unions. He remembers Klinger pleading with them to be patient as he struggled to reopen the financial flow. But the unions rejected any compromises on pay or contracts, however temporary they might be, compelling the workers to resist. They ultimately even went on strike for 72 hours. Celebrity or no, the man — who had looked after his employees with no less solicitude than he had cared for his pilots — was running out of fuel.
The Aeronavali worked on any sort of aircraft — Dakotas, Constellations, and the Savoia-Marchetti S.75, a 30-passenger plane also used as a bomber in World War II. These were Klinger’s specialty, comprising virtually all of the squadrons he commanded of the Special Air Services.
During these harrowing days, Klinger was heard to say more than once that what was needed to resolve this impasse was “something really big.” He ultimately thought of something that qualified.
Early in the morning of January 26, 1971, he went alone to the old hangar at Nicelli, by that time virtually abandoned. And he took a cord. A few hours later, when the guardian made his rounds, he discovered the body of Comandante Klinger. He had hanged himself.
Lino remembers the gathering at work that morning, when they were given the news. There was utter silence, he recalls, though if stricken consciences could make an audible noise there would have been plenty of that.
The first time I heard this story, I thought his was the despairing last act of a man who had run out of hope. Now I am convinced that Klinger’s suicide was an act of voluntary self-immolation in order to save the company — not unlike the Russian officers after the fall of Communism who, left unpaid, finally killed themselves so their widows would get their pensions.
And Klinger turned out to have won his gamble. Almost immediately, the overdue funds began to pour in.
The hangar, seen across the runway from the terminal.
The funeral, in the church of San Nicolo’ next to the airport, was attended by a huge number of mourners; many had to stand outside. Did any union officers come to pay their last respects? “Sure,” Lino said. “They were at the head of the line.”
Courage in combat — it isn’t needed only in the skies. Nor does it only involve things that explode, though they can still be fatal. Umberto Klinger deserves another medal, one which doesn’t seem yet to have been created.
Klinger, the way his employees remember him — in mufti, smiling.
Postscript: It’s very easy to visit the airport. At the central vaporetto stop on the Lido at Piazzale Santa Maria Elisabetta, take the “A” bus marked for “San Nicolo’ – Ple. Rava’.” (If the weather’s nice, you can just stroll along the lagoon embankment for about half an hour.) Get off at the last stop, in front of the church and walk a few minutes across the grass and up the driveway.
The terminal has been spiffed to a modern version of its former glory, with a cool retro-design restaurant, “Niceli.” Have lunch, or just a coffee or drink on the terrace. If you come toward the early evening in the summer, bring lots of mosquito repellent.
The lobby today.Or maybe the restaurant is named “Nicely.” I like the design, even if it is unclear.
A situation has been brought to light — actually, had light suddenly and dramatically shone on it — that ought to be noticed more clearly than by the faint gleam discernible over here. Allow me to step in with at least a couple of highway flares.
A few paragraphs in the Gazzettino recently revealed that the basilica of Santa Maria Assunta at Torcello is falling apart. Brief and brutal, but there it is. This news may not have interested very many people here because the paper is full of stories, depressingly often, about the ways in which Venice is falling apart.
The basilica of Santa Maria Assunta is on the left; the smaller church of Santa Fosca to the right. May I mention that despite many notations to the contrary, "basilica" and "cathedral" are not synonymous. A basilica describes a building with a specific floor plan, which could just as easily be your school gym. The world is full of basilicas which aren't cathedrals; they don't even have to be churches. A cathedral is the church where the bishop has his cathedra, or seat, which could just as easily be in an Airstream trailer. The cathedral of Venice (also a basilica, as it happens) is San Marco. (Photo: necrothesp)
Pieces of stone drop off facades (November, 2007, a 110-pound/50- kilo chunk fell from the Palazzo Ducale and grazed an elderly German tourist; November, 2008, a 15-inch/40 cm bit of marble from a house in the San Marco area grazed a Swiss tourist as it headed earthward; March, 2010, a 132-pound/60-kilo piece broke off the convent of Cristo Re near the Celestia; October, 2010, a bit of stone decoration fell off the Court building and struck an employee…..). Roofs collapse, bell-towers are braced, and so on. The reason? All together now:No ghe xe schei. The mayor himself has said that he may have to ask for money, not for the sake of the buildings per se, but for the sake of public safety.
