 | CHAPTER VII. The bravo |  |
7. CHAPTER VII.
Save where the lamp of a Madonna shone
Faintly.
Rogers.
Just as the secret audiences of the Palazzo Gradenigo
were ended, the great square of St. Mark
began to lose a portion of its gaiety. The cafés
were now occupied by parties who had the means,
and were in the humor, to put their indulgences to
laugh; while those who were reluctantly compelled
to turn their thoughts from the levities of the moment
to the cares of the morrow, were departing
in crowds to humble roofs and hard pillows. There
remained one of the latter class, however, who continued
to occupy a spot near the junction of the
two squares, as motionless as if his naked feet grew
to the stone on which he stood. It was Antonio.
The position of the fisherman brought the whole
of his muscular form and bronzed features beneath
the rays of the moon. The dark, anxious, and stern
eyes were fixed upon the mild orb, as if their owner
sought to penetrate into another world, in quest of
that peace which he had never known in this.
There was suffering in the expression of the weather-worn
face; but it was the suffering of one whose
native sensibilities had been a little deadened by too
much familiarity with the lot of the feeble. To one,
who considered life and humanity in any other than
their familiar and vulgar aspects, he would have
presented a touching picture of a noble nature, enduring
with pride, blunted by habit; while to him,
who regards the accidental dispositions of society
as paramount laws, he might have presented the
image of dogged turbulence and discontent, healthfully
repressed by the hand of power. A heavy sigh
struggled from the chest of the old man, and, stroking
down the few hairs which time had left him, he
lifted his cap from the pavement, and prepared to
move.
“Thou art late from thy bed, Antonio,” said a
voice at his elbow. “The triglie must be of good
price, or of great plenty, that one of thy trade can
spare time to air himself in the Piazza at this hour.
Thou hearest, the clock is telling the fifth hour of
the night.”
The fisherman bent his head aside, and regarded
with indifference, betraying neither curiosity nor
feeling at his address.
“Since thou knowest me,” he answered, “it is
probable thou knowest that in quitting this place, I
shall go to an empty dwelling. Since thou knowest
me so well, thou should'st also know my wrongs.”
“Who hath injured thee, worthy fisherman, that
thou speakest so boldly beneath the very windows
of the doge?”
“The state.”
“This is hardy language for the ear of St.
Mark! Were it too loudly spoken, yonder lion
might growl.—Of what dost thou accuse the republic?”
“Lead me to them that sent thee, and I will spare
the trouble of a go-between. I am ready to tell my
wrongs to the doge, on his throne; for what can
one, poor, and old as I, dread from their anger?”
“Thou believest me sent to betray thee?”
“Thou knowest thine own errand.”
The other removed his mask, and turned his face
towards the moon.
“Jacopo!” exclaimed the fisherman, gazing at
the expressive Italian features; “one of thy character
can have no errand with me.”
A flush, that was visible even in that light, passed
athwart the countenance of the Bravo; but he stilled
every other exhibition of feeling.
“Thou art wrong. My errand is with thee.”
“Does the senate think a fisherman of the Lagunes
of sufficient importance to be struck by a
stiletto? Do thy work, then!” he added, glancing
at his brown and naked bosom; “there is nothing
to prevent thee!”
“Antonio, thou dost me wrong. The senate has
no such purpose. But I have heard that thou hast
reason for discontent, and that thou speakest openly,
the patricians like not to be stirred among men of
your class. I come, as a friend, to warn thee of the
consequences of such indiscretion, rather than as
one to harm thee.”
“Thou art sent to say this?”
“Old man, age should teach thy tongue moderation.
What will avail vain complaints against
the republic, or what canst thou hope for, as their
fruits, but evil to thyself, and evil to the child that
thou lovest?”
“I know not—but when the heart is sore, the
tongue will speak. They have taken away my boy,
and they have left little behind that I value. The
life they threaten is too short to be cared for.”
“Thou should'st temper thy regrets with wisdom.
The Signor Gradenigo has long been friendly to
thee, and I have heard that thy mother nursed him.
Try his ears with prayers, but cease to anger the
republic with complaints.”
Antonio looked wistfully at his companion, but
when he had ceased, he shook his head mournfully,
as if to express the hopelessness of relief from that
quarter.
