Ca' d'Oro

Listen first. Water slaps softly against stone steps. A vaporetto engine hums as it slows at the landing. Then look up from the Grand Canal at a facade that seems carved from lace rather than stone. Pale marble arches lean into one another. Slender columns hold up rows of pointed windows. Along the roofline, a row of white stone ornaments stands against the sky. This is the Ca' d'Oro, the House of Gold, and even without its gold it still catches the light.

The name is not a poetic exaggeration. When the palace was new, in the early fifteenth century, parts of the facade were covered in real gold leaf. Other details were painted in deep blue made from ultramarine, along with red and black. Imagine it in morning sun: the canal throwing light up onto a wall of gold and colour. Today almost all of that paint and gilding has gone. What remains is the bare marble, which is a kind of elegance of its own.

The man behind it was Marino Contarini. He came from one of the oldest noble families in Venice, and he held the office of Procurator of San Marco. That was one of the highest honours in the Republic. He commissioned the palace in the 1420s, and work went on for well over a decade. He wanted a house that told every passing boat exactly who lived there. On the Grand Canal, a facade was a public statement.

The style is called Venetian Gothic. In simple terms, it mixes the pointed arches of European Gothic churches with patterns that Venetian traders saw in the Islamic world and in Byzantium, the eastern Roman Empire. Look at the windows on the upper floors. The arches interlock and are topped by small stone circles with four lobes, like stylised flowers. The effect is light and open. The wall seems to dissolve into air.

Several master craftsmen worked here. Giovanni Bon and his son Bartolomeo led one workshop. A sculptor from Lombardy, Matteo Raverti, led another team. Contarini kept careful accounts, and those records have survived, which is rare for a private house of this age. Historians can trace payments for stone, carving and gilding. So we know this palace was a collaboration, not the vision of one lone genius.

Now here is something many visitors miss. The facade is not symmetrical. On the left side, open loggias, or arcaded balconies, run across each floor. On the right side, the wall is mostly solid, with simple windows. Some historians think a matching wing was planned and never built. Others think the asymmetry was always intended. Either way, once you notice it, you cannot stop seeing it. It gives the building a strange, off-balance charm.

The centuries after Contarini were not kind. The palace passed through many hands. In the nineteenth century, a Russian prince bought it as a gift for the famous ballerina Marie Taglioni. The changes made in that period did real damage. The original external staircase in the courtyard was taken out. The old carved wellhead was sold off. Original stonework was removed or altered. The great English critic John Ruskin, who loved Venetian Gothic, was in Venice during these years and wrote with dismay about what was being lost.

The rescue came at the end of the nineteenth century. In 1894, Baron Giorgio Franchetti bought the palace. He was a passionate collector and a devoted restorer. He spent years tracking down what had been lost. Remarkably, he found the original wellhead and brought it back. He rebuilt the staircase as best he could. Then he did something generous. In 1916, he gave the palace and his art collection to the Italian state.

Today the building is a museum, the Galleria Giorgio Franchetti. When you enter, look down. The floor of the ground-level hall is a mosaic of coloured marble, laid in patterns that echo ancient Roman and early Christian floors. Franchetti worked on it himself, by many accounts on his own knees. Then step into the small courtyard and find the wellhead. It is red Verona marble, carved by Bartolomeo Bon, with figures representing virtues such as Justice and Charity.

Upstairs, the collection is small but serious. The most important work is Andrea Mantegna's painting of Saint Sebastian, the early Christian martyr shown pierced by arrows. It has its own chapel-like space. Here comes a second surprise. Franchetti asked that his ashes be placed near this painting. A slab of dark red porphyry stone marks the spot. The collector chose to rest beside the work he loved most.

The galleries also hold fragments of frescoes, which are paintings made on wet plaster. Some come from the outer walls of the Fondaco dei Tedeschi, the old German merchants' warehouse near the Rialto Bridge. Giorgione and the young Titian once painted that facade. Salt air and centuries of weather nearly erased those frescoes. The faded pieces here give you a rare idea of how colourful the walls of Renaissance Venice once were.

Before you leave, find the loggia on the upper floor that opens onto the Grand Canal. This is the reverse view, the one Contarini himself enjoyed. Through the pointed arches you see gondolas, delivery boats and water buses passing below. Across the canal stands the Rialto fish market area. The arches frame the scene like a series of picture frames. It is one of the best balcony views in the city, and few people linger long enough to enjoy it.

As you step back out, take one last look at the facade from the water's edge. Picture it as it was: gold, blue and red, shining over the canal. Then look at it as it is now, pale and quiet, with its uneven sides and its delicate stone tracery. The House of Gold lost its gold, yet it kept its grace. Listen again to the water against the steps... it has been making that same sound here for six centuries.