But back to Torcello, a lovely, almost uninhabited little island famous for the aforementioned basilica, which is arguably one of the gemmiest of the gems of Venetian history, art, architecture, and above all, mosaics.
Life is hard on Venice in so many ways, from high water to tourist trampling. But let us not overlook what may be the most dangerous hazard of all: Neglect.
Torcello’s parish priest, don Ettore Fornezza, recently drew attention to one example of what neglect can lead to: The floor mosaics are breaking up.
I went to Torcello the other day to see don Ettore and the situation that he was describing.
The ten-minute walk from the vaporetto stop to the church has never been so lovely.
For anybody who loves Torcello, or who believes that there is no place within 50 miles where you can go to escape the tourist tidal waves, I cheerfully recommend you visit the island early on a freezing, windy, gray Sunday morning in January. Yes, it was colder than I don’t know what. (Down side.) But there was literally no one and nothing in sight. (Up side!) I’ve been going to Torcello for years and I have never seen it utterly deserted. The lagoon was empty too. It was so astonishing that it was worth not being able to feel my feet.
Looking toward Burano, normally a scene of motor-driven anarchy.
People go to Torcello to admire the mosaics on the walls. But the floors are no less valuable, and they get a lot more punishment. You can see the evidence of this deterioration everywhere, in the widening spaces between the bits of stone and even in grotty, dark empty areas as big as salad plates and as much as an inch deep. Unchecked humidity, for one thing, has gradually loosened the tesserae (as the bits of stone are called) and made them vulnerable to other forces. Like people and their footwear.
A view of the interior of the basilica. Note the condition of the floor in the foreground. This is nothing.
And so it was that during a recent stroll around the church, don Ettore saw a tourist not only dislodge a small piece of 1000-year-old mosaic with the heel of her shoe (regrettable but not intentional), she then picked up the loose bit and made to put it in her pocket. Or purse. Anyway, to take it away.
When he asked her what she was doing, she replied, “I wanted it as a souvenir.”
Somewhat thunderstruck, he suggested she consider leaving it behind, so it could be kept, if not actually returned to its native habitat.
She gave it back.
When don Ettore reached this point in the story, it occurred to me that it was too bad he hadn’t replied, “Well then, I’d like to take your shoe as a souvenir.” Just a thought.
A detail of damage to the floor mosaics. I would have taken photographs, but it's strictly forbidden, not that that would have stopped me. But the girl on guard that morning made nabbing me her mission. My admiration and appreciation to the intrepid visitors who managed these images. (Photo: ezioman).
But this is no time for gay repartee. The incident of the tessera was merely one random event in a long and all-too-evident decline. Because for some time now, the heels of the shoes of thousands of tourists a day have been weakening what is, in fact, a very fragile creation. All it takes is for one piece to go, and the discussion shifts from what is happening to merely how long it’s going to continue.
For don Ettore, this moment was, as he put it, “the spark” to bring to light the larger, deeper, wider problems of the basilica.
“We can’t go on like this,” he said. “People come from all over the world, and they see the deterioration and they come to tell me. I can’t do anything, because I”m responsible for the spiritual side. But I have eyes, and I see the things that don’t go well. Torcello could be reborn, with a little attention. With the love people have for this place, this would be the pearl, not only of Venice, but of the world. It’s worth the trouble to insist on this, because Torcello is worth it. We don’t want Torcello to die. If it were up to me, it would have been resolved already.”
There are so many distressing aspects to this situation that you can pick any one at random and ruin your day. Given that the present mosaics (not the first mosaic flooring, by the way, which was laid in the 8th century) date from 1008, it’s obvious that they will now be in need of constant and expensive care. Just like a person, actually, when you think of it.
