"On--on--
It Is our knell, or that of Venice.--On."
MARINO FALIERO.
Another morning called the Venetians to their affairs. Agents of the
police had been active in preparing the public mind, and as the sun rose
above the narrow sea, the squares began to fill. There were present the
curious citizen in his, cloak and cap, bare-legged laborers in wondering
awe, the circumspect Hebrew in his gaberdine and beard, masked
gentlemen, and many an attentive stranger from among the thousands who
still frequented that declining mart. It was rumored that an act of
retributive justice was about to take place, for the peace of the town
and the protection of the citizen. In short, curiosity, idleness, and
revenge, with all the usual train of human feelings, had drawn together
a multitude eager to witness the agonies of a fellow-creature.
The Dalmatians were drawn up near the sea, in a manner to inclose the
two granite columns of the Piazzetta. Their grave and disciplined faces
fronted inwards towards the African pillars, those well known landmarks
of death. A few grim warriors of higher rank paced the flags before the
troops, while a dense crowd filled the exterior space. By special favor
more than a hundred fishermen were grouped within the armed men,
witnesses that their class had revenge. Between the lofty pedestals of
St. Theodore and the winged lion lay the block and the axe, the basket
and the saw-dust; the usual accompaniments of justice in that day. By
their side stood the executioner.
At length a movement in the living mass drew every eye towards the gate
of the palace. A murmur arose, the multitude wavered, and a small body
of the Sbirri came into view. Their steps were swift like the march of
destiny. The Dalmatians opened to receive these ministers of fate into
their bosom, and closing their ranks again, appeared to preclude the
world with its hopes from the condemned. On reaching the block between
the columns the Sbirri fell off in files, waiting at a little distance,
while Jacopo was left before the engines of death attended by his
ghostly counsellor, the Carmelite. The action left them open to the gaze
of the throng.
Father Anselmo was in the usual attire of a bare-footed friar of his
order. The cowl of the holy man was thrown back, exposing his mortified
lineaments and his self-examining eye to those around. The expression of
his countenance was that of bewildered uncertainty, relieved by frequent
but fitful glimmerings of hope. Though his lips were constant in prayer,
his looks wandered, by an irrepressible impulse, from one window of the
Doge's palace to another. He took his station near the condemned,
however, and thrice crossed himself fervently.
Jacopo had tranquilly placed his person before the block. His head was
bare, his cheek colorless, his throat and neck uncovered from the
shoulders, his body in its linen, and the rest of his form was clad in
the ordinary dress of a gondolier. He kneeled with his face bowed to the
block, repeated a prayer, and rising he faced the multitude with dignity
and composure. As his eye moved slowly over the array of human
countenances by which he was environed, a hectic glowed on his features,
for not one of them all betrayed sympathy in his sufferings. His breast
heaved, and those nearest to his person thought the self-command of the
miserable man was about to fail him. The result disappointed
expectation. There was a shudder, and the limbs settled into repose.
"Thou hast looked in vain among the multitude for a friendly eye?" said
the Carmelite, whose attention had been drawn to the convulsive
movement.
"None here have pity for an assassin."
"Remember thy Redeemer, son. He suffered ignominy and death for a race
that denied his Godhead, and derided his sorrows."
Jacopo crossed himself, and bowed his head in reverence.
"Hast thou more prayers to repeat, father?" demanded the chief of the
Sbirri; he who was particularly charged with the duty of the hour."
Though the illustrious councils are so sure in justice, they are
merciful to the souls of sinners."
"Are thy orders peremptory?" asked the monk, unconsciously fixing his
eye again on the windows of the palace. "Is it certain that the prisoner
is to die?"
The officer smiled at the simplicity of the question, but with the
apathy of one too much familiarized with human suffering to admit of
compassion.
"Do any doubt it?" he rejoined. "It is the lot of man, reverend monk;
and more especially is it the lot of those on whom the judgment of St.
Mark has alighted. It were better that your penitent looked to his
soul."
"Surely thou hast thy private and express commands! They have named a
minute when this bloody work is to be performed?"
"Holy Carmelite, I have. The time will not be weary, and you will do
well to make the most of it, unless you have faith already in the
prisoner's condition."
As he spoke, the officer threw a glance at the dial of the square, and
walked coolly away. The action left the priest and the prisoner again
alone between the columns. It was evident that the former could not yet
believe in the reality of the execution.
"Hast thou no hope, Jacopo?" he asked.
"Carmelite, in my God.
"They cannot commit this wrong! I shrived Antonio--I witnessed his fate,
and the Prince knows it!"
"What is a Prince and his justice, where the selfishness of a few rules!
Father, thou art new in the Senate's service."
"I shall not presume to say that God will blast those who do this deed,
for we cannot trace the mysteries of his wisdom. This life and all this
world can offer, are but specks in his omniscient eye, and what to us
seems evil may be pregnant with good.--Hast thou faith in thy Redeemer,
Jacopo?"
The prisoner laid his hand upon his heart and smiled, with the calm
assurance that none but those who are thus sustained can feel.
"We will again pray, my son."
The Carmelite and Jacopo kneeled side by side, the latter bowing his
head to the block, while the monk uttered a final appeal to the mercy of
the Deity. The former arose, but the latter continued in the suppliant
attitude. The monk was so full of holy thoughts that, forgetting his
former wishes, he was nearly content the prisoner should pass into the
fruition of that hope which elevated his own mind. The officer and
executioner drew near, the former touching the arm of Father Anselmo,
and pointing towards the distant dial.
"The moment is near," he whispered, more from habit than in any
tenderness to the prisoner.
