 | CHAPTER XIV. The bravo |  |
14. CHAPTER XIV.
A serenade broke silence, breathing hope
Through walls of stone.”
Italy.
Notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, the
melody of music was rife on the water. Gondolas
continued to glide along the shadowed canals, while
of the palaces. The piazza and piazzetta were yet
brilliant with lights, and gay with their multitudes of
unwearied revellers.
The habitation of Donna Violetta was far from
the scene of general amusement. Though so remote,
the hum of the moving throng, and the higher
strains of the wind-instruments, came, from time to
time, to the ears of its inmates, mellowed and thrilling
by distance.
The position of the moon cast the whole of the
narrow passage which flowed beneath the windows
of her private apartments into shadow. In a balcony
which overhung the water, stood the youthful
and ardent girl, listening with a charmed ear and a
tearful eye to one of those soft strains, in which
Venetian voices answered to each other from different
points on the canals, in the songs of the gondoliers.
Her constant companion and Mentor was
near, while the ghostly father of them both stood
deeper in the room.
“There may be pleasanter towns on the main,
and capitals of more revelry,” said the charmed
Violetta, withdrawing her person from its leaning
attitude, as the voices ceased; “but in such a night
and at this witching hour, what city may compare
with Venice?”
“Providence has been less partial in the distribution
of its earthly favors than is apparent to a vulgar
eye,” returned the attentive Carmelite. “If we
have our peculiar enjoyments and our moments of
divine contemplation, other towns have advantages
of their own; Genoa and Pisa, Firenze, Ancona,
Roma, Palermo, and, chiefest of all, Napoli—”
“Napoli, father!”
“Daughter, Napoli. Of all the towns of sunny
Italy, 'tis the fairest and the most blessed in natural
gifts. Of every region I have visited, during a life
which the touch of the Creator hath been the most
God-like!”
“Thou art imaginative to-night, good Father Anselmo.
The land must be fair indeed, that can thus
warm the fancy of a Carmelite.”
“The rebuke is just. I have spoken more under
the influence of recollections that came from days
of idleness and levity, than with the chastened spirit
of one, who should see the hand of the Maker, in
the most simple and least lovely of all his wondrous
works.”
“You reproach yourself causelessly, holy father,”
observed the mild Donna Florinda, raising her eyes
towards the pale countenance of the monk; “to
admire the beauties of nature, is to worship him
who gave them being.”
At that moment a burst of music rose on the air,
proceeding from the water beneath the balcony.
Donna Violetta started back, abashed, and as she
held her breath in wonder, and haply with that delight
which open admiration is apt to excite in a
youthful female bosom, the color mounted to her
temples.
“There passeth a band;” calmly observed the
Donna Florinda.
“No, it is a cavalier! There are gondoliers, servitors
in his colors.”
“This is as hardy as it may be gallant;” returned
the monk, who listened to the air with an evident
and grave displeasure.
There was no longer any doubt but that a serenade
was meant. Though the custom was of much
use, it was the first time that a similar honor had
been paid beneath the window of Donna Violetta.
The studied privacy of her life, her known destiny,
and the jealousy of the despotic state, and perhaps
the deep respect which encircled a maiden of her
kept the aspiring, the vain, and the interested,
equally in awe.
“It is for me!” whispered the trembling, the distressed,
the delighted Violetta.
“It is for one of us, indeed;” answered the cautious
friend.
“Be it for whom it may, it is bold,” rejoined the
monk.
Donna Violetta shrunk from observation, behind
the drapery of the window, but she raised a hand in
pleasure, as the rich strains rolled through the wide
apartments.
“What a taste rules the band!” she half-whispered,
afraid to trust her voice, lest a sound should
escape her ears. “They touch an air of Petrarch's
sonnatas! How indiscreet, and yet how noble!”
“More noble than wise;” said the Donna Florinda,
who entered the balcony, and looked intently on
the water beneath.
“Here are musicians in the color of a noble in
one gondola,” she continued, “and a single cavalier
in another.”
“Hath he no servitor?—Doth he ply the oar himself?”
“Truly that decency hath not been overlooked;
one in a flowered jacket guides the boat.”
“Speak, then, dearest Florinda, I pray thee.”
“Would it be seemly?”
“Indeed I think it. Speak them fair. Say that I
am the senate's.—That it is not discreet to urge a
daughter of the state thus—say what thou wilt—but
speak them fair.”
“Ha! It is Don Camillo Monforte! I know him
by his noble stature and the gallant wave of his
hand.”
