 | CHAPTER VI. The bravo |  |
6. CHAPTER VI.
“A Clifford, a Clifford! we'll follow the king and Clifford.”
Henry VI.
The tranquillity of the best ordered society may
be disturbed, at any time, by a sudden outbreaking
of the malcontents. Against such a disaster there
is no more guarding than against the commission
of more vulgar crimes; but when a government
trembles for its existence, before the turbulence of
popular commotion, it is reasonable to infer some
radical defect in its organization. Men will rally
around their institutions, as freely as they rally
around any other cherished interest, when they
merit their care, and there can be no surer sign of
their hollowness than when the rulers seriously apprehend
the breath of the mob. No nation ever
exhibited more of this symptomatic terror, on all
republic of Venice. There was a never-ceasing
and a natural tendency to dissolution, in her factious
system, which was only resisted by the alertness of
her aristocracy, and the political buttresses which
their ingenuity had reared. Much was said of the
venerable character of her polity, and of its consequent
security, but it is in vain that selfishness contends
with truth. Of all the fallacies with which
man has attempted to gloss his expedients, there is
none more evidently false than that which infers the
duration of a social system, from the length of time
it has already lasted. It would be quite as reasonable
to affirm that the man of seventy has the same
chances for life as the youth of fifteen, or that the
inevitable fate of all things of mortal origin was
not destruction. There is a period in human existence,
when the principle of vitality has to contend
with the feebleness of infancy, but this probationary
state passed, the child attains the age when it has
the most reasonable prospect of living. Thus the
social, like any other, machine, which has run just
long enough to prove its fitness, is at the precise
period when it is least likely to fail, and although he
that is young may not live to become old, it is certain
that he who is old was once young. The empire
of China was, in its time, as youthful as our
own republic, nor can we see any reason for believing
that it is to outlast us, from the decrepitude
which is a natural companion of its years.
At the period of our tale, Venice boasted much
of her antiquity, and dreaded, in an equal degree,
her end. She was still strong in her combinations,
but they were combinations that had the vicious
error of being formed for the benefit of the minority,
and which, like the mimic fortresses and moats
of a scenic representation, needed only a strong
light to destroy the illusion. The alarm with
as they swept by the different palaces, on
their way to the great square, can be readily imagined.
Some feared that the final consummation of
their artificial condition, which had so long been
anticipated by a secret political instinct, was at
length arrived, and began to bethink them of the
safest means of providing for their own security.
Some listened in admiration, for habit had so far
mastered dullness, as to have created a species of
identity between the state and far more durable
things, and they believed that St. Mark had gained
a victory, in that decline, which was never exactly
intelligible to their apathetic capacities. But a few,
and these were the spirits that accumulated all the
national good which was vulgarly and falsely
ascribed to the system itself, intuitively comprehended
the danger, with a just appreciation of its
magnitude, as well as of the means to avoid it.
But the rioters were unequal to any estimate of
their own force, and had little aptitude in measuring
their accidental advantages. They acted merely
on impulse. The manner in which their aged companion
had triumphed on the preceding day, his
cold repulse by the doge, and the scene of the Lido,
which in truth led to the death of Antonio, had prepared
their minds for the tumult. When the body
was found, therefore, after the time necessary to
collect their forces on the Lagunes, they yielded to
passion, and moved away towards the palace of
St. Mark, as described, without any other definite
object than a simple indulgence of feeling.
On entering the canal, the narrowness of the passage
compressed the boats into a mass so dense, as,
in a measure, to impede the use of oars, and the
progress of the crowd was necessarily slow. All
were anxious to get as near as possible to the body
of Antonio, and, like all mobs, they in some degree
Once or twice the names of offensive senators were
shouted, as if the fishermen intended to visit the
crimes of the state on its agents; but these cries
passed away in the violent breath that was expended.
On reaching the bridge of the Rialto, more
than half of the multitude landed, and took the
shorter course of the streets to the point of destination,
while those in front got on the faster, for being
disembarrassed of the pressure in the rear. As
they drew nearer to the port, the boats began to
loosen, and to take something of the form of a
funeral procession.
It was during this moment of change that a
powerfully manned gondola swept, with strong
strokes, out of a lateral passage into the Great
Canal. Accident brought it directly in front of the
moving phalanx of boats, that was coming down
the same channel. Its crew seemed staggered by
the extraordinary appearance, which met their
view, and for an instant its course was undecided.
“A gondola of the republic!” shouted fifty fishermen.
A single voice added—“Canale Orfano!”
