 | CHAPTER XIII. The bravo |  |
13. CHAPTER XIII.
“Art thou not guilty! No, indeed, I am not.”
Rogers.
The following morning brought the funeral of
Antonio. The agents of the police took the precaution
to circulate in the city, that the senate permitted
this honor to the memory of the old fisherman,
on account of his success in the regatta, and
as some atonement for his unmerited and mysterious
death. All the men of the Lagunes were assembled
in the square at the appointed hour, in decent
guise, flattered with the notice that their craft
their former anger in the present favor. Thus easy
is it for those who are elevated above their fellow-creatures
by the accident of birth, or by the opinions
of a factitious social organization, to repair the
wrongs they do in deeds, by small concessions of
their conventional superiority.
Masses were still chanted for the soul of old
Antonio before the altar of St. Mark. Foremost
among the priests was the good Carmelite, who
had scarce known hunger or fatigue, in his pious
desire to do the offices of the church, in behalf of
one, whose fate he might be said to have witnessed.
His zeal, however, in that moment of excitement
passed unnoticed by all, but those whose business it
was to suffer no unusual display of character, nor
any unwonted circumstance to have place, without
attracting their suspicion. As the Carmelite finally
withdrew from the altar, previously to the removal
of the body, he felt the sleeve of his robe slightly
drawn aside, and yielding to the impulse, he quickly
found himself among the columns of that gloomy
church, alone with a stranger.
“Father, thou hast shrived many a parting soul?”
observed, rather than asked, the other.
“It is the duty of my holy office, son.”
“The state will note thy services; there will be
need of thee when the body of this fisherman is
committed to the earth.”
The monk shuddered, but making the sign of the
cross, he bowed his pale face, in signification of his
readiness to discharge the duty. At that moment
the bearers lifted the body, and the procession issued
upon the great square. First marched the
usual lay underlings of the cathedral, who were
followed by those who chanted the offices of the
occasion. Among the latter the Carmelite hastened
to take his station. Next came the corpse, without
unknown to the Italians of old Antonio's degree.
The body was clad in the holiday vestments of a
fisherman, the hands and feet being naked. A cross
lay on the breast; the gray hairs were blowing
about in the air, and, in frightful adornment of the
ghastliness of death, a bouquet of flowers was
placed upon the mouth. The bier was rich in gilding
and carving, another melancholy evidence of
the lingering wishes and false direction of human
vanity.
Next to this characteristic equipage of the dead
walked a lad, whose brown cheek, half-naked body,
and dark, roving, eye, announced the grandson of
the fisherman. Venice knew when to yield gracefully,
and the boy was liberated, unconditionally,
from the galleys, in pity, as it was whispered, for
the untimely fate of his parent. There was the aspiring
look, the dauntless spirit, and the rigid honesty
of Antonio, in the bearing of the lad; but these
qualities were now smothered by a natural grief;
and, as in the case of him, whose funeral escort he
followed, something obscured by the rude chances
of his lot. From time to time the bosom of the
generous boy heaved, as they marched along the
quay, taking the route of the arsenal; and there
were moments that his lips quivered; grief threatening
to overcome his manhood.
Still not a tear wetted his cheek, until the body
disappeared from his view. Then nature triumphed,
and straying from out the circle, he took a seat apart
and wept, as one of his years and simplicity would
be apt to weep, at finding himself a solitary wanderer
in the wilderness of the world.
Thus terminated the incident of Antonio Vecchio,
the fisherman, whose name soon ceased to be mentioned
in that city of mysteries, except on the Lagunes,
where the men of his craft long vaunted his
away the prize from the best oars of Venice. His
descendant lived and toiled, like others of his condition,
and we will here dismiss him, by saying, that
he so far inherited the native qualities of his ancestor,
that he forbore to appear, a few hours later, in
the crowd, which curiosity and vengeance drew
into the Piazzetta.
Father Anselmo took boat to return to the canals,
and when he landed at the quay of the smaller
square, it was with the hope that he would now be
permitted to seek those of whose fate he was still
ignorant, but in whom he felt so deep an interest.
Not so, however. The individual who had addressed
him in the cathedral was, apparently, in waiting,
and knowing the uselessness, as well as the danger
of remonstrance, where the state was concerned,
the Carmelite permitted himself to be conducted
whither his guide pleased. They took a devious
route, but it led them to the public prisons. Here
the priest was shown into the keeper's apartment,
where he was desired to wait a summons from his
companion.
Our business now leads us to the cell of Jacopo.
