the wish uttered at the funerals of the Latins, that earth might press
lightly on the person buried. I, therefore, concluded that the edifice
had been erected anterior to the custom of burning the dead.
Fastening my horse in a sheltered nook, between the tomb and a rock that
rose perpendicularly behind it, I knocked thrice at the door; but not
receiving an answer, I pushed it open and entered. The light of a lamp,
placed in a recess before an image of the Madonna, glimmered like a star
amid the darkness of that dreary habitation, and just enabled me to
perceive, on my eyes becoming accustomed to the gloom, a most melancholy
object; one not unlike that which presented itself to the reprobate Don
Raphael and his friend among the mountains of Cuenca.
On a bed of leaves and straw, stretched on the paved floor, and clad in
the coarse canvass garb of the poorest order of priesthood, lay the
venerable hermit. The hand of death pressed heavily on him. His
cassock, rent and torn in twenty places, scarcely covered his almost
fleshless form; which age, fasting, and maceration had attenuated to a
frightful degree. A rusty chain, evidence of some self-imposed penance,
encircled his waist; and he convulsively clasped in his bony and
shrunken hands a rosary. Close by lay an old drinking horn and a human
skull: the latter well polished by long use; and near them lay a handful
of chestnuts, the remains of his last repast.
"O thou most adorable Virgin!" he exclaimed, in a feeble but piercing
voice, "in this terrible hour intercede for me with Him whom I dare not
address: for horribly the awful memory of the past arises at this moment
before me! Gesu Cristo, hear me! and thou blessed Madonna!"
His voice died away, and I approached gently, removing my hat on drawing
near.
"A foot!" he exclaimed. "Oh, stranger! for the love of mercy give me a
draught of water! Thirst makes me suffer in anticipation those pains
which are in store for sinners such as I am!"
His drinking cup was empty, so I hastened to the brook and filled it
with water: the storm was roaring terrifically through the valley at
that moment. Hurrying back, I fastened the door, and pouring a few
drops of brandy from my travelling flask into the water, held the cup to
the sufferer's lips; who, after drinking greedily, sank again on his
couch. A faint flush spread over his death-pale face; he revived
rapidly, and endeavoured to raise himself up into a sitting posture; but
in vain: nature was exhausted. After trimming the lamp, by its smoky
light I took a closer survey of the tomb and its scarcely living tenant.
The dismal aspect of the place--its dark walls and darker
urn-niches--the feeble light and heavy sombre shadows, together with its
wretched inmate, filled me with wonder, disgust, and pity.
The face and figure of the hermit were such as I never saw before, and
have never looked on since. He was a very old man--old beyond any one I
had ever known; and he seemed to have hovered so long on the brink of
the grave--lingering between time and eternity--that he looked (if one
may be allowed the expression) a living corpse, almost as much a part of
the next world as of this. The crown of his head was bald, but tangled
locks of white hair straggled from his temples, and mingling with his
beard, formed one matted mass, white as snow, growing together, and
almost concealing his visage, and reaching below his rusty girdle. It
gave a patriarchal dignity to his appearance. His keen and sunken eyes
gleamed beneath his white and bushy eyebrows, with a most unpleasant
expression; like the horrid glare of death, mingling with the restless
and rolling glances of insanity.
To disturb him as little as possible by the appearance of my uniform, I
wrapped my cloak round me, and, seated on a stone near his couch of
leaves, waited until he revived so far as to address me. Refreshed by
the cool draught, and invigorated by the spirit it contained, his
energies were rallying rapidly: yet I did not think he would live out
the night. The tempest that raged furiously without, made yet more
impressive the silence within the tomb: a silence broken only by the
heavy breathing and indistinct muttering of the sufferer.
Sweeping over the drenched wilderness, the rain was pouring down like a
cascade on the vaulted roof of the catacomb; the swollen torrent roared
over the adjacent rocks; the rushing wind howled through the narrow
glen, and the woods reverberated the rattling peals of thunder. Ever
and anon the electric fluid sheeted the sky with livid flame, shewing
the dark masses of fleeting vapour, and lighting up the doorway and the
broken niche that served for a window, so as to reveal the wild
landscape--the woods waving tumultuously like a surge, the strained
trees tossing their branches to the blast, and the dark hills beyond,
whose peaks the thunderbolts were shattering in their fury.
The storm lulled for a moment; and but for a moment only! Again the
rolling thunder pealed, slowly and sublimely in the distance; echoing
athwart the vault of heaven like platoons of musketry. The roar of the
elements increased as the storm rushed onward, till at length it burst
anew over the valley, as if to spend its concentrated fury on that
lonely tomb. A succession of stunning reports, each one loud as the
roar of a hundred pieces of cannon, shook the dome and the walls of the
tomb to their foundations; some fragments of masonry fell to the earth,
and I leaped towards the door, fearing to be buried in the falling ruin.
But the tomb withstood the bursting tempest, as it had done thousands of
others.
The old man, uplifting his clasped hands and gleaming eyes to heaven,
shrieked wildly a prayer in Latin. His aspect was awful: he seemed the
embodied spirit of the tempest--which now died away more suddenly than
it rose. The dust was yet falling from the shaken roof and walls of the
tomb when the storm ceased.
"'Twas the voice of God in wrath!" exclaimed the hermit, in a firm and
solemn voice. "Stranger, would that thou wert a priest to implore for me
the intercession of the blessed Mary, mother of all compassion! to pray
with me in this dread hour. Prayer! prayer! much need have I of prayer
to soothe the terrors of my parting soul!"
I was deeply impressed by this appalling scene. The accents of the
dying man were faltering, and full of anguish: he spoke as if eternity
had opened to his mental vision.
