in the East. They were naturally dignified and reserved, or enjoyed that
reputation, but the men were jealous, and would not trust in anything so
inward and spiritual as good qualities. They held that the equilibrium
of feminine virtue, though always admirable, is generally of the kind
described in mechanics as unstable; in other words, that it resembles
the balance of a pyramid when poised on its apex rather than its
security when established on its base. They therefore watched their
wives and daughters and kept them at home a great deal, insisting that
they should veil themselves when they went to church, and on the rare
occasions when they were allowed to go elsewhere. The maidens wore veils
of pure white, but the married women were allowed colours. The only
exception to the rule of the veil was made on the days of the ‘Sagre,’
the feasts of the patron saints in the different parishes of the city;
then even the girls were allowed to wear their beautiful hair floating
on their shoulders, and confined only by chaplets of flowers. Those were
the only times when the men had a chance of seeing them to judge of
their beauty, and perhaps to choose a wife amongst them, and they made
the most of it; we may even suppose that the custom had been originally
introduced as a necessary one if young men and maidens were ever to be
betrothed at all.
One sight sufficed, perhaps, and a glance or two exchanged as the long
processions of men and women went up into the churches or came out
again; and after that, when the nights were fine, the youth took his
lute and went and made music under the chosen one’s window. But she
never looked out, nor showed him so much as the tips of her white
fingers in the moonlight; that would have been unmaidenly and bold. If
her heart softened to his appealing song, a single ray of light from
between the close-drawn shutters was answer enough; if not, all remained
dark, while the unhappy lover sang his heart out to the silent lagoon.
But being reassured by the friendly ray, not once but many times, the
aspirant went to the girl’s father and begged permission to make her his
‘novice’--that meant his betrothed--until the next feast of blessed
Saint Mark.
When the youth and maid were secretly agreed, the course of love
generally ran smooth, and the real courtship began. Manners were simple
still, dowries were small, the only conditions to be considered were
those of rank and faction; and few lovers would have been bold enough to
play a Romeo’s part in Venice, while the lines of caste were even then
so closely drawn that still fewer would have thought of overstepping
them. Therefore, if the young man was of as good a family as the young
girl, and if he did not belong to some rival faction, the betrothal was
announced at a great dinner, at which the families of both met in the
house of the maiden’s parents. Then the youth renewed his request
before them all, and the maid was brought to him dressed all in white,
and he slipped upon her finger a
[Illustration: ST. MARK’S]
very plain gold ring, then called the ‘pegno,’ which is to say, the
pledge. Sometimes the engagement was presided over by a priest, and
became thereby more solemn and unbreakable.
The time of betrothal was called the noviciate, as if marriage were one
of the holy orders to enter which a term of trial is exacted; and while
it lasted small gifts were exchanged. So, at Easter, the young man
brought a special sort of cake; at Christmas, preserves of fruit; on
Lady Day, a posy of rosebuds. On her side the young girl gave him a silk
scarf, or something made with her own hands. It is told that the
daughter of a Doge spent three years in embroidering with silk and gold
a shirt which she meant to give to the unknown youth whom she expected
to love some day.
When the young people came of rich families they gave each other also
small trinkets, notably those little chains of gold called ‘entrecosei,’
which were specially made by Venetian goldsmiths. Moreover, whether the
presents were trinkets or silk scarfs, cakes or rosebuds, they all had
reference to good luck much more than to anything else, and it would not
have been safe for either party to send a gift not included in the
old-fashioned list. For the Venetians were superstitious. Like all young
races whose fortune lies before them, they saw signs of success or
failure in small things at every turn. They judged of the immediate
future by the pictures they saw in the coals of their great wood fires,
especially in cases of approaching marriage, by the accidental spilling
of red wine on the cloth, by the passing of a hunchback on the right or
the left. To upset red wine was lucky, to upset olive-oil presaged
death; it was thought to indicate a great misfortune if a man going out
of his own house came first upon an old woman. Similarly, when young
people were betrothed, there were objects which they could on no account
give each other as presents. The forbidden things were chiefly such as
magicians were supposed to use in their incantations, and among these,
strangely enough, nothing was reckoned more certainly fatal to happiness
than a comb. If any youth had dared to offer one, however beautiful, to
his future bride, she would have unhesitatingly returned his ring.