“I have told him all that a man, born and nursed
on the Lagunes, can find words to say. He is a
senator, Jacopo; and he thinks not of suffering he
does not feel.”
“Art thou not wrong, old man, to accuse him
who hath been born in affluence, of hardness of
heart, merely that he doth not feel the misery thou
would'st avoid, too, were it in thy power? Thou
hast thy gondola and nets, with health and the cunning
of thy art, and in that art thou happier than he
who hath neither—would'st thou forget thy skill,
and share thy little stock with the beggar of San
Marco, that your fortunes might be equal?”
“There may be truth in what thou sayest of our
young, nature is the same in both. I see no reason
why the son of the patrician should go free, and the
child of the fisherman be sold to blood. Have not
the senators enough of happiness, in their riches and
greatness, that they rob me of my son?”
“Thou knowest, Antonio, the state must be served,
and were its officers to go into the palaces in quest
of hardy mariners for the fleet, would they, think
you, find them that would honor the winged lion, in
the hour of his need? Thy old arm is muscular, and
thy leg steady on the water, and they seek those
who, like thee, have been trained to the seas.”
“Thou should'st have said, also, and thy old
breast is scarred. Before thy birth, Jacopo, I went
against the infidel, and my blood was shed, like
water, for the state. But they have forgotten it,
while there are rich marbles raised in the churches,
which speak of what the nobles did, who came
unharmed from the same wars.”
“I have heard my father say as much,” returned
the Bravo, gloomily, and speaking in an altered
voice. “He, too, bled in that war; but that is
forgotten.”
The fisherman glanced a look around, and perceiving
that several groups were conversing near,
in the square, he signed to his companion to follow
him, and walked towards the quays.
“Thy father,” he said, as they moved slowly on
together, “was my comrade and my friend. I am
old, Jacopo, and poor; my days are past in toil, on
the Lagunes, and my nights in gaining strength to
meet the labor of the morrow; but it hath grieved
me to hear that the son of one I much loved, and
with whom I have so often shared good and evil,
fair and foul, hath taken to a life like that which
men say is thine. The gold that is the price of
him that received.”
The Bravo listened in silence, though his companion,
who, at another moment, and under other
emotions, would have avoided him as one shrinks
from contagion, saw, on looking mournfully up into
his face, that the muscles were slightly agitated, and
that a paleness crossed his cheeks, which the light
of the moon rendered ghastly.
“Thou hast suffered poverty to tempt thee into
grievous sin, Jacopo; but it is never too late to call
on the saints for aid, and to lay aside the stiletto!
It is not profitable for a man to be known in Venice
as thy fellow, but the friend of thy father will not
abandon one who shows a penitent spirit. Lay
aside thy stiletto, and come with me to the Lagunes.
Thou wilt find labor less burdensome than guilt, and
though thou never canst be to me like the boy they
have taken, for he was innocent as the lamb! thou
wilt still be the son of an ancient comrade, and a
stricken spirit. Come with me then to the Lagunes,
for poverty and misery like mine, cannot meet with
more contempt, even for being thy companion.”
“What is it men say, that thou treatest me thus?”
demanded Jacopo, in a low, struggling voice.
“I would they said untruth! But few die by violence,
in Venice, that thy name is not uttered.”
“And would they suffer one thus marked, to go
openly on the canals, or to be at large in the great
square of San Marco?”
“We never know the reasons of the senate. Some
say thy time is not yet come, while others think thou
art too powerful for judgment.”
“Thou dost equal credit to the justice and the
activity of the inquisition. But should I go with
thee to-night, wilt thou be more discreet in speech,
among thy fellows of the Lido, and the islands?”
“When the heart hath its load, the tongue will
the child of my friend from his evil ways, but forget
my own. Thou art used to deal with the patricians,
Jacopo; would there be possibility for one, clad in
this dress, and with a face blackened by the sun, to
come to speak with the doge?”
“There is no lack of seeming justice in Venice,
Antonio; the want is in the substance. I doubt not
thou would'st be heard.”
“Then will I wait, here, upon the stones of the
square, until he comes forth for the pomp of tomorrow,
and try to move his heart to justice. He
is old, like myself, and he hath bled too, for the state,
and what is more, he is a father.”