“This temerity will undo him! His claim will
be refused—himself banished. Is it not near
Admonish him to depart, good Florinda—and yet
—can we use this rudeness to a Signor of his rank!”
“Father, counsel us; you know the hazards of
this rash gallantry in the Neapolitan—aid us with
thy wisdom, for there is not a moment to lose.”
The Carmelite had been an attentive and an indulgent
observer of the emotion, which sensations
so novel had awakened in the ardent but unpractised
breast of the fair Venetian. Pity, sorrow, and
sympathy were painted on his mortified face, as he
witnessed the mastery of feeling over a mind so
guileless, and a heart so warm; but the look was
rather that of one who knew the dangers of the
passions, than of one who condemned them, without
thought of their origin or power. At the appeal of
the governess he turned away and silently quitted
the room. Donna Florida left the balcony and
drew near her charge. There was no explanation,
nor any audible or visible means of making their
sentiments known to each other. Violetta threw
herself into the arms of her more experienced friend,
and struggled to conceal her face in her bosom. At
this moment the music suddenly ceased, and the
plash of oars, falling into the water, succeeded.
“He is gone!” exclaimed the young creature,
who had been the object of the serenade, and whose
faculties, spite of her confusion, had lost none of
their acuteness. “The gondolas are moving away,
and we have not made even the customary acknowledgments
for their civility!”
“It is not needed—or rather it might increase a
hazard that is already too weighty. Remember thy
high destiny, my child, and let them depart.”
“And yet, methinks one of my station should not
fail in courtesy. The compliment may mean no
more than any other idle usage, and they should not
quit us unthanked.”
“Rest you, within. I will watch the movement
of the boats, for it surpasseth female endurance not
to note their aspect.”
“Thanks, dearest Florinda! hasten, lest they enter
the other canal ere thou seest them.”
The governess was quickly in the balcony. Active
as was her movement, her eyes were scarcely
cast upon the shadow beneath, before a hurried
question demanded what she beheld.
“Both gondolas are gone,” was the answer.
“That with the musicians is already entering the
great canal, but that of the cavalier hath unaccountably
disappeared!”
“Nay, look again; he cannot be in such haste to
quit us.”
“I had not sought him in the right direction.
Here is his gondola, by the bridge of our own
canal.”
“And the cavalier? He waits for some sign of
courtesy; it is meet that we should not withhold it.”
“I see him not. His servitor is seated on the
steps of the landing, while the gondola appeareth to
be empty. The man hath an air of waiting, but I
nowhere see the master!”
“Blessed Maria! can aught have befallen the
gallant Duca di Sant' Agata?”
“Naught but the happiness of casting himself
here!” exclaimed a voice near the person of the
heiress. The Donna Violetta turned her gaze from
the balcony, and beheld him who filled all her
thoughts, at her feet.
The cry of the girl, the exclamation of her friend,
and a rapid and eager movement of the monk,
brought the whole party into a group.
“This may not be;” said the latter in a reproving
voice. “Arise, Don Camillo, lest I repent listening
to your prayer; you exceed our conditions.”
“As much as this emotion exceedeth my hopes,”
Providence! Providence brought me to the
rescue of this lovely being, when accident threw her
into the Giudecca, and, once more, Providence is
my friend, by permitting me to be a witness of this
feeling. Speak, fair Violetta, thou wilt not be an
instrument of the senate's selfishness—thou wilt not
hearken to their wish of disposing of thy hand on
the mercenary, who would trifle with the most sacred
of all vows, to possess thy wealth?”
“For whom am I destined?” demanded Violetta.
“No matter, since it be not for me. Some trafficker
in happiness, some worthless abuser of the
gifts of fortune.”
“Thou knowest, Camillo, our Venetian custom,
and must see that I am hopelessly in their hands.”
“Arise, Duke of St. Agata,” said the monk, with
authority; “when I suffered you to enter this palace,
it was to remove a scandal from its gates, and to
save you from your own rash disregard of the state's
displeasure. It is idle to encourage hopes that the
policy of the republic opposes. Arise then, and
respect your pledges.”
“That shall be as this lady may decide. Encourage
me with but an approving look, fairest Violetta,
and not Venice, with its doge and inquisition, shall
stir me an inch from thy feet!”
“Camillo!” answered the trembling girl, “thou,
the preserver of my life, hast little need to kneel to
me!”
“Duke of St. Agata—daughter!”
