 | CHAPTER XIV. The bravo |  |
14. CHAPTER XIV.
Is free, and quick with virtuous wrath to accuse
Appearances; and views a criminal
In innocence's shadow.”
Werner.
The Carmelite and Gelsomina found the keepers
in waiting, and when they quitted the cell, its door
was secured for the night. As they had no farther
concerns with the jailers, they passed on unquestioned.
But when the end of the corridor, which led
towards the apartments of the keeper, was reached,
the monk stopped.
“Art thou equal to a great effort, in order that
the innocent shall not die?” he suddenly asked,
though with a solemnity that denoted the influence
of a high and absorbing motive.
“Father!”
“I would know if thy love for the youth can sustain
he will surely perish!”
“I would die to save Jacopo a pang!”
“Deceive not thyself, daughter!—Canst thou forget
thy habits, overstep the diffidence of thy years
and condition; stand and speak fearlessly, in the
presence of the great and dreaded?”
“Reverend Carmelite, I speak daily, without fear,
though not without awe, to one more to be dreaded
than any in Venice.”
The monk looked in admiration at the gentle being,
whose countenance was glowing with the mild
resolution of innocence and affection, and he motioned
for her to follow.
“We will go, then, before the proudest and the
most fearful of earth, should there be occasion,” he
resumed. “We will do our duty to both parties; to
the oppressor and the oppressed, that the sin of
omission lie not on our souls.”
Father Anselmo, without further explanation, led
the obedient girl into that part of the palace, which
was known to be appropriated to the private uses of
the titular head of the republic.
The jealousy of the Venetian patricians, on the
subject of their doge, is matter of history. He
was, by situation, a puppet in the hands of the nobles,
who only tolerated his existence, because the
theory of their government required a seeming agent
in the imposing ceremonies that formed part of their
specious system, and in their intercourse with other
states. He dwelt, in his palace, like the queen-bee
in the hive, pampered and honored to the eye, but
in truth devoted to the objects of those who alone
possess the power to injure, and perhaps we might
add, like the insect named, known for consuming
more than a usual portion of the fruits of the common
industry.
Father Anselmo was indebted to his own decision,
the private apartments of a prince, thus secluded
and watched. He was permitted to pass by
various sentinels, who imagined, from his holy calling
and calm step, that he was some friar employed
in his usual and privileged office. By this easy,
quiet, method did the Carmelite and his companion
penetrate to the very antechamber of the sovereign,
a spot that thousands had been defeated in attempting
to reach, by means more elaborate.
There were merely two or three drowsy inferior
officers of the household in waiting. One arose,
quickly, at the unexpected appearance of these unknown
visitors, expressing, by the surprise and the
confusion of his eye, the wonder into which he was
thrown by so unlooked-for guests.
“His highness waits for us, I fear?” simply observed
father Anselmo, who had known how to
quiet his concern, in a look of passive courtesy.
“Santa Maria! holy father, you should know
best, but—”
“We will not lose more time in idle words, son,
when there has already been this delay—show us
to the closet of his highness.”
“It is forbidden to usher any, unannounced, into
the presence—”
“Thou seest this is not an ordinary visit.—Go,
inform the doge that the Carmelite he expects, and
the youthful maiden, in whom his princely bosom
feels so parental an interest, await his pleasure.”
“His highness has then commanded—”
“Tell him, moreover, that time presses; for the
hour is near when innocence is condemned to suffer.”
The usher was deceived by the gravity and assurance
of the monk. He hesitated, and then throwing
open a door, he showed the visitors into an
inner room, where he requested them to await his
to the closet of his master.
It has already been shown that the reigning doge,
if such a title can be used of a prince who was
merely a tool of the aristocracy, was a man advanced
in years. He had thrown aside the cares
of the day, and, in the retirement of his privacy,
was endeavoring to indulge those human sympathies
that had so little play in the ordinary duties
of his factitious condition, by holding intercourse with
the mind of one of the classics of his country. His
state was laid aside for lighter ease and personal
freedom. The monk could not have chosen a happier
moment for his object, since the man was undefended
by the usual appliances of his rank, and
he was softened by communion with one who had
known how to mould and temper the feelings of his
readers at will. So entire was the abstraction of
the doge, at the moment, that the usher entered unheeded,
and had stood in respectful attention to his
sovereign's pleasure, near a minute before he was
seen.