“So is the Signor Gradenigo.”
“Thou doubtest his pity—ha?”
“Thou canst but try. The Doge of Venice will
hearken to a petition from the meanest citizen. I
think,” added Jacopo, speaking so low as to be
scarcely audible, “he would listen even to me.”
“Though I am not able to put my prayer in such
speech as becometh the ear of a great prince, he
shall hear the truth from a wronged man. They
call him the chosen of the state, and such a one
should gladly listen to justice. This is a hard bed,
Jacopo,” continued the fisherman, seating himself
at the foot of the column of St. Theodore, “but I
have slept on colder and as hard, when there was
less reason to do it—a happy night.”
The Bravo lingered a minute near the old man,
who folded his arms on his naked breast, which was
fanned by the sea-breeze, and disposed of his person
to take his rest in the square, a practice not unusual
among men of his class; but when he found that
Antonio was inclined to be alone, he moved on,
leaving the fisherman to himself.
The night was now getting to be advanced, and
few of the revellers remained in the areas of the
noting the hour and the situation of the place, he
proceeded to the edge of the quay. The public
gondoliers had left their boats moored, as usual, at
this spot, and a profound stillness reigned over the
whole bay. The water was scarce darkened by
the air, which rather breathed upon than ruffled its
surface, and no sound of oar was audible amid the
forest of picturesque and classical spars, which
crowded the view between the Piazzetta and the
Guidecca. The Bravo hesitated, cast another wary
glance around him, settled his mask, undid the slight
fastenings of a boat, and presently he was gliding
away into the centre of the basin.
“Who cometh?” demanded one, who seemingly
stood at watch, in a felucca, anchored a little a part
from all others.
“One expected,” was the answer.
“Roderigo?”
“The same.”
“Thou art late,” said the mariner of Calabria, as
Jacopo stepped upon the low deck of the Bella Sorrentina.
“My people have long been below, and I
have dreamt thrice of shipwreck, and twice of a
heavy sirocco, since thou hast been expected.”
“Thou hast had more time to wrong the customs.
Is the felucca ready for her work?”
“As for the customs, there is little chance of gain
in this greedy city. The senators secure all profits
to themselves and their friends, while we of the
barks are tied down to low freights and hard bargains.
I have sent a dozen casks of lachrymæ
christi up the canals since the masquers came
abroad, and beyond that I have not occasion.
There is enough left for thy comfort, at need.
Wilt drink?”
“I am sworn to sobriety. Is thy vessel ready, as
wont, for the errand?”
“Is the senate as ready with its money? This is
the fourth of my voyages in their service; and they
have only to look into their own secrets to know the
manner in which the work hath been done.”
“They are content, and thou hast been well rewarded.”
“Say it not. I have gained more gold by one
lucky shipment of fruits from the isles, than by all
their night-work. Would those who employ me
give a little especial traffic on the entrance of the
felucca, there might be advantage in the trade.”
“There is nothing which St. Mark visits with a
heavier punishment than frauds on his receipts.
Have a care with thy wines, or thou wilt lost not
only thy bark and thy voyage, but thy liberty!”
“This is just the ground of my complaint, Signor
Roderigo. Rogue and no rogue, is the republic's
motto. Here, they are as close in justice as a
father amid his children; and there; it is better that
what is done should be done at midnight. I like not
the contradiction, for just as my hopes are a little
raised, by what I have witnessed, perhaps a little
too near, they are all blown to the winds, by such a
frown as San Gennero himself might cast upon a
sinner.”
“Remember thou art not in thy wide Mediterranean,
but on a canal of Venice. This language
might be unsafe, were it heard by less friendly
ears.”
“I thank thee for thy care, though the sight of
yonder old palace is as good a hint to the loose
tongue, as the sight of a gibbet, on the sea-shore, to
a pirate. I met an ancient fellow in the Piazzetta,
about the time the masquers came in, and we had
some words on this matter. By his tally, every
second man in Venice is well paid for reporting
what the others say and do. 'Tis a pity, with all
their seeming love of justice, good Roderigo, that
whose very faces cause the stones to redden with
anger and shame!”
