The Bravo

by James Fenimore Cooper

  When the song was ended, the oar of the gondolier stirred the water again, and he was quickly by the other's side.

  "Thou art busy with thy hook betimes, Antonio," said he who had just arrived, as he stepped into the boat of the old fisherman already so well known to the reader. "There are men, that an interview with the Council of Three would have sent to their prayers and a sleepless bed."

  "There is not a chapel in Venice, Jacopo, in which a sinner may so well lay bare his soul as in this. I have been here on the empty Lagunes, alone with God, having the gates of Paradise open before my eyes."

  "One like thee hath no need of images to quicken his devotion."

  "I see the image of my Saviour, Jacopo, in those bright stars, that moon, the blue heavens, the misty bank of mountain, the waters on which we float, aye, even in my own sinking form, as in all which has come from his wisdom and power. I have prayed much since the moon has risen."

  "And is habit so strong in thee that thou thinkest of God and thy sins while thou anglest?"

  "The poor must toil and the sinful must pray. My thoughts have dwelt so much of late on the boy, that I have forgotten to provide myself with food. If I fish later or earlier than common, 'tis because a man cannot live on grief."

  "I have bethought me of thy situation, honest Antonio; here is that which will support life and raise thy courage.

  "See," added the Bravo, stretching forth an arm Into his own gondola, from which he drew a basket, "here is bread from Dalmatia, wine of Lower Italy, and figs from the Levant—eat, then, and be of cheer."

  The fisherman threw a wistful glance at the viands, for hunger was making powerful appeals to the weakness of nature, but his hand did not relinquish its hold of the line, with which he still continued to angle.

  "And these are thy gifts, Jacopo?" he asked, in a voice that, spite of his resignation, betrayed the longings of appetite.

  "Antonio, they are the offerings of one who respects thy courage and honors thy nature."

  "Bought with his earnings?"

  "Can it be otherwise? I am no beggar for the love of the saints, and few in Venice give unasked. Eat, then, without fear; seldom wilt thou be more welcome."

  "Take them away, Jacopo, if thou lovest me. Do not tempt me beyond what I can bear."

  "How! art thou commanded to a penance?" hastily exclaimed the other.

  "Not so—not so. It is long since I have found leisure or heart for the confessional."

  "Then why refuse the gift of a friend? Remember thy years and necessities."

  "I cannot feed on the price of blood!"

  The hand of the Bravo was withdrawn as if repelled by an electric touch. The action caused the rays of the moon to fall athwart his kindling eye, and firm as Antonio was in honesty and principle, he felt the blood creep to his heart as he encountered the fierce and sudden glance of his companion. A long pause succeeded, during which the fisherman diligently plied his line, though utterly regardless of the object for which it had been cast.

  "I have said it, Jacopo," he added at length, "and tongue of mine shall not belie the thought of my heart. Take away thy food then, and forget all that is past; for what I have said hath not been said in scorn, but out of regard to my own soul. Thou knowest how I have sorrowed for the boy, but next to his loss I could mourn over thee—aye, more bitterly than over any other of the fallen!"

  The hard breathing of the Bravo was audible, but still he spoke not.

  "Jacopo," continued the anxious fisherman, "do not mistake me. The pity of the suffering and poor is not like the scorn of the rich and worldly. If I touch a sore, I do not bruise it with my heel. Thy present pain is better than the greatest of all thy former joys."

  "Enough, old man," said the other in a smothered voice, "thy words are forgotten. Eat without fear, for the offering is bought with earnings as pure as the gleanings of a mendicant friar."

  "I will trust to the kindness of St. Anthony and the fortune of my hook," simply returned Antonio. "'Tis common for us of the Lagunes to go to a supperless bed: take away the basket, good Jacopo, and let us speak of other things."

  The Bravo ceased to press his food upon the fisherman. Laying aside his basket, he sat brooding over what had occurred.

  "Hast thou come thus far for naught else, good Jacopo?" demanded the old man, willing to weaken the shock of his refusal.

  The question appeared to restore Jacopo to a recollection of his errand. He stood erect, and looked about him, for more than a minute, with a keen eye and an entire intentness of purpose. The look in the direction of the city was longer and more earnest than those thrown towards the sea and the main, nor was it withdrawn, until an involuntary start betrayed equally surprise and alarm.

  "Is there not a boat, here, in a line with the tower of the campanile?" he asked quickly, pointing towards the city.

  "It so seems. It is early for my comrades to be abroad, but the draughts have not been heavy of late, and the revelry of yesterday drew many of our people from their toil. The patricians must eat, and the poor must labor, or both would die."

  The Bravo slowly seated himself, and he looked with concern into the countenance of his companion.

  "Art thou long here, Antonio?"

  "But an hour. When they turned us away from the palace, thou knowest that I told thee of my necessities. There is not, in common, a more certain spot on the Lagunes than this, and yet have I long played the line in vain. The trial of hunger is hard, but, like all other trials, it must be borne. I have prayed to my patron thrice, and sooner or later he will listen to my wants. Thou art used to the manners of these masked nobles, Jacopo; dost thou think them likely to hearken to reason? I hope I did the cause no wrong for want of breeding, but I spoke them fair and plainly as fathers and men with hearts."

