garrison, four thousand one hundred and seventy Genoese and two hundred
Paduans, ghastly and emaciated, and more like moving corpses than living
beings. At the same time, seventeen galleys were handed over to the
Venetians, the war-worn remains of the great armada.
[Sidenote: _Triumphal return of Andrea Contarini, Paolo Veronese; Hall
of the Great Council._]
With the fall of Chioggia the war was over, and the Doge’s vow was
fulfilled. He returned in triumph to Venice, and was met at San Clemente
by the Bucentaur with his counsellors and the heads of the Quarantie,
with a vast number of boats in which the population came out to greet
their chief, and to gaze upon the captive Genoese galleys, which were
towed in with their banners at half-mast. The promised largesses were
distributed to the mercenary troops, and the English captain, William
Gold, who had rendered services of great value, received for his share
five hundred ducats, the equivalent in actual modern coin of three
hundred and seventy-five pounds sterling, a very large sum in those
days.
Maruffo continued to cruise in the Adriatic with an efficient fleet
several months after the surrender of Chioggia, and Pisani was sent out
against him. After recapturing Capodistria and ravaging the coasts of
Dalmatia, the Venetian admiral came upon the enemy off Apulia. In the
engagement that followed the Genoese were finally put to flight, but
Pisani himself was mortally wounded. He was taken ashore at Manfredonia,
and there ended his heroic life.
[Sidenote: _Statue of Vittor Pisani, Armoury of the Arsenal._]
His body was brought back to Venice, where the news of his death had
been received with universal grief; the Doge, the Senate, and the whole
city attended his magnificent funeral, and he was buried in the church
of Sant’ Antonio, where a statue was put up to him, which has since been
removed to the principal hall of the Arsenal.
Pisani’s place was filled by Carlo Zeno, to whom belongs the honour of
having finally ended the war by driving the enemy into the very harbour
of Genoa. The struggle between the two republics had lasted for
centuries, the war which ended it had been protracted through six and a
half years, and there was much difficulty in agreeing upon articles of
peace between Venice on the one hand, and on the other Genoa, King Louis
of Hungary, and Francesco Carrara. At first sight, on reviewing this
treaty, one might be tempted to suppose that Venice obtained no
advantages actually equivalent to the immense sacrifices she had made
during the war; but in reality this would be very far from the truth.
Genoa had given even more, and had been altogether defeated in the end;
her power was broken for ever, and her long rivalry with Venice was at
an end, whereas the political importance of Venice continued to
increase, and no one would have thought of questioning her right to be
considered one of the great European powers.
As an example of what a devoted and patriotic people can and will do in
defence of their liberties, the war of Chioggia stands high in the
annals of the world; as a feat of generalship Pisani’s blockade of the
Genoese fleet is perhaps unrivalled, and the military operation by which
Carlo Zeno tempted the whole garrison of Brondolo out of that town in
the morning, and drove it like a flock of sheep into Chioggia before
sunset, is a feat of arms the like of which is not recorded of many
captains.
Venice kept all her promises, though they had been made under the
pressure of extreme necessity. Thirty families of burghers were chosen
from amongst those that had made the greatest sacrifices for the public
safety, and on the fifth of September the heads of the houses were
solemnly invested with the right to sit in the Great Council, and with
all the other privileges of nobility for themselves and their
descendants for ever. They presented themselves before the Doge in the
church of Saint Mark’s, each carrying a lighted torch of pure wax; when
they had heard mass they went to the Doge’s palace to assist, from the
windows, at a series of festivities and games. It is sad to record that
a certain Leonardo dall’ Agnello, a merchant of grain and forage, who
had literally given all he possessed for the war, died of grief because
his name did not appear in the list of the newly enrolled.