On quitting the presence of the Three, he had been
remanded to his gloomy room, where he passed the
night like others similarly situated. With the appearance
of the dawn the Bravo had been led before
those who ostensibly discharged the duties of
his judges. We say ostensibly, for justice never
was yet pure under a system in which the governors
have an interest, in the least separated from that
of the governed; for in all cases which involve the
ascendency of the existing authorities, the instinct
of self-preservation is as certain to bias their decision,
as that of life is to cause man to shun danger.
If such is the fact in countries of milder sway, the
reader will easily believe in its existence in a state
those who sat in judgment on Jacopo had their instructions,
and the trial that he sustained was rather
a concession to appearances than an homage to
the laws. All the records were duly made, witnesses
were examined, or said to be examined, and
care was had to spread the rumor in the city, that
the tribunals were at length occupied in deciding on
the case of the extraordinary man, who had so
long been permitted to exercise his bloody profession
with impunity, even in the centre of the canals.
During the morning, the credulous tradesmen were
much engaged in recounting to each other the different
flagrant deeds that, in the course of the last
three or four years, had been imputed to his hand.
One spoke of the body of a stranger that had been
found near the gaming-houses, frequented by those
who visited Venice. Another recalled the fate of
the young noble, who had fallen by the assassin's
blow even on the Rialto, and another went into the
details of a murder, which had deprived a mother
of her only son, and the daughter of a patrician of
her love. In this manner, as one after another contributed
to the list, a little group, assembled on the
quay, enumerated no less than five-and-twenty lives,
which were believed to have been taken, by the
hand of Jacopo, without including the vindictive
and useless assassination of him whose funeral rites
had just been celebrated. Happily, perhaps, for his
peace of mind, the subject of all these rumors, and
of the maledictions which they drew upon his head,
knew nothing of either. Before his judges he had
made no defence whatever, firmly refusing to answer
their interrogatories.
“Ye know what I have done, Messires,” he said,
haughtily. “And what I have not done, ye know.
As for yourselves, look to your own interests.”
When again in his cell, he demanded food, and
which could possibly be used against his
life, was then removed, his irons were finally and
carefully examined, and he was left to his thoughts.
It was in this situation that the prisoner heard the
approach of footsteps to his cell. The bolts turned,
and the door opened. The form of a priest appeared
between him and the day. The latter, however,
held a lamp, which, as the cell was again shut and
secured, he placed on the low shelf that held the
jug and loaf of the prisoner.
Jacopo received his visitor calmly, but with the
deep respect of one who reverenced his holy office.
He arose, crossed himself, and advanced as far as
the chains permitted, to do him honor.
“Thou art welcome, father,” he said; “in cutting
me off from earth, the Council, I see, does not wish
to cut me off from God.”
“That would exceed their power, son. He who
died for them, shed his blood for thee, if thou wilt
not reject his grace. But—Heaven knows I say it
with reluctance! thou art not to think that one of
thy sins, Jacopo, can have hope without deep and
heartfelt repentance!”
“Father, have any?”
The Carmelite started, for the point of the question,
and the tranquil tones of the speaker, had a
strange effect in such an interview.
“Thou art not what I had supposed thee, Jacopo!”
he answered. “Thy mind is not altogether
obscured in darkness, and thy crimes have been
committed against the consciousness of their enormity.”
“I fear this is true, reverend monk.”
“Thou must feel their weight in the poignancy of
grief—in the—” Father Anselmo stopped, for a sob
at that moment, apprized them that they were
not alone. Moving aside, in a little alarm, the action
who had entered the cell, favored by the
keepers, and concealed by the robes of the Carmelite.
Jacopo groaned, when he beheld her form,
and turning away, he leaned against the wall.
“Daughter, why art thou here—and who art
thou?” demanded the monk.
“'Tis the child of the principal keeper,” said Jacopo,
perceiving that she was unable to answer,
“one known to me, in my frequent adventures in
this prison.”
The eye of father Anselmo wandered from one
to the other. At first its expression was severe,
and then, as it saw each countenance in turn, it became
less unkind, until it softened, at the exhibition
of their mutual agony.
“This comes of human passions!” he said, in a
tone between consolation and reproof. “Such are
ever the fruits of crime.”
“Father,” said Jacopo, with earnestness, “I may
deserve the word; but the angels in Heaven are
scarce purer than this weeping girl!”
“I rejoice to hear it. I will believe thee, unfortunate
man, and glad am I, that thy soul is relieved
from the sin of having corrupted one so youthful.”
The bosom of the prisoner heaved, while Gelsomina
shuddered.
“Why hast thou yielded to the weakness of nature,
and entered the cell?” asked the good Carmelite,
endeavoring to throw into his eye a reproof,
that the pathos and kindness of his tones contradicted.
“Didst thou know the character of the man
thou loved?”
“Immaculate Maria!” exclaimed the girl—“no—
no—no!”
