 | CHAPTER IX. The bravo |  |
9. CHAPTER IX.
Anticipating time with starting courage.
Shakspeare.
It has been seen that the gondolas, which were
to contend in the race, had been towed towards the
place of starting, in order that the men might enter
on the struggle with undiminished vigor. In this
precaution, even the humble and half-clad fisherman
had not been neglected, but his boat, like the others,
was attached to the larger barges to which this duty
canal, before the crowded balconies and groaning
vessels which lined its sides, there arose that scornful
and deriding laugh, which seems ever to grow
more strong and bold, as misfortune weighs most
heavily on its subject.
The old man was not unconscious of the remarks
of which he was the subject; and, as it is rare indeed
that our sensibilities do not survive our better
fortunes, even he was so far conscious of a fall as
not to be callous to contempt thus openly expressed.
He looked wistfully on every side of him, and seemed
to search, in every eye he encountered, some
portion of the sympathy which his meek and humble
feelings still craved. But even the men of his
caste and profession threw jibes upon his ear; and,
though of all the competitors perhaps the one whose
motive most hallowed his ambition, he was held to
be the only proper subject of mirth. For the solution
of this revolting trait of human character, we
are not to look to Venice and her institutions, since
it is known that none are so arrogant, on occasions,
as the ridden, and that the abject and insolent spirits
are usually tenants of the same bosom.
The movement of the boats brought those of the
masked waterman and the subject of these taunts
side by side.
“Thou art not the favorite in this strife.” observed
the former, when a fresh burst of jibes were showered
on the head of his unresisting associate. “Thou
hast not been sufficiently heedful of thy attire; for
this is a town of luxury, and he who would meet
applause must appear on the canals in the guise of
one less borne upon by fortune.”
“I know them! I know them!” returned the fisherman;
“they are led away by their pride, and they
think ill of one who cannot share in their vanities.
But, friend unknown, I have brought with me a face
the weather like the stones of the sea-shore, is uncovered
to the eye, and without shame.”
“There may be reasons which thou knowest not,
why I wear a mask. But if my face be hid, the
limbs are bare, and thou seest there is no lack of
sinews to make good that which I have undertaken.
Thou should'st have thought better of the matter,
ere thou puttest thyself in the way of so much mortification.
Defeat will not cause the people to treat
thee more tenderly.”
“If my sinews are old and stiffened, Signor
Mask, they are long used to toil. As to shame, if it
is a shame to be below the rest of mankind in fortune,
it will not now come for the first time. A
heavy sorrow hath befallen me, and this race may
lighten the burthen of grief. I shall not pretend that
I hear this laughter, and all these scornful speeches
as one listens to the evening breeze on the Lagunes
—for a man is still a man, though he lives with
the humblest, and eats of the coarsest. But let it
pass; Sant' Antonio will give me heart to bear it.”
“Thou hast a stout mind, fisherman; and I would
gladly pray my patron to grant thee a stronger arm,
but that I have much need of this victory myself.
Wilt thou be content with the second prize, if, by
any manner of skill, I might aid thee in thy efforts?
—for, I suppose, the metal of the third is as little to
thy taste as it is to my own.”
“Nay, I count not on gold, or silver.”
“Can the honor of such a struggle awaken the
pride of one like thee?”
The old man looked earnestly at his companion;
but he shook his head, without answer. Fresh merriment,
at his expense, caused him to bend his face
towards the scoffers; and he perceived they were,
just then, passing a numerous group of his fellows
of the Lagunes, who seemed to feel that his unjustifiable
honor of their whole body.
“How now, old Antonio!” shouted the boldest
of the band—“is it not enough that thou hast won
the honors of the net, but thou would'st have a
golden oar at thy neck?”
“We shall yet see him of the senate!” cried a
second.
“He standeth in need of the horned bonnet for
his naked head,” continued a third. “We shall see
the brave Admiral Antonio, sailing in the Bucentaur,
with the nobles of the land!”
