 | CHAPTER IV. The bravo |  |
4. CHAPTER IV.
The world is full of rubs, and that my fortune
Runs 'gainst the bias.
Richard the Second.
Though Venice at that hour was so gay in her
squares, the rest of the town was silent as the grave.
A city in which the hoof of horse or the rolling of
wheels is never heard, necessarily possesses a character
of its own; but the peculiar form of the government,
and the long training of the people in habits
of caution, weighed on the spirits of the gay. There
were times and places, it is true, when the buoyancy
of youthful blood, and the levity of the thoughtless,
found occasion for their display; nor were they
rare; but when men found themselves removed
from the temptation, and perhaps from the support
of society, they appeared to imbibe the character
of their sombre city.
Such was the state of most of the town, while
the scene described in the previous chapter was exhibited
in the lively piazza of San Marco. The
moon had risen so high that its light fell between the
range of walls, here and there touching the surface
of the water, to which it imparted a quivering
brightness, while the domes and towers rested beneath
its light in a solemn but grand repose. Occasionally
the front of a palace received the rays on
its heavy cornices and labored columns, the gloomy
stillness of the interior of the edifice furnishing, in
every such instance, a striking contrast to the richness
and architectural beauty without. Our narrative
now leads us to one of these patrician abodes
of the first class.
A heavy magnificence pervaded the style of the
massive. The stairs, rich in marbles, heavy and
grand. The apartments were imposing in their
gildings and sculpture, while the walls sustained
countless works on which the highest geniuses of Italy
had lavishly diffused their power. Among these
relics of an age more happy in this respect than
that of which we write, the connoisseur would readily
have known the pencils of Titian, Paul Veronese,
and Tintoretto—the three great names in
which the subjects of St. Mark so justly prided
themselves. Among these works of the higher
masters were mingled others by the pencils of Bellino,
and Montegna, and Palma Vecchio—artists
who were secondary only to the more renowned
colorists of the Venetian school. Vast sheets of
mirrors lined the walls, wherever the still more precious
paintings had no place; while the ordinary
hangings of velvet and silk became objects of secondary
admiration, in a scene of nearly royal magnificence.
The cool and beautiful floors, made of a
composition in which all the prized marbles of Italy
and of the East, polished to the last degree of art,
were curiously embedded, formed a suitable finish
to a style so gorgeous, and in which luxury and
taste were blended in equal profusion.
The building, which, on two of its sides, literally
rose from out the water, was, as usual, erected
around a dark court. Following its different faces,
the eye might penetrate, by many a door, open at
that hour for the passage of the air from off the sea,
through long suites of rooms, furnished and fitted
in the manner described, all lighted by shaded lamps
that spread a soft and gentle glow around. Passing,
without notice, ranges of reception and sleeping
rooms—the latter of a magnificence to mock
the ordinary wants of the body—we shall at once
where the business of the tale conducts us.
At the angle of the dwelling, on the side of the
smaller of the two canals, and most remote from
the principal water-avenue of the city on which the
edifice fronted, there was a suite of apartments,
which, while it exhibited the same style of luxury
and magnificence as those first mentioned in its
general character, discovered greater attention in
its details to the wants of ordinary life. The hangings
were of the richest velvets or of glossy silks, the
mirrors were large and of exquisite truth, the floors
of the same gay and pleasing colors, and the walls
were adorned with their appropriate works of art.
But the whole was softened down to a picture of
domestic comfort. The tapestries and curtains
hung in careless folds, the beds admitted of sleep,
and the pictures were delicate copies by the pencil
of some youthful amateur, whose leisure had been
exercised in this gentle and feminine employment.
The fair being herself, whose early instruction
had given birth to so many skilful imitations of the
divine expression of Raphael, or to the vivid tints
of Titian, was at that hour in her privacy, discoursing
with her ghostly adviser, and one of her
own sex, who had long discharged the joint trusts
of instructor and parent. The years of the lady
of the palace were so tender that, in a more northern
region, she would scarcely have been deemed
past the period of childhood, though, in her native
land, the justness and maturity of her form, and the
expression of a dark, eloquent eye, indicated both
the growth and the intelligence of womanhood.
