citinotes
Dreamy and mysterious
In Venice, a significant paradox lies hidden beneath its proud nickname, “La Serenissima,” meaning the “most serene” city. This title, earned for never witnessing a revolution, uproar, or public protest in its 10 centuries as a Maritime Republic, is merely a facade. Behind the mask of social serenity, an intricate surveillance mechanism existed, ensuring that no citizen or visitor dared to plot against or openly criticize the ruling class of procurators. A culture of espionage, inquisition and torture pervaded restricting freedom of speech and hindering the right to a fair trial —a clandestine world concealed a few steps away from the imposing gates of the Doge’s Palace; the dark side of the moon in a seemingly immaculate city.
Boxes of Silence
The spirit of surveillance thrived from within. Early in the Republic’s history, citizens learned to express their concerns discreetly. The city’s infamous “bocche di leone” (mouths of lion) serve as living reminders of a unique system, allowing Venetians to handwrite complaints about the city or fellow citizens. These notes were placed into designated boxes scattered throughout Venice, each adorned with the face of St. Mark’s winged lion—the symbol of Venice—featuring a slot at the mouth for the notes.
Different boxes addressed various issues—taxes, market fraud, or trade disputes—depending on their location. Anonymous denunciations were accepted against public officials, relieving citizens of responsibility for their statements. Authorities addressed each complaint individually, with broad discretion in choosing how to handle the matter. This leniency paved the way for the “Council of Ten,” an omnipotent governing body, to send Venetians to prison, exile, or even the guillotine with minimal procedural fuss.
Dreadful prisons
Exploring the State Archives reveals numerous crimes severely punished, often with the death penalty for particularly heinous acts. In some cases, prisoners faced ritualized punishment, taking a “walk of shame” in the historic center of Venice, serving as a warning to others. Casanova detailed the dire living conditions in the infamous prison of the Doge’s Palace, known as “Piombi” in Italian or “The Leads” in English. Located under the palace roof covered with lead slabs, the prison turned into a living hell as the cold penetrated in winter, and the summer heat intensified. The bridge leading from the lavish halls of the Palazzo Ducale to the dreadful prison, known as the Bridge of Sighs, allowed prisoners a final glimpse of their beloved Venice, marked by the echoes of their sighs.
Espionage, crime and inquisition
In a city where surveillance and inquisition became lucrative professions, citizens were cautious in their words and actions: the walls had ears and the doors had eyes. The German playwright Johann Christoph Friedrich von Schiller (1759 – 1805) witnessed the effectiveness of Venetian inquisitors. In his account, a German prince visiting Venice during Carnival falls victim to his curiosity -or a premeditated attack? – leading to arrests by the “officers of the inquisition.” This story, published in a novel entitled “The Ghost-Seer” or “The Apparitionist,” highlights the city’s atmosphere of espionage and crime. A poet and philosopher, Schiller was known for his friendship with Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. Their discussions about aesthetics led to a period now referred to as “Weimar Classicism”.
The culture of espionage and crime, fostered under the anonymity of masks, served as the backdrop for numerous novelists to craft extraordinary pieces of mystery fiction. In “Murder most serene” (“Sérénissime assassinat”), French writer Gabrielle Wittkop (1920 – 2002) paints a picture of a city in absolute decay -a morbid Venice crumbling under prolonged corruption, moral decadence and utter disillusionment about a glory that no longer exists. The selected extract unfolds in the semi-darkness of a café, where patrons alleviate boredom through card games. In a room saturated with smoke and alcohol, discerning which masks conceal crooks and spies proves challenging. Yet, they lurk there, hands carefully hidden under the card tables, as a long cry heralds a nasty murder.
For some Venetians, flirting with death was a lucrative business, as evidenced by the letters of Lord Byron (1788 – 1824), suggesting that, for others, it might have been a way to stimulate the senses. The eminent poet of the Romantic Movement led a tumultuous life filled with fascinating experiences. During his Grand Tour in the South of Europe, he fell in love with a Venetian lady, Marianna Segati, whom he followed to her homeland. At that time, Venice was devoid of celebration, with occupying Austrian troops imposing strict codes of conduct, including a ban on Carnival. Byron, indifferent to norms, became a symbol of coveted debauchery, defying conventions. Inspired by Venice, he composed significant poems, such as Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, the Ode to Venice, and Don Juan—arguably his greatest poem. In the selected extract, Byron writes to a friend, John Murray, recounting an incident where his mistress, one of many, prompts him to rid himself of his wife, “in any manner.”
