Italian Yesterdays, vol. 1

by Mrs. Hugh Fraser

The long, long struggle that culminated in the War of Chioggia had its origin in an alliance—what is known in our day as a “gentlemen’s agreement”—between the two States, to boycott the Crimean Peninsula, in revenge for the murder of some Venetian and Genoese traders there by a certain Chief of the name of Zani Bey.

To be sure, very little incitement was needed on either side, at that juncture, for affairs at Constantinople had been spurring Genoese ill-feeling for some time past, and Venice, not to be taken by surprise, had been pushing her preparations—just as the great monetary powers are doing to-day—to a point where they were a threat and a menace to every state in her neighbourhood.

Each was hiring bravi and condottieri in every direction, each was hard at work forming alliances—the story of our own time all over again—and when Venetians discovered that the Genoese were flirting with the trade of the Crimea, in spite of their pledged word, and vice versa, the trouble came to a head, and both Carlo Zeno and Pisani were set to work.

Carlo Zeno came to the sword by devious ways. He was destined for the Church, and was sent at an early age to Avignon, in order to bring him under the eye of the Holy Father and into the circles where sinecures and promotions were most easily obtainable.

Nor were the hopes of his relations disappointed, for it was not long before he was appointed to a canonicate at Patras, that carried with it a very comfortable income; soon after which, being still a boy, he was sent back to his uncle’s people and thence, for his studies, to Padua. Here the spirit of the future Terror of the Seas began to appear in the boy, for he refused to study with any seriousness and spent most of his time and all of his substance in gambling and riotous living.

At last, having sold his books, and lost the proceeds, he escaped, by night, from the pack of creditors who had been dogging his footsteps, and took service, though with whom it is difficult to discover.

For some time he wandered over Italy, learning, as he went, the trade which was afterwards to make him famous, until, when five years had passed, he began to feel the need of “ranging” himself, and returned to his uncle, who had been mourning him for dead, and who received him with open arms.

The German custom of the “Wanderjahr” is an old one, and, as far as can be judged, a very good one, the idea being to harden the young man’s mind with travel before he settles down definitely to the pursuit of his business. In many trades it is demanded by the apprentice, and in almost all, it is at least expected. No one enquires too closely, upon his return, as to the sort of life he has been leading, for it is assumed that he must have been busy, since it is a sine qua non of his twelve months of freedom that he support himself by his trade. Carlo’s uncle and brothers did not enquire either, but packed him off, as soon as they could, to Patras, to take his Canon’s stall and become a prosperous, comfortable, easy-going Prelate, just sufficiently distinguished from the rank and file to be somebody, and far enough from any chance of real responsibility to allow of his leading a serene and unruffled existence.

The godson of the Emperor, he was a person of some considerable influence, too, and the knowledge of war that he had acquired during his service with the Condottieri was not at all amiss in an ecclesiastic of the Fourteenth Century, when Bishops had as often as not to guard their own marches with their own good swords. His education in ecclesiastical subjects was sketchy, of course, but amply sufficient for any need that he was likely to have of it; so he set out for Patras, half a priest, half a soldier, a canon unordained, a soldier unattached.

Now the Governor of Patras, just then, was engaged with the common enemy of Christendom, the Turk, and since the soldier in Carlo was always on the surface, the Governor, who had learned from some source or another of the young gentleman’s temperamental proclivities, and no doubt from Carlo himself of the various notable captains under whom he had served, pushed him into the fight. Carlo was only twenty-two, but he worked so well, and flung himself into the campaign with such whole-hearted enthusiasm, that before long he was wounded so desperately that for one night he was deemed to be dead and preparations were made to bury him, a fate which was only averted in the nick of time by his return to consciousness.