“For this good counsel, I thank you, my father;
and my excellent Donna Florinda will thank you
still more, for your opinions are so like her own,
that I sometimes admire at the secret means, by
which experience enables the wise and the good to
interest.”
A slight but furtive smile struggled around the
mortified mouth of the Carmelite, as he listened to
the naive observation of his ingenuous pupil.
“Thou wilt learn, my child,” he answered, “as
time heaps wisdom on thy head, that it is in concerns
which touch our passions and interests least,
we are most apt to decide with discretion and impartiality.
Though Donna Florinda is not yet past
the age when the heart is finally subdued, and there
is still so much to bind her to the world, she will
assure thee of this truth, or I greatly mistake the
excellence of that mind, which hath, hitherto, led
her so far blameless, in this erring pilgrimage to
which we are all doomed.”
Though the cowl was over the head of the
speaker, who was evidently preparing to depart,
and his deeply-seated eye never varied from its
friendly look at the fair face of her he instructed,
the blood stole into the pale cheeks of the maternal
companion, and her whole countenance betrayed
some such reflection of feeling at his praise, as a
wintry sky exhibits at a sudden gleam from the
setting sun.
“I trust that Violetta does not now hear this for
the first time,” observed Donna Florinda, in a voice
so meek and tremulous, as to be observed.
“Little that can be profitably told one of my inexperience
has been left untaught,” quickly answered
the pupil, unconscious herself that she reached
her hand towards that of her constant monitor,
though too intent on her object, to change her look
from the features of the Carmelite. “But why this
desire in the Senate, to dispose of a girl who would
be satisfied to live for ever, as she is now, happy in
her youth, and contented with the privacy which
becomes her sex?”
“The relentless years will not stay their advance,
that even one innocent as thou, may never know
the unhappiness and trials of a more mature age.
This life is one of imperious, and, oftentimes, of
tyrannical duties. Thou art not ignorant of the
policy that rules a state, which hath made its name
so illustrious by high deeds in arms, its riches, and
its widely-spread influence. There is a law in
Venice, which commandeth that none claiming an
interest in its affairs shall so bind himself to the
stranger, as to endanger the devotion all owe to the
republic. Thus may not the patrician of St. Mark
be a lord in other lands, nor may the heiress of a
name, great and valued as thine, be given in marriage,
to any of note, in a foreign state, without
counsel and consent from those who are appointed
to watch over the interests of all.”
“Had Providence cast my lot in an humbler class,
this would not have been. Methinks it ill comports
with the happiness of woman, to be the especial
care of the Council of Ten!”
“There is indiscretion, and I lament to say, impiety
in thy words. Our duty bids us submit to
earthly laws, and more than duty, reverence teaches
us not to repine at the will of Providence. But I
do not see the weight of this grievance, against
which thou murmurest, daughter. Thou art youthful,
wealthy beyond the indulgence of all healthful
desires, of a lineage to excite an unwholesome
worldly pride, and fair enough to render thee the
most dangerous of thine own enemies—and thou
repinest at a lot, to which all of thy sex and station
are, of necessity, subject!”
“For the offence against Providence I am already
a penitent,” returned the Donna Violetta. “But
surely it would be less embarrassing to a girl of
sixteen, were the fathers of the state so much occupied
birth and years, and haply her wealth?”
“There would be little merit in being content
with a world fashioned after our own caprices,
though it may be questioned if we should be happier,
by having all things as we desire, than by
being compelled to submit to them as they are.
The interest taken by the republic in thy particular
welfare, daughter, is the price thou payest for the
ease and magnificence with which thou art encircled.
One more obscure, and less endowed by fortune,
might have greater freedom of will, but it
would be accompanied by none of the pomp which
adorns the dwelling of thy fathers.”
“I would there were less of luxury and more of
liberty within its walls.”
“Time will enable thee to see differently. At
thy age all is viewed in colors of gold, or life is
rendered bootless, because we are thwarted in our
ill-digested wishes. I deny not, however, that thy
fortune is tempered by some peculiar passages.
