 | CHAPTER XII. The bravo |  |
12. CHAPTER XII.
In casual converse, be it where it might,
The speaker lower'd, at once, his voice, his eyes,
And pointed upward as at God in heaven.”
Rogers.
The reader has probably anticipated, that Antonio
was now standing in an antechamber of the
secret and stern tribunal, described in the preceding
chapter. In common with all of his class, the fisherman
had a vague idea of the existence, and of the
attributes, of the council before which he was to appear;
but his simple apprehension was far from
comprehending the extent, or the nature, of functions
that equally took cognizance of the most important
interests of the republic, and of the more
trifling concerns of a patrician family. While conjectures
on the probable result of the expected interview
were passing through his mind, an inner
advance.
The deep and imposing silence which instantly
succeeded the entrance of the summoned into the
presence of the Council of Three, gave time for a
slight examination of the apartment and of those it
contained. The room was not large for that country
and climate, but rather of a size suited to the
closeness of the councils that had place within its
walls. The floor was tessellated with alternate
pieces of black and white marble; the walls were
draped in one common and sombre dress of black
cloth; a single lamp of dark bronze was suspended
over a solitary table in its centre, which, like every
other article of the scanty furniture, had the same
melancholy covering as the walls. In the angles of
the room there were projecting closets, which might
have been what they seemed, or merely passages
into the other apartments of the palace. All the
doors were concealed from casual observation by
the hangings, which gave one general and chilling
aspect of gloom to the whole scene. On the side of
the room opposite to that on which Antonio stood,
three men were seated in curule chairs; but their
masks, and the drapery which concealed their
forms, prevented all recognition of their persons.
One of this powerful body wore a robe of crimson,
as the representative that fortune had given to the
select council of the doge, and the others robes of
black, being those which had drawn the lucky, or
rather the unlucky balls, in the Council of Ten, itself
a temporary and chance-created body of the senate.
There were one or two subordinates near the table,
but these, as well as the still more humble officials
of the place, were hid from all ordinary knowledge,
by disguises similar to those of the chiefs. Jacopo
regarded the scene like one accustomed to its effect,
though with evident reverence and awe; but the
It is probable that the long pause which followed
his introduction, was intended to produce, and to
note this effect, for keen eyes were intently watching
his countenance during its continuance.
“Thou art called Antonio, of the Lagunes?” demanded
one of the secretaries near the table, when
a sign had been secretly made from the crimson
member of that fearful tribunal, to proceed.
“A poor fisherman, eccellenza, who owes much
to blessed Saint Antonio of the Miraculous Draught.”
“And thou hast a son who bears thine own name,
and who follows the same pursuit?”
“It is the duty of a Christian to submit to the will
of God! My boy has been dead twelve years, come
the day when the republic's galleys chased the infidel
from Corfu to Candia. He was slain, noble Signore,
with many others of his calling, in that bloody
fight.”
There was a movement of surprise among the
clerks, who whispered together, and appeared to
examine the papers in their hands, with some haste
and confusion. Glances were sent back at the
judges, who sate motionless, wrapped in the impenetrable
mystery of their functions. A secret sign,
however, soon caused the armed attendants of the
place to lead Antonio and his companion from the
room.
“Here is some inadvertency!” said a stern voice,
from one of the masked Three, so soon as the fall
of the footsteps of those who retired was no longer
audible. “It is not seemly that the inquisition of St.
Mark should show this ignorance.”
“It touches merely the family of an obscure fisherman,
illustrious Signore,” returned the trembling
dependant; “and it may be that his art would wish
to deceive us in the opening interrogatories.”
“Thou art in error,” interrupted another of the
as he sayeth, his only child died in the hot affair with
the Ottoman. He of whom there is question, is a
grandson, and is still a boy.”
“The noble Signore is right!” returned the clerk.
—“In the hurry of affairs, we have misconceived
a fact, which the wisdom of the council has been
quick to rectify. St. Mark is happy in having
among his proudest and oldest names, senators who
enter thus familiarly into the interests of his meanest
children!”
“Let the man be again introduced,” resumed the
judge, slightly bending his head to the compliment.
