A gondolier dressed for Venice's Carnavale paddles under a footbridge. Photograph © Theo Westenberger

Venice Masquerade
By Mimi Murphy

Carnevale plays out on the world's grandest stage.

In the city that serves as "the world's unconscious," as Mary McCarthy wrote in her book Venice Observed, everything is possible. Just look: Skirting pigeons, Captain Hook speeds by on a bicycle, a wanton Casanova freshens his ruby-red lipstick at a nearby café table, and a Mercedes 300SL navigates the Grand Canal.

The ethereal timelessness of Venice makes it a unique venue for the magic and transformation of Carnevale. "The difference is that in any other place, you are in costume. Here, it is part of life," says Count Emile Targhetta d'Audiffret, a Venice luminary who opens his 17th-century palazzo for concerts and soirees during Carnevale. The count owns 50 extraordinarily detailed historical costumes and changes character three times a day. But he does not simply dress up; he plays the part.

"The important thing is to make the costume live," he says with conviction. "If I'm wearing my Louis XIV, I walk with my toes pointed outward." The count demonstrates with dramatic flair. "Henry II would never walk that way. You see it in the paintings." Several times a day Count Emile walks the back alleys from his palazzo on the Fondamenta Nuove to Caffé Florian on Piazza San Marco, relishing the comments of the people he passes. "You can have masked festivities anywhere," he says. "Here, it's the streets that count."

With ancient roots linked to spring fertility rites, Carnevale took hold in Venice in the Middle Ages. As the Serenissima Republic of Venice declined into full hedonistic decadence during the 1700s, the licentious festivities would continue for months. Abolished in 1797 by the French when the republic fell to Napoleon, Carnevale resurfaced in the form of smaller, less exalted celebrations. It was fully revived in 1979, on the heels of a successful winter theater festival. Today Carnevale is celebrated during the weeks preceding Ash Wednesday—a last fling before the rigors of Lent.

Anonymity is the liberating condition, the ultimate seduction, of Carnevale. It is license to live your fantasy incognito. Ordinary people become extraordinary, distinctions between young and old, handsome and homely, are obscured. "There are no limits," says Swiss engineer Flash Ledgard, a Carnevale-goer since 1990 who dabbles in street theater at home. "You just let yourself go." Not everyone does, however.

Most visitors see Carnevale as a spectator sport or a photographic safari. What they find are pageants, concerts, games, and shows at almost every turn. Street theater on the world's most mesmerizing stage. Aside from the entertainment organized by the city, amateur theater groups come on their own from all over Europe to try out new costumes and gain the priceless experience of involving willing crowds in their antics. And on the evening of the cortege on the Grand Canal there is the enchantment of more than a hundred decorated boats filled with masqueraders, followed by a procession of gondolas, their lanterns reflected in the lagoon. The dazzling parade ends with fireworks that light the sky over the mysterious city.

The Florian is not the sole café on the grand Piazza San Marco suffused with an 18th-century aura, but it is the only one with six full-facade windows from which to be seen. That and its unrivaled atmosphere of complicity and sophistication make the Florian the rendez-vous spot for the Carnevale cult. "Its very important to be in costume," says Baroness Romana von Schilgen, president of the Club Culturale Italiano. "Otherwise, you don't feel part of it." Flash Ledgard, the Swiss engineer, agrees. "If you are an observer, you just analyze it," he says. "You don't feel it." In fact, being seen at the Florian in a knockout costume is the best strategy for being invited to exclusive private parties.

Spectators press their faces to the glass for the floor show while costumed hopefuls wait in line in the packed late afternoon, the preferred time for a hot chocolate. Gawkers at the Florian's windows either inspire the masked revelers to adopt serious attitude—perfect manners and arrogant condescension toward the pesky populace, perhaps—or ham it up.

Historical personages—doges, Casanovas, aristocratic dandies—outnumber flights of fantasy, given that Carnevale is tied to Venice past. But a nobleman may well be seated next to a unicorn with diaphanous wings, a seven-foot flowering tree, the king of snows, or a group of mushrooms. "I wanted to impersonate something completely extraordinary," says a vinyl sci-fi insect from Turin.

While some participants rent outfits from theatrical costumers, most hard-core Carnevale types would never entertain that option. A fascination with role-playing and the enjoyment of good-natured rivalry drive their passion for masquerade. It's not unusual for them to spend months doing historical research and hand-sewing their costumes. And before Lent is finished, they are examining engravings and scouring flea markets for inspiration, calculating what it will take to captivate next year's Carnevale crowd.

A twirling juggler sitting atop a bridge indicates the way to Palazzo Ca'Zanardi as costumed guests approach. As each group of revelers enters the palace, a mime rolls out the red carpet and four trumpeters herald them inside. This is Carnevale in palazzo. There are more than a dozen masquerade balls extravagantly set in splendid palaces on and off the Grand Canal.

"Venice is magic," says Claudio Czeller, dressed as a credible Venetian aristocrat of the 1700s. "Everywhere else, people go to see the festivities. Here, we live it." His daughter Ambra, six, the perfect 18th-century damsel, appears to trade one dream for another after the grownups have moved on to Ca'Zanardi's ballroom.

At the Ballo del Doge, on Saturday night, 15th-century Palazzo Pisani Moretta's massive Murano glass chandeliers are lit with hundreds of candles. Musicians and characters from a commedia dell'arte theater troupe entertain magnificently costumed guests from all over the world throughout a sumptuous dinner. Afterward the guests learn the minuet and whirl to Strauss waltzes. A dissolute Casanova, Maurice Agosti, lends libertine authenticity to the festivities, courting partygoers in four languages. "Every emotion is doubled in Venice," he says, "because it is mirrored in the water."

On Shrove Tuesday, Amici del Carnevale members meet behind Piazza San Marco and head to their Grand Canal gala in gondolas. Later, a group of Carnevale-goers gathers for a council called solely by word of mouth. Holding hands, they take an oath, pronounced by an 18th-century nobleman, to meet again next year for Carnevale.

The information in this story was accurate at the time it was published, but we suggest you confirm all details before making travel plans.