The Bravo

by James Fenimore Cooper

  "It is here," answered Gelsomina, opening a drawer, and handing to her cousin a small but closely enveloped package, which, unknown to herself, contained some articles of forbidden commerce, and which the other, in her indefatigable activity, had been obliged to secrete for a time. "I had begun to think that thou hadst forgotten it, and was about to send it to thee."

  "Gelsomina, if thou lovest me, never do so rash an act! My brother Giuseppe—thou scarce knowest Giuseppe?"

  "We have little acquaintance, for cousins."

  "Thou art fortunate in thy ignorance. I cannot say what I might of the child of the same parents, but had Giuseppe seen this package by any accident, it might have brought thee into great trouble!"

  "Nay, I fear not thy brother, nor any else," said the daughter of the prison-keeper, with the firmness of innocence; "he could do me no harm for dealing kindly by a relative."

  "Thou art right; but he might have caused me great vexation. Sainted Maria! if thou knewest the pain that unthinking and misguided boy gives his family! He is my brother, after all, and you will fancy the rest. Addio, good Gessina; I hope thy father will permit thee to come and visit, at last, those who so much love thee."

  "Addio, Annina; thou knowest I would come gladly, but that I scarce quit the side of my poor mother."

  The wily daughter of the wine-seller gave her guileless and unsuspecting friend a kiss, and then she was let out and departed.

  "Carlo," said the soft voice of Gessina; "thou can'st come forth, for we have no further fear of visits."

  The Bravo appeared, but with a paleness deeper than common on his cheek. He looked mournfully at the gentle and affectionate being who awaited his return, and when he struggled to answer her ingenuous smile, the abortive effort gave his features an expression of ghastliness.

  "Annina has wearied thee with her idle discourse of the regatta, and of murders on the canals. Thou wilt not judge her harshly, for the manner in which she spoke of Giuseppe, who may deserve this, and more. But I know thy impatience, and I will not increase thy weariness."

  "Hold, Gessina—this girl is thy cousin?"

  "Have I not told thee so? Our mothers are sisters."

  "And she is here often?"

  "Not as often as she could wish, I am certain, for her aunt has not quitted her room for many, many months."

  "Thou art an excellent daughter, kind Gessina, and would make all others as virtuous as thyself. And thou hast been to return these visits?"

  "Never. My father forbids it, for they are dealers in wines, and entertain the gondoliers in revelry. But Annina is blameless for the trade of her parents."

  "No doubt—and that package? it hath been long in thy keeping."

  "A month; Annina left it at her last visit, for she was hurried to cross to the Lido. But why these questions? You do not like my cousin, who is giddy, and given to idle conversation, but who, I think, must have a good heart. Thou heard'st the manner in which she spoke of the wretched bravo, Jacopo, and of this late murder?"

  "I did."

  "Thou could'st not have shown more horror at the monster's crime thyself, Carlo. Nay, Annina is thoughtless, and she might be less worldly; but she hath, like all of us, a holy aversion to sin. Shall I lead thee to the cell?"

  "Go on."

  "Thy honest nature, Carlo, revolts at the cold villany of the assassin. I have heard much of his murders, and of the manner in which those up above bear with him. They say, in common, that his art surpasseth theirs, and that the officers wait for proof, that they may not do injustice."

  "Is the Senate so tender, think you?" asked the Bravo, huskily, but motioning for his companion to proceed.

  The girl looked sad, like one who felt the force of this question; and she turned away to open a private door, whence she brought forth a little box.

  "This is the key, Carlo," she said, showing him one of a massive bunch, "and I am now the sole warder. This much, at least, we have effected; the day may still come when we shall do more."

  The Bravo endeavored to smile, as if he appreciated her kindness; but he only succeeded in making her understand his desire to go on. The eye of the gentle-hearted girl lost its gleam of hope in an expression of sorrow, and she obeyed.

  Chapter XIX

  *

  "But let us to the roof,

  And, when thou hast surveyed the sea, the land,

  Visit the narrow cells that cluster there,

  As in a place of tombs."

