 | CHAPTER VIII. The bravo |  |
8. CHAPTER VIII.
“Which is the wiser here?—Justice or iniquity?”
Measure for Measure.
In the constant struggle between the innocent and
the artful, the latter have the advantage, so long as
they confine themselves to familiar interests. But
the moment the former conquer their disgust for the
study of vice, and throw themselves upon the protection
of their own high principles, they are far
more effectually concealed from the calculations of
their adversaries, than if they practised the most
refined of their subtle expedients. Nature has given
to every man enough of frailty to enable him to estimate
the workings of selfishness and fraud, but her
truly privileged are those who can shroud their motives
and intentions in a degree of justice and disinterestedness,
which surpass the calculations of the
designing. Millions may bow to the commands of
a conventional right, but few, indeed, are they who
know how to choose in novel and difficult cases.
There is often a mystery in virtue. While the cunning
of vice is no more than a pitiful imitation of
the thin veil of deception, the other, in some degree,
resembles the sublimity of infallible truth.
Thus men, too much practised in the interests of
life, constantly overreach themselves, when brought
in contact with the simple and intelligent; and the
experience of every day proves, that, as there is no
fame permanent which is not founded on virtue, so
there is no policy secure which is not bottomed on
the good of the whole. Vulgar minds may control
the concerns of a community, so long as they are
limited to vulgar views; but woe to the people
who confide, on great emergencies, in any but the
honest, the noble, the wise, and the philanthropic;
for there is no security for success when the meanly
artful control the occasional and providential
events which regenerate a nation. More than half
the misery which has defeated, as well as disgraced,
civilization, proceeds from neglecting to use those
great men that are always created by great occasions.
Treating, as we are, of the vices of the Venetian
system, our pen has run truant with its subject,
since the application of the moral must be made on
the familiar scale suited to the incidents of our story.
It has already been seen that Gelsomina was intrusted
with certain important keys of the prison.
For this trust there had been sufficient motive with
the wily guardians of the jail, who had made their
calculations on her serving their particular orders,
without ever suspecting that she was capable of so
far listening to the promptings of a generous temper,
as might induce her to use them in any manner
prejudicial to their own views. The service to
which they were now to be applied, proved that the
keepers, one of which was her own father, had not
fully known how to estimate the powers of the innocent
and simple.
Provided with the keys in question, Gelsomina
took a lamp, and passed upward from the mezzinino
in which she dwelt, to the first floor of the edifice,
instead of descending to its court. Door was opened
after door, and many a gloomy corridor was
passed by the gentle girl, with the confidence of one
who knew her motive to be good. She soon crossed
the Bridge of Sighs, fearless of interruption in that
unfrequented gallery, and entered the palace. Here
she made her way to a door that opened on the
common and public vomitories of the structure.
Moving with sufficient care to make inpunity from
detection sure, she extinguished the light, and applied
the key. At the next instant she was on the
vast and gloomy stair-way. It required but a moment
to descend it, and to reach the covered gallery
which surrounded the court. A halberdier was
within a few feet of her. He looked at the unknown
female with interest; but as it was not his business
to question those who issued from the building, nothing
was said. Gelsomina walked on. A half-repenting,
but vindictive being, was dropping an accusation
in the lion's mouth. Gelsomina stopped
involuntarily, until the secret accuser had done his
treacherous work and departed. Then, when she
was about to proceed, she saw that the halberdier,
at the head of the Giant's stairway, was smiling at
her indecision, like one accustomed to such scenes.
“Is there danger in quitting the palace?” she
asked of the rough mountaineer.
“Corpo di Bacco! There might have been, an
hour since, Bella Donna; but the rioters are muzzled,
and at their prayers!”
Gelsomina hesitated no longer. She descended
the well-known flight, down which the head of Faliero
had rolled, and was soon beneath the arch of
the gate. Here the timid and unpractised girl again
stopped, for she could not venture into the square
cover, of the tranquillity of the place, into which she
was to enter.
The agents of the police had been too much
alarmed by the rising of the fishermen, not to call
their usual ingenuity and finesse into play, the moment
the disturbance was appeased. Money had
been given to the mountebanks and ballad-singers to
induce them to reappear, and groups of hirelings,
some in masks and others without concealment,
were ostentatiously assembled in different parts of
the piazza. In short, those usual expedients were
resorted to, which are constantly used to restore the
confidence of a people, in those countries in which
civilization is so new, that they are not yet considered
sufficiently advanced to be the guardians of
their own security. There are few artifices so shallow
that many will not be their dupes. The idler, the
curious, the really discontented, the factious, the designing,
with a suitable mixture of the unthinking,
and of those who only live for the pleasure of the
passing hour, a class not the least insignificant for
numbers, had lent themselves to the views of the police;
and when Gelsomina was ready to enter the
Piazzetta, she found both the squares partially filled.
