The Bravo (18 page)

Antonio had cast aside the cap he wore of wont, and the few straggling
hairs that were left streamed about his hollow temples, leaving the
whole of his swarthy features exposed to view. More than once, as the
gondola came on, his eyes turned aside reproachfully, as if he keenly
felt the stings of so many unlicensed tongues applied to feelings which,
though blunted by his habits and condition, were far from extinguished.
Laugh arose above laugh, however, and taunt succeeded taunt more
bitterly, as the boats came among the gorgeous palaces which lined the
canal nearer to the goal. It was not that the owners of these lordly
piles indulged in the unfeeling triumph, but their dependants,
constantly subject themselves to the degrading influence of a superior
presence, let loose the long-pent torrents of their arrogance on the
head of the first unresisting subject which offered.

Antonio bore all these jibes manfully, if not in tranquillity, and
always without retort, until he again approached the spot occupied by
his companions of the Lagunes. Here his eye sank under the reproaches,
and his oar faltered. The taunts and denunciations increased as he lost
ground, and there was a moment when the rebuked and humbled spirit of
the old man seemed about to relinquish the contest. But dashing a hand
across his brow, as if to clear a sight which had become dimmed and
confused, he continued to ply the oar, and, happily, he was soon past
the point most trying to his resolution. From this moment the cries
against the fisherman diminished, and as the Bucentaur, though still
distant, was now in sight, interest in the issue of the race absorbed
all other feelings.

Enrico still kept the lead; but the judges of the gondolier's skill
began to detect signs of exhaustion in his faltering stroke. The
waterman of the Lido pressed him hard, and the Calabrian was drawing
more into a line with them both. At this moment, too, the masked
competitor exhibited a force and skill that none had expected to see in
one of his supposed rank. His body was thrown more upon the effort of
the oar, and as his leg was stretched behind to aid the stroke, it
discovered a volume of muscle, and an excellence of proportion, that
excited murmurs of applause. The consequence was soon apparent. His
gondola glided past the crowd in the centre of the canal, and by a
change that was nearly insensible, he became the fourth in the race. The
shouts which rewarded his success had scarcely parted from the
multitude, ere their admiration was called to a new and an entirely
unexpected aspect in the struggle.

Left to his own exertions, and less annoyed by that derision and
contempt which often defeat even more generous efforts, Antonio had
drawn nearer to the crowd of nameless competitors. Though
undistinguished in this narrative, there were seen, in that group of
gondoliers, faces well known on the canals of Venice, as belonging to
watermen in whose dexterity and force the city took pride. Either
favored by his isolated position, or availing himself of the
embarrassment these men gave to each other, the despised fisherman was
seen a little on their left, coining up abreast, with a stroke and
velocity that promised further success. The expectation was quickly
realized. He passed them all, amid a dead and wondering silence, and
took his station as fifth in the struggle.

From this moment all interest in those who formed the vulgar mass was
lost. Every eye was turned towards the front, where the strife increased
at each stroke of the oar, and where the issue began to assume a new and
doubtful character. The exertions of the waterman of Fusina were
seemingly redoubled, though his boat went no faster. The gondola of
Bartolomeo shot past him; it was followed by those of Gino and the
masked gondolier, while not a cry betrayed the breathless interest of
the multitude. But when the boat of Antonio also swept ahead, there
arose such a hum of voices as escapes a throng when a sudden and violent
change of feeling is produced in their wayward sentiments. Enrico was
frantic with the disgrace. He urged every power of his frame to avert
the dishonor, with the desperate energy of an Italian, and then he cast
himself into the bottom of the gondola, tearing his hair and weeping in
agony. His example was followed by those in the rear, though with more
governed feelings, for they shot aside among the boats which lined the
canal, and were lost to view.

