Mrs. Hugh Fraser

A Wicked Son—Becomes Doge—His Marriage—Ambitions—Venice a Huge Conspiracy—The Palace Surrounded—His Fate—Venetian Ideals—Story of a Feud of the Tenth Century—Opened with an Assassination—Murderer Upheld by the Emperor—Venice Attacked—A Civil War in Venice—Uprising of the Citizens—Another Doge—Building of St. Mark’s—The Doge and the French Abbot—The Doge Become a Monk—A Story of Marion Crawford’s.

The son of that Doge who rowed after the corsairs and helped to recover the brides, wrote a fiery and bloody chapter in the history of Venice—and died in the writing. He began early in life to plot against his father, who, feeling the weight of age and responsibility pressing hard upon him, allowed his son to sit beside him and help him in the business of ruling the State.

No sooner did the former feel the sceptre in his hands than he began to plot against the parent who had permitted him to handle it, until he was caught in the act, and only rescued from the mob who sought to kill him in the nick of time. His father then sent him into exile.

Human nature is a bundle of contradictions bound together with cords of training and pushed along by an intermittent moral energy, which we call conscience. An individual under given circumstances will attempt, at least, to guide his actions by some sort of reasoning; but place that individual in a crowd that is fired with excitement, in the same circumstances, and five times out of seven that individual will cease to reason at all. He will be caught up in the whirlwind of the mob’s emotions and do things that will make him blush ever after to think about.

Which, perhaps, accounts for the fact that, though Pietro Orosino ravaged the coast line and plundered the Venetians for years, yet in the end they presented him with the throne, and deposed his old father who had ruled them wisely and well during those years, to do so.

Then Pietro, having at last got his opportunity, proceeded to show the world what kind of a man he was. Feeling the need of the Emperor’s friendship, he drove the unfortunate woman who had married him into a convent and sent her son into a monastery, after which he married the sister of the Marquis of Tuscany (who must have been a person of singularly plastic morals), and being now a connection by marriage with the Emperor he proceeded to further fortify his position by establishing his kinsfolk in half a dozen other States, where they became people of the first rank and of considerable power and influence.

Now Pietro’s wife was a German Princess (even in those far-off times most of the disposable royalties seem to have been Germans) and he placed German troops in the fortresses of Ferrara, which she had brought to him. Then, as a final buttress to his strength, he organised a small army of professional soldiers as a bodyguard. As soon as he had accomplished that, he began a systematic cutting of all the ties that bound him to his duty towards the Venetians and attempted to dismiss his counsellors.

That was as far as he was allowed to go. The first families—who had ambitions of their own—quietly armed the people, and presently Venice became one huge conspiracy, and one night, at a given signal, the palace was surrounded and every avenue of escape cut off. Then Pietro, sitting in the upper part of the Palace, heard the roar of the mob, rising and falling and rising again like the bellowing of a pack of wolves, and knew that his fate had leapt upon him out of the silent night, as fate has a habit of doing.

His terrified men informed him that every exit was blocked and, having given him the information, separated and scurried away into corners and hiding-places like rats, all save a faithful few, who stood by him; and with them and his wife and child he ran for a private passage which connected the Palace with St. Mark’s, hoping to take sanctuary there. But the conspirators knew of the passage, too, and there they were waiting for him, when he stumbled through the dark, and there they killed him and his child and every man that was with him; but they let the woman go—fortunately as it proved for them—for Pietro’s wife was kin to the Emperor.

In view of the fact that the story of Venice is so stormy a one, it is interesting to note that all the early ideals of the Venetians ran in the direction of peace and mutual equality, and so determined were they that discord should not be permitted to raise its head that they made their very dress conform to their desires and adopted a long, loose dress, which would be most inconvenient for hot-blooded people who might be apt to quarrel upon small pretexts.

They left these ideals behind them, however, as the State grew and flourished. It is not in the Latin temperament to tread too narrow a road, so far as the passions are concerned, and, even to-day in the south, if one man has the misfortune to slay another one, he has always two pleas to make, either of which will, as a rule, find a sympathetic hearing in court. “La passione” is the first—and any moderately good reason for rage is generally all that is asked for, by way of explanation. “Scirocco” is the second, and that covers everything from a broken dish to a slit gullet. No one is supposed to be quite in his or her right mind while the close, hot, dry African wind is blowing.