Venice is ruled by a policy that is often calculating,
and haply some deem it remorseless.” Though the
voice of the Carmelite had fallen, he paused and
glanced an uneasy look from beneath his cowl, ere
he continued. “The caution of the senate teaches
it to preclude, as far as in it lies, the union of interests,
that may not only oppose each other, but which
may endanger those of the state. Thus, as I have
said, none of senatorial rank may hold lands without
the limits of the republic, nor may any of account
connect themselves, by the ties of marriage,
with strangers of dangerous influence, without the
consent and supervision of the republic. The latter
is thy situation, for of the several foreign lords who
seek thy hand, the council see none to whom the
favor may be extended, without the apprehension
of creating an influence here, in the centre of the
Don Camillo Monforte, the cavalier to whom thou
art indebted for thy life, and of whom thou hast so
lately spoken with gratitude, has far more cause to
complain of these hard decrees, than thou mayest
have, in any reason.”
“'Twould make my griefs still heavier, did I
know that one who has shown so much courage in
my behalf, has equal reason to feel their justice,”
returned Violetta, quickly. “What is the affair that,
so fortunately for me, hath brought the Lord of
Sant' Agata to Venice, if a grateful girl may, without
indiscretion, inquire?”
“Thy interest in his behalf is both natural and
commendable,” answered the Carmelite, with a simplicity
which did more credit to his cowl than to
his observation. “He is young, and, doubtless, he
is tempted by the gifts of fortune, and the passions
of his years, to divers acts of weakness. Remember
him, daughter, in thy prayers, that part of the
debt of gratitude may be repaid. His worldly interest
here is one of general notoriety, and I can
ascribe thy ignorance of it only to a retired manner
of life.”
“My charge hath other matters to occupy her
thoughts than the concerns of a young stranger,
who cometh to Venice for affairs,” mildly observed
Donna Florinda.
“But if I am to remember him in my prayers,
Father, it might enlighten my petition to know in
what the young noble is most wanting.”
“I would have thee remember his spiritual necessities
only. He wanteth, of a truth, little in temporalities
that the world can offer, though the desires
of life often lead him who hath most in quest of
more. It would seem that an ancestor of Don
Camillo was anciently a senator of Venice, when
the death of a relation brought many Calabrian
sons, by an especial decree, which favored a family
that had well served the state, took these estates,
while the elder transmitted the senatorial rank and
the Venetian fortunes to his posterity. Time hath
extinguished the elder branch; and Don Camillo
hath for years besieged the council, to be restored
to those rights which his predecessor renounced.”
“Can they refuse him?”
“His demand involves a departure from established
laws. Were he to renounce the Calabrian
lordships, the Neapolitan might lose more than he
would gain; and to keep both is to infringe a law
that is rarely suffered to be dormant. I know little,
daughter, of the interests of life; but there are enemies
of the republic who say that its servitude is not
easy, and that it seldom bestows favors of this sort,
without seeking an ample equivalent.”
“Is this as it should be? If Don Camillo Monforte
has claims in Venice, whether it be to palaces
on the canals, or to lands on the main; to honors
in the state, or voice in the senate; justice should
be rendered without delay, lest it be said the republic
vaunts more of the sacred quality than it
practises.”
“Thou speakest as a guileless nature prompts.
It is the frailty of man, my daughter, to separate
his public acts from the fearful responsibility of his
private deeds; as if God, in endowing his being
with reason and the glorious hopes of Christianity,
had also endowed him with two souls, of which only
one was to be cared for.”
“Are there not those, Father, who believe that,
while the evil we commit as individuals is visited on
our own persons, that which is done by states, falls
on the nation?”
“The pride of human reason has invented divers
subtleties to satisfy its own longings, but it can
The crime which involves others in its guilt, or consequences,
is doubly a crime, and though it be a
property of sin to entail its own punishment, even
in our present life, he trusts to a vain hope who
thinks the magnitude of the offence will ever be its
apology. The chief security of our nature is to remove
it beyond temptation, and he is safest from
the allurements of the world, who is farthest removed
from its vices. Though I would wish justice
done to the noble Neapolitan, it may be for his everlasting
peace, that the additional wealth he seeks
should be withheld.”
“I am unwilling to believe, Father, that a cavalier,
who has shown himself so ready to assist the
distressed, will easily abuse the gifts of fortune.”
The Carmelite fastened an uneasy look on the
bright features of the young Venetian. Parental
solicitude and prophetic foresight were in his glance,
but the expression was relieved by the charity of
a chastened spirit.