A few excited fishermen clustered about the doors
of the cathedral, like bees swarming before their
hive; but, on that side, there was no very visible
cause of alarm. Unaccustomed as she was to scenes
like that before her, the first glance assured the gentle
girl of the real privacy which so singularly distinguishes
the solitude of a crowd. Gathering her
simple mantle more closely about her form, and settling
her mask with care, she moved with a swift
step into the centre of the piazza.
We shall not detail the progress of our heroine,
as, avoiding the commonplace gallantry that assailed
and offended her ear, she went her way, on her
her intentions, the square was soon passed, and she
reached the place of San Nico. Here was one of
the landings of the public gondolas. But, at the moment,
there was no boat in waiting, for curiosity or
fear had induced the men to quit their usual stand.
Gelsomina had ascended the bridge, and was on the
crown of its arch, when a gondolier came sweeping
lazily in from the direction of the Grand Canal.
Her hesitation and doubting manner attracted his
attention, and the man made the customary sign,
which conveyed the offer of his services. As she
was nearly a stranger to the streets of Venice, labyrinths,
that offer greater embarrassment to the uninitiated,
than perhaps the passages of any other
town of its size, she gladly availed herself of the
offer. To descend to the steps, to leap into the
boat, to utter the word “Rialto,” and to conceal
herself in the pavilion, was the business of a minute.
The boat was instantly in motion.
Gelsomina now believed herself secure of effecting
her purpose, since there was little to apprehend
from the knowledge, or the designs, of a common
boatman. He could not know her object, and it
was his interest to carry her, in safety, to the place
she had commanded. But so important was success,
that she could not feel secure of attaining it,
while it was still unaccomplished. She soon summoned
sufficient resolution to look out at the palaces
and boats they were passing, and she felt the refreshing
air of the canal revive her courage. Then
turning, with sensitive distrust, to examine the
countenance of the gondolier, she saw that his features
were concealed beneath a mask that was so
well designed, as not to be perceptible to a casual
observer by moonlight.
Though it was common, on occasions, for the
servants of the great, it was not usual for the public
was one justly to excite slight apprehension, though,
on second thoughts, Gelsomina saw no more in it,
than a return from some expedition of pleasure, or
some serenade, perhaps, in which the caution of a
lover had compelled his followers to resort to this
species of concealment.
“Shall I put you on the public quay, Signora,”
demanded the gondolier, “or shall I see you to the
gate of your own palace?”
The heart of Gelsomina beat high. She liked the
tone of the voice, though it was necessarily smothered
by the mask, but she was little accustomed to
act in the affairs of others, and less still in any of so
great interest, that the sounds caused her to tremble
like one less worthily employed.
“Dost thou know the palace of a certain Don
Camillo Monforte, a lord of Calabria, who dwells,
here, in Venice?” she asked, after a moment's pause.
The gondolier sensibly betrayed surprise, by the
manner in which he started at the question.
“Would you be rowed there, lady?”
“If thou art certain of knowing the palazzo.”
The water stirred, and the gondola glided between
high walls. Gelsomina knew, by the sound, that they
were in one of the smaller canals, and she augured
well of the boatman's knowledge of the town. They
soon stopped by the side of a water-gate, and the
man appeared on the step, holding an arm, to aid
her in ascending, after the manner of people of his
craft. Gelsomina bade him wait her return, and
proceeded.
There was a marked derangement in the household
of Don Camillo, that one more practised than
our heroine would have noted. The servants seemed
undecided, in the manner of performing the most
ordinary duties; their looks wandered distrustfully
from one to the other, and when their half-frightened
advanced to meet her. A female masked was not a
rare sight, in Venice, for few of that sex went upon
the canals, without using the customary means of
concealment; but it would seem, by their, hesitating
manner, that the menials of Don Camillo did not
view the entrance of her, who now appeared, with
the usual indifference.
“I am in the dwelling of the Duke of St. Agata,
a Signore of Calabria?” demanded Gelsomina, who
saw the necessity of being firm.
“Signora, si—”
“Is your lord in the palace?”
“Signora, he is—and he is not. What beautiful
lady shall I tell him does him this honor?”
“If he be not at home, it will not be necessary to
tell him any thing. If he is, I could wish to see him.”
The domestics, of whom there were several, put
their heads together, and seemed to dispute on the
propriety of receiving the visit. At this instant, a
gondolier, in a flowered jacket, entered the vestibule.