Midnight reverie
Thus far, we’ve explored how Venice can evoke a sense of danger through its old, dark system of public security. However, it would be remiss to focus solely on history. The city itself—the landscape, city views, and fogs—exudes the air of charming mystery, particularly after dark, when the morning crowds’ hustle and bustle have faded away. Every time I wander the streets of Venice at night, gaze upon water reflections from a vaporetto under a moonlit sky, or capture semi-obscure labyrinths and midnight passengers walking like ghosts, I swear I feel the city’s power drawing me into reverie, like a magnet. An underground force, akin to the liquid song of a siren, mesmerizes my senses, making it impossible to think of anything else. For those brief moments, I feel entirely absorbed by the city, like a transparent leaf carried away by the Sirocco, reflecting the colors of the night—or like shapeless plaster ready to be molded into the delicate curves of a bridge or canal.
After my initial trip to Venice, I was relieved to discover that a multitude of writers, from Chateaubriand to Gautier, and from Twain to Cocteau, have expressed similar impressions. A hopelessly romantic soul, Marcel Proust (1871 –1922), fell under the spell of Venice and dedicated some of the most affectionate pages in his autobiography—a monumental novel entitled “In Search of Lost Time” (previously “Remembrance of Things Past”), published in seven volumes between 1913 and 1927. On one such page, Proust recalls an evening when he walked through the alleys of Venice. The deeper he ventured into the labyrinth of streets and squares, the more disoriented he felt—a fascinating confusion under the silver hues of moonlight, feeling like a prince of the “One Thousand and One Nights”: a narration as dreamlike as Venice itself.
Adventure and precarity
Against the hypnotizing beauty of Venice and the captivating stories of espionage, another trademark cannot go unnoticed: its constant state of precarity. The city still stands above sea level, but for how long? Since the first stone was set on its liquid ground, Venice has engaged in a battle with and against nature. Its fragile ecosystem, coupled with a historically reckless human behavior, puts its survival on the line every single day. This sense of perpetual adventure and precarity resonates well with a beloved comic book character—Corto Maltese. His creator, the eminent Italian cartoonist Hugo Pratt (1927 – 1995), was yet another artist inspired by the constant sense of danger hanging over this gorgeous city.
An extraordinary storyteller, Pratt had the talent to blend myth with historical fact based on extensive research. With Corto Maltese, his most famous comic book series, Pratt conceived an anti-hero with a well-rounded personality—perceptible yet mysterious. Corto, a cosmopolitan sailor, embarks on travels filled with adventures, enigmas to crack, people to save, and moments of nostalgia and introspection. In “Fables of Venice,” Corto anchors his ship in the city of the Doges, where he grapples with the puzzle of an ancient emerald stone. Mysterious and morbid under a moonlit sky, Venice provides the perfect backdrop for Corto to seek the “Salomon’s clavicle”—a precious gem whose possession caused death and misfortunes to its hunters.
Explore Venice’s charming ambiance of mystery as described in a selection of literary gems and discover our favorite spots for a romantic midnight walk under the stars in this gorgeous city.
Citinotes
chapter 1
Murder by command
Venice, May 18, 1819
Dear Sir –
Yesterday I wrote to Mr . Hobhouse and returned the proof undercover to you. […] — I write to you in haste and at two in the morning – having, besides, had an accident. — In going about an hour and a half ago to a rendezvous with a Venetian girl (unmarried and daughter of one of their nobles) I tumbled into the Grand Canal – and not choosing to miss my appointment by the delays of changing – I have been perched in a balcony with my wet clothes on ever since – till this minute that, on my return, I have slipped into my dressing gown. — My foot slipped while getting into my Gondola to set out (owing to the cursed slippery steps of their palaces) and I flounced like a Carp – and went dripping like a Triton to my Seanymph and had to scramble up to a grated window.