“Nay, heed him not, generous Violetta. He utters
words of convention—he speaks as all speak in age,
when men's tongues deny the feelings of their youth.
He is a Carmelite, and must feign this prudence.
He never knew the tyranny of the passions. The
dampness of his cell has chilled the ardor of the
had he loved, he would never have worn a cowl.”
Father Anselmo receded a pace, like one pricked
in conscience, and the paleness of his ascetic features
took a deadly hue. His lips moved as if he
would have spoken, but the sounds were smothered
by an oppression that denied him utterance. The
gentle Florinda saw his distress, and she endeavored
to interpose between the impetuous youth and
her charge.
“It may be as you say, Signor Monforte,” she
said, “and that the senate, in its fatherly care,
searches a partner worthy of an heiress of a house
so illustrious and so endowed as that of Tiepolo.
But in this, what is there more than of wont? Do
not the nobles of all Italy seek their equals in condition
and in the gifts of fortune, in order that their
union may be fittingly assorted. How know we
that the estates of my young friend have not a value
in the eye of the Duke of St. Agata, as well as in
those of him that the senate may elect for thy husband?”
“Can this be true!” exclaimed Violetta.
“Believe it not; my errand in Venice is no secret.
I seek the restitution of lands and houses long withheld
from my family, with the honors of the senate
that are justly mine. All these do I joyfully abandon
for the hope of thy favor.”
“Thou hearest, Florinda: Don Camillo is not to
be distrusted!”
“What are the senate and the power of St. Mark,
that they should cross our lives with misery? Be
mine, lovely Violetta, and in the fastnesses of my own
good Calabrian castle we will defy their vengeance
and policy. Their disappointment shall furnish merriment
for my vassals, and our felicity shall make
the happiness of thousands. I affect no disrespect
for the dignity of the councils, nor any indifference
than the horned bonnet itself, with all its fancied
influence and glory.”
“Generous Camillo!”
“Be mine, and spare the cold calculators of the
senate another crime. They think to dispose of thee,
as if thou wert worthless merchandise, to their own
advantage. But thou wilt defeat their design. I
read the generous resolution in thine eye, Violetta;
thou wilt manifest a will superior to their arts and
egotism.”
“I would not be trafficked for, Don Camillo Monforte,
but wooed and won as befitteth a maiden of
my condition. They may still leave me liberty of
choice. The Signor Gradenigo hath much encouraged
me of late with this hope, when speaking of
the establishment suited to my years.”
“Believe him not; a colder heart, a spirit more
removed from charity, exists not in Venice. He
courts thy favor for his own prodigal son; a cavalier
without honor, the companion of profligates, and the
victim of the Hebrews. Believe him not, for he is
stricken in deceit.”
“He is the victim of his own designs, if this be
true. Of all the youths of Venice I esteem Giacomo
Gradenigo least.”
“This interview must have an end,” said the
monk, interposing effectually, and compelling the
lover to rise. “It would be easier to escape the
toils of sin than to elude the agents of the police. I
tremble lest this visit should be known, for we are
encircled with the ministers of the state, and not a
palace in Venice is more narrowly watched than
this. Were thy presence here detected, indiscreet
young man, thy youth might pine in a prison, while
thou would'st be the cause of persecution and unmerited
sorrow to this innocent and inexperienced
maiden.”
“A prison, sayest thou, father!”
“No less, daughter. Lighter offences are often
expiated by heavier judgments, when the pleasure
of the senate is thwarted.”
“Thou must not be condemned to a prison,
Camillo!”
“Fear it not. The years and peaceful calling of
the father make him timid. I have long been prepared
for this happy moment, and I ask but a single
hour to put Venice and all her toils at defiance.
Give me the blessed assurance of thy truth, and confide
in my means for the rest.”
“Thou hearest, Florinda!”
“This bearing is suited to the sex of Don Camillo,
dearest, but it ill becometh thee. A maiden of high
quality must await the decision of her natural
guardians.”
“But should that choice be Giacomo Gradenigo?”
“The senate will not hear of it. The arts of his
father have long been known to thee; and thou must
have seen, by the secrecy of his own advances, that
he distrusts their decision. The state will have a
care to dispose of thee as befitteth thy hopes. Thou
art sought of many, and those who guard thy fortune
only await the proposals which best become
thy birth.”
“Proposals that become my birth!”
“Suitable in years, condition, expectations, and
character.”
“Am I to regard Don Camillo Monforte as one
beneath me?”
The monk again interposed.
