tocsin was sounded; and that bell which rang for him was never rung
again. It was put away by the Council of Ten, who ordained that if any
one should propose that it should ever be rung again hereafter, his head
should be cut off. And wit ye that the said bell was not at that time in
the bell-tower of Saint Mark, but was in the palace; and its use was to
give a signal to the “pregadi”; and afterwards it was put out of use,
and taken away and hidden. However, not very long after that, it was
hung in the bell-tower of Saint Mark’s, and it is the bell which has no
tongue, no rope, and no lever; and the said bell is in the shape of a
hat, as may be seen to the present day; and is reserved for some like
princely occasion.’
The body of the unfortunate man was laid upon a matting, with the head
at the feet, in one of the halls of the ducal palace, and remained there
during twenty-four hours, during which time the people were freely
admitted to gaze on the mournful spectacle. On the evening of the
eighteenth, without honours and without any procession, it was laid in a
coffin, and taken by boat as far as San Giovanni e Paolo, to be laid in
the tomb of the Faliero family. This was an enormous sarcophagus of
Istria stone, of truly huge dimensions, upon which were carved the arms
of the Falieri.
In 1812 Giovanni Casoni, a student who was collecting all possible
information regarding the Arsenal and other principal points in Venice,
was in the church of San Giovanni e Paolo when this sarcophagus was
opened. It was quite full of human skeletons, placed in layers, which
were very carefully taken out and laid upon the pavement of the court,
in order to be transported elsewhere. When almost at the end of the
operation, a decapitated skeleton was found, with the skull between the
legs. Casoni says that he felt instantly, with intimate certainty, that
the remains were those of the Doge, Marino Faliero. ‘At that moment,’ he
says, ‘I was far from recalling memories of the Doge, and did not in the
least suspect that I should ever have found his ashes, or held his skull
in my hands.’ With admirable simplicity the writer remarks that it was
only his regard for the regulations of the Health Office, and his
reluctance to get into trouble with the representatives of the city
government, which prevented him from immediately taking possession of
the skull, and carrying it off.
Lord Byron, in 1819, knew nothing of this discovery, and making
inquiries about the tomb of the beheaded Doge in San Giovanni e Paolo, a
priest showed him a small tomb built into the wall, and tried to
persuade
[Illustration: THE TOMBS IN SS. GIOVANNI E PAOLO]
him that this was Marino Faliero’s last resting-place; a matter
concerning which the poet expressed considerable doubt.
The great stone sarcophagus spoken of by Giovanni Casoni was used
afterwards during many years as a reservoir by the apothecary of the
Civil Hospital, and is to-day in the outer loggia of the Correr Museum,
bearing no trace of inscription or arms. The latter were probably
shipped off.
With regard to the absence from the archives of the Council of Ten of
all documents relating to the trial of Marino Faliero, many historians,
among whom are Romanin and Rawdon Brown, are inclined to suppose that it
was not entered in the acts of the Council, owing to what they call a
certain praiseworthy shame on the part of the judges, which hindered
them from inserting the name of the head of the Republic among those of
other condemned persons. There are sufficient reasons and sufficient
proofs, however, for supposing that the whole account of the trial was
set down in a special book, which had no place in the regular series of
the archives of the Council; and that this volume was either lost, or
was burned in one of the fires which have at different times done damage
in the ducal palace. The official report was evidently known to the old
chroniclers, who translated long passages from it, from the original
Latin into the vulgar tongue. This volume is referred to in a marginal
note found in a document of 1355, referring to the conspiracy--‘Ponatur
in libro processum.’
The Council of Ten was never subject to such praiseworthy crises of
shame; and the secretary of the Council, as Lazzarini observes, would
have been very much astonished if he could have had cognisance of the
conjectures which our modern sentimentalism would form regarding the
facts. A number of other documents are missing from the archives of the
Council of Ten, of which the absence does not suggest either a poetical
interpretation, or any explanation of a political character; the papers
were simply lost.
