The Bravo, James Fenimore Cooper [best book reader .txt] 📗

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.


In the constant struggle between the innocent and the artful, the latter have the advantage, so long as they confine themselves to familiar interests. But the moment the former conquer their disgust for the study of vice, and throw themselves upon the protection of their own high principles, they are far more effectually concealed from the calculations of their adversaries than if they practised the most refined of their subtle expedients. Nature has given to every man enough of frailty to enable him to estimate the workings of selfishness and fraud, but her truly privileged are those who can shroud their motives and intentions in a degree of justice and disinterestedness, which surpass the calculations of the designing. Millions may bow to the commands of a conventional right, but few, indeed, are they who know how to choose in novel and difficult cases. There is often a mystery in virtue. While the cunning of vice is no more than a pitiful imitation of that art which endeavors to cloak its workings in the thin veil of deception, the other, in some degree, resembles the sublimity of infallible truth.

Thus men too much practised in the interests of life, constantly overreach themselves when brought in contact with the simple and intelligent; and the experience of every day proves that, as there is no fame permanent which is not founded on virtue, so there is no policy secure which is not bottomed on the good of the whole. Vulgar minds may control the concerns of a community so long as they arc limited to vulgar views; but woe to the people who confide on great emergencies in any but the honest, the noble, the wise, and the philanthropic; for there is no security for success when the meanly artful control the occasional and providential events which regenerate a nation. More than half the misery which has defeated as well as disgraced civilization, proceeds from neglecting to use those great men that are always created by great occasions.

Treating, as we are, of the vices of the Venetian system, our pen has run truant with its subject, since the application of the moral must be made on the familiar scale suited to the incidents of our story. It has already been seen that Gelsomina was intrusted with certain important keys of the prison. For this trust there had been sufficient motive with the wily guardians of the jail, who had made their calculations on her serving their particular orders, without ever suspecting that she was capable of so far listening to the promptings of a generous temper, as might induce her to use them in any manner prejudicial to their own views. The service to which they were now to be applied proved that the keepers, one of whom was her own father, had not fully known how to estimate the powers of the innocent and simple.

Provided with the keys in question, Gelsomina took a lamp and passed upwards from the mezzinino in which she dwelt, to the first floor of the edifice, instead of descending to its court. Door was opened after door, and many a gloomy corridor was passed by the gentle girl, with the confidence of one who knew her motive to be good. She soon crossed the Bridge of Sighs, fearless of interruption in that unfrequented gallery, and entered the palace. Here she made her way to a door that opened on the common and public vomitories of the structure. Moving with sufficient care to make impunity from detection sure, she extinguished the light and applied the key. At the next instant she was on the vast and gloomy stairway. It required but a moment to descend it, and to reach the covered gallery which surrounded the court. A halberdier was within a few feet of her. He looked at the unknown female with interest; but as it was not his business to question those who issued from the building, nothing was said. Gelsomina walked on. A half-repenting but vindictive being was dropping an accusation in the lion's mouth. Gelsomina stopped involuntarily until the secret accuser had done his treacherous work and departed. Then, when she was about to proceed, she saw that the halberdier at the head of the Giant's stairway was smiling at her indecision, like one accustomed to such scenes.

"Is there danger in quitting the palace?" she asked of the rough mountaineer.

"Corpo di Bacco! There might have been an hour since, Bella Donna; but the rioters are muzzled and at their prayers."

Gelsomina hesitated no longer. She descended the well known flight, down which the head of Faliero had rolled, and was soon beneath the arch of the gate. Here the timid and unpractised maid again stopped, for she could not venture into the square without assuring herself, like a deer about to quit its cover, of the tranquillity of the place into which she was to enter.

The agents of the police had been too much alarmed by the rising of the fishermen not to call their usual ingenuity and finesse into play, the moment the disturbance was appeased. Money had been given to the mountebanks and ballad singers to induce them to reappear, and groups of hirelings, some in masks and others without concealment, were ostentatiously assembled in different parts of the piazza. In short, those usual expedients were resorted to which are constantly used to restore the confidence of a people, in those countries in which civilization is so new, that they are not yet considered sufficiently advanced to be the guardians of their own security. There are few artifices so shallow that many will not be their dupes. The idler, the curious, the really discontented, the factious, the designing, with a suitable mixture of the unthinking, and of those who only live for the pleasure of the passing hour, a class not the least insignificant for numbers, had lent themselves to the views of the police; and when Gelsomina was ready to enter the Piazzetta, she found both the squares partly filled. A few excited fishermen clustered about the doors of the cathedral, like bees swarming before their hive; but, on that side, there was no very visible cause of alarm. Unaccustomed as she was to scenes like that before her, the first glance assured the gentle girl of the real privacy which so singularly distinguishes the solitude of a crowd. Gathering her simple mantle more closely about her form, and settling her mask with care, she moved with a swift step into the centre of the piazza.

