"Which is the wiser here?--Justice or iniquity?"
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 passed her, on his
way to the canal.
"With the oar, Bellissima Donna," answered Gino, touching his cap,
though scarce looking aside at the question.
"And could he be told that a female wishes earnestly to speak to him in
private?--A female."
"Santa Maria! Bella Donna, there is no end to females who come on these
errands in Venice. You might better pay a visit to the statue of San
Teodore, in the piazza, than see my master at this moment; the stone
will give you the better reception."
"And this he commands you to tell all of my sex who come!"
"Diavolo! Lady, you are particular in your questions. Perhaps my master
might, on a strait, receive one of the sex I could name, but on the
honor of a gondolier he is not the most gallant cavalier of Venice, just
at this moment."
"If there is one to whom he would pay this deference, you are bold for a
servitor. How know you I am not that one?"
Gino started. He examined the figure of the applicant, and lifting his
cap, he bowed.
"Lady, I do not know anything about it," he said; "you may be his
Highness the Doge, or the ambassador of the emperor. I pretend to know
nothing in Venice of late----"
The words of Gino were cut short by a tap on the shoulder from the
public gondolier, who had hastily entered the vestibule. The man
whispered in the ear of Don Camillo's servitor.
"This is not a moment to refuse any," he said. "Let the stranger go up."
Gino hesitated no longer. With the decision of a favored menial he
pushed the groom of the chambers aside, and offered to conduct Gelsomina
himself to the presence of his master. As they ascended the stairs,
three of the inferior servants disappeared.
The palace of Don Camillo had an air of more than Venetian gloom. The
rooms were dimly lighted, many of the walls had been stripped of the
most precious of their pictures, and in other respects a jealous eye
might have detected evidence of a secret intention, on the part of its
owner, not to make a permanent residence of the dwelling. But these were
particulars that Gelsomina did not note, as she followed Gino through
the apartments, into the more private parts of the building. Here the
gondolier unlocked a door, and regarding his companion with an air,
half-doubting, half-respectful, he made a sign for her to enter.
"My master commonly receives the ladies here," he said. "Enter,
eccellenza, while I run to tell him of his happiness."
Gelsomina did not hesitate, though she felt a violent throb at the heart
when she heard the key turning in the lock behind her. She was in an
ante-chamber, and inferring from the light which shone through the door
of an adjoining room that she was to proceed, she went on. No sooner had
she entered the little closet than she found herself alone, with one of
her own sex.
"Annina!" burst from the lips of the unpractised prison-girl, under the
impulse of surprise.
"Gelsomina! The simple, quiet, whispering, modest Gelsomina!" returned
the other.
The words of Annina admitted but of one construction. Wounded, like the
bruised sensitive plant, Gelsomina withdrew her mask for air, actually
gasping for breath, between offended pride and wonder.
"Thou here!" she added, scarce knowing-what she uttered.
"Thou here!" repeated Annina, with such a laugh as escapes the degraded
when they believe the innocent reduced to their own level.
"Nay, I come on an errand of pity."
"Santa Maria! we are both here with the same end!"
"Annina! I know not what thou would'st say! This is surely the palace of
Don Camillo Monforte! a noble Neapolitan, who urges claims to the honors
of the Senate?"
"The gayest, the handsomest, the richest, and the most inconstant
cavalier in Venice! Hadst thou been here a thousand times thou could'st
not be better informed!"
Gelsomina listened in horror. Her artful cousin, who knew her character
to the full extent that vice can comprehend innocence, watched her
colorless cheek and contracting eye with secret triumph. At the first
moment she had believed all that she insinuated, but second thoughts and
a view of the visible distress of the frightened girl gave a new
direction to her suspicions.
"But I tell thee nothing new," she quickly added. "I only regret thou
should'st find me, where, no doubt, you expected to meet the Duca di
Sant' Agata himself."
"Annina!--This from thee!"
"Thou surely didst not come to his palace to seek thy cousin!"
Gelsomina had long been familiar with grief, but until this moment she
had never felt the deep humiliation of shame. Tears started from her
eyes, and she sank back into a seat, in utter inability to stand.
"I would not distress thee out of bearing," added the artful daughter of
the wine-seller. "But that we are both in the closet of the gayest
cavalier of Venice, is beyond dispute."
"I have told thee that pity for another brought me hither."
"Pity for Don Camillo."
"For a noble lady--a young, a virtuous, and a beautiful wife--a daughter
of the Tiepolo--of the Tiepolo, Annina!"
"Why should a lady of the Tiepolo employ a girl of the public prisons!"
