 | CHAPTER XI. The bravo |  |
11. CHAPTER XI.
What passes in that chamber.”
Rogers.
There were many rumors, uttered in the fearful
and secret manner which characterized the manners
of the town, in the streets of Venice that day.
Hundreds passed near the granite columns, as if
they expected to see the Bravo occupying his accustomed
stand, in audacious defiance of the proclamation,
been permitted to appear in public, that men had
difficulty in persuading themselves he would quit
his habits so easily. It is needless to say that the
vague expectation was disappointed. Much was
also said, vauntingly, in behalf of the republic's justice,
for the humbled are bold enough in praising
their superiors; and he, who had been dumb for
years, on subjects of a public nature, now found his
voice like a fearless freeman.
But the day passed away without any new occurrence
to call the citizens from their pursuits.
The prayers for the dead were continued, with little
intermission, and masses were said before the
altars of half the churches, for the repose of the
fisherman's soul. His comrades, a little distrustful,
but greatly gratified, watched the ceremonies with
jealousy and exultation singularly blended. Ere
the night set in, again, they were among the most
obedient of those the oligarchy habitually trod upon;
for such is the effect of this species of domination,
that it acquires a power to appease, by its flattery,
the very discontents, created by its injustice. Such
is the human mind: a factitious but deeply-seated
sentiment of respect is created by the habit of submission,
which gives the subject of its influence a
feeling of atonement, when he who has long played
the superior comes down from his stilts, and confesses
the community of human frailties!
The square of St. Mark filled at the usual hour,
the patricians deserted the Broglio as of wont, and
the gaities of the place were again uppermost, before
the clock had struck the second hour of the
night. Gondolas, filled with noble dames, appeared
on the canals; the blinds of the palaces were raised
for the admission of the sea-breeze;—and music
began to be heard in the port, on the bridges, and
under the balconies of the fair. The course of society
wronged were unavenged, or the innocent suffered.
There stood, then, on the grand canal, as there
stand now, many palaces of scarcely less than royal
magnificence. The reader has had occasion to become
acquainted with one or two of these splendid
edifices, and it has now become our duty to convey
him, in imagination, to another.
The peculiarity of construction, which is a consequence
of the watery site of Venice, gives the
same general character to all the superior dwellings
of that remarkable town. The house to which the
thread of the narrative now leads us, had its water-gate,
its vestibule, its massive marble stairs, its
inner court, its magnificent suites of rooms above,
its pictures, its lustres, and its floors of precious
stones embedded in composition, like all those which
we have already found it necessary to describe.
The hour was ten, according to our own manner
of computing time. A small, but lovely family picture
presented itself, deep within the walls of the
patrician abode, to which we have alluded. There
was a father, a gentleman who had scarce attained
the middle age, with an eye in which spirit, intelligence,
philanthropy, and, at that moment, paternal
fondness were equally glowing. He tossed in his
arms, with parental pride, a laughing urchin of
some three or four years, who rioted in the amusement
which brought him, and the author of his being,
for a time, seemingly on a level. A fair Venetian
dame, with golden locks, and glowing cheeks,
such as Titian loved to paint her sex, reclined on a
couch nigh by, following the movements of both,
with the joint feelings of mother and wife, and
laughing in pure sympathy with the noisy merriment
of her young hope. A girl, who was the
youthful image of herself, with tresses that fell to
her waist, romped with a crowing infant, whose
evidence of its intelligence. Such was the
scene as the clock of the piazza told the hour.
Struck with the sound, the father set down the boy,
and consulted his watch.
“Dost thou use thy gondola to-night, love?” he
demanded.
“With thee, Paolo?”
“Not with me, dearest; I have affairs which will
employ me until twelve!”
“Nay, thou art given to cast me off, when thy
caprices are wayward.”
“Say not so. I have named to-night for an interview
with my agent, and I know thy maternal
heart too well, to doubt thy being willing to spare
me for that time, while I look to the interests of
these dear ones.”
The Donna Giulietta rang for her mantle and attendants.
