The Bravo (4 page)

"Gino," he said, in a tone of confidence and amity, "thou wert born on
my estates, though so long trained here to the oar in Venice, and thou
hast passed thy life in my service."

"Eccellenza, yes."

"It is my desire that thou should'st end thy days where they began. I
have had much confidence in thy discretion hitherto, and I have
satisfaction in saying it has never failed thee, notwithstanding thou
hast necessarily been a witness of some exploits of youth which might
have drawn embarrassment on thy master were thy tongue less disposed to
silence."

"Eccellenza, yes."

Don Camillo smiled; but the gleam of humor gave way to a look of grave
and anxious thought.

"As thou knowest the person of him I have named, our affair is simple.
Take this packet," he continued, placing a sealed letter of more than
usual size into the hand of the gondolier, and drawing from his finger a
signet ring, "with this token of thy authority. Within that arch of the
Doge's palace which leads to the canal of San Marco, beneath the Bridge
of Sighs, thou wilt find Jacopo. Give him the packet; and, should he
demand it, withhold not the ring. Wait his bidding, and return with the
answer."

Gino received this commission with profound respect, but with an awe he
could not conceal. Habitual deference to his master appeared to struggle
with deep distaste for the office he was required to perform; and there
was even some manifestation of a more principled reluctance, in his
hesitating yet humble manner. If Don Camillo noted the air and
countenance of his menial at all, he effectually concealed it.

"At the arched passage of the palace, beneath the Bridge of Sighs," he
coolly added; "and let thy arrival there be timed, as near as may be, to
the first hour of the night."

"I would, Signore, that you had been pleased to command Giorgio and me
to row you to Padua!"

"The way is long. Why this sudden wish to weary thyself?"

"Because there is no Doge's palace, nor any Bridge of Sighs, nor any dog
of Jacopo Frontoni among the meadows."

"Thou hast little relish for this duty; but thou must know that what the
master commands it is the duty of a faithful follower to perform. Thou
wert born my vassal, Gino Monaldi; and though trained from boyhood in
this occupation of a gondolier, thou art properly a being of my fiefs in
Napoli."

"St. Gennaro make me grateful for the honor, Signore! But there is not a
water-seller in the streets of Venice, nor a mariner on her canals, who
does not wish this Jacopo anywhere but in the bosom of Abraham. He is
the terror of every young lover, and of all the urgent creditors on the
islands."

"Thou seest, silly babbler, there is one of the former, at least, who
does not hold him in dread. Thou wilt seek him beneath the Bridge of
Sighs, and, showing the signet, deliver the package according to my
instructions."

"It is certain loss of character to be seen speaking with the miscreant!
So lately as yesterday, I heard Annina, the pretty daughter of the old
wine-seller on the Lido, declare, that to be seen once in company with
Jacopo Frontoni was as bad as to be caught twice bringing old rope from
the arsenal, as befell Roderigo, her mother's cousin."

"Thy distinctions savor of the morals of the Lido. Remember to exhibit
the ring, lest he distrust thy errand."

"Could not your eccellenza set me about clipping the wings of the lion,
or painting a better picture than Tiziano di Vecelli? I have a mortal
dislike even to pass the mere compliments of the day with one of your
cut-throats. Were any of our gondoliers to see me in discourse with the
man, it might exceed your eccellenza's influence to get me a place in
the regatta."

"If he detain thee, Gino, thou wilt wait his pleasure; and if he dismiss
thee at once, return hither with all expedition, that I may know the
result."

"I very well know, Signor Don Camillo, that the honor of a noble is more
tender of reproach than that of his followers, and that the stain upon
the silken robe of a senator is seen farther than the spot upon a velvet
jacket. If any one unworthy of your eccellenza's notice has dared to
offend, here are Giorgio and I, ready, at any time, to show how deeply
we can feel an indignity which touches our master's credit; but a
hireling of two, or ten, or even of a hundred sequins!"

