A DOGE’S LIFE
A Wicked Son—Becomes Doge—His Marriage—Ambitions—Venice a Huge
Conspiracy—The Palace Surrounded—His Fate—Venetian Ideals—Story of
a Feud of the Tenth Century—Opened with an Assassination—Murderer
Upheld by the Emperor—Venice Attacked—A Civil War in
Venice—Uprising of the Citizens—Another Doge—Building of St.
Mark’s—The Doge and the French Abbot—The Doge Become a Monk—A Story
of Marion Crawford’s.
The son of that Doge who rowed after the corsairs and helped to
recover the brides, wrote a fiery and bloody chapter in the history of
Venice—and died in the writing. He began early in life to plot against
his father, who, feeling the weight of age and responsibility pressing
hard upon him, allowed his son to sit beside him and help him in the
business of ruling the State.
No sooner did the former feel the sceptre in his hands than he began
to plot against the parent who had permitted him to handle it, until he
was caught in the act, and only rescued from the mob who sought to kill
him in the nick of time. His father then sent him into exile.
Human nature is a bundle of contradictions bound together with cords
of training and pushed along by an intermittent moral energy, which we
call conscience. An individual under given circumstances will attempt,
at least, to guide his actions by some sort of reasoning; but place
that individual in a crowd that is fired with excitement, in the same
circumstances, and five times out of seven that individual will cease
to reason at all. He will be caught up in the whirlwind of the mob’s
emotions and do things that will make him blush ever after to think
about.
Which, perhaps, accounts for the fact that, though Pietro Orosino
ravaged the coast line and plundered the Venetians for years, yet in
the end they presented him with the throne, and deposed his old father
who had ruled them wisely and well during those years, to do so.
Then Pietro, having at last got his opportunity, proceeded to show the
world what kind of a man he was. Feeling the need of the Emperor’s
friendship, he drove the unfortunate woman who had married him into
a convent and sent her son into a monastery, after which he married
the sister of the Marquis of Tuscany (who must have been a person of
singularly plastic morals), and being now a connection by marriage
with the Emperor he proceeded to further fortify his position
by establishing his kinsfolk in half a dozen other States, where
they became people of the first rank and of considerable power and
influence.
Now Pietro’s wife was a German Princess (even in those far-off times
most of the disposable royalties seem to have been Germans) and he
placed German troops in the fortresses of Ferrara, which she had
brought to him. Then, as a final buttress to his strength, he organised
a small army of professional soldiers as a bodyguard. As soon as he had
accomplished that, he began a systematic cutting of all the ties that
bound him to his duty towards the Venetians and attempted to dismiss
his counsellors.
That was as far as he was allowed to go. The first families—who had
ambitions of their own—quietly armed the people, and presently Venice
became one huge conspiracy, and one night, at a given signal, the
palace was surrounded and every avenue of escape cut off. Then Pietro,
sitting in the upper part of the Palace, heard the roar of the mob,
rising and falling and rising again like the bellowing of a pack of
wolves, and knew that his fate had leapt upon him out of the silent
night, as fate has a habit of doing.
His terrified men informed him that every exit was blocked and, having
given him the information, separated and scurried away into corners
and hiding-places like rats, all save a faithful few, who stood by
him; and with them and his wife and child he ran for a private passage
which connected the Palace with St. Mark’s, hoping to take sanctuary
there. But the conspirators knew of the passage, too, and there they
were waiting for him, when he stumbled through the dark, and there they
killed him and his child and every man that was with him; but they let
the woman go—fortunately as it proved for them—for Pietro’s wife was
kin to the Emperor.
In view of the fact that the story of Venice is so stormy a one, it is
interesting to note that all the early ideals of the Venetians ran in
the direction of peace and mutual equality, and so determined were they
that discord should not be permitted to raise its head that they made
their very dress conform to their desires and adopted a long, loose
dress, which would be most inconvenient for hot-blooded people who
might be apt to quarrel upon small pretexts.
They left these ideals behind them, however, as the State grew and
flourished. It is not in the Latin temperament to tread too narrow a
road, so far as the passions are concerned, and, even to-day in the
south, if one man has the misfortune to slay another one, he has always
two pleas to make, either of which will, as a rule, find a sympathetic
hearing in court. “La passione” is the first—and any moderately
good reason for rage is generally all that is asked for, by way of
explanation. “Scirocco” is the second, and that covers everything from
a broken dish to a slit gullet. No one is supposed to be quite in his
or her right mind while the close, hot, dry African wind is blowing.