  ST. MARK'S PLACE.

  We shall not attempt to thread the vaulted galleries, the gloomy corridors, and all the apartments, through which the keeper's daughter led her companion. Those who have ever entered an extensive prison, will require no description to revive the feeling of pain which it excited, by barred windows, creaking hinges, grating bolts, and all those other signs, which are alike the means and evidence of incarceration. The building, unhappily like most other edifices intended to repress the vices of society, was vast, strong, and intricate within, although, as has been already intimated, of a chaste and simple beauty externally, that might seem to have been adopted in mockery of its destination.

  Gelsomina entered a low, narrow, and glazed gallery, when she stopped.

  "Thou soughtest me, as wont, beneath the water-gate, Carlo," she asked, "at the usual hour?"

  "I should not have entered the prison had I found thee there, for thou knowest I would be little seen. But I bethought me of thy mother, and crossed the canal."

  "Thou wast wrong. My mother rests much as she has done for many months—thou must have seen that we are not taking the usual route to the cell?"

  "I have; but as we are not accustomed to meet in thy father's rooms, on this errand, I thought this the necessary direction."

  "Hast thou much knowledge of the palace and the prison, Carlo?"

  "More than I could wish, good Gelsomina; but why am I thus questioned, at a moment when I would be otherwise employed?"

  The timid and conscious girl did not answer. Her cheek was never bright, for, like a flower reared in the shade, it had the delicate hue of her secluded life; but at this question it became pale. Accustomed to the ingenuous habits of the sensitive being at his side, the Bravo studied her speaking features intently. He moved swiftly to a window, and looking out, his eye fell upon a narrow and gloomy canal. Crossing the gallery, he cast a glance beneath him, and saw the same dark watery passage, leading between the masonry of two massive piles to the quay and the port.

  "Gelsomina!" he cried, recoiling from the sight, "this is the Bridge of Sighs!"

  "It is, Carlo; hast thou ever crossed it before?"

  "Never: nor do I understand why I cross it now. I have long thought that it might one day be my fortune to walk this fatal passage, but I could not dream of such a keeper!"

  The eye of Gelsomina brightened, and her smile was cheerful.

  "Thou wilt never cross it to thy harm with me."

  "Of that I am certain, kind Gessina," he answered, taking her hand. "But this is a riddle that I cannot explain. Art thou in the habit of entering the palace by this gallery?"

  "It is little used, except by the keepers and the condemned, as doubtless thou hast often heard; but yet they have given me the keys, and taught me the windings of the place, in order that I might serve, as usual, for thy guide."

  "Gelsomina, I fear I have been too happy in thy company to note, as prudence would have told me, the rare kindness of the council in permitting me to enjoy it!"

  "Dost thou repent, Carlo, that thou hast known me?"

  The reproachful melancholy of her voice touched the Bravo, who kissed the hand he held with Italian fervor.

  "I should then repent me of the only hours of happiness I have known for years," he said. "Thou hast been to me, Gelsomina, like a flower in a desert—a pure spring to a feverish man—a gleam of hope to one suffering under malediction. No, no, not for a moment have I repented knowing thee, my Gelsomina!"

  "'Twould not have made my life more happy,
Carlo, to have thought I had added to thy sorrows. I am young, and ignorant of the world, but I know we should cause joy, and not pain, to those we esteem."

  "Thy nature would teach thee this gentle lesson. But is it not strange that one like me should be suffered to visit the prison unattended by any other keeper?"

  "I had not thought it so, Carlo; but surely, it is not common!"

  "We have found so much pleasure in each other, dear Gessina, that we have overlooked what ought to have caused alarm."

  "Alarm, Carlo!"

  "Or, at least, distrust; for these wily senators do no act of mercy without a motive. But it is now too late to recall the past if we would; and in that which relates to thee I would not lose the memory of a moment. Let us proceed."

  The slight cloud vanished from the face of the mild auditor of the Bravo; but still she did not move.