"More than a hundred years have rolled away since I first looked on the
light of this world--_Miserere mei, Domine_! Sixty years only have I
spent in prayer, penance, solitude, and mortification of the flesh; to
atone in some degree for the manifold and deadly sins committed while a
denizen of the great and wicked community of mankind. You behold a
sinner," he continued, his voice rising as he proceeded--"a villain of
no ordinary dye! A wretch, whose enormities are greater than sixty
years of piety and repentance can atone for: long though they have been.
Centuries seem to have elapsed since this dismal tomb of the wilderness
first became the witness of my secret sorrow--since I last heard the din
of the bad and busy world! How many of the brave, the beautiful, and
the innocent have been gathered to their fathers in that weary time!
Generations have been born, have lived their allotted span, and been
called to their last account: yet this guilty head has been spared.
Memory, with all its goading torments, has never left me; though the
torpid apathy of age and a life of solitude--sixty slowly passing years
spent in brooding over past horrors, and the crimes of early days--have
worn and withered to the core, a heart which for swelling pride and
ferocity had not its equal in Italy. Who would think _this_ hand had
ever grasped a sword?"
He laughed like a serpent hissing, and thrust before me his right hand:
lean, bony, and wrinkled, the large joints protruded beneath the thin
shrivelled skin, which revealed every vein, muscle, and fibre. His
skeleton form was so covered with hair, that he resembled an overgrown
baboon; and as he regarded me with a wild and intense stare, his red and
sunken eyes sparkled like those of a Skye terrier through the tangled
bush of white locks overhanging them.
"Men say I have been mad!" he continued: "I might well have been so, if
bodily torture and mental agony, incessant and acute, can unseat the
lofty mind which alone makes man godlike! In this dread hour, the
memories of other years--deeds of anger and crime, thoughts of sorrow
and remorse--come crowding fast upon me! _O miserere mei, Domine!_" He
seemed talking to himself rather than to me, and often pressed his bony
fingers on his sharp angular temples, as if trying to arrange the chaos
of recollections.
"Blessed be Madonna, that she sent a fellow mortal to witness these last
agonies--to behold the deathbed of a sinner! Let its memory be
treasured up in your heart--profit by it, my son! One death-scene such
as this is better than a thousand homilies."
(_This_ to me, who but two days before had ridden through the carnage of
Maida!)
"You are young, and I am old, my son--old in years, and older still in
sin: yet say; think you there is any hope for me? In another hour I
shall have passed from this transient life to that which is eternal.
What will become of my soul? Will He consume me in his wrath? O Spirito
Santo, thou alone can answer! I behold that flaming abyss of
everlasting misery and woe, where there is weeping and wailing and
gnashing of teeth. Is that my doom? _O miserere mei, Domine_! Mercy!
pity me! speak!"
While raving thus, he clasped my feet with the energy of despair; his
whole frame shook with excess of spiritual terror, and his eyes seemed
bursting from their sockets. Deeply moved, I heard him in silence, not
knowing what to reply. A long pause ensued.
"Holy father!" said I, when the paroxysm had passed away, "there is hope
in the mercy of Heaven even for the vilest, how much more for one who
has passed so holy a life as you!"
"Alas! alas!" he exclaimed, beating his breast, "thou knowest me not, my
son! And the simple peasantry who regard me as a saint--even like the
holy Gennaro--know me not!"
"Whatever may be those crimes the recollection of which so haunts you,
let us hope that remorse and sincere repentance----"
"Blessed words! You say truly, my son! Remorse and repentance will do
much: but a load of guilt weighs heavy upon my soul. I would fain
unburthen my conscience to thee, my son: though the recital of my
iniquities might freeze the marrow in your bones. Receive my last
confession, I beseech thee; for I would not go down to the grave with
the reputation of a saint: which, though given me by many, I merit so
little!"
Again he drank thirstily; and raising himself into a half-recumbent
posture, prepared to make that revelation for which my excited curiosity
longed so impatiently. He was rallying rapidly; his voice became
fuller, and his enunciation more distinct and connected. He clutched my
arm with an iron grasp, and his bleared and hollow eyes glittering with
excitement, glared into mine with a searching and intense expression,
which made me feel very far from comfortable.
"You would preach to me words of peace and consolation--peace to a
tempest-tost heart--consolation to a soul torn with anguish and remorse!
You bid me hope! Listen, then, to what mortal ears have never
heard--the long concealed secret of my life--the crimes of my heedless
youth, and the sorrows of Diomida: who perhaps, from the side of Madonna
in heaven, beholds this scene to-night."
Gathering all his energies, the aged recluse commenced the following
narration, in the solemn subdued tone of a contrite sinner recounting
his misdeeds; recalling with a vividness that seemed preternatural in
one so near his end, the history of his youth.
His narrative was often interrupted by pauses, bursts of sorrow, and
groans of remorse, exclamations of pity and horror, pious ejaculations,
and prayers for mercy.
Exhausting as this suffering and exertion must have been, he seemed to
gain strength as he proceeded; as if all his powers returned to
accomplish this last effort: so the flame of the expiring lamp burns
bright for a moment ere it is extinguished.
*CHAPTER XIII.*
*THE HERMIT'S CONFESSION.*
Of all the nobles of Venice, none enjoyed a more general and deserved
popularity than Giulio Count della Torre di Fana. The gayest and most
gallant of cavaliers, loved by his friends and respected by his enemies,
he was the star of the senate, and idol of the people. His wife was
beautiful and virtuous; his estates were among the richest, his palaces
the most superb, his stud the most fleet and graceful, his assemblies
and gondolas the most elegant, and his galleries the most magnificent in
Venice! What more was wanting to make him the happiest man in Italy?
At the age of twenty Count Giulio espoused Diomida, the niece of John di
Cornaro the venerable Doge, then in the 84th year of his age; preferring
her to an heiress of the powerful house of Strazoldi, to whom he had
been in childhood betrothed. Diomida was then in her seventeenth year,
and her beauty not less than|her exalted rank, made her the first lady
in Venice. Her mind was not inferior to her charms, which were such as
man rarely looks on. O Diomida! even at this distant time, when the
silent tomb has so long closed over thee--aye, even now, when looking
back through the long dark vista of years of horror, I can recall to
memory thy lovely sweetness and majestic beauty: true attributes of thy
blood and high descent, which made thee the noble glory of Venetians!