The unfortunate Dogess, who perhaps quitted the ducal palace with the
body of her beheaded husband, was obliged soon afterwards to leave his
own house, where she had taken refuge to hide her grief. The
municipality took possession of all property which had belonged to
Marino Faliero, but restored to his widow the whole amount of her dowry,
and two thousand lire left her by the will of the deceased. The wretched
widow was obliged to swear that she did not keep any object of value
that had belonged to her husband; but the Council restored to her a
little brooch of gold, with a silver pendant, which had been improperly
confiscated, since it had come to her from her own family. Furthermore,
certain objects were returned to her which she and her sister Engoldisia
had inherited from Fiordalise Gradenigo, their mother. The poor woman at
first retired to the convent of Saint Lawrence, in the district of San
Severo; soon afterwards she went to Verona, where she had some lands,
but at last she established herself in a house of her own in Venice.
[Illustration: THE NAVE, SS. GIOVANNI E PAOLO]
During many years she occupied herself altogether in charities. Little
by little her intelligence began to give way, as is amply proved by the
great number of wills she made, which are still extant. These all prove
that she was not only deeply attached to the relatives of her husband,
but that it was her intention to be more generous to them than to her
own, especially to Federigo Giustiniani, son of Marino Faliero’s
daughter by his first wife. In one of her wills, probably executed at
the instigation of some nephew, she says that she may change her mind,
and says that the only will of hers which is to be considered valid is
the one which begins ‘Libera animam meam, Domine’; which, as Lazzarini
says, sounds like a cry from the heart of the unhappy woman, tormented
throughout her long and sad old age by relations who gave her no peace,
and expected to profit largely by her wealth.
[Illustration: CAMPO S. AGNELLO]
XII
THE SUCCESSORS OF MARINO FALIERO
[Sidenote: _1335. Rom. iii. 194._]
Giovanni Gradenigo, who succeeded Marino Faliero, was fortunate enough
to conclude a treaty of peace with the Genoese; and Giovanni Dolfin, the
next Doge after him, showed some skill in obtaining from the Emperor the
recognition of Venice’s suzerainty over the territory of Treviso. It was
on this occasion that the lord of Sench arbitrarily threw into prison
two Venetian ambassadors, as I
[Sidenote: _Rom. iii. 209._]
have told in speaking of the treatment of strangers. The immediate
effect of the outrage was to rouse in the highest degree the resentment
of Venice against the Duke of Austria and his vassal, and matters were
at a critical pitch when the Doge died.
[Sidenote: _Rom. iii. 211._]
The electors quickly agreed upon a Gradenigo, a Dandolo, a Cornaro, and
a Contarini as candidates for the ducal dignity; but before they had
come to a choice between these news was brought that Lorenzo Celsi, the
‘Captain of the Gulf,’ had taken a number of Genoese vessels with
contraband cargoes. By one of those sudden caprices which have always
affected the minds of electors, the hero of the hour at once became the
only candidate on whom every one could agree. Celsi was not of the
highest nobility and was barely fifty years of age, but these objections
were insignificant compared with the prestige he now enjoyed. The choice
fell upon him by unanimous consent, and his election was announced to
the people almost at the moment when the report of his victories was
discovered to be a fabrication. Yet, almost incredible as it must seem,
his election to the throne caused no discontent in spite of this
chilling disillusionment.
At that time he was cruising in the waters of Candia, and a deputation
of twelve nobles departed to inform him of his election, while a special
council assumed the management of affairs until his coming.
An incident marked his arrival which, if not important, is memorable as
having caused a modification in the adornment of the ducal bonnet.
Lorenzo Gelsi landed at the Ponte della Paglia on the twenty-first of
August 1361, and proceeded to the palace through the midst of a dense
crowd, in which every man uncovered his head as the Doge passed, except
one. Celsi’s aged father could not admit that an old man should take off
his hat to his own son, and entirely refused to do so. But the Doge, who
was a diplomatist, found means to reconcile his father’s prejudice with
the rules of Venetian ceremonial. He fastened a small golden cross upon
the front of his cap, and explained to his stiff-necked parent that it
was no derogation of dignity for an old man to salute the sacred symbol.
Celsi also introduced the custom by which the Doge wore a dress of pure
white when he appeared in public at any of the festivals kept by the
Church in honour of the Virgin Mary, and this innovation found favour
with most of his successors.