From this open and unexpected abandonment of the struggle, the
spectators got the surest evidence of its desperate character. But as a
man has little sympathy for the unfortunate when his feelings are
excited by competition, the defeated were quickly forgotten. The name of
Bartolomeo was borne high upon the winds by a thousand voices, and his
fellows of the Piazzetta and the Lido called upon him, aloud, to die for
the honor of their craft. Well did the sturdy gondolier answer to their
wishes, for palace after palace was left behind, and no further change
was made in the relative positions of the boats. But, like his
predecessor, the leader redoubled his efforts with a diminished effect,
and Venice had the mortification of seeing a stranger leading one of the
most brilliant of her regattas. Bartolomeo no sooner lost place, than
Gino, the masker, and the despised Antonio, in turn, shot by, leaving
him who had so lately been first in the race, the last. He did not,
however, relinquish the strife, but continued to struggle with the
energy of one who merited a better fortune.

When this unexpected and entirely new character was given to the
contest, there still remained a broad sheet of water between the
advancing gondolas and the goal. Gino led, and with many favorable
symptoms of his being able to maintain his advantage. He was encouraged
by the shouts of the multitude, who now forgot his Calabrian origin in
his success, while many of the serving-men of his master cheered him on
by name. All would not do. The masked waterman, for the first time,
threw the grandeur of his skill and force into the oar. The ashen
instrument bent to the power of an arm whose strength appeared to
increase at will, and the movements of his body became rapid as the
leaps of the greyhound. The pliant gondola obeyed, and amid a shout
which passed from the Piazzetta to the Rialto, it glided ahead.

If success gives force and increases the physical and moral energies,
there is a fearful and certain reaction in defeat. The follower of Don
Camillo was no exception to the general law, and when the masked
competitor passed him the boat of Antonio followed as if it were
impelled by the same strokes. The distance between the two leading
gondolas even now seemed to lessen, and there was a moment of breathless
interest when all there expected to see the fisherman, in despite of his
years and boat, shooting past his rival.

But expectation was deceived. He of the mask, notwithstanding his
previous efforts, seemed to sport with the toil, so ready was the sweep
of his oar, so sure its stroke, and so vigorous the arm by which it was
impelled. Nor was Antonio an antagonist to despise. If there was less of
the grace of a practised gondolier of the canals in his attitudes than
in those of his companion, there was no relaxation in the force of his
sinews. They sustained him to the last with that enduring power which
had been begotten by threescore years of unremitting labor, and while
his still athletic form was exerted to the utmost there appeared no
failing of its energies.

A few moments sent the leading gondolas several lengths ahead of their
nearest followers. The dark beak of the fisherman's boat hung upon the
quarter of the more showy bark of his antagonist, but it could do no
more. The port was open before them, and they glanced by church, palace,
barge, mystick, and felucca, without the slightest inequality in their
relative speed. The masked waterman glanced a look behind as if to
calculate his advantage, and then bending again to his pliant oar he
spoke, loud enough to be heard only by him who pressed so hard upon his
track.

"Thou hast deceived me, fisherman!" he said—"there is more of manhood
in thee yet than I had thought."

"If there is manhood in my arms there is childlessness and sorrow at the
heart," was the reply.

"Dost thou so prize a golden bauble? Thou art second; be content with
thy lot."

"It will not do; I must be foremost or I have wearied my old limbs in
vain!"

This brief dialogue was uttered with an ease that showed how far use had
accustomed both to powerful bodily efforts, and with a firmness of tones
that few could have equalled in a moment of so great physical effort.
The masker was silent, but his purpose seemed to waver. Twenty strokes
of his powerful oar-blade and the goal was attained: but his sinews were
not so much extended, and that limb which had shown so fine a
development of muscle, was less swollen and rigid. The gondola of old
Antonio glided abeam.

"Push thy soul into the blade," muttered he of the mask, "or thou wilt
yet be beaten!"

The fisherman threw every effort of his body on the coming effort, and
he gained a fathom. Another stroke caused the boat to quiver to its
centre, and the water curled from its bows like the ripple of a rapid.
Then the gondola darted between the two goal-barges, and the little
flags that marked the point of victory fell into the water. The action
was scarce noted ere the glittering beak of the masquer shot past the
eyes of the judges, who doubted for an instant on whom success had
fallen. Gino was not long behind, and after him came Bartolomeo, fourth
and last in the best contested race which had ever been seen on the
waters of Venice.

