The Venetians: A New History: from Marco Polo to Casanova (46 page)

Not content with the reputation of his lighter comedies, Goldoni now set about trying to gain a reputation in
opera seria
, the more melodramatic and serious form. This proved disastrous, both artistically and financially, and by 1743 he found himself so heavily in debt that he and Nicoletta left Venice and he abandoned writing altogether, setting up practice as a lawyer in Tuscany.

Four years later, at the age of forty, he would return to his native city. He now set about writing further Venetian comedies, his mature style developing these well-observed dramas to the point where they were unrivalled throughout Italy. His Venetian audiences were ecstatic. And in between times he produced a series of libretti for
opera buffa
(the traditional, rather more exaggerated form of comic opera). By this time his creativity was at its height, as was his work-rate. He took on all that he was offered:
by the start of the 1750–1 season he had promised to write no fewer than sixteen new comedies, all of which were duly delivered on time. Not surprisingly, his popularity created much jealousy amongst his rivals, many of whom were also highly talented – though lacking the sure-handedness and subtlety of Goldoni. One of these was the aristocratic Carlo Gozzi, who resented Goldoni’s even-handed description of the Venetian social scene, complaining, ‘He has often made true noblemen the mirror of all that is iniquitous and absurd, and he has made the common people a model of all virtues.’ In Gozzi’s view, such work also displayed a lack of imagination and grace. (Gozzi’s own work consisted of wildly imaginative flights, involving fairies and the supernatural, though admittedly this was often tempered by satiric intent – his best-known work being
The Love of Three Oranges
.) Goldoni’s other main rival on the Venetian scene was Giuseppe Baretti, who was incensed when the great Voltaire wrote a letter to Goldoni expressing his effusive admiration: ‘your name is already immortal’. Naturally Goldoni made sure that the contents of this letter became known to his rivals. Baretti was beside himself with rage: first he claimed that the letter was a forgery, then he contradicted himself by declaring, ‘Voltaire has no right to judge things written in Italian.’

Venice may have been ‘the seat of opera’, but in many other respects the city had, by the second half of the eighteenth century, become a provincial backwater compared with the capital cities of the great powers that now controlled the destiny of Europe. And Goldoni was well aware of this. It was time for him to leave what his biographer Timothy Holme characterised as ‘the dainty powdered and prattling world of Venice where corruption and decay were so lovingly disguised with silks and perfumes’. The attention of Voltaire made Goldoni realise that it was possible for him to achieve fame and fortune in the greatest cultural city of them all, namely Paris. In May 1762 the fifty-five-year-old Goldoni and his wife left Venice, taking a leisurely four months to reach their destination. Here, after some initial difficulties, he began to achieve a modicum of success, writing in French, which he spoke fluently, though with a pronounced Italian accent. His work was put on at the Comedie-Francaise, and King Louis XV invited him to Versailles, where he became a royal tutor and was given a state pension. But Goldoni no longer worked so hard,
preferring instead to enjoy the delights of Europe’s most sophisticated society. Instead of cups of Venetian coffee driving him on to work night and day, he drank chocolate and played cards, letting it be known that ‘I almost always accept invitations to lunch’. But not to dinner: he still felt the need to write, and started his memoirs. He died in France in 1793, just a few days short of his ninety-sixth birthday.

Once, the likes of Marco Polo had left Venice to explore the outermost limits of the known world, and beyond, in an attempt to expand the Republic’s trading empire. Now its leading artists were forced to leave the city and seek their fortune elsewhere, in the great capitals of Europe, amongst which Venice no longer numbered. Vivaldi had gone to Vienna, Goldoni and others to Paris; even Goldoni’s great rival, Baretti, eventually left for London, where he became a popular member of Dr Johnson’s circle. Such was the city’s continuing decline.

*
The word ‘baroque’, which especially characterised both the music and the architecture of the period, takes its name from the Portugese word
barroco
, meaning ‘an irregularly shaped pearl’. In music, it preceded the classical period.

