CHAPTER IV

I

“A Galley full of demons” is by no means an inapt title for the fourteenth century in Venice! The legend of “Il Pescatore e l’Anello” is as well-known as any of the stories in the boudoir of the “Queen of the Adriatic,” moreover, in a strangely weird and prophetic way, it epitomises the storm and calm of the new century’s course from start to finish.

“An old boatman, caught in the raging flood of February the twenty-fifth, in the year 1340,—when all Venice was three feet under water,—and hardly making St Mark’s quay, with his frail craft, was told by a haughty stranger to ferry him across the wild waves to San Giorgio Maggiore. There, another passenger joined the pair, and the timorous gondolier was directed to make for San Niccolo di Lido. ‘Row boldly and thou shalt be well rewarded’ was the order. At the Lido another stranger came on board, and the oarsman was commanded to push his boat out into the open sea. The ocean churned in fury, and, out of the fume, the affrighted boatman beheld a huge galley bearing down upon his barca; it was full of mad demons! But lo, at the sign of the Cross the awesome vessel vanished, and the tumultuous elements became still. Back to Venice rowed the old man, and demanded his due. ‘Go to the Procurator, he shall pay thee for me,’ replied the stranger. ‘Who art thou?’ asked the man,—‘I am Saint Mark, and my companions are Saint George and Saint Nicholas,—take this ring and give it to the Doge.’”

Andrea Dandolo was the Procurator and Bartolommeo Gradenigo the Doge, Paris Bordone and Palma Vecchio painted the legend and their pictures hang in the Accademia.

The new century saw the demise of the first political Doge of Venice—Pietro Gradenigo, and his successor was not sought among men of like sympathies,—the electors were afraid. Meeting after meeting was held, apparently in vain, no noble appeared willing to accept, or eligible for, the vacant dignity. At last, one day, standing at an open window of the Ducal Palace, which gave upon the Piazza, some weary nobles of the Council discerned an old man hobbling upon his stick and bearing a basket filled with loaves of bread, he was Messir Marino Zorzi or Giorgio.

“That’s our Doge!” they cried together, and so it came to pass that the vacant dogado went to a man unknown in political and warlike circles but very highly esteemed for his philanthropy. He was in fact, at that very moment on his way to the Hospital of San Domenigo for destitute children, which he had recently founded. His fame for charity was so widely spread, that he had gained the popular title of “Zorzi il Santo.” He and his Consort, Madonna Agnese, were greatly interested in the prosperity of the silk industry in Venice, and when the people of Lucca fled from the troops of the Condottiere Castruccio Castracane, thirty families of spinners and weavers of silken tissue were welcomed by the Doge and Dogaressa, and, by their influence, housed in the Calle della Bissa, near the church of San Giovanni Crisostomo, in the very centre of the silk quarter of the city. By Dogaressa Agnese’s intervention Lucca silk-masters were appointed to train apprentices and generally to superintend the production of silk fabrics in the workshops of the Venetian “Fragilia.”

“Zorzi il Santo” and his Consort reigned but one brief year, and then once again the electors had to find a new Head of the State. Almost unanimously Messir Giovanni Soranzo was chosen, who, although turned seventy years of age, was one of the most active men of the day. Among his exploits were the command of a victorious fleet against Genoa, the capture of Jaffa and the Syrian littoral, the humiliation of Padua, the re-conquest of Dalmatia, and the reconciliation of Venice to the Papal See. Under his patronage, and that of Dogaressa Franchesina, the silk industry flourished exceedingly and Oriental brocades and tissues were driven out of the market. The glass-workers of Murano reached the zenith of their fame, and no more mirrors from Germany and hanging-lamps from Greece were imported. The Arsenal was greatly extended, and was made capable of maintaining fully equipped at least 40,000 men. For the poor man too Doge Soranzo’s rule was fortunate, for a silver ducat could purchase enough food, and wine, and fuel, for himself and his family for a week.

The Doge was a wealthy man, and indeed he had need to be, for in his time ambassadors from every civilised State took up their residence in Venice. Foreign princes also came to make their bows to the Head of the Serene Republic. There was much entertaining and much expense. Dogaressa Franchesina was in all but name, “Queen of Venice”; her toilet, her boudoir, her receptions were modish, tasteful, and splendid. The Soranzi were one of the eight considerable families, who, in the tenth century, were classed with the “Apostolic” twelve and “Evangelistic” four, in the first grade of Venetian nobility. Their palace was one of the grandest in Venice and it was full of costly treasures; it was even said that the table-service of the Doge and Dogaressa was of gold and silver-gilt, whilst the most lustrous glass of Murano glittered in every room.

Although Doge Soranzo’s public life was so successful and so popular,—in private, his heart, and that of the Dogaressa were broken by anxiety and sorrow,—thus evenly are mundane affairs balanced. The story of Donna Soranza, their dearly-loved daughter, is as sad as sad can be. Married to Niccolo, eldest son of Marco Quirino, the leader of the Quirini-Tiepolo conspiracy, he was exiled with his wife, the very day his father’s head fell to the executioner’s axe. They made their home at Zara, but Messir Niccolo survived his expatriation but four years, when he too fell, stabbed by an unknown hand. The widowed Madonna sought to return to Venice and to her father’s home, but her appeals were all in vain; Doge Soranzo, like another Brutus, treated his daughter’s pleas with quite uncalled-for severity. At last she determined to throw herself upon the mercy of the Council of Forty, and taking her way hopefully, she presented herself dutifully to her father and mother.

That was a mournful home-coming, and mother and daughter, clasped in each other’s arms, resisted the austere ruling of the Doge, who had informed the Council of his daughter’s return. In spite of all good Dogaressa Franchesina could say or do her unhappy child was torn from her embrace and condemned to perpetual exclusion in the Convent of Santa Maria delle Vergine. Gentlewomen of Madonna Soranza Quirini’s position were styled “Canonesses,” and each had her own little casa and a domestic servant, who was allowed to go out washing, and was permitted to make purchases for her mistress, and even to convey messages to her friends. The poor ladies were not suffered even to visit each other, and they could only take exercise in the Convent garden at rare and stated intervals.

Every year the Doge paid a ceremonial visit to the Convent, where he was received with great honour by the Abbess and the superior Canonesses, who were all arrayed in magnificent white silk-brocade robes, and each wore two veils,—one black and one white,—signifying that though in the world they were not of it. The Abbess handed the Doge a bouquet of sweet flowers in a golden jewelled holder, and he bestowed in return caskets of sweetmeats upon the devout recluses. Never once did father and daughter meet; she yearned to embrace him and her mother, but he never even made enquiries about her: she was dead to the world, to the family, and to him,—a Spartan father’s discipline! Letters and messages were all in vain; unhappy Madonna Soranza’s only consolation was the companionship of another Quirino widow,—Andreola,—who remained a very short time in the Convent, for a suitor appeared, in the person of Angelo Bembo, and he was permitted to remove his innamorata to the Convent of Santa Maria di Valverde, upon the island of Mazzorbo, where they were married.