At that time the church did not require the publication of bans, a
regulation which became necessary in order to put a stop to abuses of a
less simple age. Instead, a second festive meeting was held at the house
of the bride a few days before the marriage; and this time, besides the
near relations of both families, the ‘convicini,’ the
‘fellow-neighbours,’ were bidden, as the ancient Romans entertained
their clients on great occasions.
The bride now waited in her own room, which was always upstairs, until
all the guests were assembled in the ‘hall of the fireplace’ on the
ground floor. When the time came, the oldest man of the family went up
to fetch her, and she appeared leaning on his arm. She stood still a
moment on the threshold of the hall and then made a step and
half--neither more nor less--towards the assembly. Next, and leaving her
companion’s arm, she made a ‘modest little leap’ forwards, which she
followed with a deep courtesy, and then, without saying a single word,
she went upstairs to her room and stayed there while the feast
proceeded. The only variation in the ceremony occurred in cases where
the family was of such high rank that the bride and bridegroom, with
their friends and near relations, were expected to visit the Doge.
When the long-expected day, the thirty-first of January, came at last,
every house in which there was a novice was astir hours before daybreak,
and the friends of each were waiting under the windows in their boats
long before the sun was up. Meanwhile the bride was dressed for the day,
more or less richly according to her fortune, but always in a long white
gown, and with fine threads of gold twined amongst her flowing hair.
She then came down from her own room to the hall of the fireplace, where
her father awaited her, and she knelt meekly before him and her mother
to receive their solemn blessing and her dowry, which it was customary
that the bride should carry to the church herself, enclosed in a casket
called the ‘arcella’--the ‘little ark.’ The historians tell us that it
was never a very heavy burden in those days.
This little ceremony took place at early dawn in every house where there
was to be a wedding, and before the sun was up the brides were all
gathered in the cathedral, where they ranged themselves round the altar,
holding their caskets in their hands. Then at last the bridegrooms made
their appearance, arrayed in the richest of their clothes and
accompanied by their best men, as we should say--their ‘sponsors of the
[Illustration: DOOR OF ST. MARK’S]
ring’ in their own phrase. But I find no mention of any bridesmaids.
The bishop blessed all the young couples, and each bridegroom slipped
upon his lady’s finger the symbolic ring, which was the same for all.
After that, gifts of virgin wax were left for the candles of the
cathedral, and each newly-married man was expected to give a sum of
money ‘in proportion with his opinion of his wife’s beauty’--probably
the most elastic measure ever ordained for the giving of alms. This
money formed a fund out of which poor brides of the people received a
dowry in the following year. A malicious writer even hints that this
secret fund was sometimes misapplied to compensate for such ugliness as
would otherwise have been a bar to marriage altogether.
The Doge himself was invariably present in state during the ceremony,
which therefore had a distinctly official character.
On leaving the cathedral sweetmeats and small cakes were showered upon
the crowd that waited without, and the respective wedding parties
returned to the homes of the brides to spend the rest of the day in the
rather noisy gaiety and uproarious feasting that belonged to those
times, and to which each bridegroom’s best man was expected to
contribute with a present of rare liquors and rich old wines.
When evening came at last the brides were led to their new homes with
song and playing of many instruments; and on the next morning each young
couple received from the best man a symbolical gift of fresh eggs and
of certain aromatic pastilles of which the composition is unfortunately
forgotten. Last of all, the bride was
[Illustration: FROM THE GALLERY, ST. MARK’S]
given a work-basket, containing a needle-case, a thimble, and similar
useful objects, to symbolise the industry she was expected to display in
her household duties.
[Sidenote: _Rom. i. 234._]
Now it came to pass, in the reign of the Doge Pietro Candiano III.,
about the year 959, that a gang of Istrian pirates conceived the bold
idea of descending upon the cathedral on the marriage morning, and of
carrying off bodily the brides and their dowries.
At that time the Arsenal was not built, and the little island on which
it stands, and which lies close to Olivolo, was still uninhabited.