  "As senators they have none. Thou little understandest, Antonio, the distinctions of these patricians. In the gaiety of their palaces, and among the companions of their pleasures, none will speak you fairer of humanity and justice—aye—even of God! but when met to discuss what they call the interests of St. Mark, there is not a rock on the coldest peak of yonder Alp with less humanity, or a wolf among their valleys more heartless!"

  "Thy words are strong, Jacopo—I would not do injustice even to those who have done me this wrong. The Senators are men, and God has given all feelings and nature alike."

  "The gift is then abused. Thou hast felt the want of thy daily assistant, fisherman, and thou hast sorrowed for thy child; for thee it is easy to enter into another's griefs; but the Senators know nothing of suffering. Their children are not dragged to the galleys, their hopes are never destroyed by laws coming from hard task-masters, nor are their tears shed for sons ruined by being made companions of the dregs of the Republic. They will talk of public virtue and services to the state, but in their own cases they mean the virtue of renown, and services that bring with them honors and rewards. The wants of the state is their conscience, though they take heed those wants shall do themselves no harm."

  "Jacopo, Providence itself hath made a difference in men. One is large, another small; one weak, another strong; one wise, another foolish. At what Providence hath done, we should not murmur?"

  "Providence did not make the Senate; 't is an invention of man. Mark me, Antonio, thy language hath given offence, and thou art not safe in Venice. They will pardon all but complaints against their justice. That is too true to be forgiven."

  "Can they wish to harm one who seeks his own child?"

  "If thou wert great and respected, they would undermine thy fortune and character, ere thou should'st put their system in danger—as thou art weak and poor, they will do thee some direct injury, unless thou art moderate. Before all, I warn thee that their system must stand!"

  "Will God suffer this?"

  "We may not enter into his secrets," returned the Bravo, devoutly crossing himself. "Did his reign end with this world, there might be injustice in suffering the wicked to triumph, but, as it is, we—— Yon boat
approaches fast! I little like its air and movements."

  "They are not fishermen, truly, for there are many oars and a canopy!"

  "It is a gondola of the state!" exclaimed Jacopo, rising and stepping into his own boat, which he cast loose from that of his companion, when he stood in evident doubt as to his future proceedings. "Antonio, we should do well to row away."

  "Thy fears are natural," said the unmoved fisherman, "and 'tis a thousand pities that there is cause for them. There is yet time for one skilful as thou to outstrip the fleetest gondola on the canals."

  "Quick, lift thy anchor, old man, and depart, my eye is sure. I know the boat."

  "Poor Jacopo! what a curse is a tender conscience! Thou hast been kind to me in my need, and if prayers from a sincere heart can do thee service, thou shalt not want them."

  "Antonio!" cried the other, causing his boat to whirl away, and then pausing an instant like a man undecided—"I can stay no longer—trust them not—they are false as fiends—there is no time to lose—I must away."

  The fisherman murmured an ejaculation of pity, as he waved a hand in adieu.

  "Holy St. Anthony, watch over my own child, lest he come to some such miserable life!" he added, in an audible prayer—"There hath been good seed cast on a rock, in that youth, for a warmer or kinder heart is not in man. That one like Jacopo should live by striking the assassin's blow!"

  The near approach of the strange gondola now attracted the whole attention of the old man. It came swiftly towards him, impelled by six strong oars, and his eye turned feverishly in the direction of the fugitive. Jacopo, with a readiness that necessity and long practice rendered nearly instinctive, had taken a direction which blended his wake in a line with one of those bright streaks that the moon drew on the water, and which, by dazzling the eye, effectually concealed the objects within its width. When the fisherman saw that the Bravo had disappeared, he smiled and seemed at ease.

  "Aye, let them come here," he said; "it will give Jacopo more time. I doubt not the poor fellow hath struck a blow, since quitting the palace, that the council will not forgive! The sight of gold hath been too strong, and he hath offended those who have so long borne with him. God forgive me, that I have had communion with such a man! but when the heart is heavy, the pity of even a dog will warm our feelings. Few care for me now, or the friendship of such as he could never have been welcome."

  Antonio ceased, for the gondola of the state came with a rushing noise to the side of his own boat, where it was suddenly stopped by a backward sweep of the oars. The water was still in ebullition, when a form passed into the gondola of the fisherman, the larger boat shot away again to the distance of a few hundred feet, and remained at rest.

  Antonio witnessed this movement in silent curiosity; but when he saw the gondoliers of the state lying on their oars, he glanced his eye again furtively in the direction of Jacopo, saw that all was safe, and faced his companion with confidence. The brightness of the moon enabled him to distinguish the dress and aspect of a bare-footed Carmelite. The latter seemed more confounded than his companion, by the rapidity of the movement, and the novelty of his situation. Notwithstanding his confusion, however, an evident look of wonder crossed his mortified features when he first beheld the humble condition, the thin and whitened locks, and the general air and bearing of the old man with whom he now found himself.

  "Who art thou?" escaped him, in the impulse of surprise.

