Authors: James Fenimore Cooper
The Lagunes were dotted with the boats of fishermen, and travellers
arrived and departed from the city by the well known channels of Fusina
and Mestre. Here, some adventurer from the north quitted the canals on
his return towards the Alps, carrying with him a pleasing picture of the
ceremonies he had witnessed, mingled with some crude conjectures of that
power which predominated in the suspected state; and there, a countryman
of the Main sought his little farm, satisfied with the pageants and
regatta of the previous day. In short, all seemed as usual, and the
events we have related remained a secret with the actors, and that
mysterious council which had so large a share in their existence.
As the day advanced, many a sail was spread for the pillars of Hercules
or the genial Levant, and feluccas, mystics, and golettas, went and came
as the land or sea-breeze prevailed. Still the mariner of Calabria
lounged beneath the awning which sheltered his deck, or took his siesta
on a pile of old sails, which were ragged with the force of many a hot
sirocco. As the sun fell, the gondolas of the great and idle began to
glide over the water; and when the two squares were cooled by the air of
the Adriatic, the Broglio began to fill with those privileged to pace
its vaulted passage. Among these came the Duke of Sant' Agata, who,
though an alien to the laws of the Republic, being of so illustrious
descent, and of claims so equitable, was received among the senators, in
their moments of ease, as a welcome sharer in this vain distinction. He
entered the Broglio at the wonted hour, and with his usual composure,
for he trusted to his secret influence at Rome, and something to the
success of his rivals, for impunity. Reflection had shown Don Camillo
that, as his plans were known to the council, they would long since have
arrested him had such been their intention; and it had also led him to
believe that the most efficient manner of avoiding the personal
consequences of his adventure was to show confidence in his own power to
withstand them. When he appeared, therefore, leaning on the arm of a
high officer of the papal embassy, and with an eye that spoke assurance
in himself, he was greeted, as usual, by all who knew him, as was due to
his rank and expectations. Still Don Camillo walked among the patricians
of the Republic with novel sensations. More than once he thought he
detected, in the wandering glances of those with whom he conversed,
signs of their knowledge of his frustrated attempt; and more than once,
when he least suspected such scrutiny, his countenance was watched, as
if the observer sought some evidence of his future intentions. Beyond
this none might have discovered that an heiress of so much importance
had been so near being lost to the state, or, on the other hand, that a
bridegroom had been robbed of his bride. Habitual art, on the part of
the state, and resolute but wary intention, on the part of the young
noble, concealed all else from observation.
In this manner the day passed, not a tongue in Venice, beyond those
which whispered in secret, making any allusion to the incidents of our
tale.
Just as the sun was setting a gondola swept slowly up to the water-gate
of the ducal palace. The gondolier landed, fastened his boat in the
usual manner to the stepping-stones, and entered the court. He wore a
mask, for the hour of disguise had come, and his attire was so like the
ordinary fashion of men of his class, as to defeat recognition by its
simplicity. Glancing an eye about him, he entered the building by a
private door.
The edifice in which the Doges of Venice dwelt still stands a gloomy
monument of the policy of the Republic, furnishing evidence, in itself,
of the specious character of the prince whom it held. It is built around
a vast but gloomy court, as is usual with nearly all of the principal
edifices of Europe. One of its fronts forms a side of the piazzetta so
often mentioned, and another lines the quay next the port. The
architecture of these two exterior faces of the palace renders the
structure remarkable. A low portico, which forms the Broglio, sustains
a row of massive oriental windows, and above these again lies a pile of
masonry, slightly relieved by apertures, which reverses the ordinary
uses of the art. A third front is nearly concealed by the cathedral of
St. Mark, and the fourth is washed by its canal. The public prison of
the city forms the other side of this canal, eloquently proclaiming the
nature of the government by the close approximation of the powers of
legislation and of punishment. The famous Bridge of Sighs is the
material, and we might add the metaphorical, link between the two. The
latter edifice stands on the quay, also, and though less lofty and
spacious, in point of architectural beauty it is the superior structure,
though the quaintness and unusual style of the palace are most apt to
attract attention.
