The Horese of Venice (a short story)
The Horses of Venice
((In the City of Bridges) (A Chick Evens Story))
It has always seemed to me that Venice has been omitted as a place to go to for archeological observations; more for the tourist or interested person on the romantic side of life’s scale. We have many charming and sound accounts of Venice by writes of bygone years, within this genre. Can we not hope to furnish the reader with a few rational and interesting facts about old Venice, and perhaps give some food for thought, by providing an archeological treasure, in particular The Horses of Venice? I hope so.
I was twenty-seven years old, a Staff Sergeant in the United States Army, I was stationed a hundred miles from Venice, in April of 1980, and a new found friend, at my army base, upon my first week there, asked me one weekend if I wanted to go to Pisa, or Venice, for the afternoon. And I picked Venice.
I could not contemplate the excitement that was building up inside of me, on the early morning train ride to Venice, with my friend, Sergeant Goodman, I was near breathless. To me, Venice was this obscure part of the world, a thing that was of importance, to the unconquered, and those folks who had money, on vacation. And back in 1980, not a lot of Americans to my knowledge were heading towards renowned places for the weekend; it was famous in my eyes, a place of faith, love and a journey of inspiration.
Once at the gates of Venice, we headed down the Grand Canal, it was lightly raining, and it was cool. The railing on the boat was cold from the rain. It all seemed a fitting enough trip on the canal, or down the Canal to St. Mark’s Square, where we’d be swamped with pigeons, it all looked as if the folks were accustomed to our presence, less incongruous on the boat than they would be later on when we walked back to the gate entrance, through the city across the many bridges.
Regarding the four horses of Venice, it is a fact one can become accustomed to the sight of things that have been in place for a long time. People were talking about the horses of Venice, as the Sergeant Goodman, and I walked around St. Mark’s Square. One woman said,
“It is quite shocking, I’ve been to Venice twenty-times, I’m so used to seeing those Four Horses of St. Mark’s, standing over the main entrance of the church (above the Gothic addition) the only existing specimen of an ancient Roman monumental four-horse chariot.”
I looked up and sure enough there were no horses, I looked to the side of the church, and there they were, being nailed into wooden crates, for renovation, storage, and future display.
“They are going to be replaced with replicas,” said the middle-aged, well preserved lady who wanted to cry, thinking all this was unreal, and the fact that there were no horses in place at the moment did much to rob the beauty of the Church, so she protested.
I must admit, frankly the shock I saw in that woman’s eyes looking at those four horses, found in Constantinople in AD 1204, said to originally have adorned a Roman triumphal arch, brought her to near hyperventilating.
I remember after we had walked closer to the horses, along with the lady, how heavy they seemed, in their still existent portions, she wanted to touch them, leaned over a rope fence to do so, tremendous energy of a explosive type appeared to fill her face when she did, as if she lit up for folks to see her a considerable distance away.
The fact that it had been so immediate, the guard stood as if he was dead in his position, and I felt a little uncomfortable, as if I was to be removed from the square for bringing this woman to do such a thing.
“In 1797,” the woman said to me and Goodman, “Bonaparte took the horses to Paris, but we got them back here in 1815.”
The surprising thing, next to her progressive inattention to all life that surrounded her at this moment, but those horses, she was no longer scattered- brained, but rather calm.
“If they hadn’t brought the horses down,” I told her, “you’d never been able to touch the horse; they would have been up there another hundred years.”
“Shoo,” she said, “that’s so true.”
After a short time, the guard moved closer to the horses, in case the woman decided to repeat her offence. All consequently lay on her face, but it looked like she could live with it, indicative she could try again, but she refrained herself.
Now, as I was about to leave she said in a more natural way, clearing her throat, her little wound healed, “I suppose the air pollution damages the horses—so I’ve read—and I suppose inside the Basilica, will be a nice home for the horses, so let the replicas stand now for 800-years, see what happens to them, they don’t make thinks like they used to you know.”
And then off Sergeant Goodman and myself went walking our way back along the Canal, across a dozen bridges or so, grabbing a slice of pizza, at one of the musing deli’s, nearby, passing a few ill-mannered citizens. There was nothing we wanted to do in particular. But after a while we stopped and rested, listened to a fiddler by another church, playing for spare coins, I dropped a quarter into his hat; he was a young hippie, so it seemed. I saw a few other American military men walking about. And we took the late afternoon back to our military base, got home about 7:00 p.m., and had a long hardy sleep.
