XX

When Marcantonio, finally released from his long day of service in the

Senate Chamber, sought the private apartments of the Doge, where Marina

with her maidens was waiting for him, he found her lying back, wan and

spiritless, in one of the great gold and crimson arm-chairs of the state

salon; her eyes were closed, her lips were moving in prayer, but her

rosary had dropped from her weak clasp. Some of her maidens, as thus

doing their lady truest service, were still kneeling with hopeless

petitions to the Holy Mother to avert the doom from Venice; but one, the

Lady Beata, who was tenderly devoted to her, had not ceased from efforts

to rouse her with nameless little gracious cares. She was watching for

Marcantonio, to whom she signed eagerly to hasten, as the guard of the

Doge permitted him to pass the doorway.

"Thus hath our lady been, and naught hath moved her," she said low, and

in distress, "since the Secretary of the Serenissimo, who with much

futile reasoning hath sought to change her, hath taken his leave, save

that ever and anon she hath opened her eyes to watch the door and bid us

pray for Venice."

Her husband had reached her side and taken her listless hand before

Marina had noticed his approach; but there was no smile in her eyes as

she raised them to his--only a look of unutterable misery.

"Is there no hope?" she questioned. Her fingers, weakly folded about

his, were burning.

He controlled himself with a great effort.

"Yes, carina, every hope. All is well; and the Serenissimo hath been

most gracious. To-morrow, when thou hast had thy rest, he will send to

thee the Reverend Counsellor Padre Maestro Paolo, that he may quiet all

thy fears. For all is well."

She tried to draw him nearer, but her hand dropped powerless. "The

vote?" she questioned, with her eager eyes; and, more falteringly, with

that hoarse, broken whisper which pierced his heart.

"It is well," he answered her tenderly. "Carinissima, all is well."

She fixed him with terror-stricken eyes, in which her soul seemed

burning and her lips moved with a question he could not hear. He bent

closer, touching her cheek caressingly.

"The vote?" she had asked again.

"Tell her the count," said the Lady Beata, with an imperious touch on

his wrist; "it is killing her."

The Senate had adjourned in triumph; without a dissenting voice Venice

had rallied to the support of her prince. Marcantonio had thought he

should be proud to tell her of this unanimous action of their august

body, which could not fail to restore her confidence and quiet her

fears. But now he could not find the words he sought, for never had he

looked into eyes so full of a comprehending woe.

"Marina," he began. "Carinissima--" helplessly repeating his powerless

assurance: "It is well."

Still her deep eyes seemed to question him relentlessly, though she did

not speak; her gaze fascinated him, and he could not withdraw his eyes

until he had read in hers the great agony he had so lightly

estimated--the agony of a soul deeply religious, of unquestioning faith

in the strictest doctrine and dogma of the Church of Rome; the grief of

such a soul, tenderly compassionate for the suffering brought upon an

innocent people by no rebellion of its own; the terror of this

soul--passionately loving--measuring the horrors of an unblessed life

and death for all its dearest ones.

"All?" she had seemed to question him, leaning nearer, and Marcantonio

could not answer; but he saw, from the deepening horror in her eyes,

that she understood. She knew that _he_ had helped to bring the doom.

Oh, if he could but have told her that he had not voted--that he had

withheld his one little vote from Venice to comfort her! If, for this

once, he had failed to give what Venice expected of him, only for

Marina's sake!

He bent over her passionately, a thousand reasons rushing to his rescue,

clamoring to be told her. "Marina, beloved, there is nothing to fear!"

he cried desperately, eager for his own defense, resolute to make her

comprehend the perfect safety of Venice, to calm the beseeching horror

in her eyes; "Fra Paolo will come!"

Her gaze relaxed, her eyelids quivered and closed; she had fainted.

--Or was it death?

He folded her to his heart with a cry of desolation.

The Lady Beata hastily thrust him aside and opened the white robe at the

throat, and Marcantonio started back; there were stripes of half-healed

laceration on the tender flesh--some fresh, as if but just raised by the

lash.

"Ay, my lord," Beata answered very low, to his quick, grieved question;

"all that a daughter of the Church may do hath our lady added to her

prayers for Venice. She hath been rigorous in fasting and in penance

until her strength is gone; but the pain of it she feeleth not, because

of the greater pain of her soul, which is lost in supplication that

availeth naught."