The crowing infant and the noisy boy
were dismissed to their beds, while the lady and the
eldest child descended to the gondola. Donna Giulietta
was not permitted to go unattended to her
boat, for this was a family in which the inclinations
had fortunately seconded the ordinary calculations
of interest, when the nuptial knot was tied. Her
husband kissed her hand, fondly, as he assisted her
into the gondola, and the boat had glided some distance
from the palace, ere he quitted the moist
stones of the water-gate.
“Hast thou prepared the cabinet for my friends?”
demanded the Signor Soranzo, for it was the same
senator who had been in company with the doge,
when the latter went to meet the fishermen.
“Signore, si.”
“And the quiet, and the lights—as ordered?”
“Eccellenza, all will be done.”
“Thou hast placed seats for six—we shall be
six.”
“Signore, there are six armed chairs.”
“'Tis well: when the first of my friends arrive,
I will join them”
“Eccellenza, there are already two cavaliers in
masks, within.”
The Signor Soranzo started, again consulted his
watch, and went hastily towards a distant, and very
silent, part of the palace. He reached a small door
unattended, and, closing it, found himself at once
in the presence of those who evidently awaited his
appearance.
“A thousand pardons, Signori,” cried the master
of the house; “this is novel duty to me, at least
—I know not what may be your honorable experience—and
the time stole upon me unmarked. I
pray for grace, Messires; future diligence shall repair
the present neglect.”
Both the visitors were older men than their host,
and it was quite evident by their hardened visages
they were of much longer practice in the world.
His excuses were received with courtesy, and, for
a little time, the discourse was entirely of usage and
convention.
“We are in secret here, Signore?” asked one of
the guests, after some little time had been wasted in
this manner.
“As the tomb. None enter here unbidden, but
for my wife, and she has, this moment, taken boat, for
better enjoyment of the evening.”
“The world gives you credit, Signor Soranzo,
for a happy ménage. I hope you have duly considered
the necessity of shutting the door, even against
the Donna Giulietta to-night?”
“Doubt me not, Signore; the affairs of St. Mark
are paramount.”
“I feel myself thrice happy, Signori, that in drawing
a lot for the secret council, my good fortune
hath given me so excellent colleagues. Believe me,
less agreeable company.”
This flattering speech, which the wily old senator
had made regularly to all with whom chance had
associated him in the inquisition, during a long life,
was well received, and it was returned with equal
compliments.
“It would appear that the worthy Signor Alessandro
Gradenigo was one of our predecessors,” he
continued, looking at some papers; for though the
actual three were unknown, at the time being, to all,
but a few secretaries and officers of the state, Venetian
policy transmitted their names to their successors,
as a matter of course,—“a noble gentleman,
and one of great devotion to the state!”
The others assented, like men accustomed to speak
with caution.
“We were about to have entered on our duties
at a troublesome moment, Signori,” observed another.
“But it would seem that this tumult of the
fishermen has already subsided. I understand the
knaves had some reason for their distrust of the
state!”
“It is an affair happily settled,” answered the
senior of the three, who was long practised in the
expediency of forgetting all that policy required
should cease to be remembered, after the object was
attained. “The galleys must be manned, else would
St. Mark quickly hang his head in shame.”
The Signor Soranzo, who had received some
previous instruction in his new duties, looked melancholy;
but he, too, was merely the creature of a
system.
“Is there matter of pressing import for our reflection?”
he demanded.
“Signori, there is every reason to believe that the
state has just sustained a grievous loss. Ye both
well know the heiress of Tiepolo, by reputation at
kept you from her company.”
“Donna Giulietta is eloquent in praise of her beauty;”
said the young husband.
“We had not a better fortune in Venice,” rejoined
the third inquisitor.
“Excellent in qualities, and better in riches, as
she is, I fear we have lost her, Signori! Don Camillo
Monforte, whom God protect until we have no
future use for his influence! had come near to prevail
against us; but just as the state baffled his well-laid
schemes, the lady has been thrown by hazard
into the hands of the rioters, since which time there
is no account of her movements!”
Paolo Soranzo secretly hoped she was in the
arms of the Neapolitan.
“A secretary has communicated to me the disappearance
of the Duca di Sant' Agata, also,” observed
the third,—“nor is the felucca, usually employed
in distant and delicate missions, any longer
at her anchors.”