But here we have an ancient and irreplaceable work of religious, historic, and artistic value; we have uncontrolled masses of people using it every day for most of the year; and we also have lack of personnel, lack of serious interest, and — no need to repeat it, but I must — absence (they say “lack”) of money to do anything useful to deal with it. Here, too, the skeletal hand of chronic poverty is tightening its grip.
Speaking of poverty, however, let me insert some startling observations made to me in Hyderabad, India by Mr. P.K. Mohanty, then Commissioner of the city’s governing body. (I was there for my article on “Megacities,” National Geographic, November 2002.)
“What we need in India isn’t money,” Mohanty said. “Large cities of the Third World are reservoirs of wealth. We need political reforms, bureaucratic reforms. The problem is one of poor management. If cities are properly managed, there cannot be resource problems.” I’d guess that the same could be said of large cities of the First World.
As for the mosaic floor of the basilica, nobody can consider spending the money that would be needed to complete a serious restoration — they say there’s no money even to pay for a protective carpet like the one that often covers the floor of the basilica of San Marco. But anyone who has visited the Roman-mosaic-blessed former churches at Aquileia and Ravenna will recall that their mosaic pavements are kept in near-perfect condition. Aquileia and Ravenna have mysteriously found a way to acquire the schei necessary for their mosaic maintenance. Or maybe, as Mr. Mohanty observed, the problem isn’t really schei.
Small gaps between the stones; you can just imagine where this is going to go.
Back to Torcello. I would like to blame mass tourism, because obviously masses of tourists are not helping the situation. But I hesitate to use a term which is so general that it could describe almost everything except plants (no wait, those travel too) to describe just one certain type of tourist. Of course there are cultivated, intelligent, sensitive tourists who leave a very faint footprint on the delicate, peerless places and cultures they visit.
But there is the clueless tourist who tends to come in chaotic herds, and who passes through leaving behind not much beyond a few sous and a lot of accumulating wear and tear on the places and people he or she has encountered. And some trash, usually.
Taking away pieces of Italian history is nothing new. The Italians themselves, over the centuries, have removed tons of pieces of their monuments for use in other projects. And there are, unfortunately, still too many tomb-robbers who steal and sell priceless artifacts from lost civilizations.
And let us not forget the famous advancing barbarian hordes, who pillaged and burned and wrecked large parts of Europe and its treasures. Also bad, but at least you can fit this damage into the category “Conquer and Dominate,” which does make a kind of sense.
But we’re talking about tourists. They have been known to dislodge and remove, as far as they can, pieces of the Roman walls built by Marcus Aurelius. Tourists climb over altar railings and try to take away historic sacred vessels. (I am not making any of this up.) I learned more than I ever wanted to about this for my article “Italy’s Endangered Art” (National Geographic, August 1999). These are not necessarily evil people, nor even people seeking to make money by selling what they take. They just take. Why?
The lady at Torcello admitted why she did it: She wanted a souvenir. Instead of buying something that had been manufactured, she impulsively felt that something genuine would be better. But how does this work? You take a little piece of old stone, dislodged from its context, dislodged from its reason for being, specifically in order to be reminded of the place you’ve just despoiled? You don’t run to the ticket booth to say “The floor is coming apart!”? Or does the fact that the piece is loose mean that it’s now free pickings?
I pause here to recognize that there may be an insignificant difference between a souvenir and spoils of war; the Elgin Marbles, which I suppose you could regard as a sort of monumental souvenir, come to mind. But if the possessors of cultural patrimony have finally come to recognize at least some of the value of their heritage, it ought to follow that visitors ought to value it even more, otherwise why are they there? They could just as well be sitting under an awning somewhere, eating gelato.
To many visitors, a trip to Torcello is mainly a good excuse for a jaunt out into the lagoon. When they're done here, they go to Burano and buy lace-like objects. Real souvenirs.
