I am about to relate an adventure which to many will appear incredible,
but of which I was in great part an eye-witness. The few who are
acquainted with a certain political event will, if indeed these pages
should happen to find them alive, receive a welcome solution thereof.
And, even to the rest of my readers, it will be, perhaps, important as
a contribution to the history of the deception and aberrations of the
human intellect. The boldness of the schemes which malice is able to
contemplate and to carry out must excite astonishment, as must also the
means of which it can avail itself to accomplish its aims. Clear,
unvarnished truth shall guide my pen; for, when these pages come before
the public, I shall be no more, and shall therefore never learn their
fate.
On my return to Courland in the year 17--, about the time of the
Carnival, I visited the Prince of ------- at Venice. We had been
acquainted in the ------ service, and we here renewed an intimacy which,
by the restoration of peace, had been interrupted. As I wished to see
the curiosities of this city, and as the prince was waiting only for the
arrival of remittances to return to his native country, he easily
prevailed on me to tarry till his departure. We agreed not to separate
during the time of our residence at Venice, and the prince was kind
enough to accommodate me at his lodgings at the Moor Hotel.
As the prince wished to enjoy himself, and his small revenues did not
permit him to maintain the dignity of his rank, he lived at Venice in
the strictest incognito. Two noblemen, in whom he had entire
confidence, and a few faithful servants, composed all his retinue. He
shunned expenditure, more however from inclination than economy. He
avoided all kinds of dissipation, and up to the age of thirty-five years
had resisted the numerous allurements of this voluptuous city. To the
charms of the fair sex he was wholly indifferent. A settled gravity and
an enthusiastic melancholy were the prominent features of his character.
His affections were tranquil, but obstinate to excess. He formed his
attachments with caution and timidity, but when once formed they were
cordial and permanent. In the midst of a tumultuous crowd he walked in
solitude. Wrapped in his own visionary ideas, he was often a stranger
to the world about him; and, sensible of his own deficiency in the
knowledge of mankind, he scarcely ever ventured an opinion of his own,
and was apt to pay an unwarrantable deference to the judgment of others.
Though far from being weak, no man was more liable to be governed; but,
when conviction had once entered his mind, he became firm and decisive;
equally courageous to combat an acknowledged prejudice or to die for a
new one.
As he was the third prince of his house, he had no likely prospect of
succeeding to the sovereignty. His ambition had never been awakened;
his passions had taken another direction. Contented to find himself
independent of the will of others, he never enforced his own as a law;
his utmost wishes did not soar beyond the peaceful quietude of a private
life, free from care. He read much, but without discrimination. As his
education had been neglected, and, as he had early entered the career of
arms, his understanding had never been fully matured. Hence the
knowledge he afterwards acquired served but to increase the chaos
of his ideas, because it was built on an unstable foundation.
He was a Protestant, as all his family had been, by birth, but not by
investigation, which he had never attempted, although at one period of
his life he had been an enthusiast in its cause. He had never, so far
as came to my knowledge, been a freemason.
One evening we were, as usual, walking by ourselves, well masked in the
square of St. Mark. It was growing late, and the crowd was dispersing,
when the prince observed a mask which followed us everywhere. This mask
was an Armenian, and walked alone. We quickened our steps, and
endeavored to baffle him by repeatedly altering our course. It was in
vain, the mask was always close behind us. “You have had no intrigue
here, I hope,” said the prince at last, “the husbands of Venice are
dangerous.” “I do not know a single lady in the place,” was my answer.
“Let us sit down here, and speak German,” said he; “I fancy we are
mistaken for some other persons.” We sat down upon a stone bench, and
expected the mask would have passed by. He came directly up to us, and
took his seat by the side of the prince. The latter took out his watch,
and, rising at the same time, addressed me thus in a loud voice in
French, “It is past nine. Come, we forget that we are waited for at the
Louvre.” This speech he only invented in order to deceive the mask as
to our route. “Nine!” repeated the latter in the same language, in a
slow and expressive voice, “Congratulate yourself, my prince” (calling
him by his real name); “he died at nine.” In saying this, he rose and
went away.
We looked at each other in amazement. “Who is dead?” said the prince
at length, after a long silence. “Let us follow him,” replied I, “and
demand an explanation.” We searched every corner of the place; the mask
was nowhere to be found. We returned to our hotel disappointed. The
prince spoke not a word to me the whole way; he walked apart by himself,
and appeared to be greatly agitated, which he afterwards confessed to me
was the case. Having reached home, he began at length to speak: “Is it
not laughable,” said he, “that a madman should have the power thus to
disturb a man’s tranquillity by two or three words?” We wished each
other a goodnight; and, as soon as I was in my own apartment, I noted
down in my pocket-book the day and the hour when this adventure
happened. It was on a Thursday.
The next evening the prince said to me, “Suppose we go to the square of
St. Mark, and seek for our mysterious Armenian. I long to see this
comedy unravelled.” I consented. We walked in the square till eleven.
The Armenian was nowhere to be seen. We repeated our walk the four
following evenings, and each time with the same bad success.
On the sixth evening, as we went out of the hotel, it occurred to me,
whether designedly or otherwise I cannot recollect, to tell the servants
where we might be found in case we should be inquired for. The prince
remarked my precaution, and approved of it with a smile. We found the
square of St. Mark very much crowded. Scarcely had we advanced thirty
steps when I perceived the Armenian, who was pressing rapidly through
the crowd, and seemed to be in search of some one. We were just
approaching him, when Baron F-----, one of the prince’s retinue, came up
to us quite breathless, and delivered to the prince a letter. “It is
sealed with black,” said he, “and we supposed from this that it might
contain matters of importance.” I was struck as with a thunderbolt.