During the night between the thirtieth and the thirty-first of January
the corsairs ran their light vessels under the shelter of this island,
and stole ashore while it was yet dark, to lie in wait in the shadow
near the cathedral.
As usual the brides came first, with their families, and ranged
themselves round the high altar, with their caskets in their hands, to
wait for their affianced husbands. At that moment the pirates rushed
into the church, armed to the teeth and brandishing their drawn swords
in the dim light of the lamps and candles. There was no struggle, no
resistance; the unarmed men, most of them elderly and at best no match
for the daring robbers, were paralysed and rooted to the spot, the women
screamed, the children fled in terror to the dark corners of the church,
and in a moment the daring deed was done. It had been so well planned,
and was executed with such marvellous rapidity, that the robbers reached
their vessels, carrying the girls and their caskets in their arms, and
succeeded in pushing off almost without striking a blow; and doubtless
they laughed grimly as the light breeze filled their sails and bore
them swiftly out through the channels of the lagoons.
[Illustration: THE GREAT DOORWAY, ST. MARK’S]
One may guess at the faces of the cheated bridegrooms when they reached
the cathedral and came upon the hysterical confusion that followed upon
the robbery. There was no loss of time then, and there was little waste
of words. The Doge headed them, dressed as he was in his robe of state,
men found weapons where they could, and all made for the nearest boats,
and sprang in and rowed like demons; for the pirates were still in
sight. Then the breeze that had sprung up at sunrise failed all at once,
and the Istrians tugged at their long sweeps with might and main; but
the men of Venice gained on them and crept up nearer and nearer, and
nearer still, and overtook them, and boarded them in the Caorle lagoon,
and slew them to a man, themselves almost unhurt. Also the chronicler
says, that of all those fair and frightened girls not one received so
much as a scratch in that awful carnage; but the men’s hands were red
with the blood, and they could not wash them clean in the sea because it
was red too; and so, red-handed and victorious, they brought their
brides back to land and married them before the sun marked noon, and the
rejoicing was great.
These things happened as I have told, and though the chroniclers do not
all agree precisely as to the year, the differences between their dates
are not important, and all tell how the event was commemorated down to
the last days of the Republic. For it appears that a great number of
those men who so bravely pursued the pirates were box-makers,
‘casseleri,’ of the parish of Santa Maria Formosa, and when that famous
day was over the Doge asked them what reward they desired. But they,
being simple men, asked only that the Doge of Venice should come every
year to their church on
[Sidenote: _Rom. i. 240._]
the second day of February, which is the Feast of the Purification. ‘But
what if it rains?’ asked the Doge, for that is the rainy season. ‘We
will give you a hat to cover you,’ they answered. ‘And what if I am
thirsty?’ the Doge asked, jesting. ‘We will give you drink,’ said the
box-makers. So it was agreed, and so it was done, and the feast that was
kept thereafter was called the Feast of the Maries, and it was one of
the most graceful festivities of all the many that the Venetian
imagination invented and kept. I shall describe elsewhere more fully how
the Doge came to Santa Maria Formosa every year on the appointed day,
and how, in memory of the bargain, the people of that quarter made him
each year a present of straw hats and Malmsey wine. It was a sort of
public homage to the women of Venice until the war of Chioggia, towards
the end of the fourteenth century, and it is only fair to say that the
lovely objects of such a splendid tribute did much to deserve it. But
after that time many things were changed, and there remained of the
beautiful Feast of the Maries nothing more than the Doge’s annual visit
to the church, instituted by Pietro Candiano III.
The immediate result of the bold attempt and condign punishment of the
Istrian pirates was a series of punitive expeditions against them which
laid the foundation of Venice’s power on the mainland, and in this
struggle, if in nothing else, the Doge was fortunate in his last years.
But an evil destiny was upon him at home.
In his old age he associated one of his sons with him in the ducal
authority, also called Pietro, ‘at the suggestion of the people,’ says
Dandolo in his chronicle. As I have said, this was the usual plan
followed by the families that sought to make the dogeship hereditary.
The younger Pietro was wild, ambitious, turbulent, and wholly without
scruple, and he at once took advantage of his position to plot against
his father, in the hope of reigning alone. But he was found out and
hindered by the people, who rose suddenly in stormy anger and laid
violent hands upon him, to kill him without trial. Yet his father was
generous and succeeded in saving him from death, and tried him for his
deeds, and sent him into exile.