Leonardo Donato would be very gracious to the Lady of the Giustiniani,

though she had come so near to costing the city a divided vote, because

he had seen the misery in her eyes with her great love for Venice, and

because the Council had so declared its vote for the State that he could

afford to be magnanimous. Nay, since even the Senator Marcantonio had

not flinched before that wonderful agonized white face, he need not

confine her, as he had intended, in a convent for decorous keeping; he

was glad of the change in her favor which would prevent the harshness

that might have increased her influence to the degree of danger. He

sent, instead, a gracious message by his secretary--"Might the father

pay a visit to his daughter of the Republic to inquire of her welfare

and assure her of his favor, before she returned to her palace?"

But the message of courtesy, sent by the Doge himself, had been stayed

on the threshold of his own state salon.

* * * * *

The Republic had, indeed, quitted herself nobly in her vote; so valiant

a blow had she struck for the rights of princes that this consciousness

rang out in the bold tones of her announcement to the courts of

Europe--"Which things we have thought best to tell you for your sole

information, so that if mention be made of them to you, and not else,

you may be able to answer to the purpose and to justify this our most

righteous cause."

And from the moment that the Senate had been unofficially apprised by

Nani that the terrible Interdict was already printed and would presently

be fulminated, every possible precaution of self-defense had been put in

operation throughout the dominions of Venice, with an ingenuity, a

foresight, and a celerity which the watching courts of Europe not only

viewed with amazement, but accepted as an evidence of the conscious

power and justice of the Republic. Overtures came fast from England,

from Spain, from France--every monarch wished some share in the

pacification between these courts of Rome and Venice.

Meanwhile, in Venice life went on superbly. There was no question of any

spiritual disfranchisement; these sons of the Church were not under

interdict, having committed no sin which laid them open to that charge.

Moreover, no ban had been _published_ throughout the wide extent of

their domain. Hence, for the Venetians, there was no interdict, whatever

awful anathema might be affixed to those distant doors of Saint Peter's

in Rome; with whatever voice of anger its terrors might be thundered at

the Holy See, against rulers, people, priests, and sacraments within the

doomed city--the wide waters of the lagoon laved its shores in

benediction, like a baptismal charm upon the fair front of Venice,

against which the Curse threatened impotently.

At the centre of this superb and daring court sat a friar, trained from

his childhood up in the customs, traditions, and beliefs of his Church

and of his order--a reverent practitioner in her fasts and sacraments,

simple in his habits as a hermit-monk, faithful in his religious duties

as the most punctilious priest in Rome, sure in his faith that God would

uphold the right, and asserting, without compromise, that right was on

the side of Venice.

What a stay for rulers who fortified their every position by some appeal

to precedent--who would punctiliously know the source and interpretation

of every law upon which they rested!

Above all, what a stay for the simple people who, in these days of

bewildering conflict, knew not what to believe!

Would Masses go on, and the church doors be open and the sacraments

continue? Might they still take their brides and baptize their little

ones, and follow their dead to burial, and sign the sign of the cross,

in token of the favor of heaven--as loyal sons of the Church?

And would the Madre Beata--blessed guardian of this Virgin City--still

smile upon them from all the separate shrines of Venice?

Should the labor and the imprecation of this simple people go on until

the evening in their wonted flow, and should nothing fail them of the

benedictions they had known?

It was a mystery; but threatening Rome was far and unfamiliar, and

Venice they knew--present, protecting, peremptory--impossible to

disobey.

Before the commands of the angry Pontiff could reach the heads of the

orders in Venice, people, priests, and prelates throughout the dominions

were forewarned; they must continue in every accustomed practice of

their religion; they might neither receive nor publish any minatory

papers--these must be instantly brought to the government, under

severest penalties.

Offending prelates were brought from distant sees to meet the

displeasure of the Republic; hesitating priests were silently hastened

to decision by scaffolds, looming suddenly within their precincts. While

leaflets--expressly prepared to disaffect the Venetians--proclaiming

that no obedience was due from a people to its prince under censure;

that all vows, contracts, and duties between man and man, husband and

wife, children and parents were nullified for those who remained

faithful to the Church in acknowledging the censure, as against those

who disclaimed it--these leaflets, introduced by secret agents of the

Pontiff and interdicted by the Republic, flowed in vast numbers, but

silently, into the hands of the Ten, and were seen no more.