“What would'st thou, Marco?” demanded the
prince, when his eye rose from the page.
“Signore,” returned the officer, using the familiar
manner in which those nearest to the persons
of princes are permitted to indulge—“here are the
reverend Carmelite, and the young girl, in waiting.”
“How sayest thou?—a Carmelite, and a girl!”
“Signore, the same. Those whom your highness
expects.”
“What bold pretence is this!”
“Signore, I do but repeat the words of the monk.
`Tell his highness,' said the father, `that the Carmelite
he wishes to see, and the young girl, in
whose happiness his princely bosom feels so parental
an interest, await his pleasure.' ”
There passed a glow, in which indignation was
old prince, and his eye kindled.
“And this to me—even in my palace!”
“Pardon, Signore.—This is no shameless priest,
like so many that disgrace the tonsure. Both monk
and girl have innocent and harmless looks, and I
do suspect your highness may have forgotten.”
The bright spots disappeared from the prince's
cheeks, and his eye regained its paternal expression.
But age, and experience in his delicate duties,
had taught the Doge of Venice caution. He
well knew that memory had not failed him, and he
at once saw that a hidden meaning lay concealed
beneath an application so unusual. There might be
a device of his enemies, who were numerous and
active, or, in truth, there might be some justifiable
motive to warrant the applicant in resorting to a
measure so hardy.
“Did the Carmelite say more, good Marco?” he
asked, after deep reflection.
“Signore, he said there was great urgency, as
the hour was near when the innocent might suffer.
I doubt not that he comes with a petition in behalf
of some young indiscreet, for there are said to be
several young nobles arrested for their follies in the
carnival. The female may be a sister disguised.”
“Bid one of thy companions come hither; and,
when I touch my bell, do thou usher these visitors
to my presence.”
The attendant withdrew, taking care to pass into
the antechamber, by doors that rendered it unnecessary
to show himself, too soon, to those who expected
his return. The second usher quickly made
his appearance, and was immediately dispatched in
quest of one of the Three, who was occupied with
important papers, in an adjoining closet. The senator
was not slow to obey the summons, for he appeared
admitted publicly, and with the customary honors.
“Here are visitors of an unusual character, Signore,”
said the doge, rising to receive him whom
he had summoned in precaution to himself, “and I
would have a witness of their requests.”
“Your highness does well to make us of the senate
share your labors; though if any mistaken opinion
of the necessity has led you to conceive it important
to call a counsellor each time a guest enters
the palace—”
“It is well, Signore,” mildly interrupted the
prince, touching the bell. “I hope my importunity
has not deranged you. But here come those I expect.”
Father Anselmo and Gelsomina entered the closet
together. The first glance convinced the doge that
he received strangers. He exchanged looks with
the member of the secret council, and each saw in
the other's eye, that the surprise was mutual.
When fairly in the presence, the Carmelite threw
back his cowl, entirely exposing the whole of his
ascetic features, while Gelsomina, awed by the rank
of him who received them, shrunk abashed, partly
concealed by his robes.
“What means this visit?” demanded the prince,
whose finger pointed to the shrinking form of the
girl, while his eye rested steadily on that of the
monk, “and that unusual companion? Neither the
hour, nor the mode, is customary.”
Father Anselmo stood before the Venetian sovereign
for the first time. Accustomed, like all of
that region, and more especially in that age, to calculate
his chances of success warily, before venturing
to disburthen his mind, the monk fastened a
penetrating look on his interrogator.
“Illustrious prince,” he said, “we come petitioners
for justice. They who are thus commissioned had
their righteous office, discredit.”
“Justice is the glory of St. Mark, and the happiness
of his subjects. Thy course, father, is not according
to established rules, and wholesome restraints,
but it may have its apology—name thy errand.”
“There is one in the cells, condemned of the public
tribunals, and he must die with the return of
day, unless your princely authority interfere to save
him.”
“One condemned of the tribunals may merit his
fate.”
“I am the ghostly adviser of the unhappy youth,
and in the execution of my sacred office, I have
learned that he is innocent.”
“Didst thou say, condemned of the common
judges, father?”
“Sentenced to die, highness, by a decree of the
criminal tribunals.”
The prince appeared relieved. So long as the
affair had been public, there was at least reason to
believe he might indulge his love of the species, by
listening farther, without offence to the tortuous
policy of the state. Glancing his eye at the motionless
inquisitor, as if to seek approbation, he advanced
a step nearer to the Carmelite, with increasing
interest in the application.