For a time after his marriage no man was happier than Count Giulio, and
no woman more loving or beloved than Diomida. Proud of each other,
their mutual tenderness and devotion appeared to increase every day, and
their happiness became a proverb among their friends. If the count
returned ruffled in temper by losses at the gaming table, by debates in
the senate, by any obstruction opposed to the passage of his gondola on
the canal or his train on the steps of the Rialto, the soft voice and
gentle smile of Diomida were sure to soothe his fiery spirit; which was
easily chafed by trifles into a fury. At the sound of her voice or the
pressure of her little hand, the gloom vanished from his haughty brow,
and the annoyance was forgotten: Diomida was formed for love and
delight, and anger fled from her presence. The count doted on the noble
girl whom he had taken to his bosom, and enthroned in his palace: his
affection had no equal save her own. His innocent bride was supremely
happy; giddy with joys that were too bright to last. She saw not the
storm that was gathering in the distance, and which, urged by the power
of her evil genius, was so soon to overwhelm her.
The young Count di Strazoldi--who had been serving under Zondodari,
Grand Master of Malta, and had gained considerable renown in the war
against the Ottoman Porte--arrived in Venice, six months after Giulio,
at the altar of Sta. Maria della Salute, had placed on the bright
tresses of Diomida that coronet which ought to have adorned the sister
of Strazoldi.
Like all the Venetian nobles, the Count di Strazoldi was fierce,
haughty, and infatuated with his family rank; and being naturally of a
libertine disposition, his residence among the knights of San
Giovani--whose loose mode of life is proverbial--did not improve his
morals. The wild cavaliers and reckless military spirits with whom he
had associated, in the garrisons of La Valetta and Melita, had
altogether destroyed the little sense of honour which a Venetian
education had left uncorrupted; and he returned, a perfect devil in
heart, though assuming the frank air of a soldier, and the graceful
manners of an accomplished cavalier. When flushed with wine, however,
his features had a stern expression, and his restless eyes a daring
look, that quiet men shrunk from; and he then looked more like a
debauched and brutal bravo, than a polished Venetian gentleman.
Lucretia, his sister, to whom La Torre had preferred the gentle and
timid Diomida, was the most imperious and haughty signora in the duchy;
notwithstanding the exquisite softness imparted to her brilliant charms
by the Lombardo blood of her race. Fired at the preference of La Torre
for the beautiful Cornaro, her love turned to the deadliest hatred; and
she demanded of her brother Stefano to challenge La Torre to a duel on
the Bialto. But Count Strazoldi was tired of fighting: he had seen
enough of it under the banner of Malta, and in the valley of the demons
in Sicily, under the Marquiss de Leda, and was not disposed hastily to
enter into this feud at the behest of his incensed sister.
"Patience and peace," said he, with a grim smile. "I will anon avenge
you more surely and amply."
He had met the Count della Torre at the Dogale palace, at the gaming
houses, and other public places, and found him a gay agreeable young
man, upon whose generosity and frankness of heart he had little doubt of
imposing; and from whose princely revenue he hoped to repay himself for
the ducats he had squandered in the Turkish wars, and among his wild
companions at Malta and Gozzo. The Count della Torre was in turn
pleased with the gay and fashionable manners of the hollow-hearted
Stefano Strazoldi; who first gained his esteem by losing some hundred
sequins with an air of unconcern, and performing a few pretended acts of
friendship. Strazoldi afterwards won the admiration of Della Torre, by
relating the battles, sieges, and fierce contests by sea and land in
which he had borne a conspicuous part, while serving under Zondodari and
the grand cross Antonio Manuel de Vilhena; who, on the death of the
former, succeeded him in the office of Grand Master.
Although La Torre made a constant companion of the dissolute Stefano,
and dissipated his patrimony in gay entertainments, he had more prudence
than to invite him to his palace. His unhappy countess mourned in
loneliness the sad change in the manners of her husband; who, led astray
from the path of honour, spent whole days at the gaming house, and
nights at the cafe or the cantina. He associated also with other
reckless spirits, to whom Strazoldi introduced him, in visiting those
thrifty mothers who had rising families of daughters, and who were
anxious to procure them dowries according to the infamous custom of that
abandoned city. In short, Count Giulio was no longer the same man he
had been, and days passed without his crossing the threshold of his
wife's apartment. Poor Diomida! this terrible change sank deeply in her
heart. When during the day her husband at times visited the palace, it
was only to extort money from his terrified steward; who warned him in
vain that the splendid revenue of his estates was miserably impaired.
But palled with excesses, jaded in spirit, and morose with losses, such
answers only chafed the count into a tempest of rage; and the steward
was glad to raise the gold, by having recourse to Isaac the famous
Jew-broker on the Rialto.
Seldom now did he look on the pale face of his once loved Diomida, whose
silent sorrow--she was too gentle to upbraid--passed unheeded. Her grief
was increased to agony when she learned that in the society of her
dangerous rival Lucretia, the count now spent the most of his time: the
passers-by shrugged their shoulders when they beheld the vast facade of
the palazzo della Torre so silent, gloomy, and dark--having the air of a
deserted mansion--while the gorgeous palazzi of the Strazoldi, the
Cornaro, the Balbi, and other nobles, were blazing with light, and
brilliant with festive assemblies.
One evening, full of sad thoughts, Diomida sat in her boudoir alone:
alas! she was now seldom otherwise. Her cheek was pale; the slight
roseate tinge that once suffused it had fled, and the lustre of her eye
had faded. Long weeping and pining in secret were destroying that fresh
bloom, which rendered her the most admired of all Venetian beauties, and
the pride of the venerable Doge, her uncle. Her books, embroidery, and
guitar were all neglected; and she sat moodily in her dimly lighted
room, watching in despairing anxiety for the tread of her husband (whom
for four days she had not seen), and weeping for the past joys of their
early marriage days.