Alas! poor Madonna Soranza had no such fortune, but she pined and pined in her solitude, and, after twenty-five years of suffering, she laid her down and died—twenty years after the death of her stern father. Certainly an edict, passed in 1313, sentenced the wives of rebels and outlaws, with their children, to perpetual exile: and they were warned that unsanctioned return to Venice would be visited with perpetual confinement. Undoubtedly this proved the rule, as sententious writers have noted:—The sternness of justice is superior to the tenderness of affection.

Nevertheless to the practical historian Giovanni Soranzo ranks as the sixth “Grand” Doge of Venice. His was a majestic burial—in State he lay at SS. Giovanni e Paolo, watched by the sorrowing Dogaressa and her ladies of honour. His very simple tomb in the Soranzo Chapel at San Marco is eloquent of splendid public work simply done. The State purchased his gorgeous table-service of gold, and much of the furniture of his palace for use at Court functions. Of Dogaressa Franchesina we hear no more: perhaps she joined her unhappy daughter, and when she died, perhaps she was interred in her husband’s tomb. Very striking, in the story of the Dogaressas of Venice, are the silence and the secrecy which shrouded each Ducal lady’s latter days: as a rule they survived their Consorts—some entered convents and some retained their homes,—but their glory departed like that of the tropical sun which leaves no twilight.

Francesco Dandolo succeeded to the Dogeship: he was the great-grandson of Messir Andrea Dandolo, who died in 1153, brother of the “Grand” Doge Arrigo. His election was very popular, for his ancestry and his own achievements were both famous. He was the third Dandolo Doge, an honour never attained by any family in Venice since the ancient times of the Particepazio, the Candiani, the Orseoli and the Michieli. Borne to his investiture upon the shoulders of stalwart craftsmen, he called a halt at San Marco, and there he knelt in silent prayer where his great-great uncle, the “Grand” Doge Arrigo Dandolo, had knelt one hundred years or more before. Then, standing in the choir, he was invested with the regalia of his high office. Grasping the great banner of San Marco, handed to him by the Patriarch he marched at the head of the huge procession to the Ducal Palace. Mounting the grand staircase he bared his head, and, holding up his hands on high, subscribed the oath and received the Corno. It was the first Ducal bonnet to be provided by the State: hitherto the Abbess of San Zaccaria had held that prerogative. With the new Corno was also a smaller horned head-dress for the Dogaressa.

It seemed as though Madonna Elisabetta would enter upon a less trammelled position, and obtain a larger measure of official recognition than had been the lot of her predecessors. Later developments confirmed this idea as we shall see. Immediately after the installation of the Doge the customary lordly deputation went off to the Dandolo Mansion. It was noteworthy that at the head of the noble Lords was, for the first time, the imposing figure of the High Chancellor, a dignitary second only to the Doge, and it was he who addressed her Serenity:—“We have come,” he said, “to congratulate the Dogaressa of Venice upon the election of her noble Consort as our Doge, and to request the honour of your Serenity’s adhesion to certain provisions of the new Promissione.”

Dogaressa Elisabetta notified her pleasure at the compliment, which was paid her, and her acceptance of the conventions of her new dignity. Moreover she presented to each of the noble Lords a magnificently embroidered silk purse containing ten golden ducats, in recognition of their courtesy and as a pledge of her favour. This was a notable victory for the Dogaressa who, whilst under the old Promissioni, was debarred from giving and receiving presents of any kind. What had brought about this change in the policy of the Council no one has recorded. Was it due to the awakening consciences of the nobles who, perhaps, now saw the meanness and unworthiness of the restrictions imposed upon the Head of the State and his Consort by former enactments? Or was it due to the worthy records created by the latest holders of the Dogaressaship in their manifestations of the advance of gracious womanhood? Who shall say?

A further step in the honour rendered to the new Dogaressa was, that, instead of the somewhat impromptu and tumultuous escort of the members of the “Fragilie” to conduct her Serenity at once to the Ducal Palace, a delay of seven days was ordered before her public recognition. Then the great state barge “Bucintoro” was manned and decorated as for the annual “Marriage of the Adriatic,” and steered right up to the steps of the Dogaressa’s residence, whence she was conducted on board with great circumstance and pomp. Clad in full robes of State but bare-headed,—her hair like that of a young bride, rippling around her shoulders,—Dogaressa Elisabetta was attended by a graceful suite of gentildonne, all dressed in festal white with floral wreaths and bouquets. Escorted, not by companies of craftsmen on foot, but by a fleet of bregantine,—each vessel splendidly decorated, and bearing the banner of its “Fragilia” with the Masters and officials of the Craft in full regalia,—the water-pageant started upon its course to the Piazzetta. Passing under the glorious arch of the Ponte di Rialto, crowded with sympathetic and admiring citizens, with difficulty it steered its course amid hundreds of barcas and gondolas filled with cheering holiday-makers all in the very best of good-humour.

Arrived at the Piazzetta her Serenity and her following were conducted, not as usual to the Ducal Palace, but into the Basilica, where she knelt in prayer, whilst the Patriarch blessed her as he had the Doge: then she laid an offering upon the high altar—a purse of crimson silk-brocade containing ten gold ducats. From San Marco she was attended by a company of nobles, one holding over her head the Ducal umbrella, to the Sala de’ Signori di Notte, within the Ducal Palace, passing through the Sala del Consiglio Maggiore—the greatest and most splendid hall in Venice, where the painter Guariento was already busy with his famous frescoes,—and there she finds the Doge seated and crowned upon his throne. Descending the steps of the dais, her Consort takes her by the hand, and places her in the Dogaressa’s Chair of State under the Ducal canopy. The Chancellor tenders the solemn oath and the Dogaressa swears to maintain certain clauses of the “Promissione;” then, in the name of the assembled noble Lords, he places upon her bared head the miniature Corno, which the State had newly provided; and, lastly, the nobles offer their congratulations and their homage.

Stately ceremony, ever wearying by its formalities, gives way to social hospitality, and, as by custom bound, Dogaressa Elisabetta issues invitations to all the Masters of Crafts and their officials to sup with her in her private apartments. Meanwhile the busy hands of her serving-maids have arranged the flowing locks of the Dogaressa’s hair, and have added a new feature to her State head-dress,—a delicate coif or veil of the finest embroidered cambric. It was a very necessary adjunct, for, when the jewelled Corno was removed, the dignity of a covered head remained,—besides it was a most becoming mode. Thus with unwonted pomp, and amid universal approbation Doge Francesco Dandolo and Dogaressa Elisabetta were hailed almost as King and Queen of Venice. Right royally they maintained their high station, for daily they made progresses to different parts of the city or to the more distant islands, in support of local charities or local interests; and everywhere they were acclaimed by sympathetic crowds of citizens and craftsmen.