The bare suspicion of such an errand, as was
implied by the latter words, and at that moment,
was sufficient to excite the mob. They raised a
cry of denunciation, and some twenty boats made
a furious demonstration of pursuit. The menace,
however, was sufficient; for quicker far than the
movements of the pursuers, the gondoliers of the
republic dashed towards the shore, and leaping on
one of those passages of planks, which encircle so
many of the palaces of Venice, they disappeared
by an alley.
Encouraged by this success, the fishermen seized
the boat as a waif, and towed it into their own fleet,
filling the air with cries of triumph. Curiosity led
immediately reissued, dragging forth a priest.
“Who art thou?” hoarsely demanded he, who
took upon himself the authority of a leader.
“A Carmelite, and a servant of God!”
“Dost thou serve St. Mark? Hast thou been to
the Canale Orfano, to shrive a wretch?”
“I am here, in attendance on a young and noble
lady, who has need of my council and prayers. The
happy and the miserable, the free and the captive,
are equally my care!”
“Ha!—Thou art not above thy office?—Thou
wilt say the prayers for the dead, in behalf of a
poor man's soul?”
“My son, I know no difference, in this respect,
between the doge and the poorest fisherman. Still
I would not willingly desert the females.”
“The ladies shall receive no harm. Come into
my boat, for there is need of thy holy office.”
Father Anselmo—the reader will readily anticipate
that it was he—entered the canopy, said a
few words in explanation, to his trembling companions,
and complied. He was rowed to the leading
gondola, and, by a sign, directed to the dead
body.
“Thou see'st that corpse, father?” continued his
conductor. “It is the face of one who was an upright
and pious Christian!”
“He was.”
“We all knew him as the oldest and the most skilful
fisherman of the Lagunes, and one ever ready
to assist an unlucky companion.”
“I can believe thee!”
“Thou mayest, for the holy books are not more
true than my words—yesterday he came down
this very canal, in triumph, for he bore away the
honors of the regatta from the stoutest oars in
Venice.”
“I have heard of his success.”
“They say that Jacopo, the Bravo—he who once
held the best oar in the canals—was of the party!
Santa Madonna! such a man was too precious to
die!”
“It is the fate of all—rich and poor, strong and
feeble, happy and miserable, must alike come to this
end.”
“Not to this end, reverend Carmelite, for Antonio
having given offence to the republic, in the matter
of a grandson that is pressed for the galleys, has
been sent to purgatory without a Christian hope for
his soul.”
There is an eye that watcheth on the meanest of
us, son; we will believe he was not forgotten.”
“Cospetto!—They say that those the senate look
black upon, get but little aid from the church! Wilt
thou pray for him, Carmelite, and make good thy
words?”
“I will,” said Father Anselmo, firmly. “Make
room, son, that no decency of my duty be overlooked.”
The swarthy, expressive, faces of the fishermen
gleamed with satisfaction, for in the midst of the
rude turmoil, they all retained a deep and rooted
respect for the offices of the church in which they
had been educated. Silence was quickly obtained,
and the boats moved on with greater order than
before.
The spectacle was now striking—In front rowed
the gondola which contained the remains of the
dead. The widening of the canal, as it approached
the port, permitted the rays of the moon to fall upon
the rigid features of old Antonio, which were set in
such a look, as might be supposed to characterize
the dying thoughts of a man so suddenly and so
fearfully destroyed. The Carmelite, bare-headed,
with clasped hands, and a devout heart, bowed his
flowing in the light of the moon. A single gondolier
guided the boat, and no other noise was audible but
the plash of the water, as the oars slowly fell and
rose together. This silent procession lasted a few
minutes, and then the tremulous voice of the monk
was heard chanting the prayers for the dead. The
practised fishermen, for few in that disciplined
church, and that obedient age, were ignorant of
those solemn rites, took up the responses, in a manner
that must be familiar to every ear that has ever
listened to the sounds of Italy, the gentle washing of
the element, on which they glided, forming a soft
accompaniment. Casement after casement opened
while they passed, and a thousand curious and anxious
faces crowded the balconies, as the funeral cortege
swept slowly on.
The gondola of the republic was towed in the
centre of the moving mass, by fifty lighter boats, for
the fishermen still clung to their prize. In this manner
the solemn procession entered the port, and
touched the quay at the foot of the Piazzetta. While
numberless eager hands were aiding in bringing the
body of Antonio to land, there arose a shout from
the centre of the ducal palace, which proclaimed the
presence already of the other part of their body in
its court.