  "Few pass this bridge, they say," she added tremulously, "and enter the world again; and yet thou dost not even ask why we are here, Carlo!"

  There was a transient gleam of distrust in the hasty glance of the Bravo, as he shot a look at the undisturbed eye of the innocent being who put this question. But it scarcely remained long enough to change the expression of manly interest she was accustomed to meet in his look.

  "Since thou wilt have me curious," he said, "why hast thou come hither, and more than all, being here, why dost thou linger?"

  "The season is advanced, Carlo," she answered, speaking scarcely above her breath, "and we should look in vain among the cells."

  "I understand thee," he said; "we will proceed."

  Gelsomina lingered to gaze wistfully into the face of her companion, but finding no visible sign of the agony he endured she went on. Jacopo spoke hoarsely, but he was too long accustomed to disguise to permit the weakness to escape, when he knew how much it would pain the sensitive and faithful being who had yielded her affections to him with a singleness and devotion which arose nearly as much from her manner of life as from natural ingenuousness.

  In order that the reader may be enabled to understand the allusions, which seem to be so plain to our lovers, it may be necessary to explain another odious feature in the policy of the Republic of Venice.

  Whatever may be the pretension of a state, in its acknowledged theories, an unerring clue to its true character is ever to be found in the machinery of its practice. In those governments which are created for the good of the people, force is applied with caution and reluctance, since the protection and not the injury of the weak is their object: whereas the more selfish and exclusive the system becomes, the more severe and ruthless are the coercive means employed by those in power. Thus in Venice, whose whole political fabric reposed on the narrow foundation of an oligarchy, the jealousy of the Senate brought the engines of despotism in absolute contact with even the pageantry of their titular prince, and the palace of the Doge himself was polluted by the presence of the dungeons. The princely edifice had its summer and winter cells. The reader may be ready to believe that mercy had dictated some slight solace for the miserable in this arrangement. But this would be ascribing pity to a body which, to its latest moment, had no tie to subject it to the weakness of humanity. So far from consulting the sufferings of the captive, his winter cell was below the level of the canals, while his summers were to be passed beneath the leads exposed to the action of the burning sun of that climate. As the reader has probably anticipated already, that Jacopo was in the prison on an errand connected with some captive, this short explanation will enable him to understand the secret allusion of his companion. He they sought had, in truth, been recently conveyed from the damp cells where he had passed the winter and spring, to the heated chambers beneath the roof.

  Gelsomina continued to lead the way with a sadness of eye and feature that betrayed her strong sympathy with the sufferings of her companion, but without appearing to think further delay necessary. She had communicated a circumstance which weighed heavily on her own mind, and, like most of her mild temperament, who had dreaded such a duty, now that it was discharged she experienced a sensible relief. They ascended many flights of steps, opened and shut numberless doors, and threaded several narrow corridors in silence, before reaching the place of destination. While Gelsomina sought the key of the door before which they stopped, in the large bunch she carried, the Bravo breathed the hot air of the attic like one who was suffocating.

  "They promised me that this should not be done again!" he said. "But they forget their pledges, fiends as they are!"

  "Carlo! thou forgettest that this is the palace of the Doge!" whispered the girl, while she threw a timid glance behind her.

  "I forget nothing that is connected with the Republic! It is all here," striking his flushed brow—"what is not there, is in my heart!"

  "Poor Carlo! this cannot last for ever—there will be an end!"

  "Thou art right," answered the Bravo hoarsely. "The end is nearer than thou thinkest. No matter; turn the key, that we may go in."

  The hand of Gelsomina lingered on the lock, but admonished by his impatient eye, she complied, and they entered the cell.

  "Father!" exclaimed the Bravo, hastening to the side of a pallet that lay on the floor.

  The attenuated and feeble form of an old man rose at the word, and an eye which, while it spoke mental feebleness, was at that moment even brighter than that of his son, glared on the faces of Gelsomina and her companion.