The austere rule and the haughty personality of Doge Giovanni Soranzo were things of the past, and the sad lot of unhappy widowed Madonna Soranza Quirino was forgotten. Men and women were only too thankful for the auspicious conditions under which they found themselves,—care gave place to joy,—unrest to revelry. One outcome of the better state of things,—and it was a very unexpected and withal amazing,—was an innovation with respect to the “Feste delle Marie”—the annual marriage of the “Brides of Venice” at San Pietro di Castello. The ancient marriage rites,—which we have already noted,—had been gradually modified, until there were scarcely any rites at all. In the year of Dogaressa Elisabetta Dandolo’s Coronation, upon the natal Feast of San Marco, a quaint marriage pageant was provided, and, instead of twelve or more beauteous damsels in nuptial attire glittering through Venice calle and canale to the marriage altar, twelve lay figures were substituted. Dressed in bridal garb these dolls,—borne through crowds of uproarious citizens,—were greeted up and down and everywhere with derision as “Marie di tola e di legno!”—“Brides of stuff and wood!”

Alas for the permanence of things human! The larger liberty granted by the Promissione to Doge and Dogaressa Francesco Dandolo in matters social and sartorial, was curtailed considerably after five years of general exuberance, and in 1334 fresh sumptuary laws were enacted. Gentlewomen were not to wear trains at Court, or at home, or on Piazza. Jewelled girdles, above the value of twenty gold ducats, were forbidden. Gold and silver rouge jars and scarcelle, or handbags, with jewels and gold filigree work, were no longer to be used. No gentlewoman was to possess more than two capes of ermine and only one big cloak lined with taffetas. Pearls, on the shoes, were disallowed, and the wearing of peacocks’ feathers. The value of a bridal trousseau was not to exceed five hundred ducats, whilst the bridal dress itself was not to cost more than two hundred ducats—a very liberal allowance as things went! The bride however was not permitted any robes of cloth of gold nor ermine linings. Boys, under twelve could not wear gold or silver ornaments, pearls, velvet, or fur: over twelve and up to twenty-five, youths and young men were forbidden to wear belts and scarcelle exceeding twenty-five ducats in value. All were to wear a strip of blue cloth hanging from the shoulder to the feet, which they rolled up, and then threw over the left arm: “Calar Stola” it was called.

The dogado of Francesco Dandolo lasted ten years,—a period of prosperity for Venice,—and much of it was due to the wise and tactful conduct of the Doge. If he may not be reckoned a “Grand Doge,”—although Ruskin calls him so in the “Stones of Venice,”—it is perhaps because, as a Dandolo, he was overshadowed by the stronger personality of his relative and successor Doge Andrea Dandolo, whose times were far more stirring and presented greater opportunities for distinction. On the other hand Elisabetta was a “Grand Dogaressa”—one of the few who rose to high station and maintained it with distinction.

Both Doge and Dogaressa were patrons of the new-born Fine Arts, for, in addition to the fresco painter Guariento, Giacomo del Fiore, Lorenzo Veneziano, and others were painting altar-pieces and anconas in the earliest Venetian studios—a hundred years or more before the brothers Vivarini founded the School of Murano. In the Sacristy of the church of Santa Maria della Salute is a picture by an anonymous Venetian painter, representing the presentation, by their patron Saints, of Doge Francesco Dandolo and Dogaressa Elisabetta upon their knees, to the Madonna and Bambino. The picture is dated 1338, and is one of the very earliest paintings of the great School of Venice. Originally this notable painting was placed over the tomb of Doge Francesco Dandolo and Dogaressa Elisabetta in the Chapter-House of the church of the Frari. The sarcophagus also has been removed, and now it is in the cloisters of the Seminario Patriarchale. The year of the Doge’s death we know, 1339, but there is no record of that of Dogaressa Elisabetta.

II

Andrea Dandolo (1342–1384) was the fourth and last Doge of his family. It is not a little remarkable, that in the History of Venice, the families which gave several Doges, up to the end of the fourteenth century, did so within severally restricted periods:—for example, the seven Partecipazi Doges held office between the years 827–942, the five Candiani 886–977, the three Orseoli 976–1009, the three Michieli 1096–1172, the four Dandoli 1192–1354 and the three Gradenighi 1283–1356. It would seem as though the “Apostolic” families came to honour and power, and swayed the destinies of the Republic, and then, in some mysterious manner, declined, fell away, and the Ducal Throne knew them no more.

Doge Andrea was the son of Messir Fantino Dandolo who was descended from Marco Dandolo Procurator of San Marco in 1161, and first cousin of the “Grand” Doge Arrigo. The first Venetian noble to study at Padua and obtain the Doctor’s degree there, Andrea Dandolo was, from his boyhood, studious and reserved. He served the State in many public offices, a member of the Council of Ten, in 1340 he was called to the important position of Procurator of San Marco.

Upon his election as Doge in 1342 an edict was issued barring his three sons, Fantino, Lionardo and Pietro, when grown, from holding public office during their father’s dogado. As to who was their mother no chronicler has apparently recorded, and this is astonishing, seeing that Andrea Dandolo’s “Cronaca” is one of the fullest and most reliable of all Venetian annals, and deals exhaustively with his own family affairs. Consequently we must make the most of the romance of Madonna Isabella de’ Fieschi, the Consort of Luchino Visconti, Lord of Milan.

This fascinating Princess visited Venice attracted by the fame of the young Doge,—he was only thirty-five years old when elected to the Ducal Throne,—for his sobriquet all through Lombardy and the Marches was “Count of Courtesy.” He was tall, well-built, and handsome, a poetaster, a man of letters, perhaps a genius, the most accomplished nobleman in Venice. Fair Isabella had, as all women have, her own ideas of love and witchery, and she was not too conscientious in her duty to her husband: he was a man of boorish manners, and there was no love lost between them. Gifted too in many ways, she conceived a violent passion for Doge Dandolo which he returned in a dreamy sort of way. Anyhow, she soon became leader of the Venetian Court, as well as mistress of the Doge. Alas! bewitching Isabella’s intimacy and influence were cut short by a terrible outbreak of the Black Death, which claimed very many noble victims and Isabella de’ Fieschi among them.

Between 1344 and 1346 it was estimated that sixty noble families were absolutely exterminated, whilst the Council of Forty was reduced to less than twenty. The only preventive, and it was only partially successful that the Guild of the Physicians could prescribe, was a concoction of aromatic herbs, amber, and ivy berries—“Teriaca” it was called. The Government guaranteed this panacea, which everyone was ordered to take—it was procurable at the Speziale della Testa d’Oro by the Rialto bridge. It was an ancient Greek remedy revived, and one may purchase it to-day at the still existent “Golden Head.”