All this makes my brain hurt. Because I am convinced that whatever bits of stone or wood or pottery get carried away — a bit that really mattered where it was born — is going to get lost. Thrown away. Forgotten. Hidden under stuff in the attic that nobody ever looks at until they have to sell the house and by then nobody remembers what the thing is, or why it’s there. So what was the point?
Wait! Let’s say the person takes it home and puts it in a beautiful box or frame to display it. This means that either they are capable of spending the next 50 years looking at something they stole, which probably won’t remind them that they stole it, or they want other people to admire it. So they can say, “Yes — I contributed to the destruction of an irreplaceable landmark by stealing this. Nice, isn’t it? I’m glad you like it.” Then they send money to protect the dolphins or save the rainforest.
If you’re still reading, you may be edging toward the door. But I’m not crazy. Or if I am, I’ll never be as crazy as the tourists.
But let’s be fair. Even if the tourists were all made to tiptoe around the church in cloth slippers, it wouldn’t do much to stave off the inexorable damage caused by humidity, salt in the groundwater, storms, subsidence, and many other factors that are part of life on this planet and whose effects are all too visible at Torcello.
The point isn’t that people want to take bits home, it’s that the church isn’t being protected and cared for. It’s just sitting there, enduring what it must till another piece breaks off.
And by the way, the same thing is happening in the church of Santa Maria e Donato on Murano (first building, 7th century, flooring completed 1140), an edifice equally rich in mosaics. Don Carlo Gusso, the parish priest, is also ringing the alarm bells.
So far, though, it appears that nobody but you and me have heard them. Or at least have recognized that they’re not the dinner bell.
"The Pavement San Marco" by John Singer Sargent (1898). Who would ever have thought that even here, the floor would have been left to deteriorate like this? I'm not referring to the undulations, but to the holes. But if they could fix the floor here, I'm not clear on what's stopping them at Torcello. Did they have more schei back in 1898?
Virtually every day of every year, the news here will include some mention of how deeply disappointing the municipal government is, and the many ways in which its decisions (bear in mind that not deciding also qualifies as a decision) fall short of the minimum necessary for decent human life.
I’m not here to defend anybody, but history shows that Venice has always presented an exceptional challenge to its rulers.
Beautiful? Often. Byzantine? Always.
Giving some consideration, as I do every day, as to how run a city and/or empire in the most efficient and beneficial way — principles that can easily be applied to other activities, such as running a house, or a large corporation, or a work-release program or whatever — I thought I’d give a sample of some of the laws which the Venetian government passed and also, I think, enforced.
In 1348 Venice, with more than 100,000 inhabitants, was the most populous city in Europe. Even before it grew that big, managing it, body and soul, was something like playing three-dimensional chess — its governing bodies had to keep track of everything (wars, famines, earthquakes, attempted coups, plague prevention, counterfeiting, ostentatious clothing, civil servants with sticky fingers) all at the same time.
Naturally they passed metric tons of useful laws governing business and commerce, goods and services, civil engineering projects, weights and measures, and the rights, duties and privileges of virtually everybody. These are not comic material, they’re the reason, among many, why Venice survived for close to 1,500 years.
But as anyone who has ever been two years old knows, it’s one thing to establish a rule, it’s another to enforce it, most especially where behavior is concerned. Passing a law makes everybody happy; enforcing it, not so much.
So as you read the following, cast your minds back, ever so briefly, to imagine the situation which had reached the point at which a law was required to control, or even stop it, we hope. As you’ll see, all those squillions of different snowflake-patterns are nothing compared to the myriad misdemeanors that people are apt to get up to when living in a small area with thousands of other people, many of whom may not have your best interests at heart. Or you theirs.
But also bear in mind that most, if not all, other European governments between 421 and 1797 A.D. were some variation on monarchy or despotry. Venice was governed, not by an individual, but by groups of people, groups which had been formed over time not merely to do a particular job but to ensure that other groups didn’t get the upper hand. This checks-and-balances system, which seems so obvious to us today, was one which many intelligent people devoted time and energy to devising, improving, and maintaining. So no snickering from the cheap seats.