The prince went near a torch, and began to read. “My cousin is dead!”
exclaimed he. “When?” inquired I anxiously, interrupting him. He
looked again into the letter. “Last Thursday night at nine.”
We had not recovered from our surprise when the Armenian stood before
us. “You are known here, my prince!” said he. “Hasten to your hotel.
You will find there the deputies from the Senate. Do not hesitate to
accept the honor they intend to offer you. Baron I--forgot to tell you
that your remittances are arrived.” He disappeared among the crowd.
We hastened to our hotel, and found everything as the Armenian had told
us. Three noblemen of the republic were waiting to pay their respects
to the prince, and to escort him in state to the Assembly, where the
first nobility of the city were ready to receive him. He had hardly
time enough to give me a hint to sit up for him till his return.
About eleven o’clock at night he returned. On entering the room he
appeared grave and thoughtful. Having dismissed the servants, he took
me by the hand, and said, in the words of Hamlet, “Count -----
“‘There are more things in heav’n and earth,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’”
“Gracious prince!” replied I, “you seem to forget that you are retiring
to your pillow greatly enriched in prospect.” The deceased was the
hereditary prince.
“Do not remind me of it,” said the prince; “for should I even have
acquired a crown I am now too much engaged to occupy myself with such a
trifle. If that Armenian has not merely guessed by chance--”
“How can that be, my prince?” interrupted I.
“Then will I resign to you all my hopes of royalty in exchange for a
monk’s cowl.”
I have mentioned this purposely to show how far every ambitious idea was
then distant from his thoughts.
The following evening we went earlier than usual to the square of St.
Mark. A sudden shower of rain obliged us to take shelter in a
coffee-house, where we found a party engaged at cards. The prince took his
place behind the chair of a Spaniard to observe the game. I went into
an adjacent chamber to read the newspapers. A short time afterwards I
heard a noise in the card-room. Previously to the entrance of the
prince the Spaniard had been constantly losing, but since then he had
won upon every card. The fortune of the game was reversed in a striking
manner, and the bank was in danger of being challenged by the pointeur,
whom this lucky change of fortune had rendered more adventurous. A
Venetian, who kept the bank, told the prince in a very rude manner that
his presence interrupted the fortune of the game, and desired him to
quit the table. The latter looked coldly at him, remained in his place,
and preserved the same countenance, when the Venetian repeated his
insulting demand in French. He thought the prince understood neither
French nor Italian; and, addressing himself with a contemptuous laugh to
the company, said “Pray, gentlemen, tell me how I must make myself
understood to this fool.” At the same time he rose and prepared to
seize the prince by the arm. His patience forsook the latter; he
grasped the Venetian with a strong hand, and threw him violently on the
ground. The company rose up in confusion. Hearing the noise, I hastily
entered the room, and unguardedly called the prince by his name. “Take
care,” said I, imprudently; “we are in Venice.” The name of the prince
caused a general silence, which ended in a whispering which appeared to
me to have a dangerous tendency. All the Italians present divided into
parties, and kept aloof. One after the other left the room, so that we
soon found ourselves alone with the Spaniard and a few Frenchmen. “You
are lost, prince,” said they, “if you do not leave the city immediately.
The Venetian whom you have handled so roughly is rich enough to hire a
bravo. It costs him but fifty zechins to be revenged by your death.”
The Spaniard offered, for the security of the prince, to go for the
guards, and even to accompany us home himself. The Frenchmen proposed
to do the same. We were still deliberating what to do when the doors
suddenly opened, and some officers of the Inquisition entered the room.
They produced an order of government, which charged us both to follow
them immediately. They conducted us under a strong escort to the canal,
where a gondola was waiting for us, in which we were ordered to embark.
We were blindfolded before we landed. They led us up a large stone
staircase, and through a long, winding passage, over vaults, as I judged
from the echoes that resounded under our feet. At length we came to
another staircase, and, having descended a flight of steps, we entered a
hall, where the bandage was removed from our eyes. We found ourselves
in a circle of venerable old men, all dressed in black; the hall was
hung round with black and dimly lighted. A dead silence reigned in the
assembly, which inspired us with a feeling of awe. One of the old men,
who appeared to be the principal Inquisitor, approached the prince with
a solemn countenance, and said, pointing to the Venetian, who was led
forward:
“Do you recognize this man as the same who offended you at the
coffee-house?”
“I do,” answered the prince.
Then addressing the prisoner: “Is this the same person whom you meant to
have assassinated to-night?”
The prisoner replied, “Yes.”
In the same instant the circle opened, and we saw with horror the head
of the Venetian severed from his body.
“Are you content with this satisfaction?” said the Inquisitor. The
prince had fainted in the arms of his attendants. “Go,” added the
Inquisitor, turning to me, with a terrible voice, “Go; and in future
judge less hastily of the administration of justice in Venice.”
Who the unknown friend was who had thus saved us from inevitable death,
by interposing in our behalf the active arm of justice, we could not
conjecture. Filled with terror we reached our hotel. It was past
midnight. The chamberlain, Z-------, was waiting anxiously for us at
the door.
“How fortunate it was that you sent us a message,” said he to the
prince, as he lighted us up the staircase. “The news which Baron F-----
soon after brought us respecting you from the square of St. Mark would
otherwise have given us the greatest uneasiness.”
“I sent you a message!” said the prince. “When? I know nothing of it.”
“This evening, after eight, you sent us word that we must not be alarmed
if you should come home later to-night than usual.”
The prince looked at me. “Perhaps you have taken this precaution
without mentioning it to me.”