A tale of two brothers

Just how does “San Luigi di Tolosa” become “Alvise”? Is it one of those impossible Venetian contractions which make Checo out of Francesco, Ferigo out of Federico, Titi out of Giovanni Battista, and, my favorite, “San Marcuola” – a single name – out of two – “Santi Ermagora e Fortunato”? Or was Alvise a popular pre-Christian native name, perhaps Venetian, perhaps Lombard, to which in time a patron saint had to be, out of necessity, assigned?

Alvise is a traditional Venetian name: it has been common here for centuries, while it remains unknown elsewhere. The name symbolizes Venetianness. To call your son Alvise is an act of patriotism. By tradition, the first son is named after his paternal grandfather; the second by someone from the mother's family; but the third must be, it seems, and three out of four times is, Alvise.

Alvise’s patron saint, Louis of Tolouse, is a heart-break: he is a young, beautiful bishop, with royal cape and insignia. No one has painted him more beautifully, or more dreamily, than Bellini in his last work. This hangs in St Giovanni Chrisostomo, near Rialto, and I drop in to worship whenever I pass by. The saint is incredibly graceful; sad; and possessed of a most endearing feature, the inclusion of which, bordering on blasphemy, was the painter’s masterstroke: a wondering eye. (Only one eye on this world, my friend).

San Alvise was the grandson of Louis IX, king of France (Saint Louis, to you); and the eldest son, and heir, of the King of Naples. As a young man he was sent to Aragon as a hostage, in place of his father. As is typical with prisoners in the Franco-Spanish wars, in captivity he’d undergone a religious conversion. He dedicated himself to the life of the cloth, joined the Franciscan order, and abdicated his royal rights to his younger brother, Robert. (“Look”, his muscle-bound brother Bob (of strong b.o.) had kept saying to him, “this is a rough and tumble life, full of noise, anger, passion. Do you really want it? Would you rather not live the life of peaceful meditation? Be closer to god? Away from all that juvenile horseplay?” “Yes, I would”, whispered Alvise. “Yessss!” exclaimed to himself Robert pf Anjou, future King of Naples, in the secrecy of his soul, where he also performed a rude cheerleading gesture. Bob, you see, was personally not into that religious stuff).

Now consider how some people just have it coming to them. Alvise’s grandfather was a saint. So were two of his aunts, one of his uncles, and a second cousin. Clearly, all Alvise had to do was show the slightest interest in things religious for the Pearly Gates to swing wide open. And thus, upon becoming consecrated priest, he was made bishop of Tolouse. Immediately, he set out for Rome for the canonization proceedings of his saintly grandfather, but, on the way, quietly died of fever. Miracles, which he had had no time to perform while alive, now came thick and fast and the inevitable canonization swiftly followed. Not surprisingly, at least some of those miracles involved faint-hearted ladies being cured of illness while seeing, in their dreams, the vision of the beautiful bishop with a sadly wondering eye.

A polyphonic motet was composed for the occasion of Alvise’s canonization, possibly by Philippe de Vitry. It starts:

Flos ortus inter lilia
Celsa cedrus ysopus effecta
Quam magna pontifex

(A flower has sprung among the lilies…)

This was almost certainly paid for by Robert of Anjou. Brother Bob, like most action-oriented guys, just luved music.

(8/7/2008: For example, the church of San Alvise, on the back of Canareggio in Venice, which had once been St Christopher's (patron saint of boatment) was refounded as San Alvise when the foundress, a menopausal matron, saw the youthful saint in a dream).

(9/11/08: The derivation is apparently Germanic (Longobard?) Louis -> Alois -> Alivise).