[Sidenote: _Mol. Dogaressa._]
Then Pietro the younger turned pirate himself, and armed six fast
vessels and harassed the Venetian traders all down the Adriatic. But
meanwhile he still had a strong party of friends for him in Venice, and
their influence grew quickly, even with the people, and many secret
influences which we can no longer trace were brought to bear for him;
until at last the Venetians themselves, who had tried to murder him,
decreed him the ducal crown and the supreme power, and recalled him and
deposed his aged father. The old man died within a few weeks, and all he
could bequeath to his wife was ‘a vineyard surrounded by walls’ on the
shore of San Pietro; and Pietro Candiano IV. ruled alone.
He did outrageous deeds to strengthen his power. To win the protection
of the Emperor Otho he forced his wife to take the veil in the convent
of Saint Zacharias, and obliged his only son by her, Vitale, to become
a monk. Having thus disposed of them, he took to wife Gualdrada, the
sister of the Marquis of Tuscany,
[Illustration: THE CHRIST OF ST. MARK’S]
a princess of German origin, of great wealth, a subject and a relative
of the Emperor himself.
Trusting in this great alliance, Pietro no longer concealed the designs
he entertained for himself and his family, branches of which were
established in Padua and Vicenza, where they enjoyed, and certainly
exacted, the highest consideration. Indeed, most of the Candiano men
seem to have married women allied to reigning princes.
The Doge, their head, now garrisoned with German soldiers a number of
fortresses in the neighbourhood of Ferrara, which had come to him with
his wife; lastly, he did what every tyrant has done since history began,
he surrounded himself with a mercenary bodyguard of desperate men who
had everything to gain by his success, and everything to lose if he
fell. After this he showed plainly enough that he meant to emancipate
himself altogether from those counsellors which the Republic imposed
upon him in all the important affairs of state.
He might have succeeded in any other state, but in Venice his was not
the only family that aspired to the supreme power. His deeds had been
violent, high-handed, outrageous, such as would condemn the chief of any
community that called itself free; the Orseolo watched him, lay in wait
for him, trapped him, and compassed his end. Following their lead, the
people formed themselves into a vast conspiracy, and at a signal the
ducal palace was surrounded on all sides.
[Sidenote: _976 A.D._]
The Doge would have fled, but it was too late, for every door was
watched and strongly guarded. In his despair he attempted to take
sanctuary in Saint Mark’s church, which was connected with the palace by
a dark and narrow entry. Thither he hastened, with his wife, their
little child, and a few of his faithful bodyguard; but the conspirators
had remembered
[Illustration: A SHRINE, ST. MARK’S]
the secret corridor and were there, and they hewed him down, him and the
child and every man of his attendants. The women they suffered to go
unhurt.
Then they dragged out the dead bodies, even the child’s, and gave them
over to the rage of the furious populace to be spurned and insulted,
until one just man, Giovanni Gradenigo, stood forth and claimed them, by
what right I know not except that of decency, and buried them in the
convent of Saint Hilary. Meanwhile the rabble had fired the palace, and
the flames devoured it and spread to the church of Saint Mark; and
further, a great number of houses were burnt down on that day, whereby
the chiefs of the conspiracy were brought into discredit with those
whose property was destroyed. But Pietro Orseolo was chosen to be Doge.
Now the dogess Gualdrada, breathing vengeance on them that had murdered
her husband and her little son, took refuge on the mainland and came to
Piacenza, to the court of the Empress Adelaide, who was the widow of
Otho I. and the mother of Otho II., then reigning. There Gualdrada cast
herself at Adelaide’s feet and told her grief, imploring justice and
righteous vengeance; and her cry was heard, for soon the young Emperor
summoned Venice to account, not for the assassination of the Doge, but
for violence done against Gualdrada and for the murder of her son.
Venice was in no state to face the Holy Roman Empire alone, and she
obeyed the summons by sending the patrician Antonio Grimani to Piacenza,
with orders to explain to the Empress that the Republic was not
altogether responsible for the cruel deeds done by a handful of her
citizens. The ambassador spoke long and well, setting forth the
iniquities of the Doge Pietro Candiano, and promising to make full
reparation to Gualdrada.
