Italian Yesterdays, vol. 2

by Mrs. Hugh Fraser

Carmagnola, to everybody’s surprise, resigned his commission—or, rather, attempted to resign it—and the Senate, in a panic, offered him such terms for another campaign as were never offered to any Condottiere before or since.

Carmagnola, who was then, or had been but a short while before, in communication with Filippo, finally accepted the command, though with reluctance. Perhaps he had the prophetic depression which so often seizes commanders before a disaster; perhaps he had tired of Venice and her service.

Fortune had turned against the Venetians. First their admiral, Trevisano, was caught napping at Cremona and his fleet destroyed under Carmagnola’s furious eyes. His remarks to the admiral afterwards and to the Venetian Senate were so mixed and incoherent with rage that the Senate hurriedly sent down special Commissioners to assure him of their confidence and love.

Piccino wandered about picking up odds and ends, a castle here, a town there, but Carmagnola refused to move. Filippo, wild with delight, hovered in his neighbourhood, sending taunts and insults to him on every opportunity, but the old tiger lay in his lair.

He had been defeated at Soncino, and, though that was a small and unimportant event in itself, yet taken in conjunction with the disaster to the fleet, it became a disaster, too. A distemper arose among the horses that year in Italy, which accounts, in a large degree, for Carmagnola’s inaction, and, though he roused himself sufficiently to defeat the Hungarians at Friuli, he relapsed again afterwards into inactivity.

No signs of impatience or mistrust escaped the Senate, however. Instead, they sent a splendid deputation, begging him to give himself the trouble of returning to Venice for a while to consult with the Signoria as to the conduct of the coming campaign; and he, never doubting that his position was unchanged and that, surrounded by enemies, Venice still looked to him as the one man who could save her, rode through Lombardy in April, 1432, accompanied by Gonzaga, the Lord of Mantua, and embarked on the Brenta, hailed by the populace and loaded with marks of deference and confidence by the great men of the Senate who went out to meet him. All along the waterway, crowds turned out to greet the hope of Venice, and the rich and noble, whose country houses stood along the banks of the river, turned out likewise, decorating their homes and making festas as he passed.

A gay people they were, with their satins and their music and their dancing and their love-making. April in Venice is made for kissing, it is the only suitable occupation for any one with a spark of life in his soul, and one can imagine the boats on the slow-moving river, as the evening came on, and the lovers’ moon came out over the water—music, love—youth and fire.

It was through this that the great Captain journeyed, leisurely, as became his dignity. At Mestre he was met by some gentlemen of his acquaintance, all smiles and bows and compliments, in whose company he crossed the shadowy lagoons and disembarked.

Nine Senators—red-robed, capped, monuments of the dignity of the State—were waiting for him here, and his progress to the Palace of the Doge was almost regal in its splendour. With all formality he was introduced into the presence of the Senate, and given a chair of honour. He was welcomed, praised, and listened to with deferential attention. It was growing late, by now, and the Senate Chamber was becoming too dim to distinguish the faces of those about him. But no lights were called for, and he, dreaming no doubt, of seeing his wife and children again that night, sat on, while one Senator after another rose and spoke and sat down again.

He had other things upon his mind, too. Filippo—old days—old triumphs; the promise that had been made him, that if he could but extinguish the Visconti for ever, his old estates were to be given back to him, besides new ones here in Venice. It had even been hinted and hinted strongly that the only obstacle to his becoming Duke of Milan himself, was the man who called himself the Duke—Filippo Visconti. There seemed to be no bar to his advancement to any position he might choose—he, the son of a peasant, picked up at dusk by a wandering trooper in Savoy!