As she listened, step after step rang in the adjacent streets, and heavy
spurs jangled beneath the paved arcades: other men were passing to their
homes, but the count returned not to his; and the thoroughfares
gradually became silent and empty. The clock in the marble cupola of
Santa Maria tolled the hour of midnight, and the Countess bowed down her
fair head in wretchedness: she knew that her husband would be absent for
another night, and she would rather have known that he was dead than in
company with her triumphant rival, or damsels of still more doubtful
fame. She was about to summon her attendants previous to retiring, when
the dash of oars broke the silence of the canal, and a gondola jarred
with hollow sound on the steps of Istrian marble leading from the
portals of the palace. A flush of hope glowed on the pallid cheek of
Diomida, and listening intently, she pressed her hand on her fluttering
heart. In breathless expectation she paused, listening to the measured
tread of manly footsteps approaching, marked by the ring of silver spurs
on the tessellated floor of hall and vestibule, and a sword clattering
in unison, as the wearer ascended the lofty stairs by three steps at a
time. A hand cased in a long buff glove drew back the ancient hangings
of the doorway--
"Giulio! Giulio--beloved one--you have not quite forgotten me!"
exclaimed Diomida in piercing accents, as she sprang forward to embrace
her truant husband. She was caught in the arms of Stefano Strazoldi!
"Excellent, my beautiful idol!" he exclaimed, pressing the sinking girl
to his breast; "you are somewhat free for a Doge's niece, but not the
less welcome to a joyous cavalier, tired of the timid Ionian girls and
copper-coloured nymphs of Malta, with their cursed Arabic tongues!" and
he laughed boisterously. His broad-plumed hat placed on one side of his
head, revealed the sinister aspect of his face, now flushed with wine
and premeditated insolence; his cloak, doublet, and rich sword-belt were
all awry, and Diomida beheld with dismay that he staggered with
intoxication.
"I thought you were the Count Giulio, my husband," said Diomida,
shrinking back with horror; for she could not look upon Strazoldi, the
destroyer of her domestic peace, otherwise than as an accomplished
demon.
"Unhand me, my lord!" she added indignantly. "I am a lady of noble
birth, and shall not be treated thus with impunity!"
"Nay!" exclaimed Stefano; "do not ruffle your temper, sweet lady: our
married dames of Venice heed little when their cheeks are pressed by
other lips than those of their liege lords. Why, my beautiful idol! thou
art as coy and enchanting as Elmina la Mondana, the fairest priestess of
Venus----"
"Infamous!" exclaimed the struggling countess, trembling with terror and
indignation. "Darest thou name such in my presence?"
"Aye, in presence of Madonna; and why not to thee?"
"I am the daughter of Paolo Cornaro, the first of our Venetian
cavaliers, before whose galley the bravest ships of the Mussulmen have
fled. Alas! were he now alive, I had not been thus at thy mercy!
Unhand me, Count Strazoldi! Away, ruffian----"
"The prettiest little chatterbox in Venice!" said the Count gaily. "But
enough of this! Know that your loving lord and master has assigned you
to me, for the sum of three thousand sequins, fairly won from him an
hour ago at cards in the house of the Mondana; therefore art thou mine,
signora, as this paper will testify." The swaggering libertine grasped
firmer the shrinking girl with one hand, while with the other he
displayed a paper, to which she saw with horror Giulio's name attached.
A glance served to inform her that the contents were such as her
assailant had described them to be. La Torre, intoxicated with wine,
and maddened by losses, had staked and lost his beautiful wife for the
sum of three thousand sequins, to his reckless companion; who, hurrying
away from the side of La Mondana, threw himself into his gondola, and
reaching the palace of the Countess, had ascended to her apartment by
the private stair: the key to the entrance of which, he had obtained
from the depraved husband. Diomida trembled with shame and indignation,
and would have swooned; but the revolting expression in the gloating
eyes of Strazoldi, inspired her with the courage of desperation: she
shrieked wildly, invoking the Madonna to protect her, as Stefano,
inflamed by her beauty, and encouraged by her helplessness, was
proceeding to greater violence.
"Peace, pretty fool," he exclaimed in a hoarse whisper, "or I will twist
this scarf round your throat, as I have done to many a less noisy damsel
in the land of the Turk and Greek. Sformato! have I not gained you
fairly at Faro from your husband, and offered him my sister Lucretia, in
exchange? Silence woman! wouldst thou force me to gag thee with my
poniard! Beware, 'tis of Campoforte." The ruffian laughed fiercely, and
grasped her with a stern air of determination, while she redoubled her
despairing cries for assistance. But, alas! the palace was empty now;
and the few attendants sleeping in the basement heard her not. She was
about to sink from exhaustion, when steps were heard springing up the
private staircase. She exclaimed with passionate joy--
"'Tis the Count! 'tis my husband! O Giulio, save your once-loved
Diomida, before she expires at your feet!"
It was not La Torre, but a tall and richly clad cavalier wearing the
uniform of the Dalmatian Guards, and having a black velvet mask on his
face, as if he had just left a masquerade.
"Draw, Count Stefano! Ungallant ruffian! whose vices in peace obscure
all the brilliant feats performed in war. Defend yourself."
Strazoldi drew promptly, while Diomida overcome, sank upon a sofa almost
lifeless.