These accidents are unavoidable in the press of affairs.”
The necessary order was given, and Antonio, with
his companion constantly at his elbow, was brought
once more into the presence.
“Thy son died in the service of the republic, Antonio?”
demanded the secretary.
“Signore, he did. Holy Maria have pity on his
early fate, and listen to my prayers! So good a
child and so brave a man can have no great need
of masses for his soul, or his death would have been
doubly grievous to me, since I am too poor to buy
them.”
“Thou hast a grandson?”
“I had one, noble senator; I hope he still lives.”
“He is not with thee in thy labors on the Lagunes?”
“San Teodoro grant that he were! he is taken,
Signore, with many more of tender years, into the
galleys, whence may our Lady give him a safe deliverance!
If your eccellenza has an opportunity to
speak with the general of the galleys, or with any
other who may have authority in such a matter, on
my knees, I pray you to speak in behalf of the child,
who is a good and pious lad, that seldom casts a line
Anthony, and who has never given me uneasiness,
until he fell into the grip of St. Mark”
“Rise—This is not the affair in which I have to
question thee. Thou hast this day spoken of thy
prayer to our most illustrious prince, the doge?”
“I have prayed his highness to give the boy liberty.”
“And this thou hast done openly, and with little
deference to the high dignity and sacred character
of the chief of the republic?”
“I did it like a father and a man. If but half what
they say of the justice and kindness of the state were
true, his highness would have heard me as a father
and a man.”
A slight movement among the fearful Three, caused
the secretary to pause; when he saw, however,
that his superiors chose to maintain their silence, he
continued—
“This didst thou once in public and among the
senators, but when repulsed, as urging a petition both
out of place and out of reason, thou soughtest other
to prefer thy request?”
“True, illustrious Signore.”
“Thou camest among the gondoliers of the regatta
in an unseemly garb, and placed thyself foremost
with those who contended for the favor of the senate
and its prince?”
“I came in the garb which I wear before the Virgin
and St. Antonio, and if I was foremost in the race,
it was more owing to the goodness and favor of the
man at my side, than any virtue which is still left in
these withered sinews and dried bones. San Marco
remember him in his need, for the kind wish, and
soften the hearts of the great to hear the prayer of
a childless parent!”
There was another slight expression of surprise,
the secretary suspended his examination.
“Thou hearest, Jacopo,” said one of the Three.
“What answer dost thou make the fisherman?”
“Signore, he speaketh truth.”
“And thou hast dared to trifle with the pleasures
of the city, and to set at naught the wishes of the
doge!”
“If it be a crime, illustrious senator, to have pitied
an old man who mourned for his offspring, and to
have given up my own solitary triumph to his love
for the boy, I am guilty.”
There was a long and silent pause after this reply.
Jacopo had spoken with habitual reverence, but with
the grave composure that appeared to enter deeply
into the composition of his character. The paleness
of the cheek was the same, and the glowing
eye, which so singularly lighted and animated a
countenance that possessed a hue not unlike that of
death, scarce varied its gaze, while he answered.
A secret sign caused the secretary to proceed with
his duty.
“And thou owest thy success in the regatta, Antonio,
to the favor of thy competitor—he who is now
with thee, in the presence of the council?”
“Under San Teodoro and St. Antonio, the city's
patron and my own.”
“And thy whole desire was to urge again thy rejected
petition in behalf of the young sailor?”
“Signore, I had no other. What is the vanity
of a triumph among the gondoliers, or the bauble
of a mimic oar and chain, to one of my years and
condition?”
“Thou forgettest that the oar and chain are
gold?”
“Excellent gentlemen, gold cannot heal the wounds
which misery has left on a heavy heart. Give me
back the child, that my eyes may not be closed by
his young ears, while there is hope my words may be
remembered, and I care not for all the metals of the
Rialto! Thou mayest see that I utter no vain
vaunt, by this jewel, which I offer to the nobles,
with the reverence due to their greatness and wisdom.”
When the fisherman had done speaking, he advanced,
with the timid step of a man unaccustomed
to move in superior presences, and laid upon the
dark cloth of the table a ring that sparkled with,
what at least seemed to be, very precious stones.