A certain Doge of the name of Ziani, who lived in the beginning of the Thirteenth Century, happened to hear that his son, while bathing near the Abbey of San Giorgio, had been attacked by some dogs belonging to the monks, and had been very badly bitten, so badly indeed that, at the time, he was not expected to recover. Flying into a rage of truly ducal proportions, the ruler instantly ordered the monks, the monastery, and the hounds to be burnt—all together. The monks appear to have escaped, but the house and the dogs were destroyed before the Doge had time to rescind the order. In true Latin fashion, of course, he repented of his decree, just too late to prevent its execution; and, in his repentance for the sacrilege, he undertook to rebuild the monastery at his own expense and take upon himself, besides, an annual pilgrimage, as an additional penance. He was a man of the most kindly nature and of a most pious disposition!

To illustrate the combination of romance, tragedy, loyalty and treachery, piety and brutality that characterised the time and the place, few better examples can be found than the story of the feud between the Caloprini and Morosini in the Tenth Century.

It arose over the hoary question of whether the friendship and support of the Eastern or the Western Empire was most to be desired for the good of the State. This, to be sure, was only a peg on which a private feud was hung, and neither one house nor the other, as far as can be ascertained, had the slightest personal leanings either in the direction of Otto or of the Byzantines. It was enough that a certain amount of popular feeling could be roused and a certain number of the common citizens could be induced to quarrel on the subject, while the great Houses were always to be depended upon when either loot or power was dangled before them.

The Caloprini opened their political campaign by the assassination of the most prominent member of the opposing faction, Domenigo Morosini, who is said to have been a person of the most exemplary piety—and his naked body was discovered in a boat near one of the water gates. It was asserted, and with some show of truth, that he had been set upon, while coming out of church—he had made a tactical error in going to worship in the district over which the Caloprini held sway—and had been beaten to death by some ruffians in the pay of Stefano of that ilk. The boat being handy, they had pitched the body into it and had allowed it to drift whither it would.

To Stefano’s surprise, the citizens of Venice seemed to regard the affair with real anger and disgust; but, knowing the form which their resentment would probably take, he forestalled their intention, by slipping out of the city one cold, wet evening with several of his followers and arrived, after a long journey, at the Court of the Emperor.

Here Stefano flung himself at the feet of authority and, in terms almost abject, begged the Emperor to look with pity upon his, Stefano’s, beloved State, torn with the dissensions of wicked men, who had driven him and his companions into exile for no reason except that, being people of some position and of grave and pious character, they had attempted to reason with the belligerents and had refrained from mixing in the ungodly business. How much of this Otto believed it is hard to say, for he appears to have withheld any definite statements until the preamble was over. Continuing, Stefano, on his own account, offered Venice to the Emperor, with all its contents, adding that, in the case of the former’s acceptance, he would be more than pleased to act as the Emperor’s Viceroy and would guarantee a solid yearly tribute. History asserts that Stefano was believed to be honest, but by what process of reasoning the belief was arrived at we are not told. At any rate, it did not take the Emperor very long to decide upon the annexation of the province, the governorship of which was at the same time offered to that sterling patriot, Stefano.

The first step the Imperial Court took was to declare a blockade and a cessation of all commercial intercourse between Venice and the Empire. The former was then declared to be in a state of siege. The blockade was cheerfully undertaken by Stefano in person, whereupon the Bishop of Belluna descended upon CittÀ Nuova, which was now defenceless, and sacked it thoroughly.

The government of Venice fulminated against the traitors, but, beyond soothing their own outraged pride, the verbal thunders accomplished little or nothing. It is difficult to make any pretence of serious protest upon an empty stomach, and Stefano must have laughed consumedly when he heard about it.

But, just as Venice was about to surrender to the inevitable, Providence came to its aid and removed Otto by means of an ague, when the Imperial policy was promptly reversed by the two Regents, and Stefano was out in the cold once more. As Napoleon once observed, “La fortune de la guerre est bien capricieuse!”

