The Bravo of Venice A Romance
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M. G. Lewis >> The Bravo of Venice A Romance
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8 *END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END*
This etext was prepared by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk
from the 1886 Cassell & Company edition edition.
THE BRAVO OF VENICE--A ROMANCE
by M. G. Lewis
INTRODUCTION.
Matthew Gregory Lewis, who professed to have translated this romance
out of the German, very much, I believe, as Horace Walpole professed
to have taken The Castle of Otranto from an old Italian manuscript,
was born in 1775 of a wealthy family. His father had an estate in
India and a post in a Government office. His mother was daughter to
Sir Thomas Sewell, Master of the Rolls in the reign of George III.
She was a young mother; her son Matthew was devoted to her from the
first. As a child he called her "Fanny," and as a man held firmly
by her when she was deserted by her husband. From Westminster
School, M. G. Lewis passed to Christ Church, Oxford. Already he was
busy over tales and plays, and wrote at college a farce, never
acted, a comedy, written at the age of sixteen, The East Indian,
afterwards played for Mrs. Jordan's benefit and repeated with great
success, and also a novel, never published, called The Effusions of
Sensibility, which was a burlesque upon the sentimental school. He
wrote also what he called "a romance in the style of The Castle of
Otranto," which appeared afterwards as the play of The Castle
Spectre.
With his mind thus interested in literature of the romantic form,
young Lewis, aged seventeen, after a summer in Paris, went to
Germany, settled for a time at Weimar, and, as he told his mother,
knocked his brains against German as hard as ever he could. "I have
been introduced," he wrote, in July, 1792, "to M. de Goethe, the
celebrated author of Werter, so you must not be surprised if I
should shoot myself one of these fine mornings." In the spring of
1793 the youth returned to England, very full of German romantic
tale and song, and with more paper covered with wild fancies of his
own. After the next Christmas he returned to Oxford. There was a
visit to Lord Douglas at Bothwell Castle; there was not much
academic work done at Oxford. His father's desire was to train him
for the diplomatic service, and in the summer of 1794 he went to the
Hague as attache to the British Embassy. He had begun to write his
novel of The Monk, had flagged, but was spurred on at the Hague by a
reading of Mrs. Radcliffe's Mysteries of Udolpho, a book after his
own heart, and he wrote to his mother at this time, "You see I am
horribly bit by the rage of writing."
The Monk was written in ten weeks, and published in the summer of
1795, before its author's age was twenty. It was praised, attacked,
said by one review to have neither originality, morals, nor
probability to recommend it, yet to have excited and to be
continuing to excite the curiosity of the public: a result set down
to the "irresistible energy of genius." Certainly, Lewis did not
trouble himself to keep probability in view; he amused himself with
wild play of a fancy that delighted in the wonderful. The
controversy over The Monk caused the young author to be known as
Monk Lewis, and the word Monk has to this day taken the place of the
words Matthew Gregory so generally, that many catalogue-makers must
innocently suppose him to have been so named at the font. The
author of The Monk came back from the Hague to be received as a
young lion in London society. When he came of age he entered
Parliament for Hindon, in Wiltshire, but seldom went to the House,
never spoke in it, and retired after a few sessions. His delight
was in the use of the pen; his father, although disappointed by his
failure as a statesman, allowed him a thousand a year, and he took a
cottage at Barnes, that he might there escape from the world to his
ink-bottle. He was a frequent visitor at Inverary Castle, and was
fascinated by his host's daughter, Lady Charlotte Campbell. Still
he wrote on. The musical drama of The Castle Spectre was produced
in the year after The Monk, and it ran sixty nights. He translated
next Schiller's Kabale und Liebe as The Minister, but it was not
acted till it appeared, with little success, some years afterwards
at Covent Garden as The Harper's Daughter. He translated from
Kotzebue, under the name of Rolla, the drama superseded by
Sheridan's version of the same work as Pizarro. Then came the
acting, in 1799, of his comedy written in boyhood, The East Indian.
Then came, in the same year, his first opera, Adelmorn the Outlaw;
then a tragedy, Alfonso, King of Castile. Of the origin of this
tragedy Lewis gave a characteristic account. "Hearing one day," he
said, "my introduction of negroes into a feudal baron's castle" (in
The Castle Spectre) "exclaimed against with as much vehemence as if
a dramatic anachronism had been an offence undeserving of benefit of
clergy, I said in a moment of petulance, that to prove of how little
consequence I esteemed such errors, I would make a play upon the
Gunpowder Plot, and make Guy Faux in love with the Emperor
Charlemagne's daughter. By some chance or other, this idea fastened
itself upon me, and by dint of turning it in my mind, I at length
formed the plot of Alfonso."