The astonished secretary raised the jewel, and held
it in suspense before the eyes of the judges.
“How is this?” exclaimed he of the Three, who
had oftenest interfered in the examination; “that
seemeth the pledge of our nuptials!”
“It is no other, illustrious senator: with this ring
did the doge wed the Adriatic, in the presence of the
ambassadors and the people.”
“Hadst thou aught to do with this, also Jacopo?”
sternly demanded the judge.
The Bravo turned his eye on the jewel with a look
of interest, but his voice maintained its usual depth
and steadiness as he answered,
“Signore, no—until now, I knew not the fortune
of the fisherman.”
A sign to the secretary caused him to resume his
questions.
“Thou must account, and clearly account, Antonio,”
he said, “for the manner in which this sacred
ring came into thy possession; hadst thou any one
to aid thee in obtaining it?”
“Signore, I had.”
“Name him, at once, that we take measures for
his security.”
“'Twill be useless, Signore; he is far above the
power of Venice.”
“What meanest thou, fellow? None are superior
to the right and the force of the republic that dwell
within her limits. Answer without evasion, as thou
valuest thy person.”
“I should prize that which is of little value, Signore,
and be guilty of a great folly, as well as of a
great sin, were I to deceive you, to save a body old
and worthless as mine from stripes. If your excellencies
are willing to hear, you will find that I am
no less willing to tell the manner in which I got the
ring.”
“Speak, then, and trifle not.”
“I know not, Signori, whether you are used to
hearing untruths, that you caution me so much
not to deal with them; but we of the Lagunes are
not afraid to say what we have seen and done, for
most of our business is with the winds and waves,
which take their orders from God himself. There
is a tradition, Signori, among us fishermen, that in
times past, one of our body brought up from the bay,
the ring with which the doge is accustomed to marry
the Adriatic. A jewel of that value was of little
use to one who casts his nets daily for bread and oil,
and he brought it to the doge, as became a fisherman,
into whose hands the saints had thrown a prize
to which he had no title, as it were to prove his honesty.
This act of our companion is much spoken
of on the Lagunes and at the Lido, and it is said
there is a noble painting done by some of our Venetian
masters, in the halls of the palace, which tells
the story as it happened; showing the prince on his
throne, and the lucky fisherman with his naked legs,
rendering back to his highness that which had been
lost. I hope there is foundation for this belief, Signori,
which greatly flatters our pride, and is not without
use in keeping some among us truer to the right,
and better favored in the eyes of St. Anthony, than
might otherwise be.”
“The fact was so.”
“And the painting, excellent Signore? I hope our
vanity has not deceived us concerning the picture,
neither?”
“The picture you mention is to be seen within
the palace.”
“Corpo di Bacco! I have had my misgivings on
that point, for it is not common that the rich and the
happy should take such note of what the humble and
the poor have done. Is the work from the hands of
the great Tiziano himself, eccellenza?”
“It is not; one of little name hath put his pencil
to the canvas.”
“They say that Tiziano had the art of giving to
his works the look and richness of flesh, and one
would think that a just man might find, in the honesty
of the poor fisherman, a color bright enough to
have satisfied even his eye. But it may be that the
senate saw danger in thus flattering us of the Lagunes.”
“Proceed with the account of thine own fortune
with the ring.”
“Illustrious nobles, I have often dreamed of the
luck of my fellow of the old times; and more than
once have I drawn the nets with an eager hand in
my sleep, thinking to find that very jewel entangled
in its meshes, or embowelled by some fish. What I
have so often fancied has at last happened. I am
an old man, Signori, and there are few pools or
banks between Fusina and Giorgio, that my lines or
my nets have not fathomed or covered. The spot
to which the Bucentoro is wont to steer in these ceremonies
is well known to me, and I had a care to
cover the bottom round about with all my nets in
the hope of drawing up the ring. When his highness
cast the jewel, I dropped a buoy to mark the
spot—Signori, this is all—my accomplice was St.
Anthony.”
“For doing this you had a motive?