“I did not know that any such were openly seen
in Venice; what is secretly done may be favored
for a time, through difficulty of proof, but—”
“Cospetto! They tell me the councils have a
short manner of making a sinner give up his misdeeds.
Now, here is the miscreant Jacopo.—What
aileth thee, man? The anchor, on which thou leanest,
is not heated.”
“Nor is it of feathers; one's bones may ache
from its touch without offence, I hope.”
“The iron is of Elba—and was forged in a volcano.
This Jacopo is one that should not go at
large in an honest city, and yet is he seen pacing
the square with as much ease as a noble in the
Broglio!”
“I know him not.”
“Not to know the boldest hand and surest stiletto
in Venice, honest Roderigo, is to thy praise. But
he is well marked among us of the port, and we
never see the man but we begin to think of our sins,
and of penances forgotten. I marvel much that
the inquisitors do not give him to the devil, on some
public ceremony, for the benefit of small offenders!”
“Are his deeds so notorious, that they might pronounce
on his fate without proof?”
“Go, ask that question in the streets! Not a Christian
loses his life in Venice without warning, and
the number is not few, to say nothing of those who
die with state fevers, but men see the work of his
sure hand in the blow. Signor Roderigo, your canals
are convenient graves for sudden deaths!”
“Methinks there is contradiction in this. Thou
speakest of proofs of the hand that gave it, in the
manner of the blow, and then thou callest in the aid
of the canals to cover the whole deed. Truly, there
man slandered.”
“I have heard of slandering a priest, for they are
Christians, bound to keep good names for the
church's honor, but to utter an injury against a
bravo, would a little exceed the tongue of an avvocato.
What mattereth it whether the hand be a
shade deeper in color or not, when blood is on it.”
“Thou sayest truly,” answered the pretended
Roderigo, drawing a heavy breath. It mattereth
little, indeed, to him condemned, whether the sentence
cometh of one, or of many crimes.”
“Dost know, friend Roderigo, that this very argument
hath made me less scrupulous concerning
the freight I am called on to carry, in this secret
trade of ours. Thou art fairly in the senate's business,
worthy Stefano, I say to myself, and therefore
the less reason that thou should'st be particular
in the quality of the merchandise. That Jacopo
hath an eye and a scowl that would betray him,
were he chosen to the chair of St. Peter! But doff
thy mask, Signor Roderigo, that the sea-air may
cool thy cheek; 'tis time there should no longer be
this suspicion between old and tried friends.”
“My duty to those that send me forbid the liberty,
else would I gladly stand face to face with thee,
Master Stefano.”
“Well, notwithstanding thy caution, cunning Signore,
I would hazard ten of the sequins thou art to
pay to me, that I will go, on the morrow, into the
crowd of San Marco, and challenge thee, openly,
by name, among a thousand. Thou mayest as well
unmask, for I tell thee thou art as well known to me
as the latine yards of my felucca.”
“The less need to uncover. There are certain
signs, no doubt, by which men who meet so often
should be known to each other.”
“Thou hast a goodly countenance, Signore, and
the revellers, when thou hast thought thyself unseen,
and I will say of thee this much, without wish to
gain aught in our bargain, one of appearance fair
as thine, Signor Roderigo, had better be seen openly
than go thus for ever behind a cloud.”
“My answer hath been made. What the state
wills cannot be overlooked; but since I see thou
knowest me, take heed not to betray thy knowledge.”
“Thou would'st not be more safe with thy confessor.
Diamine! I am not a man to gad about
among the water-sellers, with a secret at the top of
my voice; but thou didst leer aside when I winked
at thee dancing among the masquers on the quay.
Is it not so, Roderigo?”
“There is more cleverness in thee, Master Stefano,
than I had thought; though thy readiness with
the felucca is no secret.”
“There are two things, Signor Roderigo, on
which I value myself, but always, I hope, with Christian
moderation. As a mariner of the coast, in
mistral or sirocco, levanter or zephyr, few can
claim more practice; and for knowing an acquaintance
in a carnival, I believe the father of evil himself
could not be so disguised that eye of mine
should not see his foot! For anticipating a gale, or
looking behind a mask, Signor Roderigo, I know not
my own equal among men of small learning.”
“These faculties are great gifts in one who liveth
by the sea and a critical trade.”