To that time in Lewis's life belongs this book, The Bravo of Venice;
which was published in 1804, when the writer's age was twenty-nine.
It was written at Inverary Castle, dedicated to the Earl of Moira,
and received as one of the most perfect little romances of its kind,
"highly characteristic of the exquisite contrivance, bold colouring,
and profound mystery of the German school." In 1805 Lewis recast it
into a melodrama, which he called Rugantino.
H.M.
THE BRAVO OF VENICE.
BOOK THE FIRST.
CHAPTER I: VENICE.
It was evening. Multitudes of light clouds, partially illumined by
the moonbeams, overspread the horizon, and through them floated the
full moon in tranquil majesty, while her splendour was reflected by
every wave of the Adriatic Sea. All was hushed around; gently was
the water rippled by the night wind; gently did the night wind sigh
through the Colonnades of Venice.
It was midnight; and still sat a stranger, solitary and sad, on the
border of the great canal. Now with a glance he measured the
battlements and proud towers of the city; and now he fixed his
melancholy eyes upon the waters with a vacant stare. At length he
spoke -
"Wretch that I am, whither shall I go? Here sit I in Venice, and
what would it avail to wander further? What will become of me? All
now slumber, save myself! the Doge rests on his couch of down; the
beggar's head presses his straw pillow; but for ME there is no bed
except the cold, damp earth! There is no gondolier so wretched but
he knows where to find work by day and shelter by night--while _I_--
while _I_--Oh! dreadful is the destiny of which I am made the
sport!"
He began to examine for the twentieth time the pockets of his
tattered garments.
"No! not one paolo, by heavens!--and I hunger almost to death."
He unsheathed his sword; he waved it in the moonshine, and sighed,
as he marked the glittering of the steel.
"No, no, my old true companion, thou and I must never part. Mine
thou shalt remain, though I starve for it. Oh, was not that a
golden time when Valeria gave thee to me, and when she threw the
belt over my shoulder, I kissed thee and Valeria? She has deserted
us for another world, but thou and I will never part in this."
He wiped away a drop which hung upon his eyelid.
"Pshaw! 'twas not a tear; the night wind is sharp and bitter, and
makes the eyes water; but as for TEARS--Absurd! my weeping days are
over."
And as he spoke, the unfortunate (for such by his discourse and
situation he appeared to be) dashed his forehead against the earth,
and his lips were already unclosed to curse the hour which gave him
being, when he seemed suddenly to recollect himself. He rested his
head on his elbow, and sang mournfully the burthen of a song which
had often delighted his childhood in the castle of his ancestors.
"Right," he said to himself; "were I to sink under the weight of my
destiny, I should be myself no longer."
At that moment he heard a rustling at no great distance. He looked
around, and in an adjacent street, which the moon faintly
enlightened, he perceived a tall figure, wrapped in a cloak, pacing
slowly backwards and forwards.
"'Tis the hand of God which hath guided him hither--yes--I'll--I'll
BEG--better to play the beggar in Venice than the villain in Naples;
for the beggar's heart may beat nobly, though covered with rags."
He then sprang from the ground, and hastened towards the adjoining
street. Just as he entered it at one end, he perceived another
person advancing through the other, of whose approach the first was
no sooner aware than he hastily retired into the shadow of a piazza,
anxious to conceal himself.
"What can this mean?" thought our mendicant. "Is yon eavesdropper
one of death's unlicensed ministers? Has he received the retaining
fee of some impatient heir, who pants to possess the wealth of the
unlucky knave who comes strolling along yonder, so careless and
unconscious? Be not so confident, honest friend! I'm at your
elbow."
He retired further into the shade, and silently and slowly drew near
the lurker, who stirred not from his place. The stranger had
already passed them by, when the concealed villain sprang suddenly
upon him, raised his right hand in which a poniard was gleaming, and
before he could give the blow, was felled to the earth by the arm of
the mendicant.
The stranger turned hastily towards them; the bravo started up and
fled; the beggar smiled.
"How now?" cried the stranger; "what does all this mean?"
"Oh, 'tis a mere jest, signor, which has only preserved your life."
"What? my life? How so?"
"The honest gentleman who has just taken to his heels stole behind
you with true cat-like caution, and had already raised his dagger,
when I saw him. You owe your life to me, and the service is richly
worth one little piece of money! Give me some alms, signor, for on
my soul I am hungry, thirsty, cold."
