



Produced by David T. Jones, Juliet Sutherland and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team at
http://www.pgdpcanada.net







GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE.

VOL. XXXIII.   PHILADELPHIA, NOVEMBER, 1848.     NO. 5.




THE BRIDE OF FATE.

A TALE: FOUNDED UPON EVENTS IN THE EARLY HISTORY OF VENICE.

BY W. GILMORE SIMMS.


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 de
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 early 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 any thing 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 column, 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 any thing 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 forever! 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 high 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 cannot 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 through the assembly; a silence which imposed a similar
restraint even upon the parents of the maiden, who had showed 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 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 would'st 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 a 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 hast!--"

"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 glances 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