[Sidenote: _Rom. i. 252. Mol. Dogaressa._]
There they sat, in the hall of the castle of Piacenza, the old Empress
in her robes, surrounded by the flower of her northern knights, and
before them Antonio Grimani, the ambassador, representing the person of
the Doge Orseolo; and Gualdrada was not there, but the envoy of her
brother, the Marquis of Tuscany, came to speak for her, appealing to the
just sense of the court.
At a gesture from the Empress this personage came forward, bearing a
sealed letter as his brief, written with Gualdrada’s own hand, and he
broke the seal, and presented to the ambassador of Venice the note of
her demands. Then and there an inventory was made out of all the
property, both personal and real estate, which had either composed her
dowry, or which had been promised to her by her husband, or which should
have been hers as the heiress of her murdered child; and Antonio Grimani
did not hesitate, but promised for the Republic that everything should
be restored.
On her side Gualdrada then declared that she gave up all thoughts of
vengeance against the state of Venice, the reigning Doge or his
successors, and she signed with her own hand the solemn act which the
imperial notary drew up, and by which the mutual engagement was
ratified. So the grim business ended; and Gualdrada took lands and gold
for her child’s blood and her husband’s, as was the manner in the Middle
Ages, and went back to her Tuscan home, and lived finely, and married,
for aught I know, and was happy for ever afterwards.
Here, on the heels of tragedy, follows romance, in the same family of
Candiano; or perhaps it is only legend, of the kind the old chroniclers
loved so well.
Elena, the lovely daughter of a Pietro, we know not which, fell deep in
love with Gherardo Guoro; and this love of hers was a great secret, for
he was neither rich nor noble, and had small hope of being accepted as a
son-in-law by a Doge who was always intriguing to make brilliant
marriages for his family. But Elena had a nurse who loved her dearly and
pitied the pair, and helped them to meet again and again, till at last
they were married, and none but the old nurse knew it. Now, therefore,
Gherardo sought fortune and set out on a voyage to the East; and while
he was away, Pietro Candiano told his daughter that he would betroth her
to Vittor Belegno. In her terror the girl’s heart stood still, and she
fell into a trance so death-like that it was mistaken for death itself,
and on the same day, according to the immemorial custom of Italy, she
lay in her coffin in the cathedral. But within a few hours, as love and
fate would have it, Gherardo Guoro came sailing back, only to learn of
her sudden death. Wild with grief he rushed to the cathedral, and by
prayers, entreaties, and bribes prevailed upon the sacristan to open the
tomb, and help him to wrench off the lid of the coffin. When he saw her
face his passionate tears broke out, and, lifting the beloved head, he
kissed her again and again; and his kisses brought the colour to her
cheek, for she was not dead, and he held her in his
[Illustration: THE GREAT WINDOW, ST. MARK’S]
arms, and she grew warm, and he took her alive out of the place of
death, in a dream of wonder and joy. So when Pietro the Doge saw that
his daughter was alive again, he was glad, and forgave them both and
blessed them; and afterwards they lived happily.
In point of age I think this is the oldest existing version of the story
of Romeo and Juliet, and the one from which all the other forms of the
legend were afterwards derived. It would be interesting to pursue the
inquiry further, to find out how many different shapes the tale has
assumed in the course of ages, and in how many instances it has been
founded on fact; for that some of the stories are more than half-true I
have not the slightest doubt.
[Sidenote: _976 A.D._]
The power of the Candiano family was broken when Pietro IV. and his
little son were murdered, and the strong race of the Orseolo now seized
the ducal throne, and tried to make it hereditary with themselves. They
had cleared the way by violence, and they pursued their way to power
without scruple. It was Pietro Orseolo who had been the soul of the
revolution against the last Candiano, and it might have been expected
that his supporters would set him up as Doge; but it seemed wiser to
proceed more cautiously, and with singular foresight they put forward
another member of the family, also called Pietro, a man of the most
profound religious convictions, and who had led such a holy life that he
was regarded as a saint on earth.