"Hence, scurvy companion! I know you and your tricks too well.
This is all a concerted scheme between you, a design upon my purse,
an attempt to procure both money and thanks, and under the lame
pretence of having saved me from an assassin. Go, fellow, go!
practise these dainty devices on the Doge's credulity if you will;
but with Buonarotti you stand no chance, believe me."
The wretched starving beggar stood like one petrified, and gazed on
the taunting stranger.
"No, as I have a soul to save, signor, 'tis no lie I tell you!--'tis
the plain truth; have compassion, or I die this night of hunger."
"Begone this instant, I say, or by Heaven--"
The unfeeling man here drew out a concealed pistol, and pointed it
at his preserver.
"Merciful Heaven! and is it thus that services are acknowledged in
Venice?"
"The watch is at no great distance, I need only raise my voice and--
"
"Hell and confusion! do you take me for a robber, then?"
"Make no noise, I tell you. Be quiet--you had better."
"Hark you, signor. Buonarotti is your name, I think? I will write
it down as belonging to the second scoundrel with whom I have met in
Venice."
He paused for a moment, then continuing in a dreadful voice, "And
when," said he, "thou, Buonarotti, shalt hereafter hear the name of
ABELLINO--TREMBLE!"
Abellino turned away, and left the hard-hearted Venetian.
CHAPTER II: THE BANDITTI.
And now rushed the unfortunate wildly through the streets of Venice.
He railed at fortune; he laughed and cursed by turns; yet sometimes
he suddenly stood still, seemed as pondering on some great and
wondrous enterprise, and then again rushed onwards, as if hastening
to its execution.
Propped against a column of the Signoria, he counted over the whole
sum of his misfortunes. His wandering eyeballs appeared to seek
comfort, but they found it not.
"Fate," he at length exclaimed in a paroxysm of despair, "Fate has
condemned me to be either the wildest of adventurers, or one at the
relation of whose crimes the world must shudder. To astonish is my
destiny. Rosalvo can know no medium; Rosalvo can never act like
common men. Is it not the hand of fate which has led me hither?
Who could ever have dreamt that the son of the richest lord in
Naples should have depended for a beggar's alms on Venetian charity?
I--I, who feel myself possessed of strength of body and energy of
soul fit for executing the most daring deeds, behold me creeping in
rags through the streets of this inhospitable city, and torturing my
wits in vain to discover some means by which I may rescue life from
the jaws of famine! Those men whom my munificence nourished, who at
my table bathed their worthless souls in the choicest wines of
Cyprus, and glutted themselves with every delicacy which the globe's
four quarters could supply, these very men now deny to my necessity
even a miserable crust of mouldy bread. Oh, that is dreadful,
cruel--cruel of men--cruel of Heaven!"
He paused, folded his arms, and sighed.
"Yet will I bear it--I will submit to my destiny. I will traverse
every path and go through every degree of human wretchedness; and
whate'er may be my fate, I will still be myself; and whate'er may be
my fate, I will still act greatly! Away, then, with the Count
Rosalvo, whom all Naples idolised; now--now, I am the beggar
Abellino. A beggar--that name stands last in the scale of worldly
rank, but first in the list of the famishing, the outcast, and the
unworthy."
Something rustled near him. Abellino gazed around. He was aware of
the bravo, whom he struck to the ground that night, and whom two
companions of a similar stamp had now joined. As they advanced,
they cast inquiring glances around them. They were in search of
some one.
"It is of me that they are in search," said Abellino; then advanced
a few steps, and whistled.
The ruffians stood still; they whispered together, and seemed to be
undecided.
Abellino whistled a second time.
"'Tis he," he could hear one of them say distinctly, and in a moment
after they advanced slowly towards him.
Abellino kept his place, but unsheathed his sword. The three
unknown (they were masked) stopped a few paces from him.
"How now, fellow!" quoth one of them; "what is the matter? Why
stand you on your guard?"
Abellino.--It is as well that you should be made to keep your
distance, for I know you; you are certain honest gentlemen, who live
by taking away the lives of others.
The First Ruffian.--Was not your whistling addressed to us?
Abellino.--It was.
A Ruffian.--And what would you with us?
Abellino.--Hear me! I am a miserable wretch, and starving; give me
an alms out of your booty!
A Ruffian.--An alms? Ha! ha! ha! By my soul that is whimsical!--
Alms from us, indeed!--Oh, by all means! No doubt, you shall have
alms in plenty.