This is nothing — you should see the Mercerie during Carnival. Not what appears to be the ideal path for someone on horseback, even though the horse would obviously have the right of way.
1224: It is forbidden to ride horses along the Mercerie (the street between Rialto and San Marco) due to the great increase in pedestrians. This seems so obvious as not to require a law, but as you see, it did.
1229: It is forbidden to spend more than half a ducat per person for food when giving a dinner. Something had to be done to combat the phenomenally luxurious banquets which had already become common — common, that is, among the classes not known as common. The relentless ingenuity of the wealthy patricians to find ways to out-spend each other sometimes verged on the potlatch mentality, and required a steady supply of ever-more-specific laws to control. One of many reasons why the government considered display worth controlling was because it was apt to stir up envy and other unpleasant emotions which could lead to even more unpleasant situations such as attempted coups, or the assassination of the doge. I’m not sure how they enforced this half-ducat limit but it sounds like the right idea.
1258: Pharmacists are forbidden to sell medicine without a prescription. Furthermore, doctors, even the most illustrious, are required to treat poor patients for free. One of many examples of how innovative, not to say revolutionary, Venetian thinking often was.
1274, February 29: It is prohibited to pass along the Mercerie on horseback because of all the people on foot. (Wait — didn’t we already have a law about that?)
I intuit that the column now in Campo San Salvador is where the fig tree used to be. Not stadium parking in any case.
1287, February 29: It is forbidden to go through the Mercerie on horseback (Are you people not listening?) except for foreigners who have just arrived. Couldn’t find a parking place for their horse? Furthermore, anyone wanting to go to San Marco has to tie his horse to the fig tree in the Campo San Salvador. Voila’! Parking.
1315: It is forbidden to commit impure acts in sacred places — finally something the church and state can agree on. This law was intended to stop the “dishonest and disgraceful” behavior running riot not only in the porticoes of the basilica of San Marco — to say nothing of the many convents — but inside the churches themselves. How effective this law proved to be is shown, for example, by Marco Grimani, who was fined for “having attempted to fornicate with a young lady under the arches of the basilica.” This occurred in 1363. Venetian laws seem to have had a limited shelf life, more or less 50 years, or roughly two generations. Time enough for people to quit listening. Or caring.
1322: The government decrees the construction of 50 public wells, to be completed within two years. In 1424 another 30 were added. Wells, whether cisterns for rain or installed over an artesian source, or brought on barges from the mainland, were the city’s only means of obtaining fresh water. The price of water was set by the government, and each year the waterboatmen were required to donate the contents of 100 waterboats to the public wells (4,506,000 liters, or 1,190,359 gallons, presumably not all on the same day). It went on like this until the aqueduct from the mainland was built in 1884. Excellent planning, and execution, you old Venetians.
1350, April 11: Some six months earlier — on September 25, 1349 — a certain nobleman, Stefano Manolesso, was riding his horse in the Piazza San Marco (doing WHAT?) and unfortunately ran over and killed a little boy. Therefore The Great Council passes a decree which requires that horses wear rattles to warn people of their approach. So you don’t risk getting trampled by the horses that aren’t supposed to be there.
1354: November 11. It is prohibited to carry grimaldelli (picklocks), because they have become the favorite toy of young bloods, perfect for breaking into houses, especially where beautiful and wealthy girls are residing.
1392: August 29. It is debated whether on festive days it should be forbidden to ride your horse at a fast pace in the Piazza San Marco. Now we’re just quibbling over speed?
Not exactly the Circus Maximus, with or without acqua alta, but I suppose if you had a horse the urge to gallop eventually became irresistible.