The masked gondolier soon reappeared beneath the arch of the water-gate,
and with a hurried step he sought his boat. It required but a minute to
cross the canal, to land on the opposite quay, and to enter the public
door of the prison. It would seem that he had some secret means of
satisfying the vigilance of the different keepers, for bolts were drawn,
and doors unlocked, with little question, wherever he presented himself.
In this manner he quickly passed all the outer barriers of the place,
and reached a part of the building which had the appearance of being
fitted for the accommodation of a family. Judging from the air of all
around him, those who dwelt there took the luxury of their abode but
little into the account, though neither the furniture nor the rooms were
wanting in most of the necessaries suited to people of their class and
the climate, and in that age.
The gondolier had ascended a private stairway, and he was now before a
door which had none of those signs of a prison that so freely abounded
in other parts of the building. He paused to listen, and then tapped
with singular caution.
"Who is without?" asked a gentle female voice, at the same instant that
the latch moved and fell again, as if she within waited to be assured
of the character of her visitor before she opened the door.
"A friend to thee, Gelsomina," was the answer.
"Nay, here all are friends to the keepers, if words can be believed. You
must name yourself, or go elsewhere for your answer."
The gondolier removed the mask a little, which had altered his voice as
well as concealed his face.
"It is I, Gessina," he said, using the diminutive of her name.
The bolts grated, and the door was hurriedly opened.
"It is wonderful that I did not know thee, Carlo!" said the female, with
eager simplicity; "but thou takest so many disguises of late, and so
counterfeitest strange voices, that thine own mother might have
distrusted her ear."
The gondolier paused to make certain they were alone; then laying aside
the mask altogether, he exposed the features of the Bravo.
"Thou knowest the need of caution," he added, "and wilt not judge me
harshly."
"I said not that, Carlo—but thy voice is so familiar, that I thought it
wonderful thou could'st speak as a stranger."
"Hast thou aught for me?"
The gentle girl—for she was both young and gentle—hesitated.
"Hast thou aught new, Gelsomina?" repeated the Bravo, reading her
innocent face with his searching gaze.
"Thou art fortunate in not being sooner in the prison. I have just had a
visitor. Thou would'st not have liked to be seen, Carlo!"
"Thou knowest I have good reasons for coming masked. I might, or I might
not have disliked thy acquaintance, as he should have proved."
"Nay, now thou judgest wrong," returned the female, hastily—"I had no
other here but my cousin Annina."
"Dost thou think me jealous?" said the Bravo, smiling in kindness, as
he took her hand. "Had it been thy cousin Pietro, or Michele, or
Roberto, or any other youth of Venice, I should have no other dread than
that of being known."
"But it was only Annina—my cousin Annina, whom thou hast never
seen—and I have no cousins Pietro, and Michele, and Roberto. We are not
many, Carlo. Annina has a brother, but he never comes hither. Indeed it
is long since she has found it convenient to quit her trade to come to
this dreary place. Few children of sisters see each other so seldom as
Annina and I!"
"Thou art a good girl, Gessina, and art always to be found near thy
mother. Hast thou naught in particular for my ear?"
Again the soft eyes of Gelsomina, or Gessina, as she was familiarly
called, dropped to the floor; but raising them ere he could note the
circumstance, she hurriedly continued the discourse.
"I fear Annina will return, or I would go with thee at once."
"Is this cousin of thine still here, then?" asked the Bravo, with
uneasiness. "Thou knowest I would not be seen."
"Fear not. She cannot enter without touching that bell; for she is above
with my poor bed-ridden mother. Thou can'st go into the inner room as
usual, when she comes, and listen to her idle discourse, if thou wilt;
or—but we have not time—for Annina comes seldom, and I know not why,
but she seems to love a sick room little, as she never stays many
minutes with her aunt."
"Thou would'st have said, or I might go on my errand, Gessina?"