It was an awkward situation that he was in, to put it mildly. Forgiveness and charity were not salient features of State policy in those downright times, and everything that he owned on earth was in the State which he had been so active in attempting to starve, and of whose recent inconveniences and humiliations he had been the direct cause.

He contrived, however, to wheedle one of the Regents, Adelbert by name, into interceding with the Venetian Government for him, and they, partly out of gratitude to her and partly out of a desire to remain in the good graces of the Imperial Government, consented to the Caloprini’s return. But Stefano never saw Venice again, for he died before the negotiations were concluded, so that his sons had to return alone and face their fellow-citizens as best they could without him.

On their return, they discovered that the Morosini had not been standing still in their absence, for they had brought the Doge and his family into an alliance with them, and the feelings of the two brothers were not improved by the more or less open detestation of every soul in Venice. Not that they would have ever owned that the affection or hatred of the common people was a matter of any interest to them whatever, but such things make themselves felt constantly, through any armour of indifference, however strong.

The position became more strained with every passing day, and it was not long before the embers, fanned by such inspiring winds, burst into flame, and civil war broke out again as merrily as ever. This time it ran its course, and for three or four years Venice was in its grip until at last, one morning as the two brothers were entering their gondola to return home, they were set upon by some of the Morosini and stabbed.

Then at last Venice rose in its wrath and demanded satisfaction, vowing that a term should be set to the horrible state of things, when the city was at the mercy of a single family, who did what they pleased with whom they pleased, and of a Doge who was their ally. The latter vehemently disclaimed any connection with the affair, but they paid no attention to his protestations and he, realising that the supporters of the Caloprini were strong enough, with the public fury at their backs, to overthrow him, stepped down from the ducal throne and retired into a monastery, where, soon after, he died.

He was not the only Doge to leave the world and fly to the spiritual life.

One Oneolo, the successor of that Candiano, of whose tragic end I have already written, was elevated to the Dogeship in spite of himself, while the aftermath of the hurricane that had destroyed Candiano was threatening to destroy Venice; outside influences, too, were adding their quota to his heavy responsibility, for the dower of Candiano’s wife had to be repaid and the Emperor was behind her. The Ducal Palace and St. Mark’s had to be rebuilt, and he was a poor man, but, despite his poverty, he surrendered a very large part of his personal property to the building of St. Mark’s, and sent far and wide for workmen worthy of the task. He did not do anything by halves, for he gave to the Church some of its most beautiful possessions, and raised a great hospital opposite the ducal palace, besides.

He did not have much political peace during the time that he was striving so hard and sacrificing so much for Venice and the Venetians, for the Candianos, recovering their balance, plotted against him ceaselessly; but he seems to have borne his trials with a strength and a constancy hardly of this world, consoling himself with daily visits to the poor and afflicted and the joy of giving to them everything that he could spare—and, very often, a good deal that he could not.

He met with small encouragement from any one. The people were not enthusiastic over his diligence in repairing the damage which they had done, and only the very poor ever really loved him, while the great Houses were monuments of silly wickedness and selfishness from whom nothing useful could be hoped or expected; so that it can be easily understood that the advent into his life of a really good and intelligent person must have come near to unsettling his mind for the time being.

It happened that among the crowds of pious visitors to the shrine of St. Mark, during the second year of his reign, there was a certain Frenchman, Abbot of a monastery in Aquitania, and, the instant attraction of kindred souls drawing them to one another, the Abbot became the Doge’s confessor, counsellor, and friend.

When, at the end of the day, his last visitor dismissed, his last piece of business despatched, Oneolo could close the doors of his palace upon the world, one can imagine the relief and joy with which he would draw up his chair beside the Abbot, and lighten his heart of all the accumulated resentments, fears, and worries of the day, immersing himself in the priest’s description of the holy sweetness and sanctified calm of a monk’s life. Oneolo was a born monk, and he must have felt, as he sat and listened, much as a soul in the purifying fires of purgatory may feel when the gates, far above him, are opened for a moment to allow some fortunate soul to creep in, and it catches between the opening and the closing a sight of the Heavenly City and obtains a breath of the perfumes of the Celestial Rose Garden.