Gelsomina took courage at his good-natured eye and
frank manner.
“Do you serve Don Camillo Monforte?” she asked,
as he passed her, on his way to the canal.
“With the oar, Bellissima Donna,” answered
Gino, touching his cap, though scarce looking aside
at the question.
“And could he be told that a female wishes
earnestly to speak to him in private?—A female.”
“Santa Maria! Bella Donna, there is no end to
females who come on these errands, in Venice. You
might better pay a visit to the statue of San Teodore,
in the piazza, than see my master at this moment;
the stone will give you the better reception.”
“And this he commands you to tell all of my sex
who come!”
“Diavolo!—Lady, you are particular in your
receive one of the sex, I could name, but on the
honor of a gondolier he is not the most gallant
cavalier of Venice, just at this moment.”
“If there is one to whom he would pay this deference,
you are bold for a servitor. How know you
I am not that one?”
Gino started. He examined the figure of the applicant,
and lifting his cap he bowed.
“Lady, I do not know any thing about it,” he said;
“you may be his Highness the Doge, or the ambassador
of the emperor. I pretend to know nothing
in Venice, of late—”
The words of Gino were cut short by a tap on
the shoulder from the public gondolier, who had
hastily entered the vestibule. The man whispered
in the ear of Don Camillo's servitor.
“This is not a moment to refuse any,” he said.—
“Let the stranger go up.”
Gino hesitated no longer. With the decision of a
favored menial he pushed the groom of the chambers
aside, and offered to conduct Gelsomina, himself,
to the presence of his master. As they ascended
the stairs, three of the inferior servants disappeared.
The palace of Don Camillo had an air of more
than Venetian gloom. The rooms were dimly
lighted, many of the walls had been stripped of the
most precious of their pictures, and, in other respects
a jealous eye might have detected evidence
of a secret intention, on the part of its owner, not
to make a permanent residence of the dwelling.
But these were particulars that Gelsomina did not
note, as she followed Gino through the apartments,
into the more private parts of the building. Here
the gondolier unlocked a door, and regarding his
companion with an air, half-doubting, half-respectful,
he made a sign for her to enter.
“My master commonly receives the ladies, here,”
of his happiness.”
Gelsomina did not hesitate, though she felt a violent
throb at the heart, when she heard the key
turning in the lock, behind her. She was in an antechamber,
and, inferring from the light which shone
through the door of an adjoining room, that she
was to proceed, she went on. No sooner had she
entered the little closet, than she found herself alone
with one of her own sex.
“Annina!” burst from the lips of the unpractised
prison-girl, under the impulse of surprise.
“Gelsomina!—The simple, quiet, whispering,
modest, Gelsomina!” returned the other.
The words of Annina admitted but of one construction.
Wounded, like the bruised sensitive plant,
Gelsomina withdrew her mask, for air, actually
gasping for breath, between offended pride and
wonder.
“Thou here!” she added, scarce knowing what
she uttered.
“Thou here!” repeated Annina, with such a
laugh, as escapes the degraded, when they believe
the innocent reduced to their own level.
“Nay—I come on an errand of pity.”
“Santa Maria! we are both here with the same
end!”
“Annina! I know not what thou would'st say!—
This is surely the palace of Don Camillo Monforte!
—A noble Neapolitan, who urges claims to the honors
of the senate?”
“The gayest—the handsomest—the richest, and
the most inconstant cavalier in Venice! Hadst thou
been here, a thousand times, thou could'st not be
better informed!”
Gelsomina listened in horror. Her artful cousin,
who knew her character to the full extent that vice
can comprehend innocence, watched her colorless
At the first moment, she had believed all that she
insinuated, but second thoughts, and a view of the
visible distress of the frightened girl, gave a new
direction to her suspicions.
“But I tell thee nothing new,” she quickly added.
“I only regret thou should'st find me, where, no
doubt, you expected to meet the Duca di Sant'
Agata himself.”
“Annina!—This from thee!”
“Thou surely didst not come to his palace to
seek thy cousin!”
Gelsomina had long been familiar with grief, but
until this moment she had never felt the deep humiliation
of shame. Tears started from her eyes, and
she sunk back into a seat, in utter inability to stand.
“I would not distress thee out of bearing,” added
the artful daughter of the wine-seller. “But that
we are both in the closet of the gayest cavalier of
Venice, is beyond dispute.”
“I have told thee that pity for another brought
me hither.”
“Pity for Don Camillo.”
“For a noble lady—a young, a virtuous, and a
beautiful wife—a daughter of the Tiepolo—of the
Tiepolo, Annina!”