“Fenced with iron within and without” – “Let the Lover [get] in, or the Lady [get] out.”
She is a very dear friend of mine – and I have undergone some trouble on her account – for last winter the truculent tyrant, her flinty-hearted father – having been informed of our meetings by an infernal German Countess called Vorsperg (their next neighbour) – -they sent a priest to me – and a Commissary of police – and they locked the Girl up and gave her prayers and bread and water – and our connection was cut off for some time – but the father hath lately been laid up – and the brother is at Milan – and the mother falls asleep – and the Servants are naturally on the wrong side of the question – and there is no Moon at Midnight, so that we have lately been able to recommence;
The fair one is eighteen, her name Angelina – the family name of course I don’t tell you. — She proposed to me to divorce my mathematical wife – and I told her that in England we can’t divorce except for female infidelity – “and pray, (said she), how do you know what she may have been doing these last three years?” – I answered that I could not tell – but that the status of Cuckoldom was not quite so flourishing in Great Britain as with us here.
But – she said – “can’t you get rid of her?” – “not more than is done already,” (I answered)
– “… you would not have me poison her?”
Would you believe it? She made me no answer – is not that a true and odd national trait?
It spoke more than a thousand words – and yet this is a little, pretty, sweet-tempered, quiet, feminine being as ever you saw – but the passions of a sunny soil are paramount to all other considerations; – an unmarried girl naturally wishes to be married – if she can marry & love at the same time it is well – but at any rate she must love. I am not sure that my pretty paramour was herself fully aware of the inference to be drawn from her dead silence – but even the unconsciousness of the latent idea was striking to an Observer of the Passions – and I never {strike out} a thought of another’s or of my own – without trying to trace it to its source. […]
Very truly yrs. ever
Lord Byron
in The Letters of John Murray to Lord Byron, Ed. Andrew Nicholson, Liverpool University Press, 2007
chapter 2
Arabian nights
After dinner, I went out by myself, into the heart of the enchanted city where I found myself wandering in strange regions like a character in the Arabian Nights. It was very seldom that I did not, in the course of my wanderings, hit upon some strange and spacious piazza of which no guidebook, no tourist had ever told me.
I had plunged into a network of little alleys, calli dissecting in all directions. by their ramifications the quarter of Venice isolated between a canal and the lagoon, as if it had crystallised along these innumerable, slender, capillary lines. All of a sudden, at the end of one of these little streets, it seemed as though a bubble had occurred in the crystallised matter. A vast and splendid campo of which I could certainly never, in this network of little streets, have guessed the importance, or even found room for it, spread out before me flanked with charming palaces silvery in the moonlight. It was one of those architectural wholes towards which, in any other town, the streets converge, lead you and point the way.
Here it seemed to be deliberately concealed in a labyrinth of alleys, like those palaces in oriental tales to which mysterious agents convey by night a person who, taken home again before daybreak, can never again find his way back to the magic dwelling which he ends by supposing that he visited only in a dream.
On the following day I set out in quest of my beautiful nocturnal piazza, I followed calli which were exactly alike one another and refused to give me any information, except such as would lead me farther astray. Sometimes a vague landmark which I seemed to recognise led me to suppose that I was about to see appear, in its seclusion, solitude and silence, the beautiful exiled piazza. At that moment, some evil genie which had assumed the form of a fresh calle made me turn unconsciously from my course, and I found myself suddenly brought back to the Grand Canal. And as there is no great difference between the memory of a dream and the memory of a reality, I ended by asking myself whether it was not during my sleep that there had occurred in a dark patch of Venetian crystallisation that strange interruption which offered a vast piazza flanked by romantic palaces, to the meditative eye of the moon.
Marcel Proust
Albertine disparue, Gallimard, 1925, trad. C. K. Scott Moncrieff
chapter 3
Crime most serene
Meanwhile, the cafés lit a giorno are full to bursting with the finest minds, adventurers, spies, swindlers, laughing, chattering, and listening, three-cornered hats on their heads, masks pushed sideways over the ear. People call on one another until midnight; people play in the gambling dens.