“This interview must end,” he said. “The eyes
drawn upon us, by your indiscreet music, are now
turned on other objects, Signore, and you must
break your faith, or depart.”
“Alone, father?”
“Is the Donna Violetta to quit the roof of her
“Nay, Signor Monforte, you could not, in reason,
have expected more, in this interview, than the
hope of some future termination to your suit—
some pledge—”
“And that pledge?”
The eye of Violetta turned from her governess
to her lover, from her lover to the monk, and from
the latter to the floor.
“Is thine, Camillo.”
A common cry escaped the Carmelite and the
governess.
“Thy mercy, excellent friends,” continued the
blushing but decided Violetta. “If I have encouraged
Don Camillo, in a manner that thy counsels
and maiden modesty would reprove; reflect that had
he hesitated to cast himself into the Giudecca, I
should have wanted the power to confer this trifling
grace. Why should I be less generous than my preserver?
No, Camillo, when the senate condemns me
to wed another than thee, it pronounces the doom of
celibacy; I will hide my griefs in a convent till I die!”
There was a solemn and fearful interruption to a
discourse which was so rapidly becoming explicit,
by the sound of the bell, that the groom of the chambers,
a long-tried and confidential domestic, had
been commanded to ring before he entered. As this
injunction had been accompanied by another not to
appear, unless summoned, or urged by some grave
motive, the signal caused a sudden pause, even at
that interesting moment.
“How now!” exclaimed the Carmelite to the servant,
who abruptly entered. “What means this disregard
of my injunctions?”
“Father, the republic!”
“Is St. Mark in jeopardy, that females and priests
are summoned to aid him?”
“There are officials of the state below, who demand
admission in the name of the republic?”
“This grows serious,” said Don Camillo, who
alone retained his self-possession. “My visit is
known, and the active jealousy of the state anticipates
its object. Summon your resolution, Donna
Violetta, and you, father, be of heart! I will assume
the responsibility of the offence, if offence it be, and
exonerate all others from censure.”
“Forbid it, Father Anselmo. Dearest Florinda,
we will share his punishment!” exclaimed the terrified
Violetta, losing all self-command in the fear of
such a moment. “He has not been guilty of this indiscretion
without participation of mine; he has not
presumed beyond his encouragement.”
The monk and Donna Florinda regarded each
other in mute amazement, and haply there was
some admixture of feeling in the look that denoted
the uselessness of caution when the passions
were intent to elude the vigilance of those who
were merely prompted by prudence. The former
simply motioned for silence, while he turned to the
domestic.
“Of what character are these ministers of the
state?” he demanded.
“Father, they are its known officers, and wear the
badges of their condition.”
“And their request?”
“Is to be admitted to the presence of the Donna
Violetta.”
“There is still hope!” rejoined the monk, breathing
more freely. Moving across the room, he opened
a door which communicated with the private oratory
of the palace. “Retire within this sacred chapel,
Don Camillo, while we await the explanation of so
extraordinary a visit.”
As the time pressed, the suggestion was obeyed
on the instant. The lover entered the oratory, and
domestic, one known to be worthy of all confidence,
was directed to usher in those who waited
without.
But a single individual appeared. He was known,
at a glance, for a public and responsible agent of
the government, who was often charged with the
execution of secret and delicate duties. Donna Violetta
advanced to meet him, in respect to his employers,
and with the return of that self-possession,
which long practice interweaves with the habits of
the great.
“I am honored by this care of my dreaded and
illustrious guardians,” she said, making an acknowledgment
for the low reverence with which the official
saluted the richest ward of Venice. “To what
circumstance do I owe this visit?”
The officer gazed an instant about him, with an
habitual and suspicious caution, and then repeating
his salutations, he answered.
“Lady,” he said, “I am commanded to seek an
interview with the daughter of the state, the heiress
of the illustrious house of Tiepolo, with the Donna
Florinda Mercato, her female companion, with the
Father Anselmo, her commissioned confessor, and
with any other who enjoy the pleasure of her society
and the honor of her confidence.”
“Those you seek are here; I am Violetta Tiepolo;
to this lady am I indebted for a mother's care,
and this reverend Carmelite is my spiritual counsellor.
Shall I summon my household?”
“It is unnecessary. My errand is rather of private
than of public concern. At the decease of
your late most honored and much-lamented parent,
the illustrious senator Tiepolo, the care of your
person, lady, was committed by the republic, your
natural and careful protector, to the especial guardianship
of illustrious birth and estimable qualities.”
“Signore, you say true.”