Their sallies were succeeded by coarse laughter.
Even the fair, in the balconies, were not uninfluenced
by these constant jibes, and the apparent discrepancy
between the condition and the means of so unusual
a pretender to the honors of the regatta. The
purpose of the old man wavered; but he seemed
goaded by some inward incentive that still enabled
him to maintain his ground. His companion closely
watched the varying expression of a countenance
that was far too little trained in deception to conceal
the feelings within; and, as they approached
the place of starting, he again spoke.
“Thou mayest yet withdraw,” he said;—“why
should one of thy years make the little time he has
to stay bitter, by bearing the ridicule of his associates
for the rest of his life?”
“St. Anthony did a greater wonder, when he
caused the fishes to come upon the waters to hear
his preaching, and I will not show a cowardly
heart, at a moment when there is most need of resolution.”
The masked waterman crossed himself devoutly;
and, relinquishing all further design to persuade the
other to abandon the fruitless contest, he gave all his
thoughts to his own interest in the coming struggle.
The narrowness of most of the canals of Venice.
have given rise to a fashion of construction and
of rowing that are so peculiar to that city and its
immediate dependencies as to require some explanation.
The reader has doubtless already understood
that a gondola is a long, narrow, and light boat,
adapted to the uses of the place, and distinct from
the wherries of all other towns. The distance between
the dwellings, on most of the canals, is so
small, that the width of the latter does not admit of
the uses of oars on both sides at the same time. The
necessity of constantly turning aside to give room
for others, and the frequency of the bridges and the
corners, have suggested the expediency of placing
the face of the waterman in the direction in which
the boat is steering, and, of course, of keeping him on
his feet. As every gondola, when fully equipped,
has its pavilion in the centre, the height of the latter
renders it necessary to place him who steers on
such an elevation, as will enable him to overlook it.
From these several causes, a one-oared boat, in
Venice, is propelled by a gondolier who stands on a
little angular deck in its stern, formed like the low
roof of a house; and the stroke of the oar is given
by a push, instead of a pull, as is common elsewhere.
This habit of rowing erect, however, which is usually
done by a forward, instead of a backward,
movement of the body, is not unfrequent in all the
ports of the Mediterranean, though in no other is
there a boat which resembles the gondola in all its
properties, or uses. The upright position of the
gondolier requires that the pivot on which the oar
rests should have a corresponding elevation; and
there is, consequently, a species of bumkin, raised
from the side of the boat, to the desired height, and
which, being formed of a crooked and very irregular
knee of wood, has two or three row-locks, one
above the other, to suit the stature of different individuals,
of the blade as the movement shall require. As
there is frequent occasion to cast the oar from one
of these row-locks to the other, and not unfrequently
to change its side, it rests in a very open bed;
and the instrument is kept in its place by great dexterity
alone, and by a perfect knowledge of the
means of accommodating the force and the rapidity
of the effort to the forward movement of the
boat and the resistance of the water. All these
difficulties united, render skill in a gondolier one of
the most delicate branches of a waterman's art, as
it is clear that muscular strength alone, though of
great aid, can avail but little in such a practice.
The great canal of Venice, following its windings,
being more than a league in length, the distance
in the present race was reduced nearly half, by
causing the boats to start from the Rialto. At this
point, then, the gondolas were all assembled, attended
by those who were to place them. As the whole
of the population which, before, had been extended
along the entire course of the water, was now
crowded between the bridge and the Bucentaur, the
long and graceful avenue resembled a vista of human
heads. It was an imposing sight to look along
that bright and living lane, and the hearts of each
competitor beat high, as hope, or pride, or apprehension,
became the feeling of the moment.
“Gino of Calabria,” cried the marshal who placed
the gondolas, “thy station is on the right. Take it,
and St. Januarius speed thee!”
The servitor of Don Camillo assumed his oar, and
the boat glided gracefully into its berth.