The two old men regarded each other, as if the
truth was beginning to dawn upon their suspicions.
They saw that the case was hopeless, and as theirs
was altogether a practical duty, no time was lost in
useless regrets.
“We have two affairs which press,” observed the
elder.—“The body of the old fisherman must be
laid quietly in the earth, with as little risk of future
tumult, as may be—and we have this notorious Jacopo
to dispose of.”
“The latter must first be taken;” said the Signor
Soranzo.
“That has been done already. Would you think
it, Sirs! he was seized in the very palace of the
doge!”
“To the block with him, without delay!”
The old men again looked at each other, and it
in previous councils, they had a secret intelligence,
to which their companion was yet a stranger.
There was also visible in their glances, something
like a design to manage his feelings, before they
came more openly to the graver practices of their
duties.
“For the sake of blessed St. Mark, Signori, let
justice be done openly in this instance!” continued
the unsuspecting member of the Three. “What
pity can the bearer of a common stiletto claim? and
what more lovely exercise of our authority than to
make public an act of severe and much-required
justice?”
The old senators bowed to this sentiment of their
colleague, which was uttered with the fervor of
young experience, and the frankness of an upright
mind; for there is a conventional acquiescence in
received morals, which is permitted, in semblance at
least, to adorn the most tortuous.
“It may be well, Signore Soranzo, to do this
homage to the right,” returned the elder. “Here
have been sundry charges found in different lions'
mouths, against the Neapolitan, Signor Don Camillo
Monforte. I leave it to your wisdom, my illustrious
colleagues, to decide on their character.”
“An excess of malice betrays its own origin,”
exclaimed the least-practised member of the Inquisition.
“My life on it, Signori, these accusations
come of private spleen, and are unworthy of the
state's attention. I have consorted much with the
young lord of Sant' Agata, and a more worthy gentleman
does not dwell among us.”
“Still hath he designs on the hand of old Tiepolo's
daughter!”
“Is it a crime in youth to seek beauty? He did
great service to the lady, in her need, and that youth
should feel these sympathies is nothing strange.”
“Venice hath her sympathies, as well as the
youngest of us all, Signore.”
“But Venice cannot wed the heiress!”
“True. St. Mark must be satisfied with playing
the prudent father's part. You are yet young, Signore
Soranzo, and the Donna Giulietta is of rare
beauty! As life wears upon ye both, ye will see the
fortunes of kingdoms, as well as families, differently.
But we waste our breath uselessly in this matter,
since our agents have not yet reported their success
in the pursuit. The most pressing affair, just now,
is the disposition of the Bravo. Hath his highness
shown you the letter of the sovereign pontiff, in the
question of the intercepted dispatches, Signore?”
“He hath. A fair answer was returned by our
predecessors, and it must rest there.”
“We will then look freely into the matter of
Jacopo Frontoni. There will be necessity of our
assembling in the chamber of the Inquisition, that
we may have the prisoner confronted to his accusers.
'Tis a grave trial, Signori, and Venice would lose in
men's estimation, were not the highest tribunal to
take an interest in its decision.”
“To the block with the villain!” again exclaimed
the Signor Soranzo.
“He may haply meet with that fate, or even with
the punishment of the wheel. A mature examination
will enlighten us much on the course, which
policy may dictate.”
“There can be but one policy when the protection
of the lives of our citizens is in question. I have
never before felt impatience to shorten the life of
man, but in this trial I can scarce brook delay.”
“Your honorable impatience shall be gratified,
Signor Soranzo; for, foreseeing the urgency of the
case, my colleague, the worthy senator, who is joined
with us in this high duty, and myself, have already
issued the commands necessary to that object. The
the Inquisition in time to our duty.”
The discourse then turned on subjects of a more
general concern. This secret and extraordinary
tribunal, which was obliged to confine its meetings
to no particular place, which could decide on its
decrees equally in the Piazza, or the palace, amidst
the revelries of the masquerade, or before the altar;
in the assemblies of the gay, or in their own closets,
had of necessity much ordinary matter submitted to
its inspection. As the chances of birth entered into
its original composition,—and God hath not made
all alike fit for so heartless a duty,—it sometimes
happened, as in the present instance, that the more
worldly of its members had to overcome the generous
disposition of a colleague, before the action of
the terrible machine could go on.