“And now that thou hast learned the truth, surely
thou art no longer the victim of wayward fancies!”
The gaze of Gelsomina was bewildered, but anguish
prevailed over all other expression. She
bowed her head, partly in shame, but more in sorrow,
without answering.
“I know not, children, what end this interview
can answer,” continued the monk—“I am sent
hither to receive the last confession of a Bravo, and
surely, one who has so much cause to condemn the
deception he has practised, would not wish to hear
the details of such a life?”
“No—no—no—” murmured Gelsomina again,
enforcing her words with a wild gesture of the
hand.
“It is better, father, that she should believe me
all that her fancy can imagine as monstrous,” said
Jacopo, in a thick voice: “she will then learn to
hate my memory.”
Gelsomina did not speak, but the negative gesture
was repeated franticly.
“The heart of the poor child hath been sorely
touched,” said the Carmelite, with concern. “We
must not treat so tender a flower rudely. Hearken
to me, daughter, and consult thy reason, more than
thy weakness.”
“Question her not, father;—let her curse me,
and depart.”
“Carlo!” shrieked Gelsomina.
A long pause succeeded. The monk perceived
that human passion was superior to his art, and
that the case must be left to time; while the prisoner
maintained within himself, a struggle more fierce
than any which it had yet been his fate to endure.
The lingering desires of the world conquered, and
he broke silence.
“Father,” he said, advancing to the length of his
chain, and speaking both solemnly, and with dignity,
“I had hoped—I had prayed that this unhappy but
innocent creature might have turned from her own
that the man she loved was a Bravo.—But I did
injustice to the heart of woman!—Tell me, Gelsomina,
and as thou valuest thy salvation, deceive me
not—canst thou look at me without horror?”
Gelsomina trembled, but she raised her eyes, and
smiled on him as the weeping infant returns the
earnest and tender regard of its mother. The effect
of that glance on Jacopo was so powerful, that his
sinewy frame shook, until the wondering Carmelite
heard the clanking of his chains.
“'Tis enough,” he said, struggling to command
himself, “Gelsomina, thou shalt hear my confession.
Thou hast long been mistress of one great secret,
none other shall be hid from thee.”
“Antonio?” gasped the girl,—“Carlo! Carlo!
what had that aged fisherman done, that thy hand
should seek his life?”
“Antonio!” echoed the monk; dost thou stand
charged with his death, my son?”
“It is the crime for which I am condemned to
die.”
The Carmelite sank upon the stool of the prisoner,
and sat motionless, looking with an eye of horror,
from the countenance of the unmoved Jacopo,
to that of his trembling companion. The truth began
to dawn upon him, though his mind was still
enveloped in the web of Venetian mystery.
“Here is some horrible mistake!” he whispered.
“I will hasten to thy judges and undeceive them.”
The prisoner smiled calmly, as he reached out a
hand to arrest the zealous movement of the simple
Carmelite.
“'T will be useless,” he said; “it is the pleasure
of the Three, that I should suffer for old Antonio's
death.”
“Then wilt thou die unjustly!—I am a witness
that he fell by other hands.”
“Father!” shrieked Gelsomina, “oh! repeat the
words—say that Carlo could not do the cruel deed!”
“Of that murder, at least, is he innocent.”
“Gelsomina!” said Jacopo, struggling to stretch
forth his arms towards her, and yielding to a full
heart, “and of every other!”
A cry of wild delight burst from the lips of the
girl, who in the next instant lay senseless on his
bosom.
We draw the veil before the scene that followed.
Near an hour must pass before we can again remove
it. The cell then exhibited a group in its centre,
over which the lamp shed its feeble light, marking
the countenances of the different personages with
strong tints and deep shadows, in a manner to bring
forth all the force of Italian expression. The Carmelite
was seated on the stool, while Jacopo and
Gelsomina knelt beside him. The former of the two
last was speaking earnestly, while his auditors
caught each syllable that issued from his lips, as
if interest in his innocence were still stronger than
curiosity.
“I have told you, father,” he continued, “that a
false accusation of having wronged the customs,
brought my unhappy parent under the senate's displeasure,
and that he was many years an innocent
inhabitant of one of these accursed cells, while we
believed him in exile, among the islands. At length
we succeeded in getting such proof before the Council,
as ought to have satisfied the patricians of their
own injustice. I am afraid that when men pretend
that the chosen of the earth exercise authority, they
are not ready to admit their errors, for it would be
proof against the merit of their system. The Council
delayed a weary time to do us justice—so long,
that my poor mother sank under her sufferings. My
sister, a girl of Gelsomina's years, followed her
soon—for the only reason given by the state, when
sought her love, was guilty of the crime for which
my unhappy father perished.”