“Why should a lady of the Tiepolo employ a
girl of the public prisons!”
“Why!—because there has been injustice by
those up above. There has been a tumult among
the fishermen—and the lady with her governess
were liberated by the rioters—and his Highness
spoke to them in the great court—and the Dalmatians
were on the quay—and the prison was a refuge
for ladies of their quality, in a moment of so
great terror—and the Holy Church itself has blessed
their love—”
Gelsomina could utter no more, but breathless with
soul by the strange embarrassment of her situation,
she sobbed aloud. Incoherent as had been her language,
she had said enough to remove every doubt
from the mind of Annina. Privy to the secret marriage,
to the rising of the fishermen, and to the departure
of the ladies, from the convent on a distant
island, where they had been carried on quitting
their own palace, the preceding night, and whither
she had been compelled to conduct Don Camillo,
who had ascertained the departure of those he
sought without discovering their destination, the
daughter of the wine-seller readily comprehended,
not only the errand of her cousin, but the precise
situation of the fugitives.
“And thou believest this fiction, Gelsomina?”
she said, affecting pity for her cousin's credulity.
“The characters of thy pretended daughter of Tiepolo
and her governess are no secrets to those who
frequent the piazza of San Marco.”
“Hadst thou seen the beauty and innocence of
the lady, Annina, thou would'st not say this!”
“Blessed San Theodoro! What is more beautiful
than vice! 'Tis the cheapest artifice of the devil
to deceive frail sinners. This thou hast heard of
thy confessor, Gelsomina, or he is of much lighter
discourse than mine.”
“But why should a woman of this life enter the
prisons?”
“They had good reasons to dread the Dalmatians,
no doubt. But, it is in my power to tell thee
more, of these thou hast entertained, with such
peril to thine own reputation. There are women
in Venice who discredit their sex in various ways,
and these, more particularly she who calls herself
Florinda, is notorious for her agency in robbing St.
Mark of his revenue. She has received a largess,
from the Neapolitan, of wines grown on his Calabrian
honesty, she offered the liquor to me, expecting one
like me to forget my duty, and to aid her in deceiving
the republic.”
“Can this be true, Annina!”
“Why should I deceive thee? Are we not sister's
children, and though affairs on the Lido keep
me much from thy company, is not the love between
us natural? I complained to the authorities,
and the liquors were seized, and the pretended noble
ladies were obliged to hide themselves this very
day. 'Tis thought they wish to flee the city, with
their profligate Neapolitan. Driven to take shelter,
they have sent thee to acquaint him with their
hiding-place, in order that he may come to their
aid.”
“And why art thou here, Annina?”
“I marvel that thou didst not put the question
sooner. Gino, the gondolier of Don Camillo, has
long been an unfavorable suitor of mine, and when
this Florinda complained of my having, what every
honest girl in Venice should do, exposed her fraud
to the authorities, he advised his master to seize me,
partly in revenge, and partly with the vain hope of
making me retract the complaint I have made. Thou
hast heard of the bold violence of these cavaliers
when thwarted in their wills.”
Annina then related the manner of her seizure,
with sufficient exactitude, merely concealing those
facts that it was not her interest to reveal.
“But there is a lady of the Tiepolo, Annina!”
“As sure as there are cousins like ourselves.
Santa Madre di Dio! that women so treacherous
and so bold should have met one of thy innocence!
It would have been better had they fallen in with
me, who am too ignorant for their cunning, blessed
St. Anna knows!—but who has not to learn their
true characters.”
“They did speak of thee, Annina!”
The glance, which the wine-seller's daughter
threw at her cousin, was such as the treacherous
serpent casts at the bird; but preserving her self-possession,
she added—
“Not to my favor; it would sicken me to hear
words of favor from such as they!”
“They are not thy friends, Annina.”
“Perhaps they told thee, child, that I was in the
employment of the council?”
“Indeed they did.”
“No wonder. Your dishonest people can never
believe one can do an act of pure conscience.
But, here comes the Neapolitan.—Note the libertine,
Gelsomina, and thou wilt feel for him the same disgust
as I!”
The door opened, and Don Camillo Monforte entered.
There was an appearance of distrust in his
manner, which proved that he did not expect to
meet his bride. Gelsomina arose, and, though bewildered
by the tale of her cousin, and her own
previous impressions, she stood resembling a meek
statue of modesty, awaiting his approach. The
Neapolitan was evidently struck by her beauty, and
the simplicity of her air, but his brow was fixed,
like that of a man who had steeled his feelings
against deceit.
“Thou would'st see me?” he said.
“I had that wish, noble Signore, but—Annina—”
“Seeing another, thy mind hath changed.”
