The Bravo

by James Fenimore Cooper

  Antonio bowed his head on his naked breast, and he seemed to commune with his soul.

  "Father," he said, in a rebuked tone, "I hope I do."

  "Thou must not trifle with thyself to thine own perdition. There is an eye in yon vault above us which pervades space, and which looks into the inmost secrets of the heart. Can'st thou pardon the error of the patricians in a contrite spirit for thine own sins?"

  "Holy Maria pray for them, as I now ask mercy in their behalf! Father, they are forgiven."

  "Amen!"

  The Carmelite arose and stood over the kneeling Antonio with the whole of his benevolent countenance illuminated by the moon. Stretching his arms towards the stars, he pronounced the absolution in a voice that was touched with pious fervor. The upward expectant eye, with the withered lineaments of the fisherman, and the holy calm of the monk, formed a picture of resignation and hope that angels would have loved to witness.

  "Amen! amen!" exclaimed Antonio, as he arose crossing himself; "St. Anthony and the Virgin aid me to keep these resolutions!"

  "I will not forget thee, my son, in the offices of holy church. Receive my benediction, that I may depart."

  Antonio again bowed his knee while the Carmelite firmly pronounced the words of peace. When this last office was performed, and a decent interval of mutual but silent prayer had passed, a signal was given to summon the gondola of the state. It came rowing down with great force, and was instantly at their side. Two men passed into the boat of Antonio, and with officious zeal assisted the monk to resume his place in that of the Republic.

  "Is the penitent shrived?" half whispered one, seemingly the superior of the two.

  "Here is an error. He thou seek'st has escaped. This aged man is a fisherman named Antonio, and one who cannot have gravely offended St. Mark. The Bravo hath passed towards the island of San Giorgio, and must be sought elsewhere."

  The officer released the person of the monk, who passed quickly beneath the canopy, and he turned to cast a hasty glance at the features of the fisherman. The rubbing of a rope was audible, and the anchor of Antonio was lifted by a sudden jerk. A heavy plashing of the water followed, and the two boats shot away together, obedient to a violent effort of the crew. The gondola of the state exhibited its usual number of gondoliers, bending to their toil, with its dark and hearse-like canopy, but that of the fisherman was empty!

  The sweep of the oars and the plunge of the body of Antonio had been blended in a common wash of the surge. When the fisherman came to the surface after his fall, he was alone in the centre of the vast but tranquil sheet of water. There might have been a glimmering of hope as he arose from the darkness of the sea to the bright beauty of that moonlit night. But the sleeping domes were too far for human strength, and the gondolas were sweeping madly towards the town. He turned, and swimming feebly, for hunger and previous exertion had undermined his strength, he bent his eye on the dark spot which he had constantly recognised as the boat of the Bravo.

  Jacopo had not ceased to watch the interview with the utmost intentness of his faculties. Favored by position, he could see without being distinctly visible. He saw the Carmelite pronouncing the absolution, and he witnessed the approach of the larger boat. He heard a plunge heavier than that of falling oars, and he saw the gondola of Antonio towing away empty. The crew of the Republic had scarcely swept the Lagunes with their oar-blades before his own stirred the water.

  "Jacopo!—Jacopo!" came fearfully and faintly to his ears.

  The voice was known, and the occasion thoroughly understood. The cry of distress was succeeded by the rush of the water, as it piled before the beak of the Bravo's gondola. The sound of the parted element was like the sighing of a breeze. Ripples and bubbles were left behind, as the driven scud floats past the stars, and all those muscles which had once before that day been so finely developed in the race of the gondoliers, were now expanded, seemingly in twofold volumes. Energy and skill were in every stroke, and the dark spot came down the streak of light, like the swallow touching the water with its wing.

  "Hither, Jacopo—thou steerest wide!"

  The beak of the gondola turned, and the glaring eye of the Bravo caught a glimpse of the fisherman's head.

  "Quickly, good Jacopo,—I fail!"