Venice was depopulated and families from outlying islands near the mainland were welcomed by the Government, and granted privileges on settlement. This sensible move was due to the Doge’s advocacy: he had in view the advantages of introducing new blood into the veins of the population enervated by prosperity and weakened by epidemic. Earthquakes and famine followed relentlessly upon the heels of the pestilence, and great distress and reckless outrage were added to the evil lot of the Venetians.

The Doge alone kept calm and resourceful—master of the situation, whilst men were losing their heads and women their minds; but the anxieties, sufferings, and fatigues of the years of visitation preyed greatly upon his highly-strung and sympathetic temperament, and he died almost suddenly and, quite alone when no more than fifty years of age.

Andrea Dandolo is renowned as the eighth “Grand” Duke of Venice, by reason of his remarkable personal qualities, and of his noble devotion to the Republic. He was buried in the Baptistery of San Marco, the last Doge to be there interred, and Francesco Petrarch wrote his epitaph:—“He earned such glory and honour as no other Venetian Doge did before him!” One very pleasant episode in his career was his intimacy with Petrarch. After the decisive Chioggian war with Genoa, when the “Queen of the Adriatic” subdued the “Queen of the Mediterranean,”—Francesco Petrarch was sent, as one of an embassy from Milan, to seek mitigation of the Venetian terms of peace. The mission was unsuccessful, but the “Grand” Doge and the “Great” Poet became fast friends and constant correspondents.

Ruskin, in his “Stones of Venice,” writes thus of the Baptistery and of Andrea Dandolo’s tomb:—“We are in a low vaulted room ... in the centre a bronze font ... and a small figure of the Baptist ... a single ray of light falls from a window ... the only thing it strikes brightly is a tomb, and it rests upon the sleeper’s face for ever, a man of middle life, but there are two deep furrows right across the forehead, the features are small and delicate, the lips sharp ... and there is a sweet smile upon them. It is Doge Andrea Dandolo, a man early great among the great of Venice, and early lost ... he died, leaving behind him that History to which we owe half of what we know of the former fortunes of Venice.”

The mosaics in the Baptistery show the Doge kneeling in devout prayer, but, alas, no Dogaressa keeps him company.

The Conspiracy of Marino Falier or Faliero, like its predecessors, under the leadership respectively of Marco Bocconio and of Marco Quirino and Baiamonte Tiepolo, in aim and animus, was very unlike in means and methods. They tried to grasp the supreme magistracy from the aristocratic standpoint. Falier, although an “aristocrat of aristocrats,” sought the suffrages of the democracy to make him Over-Lord of Venice. Head of one of the noblest and most ancient families, Marco or Marino Falier was born in the Casa Falier, upon the Rio de SS. Apostoli in the year 1280. The Falieri were one of the twelve “Apostolic” families at Eraclea in 697. The lad’s parents were Messir Vitale Falier and Madonna Beriola Loredan,—daughter of Messir Giovanni Loredan of San Canciano,—and he was destined for a commercial career but early he turned to politics.

Marino Falier held many important State appointments, and, by his ability and disinterestedness, gained the confidence of his fellow-nobles and the citizens at large. His patriotism was unquestioned, for no one displayed greater enthusiasm in hunting down the adherents of the Quirino-Tiepolo conspiracy. When still under thirty he was admitted to the Council of Ten, and became ambassador, in turn, to the Duke of Austria, the Genoese Republic, and to the Emperor Charles V. Falier also held with distinction both naval and military commands. Upon his appointment as Podesta of Treviso he took the title of Count of Val di Morena. Francesco Petrarch, in his “Epistolæ,” speaks of Marino Falier’s wisdom and public spirit: “Ducatus honor non petat uno quidem ignaro sibi obliget.”

Falier was married twice. When a mere youth he wooed and won Donna Tommasina Contarini, his equal in rank, but as delicate as she was beautiful. Within a year she was torn from his embrace and carried away in the black chariot drawn by black oxen in the “Triumph of Death.” One sweet pledge of love fair Tommasina left her sorrowing young husband, but the relentless “Mower” reaped the baby girl, soon after her sweet mother’s death. Prostrated by this double bereavement Falier plunged into the vortex of politics, hoping thereby to heal his wounds. Time gave him consolation and revenge for when he was fifty-five he found himself once more a prisoner of the “Triumph of Love.”

Aluycia Gradenigo was a very fascinating woman,—a full-blown rose ready to be gathered by a gallant suitor. She was a daughter of Messir Nicolo Gardenigo of San Maurizio and grandniece of Doge Pietro,—“Proud Peter.” In her veins ran the blood of Greek ancestors, who, driven out of Byzantium by the Emperor Emmanuel settled at Altino, in the seventh century. Falier was Podesta of Treviso at the time of his second marriage and Treviso was always the “Court of Beauty and of Love,”—the centre of the “Marca Amorosa.” Naturally, gay young fellows gathered there, many of them drawn from Venice, among them Pietro Bollani, Michele Molino, Rizzardo Marioni, Moretto Zorzi, Maffio Morosini, and the two brothers Giovanni and Michele Steno—“Giovinastri”—“Insolent Young Dogs,” were they nicknamed.

Madonna Aluycia Falier did not want for admirers, and, if Martino Sanudo, and other chroniclers, may be believed, she greatly encouraged their advances. She was a good deal younger than her husband, and cared little for his engrossing affairs of State, whilst, naturally, she sought consolation and companionship among those of her own age. Between Michele Steno and the Countess sprang up a warm attachment, and gossips have not been at pains to shield the young wife’s honour. Anyhow the Podesta got wind of the liaison and warned the hardy lover off. Steno was not the man to take his congé readily, and very soon he learned that directly lovely Aluycia was “off with the old love, she was on with the new!” He made up his mind to be revenged of the stern Podesta and his bewitching wife, so he left Treviso in dudgeon and went back to Venice to watch for his opportunity.

During the festivities which marked the election of Marino Falier to the Doge’s seat in 1354, was a Court Ball at the Ducal Palace, and Michele Steno was among the guests. He was greeted by the Doge and Dogaressa quite cordially, but all the same he chose to carry out his plan of humiliating them there. Pressing his attention upon one of Dogaressa Aluycia’s maids-of-honour he let fall a remark which concerned his previous relations with her Serenity. Greatly shocked, the Court lady repeated what she had heard to others at the Ball and presently it reached the Doge’s ear. The Doge beckoned him, and turning aside, insisted upon his leaving the assembly at once. Steno resisted, and was beginning to repeat his slander for all to hear when the Doge ordered his removal. Passing through the Throne-room of the Palace he scratched upon the marble Chair of Estate the following couplet:—

“Marin Falier—da la bela moier Altri la galde—e lu la mantier.”

The Doge was furious. Steno was arrested and accused before the Council of his misdemeanour. His offence was as gross as gross could be and he fully deserved much more than he got;—a sound thrashing with a fox-tail,—a mark of ignominy,—a year of imprisonment, and a fine of one hundred gold ducats. This mild sentence troubled Doge Falier greatly: he looked for the death sentence at least, seeing that the offence was against the sacred person of the Doge, as well as against his Consort. He was quite conversant with the fact that the majority of the nobles were actuated by anything but kindly feelings towards himself. No doubt they viewed his prominence, not alone as Doge but as the most able and ambitious man among them, with disquietude.