"I thank thee for the hint, Gino. Go thou and sleep in thy gondola, and
bid Giorgio come into my cabinet."

"Signore!"

"Art thou resolute to do none of my biddings?"

"Is it your eccellenza's pleasure that I go to the Bridge of Sighs by
the footways of the streets, or by the canals?"

"There may be need of a gondola—thou wilt go with the oar."

"A tumbler shall not have time to turn round before the answer of Jacopo
shall be here."

With this sudden change of purpose the gondolier quitted the room, for
the reluctance of Gino disappeared the moment he found the confidential
duty assigned him by his master was likely to be performed by another.
Descending rapidly by a secret stair instead of entering the vestibule
where half a dozen menials of different employments were in waiting, he
passed by one of the narrow corridors of the palace into an inner court,
and thence by a low and unimportant gate into an obscure alley which
communicated with the nearest street.

Though the age is one of so great activity and intelligence, and the
Atlantic is no longer a barrier even to the ordinary amusements of life,
a great majority of Americans have never had an opportunity of
personally examining the remarkable features of a region, of which the
town that Gino now threaded with so much diligence is not the least
worthy of observation. Those who have been so fortunate as to have
visited Italy, therefore, will excuse us if we make a brief, but what we
believe useful digression, for the benefit of those who have not had
that advantage.

The city of Venice stands on a cluster of low sandy islands. It is
probable that the country which lies nearest to the gulf, if not the
whole of the immense plain of Lombardy itself, is of alluvial formation.
Whatever may have been the origin of that wide and fertile kingdom, the
causes which have given to the Lagunes their existence, and to Venice
its unique and picturesque foundation, are too apparent to be mistaken.
Several torrents which flow from the valleys of the Alps pour their
tribute into the Adriatic at this point. Their waters come charged with
the débris of the mountains, pulverized nearly to their original
elements. Released from the violence of the stream, these particles have
necessarily been deposited in the gulf, at the spot where they have
first become subjected to the power of the sea. Under the influence of
counteracting currents, eddies, and waves, the sands have been thrown
into submarine piles, until some of the banks have arisen above the
surface, forming islands, whose elevation has been gradually augmented
by the decay of vegetation. A glance at the map will show that, while
the Gulf of Venice is not literally, it is practically, considered with
reference to the effect produced by the south-east wind called the
Sirocco, at the head of the Adriatic. This accidental circumstance is
probably the reason why the Lagunes have a more determined character at
the mouths of the minor streams that empty themselves here than at the
mouths of most of the other rivers, which equally flow from the Alps or
the Apennines into the same shallow sea.

The natural consequence of a current of a river meeting the waters of
any broad basin, and where there is no base of rock, is the formation,
at or near the spot where the opposing actions are neutralized, of a
bank, which is technically called a bar. The coast of the Union
furnishes constant evidence of the truth of this theory, every river
having its bar, with channels that are often shifted, or cleared, by the
freshets, the gales, or the tides. The constant and powerful operation
of the south-eastern winds on one side, with the periodical increase of
the Alpine streams on the other, have converted this bar at the entrance
of the Venetian Lagunes, into a succession of long, low, sandy islands,
which extend in a direct line nearly across the mouth of the gulf. The
waters of the rivers have necessarily cut a few channels for their
passage, or, what is now a lagune, would long since have become a lake.
Another thousand years may so far change the character of this
extraordinary estuary as to convert the channels of the bay into rivers,
and the muddy banks into marshes and meadows, resembling those that are
now seen for so many leagues inland.

The low margin of sand that, in truth, gives all its maritime security
to the port of Venice and the Lagunes, is called the Lido di Palestrino.
It has been artificially connected and secured, in many places, and the
wall of the Lido (literally the beach), though incomplete, like most of
the great and vaunted works of the other hemisphere, and more
particularly of Italy, ranks with the mole of Ancona, and the sea-wall
of Cherbourg. The hundred little islands which now contain the ruins of
what, during the middle ages, was the mart of the Mediterranean, are
grouped together within cannon-shot of the natural barrier. Art has
united with nature to turn the whole to good account; and, apart from
the influence of moral causes, the rivalry of a neighboring town, which
has been fostered by political care, and the gradual filling up of the
waters, by the constant deposit of the streams, it would be difficult to
imagine a more commodious, or a safer haven when entered, than that
which Venice affords, even to this hour.