Part Four

Dissolution and Fall

19

The Last Days

T
HE 1699
T
REATY
of Karlowitz had effectively marked the end of Ottoman territorial ambitions with regard to the heart of eastern Europe, but the elements of the ‘empire’ that Venice regained in the Aegean and the Peloponnese under the terms of the treaty were another matter. In Turkish eyes, such possessions would always represent a threat, though for fifteen years nothing was done about this. However, when the Venetians intercepted a Turkish ship in the Adriatic, the Ottoman Empire used this as a pretext to declare war against Venice in December 1714. This belated attempt to assert Ottoman domination was organised by Grand Vizier Damat Ali, who now effectively wielded the power of Sultan Ahmed III. In 1715, in a well-prepared two-pronged attack, the Turkish fleet sailed south to attack Venetian coastal strongholds in the Aegean, the Peloponnese and other outposts, while an Ottoman army marched south through Thessaly (northern mainland Greece) into the central Peloponnese. The Venetian forces in the region proved unprepared, undermanned, ill-equipped and unwilling to fight. (Bernardo Balbi, the Venetian commander of the Aegean island of Tinos, even went so far as to surrender before the Turkish fleet had arrived; a deed for which he would be lucky not to be sentenced to death on his arrival back in Venice, instead being gaoled for life.)

During the summer of 1715 the Turkish forces swept all before them, taking all Venetian possessions in the Aegean, overrunning the Peloponnese and even taking Venice’s last remaining outposts in Crete at Souda Bay and Spinalonga. Emboldened by this success, Damat Ali launched Turkish forces north through the Balkans and west towards the Venetian Ionian islands, where Corfu guarded the entrance to the Adriatic. Though the Venetian
authorities had initially been slow to act, they now speedily appointed the great German mercenary general Matthias von der Schulenburg as military governor of Corfu, where he immediately set about building up the defences of the island’s formidable fortress. However, when the Ottoman fleet arrived off Corfu on 5 July, ready to disembark a 33,000-strong invasion force, the promised reinforcements had yet to arrive from Venice. Schulenburg decided against trying to defend the island and tactically withdrew to the fortress of Corfu Town, organising the local inhabitants as support for the inadequate Venetian garrison. The island was quickly overrun, apart from the fortress itself. Here the invaders encamped beneath the walls, preparing to wait through the hot months of summer for what promised to be a long, but ultimately successful siege.

At this stage the war took an unexpected turn. The Turkish advances in the Balkans had prompted the Holy Roman Emperor Charles VI, ruler of Austria, to form an alliance with Venice. In August, news reached the Turks besieging Corfu that the Imperial Army, under its commander Prince Eugene of Savoy, had won an overwhelming victory at the Battle of Peterwardein (modern Petrovaradin, on the Danube fifty miles north-west of Belgrade). The Turkish commander at Corfu now realised there was no time for an extensive siege. If the fortress was not taken quickly, he was liable to be attacked from the rear, or simply cut off. In the early hours of 18 August, under cover of darkness, the Ottoman forces launched a surprise all-out attack on the fortress.

Woken by the screeches of the charging Turks, Schulenburg rushed to take charge of the defences, which were soon being defended by the entire population – including bearded orthodox priests, women in peasant dress and even children. The Greeks and Venetians were soon driven back from the outer defences, but managed to hold out behind the solid high walls of the inner bastion, despite heavy artillery fire. After six hours of fighting Schulenburg decided to take the initiative. At the head of 800 chosen men, he slipped out of a small side-gate in the walls and quickly outflanked the Turkish line, before launching a surprise attack from the rear. In the ensuing confusion the Turks fled in disarray, abandoning their guns as they tried to get back to their own lines. More than 2,000 of them were cut down by Schulenburg and his men.

Later that day the Turkish commander withdrew his lines in order to recoup his forces in preparation for a further more powerful assault that would overrun the walls. But that night a violent storm broke, with high winds and torrential rain. The tents of the Turkish camp were blown away in the wind, the trenches filled with water and the encampment was reduced to a quagmire. Meanwhile the offshore Ottoman fleet was blown from its moorings, and in the resulting chaos ships rammed into each other, splitting their hulls and sinking.