The aged Doge Contarini survived exactly two years after his triumph,
and went down to his grave in the full blaze of his final success, and
of the country’s growing glory. Amongst those proposed as candidates to
succeed him, Carlo Zeno was mentioned; but such a choice would have been
contrary to all precedent and tradition, for it was thought that the
election of the bravest captain of his day might be dangerous to the
Republic; and, moreover, most of the patricians, whose advice during the
war he had consistently declined to follow, were jealous of him, and
predisposed against him. But the war with the Carrara was not yet really
at an end, in spite of the treaty of peace, and there was still much for
Zeno to do. The electors chose Michele Morosini to fill the ducal
throne.
[Illustration: THE CARMINE]
XV
VENICE IN THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY
As an epoch, if not precisely as a period of a hundred years, the
fourteenth century in Venetian history closes with the war of Chioggia,
as it began also before the year 1300 with the Closure of the Great
Council. For the final defeat and ruin of the Genoese, Venice made the
supreme heroic effort necessary to establish her greatness; thenceforth
none questioned it, and with the attainment of her highest national aim
ended the noblest page in her history.
The Venetians of the first period were at once brave and prudent; they
were at times needlessly harsh in judging those whom they believed
dangerous to the Republic, but they were sincere, and they found means
to make other nations respect their country as they respected it and
loved it themselves.
After Chioggia, Venice was both feared and admired, but it is not
possible to feel much sympathy with her sumptuous social life, nor with
a government that seems to have been for ever preoccupied with its
search for secret enemies; nor, indeed, with its too docile working
people, or its soldiers who so willingly obeyed the commands of the
foreign condottieri under whom they were too often led to battle.
We look on her history and judge her by imaginary standards, which were
never hers. We feel that at the end of the fourteenth century she
entered upon a mistaken course in which she obstinately persevered to
the end; we are sure that she should have been above any mere petty
jealousy of her neighbours, and that she should have used all her
strength in defence of her maritime trade and her colonies; we would
have had her abide by the old law of 1274, which forbade a Venetian to
own estates on the mainland of Italy; we consider that she was blinded
to her true interests by all sorts of intrigues, and that she neglected
her trade in order to put herself on the same war-footing as her
adversaries, though she had not their natural aptitude for warfare;
that she drained her treasury to pay grasping condottieri, and spent on
futile campaigns the resources which had hitherto fed her commerce. All
this we are to some extent justified in concluding, and upon those
points we judge her, as we should strongly object to being judged.
Nevertheless, all this is but the criticism of speculative moralists and
philosophers, a class of well-meaning persons whose influence in the
world has never been large. Unhappily for philosophy and morality, they
are but too easily answered by the sledge-hammer argument of success. In
plain fact, Venice survived, and grew great, and was a power during four
hundred years after she adopted her ultimate formula of existence, and
in the end she died, not by the hand of the enemies at home or abroad
whom she had successfully baffled for centuries, but of sheer old age
and marasmal decline after a life of eleven hundred years, during which
she was never at any time subject to a foreign power, or a foreign
prince, was never once occupied by a foreign army--and was never
bankrupt! Unfortunately for sentiment, no European nation, not ancient
Rome herself, can point to such a past, and the suggestion that Venice
might have done much better by acting much more sentimentally is utterly
futile. It is a good deal as if, when the ‘oldest inhabitant’ of a
village has just died after utterly beating all other records of
longevity, some well-meaning old woman should say: ‘Ah, but he would
have lived much longer if he had taken my advice.’
It is useless, I think, to inquire whether the complicated machinery of
Venetian government would have worked with the same results, if any part
of it had been altogether removed. No one of the many parts had been
made arbitrarily, still less had any then been called into existence to
afford lucrative posts for favourites, as has happened hundreds of times
in the existence of other nations. The machinery had grown constantly,
as more and more was required of it, but it had never stopped, nor had
it ever been taken to pieces for repairs, like the British Constitution,
for instance. It was a government of suspicion and precaution, which
took it for granted that every man, from the Doge down, would do his
worst, and provided against the worst that any man could do. This is
true; but has any government ever thriven which reckoned on man’s
virtues? The plain reason why all the many artificial communities
founded by good men, from Buddha to Fourrier, or even Thomas Hughes,
have been failures is that they have all reckoned on good motives in
men, rather than on bad ones. Venice systematically expected the worst,
and when she was disappointed it was to her own advantage. Christianity
begins by telling us with energetic emphasis that we are all miserable
sinners, and threatens us with torments which, if they could be brought
before our eyes, would turn the hair of young men grey. Venice followed
very much the same principle. Venice had the Pozzi; Christianity has
Hell.
