University of Virginia Library

THE VENETIAN BRIDAL.

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 were written in the Book
of Gold, assembled, with their lovers, parents, relatives,
and friends, and in the ornamented gondolas repaired—
a beautiful and joyous crowd—to the church of San
Pietro de Castella, the residence of the patriarch, at
Olivolo. This was on the extreme verge of the city—
its neighbourhood almost without inhabitants, and only
occupied by a few priests, whose grave habits and secluded
lives had imparted an additional sombreness to
the naturally gloomy characteristics of the spot. But
it was not gloomy now. The day of St. Mary's eve
had come, and all was life and joy in the sea-republic.
The marriages of a goodly company of the high-born,
the young and beautiful, were to be celebrated, as was
the custom, in public. Headed by the doge, Pietro
Candiano, the city sent forth its thousands, and every
form of life was in motion to be present at the festivities.
Many hearts were throbbing with anticipated
joys; and the emotions of many a young bosom might
almost have been counted in the strong pulsation evident
through the close pressure of the virgin zone.

But there were at that spectacle—some hearts interested

in the progress of the festival, who felt any thing
but gladness; and when girded in by thousands of the
goodly and the brave—by golden images, and flaunting
banners, and proud symbols—some there were untasteful
enough to desire escape from their overpowering
associations. As the fair procession moved on and up
through the gorgeous archways of the cathedral to the
altar, where stood the patriarch ready for their reception
and the performance of the solemn rites, marked
you not one face more pallid, more tearful than the
rest? Is hers the emotion of joy? Is that tremulous,
that indecisive, that unconscious step, the indication of
a heart at ease—a fancy full and flowing with imaginings
of delight? Is the tear now gathering in her eye
significant of gladness or of grief? It needs no second
look to determine. Francesca Ziani was going to the
sacrifice. A single glance over her shoulder, as she
passed along through the crowded assembly, fell upon
a noble cavalier, standing in an attitude of utter abandon
at the entrance. There were volumes in that
glance, and Giovanni Gradenigo could not fail to understand
it. There he stood, hopeless, helpless, in
utter despair, leaning upon the arm of his relative,
Nicolo Malipieri. He saw his own heart's grief in that
one glance of the unhappy maiden. They had loved—
they still loved; but she was the victim of parental authority.
Giovanni was not the favourite of her father,
and, in an evil hour, the poor girl was destined for
sacrifice to the weak and wealthy heir of Ulric Barberigo.
The hour was at hand, and with a feeling little
short of desperation, Giovanni Gradenigo still looked
and lingered, even after all hope had departed.

“I will not bear this, Nicolo,” he exclaimed, at
length. “I will make one effort more. They shall
not so lord it over true affections. Francesca was
mine—she is mine even now in the sight of Heaven.
How often have we vowed it. How often have our
vows been heard. Shall they not be blessed?—Shall
they be thus defeated by that mercenary monster, miscalled
her father? No! stand by me, Nicolo. I will
speak in this matter.”

“What would you do, Giovanni?” exclaimed his
friend, interrupting his advance. “How can you now
effect your object? Their names have been long since
written in the Book of Gold, and the doge himself may
not change the destiny. Let us go, my Giovanni, and
seek consolation in other charms—in more attainable
affections.”

But he urged in vain. The impatient and passionate
youth heard or heeded not the advice, and put aside the
obstruction. Resolutely he advanced amidst the crowd,
gathered round to observe the ceremony which had not
yet begun. He made his way to the spot where stood
his Francesca, and a more deadly paleness came over
her countenance as he approached her. The crowd
gave way from before him, for he was beloved in
Venice; and as many knew in what course set his affections,
a tearful interest grew apparent in many an eye
at the fate of the young lovers. He stood before the
small circle of the parents and relatives of Francesca
and Barberigo, who, on his approach, had encompassed
her about. Gently but firmly he put them aside, and
approached the maiden. He took her almost lifeless

hand, which her mother would have withheld, into his
own, and his words were of a touching sorrow.

“And is it thus, my Francesca, that I must look
upon thee? Is it thus that I am to behold thee forgetting
thy virgin vows to Gradenigo, and yielding them
willingly, with thyself, to another?”

“Not willingly—not willingly, as I live, Giovanni,
not willingly. I have not forgotten—I cannot forget—
but would that you should forget, as I pray you to
forgive. My sin, believe me, is involuntary. I shall
love no other than you.”

