1. CHAPTER I.
It was a glad day in Venice. The eve of the Feast of the
Purification had arrived, and all those maidens of the Republic,
whose names had been written in the “Book of Gold,” were
assembled with their parents, their friends and lovers — a beautiful
and joyous crowd — repairing, in the gondolas provided by
the Republic, to the church of San Pietro di Castella, at Olivolo,
which was the residence of the patriarch. This place was on the
extreme verge of the city, a beautiful and isolated spot, its precincts
almost without inhabitants, a ghostly and small priesthood
excepted, whose grave habits and taciturn seclusion seemed to
lend an additional aspect of solitude to the neighborhood. It
was, indeed, a solitary and sad-seeming region, which to the
thoughtless and unmeditative, might be absolutely gloomy. But
it was not the less lovely as a place suited equally for the picturesque
and the thoughtful; and, just now, it was very far from
gloomy or solitary. The event which was in hand was decreed
to enliven it in especial degree, and in its consequences, to impress
its characteristics on the memory for long generations after.
It was the day of St. Mary's Eve — a day set aside from immemorial
time for a great and peculiar festival. All, accordingly,
was life and joy in the sea republic. The marriages of a goodly
company of the high-born, the young and the beautiful, were to
be celebrated on this occasion, and in public, according to the
custom. Headed by the doge himself, Pietro Candiano, the
city sent forth its thousands. The ornamented gondolas plied
busily from an derly hour in the morning, from the city to Olivolo;
and there, amidst music and merry gratulations of friends
and kindred, the lovers disembarked. They were all clad in
their richest array. Silks, which caught their colors from the
rainbow, and jewels that had inherited, even in their caverns,
their beauties from the sun and stars, met the eye in all directions.
Wealth had put on all its riches, and beauty, always
modest, was not satisfied with her intrinsic loveliness. All that
could delight the eye, in personal decorations and nuptial ornaments,
was displayed to the eager gaze of curiosity, and, for a
moment, the treasures of the city were transplanted to the solitude
and waste.
But gorgeous and grand as was the spectacle, and joyous as
was the crowd, there were some at the festival, some young,
throbbing hearts, who, though deeply interested in its proceedings,
felt anything but gladness. While most of the betrothed
thrilled only with rapturous anticipations that might have been
counted in the strong pulsations that made the bosom heave rapidly
beneath the close pressure of the virgin zone, there were
yet others, who felt only that sad sinking of the heart which declares
nothing but its hopelessness and desolation. There were
victims to be sacrificed as well as virgins to be made happy, and
girdled in by thousands of the brave and goodly — by golden
images and flaunting banners, and speaking symbols — by music
and by smiles — there were more hearts than one that longed to
escape from all, to fly away to some far solitude, where the
voices of such a joy as was now present could vex the defrauded
soul no more. As the fair procession moved onward and up
through the gorgeous avenues of the cathedral to the altar-place,
where stood the venerable patriarch in waiting for their coming,
in order to begin the solemn but grateful rites, you might have
marked, in the crowding groups, the face of one meek damsel,
which declared a heart very far removed from hope or joyful
expectation. Is that tearful eye — is that pallid cheek — that
lip, now so tremulously convulsed — are these proper to one
going to a bridal, and that her own? Where is her anticipated
joy? It is not in that despairing vacancy of face — not in that
feeble, faltering, almost fainting footstep — not, certainly, in anything
that we behold about the maiden, unless we seek it in the
rich and flaming jewels with which she is decorated and almost
laden down; and these no more declare for her emotions than
the roses which encircle the neck of the white lamb, as it is led
to the altar and the priest. The fate of the two is not unlike,
and so also is their character. Francesca Ziani is decreed for a
sacrifice. She was one of those sweet and winning, but feeble
spirits, which know how to submit only. She has no powers of
resistance. She knows that she is a victim; she feels that her
heart has been wronged even to the death, by the duty to which
it is now commanded; she feels that it is thus made the cruel
but unwilling instrument for doing a mortal wrong to the heart
of another; but she lacks the courage to refuse, to resist, to die
rather than submit. Her nature only teaches her submission;
and this is the language of the wo-begone, despairing glance,
but one which she bestows, in passing up the aisle, upon one
who stands beside a column, close to her progress, in whose
countenance she perceives a fearful struggle, marking equally
his indignation and his grief.
Giovanni Gradenigo was one of the noblest cavaliers of Venice
— but nobleness, as we know, is not always, perhaps not often,
the credential in behalf of him who seeks a maiden from her parents.