  "Thou hast not suffered, as I had feared, by this sudden change, father!" continued the latter, kneeling by the side of the straw. "Thine eye, and cheek, and countenance are better, than in the damp caves below!"

  "I am happy here," returned the prisoner; "there is light, and though they have given me too much of it, thou canst never know, my boy, the joy of looking at the day, after so long a night."

  "He is better, Gelsomina. They have not yet destroyed him. See! his eye is bright even, and his cheek has a glow!"

  "They are ever so, after passing the winter in the lower dungeons," whispered the gentle girl.

  "Hast thou news for me, boy? What tidings from thy mother?"

  Jacopo bowed his head to conceal the anguish occasioned by this question, which he now heard for the hundredth time.

  "She is happy, father—happy as one can be, who so well loves thee, when away from thy side."

  "Does she speak of me often?"

  "The last word that I heard from her lips, was thy name."

  "Holy Maria bless her! I trust she remembers me in her prayers?"

  "Doubt it not, father, they are the prayers of an angel!"

  "And thy patient sister? thou hast not named her, son."

  "She, too, is well, father."

  "Has she ceased to blame herself for being the innocent cause of my sufferings?"

  "She has."

  "Then she pines no longer over a blow that cannot be helped."

  The Bravo seemed to search for relief in the sympathizing eye of the pale and speechless Gelsomina.

  "She has ceased to pine, father," he uttered with compelled calmness.

  "Thou hast ever loved thy sister, boy, with manly tenderness. Thy heart is kind, as I have reason to know. If God has given me grief, he has blessed me in my children!"

  A long pause followed, during which the parent seemed to muse on the past, while the child rejoiced in the suspension of questions which harrowed his soul, since those of whom the other spoke had long been the victims of family misfortune. The old man, for the prisoner was aged as well as feeble, turned his look on the still kneeling Bravo, thoughtfully, and continued.

  "There is little hope of thy sister marrying, for none are fond of tying themselves to the proscribed."

  "She wishes it not—she wishes it not—she is happy, with my mother!"

  "It is a happiness the Republic will not begrudge. Is there no hope of our being able to meet soon?"

  "Thou wilt meet my mother—yes, that pleasure will come at last!"

  "It is a weary time since any of my bl
ood, but thee, have stood in my sight. Kneel, that I may bless thee."

  Jacopo, who had risen under his mental torture, obeyed, and bowed his head in reverence to receive the paternal benediction. The lips of the old man moved, and his eyes were turned to Heaven, but his language was of the heart, rather than that of the tongue. Gelsomina bent her head to her bosom, and seemed to unite her prayers to those of the prisoner. When the silent but solemn ceremony was ended, each made the customary sign of the cross, and Jacopo kissed the wrinkled hand of the captive.

  "Hast thou hope for me?" the old man asked, this pious and grateful duty done. "Do they still promise to let me look upon the sun again?"

  "They do. They promise fair."

  "Would that their words were true! I have lived on hope for a weary time—I have now been within these walls more than four years, methinks."

  Jacopo did not answer, for he knew that his father named the period only that he himself had been permitted to see him.

  "I built upon the expectation that the Doge would remember his ancient servant, and open my prison-doors."

  Still Jacopo was silent, for the Doge, of whom the other spoke, had long been dead.

  "And yet I should be grateful, for Maria and the saints have not forgotten me. I am not without my pleasures in captivity."

  "God be praised!" returned the Bravo. "In what manner dost thou ease thy sorrows, father?"

  "Look hither, boy," exclaimed the old man, whose eye betrayed a mixture of feverish excitement, caused by the recent change in his prison, and the growing imbecility of a mind that was gradually losing its powers for want of use; "dost thou see the rent in that bit of wood? It opens with the heat, from time to time, and since I have been an inhabitant here, that fissure has doubled in length—I sometimes fancy, that when it reaches the knot, the hearts of the senators will soften, and that my doors will open. There is a satisfaction in watching its increase, as it lengthens, inch by inch, year after year!"