Falteringly—almost faintingly, she thus articulated,
while a deeper interest grew up in the countenances of
all those around who could catch any portion of the
half-whispered dialogue. The parents would have interfered,
but it was not a moment in which they could
exhibit a stern heart, such as was too natural with
them; and there was that in the deep grief of the defrauded
and defeated lovers which commanded respect
even in those bosoms most concerned in bringing about
this defeat. Calmly, therefore, almost sternly, Giovanni
spoke to the mother of Francesca, as she continued at
intervals to interfere.

“Have you not enough, lady, in thus bringing about
your purposes? Is it not enough that you would have
her sacrifice herself and me: must she also be denied
the privilege of parting with one she must hold a part
of herself? For shame, lady, this is scarcely becoming.”—And
as he spoke, the more gentle spirits around
looked upon the stern mother with faces expressive of
a like rebuke. The youth continued, now addressing
the maiden:—

“And if you did not love this man, my Francesca,
why is it that you have so soon yielded to his solicitations
and their commands? Had you not my affections
in keeping, and what right had you to sacrifice them?
Thought you not of me in that hour when you consented
to this sacrifice of us both?”

“Hear me, and pity, if you cannot forgive,”—was
the sadly impassioned response of the maiden to the
severe speech of her lover. “Hear me, Giovanni,
and blame me for my weakness, if you will, but doubt
not that I loved and must still love you—”

“What is this you would say, Francesca?—beware!”
and the mother held up her hand in warning; and the
poor girl, as if terrified by some fearful association of
ideas, shrunk back, trembling and terrified.

The youth looked sternly upon the obtrusive and
stern parent, dropping at the same moment the hand of
the maiden, which till then he had retained. With a
melancholy, which promised to be not less lasting than
fatal, upon his countenance, he took a last look at the
unhappy victim of a like fate with himself, and slowly
turning from her, exclaimed: “Well, Francesca! it is
then all over, and the hope for both of us is gone for
ever. Yet this I had not looked for. It had been my
hope that we should have been happy—but now—”

She rushed towards him as he moved away. Her
hands were uplifted, and but a single and broken sentence
escaped her lips, as she sank fainting upon the
floor. “Forgive—Oh! forgive!”

He had gone.

“Let us go,” he exclaimed to his friend, as they left
the body of the crowd. “I can stay here no longer—

yet feel it hard to tear myself from the fascination of
her presence. God! I cannot breathe—I am choking,
Nicolo—undo my collar.”

Thus incoherently exclaimed the noble youth, as a
sudden burst of music from the body of the church, announced
the ceremony begun.

But the people had assembled for pleasure and a
spectacle, and though sympathising with the sufferings
of the lovers as largely as it is possible for the people
to do, they could not permit of any protracted interruption
with any thing like patience. Sympathies are very
good, but must not be suffered to take up too much
time. So thought the Venetians, and accordingly the
little episode just narrated had scarcely been over before
they insisted, by every means common to the populace,
upon the performance of those very ceremonies,
the prospect of which had made so miserable these two,
in whose fortunes they were so largely interested. The
ceremonies were begun. The doge led the way in the
procession, first, on behalf of the republic, assigning
portions to twelve young maidens, chosen for this purpose
from amidst the mass of those not sufficiently opulent
to secure husbands without. After this, advanced
the several couples, and tie after tie, and pledge after
pledge, was entered upon, while all the spectators grew
as deeply absorbed in the scene they witnessed, as if
they themselves were parties to each engagement. At
length, in turn, came the almost expiring Francesca
Ziani, and the wealthy but weak and worthless Barberigo.
Their approach again aroused the interest of all
who had beheld the previous scene between the discarded
lover and herself. The bridegroom led the half

unconscious victim to the altar. The bishop began
the ceremonies, and called upon her to speak in response.
But she was spared the necessity of reply.
The doors of the church were burst open with a tremendous
crash, and Barbaro, the pirate of Istria, and
his six brothers, heading a formidable band, who had
long fixed upon this ceremonial a rapacious eye, chiefly
on account of the great wealth accompanying it, now
rushed forward, with drawn swords, among the affrighted
array. They had no scruples of conscience, and
soon dismantled the church of all its splendour. They
loaded themselves with the booty which the richly clad
dresses of the company afforded, the nuptial presents,
and the church ornaments; and, not content with this,
a greater sacrilege yet, they seized upon the trembling
persons of the young brides themselves. There could
be no resistance, for no weapons were permitted to
those engaged in the ceremonial; and in spite of the
tears of the maidens, and the vain struggles of their
lovers, the former were borne away at the sword's
point, by these ruthless men, and, hurried on board their
vessels, were soon out of sight of the almost heart-broken
relatives and friends, from whom they had been
taken.