[Sidenote: _Rom. iii. 217._]
His reign, though short, was brilliant. He received the friendly visit
of the Duke of Austria, of which mention has been made, and which
brought about excellent results. The King of Cyprus also spent a short
time in Venice during the reign, when he made his journey through Europe
to preach a crusade against the Turks. The most important event which
occurred under Lorenzo Celsi, however, was the Cretan war.
The turbulent spirit of the natives of the island, and the excessive
love of independence exhibited by the Venetian nobles, to whom the
Republic had granted fiefs in Candia, had brought matters to the verge
of a revolution. The people flatly declined to pay tribute to the mother
city, and strongly resented the remonstrances made by the Venetian
government through Donato Dandolo, the governor of Crete.
At last, when he demanded the payment of a tax which had been voted in
order to strengthen the fortifications of the harbour, the Cretans
replied that they would not pay a farthing until they had sent a
deputation of twenty intelligent men to Venice, who should lay before
the Senate a statement of the so-called rights of the colony. With more
readiness than prudence, one of the governor’s Council answered that
there were not twenty intelligent men in the island.
The observation may not have been altogether unjust, judging from the
total lack of sense afterwards shown by the Cretans, but it had the
immediate and not surprising effect of irritating them, and the standard
of revolt was raised within the hour. The flag of Saint Mark was torn
down and replaced by one bearing the image of Saint Titus, the protector
of the island, and before long the two parties were fighting under the
war-cries of ‘Saint Titus!’ and ‘Saint Mark!’ the noble colonists and
the natives on the one side, and the governor and his soldiers on the
other.
Venice at first attempted to recall the island to its allegiance by
pacific embassies, but these were repulsed with indignity and insult,
and a fleet of thirty-three galleys, carrying six thousand men, was
despatched under Luchino dal Verme, a noble of Verona. The Candiotes
had appealed in vain to the Genoese for help, the arch-enemies of their
mother-country, and being left to their own resources they exhibited
neither courage nor skill. In three days six thousand men reduced the
hundred cities of the island to submission, and, after executing the
ringleaders and taking due precautions against a fresh revolt, the
victor set sail for Venice.
Petrarch was in the city at the time, and in one of his letters he has
left a brilliant and poetic account of the triumph that followed.
[Sidenote: _Lettere senili di Petrarca (Basle) i. 782, quoted by G. R.
Michiel._]
It chanced that I was leaning at my window towards the hour of
sixte, and mine eyes were turned toward the open sea; and I talked
with the Archbishop of Patras, whom I did once love as a brother,
and whom now I venerate as it were a well-beloved father. Then I
saw entering the harbour a great ship, a galley, all decked with
green branches, and it came rowed by many rowers. Now when we saw
this, we ceased from talking; for the crew of the ship were of
joyous mien, and they swung the oars with such right goodwill that
we guessed them to be bearers of glad tidings. The sailors all wore
crowns of leaves on their heads, and in their hands they waved
banners, and they that stood in the bows shouted joyfully. Then the
sentinel who watched on the top of the first tower forthwith made
signal to give warning that a ship from abroad was in sight, and
all the people together, full of curiosity, went over to Lido. As
the ship came nearer we saw also trophies of war set up on her
forward part; for surely this was the news of a victory which they
were bringing in, but in what war it had been won, or in what
battle, or at what stormed city, we knew not.
When the messengers had landed they went before the Great Council,
and there we learned that which we had not dared to believe nor
even to hope; for our enemies were all dead or taken prisoners or
put to flight, and the honest citizens were freed out of slavery,
the cities also were won back, and all the island of Candia had
submitted to the Republic. So the war was over without striking a
blow, and peace had been got with glory.
Petrarch’s logic here evidently went to pieces in the storm of his
satisfaction, for he speaks of a bloodless victory immediately after
telling his correspondent that all the enemies of the Republic were
slain or prisoners.