“Thou comest next, Enrico of Fusina. Call
stoutly on thy Paduan patron, and husband thy
strength; for none of the main have ever yet borne
away a prize in Venice.”
He then summoned, in succession, those whose
side by side, in the centre of the canal.
“Here is place for thee, Signore,” continued the
officer, inclining his head to the unknown gondolier;
for he had imbibed the general impression that the
face of some young patrician was concealed beneath
the mask, to humor the fancy of some capricious
fair.—“Chance hath given thee the extreme left.”
“Thou hast forgotten to call the fisherman,” observed
the masker, as he drove his own gondola
into its station.
“Does the hoary fool persist in exposing his vanity
and his rags to the best of Venice?”
“I can take place in the rear,” meekly observed
Antonio. “There may be those in the line it doth
not become one like me to crowd; and a few strokes
of the oar, more or less, can differ but little, in so
long a strife.”
“Thou hadst better push modesty to discretion,
and remain.”
“If it be your pleasure, Signore, I would rather
see what St. Anthony may do for an old fisherman,
who has prayed to him, night and morning, these
sixty years?”
“It is thy right; and, as thou seemest content
with it, keep the place thou hast in the rear. It is
only occupying it a little earlier than thou would'st
otherwise. Now, recall the rules of the games, hardy
gondoliers, and make thy last appeal to thy patrons.
There is to be no crossing, or other foul expedients;
naught except ready oars, and nimble wrists. He
who varies, needlessly, from his line until he leadeth,
shall be recalled by name; and whoever is guilty of
any act to spoil the sports, or otherwise to offend
the patricians, shall be both checked and punished.
Be ready for the signal.”
The assistant, who was in a strongly manned
boat, fell back a little, while runners, similarly
water. These preparations were scarcely made,
when a signal floated on the nearest dome. It was
repeated on the campanile, and a gun was fired at
the arsenal. A deep but suppressed murmur arose
in the throng, which was as quickly succeeded by
suspense.
Each gondolier had suffered the bows of his boat
to incline slightly toward the left shore of the canal,
as the jockey is seen, at the starting-post, to turn his
courser aside, in order to repress its ardor, or divert
its attention. But the first long and broad sweep
of the oar brought them all in a line again, and away
they glided in a body.
For the first few minutes there was no difference
in speed, nor any sign by which the instructed might
detect the probable evidence of defeat or success.
The whole ten, which formed the front line, skimmed
the water with an equal velocity, beak to beak, as if
some secret attraction held each in its place, while
the humble, though equally light bark of the fisherman
steadily kept its position in the rear.
The boats were soon held in command. The
oars got their justest poise and widest sweep, and
the wrists of the men accustomed to their play.
The line began to waver. It undulated, the glittering
prow of one protruding beyond the others; and
then it changed its form. Enrico of Fusina shot
ahead, and, privileged by success, he insensibly
sheered more into the centre of the canal, avoiding,
by the change, the eddies, and the other obstructions
of the shore. This manœuvre which, in the language
of the course, would have been called “taking
the track,” had the additional advantage of throwing
upon those who followed some trifling impediment
from the back-water. The sturdy and practised
Bartolomeo of the Lido, as his companions usually
called him, came next, occupying the space on his
reaction caused by the stroke of his oar. The
gondolier of Don Camillo, also, soon shot out of the
crowd, and was seen plying his arms vigorously still
farther to the right, and a little in the rear of Bartolomeo.
Then came, in the centre of the canal,
and near as might be in the rear of the triumphant
waterman of the main, a dense body, with little order
and varying positions, compelling each other to give
way, and otherwise increasing the difficulties of
their struggle. More to the left, and so near to the
palaces as barely to allow room for the sweep of
his oar, was the masked competitor, whose progress
seemed retarded by some unseen cause, for he
gradually fell behind all the others, until several
boats' lengths of open water lay between him and
even the group of his nameless opponents. Still he
plied his arms steadily, and with sufficient skill.