Written, 2-24-2009
((In the City of Bridges) (A Chick Evens Story))
It has always seemed to me that Venice has been omitted as a place to go to for archeological observations; more for the tourist or interested person on the romantic side of life’s scale. We have many charming and sound accounts of Venice by writes of bygone years, within this genre. Can we not hope to furnish the reader with a few rational and interesting facts about old Venice, and perhaps give some food for thought, by providing an archeological treasure, in particular The Horses of Venice? I hope so.
I was twenty-seven years old, a Staff Sergeant in the United States Army, I was stationed a hundred miles from Venice, in April of 1980, and a new found friend, at my army base, upon my first week there, asked me one weekend if I wanted to go to Pisa, or Venice, for the afternoon. And I picked Venice.
I could not contemplate the excitement that was building up inside of me, on the early morning train ride to Venice, with my friend, Sergeant Goodman, I was near breathless. To me, Venice was this obscure part of the world, a thing that was of importance, to the unconquered, and those folks who had money, on vacation. And back in 1980, not a lot of Americans to my knowledge were heading towards renowned places for the weekend; it was famous in my eyes, a place of faith, love and a journey of inspiration.
Once at the gates of Venice, we headed down the Grand Canal, it was lightly raining, and it was cool. The railing on the boat was cold from the rain. It all seemed a fitting enough trip on the canal, or down the Canal to St. Mark’s Square, where we’d be swamped with pigeons, it all looked as if the folks were accustomed to our presence, less incongruous on the boat than they would be later on when we walked back to the gate entrance, through the city across the many bridges.
Regarding the four horses of Venice, it is a fact one can become accustomed to the sight of things that have been in place for a long time. People were talking about the horses of Venice, as the Sergeant Goodman, and I walked around St. Mark’s Square. One woman said,
“It is quite shocking, I’ve been to Venice twenty-times, I’m so used to seeing those Four Horses of St. Mark’s, standing over the main entrance of the church (above the Gothic addition) the only existing specimen of an ancient Roman monumental four-horse chariot.”
I looked up and sure enough there were no horses, I looked to the side of the church, and there they were, being nailed into wooden crates, for renovation, storage, and future display.
“They are going to be replaced with replicas,” said the middle-aged, well preserved lady who wanted to cry, thinking all this was unreal, and the fact that there were no horses in place at the moment did much to rob the beauty of the Church, so she protested.
I must admit, frankly the shock I saw in that woman’s eyes looking at those four horses, found in Constantinople in AD 1204, said to originally have adorned a Roman triumphal arch, brought her to near hyperventilating.
I remember after we had walked closer to the horses, along with the lady, how heavy they seemed, in their still existent portions, she wanted to touch them, leaned over a rope fence to do so, tremendous energy of a explosive type appeared to fill her face when she did, as if she lit up for folks to see her a considerable distance away.
The fact that it had been so immediate, the guard stood as if he was dead in his position, and I felt a little uncomfortable, as if I was to be removed from the square for bringing this woman to do such a thing.
“In 1797,” the woman said to me and Goodman, “Bonaparte took the horses to Paris, but we got them back here in 1815.”
The surprising thing, next to her progressive inattention to all life that surrounded her at this moment, but those horses, she was no longer scattered- brained, but rather calm.
“If they hadn’t brought the horses down,” I told her, “you’d never been able to touch the horse; they would have been up there another hundred years.”
“Shoo,” she said, “that’s so true.”
After a short time, the guard moved closer to the horses, in case the woman decided to repeat her offence. All consequently lay on her face, but it looked like she could live with it, indicative she could try again, but she refrained herself.
Now, as I was about to leave she said in a more natural way, clearing her throat, her little wound healed, “I suppose the air pollution damages the horses—so I’ve read—and I suppose inside the Basilica, will be a nice home for the horses, so let the replicas stand now for 800-years, see what happens to them, they don’t make thinks like they used to you know.”
And then off Sergeant Goodman and myself went walking our way back along the Canal, across a dozen bridges or so, grabbing a slice of pizza, at one of the musing deli’s, nearby, passing a few ill-mannered citizens. There was nothing we wanted to do in particular. But after a while we stopped and rested, listened to a fiddler by another church, playing for spare coins, I dropped a quarter into his hat; he was a young hippie, so it seemed. I saw a few other American military men walking about. And we took the late afternoon back to our military base, got home about 7:00 p.m., and had a long hardy sleep.
Written, 2-24-2009
posted by Dennis and Rosa Siluk at 8:27 PM
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