We shall not detail the progress of our heroine, as, avoiding the commonplace gallantry that assailed and offended her ear, she went her way on her errand of kindness. Young, active, and impelled by her intentions, the square was soon passed, and she reached the place of San Nico. Here was one of the landings of the public gondolas. But at the moment there was no boat in waiting, for curiosity or fear had induced the men to quit their usual stand. Gelsomina had ascended the bridge, and was on the crown of its arch, when a gondolier came sweeping lazily in from the direction of the Grand Canal. Her hesitation and doubting manner attracted his attention, and the man made the customary sign which conveyed the offer of his services. As she was nearly a stranger in the streets of Venice, labyrinths that offer greater embarrassment to the uninitiated than perhaps the passages of any other town of its size, she gladly availed herself of the offer. To descend to the steps, to leap into the boat, to utter the word "Rialto," and to conceal herself in the pavilion, was the business of a minute. The boat was instantly in motion.

Gelsomina now believed herself secure of effecting her purpose, since there was little to apprehend from the knowledge or the designs of a common boatman. He could not know her object, and it was his interest to carry her in safety to the place she had commanded. But so important was success, that she could not feel secure of attaining it while it was still unaccomplished. She soon summoned sufficient resolution to look out at the palaces and boats they were passing, and she felt the refreshing air of the canal revive her courage. Then turning with a sensitive distrust to examine the countenance of the gondolier, she saw that his features were concealed beneath a mask that was so well designed, as not to be perceptible to a casual observer by moonlight.

Though it was common on occasions for the servants of the great, it was not usual for the public gondoliers to be disguised. The circumstance itself was one justly to excite slight apprehension, though, on second thoughts, Gelsomina saw no more in it than a return from some expedition of pleasure, or some serenade perhaps, in which the caution of a lover had compelled his followers to resort to this species of concealment.

"Shall I put you on the public quay, Signora," demanded the gondolier," or shall I see you to the gate of your own palace?"

The heart of Gelsomina beat high. She liked the tone of the voice, though it was necessarily smothered by the mask, but she was so little accustomed to act in the affairs of others, and less still in any of so great interest, that the sounds caused her to tremble like one less worthily employed.

"Dost thou know the palace of a certain Don Camillo Monforte, a lord of Calabria, who dwells here in Venice?" she asked, after a moment's pause. The gondolier sensibly betrayed surprise, by the manner in which he started at the question.

"Would you be rowed there, lady?"

"If thou art certain of knowing the palazzo."

The water stirred, and the gondola glided between high walls. Gelsomina knew by the sound that they were in one of the smaller canals, and she augured well of the boatman's knowledge of the town. They soon stopped by the side of a water-gate, and the man appeared on the step, holding an arm to aid her in ascending, after the manner of people of his craft. Gelsomina bade him wait her return, and proceeded.

There was a marked derangement in the household of Don Camillo, that one more practised than our heroine would have noted. The servants seemed undecided in the manner of performing the most ordinary duties; their looks wandered distrustfully from one to another, and when their half-frightened visitor entered the vestibule, though all arose, none advanced to meet her. A female masked was not a rare sight in Venice, for few of that sex went upon the canals without using the customary means of concealment; but it would seem by their hesitating manner that the menials of Don Camillo did not view the entrance of her who now appeared with the usual indifference.

"I am in the dwelling of the Duke of St. Agata, a Signore of Calabria?" demanded Gelsomina, who saw the necessity of being firm.

"Signora, si----"

"Is your lord in the palace?"

"Signora, he is--and he is not. What beautiful lady shall I tell him does him this honor?"

"If he be not at home it will not be necessary to tell him anything. If he is, I could wish to see him."

The domestics, of whom there were several, put their heads together, and seemed to dispute on the propriety of receiving the visit. At this instant a gondolier in a flowered jacket entered the vestibule. Gelsomina took courage at his good-natured eye and frank manner.

"Do you serve Don Camillo Monforte?" she asked, as he