The Bennington banner. [volume] (Bennington, Vt.) 1858-1894, 1894-01-19
VENICE OF TODAY.
MODERN LIFE IN THE FAMOUS CITY
OF THE DOGES.

Costumes Now and 400 Years Ago-A Con-
slant Boto In the Streets ALI Day Long
Market Men Discusses Politics Across the
Streot-Not All Poetry and Romance.
The Venetians themselves do not seem
greatly to have changed their character,
or their clothes, or their customs of life,
from those Of old paintings and plays
and histories.
In the matter of CLOTHES l refer Of
course only to the working people. Our
seignorial selves have changed from the
courtly garments of the Mocenigos and
the Foscari sadly for the worse. There
was new play the other night at the
Rossini, clever dramatic scene Of the
period of the last of the doges, by
Count Zugana, local author and play
wright. 1t WAS played by the Venetian
comedy company of Zago and Privata,
we'll known in Italy. The costuming
was extraordinarily good for Italy, good
for any country. The details were his
torically accurate, many councillors
gorgeous gowns and ladies robes being
actually family relics. The inevitable
afterpiece of Italian theaters was
farce comedy of today. The same actors
and actresses appeared in modern
"pants" and dresses, according to the
latest fashion of Milan. The contrast
was painfully striking.
So much for clothes. For types and
characters in Venice today you have
only to read Goldoni Of nearly 200
years ago, or even earlier writers Of
comedy, to know them well. The dia
lect itself is but little changed. Col
doni's comedies are being played nightly
in the peoples theaters Of Venice, as
though the author were alive and
writing satires upon the present gen
GRAFTON of Venetians.
In the narrow streets, the dark little
shops, which hug each other closely,
side by side, are the same queer, open
air sort of bazaars and boutiques Of
hand workers, unchanged since the frat
days of the republic. Cheesenongers,
cobblers, iron workers at their forge,
silversmiths, beaters Of brass and cop
per, money changers and surgeon bar
bers are all plying their different trades
in their windowless shops, almost as
though they were in the street itself.
Intermingled fruit, flower and veg
etable stalls give gorgeous bits of color
to the somber background Of the narrow
] nd &c oil or Of
heavenly blue, with perhaps piece of
a white cloud, up there between the
roofs, to help compose" the picture,
like Paul Veronese's joyous canVases.
There is a constant fete going on in the
streets all day long. The sound of hu-
man voices, scraps of song, tho clicking
of wooden pattens and the musical
tapping of metals furnish a perpetual
accompaniment to all of your business
and bargaining. The cheeseman dis
cusses politics with the iron worker
across the street, all the while he is
serving you, and uses his knife to &C
centuate the gestures of his argument.
The price of a capon induces quar-
ter of an hours discussion, which
includes family news, the latest gossip
of the parish, much good humored ban
tering and final compromise on the
fowl.
Babies and cats play in the middle
of the street and look at you with
wondering eyes when you step over
them. Pretty women pass you, with
black shawls over their heads and red
stockings beneath their short skirts,
and show you graceful heels and insteps
at every lift of the foot from their
loose pattens. They have a word and
laugh, as they pass, for every shop
keeper and worker. Gondoliers swing
by, their hands in their pockets, their
hats tilted to one side, their coats
thrown gracefully over one shoulder
and a rose or cigarette stuck behind
the ear. They cannot help their uncon-
scious grace any more than the dirty
brown sails of fishing boat their pic
turesque beauty. Every one is laugh
ing, joking, bantering and bargaining.
Life is sad enough, and has trouble
enough. God knows. Most are poor,
and many are suffering. But that is
only greater reason why they should
make all the pleasure they can out of it.
The small details of everyday life in
Venice retain all their charm of color
and romantic association, after you
have ceased being a tourist and become
partially settled resident. Your first
impressions do not seem to fade, or
become spoiled, through familiarity.
The most commonplace things you do
are tinged with an element of the pic
turesque and the poetical. The man
from whom buy small wood and Goals
has a shop which would delight the
heart of Dutch master for a subject.
He himself, in it, with his blouse, red
waistband, faded brown trousers and
his silver white hair, accompanied by
his big yellow Syrian cat, would fur
nish the best figures for the picture
without choosing. And his garrulous
talk over bargain is as full of wit as
dialogue in play.
do not mean that you live in a con-
slant ecstatic state of poetry and ro-
nance. A cook, whose name is Ange-
lima, will sometimes make an omelet
too hard, even in an old fifteenth cen
fury palace. And even a Lorenzo or