Fierce was the conflict that ensued between the cavaliers, who were both
armed with those long narrow bladed and basket-Lilted rapiers, then
usually worn by Italian gentlemen. Strazoldi, brave to excess, fought
as resolutely in a bad cause, as he could have done in a good one, and
the stranger was compelled to put forth his best skill. Both were
perfect masters of their weapons; but Strazoldi had youth and agility in
his favour. While his antagonist managed his sword with all the stern
deliberation and coolness of a practised duellist, the fierce Stefano
lunged forward, thrusting furiously, until by a sudden circular parry,
his weapon was struck from his hand, and whirled up to the frescoed
ceiling. His adversary rushed upon him, beat him to the floor, and
placing a foot upon his neck, commanded him to ask pardon or die.
"Of the Countess I ask pardon most assuredly, but not of you!" replied
the vanquished libertine, panting with rage. "Strike, whoever you are!
Stefano di Strazoldi--who has ridden through the thickest battalions of
the Turks, and planted the standard of Manuel de Vilhena on the summit
of the Castello Roso--will never ask mercy of mortal man!"
"I esteem you brave among all the nobles of Venice; and, reckless
libertine and ruffian as you are, would regret to slay you. Once more,
I ask, will Count Stefano of Strazoldi yield?"
"Never!"
"Not to _me_?"
"No; not were you the Doge himself."
"That shall be proved," replied his conqueror, removing his velvet mask,
and revealing the noble features of the venerable John Cornaro; his brow
contracted and stern, and his large dark eyes flashing with anger and
indignation.
"Oh spare him, spare him, guilty though he be!" exclaimed the Countess.
"You know me, Count Strazoldi; and will not scorn to beg life as a boon
at the hand of your Doge?"
"Doge or devil! Di Strazoldi will never submit to any such
humiliation," replied the reckless cavalier: startled, but not abashed,
on discovering his conqueror to be the illustrious uncle of Diomida.
"Strike! illustrissimo, but keep me not in a position so degrading!"
Cornaro raised his hand, yet stayed the impending thrust, and spared his
adversary.
"Rise, signor; receive your sword, and learn to use it in a better cause
than the defence of guilt and outrage. Rise and begone! John Cornaro
can respect bravery even in a ruffian. Away! but remember this affair
ends not here. Both with Count Giulio and yourself a stern reckoning
must be made. I swear by San Marco! that this right hand, which never
suffered insult to pass unrevenged or wrong unpunished, shall, without
appeal to council or to senate, redress most amply the outrage offered
to the child of my brother. Wretch! save such as you, every man in
Venice would have respected the daughter of Paolo Cornaro, the bravest
admiral that ever led the fleets of our republic to battle. Begone to
the infamous Giulio! You know his haunts, at the house of Signora
Elmina, or any other bordello where he wastes his ducats and his days.
Let him know of this night's work, and tell him to dread the vengeance
of John Cornaro!"
Strazoldi retired covered with confusion. The tall and imposing form of
the venerable Doge, whose breast swelled with anger and whose eyes
kindled with indignation, made him quail. Fierce and profligate as he
was, Stefano knew that he was wrong; and his natural effrontery failed
him before the virtuous wrath of the incensed Doge, whose generosity
added a sting to this stern rebuke. Leaving Diomida, who had swooned,
to the care of her women, Cornaro departed; resolving to call the Count
della Torre, and his unworthy cousin Strazoldi, to a severe account at a
future time. But the Doge returned to his palace only to sicken and to
die; the excitement of that night's conflict caused a relapse of a
dangerous illness, which ultimately carried him to the grave. Of that
more anon.
From that time the dissolute husband of Diomida gave himself up to the
most licentious excesses; setting no bounds to his desires and outrages:
his days were consumed in ennui and gloom, the nights were spent in
carousal and riot. When he promenaded the streets, or his swift gondola
shot through the canals, all women of modesty shrunk from his gaze, and
drew down their veils; while noble cavaliers pitied the wild young
profligate who was rushing headlong to ruin, dissipating a princely
patrimony and blighting the ancestral honours of a noble name.
Giulio now shunned entirely the presence of the heart-broken Diomida,
though often his palace resounded with the noise and tumult of reckless
companions, the principal of whom was his evil genius Count Strazoldi.
It was rumoured in Venice that the beautiful but vicious Lucretia had
too readily favoured the addresses of Count Giulio, and that her brother
had been rendered both blind and dumb by a present of many thousand
sequins. Their amours were the common topic of the day, and ribald
improvisitori of the lowest class sang of their intrigues to the rabble
on the Bialto, the Piazza of St. Mark, and all the public places of the
city. Poor Diomida clasped her hands, and prayed to Heaven for succour
when she heard of these things: she was sinking fast, yet still fondly
hoped that Giulio might see the error of his ways, and learn to love her
as of old.
Could the wretched count have beheld his pale and suffering wife during
one of her many dreary hours of silent and lonely anguish, his heart,
unless lost to every sense of honour, must have been wrung within him:
he would have been struck with remorse to behold the misery he had
wrought for one so young and so beautiful--so loving and so patient; an
angel of heaven, compared with the demon of wickedness to which he had
transformed himself.
But the count never saw her now. With his cousin the abandoned Lucretia
and her equally abandoned brother, or with Elmina la Mandona the most
beautiful courtezan in Venice, he lived a life of debauchery and
extravagance, till his coffers were drained, his retinue dismissed, his
horses sold, and his estates, pictures, libraries, jewels, and plate had
all melted away like snow in the sunshine. The grass grew in the stable
court, where the stall collars of sixty steeds had rattled in his
father's days; weeds and flowers flourished on the palace-walls without,
and spiders spun their webs undisturbed on the gilded columns and
gorgeous frescoes within: even the once gay gondola, that bore the crest
of his house on its prow, lay unused and rotting in the grand canal.
His exhausted finances would not now admit of his giving splendid
entertainments to gay beauties at their own houses, or musical fetes on
the moonlit water: he no longer reclined in glittering gondolas,
gorgeous with rich hangings, redolent with the perfume of flowers, and
ringing with laughter the music of lutes and the voices of Elmina and
her companions, as they glided along the winding canals of Venice after
every other sound in the city was hushed.