As for the manner in which Venice conducted her wars, by the aid of
condottieri of reputation, she only followed the example of most of her
neighbours. The practice had many advantages, one of which undoubtedly
was that the prince, or the republic, was not bound to support an idle,
restless, and ambitious general and his force of trained soldiers in
times of peace. The professional fighter was sent for when needed, as
one sends for the doctor. He made his bargain, beat the enemy if he
could, was paid for the work, and went his way with his army in search
of occupation elsewhere.
Of course, he might turn traitor at any moment, if it were to his
advantage, and he was never inclined to annihilate an enemy to-day who
might be his patron and employer to-morrow. The Italian noun
‘condottiero’ is derived from the word ‘condotta,’ which is not easily
translatable into another language, but means a kind of articled
engagement for a stipulated purpose. In modern times the municipal
physician of each small commune is termed the ‘medico condotto,’ as it
were the articled doctor who is bound to render certain services without
charge, because he is paid by the town.
The rise of the condottieri was the result of the change in the manner
of fighting which took place early in the Middle Ages, upon the
introduction and development of armour. The first professional fighters
were the aristocracy, who spent their time almost entirely in the daily
practice of arms, and kept themselves in perfect training by constant
exercise. To do this successfully they worked much harder than the
peasants in the fields, who were their natural enemies, and who would
have destroyed them altogether if they had not maintained their physical
superiority by every means in their power. And this superiority they
[Illustration: RIO DE S. PANTALEONE]
gradually supplemented by means of armour which by degrees reached such
completeness as to make the man and his horse practically invulnerable,
before the invention of gunpowder. A score of well-equipped and
well-trained knights could cut to pieces ten times their number of men
armed only with swords and shields. Moreover, the nobles did not
hesitate to hang any rich plebeian who dared to wear steel.
The first soldiers of fortune were penniless nobles who owned nothing
but their armour and horses, and often won wealth by fighting for any
one who would employ them; and they insisted upon being treated with the
deference due to their station. But little by little, as more fighters
were thus employed, young men of unusual physical strength regularly
went to work to train themselves for the profession, because it was a
lucrative one, and was not at first very dangerous; for I repeat that
before gunpowder men-at-arms were not easily hurt, and as for noble
lineage, the employer cared nothing for that provided that the fighter
knew his business. These fighters very naturally attached themselves by
scores and by hundreds to any leader who had the reputation of gaining
much booty, and of being generous in distributing it. I believe that
there was very little good faith, and no trust at all, between the
condottiero and his own band; on the contrary, I think the relation must
have been very like that which exists on almost every merchant-vessel
between the captain and his crew, and every man who has been to sea
knows what that is. The best crew in the world have a way of regarding
the captain as their natural enemy which is very surprising to a
landsman; yet if they have confidence in his seamanship and navigation,
and if he does not starve them, they will obey him with a zeal which to
the uninitiated greenhorn looks like devotion, and they will even run
great risks for him beyond what the law could require of them. He, on
his side, has been before the mast himself and knows exactly what they
think about him, and that if he allows them the slightest liberty or
indulgence beyond what he and they know to be just, he will lose all
control over them. In the study of the mediæval fighting bands and their
relations to their leaders, an historian might learn a vast deal in the
course of a six weeks’ voyage on a big modern sailing vessel.
It happened sometimes that after a very great victory the condottiero
received extensive lands besides a large sum of money, and that he was
formally adopted into the aristocracy of the country for which he had
fought. In that case, he either disbanded his men and retired from the
profession, or, if he was still ambitious, he entered upon a career of
warfare and conquest on his own account. Francesco Sforza’s father began
life as a peasant, and he himself ended as Duke of Milan, and left a
great name which has descended to modern times.