As all the deeper channels of the Lagunes have been preserved, the city
is intersected in every direction by passages, which from their
appearance are called canals, but which, in truth, are no more than so
many small natural branches of the sea. On the margin of these passages,
the walls of the dwellings arise literally from out of the water, since
economy of room has caused their owners to extend their possessions to
the very verge of the channel, in the manner that quays and wharfs are
pushed into the streams in our own country. In many instances the
islands themselves were no more than banks, which were periodically
bare, and on all, the use of piles has been necessary to support the
superincumbent loads of palaces, churches, and public monuments, under
which, in the course of ages, the humble spits of sand have been made
to groan.

The great frequency of the canals, and perhaps some attention to economy
of labor, has given to by far the greater part of the buildings the
facility of an approach by water. But, while nearly every dwelling has
one of its fronts on a canal, there are always communications by the
rear with the interior passages of the town. It is a fault in most
descriptions, that while the stranger hears so much of the canals of
Venice, but little is said of her streets: still, narrow, paved,
commodious, and noiseless passages of this description, intersect all
the islands, which communicate with each other by means of a countless
number of bridges. Though the hoof of a horse or the rumbling of a wheel
is never heard in these strait avenues, they are of great resort for all
the purposes of ordinary intercourse.

Gino issued into one of these thoroughfares when he quitted the private
passage which communicated with the palace of his master. He threaded
the throng by which it was crowded, with a dexterity that resembled the
windings of an eel among the weeds of the Lagunes. To the numerous
greetings of his fellows, he replied only by nods; nor did he once
arrest his footsteps, until they had led him through the door of a low
and dark dwelling that stood in a quarter of the place which was
inhabited by people of an inferior condition. Groping his way among
casks, cordage, and rubbish of all descriptions, the gondolier succeeded
in finding an inner and retired door that opened into a small room,
whose only light came from a species of well that descended between the
walls of the adjacent houses and that in which he was.

"Blessed St. Anne! Is it thou, Gino Monaldi!" exclaimed a smart Venetian
grisette, whose tone and manner betrayed as much of coquetry as of
surprise. "On foot, and by the secret door! Is this an hour to come on
any of thy errands?"

"Truly, Annina, it is not the season for affairs with thy father, and
it is something early for a visit to thee. But there is less time for
words than for action, just now. For the sake of San Teodoro, and that
of a constant and silly young man, who, if not thy slave, is at least
thy dog, bring forth the jacket I wore when we went together to see the
merry-making at Fusina."

"I know nothing of thy errand, Gino, nor of thy reason for wishing to
change thy master's livery for the dress of a common boatman. Thou art
far more comely with those silken flowers than in this faded velveteen;
and if I have ever said aught in commendation of its appearance, it was
because we were bent on merry-making, and being one of the party, it
would have been churlish to have withheld a word of praise to a
companion, who, as thou knowest, does not dislike a civil speech in his
own praise."

"Zitto, zitto! here is no merry-making and companions, but a matter of
gravity, and one that must be performed offhand. The jacket, if thou
lovest me!"

Annina, who had not neglected essentials while she moralized on motives,
threw the garment on a stool that stood within reach of the gondolier's
hand, as he made this strong appeal in a way to show that she was not to
be surprised out of a confession of this sort, even in the most
unguarded moment.

"If I love thee, truly! Thou hast the jacket, Gino, and thou mayest
search in its pockets for an answer to thy letter, which I do not thank
thee for having got the duca's secretary to indite. A maiden should be
discreet in affairs of this sort; for one never knows but he may make a
confidant of a rival."