The squares of St. Mark now presented a novel
picture. The quaint and oriental church, the rows
of massive and rich architecture, the giddy pile of
the Campanile, the columns of granite, the masts of
triumph, and all those peculiar and remarkable fixtures,
which had witnessed so many scenes of violence,
of rejoicing, of mourning, and of gaiety, were
there, like land-marks of the earth, defying time;
beautiful and venerable in despite of all those varying
exhibitions of human passions, that were daily
acted around them.
But the song, the laugh, and the jest, had ceased.
The lights of the coffee-houses had disappeared, the
revellers had fled to their homes, fearful of being
confounded with those who braved the anger of the
senate, while the grotesque, the ballad-singers, and
the buffoon, had abandoned their assumed gaiety for
an appearance more in unison with the true feelings
of their hearts.
“Giustizia!—” cried a thousand deep voices, as
the body of Antonio was borne into the court—
“Illustrious Doge! Giustizia in palazzo, e pane in
piazza! Give us justice! We are beggars for
justice!”
The gloomy but vast court was paved with the
swarthy faces and glittering eyes of the fishermen.
The corpse was laid at the foot of the Giant's Stairs,
while the trembling halberdier at the head of the
flight, scarce commanded himself sufficiently to
maintain that air of firmness, which was exacted
by discipline and professional pride. But there was
no other show of military force, for the politic power,
which ruled in Venice, knew too well its momentary
impotency to irritate when it could not quell.
The mob beneath was composed of nameless rioters,
whose punishment could carry no other consequences
than the suppression of immediate danger, and for
that, those who ruled were not prepared.
The Council of Three had been apprized of the
arrival of the excited fishermen. When the mob
entered the court, it was consulting in secret conclave,
on the probabilities of the tumult having a
graver and more determined object, than was apparent
in the visible symptoms. The routine of
office had not yet dispossessed the men already presented
to the reader, of their dangerous and despotic
power.
“Are the Dalmatians apprized of this movement?”
asked one of the secret tribunal, whose nerves were
“We may have occasion for their volleys, ere this
riot is appeased.”
“Confide in the ordinary authorities for that, Signore,”
answered the Senator Gradenigo. “I have
only concern, lest some conspiracy, which may
touch the fidelity of the troops, lies concealed beneath
the outcry.”
“The evil passions of man know no limits! What
would the wretches have? For a state in the decline,
Venice is to the last degree prosperous. Our ships
are thriving; the bank flourishes with goodly dividends;
and I do assure you, Signore, that, for many
years, I have not known so ample revenues for most
of our interests, as at this hour. All cannot thrive
alike!”
“You are happily connected with flourishing affairs,
Signore, but there are many that are less lucky.
Our form of government is somewhat exclusive, and
it is a penalty that we have ever paid for its advantages,
to be liable to sudden and malevolent accusations,
for any evil turn of fortune that besets the
republic.”
“Can nothing satisfy these exacting spirits? Are
they not free—are they not happy?”
“It would seem that they want better assurance
of these facts, than our own feelings, or our words.”
“Man is the creature of envy! The poor desire
to be rich—the weak, powerful.”
“There is an exception to your rule, at least, Signore,
since the rich rarely wish to be poor, or the
powerful, weak.”
“You deride my sentiments, to-night, Signor Gradenigo.
I speak, I hope, as becomes a senator of
Venice, and in a manner that you are not unaccustomed
to hear!”
“Nay, the language is not unusual. But I fear
me, there is something unsuited to a falling fortune,
When a state is eminently flourishing, its subjects
overlook general defects, in private prosperity, but
there is no more fastidious commentator on measures
than your merchant of a failing trade.”
“This is their gratitude! Have we not converted
these muddy isles into a mart for half Christendom,
and now they are dissatisfied that they cannot retain
all the monopolies that the wisdom of our ancestors
has accumulated.”
“They complain much in your own spirit, Signore,—but
you are right in saying the present riot
must be looked to. Let us seek his highness, who
will go out to the people, with such patricians as
may be present, and one of our number as a witness:
more than that might expose our character.”
The Secret Council withdrew to carry this resolution
into effect, just as the fishermen in the court received
the accession of those who arrived by water.
There is no body so sensible of an increase of its
members as a mob. Without discipline, and dependent
solely on animal force for its ascendency, the
sentiment of physical power is blended with its very
existence. When they saw the mass of living beings
which had assembled within the wall of the ducal
palace, the most audacious of that throng became
more hardy, and even the wavering grew strong.
This is the reverse of the feeling which prevails
among those who are called on to repress this species
of violence, who generally gain courage as its exhibition
is least required.
The throng in the court was raising one of its
loudest and most menacing cries as the train of the
doge appeared, approaching by one of the long open
galleries of the principal floor of the edifice.