“Gratitude to the preserver of thy life becomes
thy station and sex; it is a duty. Cherish the
feeling, for it is akin to the holy obligation of man
to his Creator.”
“Is it enough to feel grateful?” demanded Violetta.
“One of my name and alliances might do
more. We can move the patricians of my family,
in behalf of the stranger, that his protracted suit
may come to a more speedy end.”
“Daughter, beware; the intercession of one in
whom St. Mark feels so lively an interest, may raise
up enemies to Don Camillo, instead of friends.”
Donna Violetta was silent, while the monk and
Donna Florinda both regarded her with affectionate
concern. The former then adjusted his cowl, and
prepared to depart. The noble maiden approached
the Carmelite, and looking into his face with ingenuous
his blessing. When the solemn and customary office
was performed, the monk turned towards the companion
of his spiritual charge. Donna Florinda
permitted the silk, on which her needle had been
busy, to fall into her lap, and she sat in meek silence,
while the Carmelite raised his open palms towards
her bended head. His lips moved, but the words
of benediction were inaudible. Had the ardent
being, intrusted to their joint care, been less occupied
with her own feelings, or more practised in the
interests of that world, into which she was about to
enter, it is probable she would have detected some
evidence of that deep, but smothered sympathy,
which so often betrayed itself, in the silent intelligence
of her ghostly father and her female Mentor.
“Thou wilt not forget us, Father?” said Violetta,
with winning earnestness. “An orphan girl, in
whose fate the sages of the republic so seriously
busy themselves, has need of every friend in whom
she can confide.”
“Blessed be thy intercessor,” said the monk, “and
the peace of the innocent be with thee.”
Once more he waved his hand, and, turning, he
slowly quitted the room. The eye of Donna Florinda
followed the white robes of the Carmelite while
they were visible; and when it fell again upon the
silk, it was for a moment closed, as if looking at the
movements of the rebuked spirit within. The young
mistress of the palace summoned a menial, and
bade him do honor to her confessor, by seeing him
to his gondola. She then moved to the open balcony.
A long pause succeeded: it was such a silence,
breathing, thoughtful, and luxurious with the
repose of Italy, as suited the city and the hour.
Suddenly, Violetta receded from the open window,
and withdrew a step, in alarm.
“Is there a boat beneath?” demanded her companion,
the movement.
“The water was never more quiet. But thou
hearest those strains of the hautboys?”
“Are they so rare on the canals, that they drive
thee from the balcony?”
“There are cavaliers beneath the windows of the
Mentoni palace; doubtless, they compliment our
friend, Olivia.”
“Even that gallantry is common. Thou knowest
that Olivia is shortly to be united to her kinsman,
and he takes the usual means to show his admiration.”
“Dost thou not find this public announcement of
a passion painful? Were I to be wooed, I could wish
it might only be to my own ear?”
“That is an unhappy sentiment for one whose
hand is in the gift of the senate! I fear that a maiden
of thy rank must be content to hear her beauty
extolled and her merits sung, if not exaggerated,
even by hirelings beneath a balcony.”
“I would that they were done!” exclaimed Violetta,
stopping her ears. “None know the excellence
of our friend better than I; but this open exposure
of thoughts, that ought to be so private, must
wound her.”
“Thou mayest go again into the balcony; the
music ceases.”
“There are gondoliers singing near the Rialto:
these are sounds I love! Sweet in themselves, they
do no violence to our sacred feelings. Art thou for
the water to-night, my Florinda?”
“Whither would'st thou?”
“I know not—but the evening is brilliant, and I
pine to mingle with the splendor and pleasure without.”
“While thousands on the canals pine to mingle
with the splendor and pleasure within!—Thus is it
and that which we have not is without price.”
“I owe my duty to my guardian,” said Violetta:
“we will row to his palace.”
Though Donna Florinda had uttered so grave a
moral, she spoke without severity. Casting aside
her work, she prepared to gratify the desire of her
charge. It was the usual hour for the high in rank
and the secluded to go abroad; and neither Venice,
with its gay throngs, nor Italy, with its soft climate,
ever offered greater temptation to seek the open air.
The groom of the chambers was called, the gondoliers
were summoned, and the ladies, cloaking and
taking their masks, were quickly in the boat.
| CHAPTER IV. The bravo | |