The cry reached the city, and soon all was in commotion
there.

“What are these clamours,” exclaimed the despairing
and gloomy Giovanni Gradenigo, as he rushed to
the lattice. “These cries come from Olivolo, and tell
of something terrible.” A gondola rushed down the
canal, and he called aloud to the gondolier.

“Have you not heard,” said the gondolier; and he

soon told the story. Giovanni cried out to his friend,
and rushed down to the harbour. There stood the
citizens, unknowing what to do, and hopeless of every
thing.

“Why stand ye here?” exclaimed Giovanni—why
stand ye here? Come with me, gallant gentlemen—
come on, brave cavaliers—ye who would strike for
Venice—” and he led the way to the galleys in the
harbour. Promptly taking command in the general
confusion, he pointed out the course, and having made
due enquiries, he gave the direction to steer “for the
Lagune of Caorlo.”

His whole appearance had been changed by this
event, and those who, heretofore, had only known him
as the despairing lover, the inanimate and inactive
dreamer of an ideal hope and home, now wondered at
the strong spirit, and firm and fearless audacity of the
confident man who had undertaken to lead them.
Though having greatly the start in the race, yet, stimulated
as were the pursuers, by the strongest human incentives,
and led on by such a spirit as Giovanni, the
pirates could not but be overtaken. They are at length,
when they had begun to be hopeless of success, cheered
with the appearance of the hitherto unseen robbers.
First one bark, and then another, came in sight, until
the whole corsair fleet was before them, urging an embarrassed
way through the intricacies of the Lagune.

“Courage, bold hearts,” cried the youth, “we shall
soon be upon them. The pirates, in their haste, have
got entangled in the lagunes, and cannot easily escape
us. We shall soon be upon them.”

The confident tone employed by their leader had an

electrical effect upon the sinews of his men. The
sturdy oarsmen grew cheered in their labour, with the
strong prospect of success attending it; and the knights
prepared their arms, and got themselves ready for the
conflict. And it came. They gained upon—they
hailed—they came up with the enemy. There was
little parley, and that was in tones of the fiercest fury.

“Yield thee to the mercy of St. Mark!” was the
shout of Giovanni to the pirate chief, Barbaro of Istriote.

“St. Mark must strike well, before Barbaro shall
yield him tribute!”

There was no other speech between them, and the
galleys grappled. The Venetians leaped on board
of the pirates, and their fury was little short of madness.
Their wrath was terrible, and they smote with
an unforgiving vengeance. The Istriotes fought bravely
as they had been accustomed, but every soul of them
fell. Their blood discoloured the sea in which they
perished.

The victors came back with their spoil, unharmed
and in triumph, and preparations were made, the same
evening, to conclude the bridal ceremonies, so inopportunely
interrupted in the morning. The original distribution
of brides was persevered in, with but a single
exception; for the Doge Pietro Candiano, with that
high exercise of authority, which at all times, in its
palmy days, distinguished the Venetian sway—but with
a sentiment of justice which found its sanction in almost
every bosom, now determined to bestow the hand
of Francesca upon Giovanni, as the only equivalent reward
for his gallantry and conduct in her rescue, and

his great service to the republic. But where was Giovanni?
The maid, blessed beyond her hope, awaited
him at the altar. But he answered not to his name,
and a herald was despatched in pursuit of him. At the
final moment, when, in the struggle with the pirates,
victory had crowned his enterprise, he had received a
severe wound from the axe of one of the brothers of
Barbaro, just as he had sent that much dreaded chieftain
to his last account. He had strength barely to
behold and to shout his victory, when he sunk fainting
upon the deck of his vessel, and was borne out of sight
by his friend, Nicolo. He was now, at the summons of
the herald, borne, grievously wounded, into the assembly,
for each member of which he had done and suffered
so much. The Doge declared his purpose, and
with fond heart, and eyes streaming with joy, his own
Francesca bent over him to confirm the glad intelligence.
But, with the consciousness of the sweet fortune
that awaited him, the ear was conscious no
longer. The lips were dumb for ever—the young Giovanni
lay lifeless in the arms of the scarcely less lifeless
Francesca. It was a sad day after all, since its triumph
came with so great a loss; but the maidens of
Venice still think, that there was more happiness for
the youth thus perishing, than would have come to
either of the surviving, if separated, lovers.