The fifteenth century, as being the principal period of transition
throughout Europe from ancient to modern warfare, was essentially the
age of the condottieri, and many famous mercenary captains were employed
by Venice; so many, indeed, that a review of their services would be
almost a consecutive history of Venice’s relations with her neighbours
during that time. There was Carmagnola and Gattamelata, and Francesco
Sforza; there was Bartolommeo Colleoni, and Roberto Sanseverino, and
there was even a Duke of Mantua. As Daru says, the Republic grew
accustomed to keeping princes in her pay.
Even after the war of Chioggia was over, Venice was still involved in
the long struggle with the Carrara of Padua which was to end with the
almost total extermination of that family. Francesco Carrara had,
indeed, signed the peace, like the Genoese and the King of Hungary. The
Genoese power was broken for ever, and King Louis was far away and not
anxious to renew a fruitless war now that his strongest allies were
crippled; but Carrara had emerged from the contest practically
unweakened, and Venice was not likely to forget that he had done
everything in his power to further and abet the aims of Genoa.
[Sidenote: _1385._]
There is no history more complicated and hard to bear in mind than that
of the republics and principalities of northern Italy in the Middle
Ages, as the crimes by which the despots kept their power were more
tortuous than any committed before or since. In the events which led to
the annexation of Padua by Venice two other states played a part,
namely, the principality of Verona, held by an illegitimate descendant
of the Scala family, who had incidentally murdered his own brother, the
latter’s mistress and all their children; and the great dukedom of
Milan, then ruled by Giovanni Galeazzo Visconti, who had, in the
ordinary course of events, got rid of his brother Bernabò by poison, and
kept a couple of nephews locked up in a dungeon.
Antonio della Scala was jealous of Carrara’s influence, and made a
secret treaty with Venice, under which, and
[Illustration: THE CHURCH OF THE FRARI]
for a consideration of twenty-five thousand florins monthly, he
undertook the conquest of Padua, and the return of Treviso to the
Republic. But he was badly beaten by Carrara, who succeeded in bribing
two high officials in Venice, an avogador and a member of the Forty.
These were, of course, discovered by the government and duly executed.
[Sidenote: _Rom. iii. 319, sqq._]
[Sidenote: _1387._]
Carrara, now fearing a regular war with Venice, sought the alliance of
Milan, ostensibly against Verona, and Galeazzo at once saw a chance of
profit for himself in granting the request. He had always hoped to make
mischief between Padua and Verona, and it is said that after Scala’s
defeat he had secretly offered help to both sides at the same time. He
now agreed with Carrara to divide and share Scala’s principality of
Verona. But when Scala was beaten and ruined, Galeazzo naturally refused
to let Carrara have any part of the promised spoil.
Scala took refuge in Venice, where he received a pension, but it was not
long before Galeazzo succeeded in having him poisoned; and almost at the
same time Galeazzo made a secret treaty with Venice to rob Carrara of
his principality. Venice introduced a clause into the agreement, which
really showed genius. Lest Galeazzo Visconti should serve her as he had
served Carrara, the Republic required that he should leave his dukedom
in charge of Carlo Zeno while he prosecuted the war in person.
Carrara now turned to Venice for help against Visconti, pretending to
know nothing of the secret alliance, and begging that the Republic would
use her influence to make Galeazzo keep to the terms of his public
treaty. This appeal was received with stony indifference. Carrara, who
believed that both Venice and Visconti were actuated by motives of
personal hatred against himself, resigned in favour of his son,
Francesco the Younger, and retired to Treviso.
