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Authors: Susan Swan
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corset; nearby, a young nun stood washing clothes in a water trough. On a hedge behind him a long white garment was heaped like a snowdrift. Other pieces of clothing hung off little bushes and shrubs. Although I cannot help feeling the old Countess and Monsieur Casanova are two beings, I saw below me only one: a handsome old gentleman sitting amid the beanpoles in his white undergarments while the laundress cleaned his clothes.
Then, suddenly, in the distance, I saw a great flash of light and heard several loud cracking booms, one after another. At first, I imagined it was the sound of a storm breaking over the Lido beaches. A nun rushed into the courtyard shrieking, and now an army of them came pounding down the hall outside the library, calling to one another in Italian, their voices frightened and awestruck.
Father and I hurried with the Abbess down to the main door where a large crowd stood staring at two warships by the harbour entrance. Fortunately, it was some distance away.
“Our soldiers are attacking a French gunboat.” The Abbess no longer sounded girlish and merry, and the three of us stood in mute apprehension. I could not help thinking that if war comes to the Republic of Venice, there will be no time for weddings in Venetian churches.
May 3, 1797
There will be a war and a marriage.
The incident at the Lido that I witnessed the other day with Father and the Abbess has determined the fate of Venice, just as Father prophesied. Napoleon has been waiting for such an opportunity. Shots from Venetian soldiers at the fortress of St. Andrea near the harbour entrance killed four French sailors and their captain, Jean-Baptiste Laugier. The French captain was killed even though he shouted again and again through his trumpet, “I surrender!” Privately, Father told Francis and me that Venetians do not understand the vengeful determination of General Bonaparte.
There is little anyone can do. The Senate has apologized for the incident but my parent says this will not appease Napoleon, who needs the money chests of Venice to pay for his Austrian invasion. I am certain Father is right; when we were in Paris, the new martial pride of the French was a wonder.
Father told me yesterday that my wedding will take place on June 4, Whitsunday, at the Convent of the Capuchins. My distress over his announcement is severe, and my only joy is the comfort I find in Finette, Monsieur Casanova’s fox terrier, who always jumps up to meet me with affection.
Towards sunset I took her for a walk in the Piazza San Marco. Without realizing what I was doing, I began to climb the Campanile, the dog leading the way. I believe she was hoping, as I was, that Monsieur Casanova would be waiting in the shadows of its bell tower, but not a soul showed his face except for two French soldiers in Phrygian caps lurking by the entrance. As I passed by them with the dog, they made mocking comments about my size, not knowing I understood. I began to feed a flock of pigeons, shouting
“Cochon! Cochon!”
to the greedy birds scrabbling for my crumbs. The word “pig” was not meant for the birds but the soldiers. And behind me, to my satisfaction, I heard their laughter cease.
Inquiry of the Day: Why do I admire those who can escape their circumstances?
Fruitful Thought for the Day: It is because I come from a people who dared the Atlantic for a new life.
The next morning, Lee Pronski awoke late. It was already ten. She knocked softly on Luce’s door. No answer. Slowly, feeling parental and foolish, Lee opened the door and peered inside. The girl lay asleep on the bed in her bra and panties, her lovely young face half buried beneath a pillow. An old manuscript sat open on the bedside table, no doubt one of the family documents Luce was bringing to the library in Venice.
Lee softly closed the door, thinking uneasily of appetites that could be stirred by the sight of a young woman in her underwear. She’d always rejected the notion that
Then, suddenly, in the distance, I saw a great flash of light and heard several loud cracking booms, one after another. At first, I imagined it was the sound of a storm breaking over the Lido beaches. A nun rushed into the courtyard shrieking, and now an army of them came pounding down the hall outside the library, calling to one another in Italian, their voices frightened and awestruck.
Father and I hurried with the Abbess down to the main door where a large crowd stood staring at two warships by the harbour entrance. Fortunately, it was some distance away.
“Our soldiers are attacking a French gunboat.” The Abbess no longer sounded girlish and merry, and the three of us stood in mute apprehension. I could not help thinking that if war comes to the Republic of Venice, there will be no time for weddings in Venetian churches.
May 3, 1797
There will be a war and a marriage.
The incident at the Lido that I witnessed the other day with Father and the Abbess has determined the fate of Venice, just as Father prophesied. Napoleon has been waiting for such an opportunity. Shots from Venetian soldiers at the fortress of St. Andrea near the harbour entrance killed four French sailors and their captain, Jean-Baptiste Laugier. The French captain was killed even though he shouted again and again through his trumpet, “I surrender!” Privately, Father told Francis and me that Venetians do not understand the vengeful determination of General Bonaparte.
There is little anyone can do. The Senate has apologized for the incident but my parent says this will not appease Napoleon, who needs the money chests of Venice to pay for his Austrian invasion. I am certain Father is right; when we were in Paris, the new martial pride of the French was a wonder.
Father told me yesterday that my wedding will take place on June 4, Whitsunday, at the Convent of the Capuchins. My distress over his announcement is severe, and my only joy is the comfort I find in Finette, Monsieur Casanova’s fox terrier, who always jumps up to meet me with affection.
Towards sunset I took her for a walk in the Piazza San Marco. Without realizing what I was doing, I began to climb the Campanile, the dog leading the way. I believe she was hoping, as I was, that Monsieur Casanova would be waiting in the shadows of its bell tower, but not a soul showed his face except for two French soldiers in Phrygian caps lurking by the entrance. As I passed by them with the dog, they made mocking comments about my size, not knowing I understood. I began to feed a flock of pigeons, shouting
“Cochon! Cochon!”
to the greedy birds scrabbling for my crumbs. The word “pig” was not meant for the birds but the soldiers. And behind me, to my satisfaction, I heard their laughter cease.
Inquiry of the Day: Why do I admire those who can escape their circumstances?
Fruitful Thought for the Day: It is because I come from a people who dared the Atlantic for a new life.
The next morning, Lee Pronski awoke late. It was already ten. She knocked softly on Luce’s door. No answer. Slowly, feeling parental and foolish, Lee opened the door and peered inside. The girl lay asleep on the bed in her bra and panties, her lovely young face half buried beneath a pillow. An old manuscript sat open on the bedside table, no doubt one of the family documents Luce was bringing to the library in Venice.
Lee softly closed the door, thinking uneasily of appetites that could be stirred by the sight of a young woman in her underwear. She’d always rejected the notion that
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