Meanwhile that terrible thing which the people had vaguely feared had

_not_ come upon them; though at first they paused, half-hearted, when

they passed the house of the Tintoret, where the quaint figure of

"Ser-Robia," the Pasquino of Venice, had often a bit of news that the

people cared to hear, grotesquely placarded over his broad mouth. He was

a good friend to the people, Ser-Robia, and gave them many a pleasant

bit of gossip to cheer their evening stroll; but it was wise not to

laugh until one had heard the words, and there was often a priest or a

scholar near to tell the meaning to those who could not spell it out for

themselves. Always, in these days, there was some one who could read to

the people, for this was that solemn "protest" of "Leonardo Donato, by

the Grace of God Doge of Venice," etc., wherewith the most Christian

Republic defied the interdict. Here, along the Rialto, in all the public

squares of Venice, on the doors of the churches,--wherever proclamation

was wont to be made,--the people might pause and read this consoling

word of Venice, instead, perchance, of some copy of the interdict which

had been smuggled into the city and pasted, surreptitiously, over the

Doge's "protest," but which those faithful _Signori di Notte_--the

night-watch of Venice--were sure to destroy before the morning dawned.

"To the Most Reverend the Patriarchs, Archbishops, and Bishops of our

Venetian Dominions," said this "Protest," "and to the Vicars, Abbots,

Priors, Rectors of Parochial Churches, and other Ecclesiastical

Prelates, greeting:" forthwith proceeding to declare that "the Interdict

which his Holiness was 'said' to have published was null and void, and

forbidden to be observed--not having been incurred by any fault of

Venice."

But even those who could not read soon recognized the features of that

message, which met them everywhere, hiding the scars of other messages

which they must not see.

"No, no," they said, with laughing thanks to some friendly interpreter

who stood near; "it is enough; _va bene_--we know it like our Ave

Maria!"

But sometimes a family group came back for a word, when the others had

scattered.

"Thou, Gigio, tell the good padre!" says the bright-eyed young

contadina, pulling the gray sleeve of her fisherman who stands stolidly

beside her.

"_Si, si_," he answers indifferently, shrugging his shoulders and

relapsing into silence, as he pushes his wife and mother before him for

a refuge; for the men of the islands were less at home in argument with

the priests than were the women of their households.

"It is thus, your Reverence," the young woman explains cheerily. "It is

the grandmother who is afraid. Santa Maria! _how_ she is afraid!" She

touches her forehead significantly.

The simple old woman, comprehending only that they speak of her, drops a

courtesy, looking furtively about her with troubled eyes, and fumbling

over her beads; the "protest" has no meaning for her, although it is

written in good Venetian.

But a few words suffice for such as these who have caught only some

vague hint of the Holy Father's displeasure, and are reassured by the

open church and the promise of Mass and benediction.

It is those others who make trouble; they come, from time to time,--by

twos and threes, never alone,--and read for themselves, with lowering

brows, but ask no questions. And sometimes, if they watch too silently,

the courteous friar who has graciously interpreted the message which is

above the heads of the crowd, exchanges a glance of intelligence with

some gay young signor who belongs to the great army of secret

service--as revealed to the friar on guard by the password of the day;

and the sullen-browed group is courteously accosted by the young

noble--"Excuse me, signori, you are strangers in Venice; a gondola is

waiting to conduct you to the palace."

They will be tried as secret agents of the enemy. But resistance is

rare, for an escort of guards pours out from the doorways and calles, if

a stiletto but gleam in the sunlight; and no secret agent may cope with

Venice in promptness of self-defense and ingenuity of prevention.

It is interesting in the campo in these early days, before the effect of

the government's measures for coercing the opinions of the populace is

fully declared.

"I am a good Catholic, most reverend father; I keep the mariegole; every

year I go to confession," protests some sturdy gondolier, who has been

made anxious by his womenfolk. "And many a fare I pay to light the

traghetto of San Nicolò; with an ave for the favor of the Blessed Mother

to confound the scoundrel Castellani, who threw a good Nicolotto over

the Ponte Senza Parapetti, in the last fight; and it cost us oil enough

to light Venice for a year--faith of San Nicolò!--to keep them from

winning at our regatta--_maledetti_!"

For even those gondoliers who kept the mariegole were not precisely

angels, and the part of their creed which they religiously upheld was a

deathless antagonism to the rival faction which won more lamps and

pretty gifts for the patron madonnas of the various traghetti than any

other article of their faith.