“By what authority, reverend priest, dost thou
impeach the decision of the judges?” he demanded.
“Signore, as I have just said, in virtue of knowledge
gained in the exercise of my holy office. He has
laid bare his soul to me, as one whose feet were in
the grave; and, though offending, like all born of
woman, towards his God, he is guiltless as respects
the state.”
“Thinkest thou, father, that the law would ever
reach its victim, were we to listen only to self-accusations?
troublesome cap,” pointing to the horned bonnet,
which lay near his hand, the symbol of his state,
“and in my day, I do not recall the criminal that
has not fancied himself the victim of untoward circumstances.”
“That men apply this treacherous solace to their
consciences, one of my vocation has not to learn.
Our chief task is to show the delusion of those,
who, while condemning their own sins, by words
of confession and self-abasement, make a merit of
humility; but, Doge of Venice, there is still a virtue
in the sacred rite I have this evening been required
to perform, which can overcome the mounting of
the most exalted spirit. Many attempt to deceive
themselves, at the confessional, while, by the power
of God, few succeed.”
“Praised be the blessed mother and the incarnate
son, that it is so!” returned the prince, struck by
the mild faith of the monk, and crossing himself,
reverently. “Father, thou hast forgotten to name
the condemned?”
“It is a certain Jacopo Frontoni;—a reputed
bravo.”
The start, the changing color, and the glance of
the prince of Venice, were full of natural surprise.
“Callest thou the bloodiest stiletto that ever disgraced
the city, the weapon of a reputed bravo!
The arts of the monster have prevailed over thy experience,
monk!—the true confession of such a
wretch, would be but a history of bloody and revolting
crimes.”
“I entered his cell with this opinion, but I left it
convinced that the public sentiment has done him
wrong. If your highness will deign hear his tale,
you will think him a fit subject for your pity, rather
than for punishment.”
“Of all the criminals of my reign, this is the
was aught to be said!—Speak, freely, Carmelite;
for curiosity is as strong as wonder.”
So truly did the Doge give utterance to his feelings,
that he momentarily forgot the presence of
the inquisitor, whose countenance might have
shown him that the subject was getting to be grave.
The monk ejaculated a thanksgiving, for it was
not always easy, in that city of mystery, to bring truth
to the ears of the great. When men live under a
system of duplicity, more or less of the quality gets
interwoven with the habits of the most ingenuous,
although they may remain, themselves, unconscious
of the taint. Thus father Anselmo, as he proceeded
with the desired explanation, touched more tenderly
on the practices of the state, and used more
of reserve in alluding to those usages and opinions,
which one of his holy calling and honest nature,
under other circumstances, would have fearlessly
condemned.
“It may not be known to one of your high condition,
sovereign prince,” resumed the Carmelite,
“that an humble, but laborious mechanic of this city,
a certain Francesco Frontoni, was long since condemned
for frauds against the republic's revenue.
This is a crime St. Mark never fails to visit with
his heavy displeasure, for when men place the
goods of the world before all other considerations,
they mistake the objects which have brought them
together in social union.”
“Father, thou wert speaking of a certain Francesco
Frontoni?”
“Highness, such was his name. The unhappy
man had taken into his confidence and friendship,
one, who, pretending to his daughter's love, might
appear to be the master of his secrets. When this
false suitor stood on the verge of detection, for offences
against the customs, he laid a snare of deception,
drew the anger of the state on his too confiding
friend. Francesco was condemned to the cells, until
he might reveal facts which never had an existence.”
“This is a hard fate, reverend friar, could it be
but proved!”
“'Tis the evil of secrecy and intrigue, great doge,
in managing the common interests!—”
“Hast thou more of this Francesco, monk?”
“His history is short, Signore; for at the age when
most men are active in looking to their welfare, he
was pining in a prison.”
“I remember to have heard of some such accusation—but
it occurred in the reign of the last doge—
did it not, father?”
“And he has endured to near the close of the
reign of this, highness!”
“How! The senate, when apprized of the error
of its judgment, was not slow to repair the wrong!”