Next morning, when the winds abated, the defenders in the fortress spied sails making their way up the channel between Corfu and the mainland. This was the allied Hapsburg fleet sailing to the relief of the beleaguered fortress. When Schulenburg sent out a patrol to reconnoitre outside the walls, they found the shattered army camp deserted. The Turks had fled, leaving the remnants of their tents, their artillery, provisions and equipment, and even a number of wounded. They soon learned that the Turkish besiegers had been picked up by the few remaining ships of the Ottoman fleet, which had set sail for the open sea on a stiff easterly breeze with a flotilla of allied ships in pursuit. In all, the Turks had lost 15,000 men in the course of the seven-week siege. Never again would Turkish warships venture into the Adriatic.

When the victorious Schulenburg finally made it back to Venice, the grateful Great Council presented him a bejewelled ceremonial sword and a pension of 5,000 ducats for life. So touched was Schulenburg that in 1718, at the age of fifty-seven, he took up residence in the Palazzo Loredan on the Grand Canal, living out his retirement in Venice. Here he proved himself to be an art collector of considerable taste, assembling a fine collection that included works by Raphael and Giorgione. At the same time he also supported a number of contemporary artists, as well as enjoying a reputation as a convivial host.

After Corfu, the tide of the war turned against the Turks. With Venetian confidence restored, the Republic assembled twenty-seven ships off the Ionian islands and sailed for the Dardanelles with Admiral Ludovico Flangini in command. On 12 June 1717 Flangini encountered a Turkish fleet of forty-two ships near Mount Athos in northern Greece. Fighting continued for four days and nights, with the fleets manoeuvring for
advantage under the clear moonlight. On 16 June, Flangini was shot by a Turkish archer, but insisted upon being carried up to the poop deck of his ship, from where he was able to witness, in his dying moments, the victory of the Venetian fleet.

Flangini was succeeded by Andrea Pisani, who the following month linked up with the papal and Portugese fleets. On 19 July this allied fleet encountered a Turkish fleet of fifty ships off Cape Matapan, south-west of the Peloponnese. The ensuing hard-fought battle was indecisive, but the Turkish fleet eventually withdrew after losing fourteen ships, while the allies lost but three. By now the Ottoman forces were being forced into retreat by Prince Eugene in the Balkans, as well as by the resurgent Venetians and their allies in Greek waters. The Venetians were poised to take back the Peloponnese; but before they could act, news came through that the Turks had agreed a peace with the Austrians. The Venetians were furious at being thwarted.

The actual peace negotiations were held in May 1718 at Passarowitz (modern Pozarevac, thirty miles south-east of Belgrade), and the Venetian delegation arrived in no mood for compromise, determined to reclaim all the territories of the empire they had lost in the early stages of the war. The head of the Venetian delegation was the sixty-four-year-old Carlo Ruzzini, a man of wide diplomatic experience, who had represented the Republic at the negotiations nineteen years previously, which had resulted in the Peace of Karlowitz. However, Ruzzini was quickly made to realise that Venetian wishes now counted for little on the international scene, even though the Republic had played such a leading role in the fight against the Turks. The Austrians had their own agenda: they wished for a speedy conclusion to the negotiations so that they would be free to pursue their own military objectives in Europe. For six long hours Ruzzini argued the Venetian case: the restoration of the Peloponnese, the return of Tinos and Aegean ports, as well as the re-establishment of the strategic Cretan outposts at Souda Bay and Spinalonga. But no one was listening. When the treaty was signed, Venice was lucky to be given Cythera (the southernmost of the Ionian islands), some strategic ports along the eastern Adriatic coast and a number of fortresses to defend the Dalmatian hinterland. Ruzzini returned to Venice humiliated, though he was not blamed for this loss of
face. Instead, he was rewarded with the appointment of ambassador to the Ottoman court, and during his last years he would be appointed doge, before his death at the age of seventy-eight in 1735.