“Here came one Gino, a gondolier of Don Camillo
Monforte, and an ancient fellow of mine, aboard
the felucca, attended by a woman in mask. He
threw off the girl dexterously enough, and, as he
thought, among strangers; but I knew her at a
glance for the daughter of a wine-seller, who had
already tested lachrymæ christi of mine. The
best of luck, we drove a bargain for the few casks
which lay beneath the ballast, while Gino did his
master's business in San Marco.”
“And what that business was thou didst not learn,
good Stefano?”
“How should I, Master Roderigo, when the gondolier
scarce left time for greeting; but Annina—”
“Annina!”
“The same. Thou knowest Annina, old Tommaso's
daughter; for she danced in the very set in
which I detected thy countenance! I would not
speak thus of the girl, but that I know thou art not
backward to receive liquors that do not visit the
custom-house, thyself.”
“For that, fear nothing. I have sworn to thee
that no secret of this nature shall pass my lips.
But this Annina is a girl of quick wit and much
boldness.”
“Between ourselves, Signor Roderigo, it is not
easy to tell who is in the senate's pay, here in Venice,
or who is not. I have sometimes fancied, by thy
manner of starting, and the tones of thy voice, that
thou wert, thyself, no less than the lieutenant-general
of the galleys, a little disguised.”
“And this with thy knowledge of men!”
“If faith were always equal, where would be its
merit? Thou hast never been hotly chased by an
infidel, Master Roderigo, or thou would'st know
how the mind of man can change from hope to fear,
from the big voice to the humble prayer! I remember
once, in the confusion and hurry of baffling
winds and whistling shot, having always turbans
before the eye, and the bastinado in mind, to have
beseeched St. Stefano in some such voice as one
would use to a dog, and to have bullied the men
with the whine of a young kitten. Corpo di Bacco!
Roderigo, to know even his own merits.”
“I believe thee. But who is this Gino, of whom
thou hast spoken, and what has his occupation, as
a gondolier, to do with one known in thy youth in
Calabria?”
“Therein lie matters exceeding my knowledge.
His master, and I may say, my master, for I was
born on his estates, is the young Duca di Sant'
Agata,—the same that pushes his fortunes with the
senate, in a claim to the riches and honors of the
last Monforte that sat in thy councils. The debate
hath so long endured, that the lad hath made himself
a gondolier, by sheer shoving an oar between
his master's palace and those of the nobles he moves
with interest—at least such is Gino's own history
of his education.”
“I know the man. He wears the colors of him
he serves. Is he of quick wit?”
“Signor Roderigo, all who come of Calabria cannot
boast that advantage. We are no more than
our neighbors, and there are exceptions in all communities,
as in all families. Gino is ready enough
with his oar, and as good a youth, in his way, as
need be. But as to looking into things beyond their
surface, why we should not expect the delicacy of
a becca fica in a goose. Nature makes men, though
kings make nobles.—Gino is a gondolier.”
“And of good skill?”
“I say nothing of his arm, or his leg, both of
which are well enough in their places; but when it
comes to knowing men and things—poor Gino is
but a gondolier! The lad hath a most excellent
heart, and is never backward to serve a friend. I
love him, but thou would'st not have me say more
than the truth will warrant.”
“Well, keep thy felucca in readiness, for we know
not the moment it may be needed.”
“Thou hast only to bring thy freight, Signore, to
have the bargain fulfilled.”
“Adieu.—I would recommend to thee, to keep
apart from all other trades, and to see that the revelries
of to-morrow do not debauch thy people.”
“God speed thee, Signor Roderigo.—Naught
shall be wanting.”
The Bravo stepped into his gondola, which glided
from the felucca's side with a facility which showed,
that an arm, skilled in its use, held the oar. He
waved his hand, in adieu to Stefano, and then the
boat disappeared among the hulls that crowded the
port.
For a few minutes the padrone of the Bella Sorrentina
continued to pace her decks, snuffing the
fresh breeze that came in over the Lido, and then
he sought his rest. By this time, the dark, silent
gondolas, which had been floating, by hundreds,
through the basin, were all gone. The sound of
music was heard no longer on the canals, and Venice,
at all times noiseless, and peculiar, seemed to
sleep the sleep of the dead.
| CHAPTER VII. The bravo | |