Marino Falier was quite in touch with the opinions of the wealthier citizens and members of the prosperous “Fragilie.” Of course the Crafts were under Dogaressa Aluycia’s special patronage, but he shared her interest in the prosperity of the industrial classes. If the nobles looked askance at his pretensions, could he not turn to the great democracy, and pose as the champion of their liberties! This was the policy which grew more and more upon him. Michele Steno’s affair passed over but it opened the Doge’s eyes to the peril of his position, and, to safeguard that was his first concern. He could not trust the nobles, could he trust the people?

Notwithstanding that the chivalrous discipline of the Crusades had enduring influence upon the sentiments and manners of every class in Venice, and especially upon the nobles, there remained, of course, beneath the outward marks of courtesy and good-breeding very much of the old Adam of insolence and profanity. Year by year young men and old frequented, in ever-increasing numbers, Church, Piazza and Palace with nothing in the world to do but to kill time and incidentally their own and others’ reputations.

Many of these idlers were out-of-elbow noblemen—“Barnabotti” they were dubbed in derision, as hangers-on to anybody with money or influence. Proud, dissolute, discontented, and ever ready for insult or injury, this ill-conditioned mob was a menace to the peace and well-being of the Republic. Sometimes after more than usually prolonged devotions in the Temple of Bacchus, these good-for-nothings sallied forth to commit acts of vandalism in the city: at other times, their visitations to the Court of Venus fomented jealousies, which found vent only in deeds of personal violence against those they feared or hated.

One such outburst occurred only a few days after Michele Steno’s insult in the Palace. The Admiral of the Arsenal was Bertruccio Isarello, a man ambitious, unscrupulous, and intolerant to his subordinates. A very quarrelsome Condottiere del Mare, one Francesco Barbaro, considered himself wronged in some way by the Admiral, and, obtaining no satisfaction, he had the audacity to strike his chief in the Council Chamber! Admiral Isarello reported the circumstance to the Doge, and sought, through him, redress.

“How can I help you, remember,” replied Falier, “how grossly Michele Steno insulted me, and see how leniently the Forty treated him!” Then seeing that the Doge’s rancour was unabated and, knowing something of his Serenity’s sentiments with respect to the democracy, the Admiral exclaimed:—

“My Lord, why should we suffer these ‘Barnabotti’ and these ‘Bravi’ any longer. You, my Lord Doge, have a ready remedy, and I am prepared to aid you in punishing them and in humiliating some of our great lords, if you will confide in me and in my men of the Arsenal, who are your friends and mine.” This was the first step in the conspiracy of Marino Falier, and he did not linger long before he stepped again.

Everything was ordered secretly, and the conspirators were ready for the summons of the Great Bell of San Marco on the morning of 15th April,—the usual official notice that a meeting of the Council demanded the immediate presence of the Forty. The Admiral’s instructions were to strike down every nobleman who obeyed the summons, and, in the confusion, to proclaim Falier Sovereign of Venice. There was however a traitor in the camp, one Beltramo a Bergamesque furrier, a client of Stefanello Trevisan the Doge’s stockbroker at Santa Margherita. This man gathered something of the existence of the plot, and forthwith made his way to one of his barber associates, a valet in the household of Messir Nicolo Lioni of San Stefano, a member of the Council, who informed his master. Without much ado the chief conspirators were arrested—some thirty to forty in number. When charged with being privy to the plot Doge Marino Falier tossed up his proud head, and laying his hand upon his sword-hilt exclaimed:—“Il Doxe nol seppe ingane!”—“The Doge never lies!”

The Doge had short shrift: he was allowed to make his will and his confession, but not to see his miserable wife Dogaressa Aluycia or any member of his family or household. Early upon the morrow of the detection of his conspiracy, the great bell of the Basilica, which had all but clanged forth the death-knell of the Lords of the Council gave forth the funeral peal as for the burial of a Doge. Arrayed in his State robes and wearing his Ducal Corno Marino Falier was led into the great Courtyard of the Ducal Palace, and stepped forth to death bravely and contemptuously. His proud appeal for a hearing was refused, and then, stripped of his panoply of office, the old man knelt unresistingly upon the hard stones and bared his neck before the executioner. One swift blow sufficed and the gory grey-bearded head rolled to the feet of the chief of the Council, who picking it up in his arms, hurried into the loggia which gave upon the Piazza, and there, exposing his ghastly trophy to the excited multitude, cried out:—“Look!—all of you!—look!—Ripe justice hath been done to the arch-traitor!” Then he cast the foul thing from him into the middle of the Courtyard, where the populace thrust and fought to gaze at, revile, and dishonour the corpse of the old Doge whom they had so lately venerated and trusted. At dark the remains were gathered together and taken secretly in a covered barge, with eight big burning torches, and buried in the Faliero vault in the chapel of Madonna della Pace, within the great church of SS. Giovanni e Paolo.

We must now turn aside from this terrible tragedy, and contemplate a tragedy far more pathetic, the sad tragedy of Dogaressa Aluycia. The execution of the Doge involved the confiscation of his property, his palace, near the bridge of SS. Apostoli, with its marble columns, and a casa by the church of San Severo which had been built for Falier by the architect Calendario, and their valuable contents. Marino Falier and his Consort had been keen collectors of beautiful objects and antiques: in an Inventory of their treasures,—made by a priest, Giovanni, of the church of SS. Apostoli, in 1351, mention is made of the Camera rubea,—a museum,—and of another apartment, filled with objects of art,—collected by the famous explorer Marco Polo during his travels.

The unhappy Dogaressa was dispossessed of all her Consort had left her and ordered to vacate her home and go where she would. In one swift moment plunged from the lofty height of the Ducal Throne into the abyss of ignominy, she was reduced to absolute poverty and became the mark of every evil tongue, an object of aversion and suspicion. Prostrated by her bitter woe she besought Heaven to let her die,—madness was the only alternative,—she sought comfort and release but both were denied her. Her mind became a blank, her reason tottered, and when at length two lifelong friends dared, at the risk of their own lives, to penetrate her hiding-place, Messiri Giorgio Giustiniani and Niccolo Contarini, they found her a raving lunatic.

By permission of the Council Dogaressa Aluycia was placed in the Convent of San Lorenzo on the fondamento of San Severo, where she received a small gold brooch and some other trifling mementos of her husband. After a while she was moved to Verona where she had property and friends, but the change wrought no relief and sorrowfully she was sent back to Venice, where she ended her days in 1385, in a mad asylum, forgotten by the world, with no child or friend to mourn her, alone with God.