After an absence of some months from his home, the count one night
returned: but how accompanied? He brought with him Elmina and a troop
of her companions, who again filled the once desolate palace with riot
and disorder, and penetrating even to the private apartments of the
unhappy countess, insulted her so grossly that she rushed out in sorrow
and terror into the streets.
"O Girolamo, my brother, hadst thou been here, instead of sleeping on
the field of Francavilla, thy unfortunate sister had not been brought to
this!" was the exclamation of the poor wanderer, as she abandoned her
once happy home at midnight, and, accompanied only by one aged domestic,
set out for Nuovale, the last of their country villas which the
spendthrift had left unsold.
She might have complained of her wrongs to the good Doge her uncle; but
he was bowed down with sickness, age, and infirmities, brought on by his
wounds received in the wars of the Republic, and increased by troubles
arising from the intrigues of proud and plotting Venetian nobles. She
wished not to add to his distress by a recapitulation of her own; but
hoped that, by suffering in silence, time would bring about a change:
for she yet cherished the idea that her still-loved Giulio might again
return her affection. But, alas for Diomida! time brought no change to
happiness for her.
Forgotten and forsaken, she lived in the utmost seclusion and
retirement; while her husband continued his career of riot, gaiety, and
dissipation at Venice, with his cousin Lucretia. That most beautiful
but abandoned woman, seemed to rejoice in thus openly triumphing over
her married and virtuous rival: but her wicked ends were not yet
accomplished. She had long resolved that Diomida should be destroyed
and that the count should become her own: a terrible climax was fast
approaching.
It was soon whispered abroad by the scandalous tale-bearers of the city,
that for most imperative reasons, the Signora Strazoldi had retired to a
solitary villa on the Brenta, accompanied by her mother the old
countess; who in her younger days had been equally infamous for her
intrigues and dissipated life. Meanwhile Count Stefano, to preserve
appearances, challenged Della Torre to a duel in the Piazza of St. Mark
at noon. But other means were to be taken, and the cavaliers never came
to the encounter.
Bewitched by the beauty of the artful Lucretia, tormented by her tears
and reproaches, and stung by the taunts of her mother and the threats of
the boisterous and fierce Stefano, Count Giulio thirsted with all the
avarice of a miser to replenish his exhausted exchequer with the yet
unimpaired fortune of his cousin. Yielding to all these baneful
impulses, he concerted the destruction of the unhappy Diomida; sinking
his soul yet deeper in misery and crime. The honour of the Signora
Lucretia was to be fully restored on her public espousal by the Count
Della Torre. Descended from one of the most ancient of the twelve
electoral families, he now found himself obliged to wed a daughter of
his uncle by marriage; who ranked only in the third class of the
Venetian nobility, and whose name had been enrolled in the "Golden Book"
for a few thousand sequins required in some of the pressing emergencies
of the Republic.
It was arranged that the young countess should be murdered while her
uncle John Cornaro, laid on a couch of pain and sickness, was unable to
avert or avenge her fate. Elmina la Mondana was employed by Count
Giulio to be the assassin, and she departed from Venice with ample
bribes and instructions from Lucretia and her mother. Accompanied by
Count Stefano, she reached Nuovale in disguise, and was introduced alone
into the sleeping apartment of Diomida, when the latter was preparing to
retire to bed. The aspect of this fair, young girl--perishing under the
lingering agony of a breaking heart and a wounded spirit tortured by the
reflection of a life lost and a love misplaced--raised no pity in the
bosom of the cruel Mondana; who marked with heartless exultation, that
the roundness of the stately form of the wronged wife was gone, her
cheek pallid as death, and her eyes glassy and colourless.
"Pity me, gracious countess!" whined the treacherous Mondana grasping a
concealed pistol, while she bowed humbly before her victim; "I am a poor
woman whose husband was a trooper and served under the brave Girolamo
Cornaro, in the wars of the Count di Merci, and was slain in battle by
his side on that unhappy day in the Val di demona.
"Poor woman!" said the Countess, touched by her tears; "and what would
you with me?"
"Charity, if it please you, gracious lady. I have heard that none sue a
boon in vain of the beautiful Diomida, whose heart is so compassionate."
"I have had more than my own share of woe in this bad and bitter world,
even though I have barely seen my eighteenth year," replied the poor
girl, sighing deeply, with an air of pity and dejection that would have
touched the heart of any one not wholly depraved. "All who have served
with my beloved Girolamo, on that fatal field, are welcome to me. And
so you say your husband was a trooper, poor woman?"
"A soldier who did good service against the enemy, as this letter from
the Colonello Cornaro to the Count di Merci can sufficiently prove."
"For my brother's sake, I will cherish the memory of this poor Italian
soldier, and befriend thee as his widow. Rest this night at the villa
Nuovale, and to-morrow you shall be properly provided for. Meanwhile, I
would fain look on the letter of my brother Girolamo." Throwing on her
laced night robe, and confining within a gauze caul the luxuriant
tresses of her golden hair, the unsuspecting girl drew near a lamp to
peruse the pretended letter; when Elmina, taking advantage of the
moment, levelled a pistol at the gentle head of Diomida, and fired. But
the muzzle dropped, and the ball passed through the body of the
Countess, who sank at the feet of her murderess with a shriek, while her
life blood flowed in a crimson current, deluging the beautiful bosom,
whiter than marble of Paros.
Struck with horror the moment she committed this frightful act, Elmina
fled to her guilty paramour, Count Stefano, who had been watching
impatiently beneath the window of the apartment. On learning that
Diomida was only wounded, he rushed up stairs to complete her
destruction; and, in a transport of infuriated malignity, stabbed her
with his poniard, until her bosom became a shapeless mass, so horribly
was it mangled.