Concealed beneath the bauta, the masks meander and bow to one another in the murky red light, removing a hand from a sleeve only at the tables,
where the tricksters stand rooted for hours at a time, at scopa, at piquet, at dice, at faro, bassetta, baccarat, paroli, biri-bi, while the candles weep yellow wax onto their hats. Milling with the crowd, the women selling biscotti, the flower girls in their short skirts, the courtesans half-hidden beneath their veils, are masked too. The air is thick and dreadfully hot in this hellish cavern, a blend of every perfume, every stench, their greasy deposits coating the mirrors.
People stay until the hour when the Canal Grande turns the color of lead, then disappears beneath the vegetable-sellers’ boats. All the while, beside secret gardens drowsy with white-bellied flies, at the corners of palaces flanked by mangy lions, the inky water slops and oozes. No reeds or willows for this Styx. Perhaps the city will sink in an instant.
There is always something afoot, when night falls and the mirrors drink the darkness. Lanterns move swiftly, crossing a bridge. Dismal, obscene singing rises from who knows where. An extended scream rings out.
A ship’s lantern burns in a palace courtyard. People meet in secret at the Uomo Selvaggio, a tavern of ill repute where the serving girls sit with the clientele, selling the cheap, bad wine they call Alfabeto, five soldi a cup. A treacherous brew that pours vitriol into the blood and coats the tongue with saltpeter; a filthy, acid potion that can make a man talk.
She and he are there, masked. With her index finger, she traces signs on the table, in the spilled wine. Here, now, the thing we cannot date; the timeless discovery, the gradual, nameless realization, the formless quarrels, the allusions, but a greater reticence, too, because henceforward nothing will be inconsequential. Someone has seen something. Someone has heard something. Greater restraint is required; rites and rituals of even greater subtlety, shot through with bittersweet feints, half smiles, gentle deeds, and treachery.
They face each other in the drawing room, tall and straight, of equal height, similar in a way. Perhaps he prefers the gnawing pain of anxiety to the keen flesh-wound of escape. She knows he has understood. A pale, viscous cord, a bloodied spiral connects them still. A chance look, sharp as steel, draws a dark tide, rising from the depths; monsters come forth, then disappear suddenly, with the brusque absurdity of a dream. And as in a dream, there is a change of light, a change of décor, while orchestras sob and roar out of sight, echoing through empty rooms.
Gabrielle Wittkop
Murder most serene, Wakefield Press, 2015
chapter 4
The men of Inquisition
The following evening, we found ourselves at St. Mark’s Square earlier than usual. A light rain prompted us to seek refuge in a café where we engaged in a game. The prince positioned himself behind the chair of a Spaniard, observing the play. Meanwhile, I ventured into an adjacent room and immersed myself in reading a newspaper. Shortly thereafter, I heard a commotion. Prior to the prince’s arrival, the Spaniard had been losing, but now he was winning on all cards. The entire game had taken a dramatic turn, and the bank was at risk of being bankrupted by the wealthy man whose fortunate hand had emboldened him.
Drawn by the clamor, I rushed to the scene and inadvertently addressed the prince by his title, ‘Take care… prince,’ I added, without thinking, ‘we are in Venice.’ The mention of the prince’s title prompted a collective hush, soon followed by whispers that hinted at an impending threat.
All the Italians present gathered in a separate group and, one by one, exited the room until only the Spaniard and a few Frenchmen remained with us.
‘You are in peril, Monsignor,’ they warned. ‘If you don’t leave the city immediately, you are doomed. The Venetian you confronted is wealthy enough to hire an assassin, and it will cost him a mere fifty sequins to eliminate you from this world.’
The Spaniard offered to fetch a guard for the prince and accompany us home, a gesture echoed by the Frenchmen. As we deliberated on our next steps, the door swung open, revealing officers of the Inquisition. They presented a regency order, compelling both of us to follow them immediately. Under a reliable escort, we were led to the canal, where a waiting gondola awaited us. Before departing, we were blindfolded.