1397: It is decreed to place new lamps or candles for street lighting. The problem of dark streets here has been obvious for centuries; in 1128 the first lights were placed, at government expense, on votive shrines around the city, in the hope of discouraging the nocturnal mayhem — mugging, homicide — that had become the norm. Venetians would wake up in the morning to find murdered people lying in the streets. So they started installing faint but well-intentioned illumination at many corners and intersections. Which clearly was insufficient three centuries later. Was there more crime? More streets? Nobody replacing the candles or refilling the lamps?
1407, September 11: It is severely forbidden to throw garbage or trash into the canals. A few years ago we were rowing along behind the Giudecca, and as we turned into a certain canal I saw a hand-lettered sign thoughtfully placed near the entrance. It said (in Italian, of course): “WARNING. GO SLOW. WASHING MACHINES IN THE WATER.” What was so funny (it’s not funny) was the use of the plural. In any case, the sign is gone now. I have no idea if the washing machines themselves are also gone. Maybe not. Human nature is tougher and more resistent than I don’t know what. 15-5PH stainless steel. Which is also not to be thrown into the water.
1409, September 26: Speaking of throwing things, Members of the Great Council are not to throw the cloth balls used for voting at each other. And they’re making our laws?
1411, January 27: Servants and slaves are not to create a racket at night in the Palazzo Ducale. Throwing balls of bread dough at each other?
1414, April 18: New, more severe rules — more severe? There already were some? — against people blowing bugles at night.
1415, July 25: Every year the names of those who have stolen state property will be announced in the Great Council, and this will be done for the entire life of the guilty parties. Public shame is supposed to be a deterrent, and maybe it was. But I’d be willing to bet that everyone who heard those names only thought some variation of “Better him than me.”
1423, March 26: The desks of the Chancellery are to be raised so that curious passersby can’t read the secret documents. There. Mind your own beeswax.
1425, February 7: The government responds to the protest of many Venetians and decrees that church bells shall not be rung at night except in case of fire. It had reached the point where bells were being rung far into the night to celebrate all kinds of events. What with bells, bugles, and I don’t know what all, night in Venice must have been like noon in Shanghai.
1430, March 2: The Great Council limits the height of the heels of women’s shoes. I can’t say what height they had reached, but it was fairly ridiculous. Some noblewomen steadied themselves by holding onto, not canes, but the heads of their small, cane-height servants. Not that most of the lower classes had been wishing they could have shoes that made them walk like flamingoes, but it’s just better to keep the footwear under control.
There is a fair number of similar plaques around the city — yes, literally carved in stone — which remind Venetians of how to behave. This is one of the simpler versions, written in an interesting mix of Venetian and Italian and Latin. Full translation at right.1443, June 29: The Republic guarantees the services of a lawyer to poor defendants who can’t pay. This was the first time such a law was made anywhere in Europe, and furthermore, the said attorney was to be chosen by the judge from among the best (no sneaking in raw beginners) and was required to follow the case with the maximum care or risk a major fine. As in the case of doctors, the government was unusually alert to the advantages of maintaining some semblance of fairness. The idea that the law could be equal for all was not something the French invented as they were hurling paving stones at the Bastille; there were even several cases in which the doge refused to intervene to save his own son from his deserved punishment, even when it was banishment. Impressive.
MDCXXXIII [1633] 20 June
All games are forbidden, of whatever sort they may be (note: these “games” were not hopscotch, but gambling) and also to sell things, set up a shop or corbe (large wicker baskets for carrying coal), to utter blasphemies or other indecencies around this church or any nearby sacred places and this is by deliberation of the Most Excellent and Serene Executors against Blasphemy with the penalty for transgressors of prison, the galleys, banishment, and also (a fine of) 200 small lire (to be divided) between the accuser (who will be kept secret) and the captors. D. Francesco Morosini, Procurator, D. Nicolo Contarini, D. Marco Antonio di Priuli, D. Alvise Mocenigo, Executors against Blasphemy.