  The murmuring of the water again drowned the stifled words. The efforts of the oar were frenzied, and at each stroke the light gondola appeared to rise from its element.

  "Jacopo—hither—dear Jacopo!"

  "The mother of God aid thee, fisherman!—I come."

  "Jacopo—the boy!—the boy!"

  The water gurgled; an arm was visible in the air, and it disappeared. The gondola drove upon the spot where the limb had just been visible, and a backward stroke, that caused the ashen blade to bend like a reed, laid the trembling boat motionless. The furious action threw the Lagune into ebullition, but, when the foam subsided, it lay calm as the blue and peaceful vault it reflected.

  "Antonio!"—burst from the lips of the Bravo.

  A frightful silence succeeded the call. There was neither answer nor human form. Jacopo compressed the handle of his oar with fingers of iron, and his own breathing caused him to start. On every side he bent a frenzied eye, and on every side he beheld the profound repose of that treacherous element which is so terrible in its wrath. Like the human heart, it seemed to sympathize with the tranquil beauty of the midnight view; but, like the human heart, it kept its own fearful secrets.

  Chapter XVI

  *

  "Yet a few days and dream-perturbed nights,

  And I shall slumber well—but where?—no matter.

  Adieu, my Angiolina."

  MARINO FALIERO.

  When the Carmelite re-entered the apartment of Donna Violetta his face was covered with the hue of death, and his limbs with difficulty supported him to a chair. He scarcely observed that Don Camillo Monforte was still present, nor did he note the brightness and joy which glowed in the eyes of the ardent Violetta. Indeed his appearance was at first unseen by the happy lovers, for the Lord of St. Agata had succeeded in wresting the secret from the breast of his mistress, if that may be called a secret which Italian character had scarcely struggled to retain, and he had crossed the room before even the more tranquil look of the Donna Florinda rested on his person.

  "Thou art ill!" exclaimed the governess. "Father Anselmo hath not been absent without grave cause!"

  The monk threw back his cowl for air, and the act discovered the deadly paleness of his features. But his eye, charged with a meaning of horror, rolled over the faces of those who drew around him, as if he struggled with memory to recall their persons.

  "Ferdinando! Father Anselmo!" cried the Donna Florinda, correcting the unbidden familiarity, though she could not command the anxiety of her rebel features; "Speak to us—thou art suffering!"

  "Ill at heart, Florinda."

  "Deceive us not—haply thou hast more evil tidings—Venice—"

  "Is a fearful state."

  "Why hast thou quitted us?—why in a moment of so much importance to our pupil—a moment that may prove of the last influence on her happiness—hast thou been absent for a long hour?"

  Violetta turned a surprised and unconscious glance towards the clock, but she spoke not.

  "The servants of the state had need of me," returned the monk, easing the pain of his spirit by a groan.

  "I understand thee, father;—thou hast shrived a penitent?"

  "Daughter, I have: and few depart more at peace with God and their fellows!"

  Donna Florinda murmured a short prayer for the soul of the dead, piously crossing herself as she concluded. Her example was imitated by her pupil, and even the lips of Don Camillo moved, while his head was bowed by the side of his fair companion in seeming reverence.

  "'Twas a just end, father?" demanded Donna Florinda.

  "It was an unmerited one!" cried the monk, with fervor, "or there is no faith in man. I have witnessed the death of one who was better fitted to live,
as happily he was better fitted to die, than those who pronounced his doom. What a fearful state is Venice!"

  "And such are they who are masters of thy person, Violetta," said Don Camillo: "to these midnight murderers will thy happiness be consigned! Tell us, father, does thy sad tragedy touch in any manner on the interests of this fair being? for we are encircled here by mysteries that are as incomprehensible, while they are nearly as fearful as fate itself."

  The monk looked from one to the other, and a more human expression began to appear in his countenance.

  "Thou art right," he said; "such are the men who mean to dispose of the person of our pupil. Holy St. Mark pardon the prostitution of his revered name, and shield her with the virtue of his prayers!"

  "Father, are we worthy to know more of that thou hast witnessed?"