"Why!--because there has been injustice by those up above. There has
been a tumult among the fishermen--and the lady and her governess were
liberated by the rioters--and his Highness spoke to them in the great
court--and the Dalmatians were on the quay--and the prison was a refuge
for ladies of their quality, in a moment of so great terror--and the
Holy Church itself has blessed their love--"
Gelsomina could utter no more, but breathless with the wish to vindicate
herself, and wounded to the soul by the strange embarrassment of her
situation, she sobbed aloud. Incoherent as had been her language, she
had said enough to remove every doubt from the mind of Annina. Privy to
the secret marriage, to the rising of the fishermen, and to the
departure of the ladies from the convent on a distant island, where they
had been carried on quitting their own palace, the preceding night, and
whither she had been compelled to conduct Don Camillo, who had
ascertained the departure of those he sought without discovering their
destination, the daughter of the wine-seller readily comprehended, not
only the errand of her cousin, but the precise situation of the
fugitives.
"And thou believest this fiction, Gelsomina?" she said, affecting pity
for her cousin's credulity. "The characters of thy pretended daughter of
Tiepolo and her governess are no secrets to those who frequent the
piazza of San Marco."
"Hadst thou seen the beauty and innocence of the lady, Annina, thou
would'st not say this!"
"Blessed San Teodoro! What is more beautiful than vice! 'Tis the
cheapest artifice of the devil to deceive frail sinners. This thou hast
heard of thy confessor, Gelsomina, or he is of much lighter discourse
than mine."
"But why should a woman of this life enter the prisons?"
"They had good reasons to dread the Dalmatians, no doubt. But it is in
my power to tell thee more, of these thou hast entertained, with such
peril to thine own reputation. There are women in Venice who discredit
their sex in various ways, and of these more particularly she who calls
herself Florinda, is notorious for her agency in robbing St. Mark of his
revenue. She has received a largess from the Neapolitan, of wines grown
on his Calabrian mountains, and wishing to tamper with my honesty, she
offered the liquor to me, expecting one like me to forget my duty, and
to aid her in deceiving the Republic."
"Can this be true, Annina!"
"Why should I deceive thee! Are we not sisters' children, and though
affairs on the Lido keep me much from thy company, is not the love
between us natural! I complained to the authorities, and the liquors
were seized, and the pretended noble ladies were obliged to hide
themselves this very day. 'Tis thought they wish to flee the city with
their profligate Neapolitan. Driven to take shelter, they have sent thee
to acquaint him with their hiding-place, in order that he may come to
their aid."
"And why art thou here, Annina?"
"I marvel that thou didst not put the question sooner. Gino, the
gondolier of Don Camillo, has long been an unfavored suitor of mine, and
when this Florinda complained of my having, what every honest girl in
Venice should do, exposed her fraud to the authorities, she advised his
master to seize me, partly in revenge, and partly with the vain hope of
making me retract the complaint I have made. Thou hast heard of the
bold violence of these cavaliers when thwarted in their wills."
Annina then related the manner of her seizure, with sufficient
exactitude, merely concealing those facts that it was not her interest
to reveal.
"But there is a lady of the Tiepolo, Annina!"
"As sure as there are cousins like ourselves. Santa Madre di Dio! that
woman so treacherous and so bold should have met one of thy innocence!
It would have been better had they fallen in with me, who am too
ignorant for their cunning, blessed St. Anna knows!--but who have not to
learn their true characters."
"They did speak of thee, Annina!"
The glance which the wine-seller's daughter threw at her cousin, was
such as the treacherous serpent casts at the bird; but preserving her
self-possession she added--
"Not to my favor; it would sicken me to hear words of favor from such as
they!"
"They are not thy friends, Annina."
"Perhaps they told thee, child, that I was in the employment of the
council?"
"Indeed they did."
"No wonder. Your dishonest people can never believe one can do an act of
pure conscience. But here comes the Neapolitan.--Note the libertine,
Gelsomina, and thou wilt feel for him the same disgust as I!"
The door opened, and Don Camillo Monforte entered. There was an
appearance of distrust in his manner, which proved that he did not
expect to meet his bride. Gelsomina arose, and, though bewildered by the
tale of her cousin, and her own previous impressions, she stood
resembling a meek statue of modesty, awaiting his approach. The
Neapolitan was evidently struck by her beauty, and the simplicity of her
air, but his brow was fixed, like that of a man who had steeled his
feelings against deceit.
"Thou would'st see me?" he said.
"I had that wish, noble Signore, but--Annina--"
"Seeing another, thy mind hath changed."