But, ardently as Oneolo desired the cool shades of the cloister, he could not leave the hot sands of public life yet. There was too much to be done, and well he knew that only his possession of the high office kept it safe from the fiery, blood-spotted hands of his enemies and the State’s.

He thought over it a long time, and at last came to the conclusion—a quite unfounded one—that twelve months of hard work, of hand and brain, would suffice to put the affairs of the Republic into such shape that he might safely leave them to her to attend to. So, redoubling his efforts, he slaved on, always with the shining vision before his eyes.

I suppose, as the months went by, that the desire fed his imagination and that the possible through sheer longing became gradually probable, and, as happens with so many people, that the mind thrown forward constantly to realisation at last staid there, far ahead of accomplishment.

At the end of the year, he had barely begun the long process of putting the business of the Republic into a condition in which a successor could handle it, but when, with the autumn, the Abbot came back to Venice, Oneolo was ready to leave. So, in the dusk of the morn, a cloak thrown over his shoulders and wrapped around his face, he stepped into a boat, and the two were pulled silently and swiftly through the sleeping city to the mainland, where they got into their saddles and galloped away into the night.

He had a hard time at first, for his healthy appetite needed stronger fare than the rule of the order which he entered prescribed; but he persisted, and when, years afterwards, he passed away, his canonisation followed, so that he became, as he would have wished to become, a permanent glory to his State and an example for future ages to follow.

There is one pretty story connected with a Candiano—a flower in that waste of thorns—which I have taken from my brother’s “Salve Venetia.”

It has to do with a certain Elena of that name, who fell in love with a man who was her social inferior in every possible way. He was poor and a plebeian, either of which was to be the mud in the canal of the Princely House that held the Dukedom so many times. Elena’s father was even more prejudiced than the rest of his kin at that time, if such a thing is possible, and had been looking around him covetously, even since Elena had been a small girl, for some youth whose wealth and blood might make him a possible match for a Candiano.

In the meanwhile, as has been said, Elena had also cast about her, unconsciously as a creeper winds itself about its supports, and, having no worldly judgment to handicap her choice, selected the man who could fructify her soul, rather than one whose worldly prospects she would be expected to enrich.

Very secret she must have kept it, for, innocent though she was and untouched by the coarsening finger of the world, she knew perfectly well what would happen to young Gheravdo Guvro if word of her spiritual escapade should come to the ears of her gentle men folks, and, of all the world, only her old nurse was in the secret. The old woman was devoted to her and, being a plebeian herself, her class sympathy went out towards the young man, so that she helped the lovers to meet again and again and whenever the chance offered itself.

This sort of thing could not last for long, even with the most virtuous disposition and the best of intentions, and it was not very long before the natural consummation of the affair came, and they were secretly married.

Then, safe in the irrevocable nature of the bond, Gheravdo sailed away to make his fortune, as do the Calabrian youths of to-day, leaving his wife behind him—and, considering the moral characteristics of her kinsfolk, he seems to have taken some considerable risks.

Before he was fairly off, Pietro Candiano informed his daughter that he had found that for which he had been searching and that he was going to marry her without any possible delay to a gentleman of the name of Vittor Belegno. Upon learning this, the girl’s heart stopped and she fell into a trance, which resembled death so closely that she was placed in a coffin and put away in the Cathedral before the evening.

Then luck stepped in, and Gheravdo, for some reason or another returned, only to hear upon arriving of her sudden death. Frenzied, he ran to the Cathedral and, with the aid of the sacristan—obtained in the usual fashion—opened the tomb and wrenched the lid from the coffin. Taking the beloved head in his hands, he smothered it with kisses, crying and sobbing over it until, to his amazement and joy, a tinge of colour appeared in the silk-white cheeks, and, under his rapturous, half-incredulous caresses, the body lost its rigidity and the blood stole back into the cold limbs, and he lifted her out, babbling his gratitude to the Almighty, and carried her away.

It is said that when her father set eyes on her his joy overcame everything else in him, and that he gave her to Gheravdo, gladly and without reserve, but upon that I, personally, have my doubts. Still it may have been, and one can only hope that it was!