Masked like a bravo, with his broad hat flapping over his eyes, Stefano
cut his way through those whom the uproar had assembled, and who, though
disposed to bar his passage, shrank from his bloody hand and formidable
figure. He rejoined Elmina, whom he also destroyed by a blow of his
poniard, to prevent her betrayal of him; and after flinging her body
into the Brenta, which flowed past the walls of Nuovale, he was conveyed
back to Venice in a gondola. To Giulio and his accomplices at the
palace of Strazoldi, he displayed his bloody poniard, and the marriage
ring of Diomida, as tokens that she was now no more. Then, for the
first time, was the conscience of Count Giulio touched with compunction
at the sight of that little golden symbol: his mind reverted in agony to
the hour of his espousals before the altar of Santa Maria, when he had
placed this ring on the finger of Diomida, his loving and beloved bride.
How had he fulfilled the solemn vow of those nuptials?
But the deed was done, and the wedding ring of Diomida glittered in the
hand of her relentless rival; who regarded it with eyes which, bright
and beautiful though they were, sparkled with triumphant malice and
revengeful joy.
"The ring is here, and we want but the priest to mumble Latin and so
finish the night with a proper bridal," said the ruffian Stefano, in
tones husky with fatigue, as he quaffed a sparkling draught of wine.
Giulio felt a stifling sensation in his throat, and his heart beat
wildly.
"Think you, I will be wed with the ring of Diomida Cornaro?" exclaimed
Lucretia, scornfully. "Perish the bauble with the hand that wore it!"
and thus saying, she cast the trinket into the canal that flowed dark
and silently beneath the windows of the palace. The fair image of his
gentle wife arose vividly before Count Giulio at this moment, and he
shrank with loathing from the side of Lucretia; regarding her brother
with a horror which he could scarcely repress as his hand involuntarily
sought the hilt of his poniard.
Strazoldi noted his agitation, but knowing that taunts or threats would
only be fuel to the fire that was smouldering in his heart, he called
for wine; and Giulio drank deeply to drown remembrance. The juice of the
grape, and the caresses of the fascinating Lucretia, soon made him
forget for a time; and the night was given to revelry, and the formation
of plans to cast the guilt of Diomida's murder on the banditti of the
hills or the bravoes of Venice. But they were miserably deceived.
Morning came, and with it horror, dread, and doubt--to the unhappy
Giulio at least: his cousin and adviser, Count Stephano, was a villain
too hardened to feel compunction at having murdered a woman whose life
was an obstacle to the accomplishment of any purpose of his. Morning
came, and rumour with her thousand venomed tongues had poisoned the ears
of all Venice with the hideous tidings. The church Della Salute was
hung with black, the bells of San Marco tolled a knell, and the banner
bearing the winged lion of the Republic hung half hoisted on the
ramparts of the ducal palace.
That night a gondola cleft the bright waters of the Canal di Giudeca,
conveying the terrified and guilty fugitives from Venice: gold
strengthened anew the arms of the sturdy gondolieri, as they tore on
through the foaming sea. Meanwhile, an enraged mob had given the palaces
of Counts Della Torre and Strazoldi to the flames; a lurid light from
these blazing piles shone on the domes and spires of Venice, on the long
lines of magnificent edifices, and the canals that wind between them.
As the hum of the multitude died away on the night wind and the
fugitives saw the city grow dim and vanish behind the northern islets of
the Lagune, their guilty hearts beat less fearfully. Liomazar received
them, and the heads of their fleet Barbary horses were turned towards
the Austrian frontier: that day they rode sixty miles without drawing
bridle. They forced their horses to swim the Piove and Livenza, even
though the deep broad currents of these rivers were unusually swollen by
floods rushing down from the mountains of the Tyrol, laden with
shattered pines and terrible with rolling stones and falling rocks. But
on--on! was the cry; for fierce pursuers were behind. Fifty cavaliers,
the flower of the young nobles, with a squadron of the Dalmatian guard,
followed them with headlong speed.
Belgrade and Latisana opened their gates to these guilty ones; but they
were still forced to fly, goading on their sinking steeds with spur and
poniard. Lucretia and the countess her mother were faint with fatigue;
the horses were failing fast, and the mountains of Carinthia were yet
far distant; while the passing breeze brought to their ears the blast of
a trumpet: its sound was their knell, for their pursuers kept on their
track like Calabrian bloodhounds.
[Transcriber's note: this page (186) is referenced in Volume 3.]
Finding it impossible to cross the frontier, they threw themselves into
the tower of Fana, a baronial hold of Count Giulio, near Gradiska, one
of the strongest garrison towns in Austrian Friuli. On this impregnable
castle, perched on a rock overhanging the fertile valley watered by the
Isonza, Giulio hoisted his standard; but his half Sclavonian, half
German vassals mustered unwillingly beneath it, when they found a siege
was to be endured: the cavaliers from Venice, having invested it on
every side, resolved to exterminate this infamous family.
Empowered by letters from the Doge, the Venetians obtained the
assistance of the Count di Lanthiri, grand bailiff of Friuli, who raised
all his military followers in arms, together with the vassals of the
duchy. In addition to these, a regiment of Austrian infantry was
brought from Gradiska by its deputy-governor, the brave Baron di Fina,
knight of Carinthia and the Golden Stole--an order which none but the
noblest Venetians wear.
The castle was encircled and a trench thrown up to cut off all
communication with the surrounding country, while a strong force of
Austrians guarded the opposite bank of the Isonza, to prevent escape: a
needless precaution, as the rock on which the fortress stood descended
sheer down to the river many hundred feet below, where, foaming over in
a white cascade, the stream rushed in boiling eddies round crags and
promontories, as it hurried on to hide its waters in the Gulf of
Trieste.