"Signore, it has."
Don Camillo looked at her earnestly, and with manly regret.
"Thou art young for thy vocation--here is gold. Retire as thou
earnest.--But hold--dost thou know this Annina?"
"She is my mother's sister's daughter, noble Duca.
"Per Diana! a worthy sisterhood! Depart together, for I have no need of
either. But mark me," and as he spoke, Don Camillo took Annina by the
arm, and led her aside, when he continued with a low but menacing
voice--"Thou seest I am to be feared, as well as thy Councils. Thou
canst not cross the threshold of thy father without my knowledge. If
prudent, thou wilt teach thy tongue discretion. Do as thou wilt, I fear
thee not; but remember, prudence."
Annina made an humble reverence, as if in acknowledgment of the wisdom
of his advice, and taking the arm of her half-unconscious cousin, she
again curtsied, and hurried from the room. As the presence of their
master in his closet was known to them, none of the menials presumed to
stop those who issued from the privileged room. Gelsomina, who was even
more impatient than her wily companion to escape from a place she
believed polluted, was nearly breathless when she reached the gondola.
Its owner was in waiting on the steps, and in a moment the boat whirled
away from a spot which both of those it contained were, though for
reasons so very different, glad to quit.
Gelsomina had forgotten her mask in her hurry, and the gondola was no
sooner in the great canal than she put her face at the window of the
pavilion in quest of the evening air. The rays of the moon fell upon her
guileless eye, and a cheek that was now glowing, partly with offended
pride, and partly with joy at her escape from a situation she felt to
be so degrading. Her forehead was touched with a finger, and turning she
saw the gondolier making a sign of caution. He then slowly lifted his
mask.
"Carlo!" had half burst from her lips, but another sign suppressed the
cry.
Gelsomina withdrew her head, and, after her beating heart had ceased to
throb, she bowed her face and murmured thanksgivings at finding herself,
at such a moment, under the protection of one who possessed all her
confidence.
The gondolier asked no orders for his direction. The boat moved on,
taking the direction of the port, which appeared perfectly natural to
the two females.
Annina supposed it was returning to the square, the place she would have
sought had she been alone, and Gelsomina, who believed that he whom she
called Carlo, toiled regularly as a gondolier for support, fancied, of
course, that he was taking her to her ordinary residence.
But though the innocent can endure the scorn of the world, it is hard
indeed to be suspected by those they love. All that Annina had told her
of the character of Don Camillo and his associates came gradually across
the mind of the gentle Gelsomina, and she felt the blood creeping to her
temples, as she saw the construction her lover might put on her conduct.
A dozen times did the artless girl satisfy herself with saying inwardly,
"he knows me and will believe the best," and as often did her feelings
prompt her to tell the truth. Suspense is far more painful, at such
moments, than even vindication, which, in itself, is a humiliating duty
to the virtuous. Pretending a desire to breathe the air, she left her
cousin in the canopy. Annina was not sorry to be alone, for she had need
to reflect on all the windings of the sinuous path on which she had
entered.
Gelsomina succeeded in passing the pavilion, and in gaining the side of
the gondolier.
"Carlo!"--she said, observing that he continued to row in silence.
"Gelsomina!"
"Thou hast not questioned me!"
"I know thy treacherous cousin, and can believe thou art her dupe. The
moment to learn the truth will come."
"Thou didst not know me, Carlo, when I called thee from the bridge?"
"I did not. Any fare that would occupy my time was welcome."
"Why dost thou call Annina treacherous?"
"Because Venice does not hold a more wily heart, or a falser tongue."
Gelsomina remembered the warning of Donna Florinda. Possessed of the
advantage of blood, and that reliance which the inexperienced always
place in the integrity of their friends, until exposure comes to destroy
the illusion, Annina had found it easy to persuade her cousin of the
unworthiness of her guests. But here was one who had all her sympathies,
who openly denounced Annina herself. In such a dilemma the bewildered
girl did what nature and her feelings suggested. She recounted, in a low
but rapid voice, the incidents of the evening, and Annina's construction
of the conduct of the females whom she had left behind in the prison.
Jacopo listened so intently that his oar dragged in the water.
"Enough," he said, when Gelsomina, blushing with her own earnestness to
stand exculpated in his eyes, had done; "I understand it all. Distrust
thy cousin, for the Senate itself is not more false."
The pretended Carlo spoke cautiously, but in a firm voice. Gelsomina
took his meaning, though wondering at what she heard, and returned to
Annina within. The gondola proceeded, as if nothing had occurred.