Transported along a lengthy stone staircase, the echoes beneath our feet suggested a vast vault. Eventually, we reached another staircase and descended twenty-six steps. A door swung open, and our blindfolds were removed.
We found ourselves in the midst of a circle composed of elderly and venerable men, all clad in black. The room was dimly lit, shrouded in the silence of death. One of these aged individuals, likely the Inquisitor of the State, approached the prince with a solemn demeanor, presenting to him the Venetian:
“Do you identify this man as the one who offended you in the cafe?” asked the Inquisitor, turning to the prince.
“Yes,” replied the prince.
The Inquisitor then addressed the prisoner, “Is this the person whom you wished to be murdered today?”
The prisoner replied, “Yes.”
Instantly, the circle opened, and to our horror, we witnessed the head of the Venetian falling from his shoulders.
“Are you satisfied with this recompense?” asked the State Inquisitor.
The prince, overcome, fell unconscious into the arms of his guide.
“Depart now,” continued the inquisitor in a stern voice, “and henceforth be more circumspect in passing judgment on the justice of Venice.”
Friedrich V. Schiller
Romans, Dessesart, 1838
chapter 5
Deadly emerald
(Corto): Melchisedech…Have you heard about the “Magic Emerald” also known as “Solomon’s Clavicle” which belonged to Simon the wizard?
(Melchisedech): It is indeed an emerald stone […]. It was originally given to Lilith, the first wife of Adam, before she became Cain’s wife. Cain took it from her, when he sought to reclaim the lost paradise from his parents. It is a perilous stone. […] Simon the wizard lost it to Apostle Simon Peter, who later gave it to Saint Mark the Evangelist, Venice’s patron saint. Do you follow?
(Corto): You bet I do!
(Melchisedech): The Evangelist was unaware that this emerald had been given by Salomon to his architect Iram as a reward for building the temple of God. That’s why the emerald was considered magical, and mysterious characters were engraved on it -a secret message for the initiated. Be cautious, Corto, this is only a legend!
(Corto): I love legends!
(Melchisedech): Hmmm…Good….These characters engraved like magical formulas actually provided clues to finding one of Solomon and the Queen of Sheba’s treasures. Unaware of all this, Saint Mark went to Egypt to establish the Church of Alexandria. However, he was strangled by two assassins from a Gnostic sect related to Simon the wizard […]. Then we lost track of the clavicle of Solomon, and consequently, the magic emerald as well… That is the tale of this precious stone. […]
Meanwhile two other Venetians are also on the trail of the precious emerald…
(Stevani): Here’s a letter by Baron Corvo addressed to Stevani, my father: [..] Timeline: “In 828 A.D., Buono da Malamocco and Rustico da Torcello steal the emerald hiding it under the body of the Evangelist Mark and under pork meat. In 830, Ibn Farid, the first Arab agent sent to retrieve the emerald, is strangled. In 856, Ben Wasil of Cairo dies in prison in Venice. In 893, Ibrahim Abu, Sicilian Buckwheat is found dead near the Rialto… In 904, Saud Khalula of Palermo with the help of his black guards, manages to take back Salomon’s emerald and hides somewhere in Venice. […] The traces of Salomon’s clavicle are lost. It’s probably still in Venice.”
Meanwhile Corto arrives at Stevani’s house.
(Corto Maltese): This is Stevani’s house. Maybe he’ll let me take a look at the diaries of Baron Corvo. […]
(firing sounds) BANG! BANG!
(Corto enters Stevani’s room): Damn it…Stevani!
(Corto finds Stevani lying on the ground). Two nasty wounds! Who could have shot?
(Stevani): The Arabian emerald…the Arabs of Venice…Baron Corvo…The Court…
BANG!
(Corto Maltese): Another gunshot… life in Venice becomes dangerous…
Hugo Pratt
Fable de Venise, Casterman, 1981
Fable of Venice: In this affectionate tribute to his hometown, Venice, Hugo Pratt offers a complex mystery thriller involving Freemasons, occultists, and esotericists set during the rise of Fascism in 1921.
Venice for nightwalkers
The most beautiful spots for a romantic night under the Venetian moon