Forbidding blasphemy does not indicate that Venice was in the grip of religious fanatics, but that it was included with other common forms of public behavior which were revolting. The Executors against Blasphemy were responsible not only for punishing blasphemy — priests were also often guilty — but also the profanation of sacred places, the defloration of virgins promised in marriage (remember the picklocks?), pimping, the publication of forbidden books, and most other activities, of which there were many, that degraded the quality of life. It was a losing battle but they had to try. In 1512 Lorenzo Priuli, later doge, wrote in his diary: “In Venice there were two things that were very difficult to overcome: the blasphemy used by every grade of person and clothes in the French fashion.”
1455, March 20: It is decreed that it is illegal to deprive a condemned person of his clothes before the execution. Good grief. They’d been sending the poor bastards to the block in their skivvies?
1461, October 20: It is illegal for a creditor to deprive a debtor of his cows or agricultural tools, even if he owes money to the State.
1570: It is decreed that it is illegal for a creditor to deprive a debtor of his bed.
1469, December 27: It is decreed that the lawyers pleading cases in the Council or the College may not speak for more than an hour and a half. Lawyers without “Off” buttons have always been with us.
1474: Once again in the vanguard, the Republic issues the first laws which protect patents on inventions and the rights of the inventors.
1476. November 17: The Republic creates a new office, the Supervisors of Pomp. It can issue laws — oh good, we need more of those — concerning the display of wealth (it just doesn’t stop), including but not limited to elaborate clothes and decorations, ostentatious display of jewels, excessive fancying-up of your servants or boats, over-the-top banquets, and anything else that is, as they put it, contrary to the spirit of the Republic, seeing that extravagant consumption, even if the money is all yours, is not only wasteful and teaches the wrong lessons, but also conduces to scandal. Spending bags of money on stuff might weaken your grasp on the idea of boundaries, yours and everybody else’s, and thus is to be avoided. Clear as a 25-carat diamond.
1498, June 11: At the request of the people living on the Giudecca, it is forbidden to “roast” cinnabar. The government was vigilant to relegate hazardous or extremely obnoxious industries, dyeing and tanning among them, to outlying areas of the city, but in this case they neglected to make it an uninhabited part. I can well believe that the residents objected; the idea of a furnace roasting mercury ore anywhere near groups of vertebrates is so ghastly that it’s hard to believe it was ever permitted to exist. I’m sure the councilors didn’t allow this furnace to be built because they were distracted by deciding how much silk you would be allowed to use to make your underwear (I made that up). They must have been thinking about how important it was to produce mercury for hatmakers, and for pharmacists concocting treatments for syphilis.
1563: At an unspecified date, a momentous decision is finally made. It is forbidden to ride horses anywhere in the city. Sometimes tourists marvel that there are no cars in Venice, before they notice the inconvenience of all those bridges. However, if anybody had ever wondered why there are no horses, now we know. It was forbidden. Seriously forbidden. And this time we mean it, totally prohibited. With this majestic edict all those rattles and rules could be thrown out and I suppose collected by the itinerant rag, bone, and scrap iron merchant to be turned into soap or paper. Certainly they weren’t thrown into the canals. That’s illegal.
The eel makes a clunk. It’s frozen solid in the curled-up shape it was forced to assume in the bin. “That didn’t happen to the passarini,” Lino adds, “but the eel was hard as stone. So I began to run tepid water on it to soften it up.”
![There is a fair number of similar plaques around the city -- yes, literally carved in stone -- which remind Venetians of how to behave. This is one of the simpler versions, written in an interesting mix of Venetian and Italian and Latin. "1633 22 June. All games are forbidden, of whatever sort they may be, and also to sell things, set up a shop or corbe [large wicker baskets for carrying coal], to utter blasphemy or other indecencies around this church or any nearby sacred places, and this is by deliberation of the Most Excellent and Serene Executors against Blasphemy with the penalty for transgressors of prison, the galleys, banishment, and also [a fine of] 200 small lire [paid] to the accuser and the captors.](https://iamnotmakingthisup.net/wp-content/uploads/2010/12/IMG_1021-lapide-225x300.jpg "IMG_1021 lapide")