Though the parental love of the councils may
have seemed to be dormant, it has ever been wakeful
and vigilant. Now that the years, instruction,
beauty, and other excellencies of their daughter,
have come to so rare perfection, they wish to draw
the ties that unite them nearer, by assuming their
own immediate duties about her person.”
“By this I am to understand that I am no longer
a ward of the Signor Gradenigo?”
“Lady, a ready wit has helped you to the explanation.
That illustrious patrician is released from
his cherished and well-acquitted duties. To-morrow
new guardians will be charged with the care of
your prized person, and will continue their honorable
trust, until the wisdom of the senate shall have
formed for you such an alliance, as shall not disparage
a noble name and qualities that might adorn a
throne.”
“Am I to be separated from those I love?” demanded
Violetta, impetuously.
“Trust to the senate's wisdom. I know not its
determination concerning those who have long
dwelt with you, but there can be no reason to doubt
its tenderness or discretion. I have now only to
add, that until those charged anew with the honorable
office of your protectors shall arrive, it will
be well to maintain the same modest reserve in
the reception of visitors as of wont, and that your
door, lady, must in propriety be closed against the
Signor Gradenigo as against all others of his sex.”
“Shall I not even thank him for his care?”
“He is tenfold rewarded in the senate's gratitude.”
“It would have been gracious to have expressed
my feelings towards the Signor Gradenigo in
be permitted to the pen.”
“The reserve that becomes the state of one so favored
is absolute. St. Mark is jealous where he
loves. And, now my commission is discharged, I
humbly take my leave, flattered in having been selected
to stand in such a presence, and to have been
thought worthy of so honorable a duty.”
As the officer ceased speaking and Violetta returned
his bows, she turned her eyes, filled with apprehension,
on the sorrowful features of her companions.
The ambiguous language of those employed
in such missions was too well known to
leave much hope for the future. They all anticipated
their separation on the morrow, though
neither could penetrate the reason of this sudden
change in the policy of the state. Interrogation
was useless, for the blow evidently came from the
secret council, whose motives could no more be
fathomed than its decrees foreseen. The monk
raised his hands in silent benediction towards his
spiritual charge, and, unable, even in the presence
of the stranger, to repress their grief, Donna Florinda
and Violetta sunk into each other's arms, and
wept.
In the mean time the minister of this cruel blow
had delayed his departure, like one who had a half-formed
resolution. He regarded the countenance
of the unconscious Carmelite intently, and in a manner
that denoted the habit of thinking much before
he decided.
“Reverend Father,” he said, “may I crave a
moment of your time, for an affair that concerns
the soul of a sinner?”
Though amazed, the monk could not hesitate
about answering such an appeal. Obedient to a
gesture of the officer, he followed him from the
apartment, and continued at his side while the other
his gondola.
“You must be much honored of the senate, holy
monk,” observed the latter while they proceeded,
“to hold so near a trust about the person of one in
whom the state takes so great an interest?”
“I feel it as such, my son. A life of peace and
prayer should have made me friends.”
“Men like you, father, merit the esteem they
crave. Are you long of Venice?”
“Since the last conclave. I came into the republic
as confessor to the late minister from Florence.”
“An honorable trust. You have been with us
then long enough to know that the republic never
forgets a servitor, nor forgives an affront.”
“'Tis an ancient state, and one whose influence
still reaches far and near.”
“Have a care of the step. These marbles are
treacherous to an uncertain foot.”
“Mine is too practised in the descent to be unsteady.
I hope I do not now descend these stairs
for the last time?”
The minister of the council affected not to understand
the question, but he answered as if replying
only to the previous observation.
“'Tis truly a venerable state,” he said, “but a little
tottering with its years. All who love liberty,
father, must mourn to see so glorious a sway on the
decline. Sic transit gloria mundi! You bare-footed
Carmelites do well to mortify the flesh in youth, by
which you escape the pains of a decreasing power.
One like you can have few wrongs of his younger
days to repair?”
“We are none of us without sin,” returned the
monk, crossing himself. “He who would flatter his
soul with being perfect lays the additional weight
of vanity on his life.”
“Men of my occupation, holy Carmelite, have
few opportunities of looking into themselves, and I
bless the hour that hath brought me into company
so godly. My gondola waits—will you enter?”
The monk regarded his companion in distrust,
but knowing the uselessness of resistance, he murmured
a short prayer and complied. A strong
dash of the oars announced their departure from
the steps of the palace.
| CHAPTER XIV. The bravo | |