“And did they refuse to repair their injustice?”
exclaimed the Carmelite.
“They could not do it, father, without publishing
their fallibility. The credit of certain great patricians
was concerned, and I fear there is a morality
in these Councils, which separates the deed of the
man from those of the senators, putting policy before
justice.”
“This may be true, son; for when a community
is grounded on false principles, its interests must, of
necessity, be maintained by sophisms. God will
view this act with a different eye!”
“Else would the world be hopeless, father! After
years of prayers and interest, I was, under a solemn
oath of secrecy, admitted to my father's cell. There
was happiness in being able to administer to his
wants—in hearing his voice—in kneeling for his
blessing. Gelsomina was then a child approaching
womanhood. I knew not their motive, though after
thoughts left it no secret, and I was permitted to see
my father through her means. When they believed
that I was sufficiently caught in their toils, I was led
into that fatal error which has destroyed my hopes,
and brought me to this condition.”
“Thou hast affirmed thy innocence, my son!”
“Innocent of shedding blood, father, but not of
lending myself to their artifices. I will not weary
you, holy monk, with the history of the means by
which they worked upon my nature. I was sworn
to serve the state, as its secret agent, for a certain
time. The reward was to be my father's freedom.
Had they taken me in the world, and in my senses,
their arts would not have triumphed; but a daily
witness of the sufferings of him who had given me
life, and who was now all that was left me in the
whispered to me of racks and wheels, and I was
shown paintings of dying martyrs, that I might understand
the agony they could inflict. Assassinations
were frequent, and called for the care of the
police—in short, father”—Jacopo hid his face in the
dress of Gelsomina,—“I consented to let them circulate
such tales as might draw the eye of the public
on me. I need not add, that he who lends himself to
his own infamy, will soon attain his object.”
“With what end was this miserable falsehood
invented?”
“Father, I was applied to as to a public Bravo,
and my reports, in more ways than one, answered
their designs. That I saved some lives is at least
a consolation for the error, or crime, into which
I fell!”
“I understand thee, Jacopo. I have heard that
Venice did not hesitate to use the ardent, and brave,
in this manner. Holy St. Mark! can deceit like
this be practised under the sanction of thy blessed
name!”
“Father, it is, and more. I had other duties, connected
with the interests of the republic, and of
course I was practised in their discharge. The
citizens marvelled that one like me should go at
large, while the vindictive and revengeful took the
circumstance as a proof of address. When rumor
grew too strong for appearances, the Three took
measures to direct it to other things; and when it
grew too faint for their wishes, it was fanned. In
short, for three long and bitter years did I pass the
life of the damned—sustained only by the hope of
liberating my father, and cheered by the love of this
innocent!”
“Poor Jacopo, thou art to be pitied! I will remember
thee in my prayers.”
“And thou, Gelsomina?”
The keeper's daughter did not answer. Her ears
had drunk in each syllable that fell from his lips, and
now that the whole truth began to dawn on her
mind, there was a bright radiance in her eye, that
appeared almost supernatural to those who witnessed
it.
“If I have failed in convincing thee, Gelsomina,”
continued Jacopo, “that I am not the wretch I
seemed, would that I had been dumb!”
She stretched a hand towards him, and dropping
her head on his bosom, wept.
“I see all thy temptations, poor Carlo,” she said,
softly; “I know how strong was thy love for thy
father.”
“Dost thou forgive me, dearest Gelsomina, for the
deception on thy innocence?”
“There was no deception—I believed thee a son
ready to die for his father, and I find thee what I
thought thee.”
The good Carmelite regarded this scene with
eyes of interest and indulgence.—Tears wetted his
cheeks.
“Thy affection for each other, children,” he said,
“is such as angels might indulge.—Has thy intercourse
been of long date?”
“It has lasted years, father.”
“And thou, daughter, hast been with Jacopo in
the cell of his parent?”
“I was his constant guide, on these holy errands,
father.”
The monk mused deeply. After a silence of
several minutes, he proceeded to the duties of his
holy office. Receiving the spiritual confession of
the prisoner, he gave the absolution, with a fervor,
which proved how deeply his sympathies were enlisted
in behalf of the youthful pair. This duty
done, he gave Gelsomina his hand, and there was a
of Jacopo.
“We quit thee,” he said; “but be of heart, son.
I cannot think that even Venice will be deaf to a
tale like thine! Trust first to thy God—and, believe
that neither this faithful girl nor I will abandon thee,
without an effort.”
Jacopo received this assurance like one accustomed
to exist in extreme jeopardy. The smile which
accompanied his own adieux, had in it as much of
incredulity, as of melancholy. It was, however,
full of the joy of a lightened heart.
| CHAPTER XIII. The bravo | |