The Bravo

by James Fenimore Cooper

  "This is a hard fate, reverend friar, could it be but proved!"

  "'Tis the evil of secresy and intrigue, great Doge, in managing the common interests!—"

  "Hast thou more of this Francesco, monk?"

  "His history is short, Signore; for at the age when most men are active in looking to their welfare, he was pining in a prison."

  "I remember to have heard of some such accusation; but it occurred in the reign of the last Doge, did it not, father?"

  "And he has endured to near the close of the reign of this, Highness!"

  "How? The Senate, when apprised of the error of its judgment, was not slow to repair the wrong!"

  The monk regarded the prince earnestly, as if he would make certain whether the surprise he witnessed was not a piece of consummate acting. He felt convinced that the affair was one of that class of acts, which, however oppressive, unjust, and destructive of personal happiness, had not sufficient importance to come before them, who govern under systems which care more for their own preservation than for the good of the ruled. "Signor Doge," he said, "the state is discreet in matters that touch its own reputation. There are reasons that I shall not presume to examine, why the cell of poor Francesco was kept closed, long after the death and confession of his accuser left his innocence beyond dispute."

  The prince mused, and then he bethought him to consult the countenance of his companion. The marble of the pilaster, against which he leaned, was not more cold and unmoved than the face of the inquisitor. The man had learned to smother every natural impulse in the assumed and factitious duties of his office.

  "And what has this case of Francesco to do with the execution of the Bravo?" demanded the Doge, after a pause, in which he had in vain struggled to assume the indifference of his counsellor.

  "That I shall leave this prison-keeper's daughter to explain. Stand forth, child, and relate what you know, remembering, if you speak before the Prince of Venice, that you also speak before the King of Heaven!"

  Gelsomina trembled, for one of her habits, however supported by her motives, could not overcome a nature so retiring without a struggle. But faithful to her promise, and sustained by her affection for the condemned, she advanced a step, and stood no longer concealed by the robes of the Carmelite.

  "Thou art the daughter of the prison-keeper?" asked the prince mildly, though surprise was strongly painted in his eye.

  "Highness, we are poor, and we are unfortunate: we serve the state for bread."

  "Ye serve a noble master, child. Dost thou know aught of this Bravo?"

  "Dread sovereign, they that call him thus know not his heart! One more true to his friends, more faithful to his word, or more suppliant with the saints, than Jacopo Frontoni, is not in Venice!"

  "This is a character which art might appropriate, even to a bravo. But we waste the moments. What have these Frontoni in common?"

  "Highness, they are father and son. When Jacopo came to be of an age to understand the misfortunes of his family, he wearied the senators with applications in his father's behalf, until they commanded the door of the cell to be secretly opened to a child so pious. I well know, great prince, that they who rule cannot have all-seeing eyes, else could this wrong never have happened. But Francesco wasted years in cells, chill and damp in winter, and scorching in summer, before the falsehood of the accusation was known. Then, as some relief to sufferings so little merited, Jacopo was admitted."

  "With what object, girl?"

  "Highness, was it not in pity? They promised too, that in good time the service of the son should buy the father's liberty. The patricians were slow to be convinced, and they made terms with poor Jacopo, who agreed to undergo a hard service that his father might breathe free air before he died."

  "Thou dealest in enigmas."

  "I am little used, great Doge, to speak in such a presence, or on such subjects. But this I know, that for three weary years hath Jacopo been admitted to his father's cell, and that those up above consented to the visits, else would my father have denied them. I was his companion in the holy act, and will call the blessed Maria and the saints——"

  "Girl, didst thou know him for a bravo?"

  "Oh! Highness, no. To me he seemed a dutiful child, fearing God and honoring his parent. I hope never to feel another pang, like that which chilled my heart when they said, he I had known as the kind Carlo was hunted in Venice as the abhorred Jacopo! But it is passed, the Mother of God be praised!"

  "Thou art betrothed to this condemned man?"

  The color did not deepen on the cheek of Gelsomina at this abrupt question, for the tie between her and Jacopo had become too sacred for the ordinary weaknesses of her sex.

  "Highness, yes; we were to be married, should it have pleased God, and those great senators who have so much influence over the happiness of the poor, to permit it."

  "And thou art still willing, knowing the man, to pledge thy vows to one like Jacopo?"

  "It is because I do know him to be as he is, that I most reverence him, great Doge. He has sold his time and his good name to the state, in order to save his imprisoned father, and in that I see nothing to frighten one he loves."