The presence of the venerable man who nominally
presided over that factitious state, and the long
training of the fishermen in habits of deference to
caused a sudden and deep silence. A
feeling of awe gradually stole over the thousand dark
faces that were gazing upwards, as the little cortege
drew near. So profound, indeed, was the stillness
caused by this sentiment, that the rustling of
the ducal robes was audible, as the prince, impeded
by his infirmities, and consulting the state usual to his
rank, slowly advanced. The previous violence of
the untutored fishermen, and their present deference
to the external state that met their eyes, had its origin
in the same causes;—ignorance and habit were
the parents of both.
“Why are ye assembled here, my children?”
asked the doge, when he had reached the summit
of the Giant's Stairs,—“and most of all, why have
ye come into the palace of your prince, with these
unbefitting cries?”
The tremulous voice of the old man was clearly
audible, for the lowest of its tones was scarcely interrupted
by a breath. The fishermen gazed at
each other, and all appeared to search for him who
might be bold enough to answer. At length one in
the centre of the crowded mass, and effectually concealed
from observation, cried, “Justice!”
“Such is our object,” mildly continued the prince;
“and such, I will add, is our practice. Why are ye
assembled here, in a manner so offensive to the state,
and so disrespectful to your prince?”
Still none answered. The only spirit of their
body, which had been capable of freeing itself from
the trammels of usage and prejudice, had deserted
the shell which lay on the lower step of the Giant's
Stairs.
“Will none speak?—are ye so bold with your
voices when unquestioned, and so silent when confronted?”
“Speak them fair, your highness,” whispered he
witness of the interview;—“the Dalmatians are
scarce yet apparelled.”
The prince bowed to advice which he well knew
must be respected, and he assumed his former tone.
“If none will acquaint me with your wants, I must
command you to retire, and while my parental heart
grieves—”
“Giustiza!” repeated the hidden member of the
crowd.
“Name thy wants, that we may know them.”
“Highness! deign to look at this!”
One bolder than the rest had turned the body of
Antonio to the moon, in a manner to expose the
ghastly features, and, as he spoke, he pointed towards
the spectacle he had prepared. The prince
started at the unexpected sight, and, slowly descending
the steps, closely accompanied by his companions
and his guards, he paused over the body.
“Has the assassin done this?” he asked, after
looking at the dead fisherman, and crossing himself.
“What could the end of one like this profit a Bravo?
—happly the unfortunate man hath fallen in a broil
of his class?”
“Neither, illustrious doge! we fear that Antonio
has suffered for the displeasure of St. Mark!”
“Antonio! Is this the hardy fisherman who
would have taught us how to rule in the state regatta!”
“Eccellenza, it is;” returned the simple laborer
of the Lagunes,—“and a better hand with a net, or
a truer friend in need, never rowed a gondola, to
or from the Lido. Diavalo! It would have done
your highness pleasure to have seen the poor old
Christian among us, on a saint's day, taking the
lead in our little ceremonies, and teaching us the
manner in which our fathers used to do credit to
the craft!”
“Or to have been with us, illustrious doge,” cried
another, for, the ice once broken, the tongues of a
mob soon grow bold, “in a merry-making, on the
Lido, when old Antonio was always the foremost in
the laugh, and the discreetest in knowing when to
be grave.”
The doge began to have dawning of the truth,
and he cast a glance aside to examine the countenance
of the unknown inquisitor.
“It is far easier to understand the merits of the
unfortunate man, than the manner of his death,” he
said, finding no explanation in the drilled members
of the face he had scrutinized. “Will any of your
party explain the facts?”
The principal speaker among the fishermen willingly
took on himself the office, and, in the desultory
manner of one of his habits, he acquainted the
doge with the circumstances connected with the
finding of the body. When he had done, the prince
again asked explanations, with his eye, from the senator
at his side, for he was ignorant whether the
policy of the state required an example, or simply a
death.”
“I see nothing in this, your Highness,” observed
he of the council, “but the chances of a fisherman.
The unhappy old man has come to his end by accident,
and it would be charity to have a few masses
said for his soul.”
“Noble senator!” exclaimed the fisherman, doubtingly,
“St. Mark was offended!”
“Rumor tells many idle tales of the pleasure and
displeasure of St. Mark. If we are to believe all
that the wit of men can devise, in affairs of this nature,
the criminals are not drowned in the Lagunes,
but in the Canale Orfano.”
“True, eccellenza, and we are forbidden to cast
our nets there, on pain of sleeping with the eels at
its bottom.”
“So much greater reason for believing that this
old man hath died by accident. Is there mark of
violence on his body?—for though the state could
scarcely occupy itself with such as he, some other
might. Hath the condition of the body been looked
to?”