A certain Doge of the name of Ziani, who lived in the beginning of the
Thirteenth Century, happened to hear that his son, while bathing near
the Abbey of San Giorgio, had been attacked by some dogs belonging to
the monks, and had been very badly bitten, so badly indeed that, at the
time, he was not expected to recover. Flying into a rage of truly ducal
proportions, the ruler instantly ordered the monks, the monastery, and
the hounds to be burnt—all together. The monks appear to have escaped,
but the house and the dogs were destroyed before the Doge had time to
rescind the order. In true Latin fashion, of course, he repented of his
decree, just too late to prevent its execution; and, in his repentance
for the sacrilege, he undertook to rebuild the monastery at his own
expense and take upon himself, besides, an annual pilgrimage, as an
additional penance. He was a man of the most kindly nature and of a
most pious disposition!
To illustrate the combination of romance, tragedy, loyalty and
treachery, piety and brutality that characterised the time and the
place, few better examples can be found than the story of the feud
between the Caloprini and Morosini in the Tenth Century.
It arose over the hoary question of whether the friendship and support
of the Eastern or the Western Empire was most to be desired for the
good of the State. This, to be sure, was only a peg on which a private
feud was hung, and neither one house nor the other, as far as can
be ascertained, had the slightest personal leanings either in the
direction of Otto or of the Byzantines. It was enough that a certain
amount of popular feeling could be roused and a certain number of the
common citizens could be induced to quarrel on the subject, while the
great Houses were always to be depended upon when either loot or power
was dangled before them.
The Caloprini opened their political campaign by the assassination of
the most prominent member of the opposing faction, Domenigo Morosini,
who is said to have been a person of the most exemplary piety—and his
naked body was discovered in a boat near one of the water gates. It was
asserted, and with some show of truth, that he had been set upon, while
coming out of church—he had made a tactical error in going to worship
in the district over which the Caloprini held sway—and had been beaten
to death by some ruffians in the pay of Stefano of that ilk. The boat
being handy, they had pitched the body into it and had allowed it to
drift whither it would.
To Stefano’s surprise, the citizens of Venice seemed to regard the
affair with real anger and disgust; but, knowing the form which their
resentment would probably take, he forestalled their intention, by
slipping out of the city one cold, wet evening with several of his
followers and arrived, after a long journey, at the Court of the
Emperor.
Here Stefano flung himself at the feet of authority and, in terms
almost abject, begged the Emperor to look with pity upon his,
Stefano’s, beloved State, torn with the dissensions of wicked men, who
had driven him and his companions into exile for no reason except that,
being people of some position and of grave and pious character, they
had attempted to reason with the belligerents and had refrained from
mixing in the ungodly business. How much of this Otto believed it is
hard to say, for he appears to have withheld any definite statements
until the preamble was over. Continuing, Stefano, on his own account,
offered Venice to the Emperor, with all its contents, adding that, in
the case of the former’s acceptance, he would be more than pleased
to act as the Emperor’s Viceroy and would guarantee a solid yearly
tribute. History asserts that Stefano was believed to be honest, but by
what process of reasoning the belief was arrived at we are not told.
At any rate, it did not take the Emperor very long to decide upon the
annexation of the province, the governorship of which was at the same
time offered to that sterling patriot, Stefano.
The first step the Imperial Court took was to declare a blockade and a
cessation of all commercial intercourse between Venice and the Empire.
The former was then declared to be in a state of siege. The blockade
was cheerfully undertaken by Stefano in person, whereupon the Bishop
of Belluna descended upon Città Nuova, which was now defenceless, and
sacked it thoroughly.
The government of Venice fulminated against the traitors, but, beyond
soothing their own outraged pride, the verbal thunders accomplished
little or nothing. It is difficult to make any pretence of serious
protest upon an empty stomach, and Stefano must have laughed consumedly
when he heard about it.
But, just as Venice was about to surrender to the inevitable,
Providence came to its aid and removed Otto by means of an ague, when
the Imperial policy was promptly reversed by the two Regents, and
Stefano was out in the cold once more. As Napoleon once observed, “La
fortune de la guerre est bien capricieuse!”