The Doge Lorenzo Celsi [here the poet indulges in a pun connecting
‘Celsi’ with ‘excelsus’], unless my love for him has deceived me
altogether, is a man of most noble heart, of purest life, one who
follows all the virtues, most wonderfully pious and devoted to his
country; and when he learned the good news he openly gave thanks to
God, thereby showing the people that in every happy event man must
acknowledge the divine hand, and dispose his own happiness under
the protecting shield of faith. And prayers were offered throughout
the city, but were especially in the basilica dedicated to the
Evangelist Saint Mark....
Now the whole feast ended with two pageants; but I confess that I
know not by what name to call them, and so I shall describe them in
such manner that thou mayest easily understand them. The one was,
as it were, a race and the other a combat; and both were on
horseback, the first without reins and only with staves and
banners, that it seemed to be some military exercise; but in the
second game arms were needed, and it was like unto a real battle.
Both in the one and in the other we marvelled at the gifts of the
Venetians, who are not only wonderful sailers of ships, but are
also very skilled in all those exercises which belong to the art of
war.
For they showed such experience of riding and such deep knowledge
of the handling of arms, and such endurance of fatigue, that one
might set them up for examples to other warlike nations. The two
games were held in that square of which I deem there is not the
like in the world, that is over against the marble and gold front
of the temple of Saint Mark.
No stranger had a share in the first of the games, but four and
twenty nobles, the goodliest and most richly clad, kept for
themselves this part of the pageants....
It was a good sight to see so many young men, in clothes of purple
and gold, curbing and spurring their well-shod steeds, all
shiningly caparisoned, that seemed hardly to touch earth in their
swift course. These young men obeyed the gesture of their chief
with such precision that as the first reached the goal and left the
field, a second took his place on the track, and then a third, and
so on till the first began again, so well that they kept up the
racing all day long, and that at evening one might have believed
that there had been but one cavalier who rode; and while they ran
thou wouldest have seen now the gilded tips of their staves flying
through the air, and now thou couldest have heard their red flags
stiffening in the breeze with a sound as of wings.
One might scarce believe what multitudes thronged in the square of
Saint Mark’s on that day. There were both sexes and all ages and
every class. The Doge himself was on the terrace which is built on
the front of the church, with many nobles; from its height he saw
almost at his feet all that moved in the square below. Thus he was
in the midst of those four gilt horses, the work of an ancient and
unknown craftsman, that look ready to measure themselves against
living coursers, and seem to paw the air. Lest the summer sun
should dazzle the eyes, curtains of many colours had been hung here
and there. I myself was bidden, as often the Doge deigns that I
should be, and he made me sit at his right.... The great square,
the church, the towers, the roofs, the porticoes, the windows, were
all crowded with lookers-on. At the right a high platform had been
raised whereon sat four hundred matrons, of the noblest, and
fairest, and most richly-dressed in the city; and they continually
ate the sweetmeats which were offered to them; and in the morning,
and at noon, and at evening, it was as if they were a company come
down from heaven. There were also bidden to the pageant several
English noblemen, kinsmen to the king, who had come to Venice by
sea, to exercise themselves in the art of navigation; and these
gentles very freely shared our joy over the victory.
This racing lasted several days, and there was no prize but the
honour, for in this first game there were no victors and no
vanquished.
But for the second game prizes were made ready, for there were
dangers to be faced, and the result could not be alike for all.
There was a crown of gold adorned with precious stones for the
first winner, and a richly-chiselled silver belt for the second. An
edict had been sent forth, written in the military and vulgar
tongue, under the Doge’s seal, to invite the people of the
neighbouring provinces to take part in this contest on horseback;
and indeed there came a good number of contestants, not Italians
only, but also strangers who spoke other languages, hoping to win
the prize and to cover themselves with glory.
The jousting lasted four days, and since Venice was, there never
was seen a fairer sight. On the last day the Doge, the nobles, and
the strangers who had been present, and also he who ordered the
combat, to whom, after God, was due all the joy of the tournament,
gave the first prize to a gentleman of Venice, and the second to a
stranger from Ferrara.
Here ends the feast, but not the rejoicing. Here ends also this
letter, by which I have endeavoured to show unto thine eyes and to
make heard in thine ears that of which sickness has deprived them,
that thou mayest know what is doing amongst us, and understand that
even among navigators there are found excellent warriors, and souls
of choice, and contempt of gold and thirst for honour.