He certainly was not the choice of Francesca's sire. The
poor girl was doomed to the embraces of one Ulric Barberigo, a
man totally destitute of all nobility, that alone excepted which
belonged to wealth. This shone in the eyes of Francesca's
parents, but failed utterly to attract her own. She saw, through
the heart's simple, unsophisticated medium, the person of Giovanni
Gradenigo only. Her sighs were given to him, her loathings to
the other. Though meek and finally submissive, she did not
yield without a remonstrance, without mingled tears and entreaties,
which were found unavailing. The ally of a young damsel
is naturally her mother, and when she fails her, her best human
hope is lost. Alas! for the poor Francesca! It was her mother's
weakness, blinded by the wealth of Ulric Barberigo, that
rendered the father's will so stubborn. It was the erring mother
that wilfully beheld her daughter led to the sacrifice, giving no
heed to the heart which was breaking, even beneath its heavy
weight of jewels. How completely that mournful and desponding,
that entreating and appealing glance to her indignant lover,
told her wretched history. There he stood, stern as well as sad,
leaning, as if for support, upon the arm of his kinsman, Nicolo
Malapieri. Hopeless, helpless, and in utter despair, he thus lingered,
as if under a strange and fearful fascination, watching
the progress of the proceedings which were striking fatally,
with every movement, upon the sources of his own hope and
happiness. His resolution rose with his desperation, and he suddenly
shook himself free from his friend.
“I will not bear this, Nicolo,” he exclaimed, “I must not suffer
it without another effort, though it be the last.”
“What would you do, Giovanni,” demanded his kinsman,
grasping him by the wrist as he spoke, and arresting his movement.
“Shall I see her thus sacrificed — delivered to misery and the
grave! Never! they shall not so lord it over true affections to
their loss and mine. Francesca was mine — is mine — even now,
in the very sight of Heaven. How often hath she vowed it!
Her glance avows it now. My lips shall as boldly declare it
again; and as Heaven has heard our vows, the church shall hear
them. The patriarch shall hear. Hearts must not be wronged
— Heaven must not thus be defrauded. That selfish, vain
woman, her mother — that mercenary monster, miscalled her
father — have no better rights than mine — none half so good.
They shall hear me. Stand by me, Nicolo, while I speak!”
This was the language of a passion, which, however true, was
equally unmeasured and imprudent. The friend of the unhappy
lover would have held him back.
“It is all in vain, Giovanni! Think! my friend, you can do
nothing now. It is too late; nor is there any power to prevent
this consummation. Their names have been long since written
in the `Book of Gold,' and the doge himself may not alter the
destiny!”
“The Book of Gold!” exclaimed the other. “Ay, the `Bride
of Gold!' but we shall see!” And he again started forward.
His kinsman clung to him.
“Better that we leave this place, Giovanni. It was wrong
that you should come. Let us go. You will only commit some
folly to remain.”
“Ay! it is folly to be wronged, and to submit to it, I know!
folly to have felt and still to feel! folly, surely, to discover, and
to live after the discovery, that the very crown that made life
precious is lost to you for ever! What matter if I should commit
this folly! Well, indeed, if they who laugh at the fool,
taste none of the wrath that they provoke.”
“This is sheer madness, Giovanni.”
“Release me, Nicolo.”
The kinsman urged in vain. The dialogue, which was carried
on in under tones, now enforced by animated action, began to
attract attention. The procession was moving forward. The
deep anthem began to swell, and Giovanni, wrought to the highest
pitch of frenzy by the progress of events, and by the opposition
of Nicolo, now broke away from all restraint, and hurried
through the crowd. The circle, dense and deep, had already
gathered closely about the altar-place, to behold the ceremony.
The desperate youth made his way through it. The crowd
gave way at his approach, and under the decisive pressure of
his person. They knew his mournful history — for when does
the history of love's denial and defeat fail to find its way to the
world's curious hearing? Giovanni was beloved in Venice. Such
a history as his and Francesca's was sure to beget sympathy,
particularly with all those who could find no rich lovers for themselves
or daughters, such as Ulric Barberigo. The fate of the
youthful lovers drew all eyes upon the two. A tearful interest
in the event began to pervade the assembly, and Giovanni really
found no such difficulty as would have attended the efforts of
any other person to approach the sacred centre of the bridal
circle. He made his way directly for the spot where Francesca
stood. She felt his approach and presence by the most natural
instincts, though without ever daring to lift her eye to his person.
A more deadly paleness than ever came over her, and as she
heard the first sounds of his voice, she faltered and grasped a
column for support. The patriarch, startled by the sounds of
confusion, rose from the sacred cushions; and spread his hands
over the assembly for silence; but as yet he failed to conceive
the occasion for commotion. Meanwhile, the parents and relatives
of Francesca had gathered around her person, as if to guard
her from an enemy. Ulric Barberigo, the millionaire, put on the
aspect of a man whose word was law on 'change. He, too, had
his retainers, all looking daggers, at the intruder. Fortunately
for Giovanni, they were permitted to wear none at these peaceful
ceremonials. Their looks of wrath did not discourage the
approach of our lover. He did not seem, indeed, to see them,
but gently putting them by, he drew near to the scarcely conscious
maiden. He lifted the almost lifeless hand from her side,
and pressing it within both his own, a proceeding which her
mother vainly endeavored to prevent, he addressed the maiden
with all that impressiveness of tone which declares a stifled but
still present and passionate emotion in the heart. His words
were of a touching sorrow.
“And is it thus, my Francesca, that I must look upon thee
for the last time? Henceforth, are we to be dead to one another?
