today’s date, but believes the month is August. At that moment, with a shout and guffaw, three or five stocky youths appear, in ragged uniforms, jostling each other on the narrow sidewalk like billiard balls. They are in an ugly humor.
As savage as the enemy has proven himself to be, worse has been the invasion of mercenaries from throughout Italy, soldiers without an army, loitering about our streets, ostensibly on our behalf. If there is a demonstration in favor of republicanism, they are at hand; a half hour later they are carrying the banner of the Piedmontese; an hour after that, they are emptying the taverns of provisions. They are angry, for this has not been the war they were promised. It is a siege, one in which the enemy, because of the contagion, remains so distant his ships can be seen only from the highest structures of the city. So the soldiers haunt our streets, looking for another fight.
Alessandro, too weak to fight a cat for a morsel of liver, turns away, looking at the ground, hoping that if he doesn’t see them, they will not see him. They approach, their boots clicking against the street. The heel of one of their boots is loose, causing a slight echo with each step. The mercenaries pass without incident, and Alessandro looks at their backs, not relieved at all, but a little saddened by his invisibility.
The Austrians and their Croatian troops are also dying of fever and have been forced to leave their positions, but from the safety of their ships they have devised new strategies against us, each more marvelous than the one before. In the unfettered republican press, there has been speculation about self-propelled cannons, underwater boats that can glide unseen up the Grand Canal, and ice machines that will suffocate the city in a summer blizzard of snow. A few weeks ago a new rumor spread through Venice: Haynau was planning to attack the city
from the air. This was a bit of relief, comedy amid the cholera. Immediately the city was placarded. A cartoon showed the promised event: a mustachioed Croat atop a balloon, dropping a bomb onto the Piazza San Marco. Other caricatures were offered in broadsheets and newspapers. There were many jokes made; pedestrians teased each other by suddenly stopping and staring into the sky, as if they had caught the first glimpse of these engines of destruction. On the following day, July 12, the holiday of the Madonna della Salute, the comedy came true. A small number of balloons appeared above the Austrians’ anchor. They rose very slowly, like puffs of very dense smoke, and many fell back into the water.
Alessandro was in the Piazzetta at the time, having come from an interview with Manin. What were the President of the Republic’s intentions? Would he impose bread rationing? Would he attempt a civilian evacuation? Would he ask for assistance from Mazzini or Garibaldi? Did he have any plan at all for breaking the siege? Manin just smiled, as if he knew the answers to these questions, but thought it clever not to answer them. As Alessandro returned home, reflecting that the hero-democrat of one year would be the fool-despot of the next, the Austrians seemed to be making their own reply to his questions by sending their ridiculous devices over the Lagoon.
If the Austrians thought this strategy would terrorize our city, they were mistaken. We can imagine, of course, such a reaction of superstitious wonderment in some Bosnian backwater, but here in Venice we are well acquainted with the montgolfière as a Parisian
entertainment. Indeed, our citizens met the supposed instruments of their doom with a cheer—previously, there had been little cause for cheer—and mothers pointed out the objects to their children, who were dressed in ribbons and bows for the holiday. None of the balloons reached the city. A few fell near the Lido and one into the castle at St. Andrew. Attached to them was some kind of grenade, which damaged neither person nor structure.
Now, today,
As savage as the enemy has proven himself to be, worse has been the invasion of mercenaries from throughout Italy, soldiers without an army, loitering about our streets, ostensibly on our behalf. If there is a demonstration in favor of republicanism, they are at hand; a half hour later they are carrying the banner of the Piedmontese; an hour after that, they are emptying the taverns of provisions. They are angry, for this has not been the war they were promised. It is a siege, one in which the enemy, because of the contagion, remains so distant his ships can be seen only from the highest structures of the city. So the soldiers haunt our streets, looking for another fight.
Alessandro, too weak to fight a cat for a morsel of liver, turns away, looking at the ground, hoping that if he doesn’t see them, they will not see him. They approach, their boots clicking against the street. The heel of one of their boots is loose, causing a slight echo with each step. The mercenaries pass without incident, and Alessandro looks at their backs, not relieved at all, but a little saddened by his invisibility.
The Austrians and their Croatian troops are also dying of fever and have been forced to leave their positions, but from the safety of their ships they have devised new strategies against us, each more marvelous than the one before. In the unfettered republican press, there has been speculation about self-propelled cannons, underwater boats that can glide unseen up the Grand Canal, and ice machines that will suffocate the city in a summer blizzard of snow. A few weeks ago a new rumor spread through Venice: Haynau was planning to attack the city
from the air. This was a bit of relief, comedy amid the cholera. Immediately the city was placarded. A cartoon showed the promised event: a mustachioed Croat atop a balloon, dropping a bomb onto the Piazza San Marco. Other caricatures were offered in broadsheets and newspapers. There were many jokes made; pedestrians teased each other by suddenly stopping and staring into the sky, as if they had caught the first glimpse of these engines of destruction. On the following day, July 12, the holiday of the Madonna della Salute, the comedy came true. A small number of balloons appeared above the Austrians’ anchor. They rose very slowly, like puffs of very dense smoke, and many fell back into the water.
Alessandro was in the Piazzetta at the time, having come from an interview with Manin. What were the President of the Republic’s intentions? Would he impose bread rationing? Would he attempt a civilian evacuation? Would he ask for assistance from Mazzini or Garibaldi? Did he have any plan at all for breaking the siege? Manin just smiled, as if he knew the answers to these questions, but thought it clever not to answer them. As Alessandro returned home, reflecting that the hero-democrat of one year would be the fool-despot of the next, the Austrians seemed to be making their own reply to his questions by sending their ridiculous devices over the Lagoon.
If the Austrians thought this strategy would terrorize our city, they were mistaken. We can imagine, of course, such a reaction of superstitious wonderment in some Bosnian backwater, but here in Venice we are well acquainted with the montgolfière as a Parisian
entertainment. Indeed, our citizens met the supposed instruments of their doom with a cheer—previously, there had been little cause for cheer—and mothers pointed out the objects to their children, who were dressed in ribbons and bows for the holiday. None of the balloons reached the city. A few fell near the Lido and one into the castle at St. Andrew. Attached to them was some kind of grenade, which damaged neither person nor structure.
Now, today,
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