It is worthy of remark, that communities always
establish a higher standard of justice and truth, than
is exercised by their individual members. The reason
is not to be sought for, since nature hath left to
all a perception of that right, which is abandoned
only under the stronger impulses of personal temptation.
We commend the virtue we cannot imitate.
Thus it is that those countries, in which public opinion
has most influence, are always of the purest public
practice. It follows as a corollary from this proposition,
that a representation should be as real as possible,
for its tendency will be inevitably to elevate
national morals. Miserable, indeed, is the condition
of that people, whose maxims and measures of public
policy are below the standard of its private integrity,
for the fact not only proves it is not the master
of its own destinies, but the still more dangerous
truth, that the collective power is employed in the
fatal service of undermining those very qualities
which are necessary to virtue, and which have
enough to do, at all times, in resisting the attacks of
of all its interests is far more necessary to a worldly
than to a simple people, since responsibility, which
is the essence of a free government, is more likely
to keep the agents of a nation near to its own standard
of virtue than any other means. The common
opinion that a republic cannot exist, without an extraordinary
degree of virtue in its citizens, is so flattering
to our own actual condition, that we seldom
take the trouble to inquire into its truth; but, to us,
it seems quite apparent that effect is here mistaken
for the cause. It is said, as the people are virtually
masters in a republic, that the people ought to be
virtuous to rule well. So far as this proposition is
confined to degrees, it is just as true of a republic as
of any other form of government. But kings do
rule, and surely all have not been virtuous; and that
aristocracies have ruled with the very minimum of
that quality, the subject of our tale sufficiently shows.
That, other things being equal, the citizens of a republic
will have a higher standard of private virtue
than the subjects of any other form of government,
is true as an effect, we can readily believe, for responsibility
to public opinion existing in all the
branches of its administration, that conventional
morality, which characterizes the common sentiment,
will be left to act on the mass, and will not be
perverted into a terrible engine of corruption, as is
the case when factitious institutions give a false
direction to its influence.
The case before us was in proof of the truth of
what has here been said. The Signor Soranzo
was a man of great natural excellence of character,
and the charities of his domestic circle had assisted
in confirming his original dispositions. Like
others of his rank and expectations, he had, from
time to time, made the history and polity of the
self-styled republic his study, and the power of collective
him admit sundry theories, which, presented in another
form, he would have repulsed with indignation.
Still the Signor Soranzo was far from understanding
the full effects of that system, which he
was born to uphold. Even Venice paid that homage
to public opinion, of which there has just been question,
and held forth to the world but a false picture
of her true state maxims. Still many of those which
were too apparent to be concealed were difficult
of acceptance, with one whose mind was yet untainted
with practice; and the young senator rather
shut his eyes on their tendency, or, as he felt their
influence in every interest which environed him,
but that of poor, neglected, abstract virtue, whose
rewards were so remote, he was fain to seek out
some palliative, or some specious and indirect good
as the excuse for his acquiescence.
In this state of mind the Signor Soranzo was unexpectedly
admitted a member of the Council of
Three. Often, in the day-dreams of his youth, had
he contemplated the possession of this very irresponsible
power as the consummation of his wishes.
A thousand pictures of the good he would perform
had crossed his brain, and it was only as he advanced
in life, and came to have a near view of the
wiles which beset the best-intentioned, that he could
bring himself to believe most of that which he meditated
was impracticable. As it was, he entered
into the council with doubts and misgivings. Had
he lived in a later age, under his own system modified
by the knowledge which has been a consequence
of the art of printing, it is probable that the
Signor Soranzo would have been a noble in opposition,
now supporting with ardor some measure of
public benevolence, and now yielding, gracefully, to
the suggestions of a sterner policy, and always influenced
by the positive advantages he was born to
not all he professed to be. The fault, however, was
not so much that of the patrician as that of circumstances,
which, by placing interest in opposition to
duty, lures many a benevolent mind into still greater
weaknesses.