It was an awkward situation that he was in, to put it mildly.
Forgiveness and charity were not salient features of State policy in
those downright times, and everything that he owned on earth was in the
State which he had been so active in attempting to starve, and of whose
recent inconveniences and humiliations he had been the direct cause.
He contrived, however, to wheedle one of the Regents, Adelbert by name,
into interceding with the Venetian Government for him, and they, partly
out of gratitude to her and partly out of a desire to remain in the
good graces of the Imperial Government, consented to the Caloprini’s
return. But Stefano never saw Venice again, for he died before the
negotiations were concluded, so that his sons had to return alone and
face their fellow-citizens as best they could without him.
On their return, they discovered that the Morosini had not been
standing still in their absence, for they had brought the Doge and his
family into an alliance with them, and the feelings of the two brothers
were not improved by the more or less open detestation of every soul
in Venice. Not that they would have ever owned that the affection
or hatred of the common people was a matter of any interest to them
whatever, but such things make themselves felt constantly, through any
armour of indifference, however strong.
The position became more strained with every passing day, and it was
not long before the embers, fanned by such inspiring winds, burst into
flame, and civil war broke out again as merrily as ever. This time it
ran its course, and for three or four years Venice was in its grip
until at last, one morning as the two brothers were entering their
gondola to return home, they were set upon by some of the Morosini and
stabbed.
Then at last Venice rose in its wrath and demanded satisfaction, vowing
that a term should be set to the horrible state of things, when the
city was at the mercy of a single family, who did what they pleased
with whom they pleased, and of a Doge who was their ally. The latter
vehemently disclaimed any connection with the affair, but they paid no
attention to his protestations and he, realising that the supporters of
the Caloprini were strong enough, with the public fury at their backs,
to overthrow him, stepped down from the ducal throne and retired into a
monastery, where, soon after, he died.
He was not the only Doge to leave the world and fly to the spiritual
life.
One Oneolo, the successor of that Candiano, of whose tragic end I have
already written, was elevated to the Dogeship in spite of himself,
while the aftermath of the hurricane that had destroyed Candiano was
threatening to destroy Venice; outside influences, too, were adding
their quota to his heavy responsibility, for the dower of Candiano’s
wife had to be repaid and the Emperor was behind her. The Ducal Palace
and St. Mark’s had to be rebuilt, and he was a poor man, but, despite
his poverty, he surrendered a very large part of his personal property
to the building of St. Mark’s, and sent far and wide for workmen
worthy of the task. He did not do anything by halves, for he gave to
the Church some of its most beautiful possessions, and raised a great
hospital opposite the ducal palace, besides.
He did not have much political peace during the time that he was
striving so hard and sacrificing so much for Venice and the Venetians,
for the Candianos, recovering their balance, plotted against him
ceaselessly; but he seems to have borne his trials with a strength and
a constancy hardly of this world, consoling himself with daily visits
to the poor and afflicted and the joy of giving to them everything that
he could spare—and, very often, a good deal that he could not.
He met with small encouragement from any one. The people were not
enthusiastic over his diligence in repairing the damage which they
had done, and only the very poor ever really loved him, while the
great Houses were monuments of silly wickedness and selfishness from
whom nothing useful could be hoped or expected; so that it can be
easily understood that the advent into his life of a really good and
intelligent person must have come near to unsettling his mind for the
time being.
It happened that among the crowds of pious visitors to the shrine of
St. Mark, during the second year of his reign, there was a certain
Frenchman, Abbot of a monastery in Aquitania, and, the instant
attraction of kindred souls drawing them to one another, the Abbot
became the Doge’s confessor, counsellor, and friend.
When, at the end of the day, his last visitor dismissed, his last
piece of business despatched, Oneolo could close the doors of his
palace upon the world, one can imagine the relief and joy with which
he would draw up his chair beside the Abbot, and lighten his heart
of all the accumulated resentments, fears, and worries of the day,
immersing himself in the priest’s description of the holy sweetness
and sanctified calm of a monk’s life. Oneolo was a born monk, and he
must have felt, as he sat and listened, much as a soul in the purifying
fires of purgatory may feel when the gates, far above him, are opened
for a moment to allow some fortunate soul to creep in, and it catches
between the opening and the closing a sight of the Heavenly City and
obtains a breath of the perfumes of the Celestial Rose Garden.