“Holy Mother of God! Was it not sufficient to
get back my boy from the gripe of the galleys?”
exclaimed Antonio, with an energy and a simplicity
that are often found to be in the same character.
“I thought that if the doge and the senate were
willing to cause pictures to be painted, and honors
to be given to one poor fisherman for the ring, they
might be glad to reward another, by releasing a lad
who can be of no great service to the republic, but
who is all to his parent.”
“Thy petition to his highness, thy strife in the
regatta, and thy search for the ring, had the same
object?”
“To me. Signore, life has but one.”
There was a slight but suppressed movement
among the council.
“When thy request was refused by his highness
as ill-timed—”
“Ah! eccellenza, when one has a white head and
a failing arm, he cannot stop to look for the proper
moment in such a cause!” interrupted the fisherman,
with a gleam of that impetuosity which forms the
true base of Italian character.
“When thy request was denied, and thou hadst
refused the reward of the victor, thou went among
thy fellows and fed their cars with complaints of the
injustice of St. Mark, and of the senate's tyranny?”
“Signore, no. I went away sad and heart-broken,
for I had not thought the doge and nobles would
have refused a successful gondolier so light a boon.”
“And this thou didst not hesitate to proclaim
among the fishermen and idlers of the Lido?”
“Eccellenza, it was not needed—my fellows knew
my unhappiness, and tongues were not wanting to
tell the worst.”
“There was a tumult, with thee at its head, and
sedition was uttered, with much vain-boasting of
the fleet of the republic.”
“There is little difference, Signore, between the
two, except that the men of the one go in gondolas
with nets, and the men of the other are in the galleys
of the state. Why should brothers seek each
other's blood?”
The movement among the judges was more manifest
than ever. They whispered together, and a
paper containing a few lines written rapidly in
pencil, was put into the hands of the examining
secretary.
“Thou didst address thy fellows, and spoke openly
of thy fancied wrongs; thou didst comment on
the laws which require the services of the citizens,
when the republic is compelled to send forth a fleet
against its enemies.”
“It is not easy to be silent, Signore, when the
heart is full.”
“And there was consultation among thee of coming
to the palace in a body, and of asking the discharge
of thy grandson from the doge, in the name
of the rabble of the Lido.”
“Signore, there were some generous enough to
make the offer, but others were of advice it would
be well to reflect before they took so bold a measure.”
“And thou—what was thine own counsel on that
point?”
“Eccellenza, I am old, and though unused to be
thus questioned by illustrious senators, I had seen
enough of the manner in which St. Mark governs,
to believe a few unarmed fishermen and gondoliers
would not be listened to with—”
“Ha! Did the gondoliers become of thy party?
I should have believed them jealous, and displeased
with the triumph of one who was not of their body.”
“A gondolier is a man, and though they had the
feelings of human nature on being beaten, they had
that a father was robbed of his son.—Signore,” continued
Antonio, with great earnestness and a singular
simplicity, “there will be great discontent on
the canals, if the galleys sail with the boy aboard
them!”
“Such is thy opinion;—were the gondoliers on
the Lido numerous?”
“When the sports ended, eccellenza, they came
over by hundreds, and I will do the generous fellows
the justice to say, that they had forgotten their
want of luck in the love of justice. Diamine! these
gondoliers are not so bad a class as some pretend,
but they are men like ourselves, and can feel for a
Christian as well as another!”
The secretary paused, for his task was done; and
a deep silence pervaded the gloomy apartment.
After a short pause one of the three resumed—
“Antonio Vecchio,” he said “thou hast served
thyself in these said galleys, to which thou now
seemest so averse—and served bravely, as I learn?”
“Signore, I have done my duty by St. Mark. I
played my part against the infidel, but it was after
my beard was grown, and at an age when I had
learnt to know good from evil. There is no duty
more cheerfully performed by us all, than to defend
the islands and the Lagunes against the enemy.”
“And all the republic's dominions.—Thou canst
make no distinctions between any of the rights of
the state.”
“There is a wisdom granted to the great, which
God hath denied the poor and the weak, Signore.
To me it does not seem clear that Venice, a city
built on a few islands, hath any more right to carry
her rule into Crete or Candia, than the Turk hath to
come here.”