  "The secrets of the confessional are sacred, my son; but this hath been a disclosure to cover the living, not the dead, with shame."

  "I see the hand of those up above in this!" for so most spoke of the Council of Three. "They have tampered with my right for years to suit their selfish purposes, and to my shame must I own it, they have driven me to a submission, in order to obtain justice, that as ill accords with my feelings as with my character."

  "Nay, Camillo, thou art incapable of this injustice to thyself!"

  "'Tis a fearful government, dearest, and its fruits are equally pernicious to the ruler and the subject. It hath, of all other dangers the greatest, the curse of secresy on its intentions, its acts, and its responsibilities!"

  "Thou sayest true, my son; there is no security against oppression and wrong in a state but the fear of God or the fear of man. Of the first, Venice hath none, for too many souls share the odium of her sins; and as for the last, her deeds are hid from their knowledge."

  "We speak boldly, for those who live beneath her laws," observed Donna Florinda, glancing a look timidly around her. "As we can neither change nor mend the practices of the state, better that we should be silent."

  "If we cannot alter the power of the council, we may elude it," hastily answered Don Camillo, though he too dropped his voice, and assured himself of their security by closing the casement, and casting his eyes towards the different doors of the room. "Are you assured of the fidelity of the menials, Donna Florinda?"

  "Far from it, Signore; we have those who are of ancient service and of tried character; but we have those who are named by the Senator Gradenigo, and who are doubtless no other than the agents of the State."

  "In this manner do they pry into the privacy of all! I am compelled to entertain in my palace varlets that I know to be their hirelings; and yet do I find it better to seem unconscious of their views, lest they environ me in a manner that I cannot even suspect. Think you, father, that my presence here hath escaped the spies?"

  "It would be to hazard much were we to rely on such security. None saw us enter, as I think, for we used the secret gate and the more private entrance; but who is certain of being unobserved when every fifth eye is that of a mercenary?"

  The terrified Violetta laid her hand on the arm of her lover.

  "Even now, Camillo," she said, "thou mayest be observed, and secretly devoted to punishment!"

  "If seen, doubt it not: St. Mark will never pardon so bold an interference with his pleasure. And yet, sweetest Violetta, to gain thy favor this risk is nothing; nor will a far greater hazard turn me from my purpose."

  "These inexperienced and confiding spirits have taken advantage of my absence to communicate more freely than was discreet," said the Carmelite, in the manner of one who foresaw the answer.

  "Father, nature is too strong for the weak preventives of prudence."

  The brow of the monk became clouded. His companions watched the workings of his mind, as they appeared in a countenance that in common was so benevolent, though always sad. For a few moments none broke the silence.

  The Carmelite at length demanded, raising his troubled look to the countenance of Don Camillo,—

  "Hast thou duly reflected on the consequences of this rashness, son? What dost thou purpose in thus braving the anger of the Republic, and in setting at defiance her arts, her secret means of intelligence, and her terrors?"

  "Father, I have reflected as all of my years reflect, when in heart and soul they love. I have brought myself to feel that any misery would be happiness compared to the loss of Violetta, and that no risk can exceed the reward of gaining her favor. Thus much for the first of thy questions; for the last I can only say that I am too much accustomed to the wiles of the Senate to be a novice in the means of counteracting them."

  "There is but one language for youth, when seduced by that pleasing delusion which paints the future with hues of gold. Age and experience may condemn it, but the weakness will continue to prevail in all until life shall appear in its true colors. Duke of Sant' Agata, though a noble of high lineage and illustrious name, and though lord of many vassals, thou art not a power—thou can'st not declare thy palace in Venice a fortress, nor send a herald to the Doge with defiance."

  "True, reverend monk; I cannot do this—nor would it be well for him who could, to trust his fortune on so reckless a risk. But the states of St. Mark do not cover the earth—we can fly."

  "The Senate hath a long arm, and it hath a thousand secret hands."

  "None know it better than I. Still it does no violence without motive; the faith of their ward irretrievably mine, the evil, as respects them, becomes irreparable."