As the interest of mystery had been excited in his
favor, a rumor passed up the canal, that the young
cavalier had been little favored by fortune in the
choice of a boat. Others, who reflected more
deeply on causes, whispered of the folly of one of
his habits, taking the risk of mortification by a competition
with men whose daily labor had hardened
their sinews, and whose practice enabled them to
judge closely of every chance of the race. But
when the eyes of the multitude turned from the
cluster of passing boats to the solitary barge of the
fisherman, who came singly on in the rear, admiration
was again turned to derision.
Antonio had cast aside the cap he wore of wont,
and the few straggling hairs that were left streamed
about his hollow temples, leaving the whole of his
swarthy features exposed to view. More than once,
as the gondola came on, his eyes turned aside reproachfully,
as if he keenly felt the stings of so many
unlicensed tongues applied to feelings which, though
extinguished. Laugh rose above laugh, however,
and taunt succeeded taunt more bitterly, as the boats
came among the gorgeous palaces, which lined the
canal nearer to the goal. It was not that the owners
of these lordly piles indulged in the unfeeling triumph,
but their dependants, constantly subject themselves
to the degrading influence of a superior presence,
let loose the long-pent torrents of their arrogance,
on the head of the first unresisting subject which
offered.
Antonio bore all these jibes manfully, if not in
tranquillity, and always without retort, until he again
approached the spot occupied by his companions of
the Lagunes. Here his eye sunk under the reproaches,
and his oar faltered. The taunts and
denunciations increased as he lost ground, and there
was a moment when the rebuked and humbled spirit
of the old man seemed about to relinquish the contest.
But dashing a hand across his brow, as if to
clear a sight which had become dimmed and confused,
he continued to ply the oar, and, happily, he
was soon past the point most trying to his resolution.
From this moment the cries against the fisherman
diminished, and as the Bucentaur, though still distant,
was now in sight, interest in the issue of the
race absorbed all other feelings.
Enrico still kept the lead; but the judges of the
gondolier's skill began to detect signs of exhaustion
in his faltering stroke. The waterman of the Lido
pressed him hard, and the Calabrian was drawing
more into a line with them both. At this moment,
too, the masked competitor exhibited a force and
skill that none had expected to see in one of his
supposed rank. His body was thrown more upon
the effort of the oar, and as his leg was stretched
behind to aid the stroke, it discovered a volume of
muscle, and an excellence of proportion, that excited
soon apparent. His gondola glided past the crowd,
in the centre of the canal, and by a change that was
nearly insensible, he became the fourth in the race.
The shouts which rewarded his success had scarcely
parted from the multitude, ere their admiration was
called to a new and an entirely unexpected aspect
in the struggle.
Left to his own exertions, and less annoyed by
that derision and contempt which often defeat even
more generous exertions, Antonio had drawn nearer
to the crowd of nameless competitors. Though
undistinguished in this narrative, there were seen, in
that group of gondoliers, faces well known on the
canals of Venice, as belonging to watermen, in
whose dexterity and force the city took pride.
Either favored by his isolated position, or availing
himself of the embarrassment these men gave to
each other, the despised fisherman was seen a little
on their left, coming up abreast, with a stroke and
velocity that promised farther success. The expectation
was quickly realized. He passed them all,
amid a dead and wondering silence, and took his
station, as fifth in the struggle.
From this moment all interest in those who formed
the vulgar mass was lost. Every eye was turned
towards the front, where the strife increased at each
stroke of the oar, and where the issue began to
assume a new and doubtful character. The exertions
of the waterman of Fusina were seemingly
redoubled, though his boat went no faster. The
gondola of Bartolomeo shot past him; it was followed
by those of Gino and the masked gondolier, while
not a cry betrayed the breathless interest of the
multitude. But when the boat of Antonio also
swept ahead, there arose such a hum of voices as
escapes a throng, when a sudden and violent change
of feeling is produced in their wayward sentiments.
every power of his frame to avert the dishonor,
with the desperate energy of an Italian, and then he
cast himself into the bottom of the gondola, tearing
his hair and weeping, in agony. His example was
followed by those in the rear, though with more
governed feelings, for they shot aside among the
boats which lined the canal, and were lost to view.