“How! Dost thou dare, on the Lido, to question
the claim of the republic to her conquests! or do
of her glory!”
“Eccellenza, I know little of rights that come by
violence. God hath given us the Lagunes, but I
know not that he has given us more. This glory of
which you speak may sit lightly on the shoulders
of a senator, but it weighs heavily on a fisherman's
heart.”
“Thou speakest, bold man, of that which thou
dost not comprehend.”
“It is unfortunate, Signore, that the power to understand
hath not been given to those who have
so much power to suffer.”
An anxious pause succeeded this reply.
“Thou mayest withdraw, Antonio,” said he, who
apparently presided in the dread councils of the
Three. “Thou wilt not speak of what has happened,
and thou wilt await the inevitable justice of St.
Mark, in full confidence of its execution.”
“Thanks, illustrious senator; I will obey your
excellency; but my heart is full, and I would fain
say a few words concerning the child, before I quit
this noble company.”
“Thou mayest speak—and here thou mayest give
free vent to all thy wishes, or to all thy griefs, if any
thou hast. St. Mark has no greater pleasure than
to listen to the wishes of his children.”
“I believe they have reviled the republic in calling
its chiefs heartless, and sold to ambition!” said
the old man, with generous warmth, disregarding
the stern rebuke which gleamed in the eye of Jacopo.
“A senator is but a man, and there are
fathers and children among them, as among us of
the Lagunes.”
“Speak, but refrain from seditious or discreditable
discourse,” uttered a secretary, in a half-whisper.
“Proceed.”
“I have little now to offer, Signori; I am not
gentlemen, but there is a time when human modesty
must give way to human nature. These scars were
got in one of the proudest days of St. Mark, and in
the foremost of all the galleys that fought among
the Greek islands. The father of my boy wept over
me then, as I have since wept over his own son—
yes—I might be ashamed to own it among men;
but if the truth must be spoken, the loss of the boy
has drawn bitter tears from me in the darkness of
night, and in the solitude of the Lagunes. I lay
many weeks, Signori, less a man than a corpse, and
when I got back again to my nets and my toil, I
did not withhold my son from the call of the republic.
He went in my place to meet the infidel—a
service from which he never came back. This was
the duty of men who had grown in experience, and
who were not to be deluded into wickedness by the
evil company of the galleys. But this calling of
children into the snares of the devil grieves a father,
and—I will own the weakness, if such it be—I am
not of a courage and pride to send forth my own
flesh and blood into the danger and corruption of
war and evil society, as in days when the stoutness
of the heart was like the stoutness of the limbs.
Give me back, then, my boy, till he has seen my old
head laid beneath the sands, and until, by the aid of
blessed St. Anthony, and such councils as a poor
man can offer, I may give him more steadiness in
his love of the right, and until I may have so shaped
his life, that he will not be driven about by every
pleasant or treacherous wind that may happen to
blow upon his bark. Signori, you are rich, and
powerful, and honored, and though you may be
placed in the way of temptations to do wrongs that
are suited to your high names and illustrious fortunes,
ye know little of the trials of the poor. What
are the temptations of the blessed St. Anthony himself,
And now, Signori, though you may be angry to
hear it, I will say, that when an aged man has no
other kin on earth, or none so near as to feel the
glow of the thin blood of the poor, than one poor
boy, St. Mark would do well to remember that even
a fisherman of the Lagunes can feel as well as the
doge on his throne. This much I say, illustrious
senators, in sorrow, and not in anger; for I would
get back the child, and die in peace with my superiors,
as with my equals.”
“Thou mayest depart,” said one of the Three.
“Not yet, Signore, I have still more to say of
the men of the Lagunes, who speak with loud voices
concerning this dragging of boys into the service of
the galleys.”
“We will hear their opinions.”
“Noble gentlemen, if I were to utter all they have
said, word for word, I might do some disfavor to
your ears! Man is man, though the Virgin and the
saints listen to his aves and prayers from beneath a
jacket of serge and a fisherman's cap. But I know
too well my duty to the senate to speak so plainly.