“Signore, it has.”
Don Camillo looked at her earnestly, and with
manly regret.
“Thou art young for thy vocation—here is gold.
Retire as thou camest.—But hold—dost thou know
this Annina?”
“She is my mother's sister's daughter, noble
Duca.”
“Per Diana! a worthy sisterhood! Depart together,
for I have no need of either. But mark
me,” and as he spoke, Don Camillo took Annina by
the arm, and led her aside, when he continued with
a low but menacing voice—“Thou see'st I am to
be feared, as well as thy Councils. Thou canst not
cross the threshold of thy father without my knowledge.
If prudent, thou wilt teach thy tongue discretion.
Do as thou wilt, I fear thee not; but remember,
prudence,”
Annina made an humble reverence, as if in acknowledgment
of the wisdom of his advice, and taking
the arm of her half-unconscious cousin, she again
curtsied, and hurried from the room. As the presence
of their master in his closet was known to
them, none of the menials presumed to stop those
who issued from the privileged room. Gelsomina,
who was even more impatient than her wily companion
to escape from a place she believed polluted,
was nearly breathless when she reached the gondola.
Its owner was in waiting on the steps, and
in a moment the boat whirled away from a spot,
which both of those it contained were, though for
reasons so very different, glad to quit.
Gelsomina had forgotten her mask, in her hurry;
and the gondola was no sooner in the great canal
than she put her face at the window of the pavilion
in quest of the evening air. The rays of the moon
fell upon her guileless eye, and a cheek that was
now glowing, partly with offended pride, and partly
with joy at her escape from a situation she felt
to be so degrading. Her forehead was touched
with a finger, and turning she saw the gondolier
making a sign of caution. He then slowly lifted
his mask.
“Carlo!” had half burst from her lips, but another
sign suppressed the cry.
Gelsomina withdrew her head, and, after her
face and murmured thanksgivings, at finding herself,
at such a moment, under the protection of one who
possessed all her confidence.
The gondolier asked no orders for his direction.
The boat moved on, taking the direction of the port,
which appeared perfectly natural to the two females.
Annina supposed it was returning to the square,
the place she would have sought had she been alone,
and Gelsomina, who believed that he whom she
called Carlo, toiled regularly as a gondolier for support,
fancied, of course, that he was taking her to
her ordinary residence.
But though the innocent can endure the scorn of
the world, it is hard indeed to be suspected by those
they love. All that Annina had told her of the
character of Don Camillo and his associates came
gradually across the mind of the gentle Gelsomina,
and she felt the blood creeping to her temples, as she
saw the construction her lover might put on her
conduct. A dozen times did the artless girl satisfy
herself with saying inwardly, “he knows me and
will believe the best,” and as often did her feelings
prompt her to tell the truth. Suspense is far more
painful, at such moments, than even vindication,
which, in itself, is a humiliating duty to the virtuous.
Pretending a desire to breathe the air, she left her
cousin in the canopy. Annina was not sorry to be
alone, for she had need to reflect on all the windings
of the sinuous path on which she had entered.
Gelsomina succeeded in passing the pavilion, and
in gaining the side of the gondolier.
“Carlo!”—she said, observing that he continued
to row in silence.
“Gelsomina!”
“Thou hast not questioned me!”
“I know thy treacherous cousin, and can believe
will come.”
“Thou didst not know me, Carlo, when I called
thee from the bridge?”
“I did not—Any fare that would occupy my time
was welcome.”
“Why dost thou call Annina treacherous?”
“Because Venice does not hold a more wily heart,
or a falser tongue.”
Gelsomina remembered the warning of Donna
Florinda. Possessed of the advantage of blood, and
that reliance which the inexperienced always place
in the integrity of their friends, until exposure comes
to destroy the illusion, Annina had found it easy to
persuade her cousin of the unworthiness of her
guests. But here was one who had all her sympathies,
who openly denounced Annina herself. In
such a dilemma the bewildered girl did what nature
and her feelings suggested. She recounted, in a low
but rapid voice, the incidents of the evening, and
Annina's construction of the conduct of the females
whom she had left behind in the prison.
Jacopo listened so intently that his oar dragged in
the water.
“Enough,” he said, when Gelsomina, blushing
with her own earnestness to stand exculpated in his
eyes, had done; “I understand it all. Distrust thy
cousin, for the senate itself is not more false.”
The pretended Carlo spoke cautiously, but in a
firm voice. Gelsomina took his meaning, though
wondering at what she heard, and returned to Annina
within. The gondola proceeded, as if nothing
had occurred.
| CHAPTER VIII. The bravo | |