The companions of the Signor Soranzo, however,
had a more difficult task to prepare him for
the duties of the statesman, which were so very
different from those he was accustomed to perform
as a man, than they had anticipated. They were
like two trained elephants of the east, possessing
themselves all the finer instincts and generous qualities
of the noble animal, but disciplined by a force
quite foreign to their natural condition into creatures
of mere convention, placed one on each side
of a younger brother, fresh from the plains, and
whom it was their duty to teach new services for
the trunk, new affections, and haply the manner in
which to carry, with dignity, the howdah of a
Rajah.
With many allusions to their policy, but with no
direct intimation of their own intention, the seniors
of the council continued the conversation, until the
hour for the meeting in the doge's palace drew
nigh. They then separated, as privately as they
had come together, in order that no vulgar eye
might penetrate the mystery of their official character.
The most practised of the three appeared in an
assembly of the patricians, which noble and beautiful
dames graced with their presence, from which
he disappeared in a manner to leave no clue to his
motions. The other visited the death-bed of a
friend, where he discoursed long and well, with a
friar, of the immortality of the soul and the hopes
of a Christian: when he departed, the godly man
loud and eloquent in his praise.
The Signor Soranzo clung to the enjoyments of
his own family circle until the last moment. The
Donna Giulietta had returned, fresher and more
lovely than ever, from the invigorating sea-breeze,
and her soft voice, with the melodious laugh of his
first-born, the blooming, ringlet-covered girl described,
still rang in his ears, when his gondolier
landed him beneath the bridge of the Rialto. Here
he masked, and drawing his cloak about him, he
moved with the current towards the square of St.
Mark, by means of the narrow streets. Once in
the crowd, there was little danger of impertinent
observation. Disguise was as often useful to the
oligarchy of Venice, as it was absolutely necessary
to elude its despotism, and to render the town tolerable
to the citizen. Paolo saw swarthy, bare-legged
men of the Lagunes entering occasionally
into the cathedral. He followed, and found himself
standing near the dimly-lighted altar, at which
masses were still saying for the soul of Antonio.
“This is one of thy fellows?” he asked of a fisherman,
whose dark eye glittered in that light, like
the organ of a basilisk.
“Signore, he was—a more honest, or a more
just man, did not cast his net in the gulf.”
“He has fallen a victim to his craft?”
“Cospetto di Bacco! none know in what manner
he came by his end. Some say St. Mark was impatient
to see him in paradise, and some pretend,
he has fallen by the hand of a common Bravo,
named Jacopo Frontoni.”
“Why should a Bravo take the life of one like
this?”
“By having the goodness to answer your own
question, Signore, you will spare me some trouble.
Why should he, sure enough? They say Jacopo is
in the late regatta by one old as this, was the reason.”
“Is he so jealous of his honor with the oar?”
“Diamine! I have seen the time when Jacopo
would sooner die, than lose a race; but that was
before he carried a stiletto. Had he kept to his
oar, the thing might have happened, but once known
for the hired blow, it seems unreasonable he should
set his heart so strongly on the prizes of the canals.”
“May not the man have fallen into the Lagunes,
by accident?”
“No doubt, Signore. This happens to some of
us daily; but then we think it wiser to swim to the
boat, than to sink. Old Antonio had an arm in
youth, to carry him from the quay to the Lido.”
“But he may have been struck in falling, and
rendered unable to do himself this good office.”
“There would be marks to show this, were it
true, Signore!”
“Would not Jacopo have used the stiletto?”
“Perhaps not, on one like Antonio. The gondola
of the old man was found in the mouth of the
Grand Canal, half a league from the body, and
against the wind! we note these things, Signore,
for they are within our knowledge.”
“A happy night to thee, fisherman.”
“A most happy night, eccellenza;” said the laborer
of the Lagunes, gratified with having so long
occupied the attention of one he rightly believed so
much his superior. The disguised senator passed
on. He had no difficulty in quitting the cathedral
unobserved, and he had his private means of entering
the palace, without attracting any impertinent
eye to his movements. Here he quickly joined his
colleagues of the fearful tribunal.
| CHAPTER XI. The bravo | |