But, Signori, they say, saving the bluntness of their
language, that St. Mark should have ears for the
meanest of his people as well as for the richest noble;
and that not a hair should fall from the head
of a fisherman, without its being counted as if it
were a lock from beneath the horned bonnet; and
that where God hath not made marks of his displeasure,
man should not.”
“Do they dare to reason thus?”
“I know not if it be reason, illustrious Signore,
but it is what they say, and, eccellenza, it is holy
truth. We are poor workmen of the Lagunes, who
rise with the day to cast our nets, and return at
night to hard beds and harder fare; but with this
we might be content, did the senate count us as
the same chances in life, I well know, for it often happens
that I draw an empty net, when my comrades
are groaning with the weight of their draughts; but
this is done to punish my sins, or to humble my
heart, whereas it exceeds the power of man to look
into the secrets of the soul, or to foretell the evil of
the still innocent child. Blessed St. Anthony knows
how many years of suffering this visit to the galleys
may cause to the child in the end. Think of these
things, I pray you, Signori, and send men of tried
principles to the wars.”
“Thou mayest retire,” rejoined the judge.
“I should be sorry that any who cometh of my
blood,” continued the inattentive Antonio, “should
be the cause of ill-will between them that rule and
them that are born to obey. But nature is stronger
even than the law, and I should discredit her feelings
were I to go without speaking as becomes a
father. Ye have taken my child and sent him to
serve the state at the hazard of body and soul, without
giving opportunity for a parting kiss, or a parting
blessing—ye have used my flesh and blood as
ye would use the wood of the arsenal, and sent it
forth upon the sea as if it were the insensible metal
of the balls ye throw against the infidel. Ye have
shut your ears to my prayers, as if they were words
uttered by the wicked, and when I have exhorted
you on my knees, wearied my stiffened limbs to do
ye pleasure, rendered ye the jewel which St. Anthony
gave to my net, that it might soften your hearts,
and reasoned with you calmly on the nature of your
acts, you turn from me coldly, as if I were unfit to
stand forth in defence of the offspring that God hath
left my age! This is not the boasted justice of St.
Mark, Venetian senators, but hardness of heart and
a wasting of the means of the poor, that would ill
become the most grasping Hebrew of the Rialto!”
“Hast thou aught more to urge, Antonio?” asked
the judge, with the wily design of unmasking the
fisherman's entire soul.
“Is it not enough, Signore, that I urge my years,
my poverty, my scars, and my love for the boy? I
know ye not, but though ye are hid behind the folds
of your robes and masks, still must ye be men.
There may be among ye a father, or perhaps some
one who hath a still more sacred charge, the child
of a dead son. To him I speak. In vain ye talk of
justice when the weight of your power falls on them
least able to bear it; and though ye may delude
yourselves, the meanest gondolier of the canal
knows—”
He was stopped from uttering more by his companion,
who rudely placed a hand on his mouth.
“Why hast thou presumed to stop the complaints
of Antonio?” sternly demanded the judge.
“It was not decent, illustrious senators, to listen
to such disrespect in so noble a presence,” Jacopo
answered, bending reverently as he spoke. “This
old fisherman, dread Signori, is warmed by love for
his offspring, and he will utter that which, in his
cooler moments, he will repent.”
“St. Mark fears not the truth! If he has more to
say, let him declare it.”
But the excited Antonio began to reflect. The
flush which had ascended to his weather-beaten
cheek disappeared, and his naked breast ceased to
heave. He stood like one rebuked, more by his discretion
than his conscience, with a calmer eye, and
a face that exhibited the composure of his years,
and the respect of his condition—
“If I have offended, great patricians,” he said,
more mildly, “I pray you to forget the zeal of an
ignorant old man, whose feelings are master of his
breeding, and who knows less how to render the
truth agreeable to noble ears, than to utter it.”
“Thou mayest depart.”
The armed attendants advanced, and, obedient to
a sign from the secretary, they led Antonio and his
companion through the door by which they had entered.
The other officials of the place followed,
and the secret judges were left by themselves in the
chamber of doom.
| CHAPTER XII. The bravo | |