The monk regarded the prince earnestly, as if he
would make certain whether the surprise he witnessed
was not a piece of consummate acting. He felt
convinced that the affair was one of that class of
acts, which, however oppressive, unjust, and destructive
of personal happiness, had not sufficient
importance to come before them, who govern under
systems which care more for their own preservation,
than for the good of the ruled. “Signor
Doge,” he said, “the state is discreet in matters that
touch its own reputation. There are reasons that I
shall not presume to examine, why the cell of poor
Francesco was kept closed, long after the death and
confession of his accuser left his innocence beyond
dispute.”
The prince mused, and then he bethought him to
consult the countenance of his companion. The
marble of the pilaster, against which he leaned, was
The man had learned to smother every
natural impulse in the assumed and factitious duties
of his office.
“And what has this case of Francesco to do with
the execution of the Bravo?” demanded the doge,
after a pause, in which he had in vain struggled to
assume the indifference of his counsellor.
“That I shall leave this prison-keeper's daughter
to explain—stand forth, child, and relate what you
know, remembering, if you speak before the prince
of Venice, that you also speak before the King of
Heaven!”
Gelsomina trembled, for one of her habits, however
supported by her motives, could not overcome
a nature so retiring without a struggle. But faithful
to her promise, and sustained by her affection for
the condemned, she advanced a step, and stood no
longer concealed by the robes of the Carmelite.
“Thou art the daughter of the prison-keeper?”
asked the prince mildly, though surprise was strongly
painted in his eye.
“Highness, we are poor, and we are unfortunate;
we serve the state for bread.”
“Ye serve a noble master, child. Dost thou know
aught of this Bravo?”
“Dread sovereign, they that call him thus, know
not his heart! One more true to his friends, more
faithful to his word, or more suppliant with the saints,
than Jacopo Frontoni, is not in Venice!”
“This is a character which art might appropriate,
even to a bravo. But we waste the moments.—
What have these Frontoni, in common?”
“Highness, they are father and son. When Jacopo
came to be of an age to understand the misfortunes
of his family, he wearied the senators with applications
in his father's behalf, until they commanded the
door of the cell to be secretly opened to a child so
cannot have all-seeing eyes, else could this wrong
never have happened. But Francesco wasted years
in cells, chill and damp in winter, and scorching in
summer, before the falsehood of the accusation was
known. Then, as some relief to sufferings so little
merited, Jacopo was admitted.”
“With what object, girl?”
“Highness, was it not in pity? They promised
too, that in good time, the service of the son should
buy the father's liberty. The patricians were slow
to be convinced, and they made terms with poor
Jacopo, who agreed to undergo a hard service, that
his father might breathe free air, before he died.”
“Thou dealest in enigmas.”
“I am little used, great doge, to speak in such a
presence, or on such subjects. But this I know, that
for three weary years hath Jacopo been admitted to
his father's cell, and that those up above consented
to the visits; else would my father have denied them.
I was his companion in the holy act, and will call
the blessed Maria and the saints—”
“Girl, didst thou know him for a bravo?”
“Oh! Highness, no. To me he seemed a dutiful
child, fearing God and honoring his parent. I hope
never to feel another pang, like that which chilled
my heart, when they said, he I had known as the
kind Carlo, was hunted in Venice as the abhorred
Jacopo! But it is passed, the Mother of God be
praised!”
“Thou art betrothed to this condemned man?”
The color did not deepen on the cheek of Gelsomina,
at this abrupt question, for the tie between her
and Jacopo had become too sacred, for the ordinary
weaknesses of her sex.
“Highness, yes; we were to be married, should
it have pleased God, and those great senators who
poor, to permit it.”
“And thou art still willing, knowing the man, to
pledge thy vows to one like Jacopo!”
“It is because I do know him to be as he is, that
I most reverence him, great doge. He has sold his
time and his good name to the state, in order to
save his imprisoned father, and in that I see nothing
to frighten one he loves.”
“This affair needs explanation, Carmelite. The
girl has a heated fancy, and she renders that obscure
she should explain.”
“Illustrious prince, she would say that the republic
was content to grant the son the indulgence
of visiting the captive, with some encouragement
of his release, on condition that the youth might
serve the police by bearing a bravo's reputation.”
“And for this incredible tale, father, you have the
word of a condemned criminal!”
“With the near view of death before his eyes.
There are means of rendering truth evident, familiar
to those who are often near the dying penitents,
that are unknown to those of the world.
In any case, Signore, the matter is worthy of investigation.”