When the flags fell, men held their breaths in suspense. Few knew the
victor, so close had been the struggle. But a flourish of the trumpets
soon commanded attention, and then a herald proclaimed that—

"Antonio, a fisherman of the Lagunes, favored by his holy patron of the
Miraculous Draught, had borne away the prize of gold—while a waterman
who wore his face concealed, but who hath trusted to the care of the
blessed San Giovanni of the Wilderness, is worthy of the silver prize,
and that the third had fallen to the fortunes of Gino of Calabria, a
servitor of the illustrious Don Camillo Monforte, Duca di Sant' Agata,
and lord of many Neapolitan Seignories."

When this formal announcement was made, there succeeded a silence like
that of the tomb. Then there arose a general shout among the living
mass, which bore on high the name of Antonio as if they celebrated the
success of some conqueror. All feeling of contempt was lost in the
influence of his triumph. The fishermen of the Lagunes, who so lately
had loaded their aged companion with contumely, shouted for his glory
with a zeal that manifested the violence of the transition from
mortification to pride; and, as has ever been and ever will be the meed
of success, he who was thought least likely to obtain it was most
greeted with praise and adulation when it was found that the end had
disappointed expectation. Ten thousand voices were lifted in proclaiming
his skill and victory, and young and old, the fair, the gay, the noble,
the winner of sequins and he who lost, struggled alike to catch a
glimpse of the humble old man, who had so unexpectedly wrought this
change of sentiment in the feelings of a multitude.

Antonio bore his triumph meekly. When his gondola had reached the goal
he checked its course, and, without discovering any of the usual signs
of exhaustion, he remained standing, though the deep heaving of his
broad and tawny chest proved that his powers had been taxed to their
utmost. He smiled as the shouts arose on his ear, for praise is grateful
even to the meek; still he seemed oppressed with an emotion of a
character deeper than pride. Age had somewhat dimmed his eye, but it was
now full of hope. His features worked, and a single burning drop fell
on each rugged cheek. The fisherman then breathed more freely.

Like his successful antagonist, the waterman of the mask betrayed none
of the debility which usually succeeds great bodily exertion. His knees
were motionless, his hands still grasped the oar firmly, and he too
kept his feet with a steadiness that showed the physical perfection of
his frame. On the other hand, both Gino and Bartolomeo sank in their
respective boats as they gained the goal in succession; and so exhausted
was each of these renowned gondoliers, that several moments elapsed
before either had breath for speech. It was during this momentary pause
that the multitude proclaimed its sympathy with the victor by their
longest and loudest shouts. The noise had scarcely died away, however,
before a herald summoned Antonio of the Lagunes, the masked waterman of
the Blessed St. John of the Wilderness, and Gino the Calabrian, to the
presence of the Doge, whose princely hand was to bestow the promised
prizes of the regatta.

"We shall not spend a large expense of time,
Before we reckon with your several loves,
And make us even with you."
MACBETH.

When the three gondolas reached the side of the Bucentaur, the fisherman
hung back, as if he distrusted his right to intrude himself into the
presence of the senate. He was, however, commanded to ascend, and signs
were made for his two companions to follow.

The nobles, clad in their attire of office, formed a long and imposing
lane from the gangway to the stern, where the titular sovereign of that
still more titular Republic was placed, in the centre of the high
officers of state, gorgeous and grave in borrowed guise and natural
qualities.

"Approach," said the Prince, mildly, observing that the old and
half-naked man that led the victors hesitated to advance. "Thou art the
conqueror, fisherman, and to thy hands must I consign the prize."

Antonio bent his knee to the deck, and bowed his head lowly ere he
obeyed. Then taking courage, he drew nearer to the person of the Doge,
where he stood with a bewildered eye and rebuked mien, waiting the
further pleasure of his superiors. The aged Prince paused for stillness
to succeed the slight movements created by curiosity. When he spoke, it
was amid a perfect calm.