To a few, chiefly women with devout, sad faces--watchers, perchance,

beside beds over which the shadow of death is creeping--the padre tells

compassionately of consoling, helpful words that are preached daily in

the great deserted church of _I Gesuiti_; for in this parish, more than

others, there are difficulties, since it had been the centre of the

disaffection. But now its doors are ceaselessly open for a refuge; no

service is omitted, no sacrament denied; and daily, before vespers, the

people may listen to a few simple words from Fra Paolo. Thither, in

these early days of the struggle, the crowd flocks, drawn partly by

curiosity to hear a man of whom it is whispered that he has just been

individually put under the greater excommunication by the Holy

Inquisition, because of his attitude in this quarrel.

There is much talk of Fra Paolo sifting about the church and square,

where the gathering of the people shows a sprinkling of red-robed

senators; for the Padre Maestro Paolo, which is his title since he has

been Consultore to the Republic, is a great man now, with a greatness

that means something to the populace, to whom letters and sciences are

nothings. But the Consultore is the friend of Venice; he is _their_

friend--coming each day to talk to the people. "It is not true that

great trouble has come upon Venice, for Fra Paolo makes it all quite

plain, and he knows everything," they say; "our padre in San Marcuolo is

like a bimbo to him! The Jesuit Fathers went too soon, and might have

spared themselves the burning of their papers and their treasure. Santa

Maria!--what is it they are saying about Fra Paolo finding the die for

making money that the _padri_ left behind? What is a 'die,' Luigi? If

thou hadst had the sense to bring thy boat to clear away the rubbish,

instead of thinking there are only fish in the world, thou mightest have

had the luck to find it; it must be better than working lace bobbins all

the week for a handful of _soldi_ that wouldn't buy one macaroni!"

"Peace, then, with thy babble!"

"See, then, the holy water is quite safe; I saw our padre cross himself

by that first basin. Thou hast done well,--_hein_ Luigi,--to bring me

from Burano, if there are _no_ fish to-morrow at the Ave Maria; for now

we can sleep in peace! They told such tales of I Gesuiti, one thought

the devils were having a holiday--Santa Maria!"

"The women are worse for chattering," Luigi retorts, with a forcible

imprecation. "Here cometh the Consultore--hold thy tongue."

"No, no, Luigi; it is only a frate from the Servi; Fra Paolo is a great

man, with a robe like the Serenissimo; he might wear a crown if he

liked! Ah, to be great like that!"

But Fra Paolo and his secretary wore the grave garb of their order, to

the great disappointment of the younger women, who had been attracted by

the expectation of some pomp.

"Word hath reached the Contarini secretly from Rome," said one senator

to another, as the Consultore passed them, "that they have found

themselves a new diversion before the palace of the Vatican, and that

some of our great ones here are burned in effigy to instruct the

populace. A pile of Fra Paolo's writings doth light the funeral pyre;

and all that he hath written or _may hereafter write_ is placed upon the

Index."

"_Davvero_! his words would make me wrathful if I held the views of his

Holiness, who may well fear the incontrovertibility of his wit. But our

Consultore looketh a simple man to have been shown such honor!"

"He beareth honors bravely," the other answered, with due appreciation

of the humor; "but lately, when the master Galileo was before the Senate

with his telescope, he had a pretty tale of Gian Penelli and Ghetaldo,

wherewith in Padua Fra Paolo hath won the title of 'the miracle of the

century.'"

"I heard it not; some commission held me at the arsenal; San Marco be

thanked that it is over!"

"Ebbene, old Penelli--gouty so that he can scarce move--hath a visit

from our great mathematician Ghetaldo, who findeth with our magnificent

patron of letters a friar to whom Penelli showeth such honor--limping to

the door with him, as if he were a prince--that Ghetaldo, wrathful at

this foolish waste over a friar, asketh his name with scorn. And is not

better pleased when Penelli telleth that Fra Paolo is the 'miracle of

the age in every science.' 'So, I will prove it,' saith Penelli, 'for

verily the world knoweth the great Ghetaldo for a mathematician! Come,

then, with problems the most difficult thou canst prepare, on a day it

may please thee to name, and meet Fra Paolo at my table, without warning

to him.' _Ecco_! Penelli is subtle; great satisfaction and much labor on

the part of our mathematician. Enter Fra Paolo,--simple,

unadvised,--solves the propositions at a hearing. 'Miraculous!' cries

the superb Ghetaldo, gentle as a lamb! A friendship for life, and Fra

Paolo is the teacher! But it is more wonderful to hear the tales of how

he preacheth to the people here, in the Gesuiti. Let us follow, for he

giveth them not many minutes, for fear of wearying them. We need lift

our mantles high, for the pavement is like a market garden of Mazzorbo,

with broken bits from the women's baskets--Faugh!"