The conspiracy and execution of Doge Marino Falier shook the constitution of Venice to its deepest foundations. Suspicion and revenge lurked at every corner of church, palace, and piazza. Every man’s hand was upon his poignard, each woman’s knee was bent in intercession, and the children ceased their games.

Venice was once more “Venezia Calva”—but “Venice naked” in shame, dismay, and tragedy.

III

Doges came and Doges went, and, with them, their Dogaressas: the last half of the fourteenth century saw seven Heads of the State. Their Consorts are named in the MS. Dolfin Gradenigo, in the Museo Civico, but about only three of them have the chroniclers given us much information. Calling to mind a quaint entry in the “Archivio Veneto” of the year 1288, which deprecates matrimony and woman’s influence as far as regards the Rulers of States, we may perhaps gather the subtle meaning of the excursus of Frate Paolino, a Minorite of Venice.

“Whilst a man” he writes, “ought to seek a wife tall and well-formed, that she may give him fine and comely children, he should, all the same, never be ruled by her advice, for a woman has not sound counsel, because she usually has not a strong constitution, and her mind is apt to yield to the infirmities of the body.” Be this as it may, we must look wider afield for circumstances which greatly altered the conditions of the dogado.

The middle of the fourteenth century was remarkable as a period of unusual political unrest and of unprecedented immorality. The great middle-class of Venetian citizens had not only gradually acquired wealth and influence, but they were determined that the Government of the Republic should no longer rest exclusively in the hands of the nobles. The City was agitated with measures against the aristocracy, which were greatly strengthened by the consequences attending the execution of Doge Marino Falier. The dreaded revolution was however averted and the new Doge, Giovanni Gradenigo, though a grandson of the aristocratic “Proud Peter,” was known to be a man of particularly suave and considerate character—“Il Nasone” he was called because of his bottle-nose. His Consort was Madonna Marina Cappello,—a lineal descendant of Andrea Cappello, the hero of the “Rape of the Brides of Venice” in Doge Pietro Candiano IV.’s time.

Amid all the political commotions, women came very much more into public life. Hitherto restrained by almost Oriental enactments they now began to throw off the conventions which so narrowly prescribed their position. The Senate and the domestic hearth were alike imperilled: women lost their modesty, and men their continence. Dress and manners yielded to the infatuation: women’s breasts were bared, and men’s hose became indecent. Delicate living and pleasure unrestrained changed the proverbial decorum of Venice. New ideas Platonic and otherwise were rife concerning the relations of the sexes. Venice was full of light women, not natives only, but frail beauties from beyond the lagunes, drawn thither by the fine figures and fat purses of the men. In the year 1360 the number of courtesans exceeded twelve thousand!

The scandal was so glaring that the Government of Doge Giovanni Delfino (1356–1361), issued an edict forbidding such women from occupying common lodging-houses, joining supper parties of men, and going about the city—except on Saturdays: at the same time they were required to reside within the sestiere of Castelletto, near the Ponte di Rialto. Very strict laws were passed by the Council of Forty for the preservation of morals; hanging was the punishment meted out to offenders. The story of Madonna Veneranda Porta, who lived in the second half of the century,—still recounted among the gondoliers,—is indicative of the state of society. She had an unsympathetic husband, and as a consequence, a lover, and he slew Messir Giorgio Porta. The lovers were arrested and condemned to suffer the extreme penalty of the law. Madonna Veneranda protested “that Venice had never yet hung a woman,—it would be too indecent,—and she would not be the first to be so punished.” “You shall hang,” replied the chief of the Council, “in a sack!”

Doge Giovanni Delfino, in 1357, founded an Hostel for Fallen Women—“redire ad penitentiam et contriciam”; and, he and his Consort,—whose name we do not even know,—established as many as seventeen receiving houses for children exposed in the byways and water-ways. His dogado was calamitous for Venice abroad as well as at home. “He was,” the historians tell us, “nevertheless, a true soldier, honourable and patriotic.” He died in 1361, his body was laid in State,—the first Doge so honoured,—in the Sala de’ Signori di Notte, and was buried at SS. Giovanni e Paolo,—where his sarcophagus, enriched with sculptures has bas-reliefs of the Doge and Dogaressa kneeling at the feet of the enthroned Christ.

There were several candidates for the vacant Throne and much delay was experienced in the selection of the new Doge, but, whilst the electors hesitated, news came of a famous naval achievement of the Venetian fleet, under Lorenzo Celsi, “the Captain of the Gulf.” He was a brave man and the idol of the people, with no claims whatever to nobility of rank, possessed of only moderate means, and under fifty years of age. His name was shouted in the Piazza, and a vast concourse of craftsmen and gondoliers rushed pell-mell to the Ducal Palace, and demanded his election as Doge. The people’s caprice was for the nonce the nobles’ choice, and they bowed to the popular outcry.

The Dogaressa, Marchesina, daughter of Messir Girolamo Ghisi, a member of one of the rising families of merchant-craftsmen, with her maids of honour and an immense following set off to meet the sailor Doge on his return to Venice. Without precedent for any such demonstration, the “Bucintoro” was rowed out to sea, and signalled to the Lido the first sail of the approaching squadron. Once more a popular hero was borne shoulder-high into the Basilica, and in the Ducal Palace crowned “Doge of Venice and of her Dominions beyond the Sea,” so ran his title.

Lorenzo Celsi was prepared to be all things to all men and made endless promises of democratic reforms, such as the manner is of men not to the manner born. A man of splendid physique and brimful of ambitious ideas he determined not only to make the most of his good fortune, but to render his dogado as magnificent as possible.

For his own protection he took very wise precautions: sailors were not quite the kind of guard he and his family required, so, very adroitly, as he thought, he enrolled scores and scores of lawless men of the city,—the “Bravi”—as a body-guard to deal with disagreeable persons. These men soon had the measure of the Doge, and assumed a demeanour which imperilled the personal safety of all against whom they had any grudge whether public or private. Meetings to mark persons for assassination were held secretly at the out-of-the-way laundry of a woman named Tommasina Gobba, who was, by the way, laundress to the Dogaressa. The worthy body turned Doge’s evidence, and the villains were disbanded, but the Doge came in for fierce aspersions and serious suspicions. It was easy to say that he instigated measures of violence, so as to safeguard himself and his position.

Very fortunately for Celsi’s vindication of his bona fides came the visit of Francesco Petrarch to Venice: “a place of peace and rest” he imagined it, but he found it “full of depravity and profanity.” A very amusing story is told of the poet’s treatment of an importunate visitor. The man would take no refusal, he sought alms and patronage. Failing to convince Petrarch he set to work to insult him with odious language,—“such as only Venetians used,”—whereupon the poet seized him by the throat and kicked him down the stairs!

Petrarch was treated royally by the Venetians, the Palazzo de Quattro Torri, on the Grand Canal, was assigned to him as his residence, and at Court functions he was seated on the right hand of the Doge. The first of the pageants he beheld, was held in celebration of the Conquest of Candia,—where “the most comely youths in Christendom displayed their forms and prowess before the most beauteous maidens upon earth”: the splendid spectacles inspired his “Trionfi.”