"I would, Carlo, but I am certain we should be recalled by my impatient
cousin."
"I can wait. I am patient when with thee, dearest Gessina."
"Hist!—'Tis my cousin's step. Thou canst go in."
While she spoke, a small bell rang, and the Bravo withdrew into the
inner room, like one accustomed to that place of retreat. He left the
door ajar—for the darkness of the closet sufficiently concealed his
person. In the meantime Gelsomina opened the outer door for the
admission of her visitor. At the first sound of the latter's voice,
Jacopo, who had little suspected the fact from a name which was so
common, recognised the artful daughter of the wine-seller.
"Thou art at thy ease, here, Gelsomina," cried the latter, entering and
throwing herself into a seat, like one fatigued. "Thy mother is better,
and thou art truly mistress of the house."
"I would I were not, Annina; for I am young to have this trust, with
this affliction."
"It is not so insupportable, Gessina, to be mistress within doors, at
seventeen! Authority is sweet, and obedience is odious."
"I have found neither so, and I will give up the first with joy,
whenever my poor mother shall be able to take command of her own family
again."
"This is well, Gessina, and does credit to the good father confessor.
But authority is dear to woman, and so is liberty. Thou wast not with
the maskers yesterday, in the square?"
"I seldom wear a disguise, and I could not quit my mother."
"Which means that thou would'st have been glad to do it. Thou hast a
good reason for thy regrets, since a gayer marriage of the sea, or a
braver regatta, has not been witnessed in Venice since thou wast born.
But the first was to be seen from thy window?"
"I saw the galley of state sweeping towards the Lido, and the train of
patricians on its deck; but little else."
"No matter. Thou shalt have as good an idea of the pageant as if thou
had'st played the part of the Doge himself. First came the men of the
guard with their ancient dresses—"
"Nay, this I remember to have often seen; for the same show is kept from
year to year."
"Thou art right; but Venice never witnessed such a brave regatta! Thou
knowest that the first trial is always between gondolas of many oars,
steered by the best esteemed of the canals. Luigi was there, and though
he did not win, he more than merited success, by the manner in which he
directed his boat. Thou knowest Luigi?"
"I scarce know any in Venice, Annina; for the long illness of my mother,
and this unhappy office of my father, keep me within when others are on
the canals."
"True. Thou art not well placed to make acquaintances. But Luigi is
second to no gondolier in skill or reputation, and he is much the
merriest rogue of them all, that put foot on the Lido."
"He was foremost, then, in the grand race?"
"He should have been, but the awkwardness of his fellows, and some
unfairness in the crossing, threw him back to be second. 'Twas a sight
to behold, that of many noble watermen struggling to maintain or to get
a name on the canals. Santa Maria! I would thou could'st have seen it,
girl!"
"I should not have been glad to see a friend defeated."
"We must take fortune as it offers. But the most wonderful sight of the
day, after all, though Luigi and his fellows did so well, was to see a
poor fisherman, named Antonio, in his bare head and naked legs, a man of
seventy years, and with a boat no better than that I use to carry
liquors to the Lido, entering on the second race, and carrying off the
prize!"
"He could not have met with powerful rivals?"
"The best of Venice; though Luigi, having strived for the first, could
not enter for the second trial. 'Tis said, too," continued Annina,
looking about her with habitual caution, "that one, who may scarce be
named in Venice, had the boldness to appear in that regatta masked; and
yet the fisherman won! Thou hast heard of Jacopo?"
"The name is common."
"There is but one who bears it now in Venice. All mean the same when
they say Jacopo."
"I have heard of a monster of that name. Surely he hath not dared to
show himself among the nobles, on such a festa!"
"Gessina, we live in an unaccountable country! The man walks the piazza
with a step as lordly as the Doge, at his pleasure, and yet none say
aught to him! I have seen him, at noonday, leaning against the triumphal
mast, or the column of San Theodoro, with as proud an air as if he were
put there to celebrate a victory of the Republic!"
"Perhaps he is master of some terrible secret, which they fear he will
reveal?"