From this open and unexpected abandonment of
the struggle, the spectators got the surest evidence
of its desperate character. But as a man has little
sympathy for the unfortunate, when his feelings are
excited by competition, the defeated were quickly
forgotten. The name of Bartolomeo was borne
high upon the winds, by a thousand voices, and his
fellows of the Piazzetta and the Lido called upon
him, aloud, to die for the honor of their craft. Well
did the sturdy gondolier answer to their wishes, for
palace after palace was left behind, and no further
change was made in the relative positions of the
boats. But, like his predecessor, the leader redoubled
his efforts, with a diminished effect, and
Venice had the mortification of seeing a stranger
leading one of the most brilliant of her regattas.
Bartolomeo no sooner lost place, than Gino, the
masker, and the despised Antonio, in turn, shot by,
leaving him who had so lately been first in the race,
the last. He did not, however, relinquish the strife,
but continued to struggle with the energy of one
who merited a better fortune.
When this unexpected and entirely new character
was given to the contest, there still remained a broad
sheet of water, between the advancing gondolas
and the goal. Gino led, and with many favorable
symptoms of his being able to maintain his advantage.
He was encouraged by the shouts of the
multitude, who now forgot his Calabrian origin, in
his success, while many of the serving-men of his
The masked waterman, for the first time, threw the
grandeur of his skill and force into the oar. The
ashen instrument bent to the power of an arm, whose
strength appeared to increase at will, and the movements
of his body became rapid as the leaps of the
grayhound. The pliant gondola obeyed, and amid
a shout which passed from the Piazzetta to the
Rialto, it glided ahead.
If success gives force and increases the physical
and moral energies, there is a fearful and certain
reaction in defeat. The follower of Don Camillo
was no exception to the general law, and when the
masked competitor passed him, the boat of Antonio
followed as if it were impelled by the same strokes.
The distance between the two leading gondolas
even now seemed to lessen, and there was a moment
of breathless interest, when all there expected to see
the fisherman, in despite of his years and boat,
shooting past his rival.
But expectation was deceived. He of the mask,
notwithstanding his previous efforts, seemed to sport
with the toil, so ready was the sweep of his oar, so
sure its stroke, and so vigorous the arm by which it
was impelled. Nor was Antonio an antagonist to
despise. If there was less of the grace of a practised
gondolier of the canals in his attitudes, than in
those of his companion, there was no relaxation in
the force of his sinews. They sustained him to the
last, with that enduring power which had been begotten
by threescore years of unremitting labor, and
while his still athletic form was exerted to the utmost,
there appeared no failing of its energies.
A few moments sent the leading gondolas several
lengths ahead of their nearest followers. The dark
beak of the fisherman's boat hung upon the quarter
of the more showy bark of his antagonist, but it
could do no more. The port was open before them,
and felucca, without the slightest inequality in their
relative speed. The masked waterman glanced a
look behind, as if to calculate his advantage, and
then bending again to his pliant oar, he spoke, loud
enough to be heard only by him who pressed so
hard upon his track.
“Thou hast deceived me, fisherman!” he said;
“there is more of manhood in thee, yet, than I had
thought.”
“If there is manhood in my arms, there is childishness
and sorrow at the heart;” was the reply.
“Dost thou so prize a golden bauble? Thou art
second; be content with thy lot.”
“It will not do; I must be foremost, or I have
wearied my old limbs in vain!”