Is it thus that I am to hear that, forgetful of thy virgin
vows to Gradenigo, thou art here calling Heaven to witness that
thou givest thyself and affections to another?”
“Not willingly, O! not willingly, Giovanni, as I live! I have
not forgotten — alas! I can not forget — that I have once vowed
myself to thee. But I pray thee to forget, Giovanni. Forget
me and forgive — forgive!”
Oh! how mournfully was this response delivered. There was
a dead silence throughout the assembly; a silence which imposed
a similar restraint even upon the parents of the maiden, who had
shown a desire to arrest the speaker. They had appealed to
the patriarch; but the venerable man was wise enough to perceive
that this was the last open expression of a passion which
must have its utterance in some form, and if not this, must result
in greater mischief. His decision tacitly sanctioned the interview
as we have witnessed it. It was with increased faltering,
which to the bystanders seemed almost fainting, that the unhappy
Francesca thus responded to her lover. Her words were
little more than whispers, and his tones, though deep, were very
low and subdued, as if spoken while the teeth were shut. There
was that in the scene which brought forward the crowd in
breathless anxiety to hear, and the proud heart of the damsel's
mother revolted at an exhibition in which her position was by no
means a grateful one. She would have wrested, even by violence,
the hand of her daughter from the grasp of Giovanni; but
he retained it firmly, the maiden herself being scarcely conscious
that he did so. His eye was sternly fixed upon the mother, as he
drew Francesca toward himself. His words followed his looks: —
“Have you not enough triumphed, lady, in thus bringing
about your cruel purpose, to the sacrifice of two hearts — your
child's no less than mine? Mine was nothing to you — but hers!
what had she done that you should trample upon hers? This
hast thou done! Thou hast triumphed! What wouldst thou
more? Must she be denied the mournful privilege of saying her
last parting with him to whom she vowed herself, ere she vows
herself to another! For shame, lady; this is a twofold and
needless tyranny!”
As he spoke, the more gentle and sympathizing spirits around
looked upon the stern mother with faces of the keenest rebuke
and indignation. Giovanni once more addressed himself to the
maiden.
“And if you do not love this man, my Francesca, why is it
that you so weakly yield to his solicitings? Why submit to this
sacrifice at any instance? Have they strength to subdue thee?
— has he the art to ensnare thee? — canst thou not declare thy
affections with a will? What magic is it that they employ
which is thus superior to that of love? — and what is thy right
— if heedless of the affections of thy heart — to demand the sacrifice
of mine? Thou hadst it in thy keeping, Francesca, as I
fondly fancied I had thine!”
“Thou hadst — thou hadst! —”
“Francesca, my child!” was the expostulating exclamation
of the mother; but it failed, except for a single instant, to arrest
the passionate answer of the maiden.
“Hear me, and pity, Giovanni, if you may not forgive!
Blame me for my infirmity — for the wretched weakness which
has brought me to this defeat of thy heart — this desolation of
mine — but do not doubt that I have loved thee — that I shall
ever—”
“Stay!” commanded the imperious father.
“What is it thou wouldst say, Francesca? Beware!” was
the stern language of the mother.
The poor girl shrunk back in trembling. The brief impulse
of courage which the address of her lover, and the evident sympathy
of the crowd, had imparted, was gone as suddenly as it
came. She had no more strength for the struggle; and as she
sunk back nerveless, and closed her eyes as if fainting under the
terrible glance of both her parents, Giovanni dropped her hand
from his grasp. It now lay lifeless at her side, and she was
sustained from falling by some of her sympathizing companions.
The eyes of the youth were bent upon her with a last look.
“It is all over, then,” he exclaimed. “Thy hope, unhappy
maiden, like mine, must perish because of thy weakness. Yet
there will be bitter memories for this,” he exclaimed — and his
eye now sought the mother — “bitter, bitter memories! Francesca,
farewell! Be happy if thou canst!”
She rushed toward him as he moved away, recovering all her
strength for this one effort. A single and broken sentence —
“Forgive me, O forgive!” — escaped her lips, as she sunk senseless
upon the floor. He would have raised her, but they did
not suffer him.
“Is this not enough, Giovanni?” said his friend, reproachfully.
“Seest thou not that thy presence but distracts her?”
“Thou art right, Nicolo; let us go. I am myself choking —
undo me this collar! — There! Let us depart.”
The organ rolled its anthem — a thousand voices joined in
the hymn to the Virgin, and as the sweet but painful sounds
rushed to the senses of the youth, he darted through the crowd,
closely followed by his friend. The music seemed to pursue
him with mockery. He rushed headlong from the temple, as
if seeking escape from some suffocating atmosphere in the pure
breezes of heaven, and hurried forward with confused and
purposeless footsteps. The moment of his disappearance was
marked by the partial recovery of Francesca. She unclosed her
eyes, raised her head, and looked wildly around her. Her lips
once more murmured his name.
“Giovanni!”
“He is gone,” was the sympathizing answer from more than
one lip in the assembly; and once more she relapsed into unconsciousness.