  "Antonio of the Lamines! A fisherman that owes much to St. Anthony, for favors little deserved."

  "And why hath one like thee fallen beneath the Senate's displeasure?"

  "I am honest and ready to do justice to others. If that offend the great, they are men more to be pitied than envied."

  "The convicted are always more disposed to believe themselves unfortunate than guilty. The error is fatal, and it should be eradicated from the mind, lest it lead to death."

  "Go tell this to the patricians. They have need of plain counsel, and a warning from the church."

  "My son, there is pride and anger, and a perverse heart in thy replies. The sins of the senators—and as they are men, they are not without spot—can in no manner whiten thine own. Though an unjust sentence should condemn one to punishment, it leaves the offences against God in their native deformity. Men may pity him who hath wrongfully undergone the anger of the world, but the church will only pronounce pardon on him who confesseth his errors, with a sincere admission of their magnitude."

  "Have you come, father, to shrive a penitent?"

  "Such is my errand. I lament the occasion, and if what I fear be true, still more must I regret that one so aged should have brought his devoted head beneath the arm of justice."

  Antonio smiled, and again he bent his eyes along that dazzling streak of light which had swallowed up the gondola and the person of the Bravo.

  "Father," he said, when a long and earnest look was ended, "there can be little harm in speaking truth to one of thy holy office. They have told thee there was a criminal here in the Lagunes, who hath provoked the anger of St. Mark?"

  "Thou art right."

  "It is not easy to know when St. Mark is pleased, or when he is not," continued Antonio, plying his line with indifference, "for the very man he now seeks has he long tolerated; aye, even in presence of the Doge. The Senate hath its reasons which lie beyond the reach of the ignorant, but it would have been better for the soul of the poor youth, and more seemly for the Republic, had it turned a discouraging countenance on his deeds from the first."

  "Thou speakest of another! thou art not then the criminal they seek!"

  "I am a sinner, like all born of woman, reverend Carmelite, but my hand hath never held any other weapon than the good sword with which I struck the infidel. There was one lately here, that, I grieve to add, cannot say this!"

  "And he is gone?"

  "Father, you have your eyes, and you can answer that question for yourself. He is gone; though he is not far; still is he beyond the reach of the swiftest gondola in Venice, praised be St. Mark!"

  The Carmelite bowed his head, where he was seated, and his lips moved, either in prayer or in thanksgiving.

  "Are you sorry, monk, that a sinner has escaped?"

  "Son, I rejoice that this bitter office hath passed from me, while I mourn that there should be a spirit so depraved as to require it. Let us summon the servants of the Republic, and inform them that their errand is useless."

  "Be not of haste, good father. The night is gentle, and these hirelings sleep on their oars, like gulls in the Lagunes. The youth will have more time for repentance, should he be undisturbed."

  The Carmelite, who had risen, instantly reseated himself, like one actuated by a strong impulse.

  "I thought he had already been far beyond pursuit," he muttered, unconsciously apologizing for his apparent haste.

  "He is over bold, and I fear he will row back to the canals, in which case you might meet nearer to the city—or there may be more gondolas of the state out—in short, father, thou wilt be more certain to escape hearing the confession of a Bravo, by listening to that of a fisherman, who has long wanted an occasion to acknowledge his sins."

  Men who ardently wish the same result, require few words to understand each other. The Carmelite took, intuitively, the meaning of his companion, and throwing back his cowl, a movement that exposed the countenance of Father Anselmo, he prepared to listen to the confession of the old man.

  "Thou art a Christian, and one of thy years hath not to learn the state of mind that becometh a penitent," said the monk, when each was ready.

  "I am a sinner, father; give me counsel and absolution, that I may have hope."

  "Thy will be done—thy prayer is heard—approach and kneel."

  Antonio, who had fastened his line to his seat, and disposed of his net with habitual care, now crossed himself devoutly, and took his station before the Carmelite. His acknowledgments of error then began. Much mental misery clothed the language and ideas of th
e fisherman with a dignity that his auditor had not been accustomed to find in men of his class. A spirit so long chastened by suffering had become elevated and noble. He related his hopes for the boy, the manner in which they had been blasted by the unjust and selfish policy of the state, his different efforts to procure the release of his grandson, and his bold expedients at the regatta, and the fancied nuptials with the Adriatic. When he had thus prepared the Carmelite to understand the origin of his sinful passions, which it was now his duty to expose, he spoke of those passions themselves, and of their influence on a mind that was ordinarily at peace with mankind. The tale was told simply and without reserve, but in a manner to inspire respect, and to awaken powerful sympathy in him who heard it.

  "And these feelings thou didst indulge against the honored and powerful of Venice!" demanded the monk, affecting a severity he could not feel.

  "Before my God do I confess the sin! In bitterness of heart I cursed them; for to me they seemed men without feeling for the poor, and heartless as the marbles of their own palaces."

  "Thou knowest that to be forgiven, thou must forgive. Dost thou, at peace with all of earth, forget this wrong, and can'st thou, in charity with thy fellows, pray to Him who died for the race, in behalf of those who have injured thee?"