This brief dialogue was uttered, with an ease that
showed how far use had accustomed both to powerful
bodily efforts, and with a firmness of tones,
that few could have equalled, in a moment of so
great physical effort. The masker was silent, but
his purpose seemed to waver. Twenty strokes of
his powerful oar-blade, and the goal was attained:
but his sinews were not so much extended, and that
limb, which had shown so fine a development of
muscle, was less swollen and rigid. The gondola
of old Antonio glided abeam.
“Push thy soul into the blade,” muttered he of
the mask,” or thou wilt yet be beaten!”
The fisherman threw every effort of his body on
the coming effort, and he gained a fathom. Another
stroke caused the boat to quiver to its centre, and
the water curled from its bows, like the ripple of a
rapid. Then the gondola darted between the two
goal-barges, and the little flags that marked the
point of victory fell into the water. The action
was scarce noted, ere the glittering beak of the
masquer shot past the eyes of the judges, who
Gino was not long behind, and after him came Bartolomeo,
fourth and last, in the best-contested race
which had ever been seen on the waters of Venice.
When the flags fell, men held their breaths in
suspense. Few knew the victor, so close had been
the struggle. But a flourish of the trumpets soon
commanded attention, and then a herald proclaimed,
that—
“Antonio, a fisherman of the Lagunes, favored
by his holy patron of the Miraculous Draught, had
borne away the prize of gold—while a waterman,
who wore his face concealed, but who hath trusted
to the care of the blessed San Giovanni of the Wilderness,
is worthy of the silver prize, and that the
third had fallen to the fortunes of Gino of Calabria,
a servitor of the illustrious Don Camillo Monforte,
Duca di Sant' Agata, and lord of many Neapolitan
Seignories.”
When this formal announcement was made, there
succeeded a silence like that of the tomb. Then
there arose a general shout among the living mass,
which bore on high the name of Antonio, as if they
celebrated the success of some conqueror. All
feeling of contempt was lost in the influence of his
triumph. The fishermen of the Lagunes, who so
lately had loaded their aged companion with contumely,
shouted for his glory, with a zeal that manifested
the violence of the transition from mortification
to pride, and, as has ever been and ever will be
the meed of success, he who was thought least likely
to obtain it, was most greeted with praise and adulation,
when it was found that the end had disappointed
expectation. Ten thousand voices were
lifted, in proclaiming his skill and victory, and young
and old, the fair, the gay, the noble, the winner of
sequins and he who lost, struggled alike, to catch a
glimpse of the humble old man, who had so unexpectedly
feelings of a multitude.
Antonio bore his triumph meekly. When his
gondola had reached the goal, he checked its course,
and, without discovering any of the usual signs of
exhaustion, he remained standing, though the deep
heaving of his broad and tawny chest, proved
that his powers had been taxed to their utmost. He
smiled as the shouts arose on his ear, for praise is
grateful, even to the meek; still he seemed oppressed,
with an emotion of a character deeper than
pride. Age had somewhat dimmed his eye, but it
was now full of hope. His features worked, and a
single burning drop fell on each rugged cheek. The
fisherman then breathed more freely.
Like his successful antagonist, the waterman of
the mask betrayed none of the debility which usually
succeeds great bodily exertion. His knees were
motionless, his hands still grasped the oar firmly,
and he too kept his feet with a steadiness that showed
the physical perfection of his frame. On the
other hand, both Gino and Bartolomeo sunk in their
respective boats, as they gained the goal, in succession;
and so exhausted was each of these renowned
gondoliers, that several moments elapsed before
either had breath for speech. It was during this
momentary pause that the multitude proclaimed its
sympathy with the victor, by their longest and
loudest shouts. The noise had scarcely died away,
however, before a herald summoned Antonio of the
Lagunes, the masked waterman of the Blessed St.
John of the Wilderness, and Gino the Calabrian, to
the presence of the doge, whose princely hand was
to bestow the promised prizes of the regatta.
| CHAPTER IX. The bravo | |