“Questa leggiadra e gloriosa Donna Ch’ è oggi nudo spirto e poca terra, E fugià di valor alta colonna, Tornava con onor della sua guerra Allegra, avendo vinto il gran nemico, Che con suo’ inganni tutto ’l mondo attera.”

“La Bella Donna, e le compagne elette Tornando dalla nobile Vittoria In un bel drappelletto ivan ristrette.”—

No such brilliant tournament had ever been held in Venice: the Doge himself, superbly mounted, broke a lance with the Prince of Cyprus. The Poet, in an ecstasy of delight describes the Venetians as a “nation of sailors, horsemen, and beauties!” He says “the Dogaressa placed crowns of pure gold upon the victors’ heads, and clasped silver belts around their hips.”

Petrarch lived seven years in Venice (1361–1368). In 1364 he wrote to Giovanni Boccaccio:—“Come then to my call,” and the gay writer of the “Decamerone” spent three months in Venice. Before his departure Petrarch wrote to the Council of the Forty:—“I wish with the good will of my Saviour and of the Evangelist, to make St Mark the heir of my Library.” The bequest was gratefully accepted, but, alas, like many more such benefactions, nothing now remains but a few mouldy worm-eaten volumes.

Doge Lorenzo Celsi’s day of popularity went too the way of the world. Like all risen men he became autocratic and presumed upon the liberties and antecedents of the nobles, and they took their revenge. Upon the thirtieth of July 1365, the Council of Ten passed a resolution reflecting upon the Doge’s assumption of authority, and putting upon record that the status of the nobles was in jeopardy. The wording of the concluding sentence is quaint yet convincing:—“quia non est de neccessitate”—“because we have no further need of him!”

The Doge was deposed, being suspected of favouring a reform in the Government, which, whilst retaining the Ducal office, proposed to transfer the powers of the Councils of Nobles to a parliament representative of the citizens and craftsmen.

The circumstances attending the election of Doge Marco Corner, or Cornaro (1365–1367) are amusingly pathetic. He was a very old man, well over eighty years of age, and only remarkable for his uprightness, his studiousness, and his poverty. To be sure he came of an “Evangelistic” noble family,—equal in antiquity and distinction to the Giustiniani, the Bembi, and the Bragadini,—but this accident of birth was neither a ground for boasting nor an incentive to ambition. The electors doubtless turned to him as being a simple-minded man, and one who would not follow his predecessor in affectation of lordly superiority. When the choice was made public very many people, in every class cavilled at the selection:—“Surely there were more distinguished candidates for the Supreme Office, at all events some who were less homely in their surroundings,” they said; and they poked fun at old Corner’s lack of means and at his old wife’s dowdy ways.

Dogaressa Caterina was an unaffected simple-hearted, domesticated woman, with no claim to nobility or social distinction of any kind, but a very worthy helpmeet to her spouse. Idle tongues wagged about her and her ways and made fun of her little economies. The Doge bridled up at the disparaging remarks, and, with dignity, rebuked the scoffers. “My old wife,” he said, “is so good and so virtuous, that she has always been respected by all the women of Venice quite as highly as if she had come of one of the most distinguished families!” Some busybody had seen the Madonna Caterina, quite lately, busy turning an old stuff dress that she might wear it a little longer, and the gossip went round the Palaces. Marco Corner met the sneer in a characteristic manner. “Well, what of that?” he asked, “there are many noble lords and worthy citizens in Venice, who would be only too thankful for such a useful wife as mine. She is a good woman, and I will thank you to let her alone.”

Certainly Dogaressa Caterina Corner was not born in the purple nor had she any taste for ceremonial: we do not read of any imposing procession of Guilds setting forth to conduct her to the Ducal Palace for her coronation. The probability is that, with shrewd commonsense and no great display of dress or jewels, she quietly took her place beside her husband, bent on doing her duty in her new position, as she had done all through her life. Whatever responsibilities devolved upon her as Dogaressa, such as were connected with charity, education, and the encouragement of industries were borne right nobly.

To good Marco Corner was due the issue of licenses by the Government for poor people, past work at their usual avocations, to earn pittances as itinerant street merchants. Besides this he was instrumental, with good Dogaressa Caterina, in the establishment of hospitals for the aged poor so that “none might end their days in misery nor die of hunger.” Doge Marco Corner gained the respect of all and died regretted by those who had mocked him. His tomb in SS. Giovanni e Paolo is one of the most beautiful examples of fourteenth-century Gothic. Probably Dogaressa Caterina was laid in the same grave, but there is no record of her death. Hers was the harvest of a quiet eye, the satisfaction of the simple life, and the reward of a good conscience.

Marco Corner’s successor was quite a different sort of man, but still one likely to be amenable to the Lords of the Council, and not one to make pretensions beyond the limits of the Promissione. When the news of Doge Corner’s death reached him, Andrea Contarini was peacefully tying up his vines in his estate at Gambarre on the Brenta. Very many Venetian nobles had villas in that delectable district, and the Contarini country-mansion was one of the most handsome. Directly he was told that he had been elected Doge he declined the honour,—indeed he twice refused,—having in mind the ominous prediction of a Syrian dervish, who had warned him:—“If thou ever become Doge of Venice untold disasters will fall upon her!”

The Electors would take no refusal and warned Contarini that he laid himself open to the confiscation of all his property, and to a sentence of banishment for life, both for himself and for his family. He cared very little for public life: he took as his motto the Venetian proverb:—“Zocoli, brocoli, capelo, e poco cervelo”—“Slippers, gardening, and a night-cap, with nothing to worry about!” He came however of a ruling family, one of the “Apostolic” twelve, just one hundred years after his ancestor, Doge Giacomo Contarini had upborne his name and his City nobly.

Doge Andrea Contarini’s dogado was marked by restrictions at home and troubles abroad. His Promissione was, perhaps, the most tyrannical of any required of a Doge. He and his family were expressly forbidden gifts of every kind. Neither he nor the Dogaressa (whose name has not been recorded), nor any of their children, were allowed to possess land and property of any kind in the neighbourhood of Treviso, Padua and Ferrara: and this was a personal hit, for it was just in those districts that the Contarini family had interests. The Dogaressa was further denied liberty of action in various small ways, and every good work she proposed required the explicit sanction of the Council before she could carry it out. Abroad the interests of the Republic were seriously jeopardised; her bitter rival Genoa was preparing to attack her, and peace-loving Doge Contarini had to lay aside his implements of husbandry and take in hand his sword.