The splendid senators seldom mingled in such a crowd, except at guarded

distances, to make a pageant for it; it was picturesque, shabby,

malodorous, composed chiefly of young women with bright-eyed babies and

baskets emitting unctuous savors of _frittola_ and garlic; now and then

an old peasant who could not be tranquil until she had heard Fra Paolo

speak was escorted by a rebellious grandson, bribed to quiet by the

promise of a _soldo_ for his little game of chance; occasionally a man,

impatient to have done with it all and get out on the canal again, moved

restlessly from place to place; only here and there the dim light showed

a face pathetic in its questioning, to whom the answer meant life or

death.

"What hath a man of such rare powers and learning to do with these

simple ones--a man whose time is precious to the State?"

The noble senators withdrew a little from the crowd to watch the scene,

as they put the question to each other; their servants brought them

chairs within the shadow of a column.

They did not know that few are great enough in an age of superstition to

hold a conscience uncontrolled by traditions, and a primitive faith

simple as a child's, with the tenacity of a strong man; there had been

nothing in his labors at the Senate to call forth this most sacred side

of his reserved nature, and they did not understand that it was to this

he owed much of the marvelous poise of will and judgment which kept him

unspoiled in spite of intellectual gifts that would have ruined him

without his absolute dependence on the One Supreme. But on this sacred

side alone was there any entrance to his emotions.

Fra Paolo was not speaking from the pulpit; he stood beside a table that

had been placed in the nave, and the people gathered close about him, as

children near a father, while he opened a great vellum-bound volume with

massive golden clasps, which his secretary had brought from the library

of the Servi.

"Come nearer," he called to them simply, beckoning with his hand, "so

that all may hear; put the old people and the little ones nearest."

He looked around him, not smiling, but very quiet and patient, as if he

were waiting for the slight confusion to subside; for at first they

pushed each other rudely to get closer.

"There is room for all," he said, "in God's house;" and as he looked

into their faces each felt that it was a word to him, and held his

breath to listen--which suddenly seemed quite easy! The smaller children

nestled contentedly on their mothers' arms, munching some dainty brought

to keep them quiet, and fascinated by the low, clear voice, watched with

round, solemn eyes to see if he would smile; while two or three who were

tall enough to reach just over the edge of the table steadied themselves

by clutching it with their chubby hands, dropping their hold of their

mothers' mantles--for the pages were full of pretty colors, and the

voice of the padre was like a lullaby to keep them still, and they were

not afraid--at all.

Fra Paolo never gave the people many words, but sometimes they were

strong and beautiful, like an old poem, and in their own Venetian--not

in the Latin which had been made for the great ones.

"It was a wonderful book, written long ago," he told them; "before the

Bishop of Altinum fled with his people to Torcello and built the old

Duomo; before Venice began to be."

Many of them did not know there was _anything_ so old as that! They

looked at each other and began to think.

"And it was written for the comfort of every one who loveth God, our

Father, whatever his troubles may be. See what is written here for any

who fear that the consolations of our holy religion shall be taken away.

For that is what you fear?"

They looked at each other, hesitating. "Si, si--yes--" timidly. "No,

no," more bravely.

Fra Paolo smiled.

"No!" they said, distinctly.

"If any of you are afraid," Fra Paolo said, looking full into their

faces as they pressed nearer, "because the fathers of this church have

gone away and left you, there are words in this old book--written long

ago, before there was any Venice--to condemn those who would close the

churches. 'Woe be unto the pastors that destroy and scatter the sheep of

my pasture,' saith the Lord. 'Behold, I will visit upon them the evil of

their doings, saith the Lord.' 'Where is the flock that was given thee,

thy beautiful flock?'"

"And here are some words that are written for you--whom they have

deserted. 'Thus saith the Lord: again there shall be heard in this

place, _which ye say shall be desolate_, the voice of joy and the voice

of gladness; the voice of the bridegroom and the voice of the bride; and

of them that shall bring the sacrifice of praise into the house of the

Lord.' It is all very simple. Love God and pray to him, and be faithful

in your duty. And he will keep you happy and safe from harm."

The ringing treble of children's voices sounded through the open door of

the sacristy and distracted the attention of the congregation, who

turned to watch the choristers as they came in sight, by twos and twos,

chanting the canticle, "Praise the Lord of Hosts; for the Lord is good;

for His mercy endureth forever!"

While Fra Paolo slipped away unnoticed.