Stefano di Strazoldi was roused to the utmost pitch of ferocity of which
the peculiarly excitable temperament of an Italian is susceptible, when
he beheld the fortress environed: he resolved on a vigorous defence, and
resorted to all those military tactics which he had acquired when
serving under the grand-master Zondodari. The unhappy Giulio, finding
that no alternative was left but to die bravely sword in hand, or perish
ignominiously on the scaffold, gathered a fierce courage from despair,
and assisted in the defence of the walls with an energy which drew forth
many a boisterous encomium from Stefano, who seemed quite in his element
when the castle rocked to its base with the discharge and recoil of its
artillery: he swaggered from place to place, blustering and swearing,
dividing the time between draining deep flagons in the hall and urging
the defence of the garrison. The sturdy Sclavonian vassals of Fana,
though terrified at beholding the displayed standard of the grand
bailiff, and seeing that the assailants wore his livery and the Austrian
uniform, fought, nevertheless, with the most resolute valour: as their
lord and feudal superior, they deemed the count a greater man than
Lanthiri, and with unflinching spirit toiled at the castle guns for
four-and-twenty hours. The vassals of the duchy, repulsed and
disheartened, were about to abandon their trenches and retreat; but just
then the Baron di Fina brought an Italian brigade of artillery against
them, and the flagging conflict was renewed with redoubled vigour.
From its rocky base to its frowning battlements, the whole castle was
involved in fire and rolling smoke, and the inhabitants of Friuli and
Gradiska crowded to the adjacent hills to behold the unusual scene.
Clad in his rich state uniform, a white feather in his hat and the star
of St. George of Carinthia sparkling on his breast, Count Lanthiri led
the assailants, and directed their operations. He was mounted on a
spotless black horse, and formed a perpetual mark for the cannon and
musketry of the besieged. For twelve hours, de Fina's cannon poured
their iron hail against the outer wall till it was breached, and an
enormous mass fell with a thundering crash into the Isonza. The
Sclavonians then retired with precipitation to the keep; where they
fired from loophole, bartizan, and barricade, with unyielding
resolution. The breach being effected, Lanthiri sent forward a
trumpeter, who summoned the garrison to surrender; but, contrary to the
usage of war, and regardless of the banner of the duchy which was
displayed from the trumpet, Count Strazoldi shot the bearer dead. A
tumultuous shout of rage burst from the assailants on beholding the
cruel deed.
"Forward the grenadiers of Gradiska!--Revenge!" exclaimed the grand
bailiff, spurring his black horse up the outer breach. "On! on!--Close
up, and fall on! No quarter! Follow me with bayonet and sabre!"
Regardless of the fire to which they were exposed, and which was
strewing the outer court with ghastly piles of killed and wounded, the
vassals of the duchy pressed on. The brave old Baron de Fina blew open
the gate of the keep with a petard, which he hooked to it and fired with
his own hand. With a triumphant "viva!" the soldiers rushed through the
opening, where Lanthiri was encountered hand to hand by Count Giulio;
who, forgetting his crimes, gave way to that inborn thirst for blood and
conflict which for ages had distinguished his family. The combat was
brief. He was borne backwards before the charged bayonets of the
Austrians; while his guilty companion, Stefano, was beaten to the earth,
and lost his right hand by a stroke from the Baron de Fina's long
Italian sword, which was wielded with both hands, and did terrible
execution among the Sclavonian vassals of Fana. These infatuated men
were appalled by the fall of Strazoldi; whose activity and presence of
mind had conspired, more perhaps than the Count's authority, to animate
them during their desperate and rebellious resistance. They were
compelled to yield before the headlong rush of their infuriated
assailants; and in ten minutes the banner of Count Giulio was pulled
down, torn to shreds, and given to the winds: he himself was heavily
ironed, and despatched, with his mutilated associate in crime, under an
Austrian escort, to the strong citadel of Gradiska; while his castle,
lands, and followers, were given up to pillage and devastation by
Lanthiri.
During the fury of the siege, the miserable Lucretia, overcome with
terror and remorse, and the fatigue of her rapid flight, was prematurely
delivered of a son. The fierce Lanthiri, regardless of the tears,
sighs, and agony of the desolate mother, ordered the child to be cast
into the Isonza; but the more humane de Fina, a veteran of the Count di
Merci's wars, directed that the infant should be placed in the monastery
of San Baldassare in Friuli, where there was a lantern for the reception
of foundlings.
On finding himself a fettered captive in the gloomy dungeons of
Gradiska, Strazoldi became furious with rage and almost insane, through
the conflicting emotions of love for his sister, sorrow for her
dishonour, and shame for the dark blot which crime had cast for ever on
their family name. Cursing Lucretia and her amours, his mother and
himself, he tore the bandages from his wounds, and bled to death. Count
Giulio, who was confined in the same vault, beheld with stern composure
the life-blood of his companion ebbing away, without offering aid.
Thus, in a fearful paroxysm of mental and bodily agony, the soul of the
fierce Stefano passed into eternity.
Lucretia and her equally wicked mother were placed in a Calabrian
convent. Della Torre was ordered by the senate to be brought to Venice,
where his name was erased from the pages of the "Golden Book," which
contains the arms and names of all the nobles of the state. His
participation in the assassination of John Cornaro's niece, and his
rebellion against the bailiff of Frinli were the climax to all his other
excesses; which his enemies now exaggerated until they were regarded as
of tenfold enormity. The people once more rising in a mob, demolished
such ruins of his palace as the fire had left; and tearing the very
foundations from the earth, set up instead a column of infamy, to mark
the spot to all succeeding ages.
In custody of the common headsman--a black-browed ruffian, with naked
arms, blood-red garb, and glittering axe--Della Torre entered Venice;
only three days after the venerable Cornaro, weighed down with the cares
of state, with age, infirmity, and sorrow, departed in peace at the
palace of Saint Mark. His body was embalmed, and laid for the allotted
time on a bed of state covered with cloth of gold; his sword girt on the
wrong side, and his spurs having the rowels pointed towards the toes:
such being the usual manner of arraying the Doges, when after death
their bodies are laid out to be viewed by the knights and nobles of the
Republic.