“Arms and the Man”—was true of Venetian tactics, for two famous captains of her ships and her men came to the front to direct her warlike progress—Carlo Zeno and Vettor Pisani. Success and failure in turn followed Saint Mark’s banner, but the soothsayer’s words came true, for disaster settled down upon Venice, what time Andrea Contarini was Doge. Still his sun went down with shouts of victory from Chioggia, where he and his captains and his men crushed the enemy effectually. He was buried in the Augustinian church of San Stefano and his tomb bears the brief epitaph:—“MCCCLXVII Dux creatus: MCCCLXXXII in Cœlum sublatus.”

Under the Dogaressa the gentildonne of Venice, headed by Donne Anna Falier, Francesca Bragadini, Margherita Michieli, and Marliana Bembo,—“Good angels of love and pity,” they were called,—organised special ministrations for the benefit of the wounded in the war, the widows of the fallen, and the fatherless children. They were inspired by the same patriotic spirit, which had been voiced by the valiant Doge himself, “All for Venice—I will not see her Palaces again until she is victorious!”

What a curiously different saying was that of Doge Contarini’s successor, Michele Morosini:—“What matters,” said he, “the fall of Venice, so long as I am strong!” He was a mean fellow and a miser, a disgrace to the noble name he bore, but, happily for Venice, he held the dogado no more than three months. He was one of the twenty thousand Venetians who perished in the plague, and no one regretted him. His Consort was Donna Cristina Condulmiero. The Condulmieri were merchants of woollen-cloth, refugees from Pavia: they lived in the Campo Santa Lucia.

The last Doge of the century was Antonio Venier. The Venieri ranked with the Cappelli, Loredani, Malipieri, and the remainder of the twenty families in the second class of Nobles: their names having been enrolled by the “Serrar del Consiglio” in the “Libro d’Oro” of 1289. One special proviso was attached to the continuance of their order:—every child had to be registered within three months of birth, or he or she forfeited rank and inheritance. Nevertheless, the Venieri went back to the eleventh century when their forebears settled at Chioggia. Doge Antonio Venier was urbane if austere, moral if gracious, and, in character and personality, as unlike his selfish unpatriotic predecessor as could well be imagined. He was, by his liberal-mindedness, an illustration of the Venetian proverb:—“Tedeschi in la stala, Francesci in cusina, Spagnoli in la camera, Venetiane in casa!” His title of “Magnifico” he well deserved, for no more magnanimous Doge ever wore the Ducal bonnet.

The last eighteen years of the century were as peaceful and as uneventful as any like period in Venetian history: a wide contrast to the pushful times of Doge Pietro Gradenigo. We might write of his dogado as of:—

“Roses! roses! all the way With wild myrtle mixed like mad.”

There was however a thorn, and a very sharp one too, in Antonio Venier’s career; it was one which sprang out of his own branch of the family tree. Alvise, or Luigi, his eldest son, was if not a ne’er-do-weel, a very wild sort of lad. Probably the serenity of the life at the Ducal Palace palled upon the youth, who sought relief in romantic attachments. Among his escapades was one, in company with his friend, Marco Loredan, which compromised the fair fame of Madonna Felicita, the wife of Messir Giovanni dalle Boccole—a rosebud and a thorn!

Messir dalle Boccole discovered the intrigue and watched his opportunity for chastisement, but the gay Lotharios anticipated his purpose and in a moment of peculiar sportiveness,—it was at midnight, 11th June 1388,—they stuck up, over Messir dalle Boccole’s front door a Phallic symbol, and scribbled upon the lintel some opprobrious words. Such an insult was intolerable, and, as the culprits did nothing to conceal their identity, nor make amends, dalle Boccole complained of their conduct to their respective fathers. How Marco’s father acted we know not, but Doge Venier visited his son’s offence with the severity of a Brutus. The lad was put on his trial before the Signori delle Notti,—the Police Court of Venice,—a fine was imposed of one hundred lire, and two months’ imprisonment in the Pozzi,—where only political prisoners were confined. “Horrible, dark, damp cells, that would make the saddest life in the free light and air seem bright and desirable,” so wrote George Eliot in 1860.

In this terrible place of confinement, with a steady depth of two feet of stagnant putrid water, the only dry rest his hard bench, which did duty for table and for bed, poor young Alvise lost heart and health. He pleaded desperately with his father to release him from his terrors and his infirmities, but the Doge gave no reply and made no sign. He was, he plumed himself the impersonation of all that was just, honourable, and unimpeachable in Venice, and, not for his own offspring, could he suffer any relaxation of the sentence. His son had transgressed the law, he must abide the consequences, so he ruled. And the consequences, in spite of his mother, the Dogaressa Agnese’s impassioned intercessions, were that the young man, left to his fate, died miserably in the filthy Gehenna, in the springtide of 1388.

This was the parental justice of the urbane and gracious Antonio Venier, but the “thorn” pierced his own hand and heart, and after two years of useless remorse and self-accusation, the unnatural if judicial Doge passed away in mental anguish in the Palazzo Venier ai Gesiusti near the Ponte dell’ Acqua-vita.

There is quite a touching little story which concerns the burial of poor young Alvise Venier. The sister who loved him best, Antonia, was so greatly distressed by her father’s attitude that she professed herself a Canoness of San Zaccaria, and, when her brother’s dead body was refused decent burial by the Doge, she obtained possession of it and carried it away from the foul Casa degli Spiriti,—where all the dead rest before their final course to San Michele,—the common cemetery,—and placed it reverently in an unoccupied piece of land of the fondamento of Cannaregio, the most distant sestiere from the Ducal Palace. Directly the Doge was dead she put into effect a resolution she had made,—after earnest prayer to St Mary, St Giustina, and the good Bishop Lodovico, her patron,—to build a church and a Canonica, and dedicate them in the name of her brother as Sant’ Alvise. In the crypt she buried him and, by her will, directed that her own dead body should be laid beside his. Alas the Orto Botanico, where,—when not beset by picnic parties of bird-lovers at the neighbouring aviaries of St Giobbe,—devout Antonia Venier meditated and prayed, and whence she watched her church arise, has lost all traces of its original condition, it is now a torpedo factory!

Dogaressa Agnese, although her heart and brain were lacerated by pain and sorrow, survived her Consort a few years, then, in 1411, she was buried near his tomb with their daughter, Orsola, in the left transept of the church of SS. Giovanni e Paolo.

Doge Antonio Venier died in the first year of the new century: it was in January, when snow and ice coated calle and canale—a white shroud to cover the dead body of a century, pitted with blanes and boils of private wrong and public turpitude.

Ring down the curtain and hide the traces of tragedy: maybe the next scene will be a transformation! A plaintive echo of a voice—one of the sweetest that ever sang upon the Lido of Venice, steals into our ears, amid the muffled clang of all the Campanili bells, and bids us take heart of grace. It is fair Laura’s innamorato who in his “Africa” thus prophesies of Venice:—

“Our Sons shall live in days more bright and fair.

Then noble intellect and docile mind Shall renovate the studies of mankind The love of beauty and of truth the cult Shall make life’s pilgrimage less difficult.”