But, ardently as Oneolo desired the cool shades of the cloister, he
could not leave the hot sands of public life yet. There was too much to
be done, and well he knew that only his possession of the high office
kept it safe from the fiery, blood-spotted hands of his enemies and the
State’s.
He thought over it a long time, and at last came to the conclusion—a
quite unfounded one—that twelve months of hard work, of hand and brain,
would suffice to put the affairs of the Republic into such shape that
he might safely leave them to her to attend to. So, redoubling his
efforts, he slaved on, always with the shining vision before his eyes.
I suppose, as the months went by, that the desire fed his imagination
and that the possible through sheer longing became gradually
probable, and, as happens with so many people, that the mind thrown
forward constantly to realisation at last staid there, far ahead of
accomplishment.
At the end of the year, he had barely begun the long process of putting
the business of the Republic into a condition in which a successor
could handle it, but when, with the autumn, the Abbot came back to
Venice, Oneolo was ready to leave. So, in the dusk of the morn, a
cloak thrown over his shoulders and wrapped around his face, he stepped
into a boat, and the two were pulled silently and swiftly through the
sleeping city to the mainland, where they got into their saddles and
galloped away into the night.
He had a hard time at first, for his healthy appetite needed stronger
fare than the rule of the order which he entered prescribed; but he
persisted, and when, years afterwards, he passed away, his canonisation
followed, so that he became, as he would have wished to become, a
permanent glory to his State and an example for future ages to follow.
There is one pretty story connected with a Candiano—a flower in that
waste of thorns—which I have taken from my brother’s “Salve Venetia.”
It has to do with a certain Elena of that name, who fell in love with
a man who was her social inferior in every possible way. He was poor
and a plebeian, either of which was to be the mud in the canal of the
Princely House that held the Dukedom so many times. Elena’s father was
even more prejudiced than the rest of his kin at that time, if such a
thing is possible, and had been looking around him covetously, even
since Elena had been a small girl, for some youth whose wealth and
blood might make him a possible match for a Candiano.
In the meanwhile, as has been said, Elena had also cast about her,
unconsciously as a creeper winds itself about its supports, and, having
no worldly judgment to handicap her choice, selected the man who could
fructify her soul, rather than one whose worldly prospects she would be
expected to enrich.
Very secret she must have kept it, for, innocent though she was and
untouched by the coarsening finger of the world, she knew perfectly
well what would happen to young Gheravdo Guvro if word of her spiritual
escapade should come to the ears of her gentle men folks, and, of all
the world, only her old nurse was in the secret. The old woman was
devoted to her and, being a plebeian herself, her class sympathy went
out towards the young man, so that she helped the lovers to meet again
and again and whenever the chance offered itself.
This sort of thing could not last for long, even with the most virtuous
disposition and the best of intentions, and it was not very long before
the natural consummation of the affair came, and they were secretly
married.
Then, safe in the irrevocable nature of the bond, Gheravdo sailed away
to make his fortune, as do the Calabrian youths of to-day, leaving
his wife behind him—and, considering the moral characteristics of her
kinsfolk, he seems to have taken some considerable risks.
Before he was fairly off, Pietro Candiano informed his daughter that he
had found that for which he had been searching and that he was going
to marry her without any possible delay to a gentleman of the name
of Vittor Belegno. Upon learning this, the girl’s heart stopped and
she fell into a trance, which resembled death so closely that she was
placed in a coffin and put away in the Cathedral before the evening.
Then luck stepped in, and Gheravdo, for some reason or another
returned, only to hear upon arriving of her sudden death. Frenzied, he
ran to the Cathedral and, with the aid of the sacristan—obtained in the
usual fashion—opened the tomb and wrenched the lid from the coffin.
Taking the beloved head in his hands, he smothered it with kisses,
crying and sobbing over it until, to his amazement and joy, a tinge of
colour appeared in the silk-white cheeks, and, under his rapturous,
half-incredulous caresses, the body lost its rigidity and the blood
stole back into the cold limbs, and he lifted her out, babbling his
gratitude to the Almighty, and carried her away.
It is said that when her father set eyes on her his joy overcame
everything else in him, and that he gave her to Gheravdo, gladly and
without reserve, but upon that I, personally, have my doubts. Still it
may have been, and one can only hope that it was!