Abellino.--Or else give me fifty sequins, and I'll bind myself to
your service till I shall have worked out my debt.
A Ruffian.--Aye? and pray, then, who may you be?
Abellino.--A starving wretch, the Republic holds none more
miserable. Such am I at present; but hereafter--I have powers,
knaves. This arm could pierce a heart, though guarded by three
breastplates; this eye, though surrounded by Egyptian darkness,
could still see to stab sure.
A Ruffian.--Why, then, did you strike me down, even now?
Abellino.--In the hope of being paid for it; but though I saved his
life, the scoundrel gave me not a single ducat.
A Ruffian.--No? So much the better. But hark ye, comrade, are you
sincere?
Abellino.--Despair never lies.
A Ruffian.--Slave, shouldst thou be a traitor -
Abellino.--My heart would be within reach of your hands, and your
daggers would be as sharp as now.
The three dangerous companions again whispered among themselves for
a few moments, after which they returned their daggers into the
sheath.
"Come on, then," said one of them, "follow us to our home. It were
unwise to talk over certain matters in the open streets."
"I follow you," was Abellino's answer, "but tremble should any one
of you dare to treat me as a foe. Comrade, forgive me that I gave
your ribs somewhat too hard a squeeze just now; I will be your sworn
brother in recompense."
"We are on honour," cried the banditti with one voice; "no harm
shall happen to you. He who does you an injury shall be to us as a
foe. A fellow of your humour suits us well; follow us, and fear
not."
And on they went, Abellino marching between two of them. Frequent
were the looks of suspicion which he cast around him; but no ill
design was perceptible in the banditti. They guided him onwards,
till they reached a canal, loosened a gondola, placed themselves in
it, and rowed till they had gained the most remote quarter of
Venice. They landed, threaded several by-streets, and at length
knocked at the door of a house of inviting appearance. It was
opened by a young woman, who conducted them into a plain but
comfortable chamber. Many were the looks of surprise and inquiry
which she cast on the bewildered, half-pleased, half-anxious
Abellino, who knew not whither he had been conveyed, and still
thought it unsafe to confide entirely in the promises of the
banditti.
CHAPTER III: THE TRIAL OF STRENGTH.
Scarcely were the bravoes seated, when Cinthia (for that was the
young woman's name) was again summoned to the door; and the company
was now increased by two new-comers, who examined their unknown
guest from head to foot.
"Now, then," cried one of these, who had conducted Abellino to this
respectable society, "let us see what you are like."
As he said this he raised a burning lamp from the table, and the
light of its flame was thrown full upon Abellino's countenance.
"Lord, forgive me my sins!" screamed Cinthia; "out upon him! what an
ugly hound it is!"
She turned hastily round, and hid her face with her hands. Dreadful
was the look with which Abellino repaid her compliment.
"Knave," said one of the banditti, "Nature's own hand has marked you
out for an assassin--come, prithee be frank, and tell us how thou
hast contrived so long to escape the gibbet? In what gaol didst
thou leave thy last fetters? Or from what galley hast thou taken
thy departure, without staying to say adieu?"
Abellino, folding his arms--"If I be such as you describe," said he,
with an air of authority, and in a voice which made his hearers
tremble, "'tis for me all the better. Whate'er may be my future
mode of life, Heaven can have no right to find fault with it, since
it was for that it formed and fitted me."
The five bravoes stepped aside, and consulted together. The subject
of their conference is easy to be divined. In the meanwhile
Abellino remained quiet and indifferent to what was passing.
After a few minutes they again approached him. One, whose
countenance was the most ferocious, and whose form exhibited the
greatest marks of muscular strength, advanced a few paces before the
rest, and addressed Abellino as follows:-
"Hear me, comrade. In Venice there exist but five banditti; you see
them before you; wilt thou be the sixth? Doubt not thou wilt find
sufficient employment. My name is Matteo, and I am the father of
the band: that sturdy fellow with the red locks is called Baluzzo;
he, whose eyes twinkle like a cat's, is Thomaso, an arch-knave, I
promise you; 'twas Pietrino whose bones you handled so roughly to-
night; and yon thick-lipped Colossus, who stands next to Cinthia, is
named Stuzza. Now, then, you know us all--and since you are a
penniless devil, we are willing to incorporate you in our society;
but we must first be assured that you mean honestly by us."
Abellino smiled, or rather grinned, and murmured hoarsely--"I am
starving."
"Answer, fellow! Dost thou mean honestly by us?"
"That must the event decide."