  "Think'st thou so! Means would quickly be found to separate you. Believe not that Venice would be thwarted of its design so easily; the wealth of a house like this would purchase many an unworthy suitor, and thy right would be disregarded, or haply denied."

  "But, father, the ceremony of the church may not be despised!" exclaimed Violetta; "it comes from heaven and is sacred."

  "Daughter, I say it with sorrow, but the great and the powerful find means even to set aside that venerable and holy sacrament. Thine own gold would serve to seal thy misery."

  "This might arrive, father, were we to continue within the grasp of St. Mark," interrupted the Neapolitan; "but once beyond his borders, 'twould be a bold interference with the right of a foreign state to lay hands on our persons. More than this, I have a castle in St. Agata, that will defy their most secret means, until events might happen which should render it more prudent for them to desist than to persevere."

  "This reason hath force wert thou within the walls of St. Agata, instead of being, as thou art, among the canals."

  "Here is one of Calabria, a vassal born of mine, a certain Stefano Milano, the padrone of a Sorrentine felucca, now lying in the port. The man is in strict amity with my own gondolier, he who was third in this day's race. Art thou ill, father, that thou appearest troubled?"

  "Proceed with thy expedient," answered the monk, motioning that he wished not to be observed.

  "My faithful Gino reports that this Stefano is on the canals, on some errand of the Republic, as he thinks; for though the mariner is less disposed to familiarity than is wont, he hath let drop hints that lead to such a conclusion; the felucca is ready from hour to hour to put to sea, and doubt not that the padrone would rather serve his natural lord than these double-dealing miscreants of the Senate. I can pay as well as they, if served to my pleasure, and I can punish too, when offended."

  "There is reason in this, Signore, wert thou beyond the wiles of this mysterious city. But in what manner thou embark, without drawing the notice of those who doubtless watch our movements, on thy person?"

  "There are maskers on the canals at all hours, and if Venice be so impertinent in her system of watchfulness, thou knowest, father, that, without extraordinary motive, that disguise is sacred. Without this narrow privilege, the town would not be habitable a day."

  "I fear the result," observed the hesitating monk, while it was evident from the thoughtfulness of his countenance, that he calculated the chances of the adventure. "If known and arrested, we are all lost
!"

  "Trust me, father, that thy fortune shall not be forgotten, even in that unhappy issue. I have an uncle, as you know, high in the favor of the pontiff, and who wears the scarlet hat. I pledge to you the honor of a cavalier, all my interest with this relative, to gain such intercession from the church as shall weaken the blow to her servant."

  The features of the Carmelite flushed, and for the first time the ardent young noble observed around his ascetic mouth an expression of worldly pride.

  "Thou hast unjustly rated my apprehensions, Lord of St. Agata," he said; "I fear not for myself, but for others. This tender and lovely child hath not been confided to my care, without creating a parental solicitude in her behalf, and"—he paused, and seemed to struggle with himself—"I have too long known the mild and womanly virtues of Donna Florinda, to witness with indifference her exposure to a near and fearful danger. Abandon our charge we cannot; nor do I see in what manner, as prudent and watchful guardians, we may in any manner consent to this risk. Let us hope that they who govern, will yet consult the honor and happiness of Donna Violetta."

  "That were to hope the winged lion would become a lamb, or the dark and soulless senate a community of self-mortifying and godly Carthusians! No, reverend monk, we must seize the happy moment, and none is likely to be more fortunate than this, or trust our hopes to a cold and calculating policy that disregards all motives but its own object. An hour—nay, half the time—would suffice to apprise the mariner, and ere the morning light, we might see the domes of Venice sinking into their own hated Lagunes."

  "These are the plans of confident youth, quickened by passion. Believe me, son, it is not easy as thou imaginest, to mislead the agents of the police. This palace could not be quitted, the felucca entered, or any one of the many necessary steps hazarded, without drawing upon us their eyes. Hark!—I hear the wash of oars—a gondola is even now at the water-gate!"