“In that thou art right. Is the hour named for
the execution?”
“With the morning light, prince.”
“And the father?”
“Is dead.”
“A prisoner, Carmelite!”
“A prisoner, Prince of Venice.”
There was a pause.
“Hast thou heard of the death of one named
Antonio?”
“Signore, yes. By the sacred nature of my holy
office, do I affirm that of this crime is Jacopo innocent!
I shrived the fisherman.”
The doge turned away, for the truth began to
dawn upon him, and the flush which glowed on his
aged cheek, contained a confession that might not
be observed by every eye. He sought the glance
of his companion, but his own expression of human
feeling was met by the disciplined features of
the other, as light is coldly repelled from polished
stone.
“Highness!” added a tremulous voice.
“What would'st thou, child?”
“There is a God for the republic, as well as for
the gondolier! Your highness will turn this great
crime from Venice?”
“Thou art of plain speech, girl!”
“The danger of Carlo has made me bold. You
are much beloved by the people, and none speak
of you, that they do not speak of your goodness,
and of your desire to serve the poor. You are the
root of a rich and happy family, and you will not
—nay, you cannot if you would, think it a crime
for a son to devote all to a father. You are our
father, and we have a right to come to you, even
for mercy—but, highness, I ask only for justice.”
“Justice is the motto of Venice.”
“They who live in the high favor of providence
do not always know what the unhappy undergo.
It has pleased God to afflict my own poor mother,
who has griefs that, but for her patience and Christian
faith, would have been hard to bear. The
little care I had it in my power to show, first caught
Jacopo's eye, for his heart was then full of the duty
of the child. Would your highness consent to see
poor Carlo, or to command him to be brought hither,
his simple tale would give the lie to every foul slander
they have dared to say against him.
“It is unnecessary—it is unnecessary. Thy faith
in his innocence, girl, is more eloquent than any
words of his can prove.”
A gleam of joy irradiated the face of Gelsomina,
who turned eagerly to the listening monk, as she
continued—
“His highness listens,” she said, “and we shall
prevail!” Father, they menace in Venice, and
alarm the timid, but they will never do the deed we
feared. Is not the God of Jacopo my God, and
your God?—the God of the senate, and of the doge?
—of the Council, and of the republic? I would the
secret members of the Three could have seen poor
Jacopo, as I have seen him, coming from his toil,
weary with labor, and heart-broken with delay, enter
the winter or the summer cell—chilling or scorching
as the season might be—and struggling to be cheerful,
that the falsely accused might not feel a greater
weight of misery.—Oh! venerable and kind prince,
you little know the burthen that the feeble are often
made to carry, for to you life has been sunshine;
but there are millions who are condemned to do
that they lothe, that they may not do that they
dread.”
“Child, thou tell'st me nothing new.”
“Except in convincing you, highness, that Jacopo
is not the monster they would have him. I do
not know the secret reasons of the councils for
wishing the youth to lend himself to a deception
that had nigh proved so fatal; but all is explained,
we have naught now to fear. Come, father; we
will leave the good and just doge to go to rest, as
suits his years, and we will return to gladden the
heart of Jacopo with our success, and thank the
blessed Maria for her favor.”
“Stay!” exclaimed the half-stifled old man. “Is
this true that thou tellest me, girl:—Father, can it
be so!”
“Signore, I have said all that truth and my conscience
have prompted.”
The prince seemed bewildered, turning his look
member of the Three.
“Come hither, child,” he said, his voice trembling
as he spoke. “Come hither, that I may bless thee.”
Gelsomina sprang forward, and knelt at the feet of
her sovereign. Father Anselmo never uttered a
clearer or more fervent benediction than that which
fell from the lips of the prince of Venice. He
raised the daughter of the prison-keeper, and motioned
for both his visitors to withdraw. Gelsomina
willingly complied, for her heart was already in
the cell of Jacopo, in the eagerness to communicate
her success; but the Carmelite lingered to cast a
look behind, like one better acquainted with the
effects of worldly policy, when connected with the
interests of those who pervert governments to the
advantage of the privileged. As he passed through
the door, however, he felt his hopes revive, for he
saw the aged prince, unable any longer to suppress
his feelings, hastening towards his still silent companion,
with both hands extended, eyes moistening
with tears, and a look that betrayed the emotions
of one anxious to find relief in human sympathies.
| CHAPTER XIV. The bravo | |