But his departure did not improve matters, and his son was soon obliged
to surrender Padua to the allies, on condition of receiving a safe
conduct for himself and his retinue to visit Pavia and return. This was
given, and oath was taken on the Blessed Sacrament that it should be
respected. He went to Milan, and was well received, and it appears that
he acted the part of a man delighted with his treatment, and only
anxious to be pleased and amused. It is almost needless to say that
before long he was plotting against Visconti’s life, and that Visconti
discovered the plan, and gave orders for his assassination. He fled to
France with his young wife Taddea, but was pursued by Visconti’s
emissaries, and embarked only just in time to save himself and her. She
was soon to become a mother, and she suffered terribly from the rough
sea. Carrara and she landed; she was placed upon an ass and he walked by
her side, while the small vessel kept in sight of the shore. And so they
proceeded, embarking again, and once more going ashore as a fresh gale
began to blow. They came along the Riviera, well knowing that they were
tracked by Visconti; once, at Torbio, they were warned by a friendly
person not to enter the town, and they slept in a half-ruined church by
the sea-shore. At Ventimiglia the little party excited the suspicions of
the Podestà and Carrara was arrested, after having succeeded in placing
his wife in safety on board the vessel, but was released again, because
by good fortune the officer who arrested him had once served his father.
So they went on, through countless adventures, sometimes disguised as
German pilgrims, sometimes barely eluding Visconti’s search by hiding in
bushes by the roadside; they even slept in a stable. They sought refuge
in Florence and stayed there a while, went on to Bologna and were
refused all assistance; and at last the fallen prince received offers to
join the fighting band of John Hawkwood, the English condottiero. He
almost reached Venice, and was within a stone’s throw of Padua, then
went back to Florence, and was suddenly elevated to the dignity of
Ambassador from the Florentines to the Duke of Bavaria, whose sister had
been the wife of the murdered Bernabò Visconti, and the mother of the
rightful but imprisoned heir to the dukedom of Milan.
It is not within the province of this work to narrate these wild
adventures in detail. It is enough to say that the struggle between the
several parties was carried on for years, with no scruple and little
humanity. The policy of the different governments shifted continually;
after allying herself with Visconti, Venice soon began to plot against
him, judging that a ruined neighbour like Carrara would be safer than
one too powerful, as Giovanni Galeazzo was growing to be; and so the
fugitive couple was taken into favour again by the Republic. Although
Visconti’s military governor in Padua, when Carrara came to take his own
again, sent him word that a man must be a fool who, having left the
house by the door, expected to return by the window, yet Carrara soon
got the better of him by the help of Venice and the Duke of Bavaria.
What is most amazing in the history of the Italian principalities and
republics is that any one of them should ever, under any circumstances,
have believed in the promises made by any other. An open treaty was
almost always supplemented by a secret one of a precisely contrary
nature; oaths ratified upon the faith of the Blessed Sacrament were
broken as lightly as lovers’ vows; the safe conduct given by a prince or
a republic was generally the prelude to an assassination; and
governments had not even that temporary regard for their obligations
which is vulgarly described as honour among thieves. Writers of history
have accustomed us too long to consider that these vices of mediæval
Italian diplomacy were manifestations of the deepest craft and of the
most profound subtlety, and we have been taught to look upon
Macchiavelli as a master in the art of political dissimulation. Men of
northern extraction who, by the accidents of birth, education, and long
acquaintance, are thoroughly acquainted with the Latin character, cannot
but smile at such a judgment. In all ages, Latins, and especially
Italians, have deceived each other, but have rarely succeeded in
deceiving us. The wiles of Cæsar Borgia would not have imposed upon an
average English schoolboy. In her diplomatic relations with northern
Europe, Italy has almost invariably been the victim of that profound
duplicity which rests upon a carefully cultivated reputation for
respecting the truth. It is the man whose word can generally be trusted
who possesses the greatest power of deception when he chooses to perjure
himself. It was not the complication of the Italian nature which
produced the complicated state of Italian politics in the fifteenth and
sixteenth centuries, but its extreme simplicity, which made Italian
princes the easy victims of the most transparent deceptions.
[Sidenote: _1405. Padua taken from Carrara by the Venetians, Francesco
Bassano; Ceiling of Sala dello Scrutinio._]
[Sidenote: _1406. Rom. iv. 40._]