“Eccellenza, it was enough to cast one of his
years into the centre of the Lagunes. The stoutest
arm in Venice could not save him.”
“There may have been violence in some quarrel,
and the proper authority should be vigilant. Here
is a Carmelito!—Father, do you know aught of
this?”
The monk endeavored to answer, but his voice
failed. He stared wildly about him, for the whole
scene resembled some frightful picture of the imagination,
and then folding his arms on his bosom, he
appeared to resume his prayers.
“Thou dost not answer, Friar?” observed the
doge, who had been as effectually deceived, by the
natural and indifferent manner of the inquisitor, as
any other of his auditors. “Where didst thou find
this body?”
Father Anselmo briefly explained the manner in
which he had been pressed into the service of the
fishermen.
At the elbow of the prince there stood a young
patrician, who, at the moment, filled no other office
in the state, than such as belonged to his birth. Deceived,
like the others, by the manner of the only
one who knew the real cause of Antonio's death, he
felt a humane and praiseworthy desire to make sure
that no foul play had been exercised towards the
victim.
“I have heard of this Antonio,” said this person,
who was called the Senator Soranzo, and who was
gifted by nature with feelings that, in any other
form of government, would have made him a philanthropist,—“and
Was it not said that Jacopo, the Bravo, was his
competitor?”
A low, meaning, and common murmur ran through
the throng.
“A man of his reputed passions and ferocity,
may well have sought to revenge defeat, by violence!”
A second, and a louder murmur denoted the effect
this suggestion had produced.
“Eccellenza, Jacopo deals in the stiletto!” observed
the half-credulous but still doubting fisherman.
“That is as may be necessary. A man of his art
and character may have recourse to other means to
gratify his malice. Do you not agree with me, Signore?”
The Senator Soranzo put this question, in perfect
good faith, to the unknown member of the secret
council. The latter appeared struck with the probability
of the truth of his companion's conjecture,
but contented himself, with a simple acknowledgment
to that effect, by bowing.
“Jacopo!—Jacopo!” hoarsely repeated voice
after voice in the crowd—“Jacopo has done this!
The best gondolier in Venice has been beaten by an
old fisherman, and nothing but blood could wipe out
the disgrace!”
“It shall be inquired into, my children, and
strict justice done,” said the doge, preparing to depart.
“Officers, give money for masses, that the soul
of the unhappy man be not the sufferer. Reverend
Carmelite, I commend the body to thy care, and
thou canst do no better service than to pass the
night in prayer, by its side.”
A thousand caps were waved in commendation
of this gracious command, and the whole throng
stood in silent respect, as the prince, followed by his
long, vaulted, gallery above.
A secret order of the Inquisition prevented the
appearance of the Dalmatians.
A few minutes later and all was prepared. A
bier and canopy were brought out of the adjoining
cathedral, and the corpse was placed upon the
former. Father Anselmo then headed the procession,
which passed through the principal gate of the
palace into the square, chanting the usual service.
The Piazzetta and the piazza were still empty.
Here and there, indeed, a curious face, belonging to
some agent of the police, or to some observer more
firm than common, looked out from beneath the
arches of the porticoes on the movements of the
mob, though none ventured to come within its influence.
But the fishermen were no longer bent on violence.
With the fickleness of men little influenced
by reflection, and subject to sudden and violent
emotions, a temperament which, the effect of a
selfish system, is commonly tortured into the reason
why it should never be improved, they had
abandoned all idea of revenge on the agents of the
police, and had turned their thoughts to the religious
services, which, being commanded by the
prince himself, were so flattering to their class.
It is true that a few of the sterner natures, among
them, mingled menaces against the Bravo, with
their prayers for the dead, but these had no other
effect on the matter in hand, than is commonly produced
by the by-players on the principal action of
the piece.
The great portal of the venerable church was
thrown open, and the solemn chant was heard issuing,
in responses, from among the quaint columns
and vaulted roofs within. The body of the lowly
and sacrificed Antonio was borne beneath that arch
and deposited in the nave. Candles glimmered before
the altar and around the ghastly person of the
dead, throughout the night; and the cathedral of
St. Mark was pregnant with all the imposing ceremonials
of the Catholic ritual, until the day once
more appeared.
Priest succeeded priest, in repeating the masses,
while the attentive throng listened, as if each of its
members felt that his own honor and importance
were elevated by this concession to one of their
number. In the square the maskers gradually reappeared,
though the alarm had been too sudden
and violent, to admit a speedy return to the levity
which ordinarily was witnessed in that spot, between
the setting and the rising of the sun.
| CHAPTER VI. The bravo | |