[Sidenote: _Smedley, Sketches of Ven. History, I. chap. vii._]
Unhappily the triumph so vividly described by Petrarch was not final,
and two years later, before Lorenzo Celsi had closed his eyes for ever,
another revolt broke out in Candia. This time Venice took such radical
measures that, in the words of one of the ‘provveditori,’ ‘another
rebellion was impossible, terrible examples had swept away the
ringleaders, fortresses which gave them asylums, the cities of Lasitha
and Anapolis, every building which might afford a stronghold, were razed
to the ground; those of the inhabitants who were not put to the sword
were transported to other districts, the surrounding neighbourhood was
converted into a desert, and thenceforward no one, on pain of death, was
permitted to cultivate, or even to approach it.’
[Sidenote: _Rom. iii. 202._]
This was in 1366, but Celsi had died at the fresh outbreak of the
revolution, most opportunely, some historians say, for his reputation
and honour. It was even thought that if he had lived a few years longer
he would have ended like Marino Faliero. Grave accusations were made
against him during the last months of his life, but the Council of Ten
declared them to be false, and his successor was instructed to declare,
when presiding the first time at the meeting of the Grand Council, that
the memory of the deceased Doge was untarnished.
[Sidenote: _Rom. iii. 229._]
This successor was the aged Marco Corner, whose election was warmly
contested. The accounts left us of what happened in the ducal palace
during the interregnum which followed the death of Lorenzo Celsi
enlighten us as to the objections which might be raised by the electors
against a candidate to the throne. Marco Corner was too old; he was too
poor; he was on good terms with several foreign princes, whom he had
known when he had been abroad as ambassador; but the gravest charge, or
objection, was that he had married a burgher’s daughter, whose family
would not know how to behave towards the head of the Republic.
Marco Corner, who was present amongst the electors, at first said
nothing to the other objections; but when slighting mention was made of
his wife, the thin old man with snow-white hair stood up in his place
suddenly, and cried out that he honoured and esteemed his aged wife, who
was ‘so good and virtuous that she had always been respected by all the
women of the Venetian state as much as if she came of one of the
greatest families.’
[Sidenote: _Molmenti, Dogaressa, 154._]
He added bluntly that as for his acquaintance with foreign princes, his
friendships had profited the Republic more than himself; since, if he
had sought his own advantage, he would not have deserved to be
reproached with his poverty, nor would his wife be obliged ‘to turn her
dresses again and again, lest they should be seen to be worn out.’
The brave old patrician’s heartfelt words made a deep impression on his
hearers; the objections that had been raised fell away in an instant,
and he was elected, I believe, unanimously. He took his place on the
ducal throne, and his wife Caterina, the companion of his life-long
poverty, left their poor little house for the splendours of the palace.
The chronicles speak no more of her; we do not even know whether she
died during her husband’s three years’ reign, or survived that quiet
interval of tranquillity for the Republic.
Marco Corner died in the belief, no doubt, that his country would long
enjoy the peace which his prudence and skill had brought about. Yet a
day was at hand which came near to being fatal to the Republic. One
might almost conclude that when Andrea Contarini had buried himself in
the country on the mainland after having twice refused the ducal
honours, and very shortly before Corner’s death, he had prescience of
the storm that was brewing.
The time had come when he could refuse no longer; for modest though he
was, he knew his own strength, and knew also, as men of genius sometimes
do, that he alone could save his country from destruction in the
greatest crisis of her existence. The memorable war of Chioggia was at
hand.
[Illustration: THE THREE BRIDGES]
XIII
CARLO ZENO
At this period a man appears upon the scene who deserves to be taken as
the highest type of a Venetian noble and of a dauntless soldier, in that
remarkable age. He played such a part throughout his own time, the
effect of his sudden appearance at the most critical moment in all
Venetian history was so incalculably great, and the generalship he
exhibited was of such a superior order, that it is worth while to give
him a place apart in this work. I shall condense the account of his
earlier years as far as possible.
[Sidenote: _Muratori, Script. xix. 295._]