The Carmelite turned instinctively towards the palace, forgetting in the
sudden impulse all but his sense of earthly justice. There were forms at
the windows, and he fancied a signal to stay the impending blow was
about to be given.
"Hold!" he exclaimed. "For the love of Maria of most pure memory, be not
too hasty!"
The exclamation was repeated by a shrill female voice, and then
Gelsomina, eluding every effort to arrest her, rushed through the
Dalmatians, and reached the group between the granite columns. Wonder
and curiosity agitated the multitude, and a deep murmur ran through the
square.
"'Tis a maniac!" cried one.
"'Tis a victim of his arts!" said another, for when men have a
reputation for any particular vice, the world seldom fails to attribute
all the rest.
Gelsomina seized the bonds of Jacopo, and endeavored frantically to
release his arms.
"I had hoped thou would'st have been spared this sight, poor Gessina!"
said the condemned.
"Be not alarmed!" she answered, gasping for breath. "They do it in
mockery; 't is one of their wiles to mislead--but they cannot--no, they
dare not harm a hair of thy head, Carlo!"
"Dearest Gelsomina!"
"Nay, do not hold me; I will speak to the citizens, and tell them all.
They are angry now, but when they know the truth they will love thee,
Carlo, as I do."
"Bless thee--bless thee!--I would thou hadst not come."
"Fear not for me! I am little used to such a crowd, but thou wilt see
that I shall dare to speak them fair, and to make known the truth
boldly. I want but breath."
"Dearest! Thou hast a mother--a father to share thy tenderness. Duty to
them will make thee happy!"
"Now I can speak, and thou shalt see how I will vindicate thy name."
She arose from the arms of her lover, who, notwithstanding his bonds,
released his hold of her slight form with a reluctance greater than that
with which he parted with life. The struggle in the mind of Jacopo
seemed over. He bowed his head passively to the block, before which he
was kneeling; and it is probable, by the manner in which his hands were
clasped, that he prayed for her who left him. Not so Gelsomina. Parting
her hair over her spotless forehead with both hands, she advanced
towards the fishermen, who were familiar to her eye by their red caps
and bare limbs. Her smile was like that which the imagination would
bestow on the blessed, in their intercourse of love.
"Venetians!" she said, "I cannot blame you; ye are here to witness the
death of one whom ye believe unfit to live----"
"The murderer of old Antonio!" muttered several of the group.
"Aye, even the murderer of that aged and excellent man. But when you
hear the truth, when you come to know that he whom you have believed an
assassin, was a pious child, a faithful servant of the Republic, a
gentle gondolier, and a true heart, you will change your bloody purpose
for a wish for justice."
A common murmur drowned her voice, which was so trembling and low as to
need deep stillness to render the words audible. The Carmelite had
advanced to her side, and he motioned earnestly for silence.
"Hear her, men of the Lagunes!" he said; "she utters holy truth."
"This reverend and pious monk, with Heaven, is my witness. When you
shall know Carlo better, and have heard his tale, ye will be the first
to cry out for his release. I tell you this, that when the Doge shall
appear at yon window and make the signal of mercy, you need not be
angry, and believe that your class has been wronged. Poor Carlo----"
"The girl raves!" interrupted the moody fishermen. "Here is no Carlo,
but Jacopo Frontoni, a common bravo."
Gelsomina smiled, in the security of the innocent, and regaining her
breath, which nervous agitation still disturbed, she resumed--
"Carlo or Jacopo--Jacopo or Carlo--it matters little."
"Ha! There is a sign from the palace!" shouted the Carmelite,
stretching both his arms in that direction, as if to grasp a boon. The
clarions sounded, and another wave stirred the multitude. Gelsomina
uttered a cry of delight, and turned to throw herself upon the bosom of
the reprieved. The axe glittered before her eyes, and the head of Jacopo
rolled upon the stones, as if to meet her. A general movement in the
living mass denoted the end.
The Dalmatians wheeled into column, the Sbirri pushed aside the throng
on their way to their haunts; the water of the bay was dashed upon the
flags; the clotted saw-dust was gathered; the head and trunk, block,
basket, axe, and executioner disappeared, and the crowd circulated
around the fatal spot.
During this horrible and brief moment neither Father Anselmo nor
Gelsomina moved. All was over, and still the entire scene appeared to be
delusion.
"Take away this maniac!" said an officer of the police, pointing to
Gelsomina as he spoke.
He was obeyed with Venetian readiness, but his words proved prophetic
before his servitors had quitted the square. The Carmelite scarce
breathed. He gazed at the moving multitude, at the windows of the
palace, and at the sun which shone so gloriously in the heavens.
"Thou art lost in this crowd!" whispered one at his elbow. "Reverend
Carmelite, you will do well to follow me."
The monk was too much subdued to hesitate. His conductor led him by many
secret ways to a quay, where he instantly embarked in a gondola for the
main. Before the sun reached the meridian the thoughtful and trembling
monk was on his journey towards the States of the Church, and ere long
he became established in the castle of Sant' Agata.
At the usual hour the sun fell behind the mountains of the Tyrol, and
the moon reappeared above the Lido. The narrow streets of Venice again
poured out their thousands upon the squares. The mild light fell athwart
the quaint architecture and the giddy tower, throwing a deceptive glory
on the city of islands.
The porticoes became brilliant with lamps, the gay laughed, the reckless
trifled, the masker pursued his hidden purpose, the cantatrice and the
grotesque acted their parts, and the million existed in that vacant
enjoyment which distinguishes the pleasures of the thoughtless and the
idle. Each lived for himself, while the state of Venice held its vicious
sway, corrupting alike the ruler and the ruled, by its mockery of those
sacred principles which are alone founded in truth and natural justice.