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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.