"Mark me, knave; the first suspicion of treachery costs you your
life. Take shelter in the Doge's palace, and girdle yourself round
with all the power of the Republic--though clasped in the Doge's
arms, and protected by a hundred cannons, still would we murder you!
Fly to the high altar; press the crucifix to your bosom, and even at
mid-day, still would we murder you. Think on this well, fellow, and
forget not we are banditti!"
"You need not tell me that. But give me some food, and then I'll
prate with you as long as you please. At present I am starving.
Four-and-twenty hours have elapsed since I last tasted nourishment."
Cinthia now covered a small table with her best provisions, and
filled several silver goblets with delicious wine.
"If one could but look at him without disgust," murmured Cinthia;
"if he had but the appearance of something human! Satan must
certainly have appeared to his mother, and thence came her child
into the world with such a frightful countenance. Ugh! it's an
absolute mask, only that I never saw a mask so hideous."
Abellino heeded her not; he placed himself at the table, and ate and
drank as if he would have satisfied himself for the next six months.
The banditti eyed him with looks of satisfaction, and congratulated
each other on such a valuable acquisition.
If the reader is curious to know what this same Abellino was like,
he must picture to himself a young, stout fellow, whose limbs
perhaps might have been thought not ill-formed, had not the most
horrible countenance that ever was invented by a caricaturist, or
that Milton could have adapted to the ugliest of his fallen angels,
entirely marred the advantages of his person. Black and shining,
but long and straight, his hair flew wildly about his brown neck and
yellow face. His mouth so wide, that his gums and discoloured teeth
were visible, and a kind of convulsive twist, which scarcely ever
was at rest, had formed its expression into an internal grin. His
eye, for he had but one, was sunk deep into his head, and little
more than the white of it was visible, and even that little was
overshadowed by the protrusion of his dark and bushy eyebrow. In
the union of his features were found collected in one hideous
assemblage all the most coarse and uncouth traits which had ever
been exhibited singly in wooden cuts, and the observer was left in
doubt whether this repulsive physiognomy expressed stupidity of
intellect, or maliciousness of heart, or whether it implied them
both together.
"Now, then, I am satisfied," roared Abellino, and dashed the still
full goblet upon the ground. "Speak! what would you know of me? I
am ready to give you answers."
"The first thing," replied Matteo, "the first thing necessary is to
give us a proof of your strength, for this is of material importance
in our undertakings. Are you good at wrestling?"
"I know not; try me."
Cinthia removed the table.
"Now, then, Abellino, which of us will you undertake? Whom among us
dost thou think that thou canst knock down as easily as yon poor
dabbler in the art, Pietrino?"
The banditti burst into a loud fit of laughter.
"Now, then," cried Abellino, fiercely; "now, then, for the trial.
Why come you not on?"
"Fellow," replied Matteo, "take my advice; try first what you can do
with me alone, and learn what sort of men you have to manage. Think
you, we are marrowless boys, or delicate signors?"
Abellino answered him by a scornful laugh. Matteo became furious.
His companions shouted aloud, and clapped their hands.
"To business!" said Abellino; "I'm now in a right humour for sport!
Look to yourselves, my lads." And in the same instant he collected
his forces together, threw the gigantic Matteo over his head as had
he been an infant, knocked Struzza down on the right hand, and
Pietrino on the left, tumbled Thomaso to the end of the room head
over heels, and stretched Baluzzo without animation upon the
neighbouring benches.
Three minutes elapsed ere the subdued bravoes could recover
themselves. Loudly shouted Abellino, while the astonished Cinthia
gazed and trembled at the terrible exhibition.
"By the blood of St. Januarius!" cried Matteo at length, rubbing his
battered joints, "the fellow is our master! Cinthia, take care to
give him our best chamber."
"He must have made a compact with the devil!" grumbled Thomaso, and
forced his dislocated wrist back into its socket.
No one seemed inclined to hazard a second trial of strength. The
night was far advanced, or rather the grey morning already was
visible over the sea. The banditti separated, and each retired to
his chamber.
CHAPTER IV: THE DAGGERS.
Abellino, this Italian Hercules, all terrible as he appeared to be,
was not long a member of this society before his companions felt
towards him sentiments of the most unbounded esteem. All loved, all
valued him, for his extraordinary talents for a bravo's trade, to
which he seemed peculiarly adapted, not only by his wonderful
strength of body, but by the readiness of his wit, and his never-
failing presence of mind. Even Cinthia was inclined to feel some
little affection for him, but--he really was too ugly.
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