  "This affair needs explanation, Carmelite. The girl has a heated fancy, and she renders that obscure she should explain."

  "Illustrious prince, she would say that the Republic was content to grant the son the indulgence of visiting the captive, with some encouragement of his release, on condition that the youth might serve the police by bearing a bravo's reputation."

  "And for this incredible tale, father, you have the word of a condemned, criminal!"

  "With the near view of death before his eyes. There are means of rendering truth evident, familiar to those who are often near the dying penitents, that are unknown to those of the world. In any case, Signore, the matter is worthy of investigation."

  "In that thou art right. Is the hour named for the execution?"

  "With the morning light, prince."

  "And the father?"

  "Is dead."

  "A prisoner, Carmelite!"

  "A prisoner, Prince of Venice."

  There was a pause.

  "Hast thou heard of the death of one named Antonio?"

  "Signore, yes. By the sacred nature of my holy office, do I affirm that of this crime is Jacopo innocent! I shrived the fisherman."

  The Doge turned away, for the truth began to dawn upon him, and the flush which glowed on his aged cheek contained a confession that might not be observed by every eye. He sought the glance of his companion, but his own expression of human feeling was met by the disciplined features of the other, as light is coldly repelled from polished stone.

  "Highness!" added a tremulous voice.

  "What would'st thou, child?"

  "There is a God for the Republic, as well as for the gondolier! Your Highness will turn this great crime from Venice?"

  "Thou art of plain speech, girl!"

  "The danger of Carlo has made me bold. You are much beloved by the people, and none speak of you, that they do not speak of your goodness, and of your desire to serve the poor. You are the root of a rich and happy family, and you will not—nay, you cannot if you would, think it a crime for a son to devote all to a father. You are our father, and we have a right to come to you, even for mercy—but, Highness, I ask only for justice."

  "Justice is the motto of Venice."

  "They who live in the high favor of Providence do not always know what the unhappy undergo. It has pleased God to afflict my own poor mother, who has griefs that, but for her patience and Christian faith, would have been hard to bear. The little care I had it in my power to show, first caught Jacopo's eye, for his heart was then full of the duty of the child. Would your Highness consent to see poor Carlo, or to command him to be brought hither, his simple tale would give the lie to every foul slander they have dared to say against him."

  "It is unnecessary—it is unnecessary. Thy faith in his innocence, girl, is more eloquent than
any words of his can prove."

  A gleam of joy irradiated the face of Gelsomina, who turned eagerly to the listening monk, as she continued—

  "His Highness listens," she said, "and we shall prevail! Father, they menace in Venice, and alarm the timid, but they will never do the deed we feared. Is not the God of Jacopo my God, and your God?—the God of the senate and of the Doge?—of the Council and of the Republic? I would the secret members of the Three could have seen poor Jacopo, as I have seen him, coming from his toil, weary with labor and heart-broken with delay, enter the winter or the summer cell—chilling or scorching as the season might be—struggling to be cheerful, that the falsely accused might not feel a greater weight of misery. Oh! venerable and kind prince, you little know the burden that the feeble are often made to carry, for to you life has been sunshine; but there are millions who are condemned to do that they loathe, that they may not do that they dread."

  "Child, thou tell'st me nothing new."

  "Except in convincing you, Highness, that Jacopo is not the monster they would have him. I do not know the secret reasons of the councils for wishing the youth to lend himself to a deception that had nigh proved so fatal; but all is explained, we have naught now to fear. Come, father; we will leave the good and just Doge to go to rest, as suits his years, and we will return to gladden the heart of Jacopo with our success, and thank the blessed Maria for her favor."

  "Stay!" exclaimed the half-stifled old man. "Is this true that thou tellest me, girl:—Father, can it be so!"

  "Signore, I have said all that truth and my conscience have prompted."

  The prince seemed bewildered, turning his look from the motionless girl to the equally immovable member of the Three.

  "Come hither, child," he said, his voice trembling as he spoke. "Come hither, that I may bless thee." Gelsomina sprang forward, and knelt at the feet of her sovereign. Father Anselmo never uttered a clearer or more fervent benediction than that which fell from the lips of the Prince of Venice. He raised the daughter of the prison-keeper, and motioned for both his visitors to withdraw. Gelsomina willingly complied, for her heart was already in the cell of Jacopo, in the eagerness to communicate her success; but the Carmelite lingered to cast a look behind, like one better acquainted with the effects of worldly policy, when connected with the interests of those who pervert governments to the advantage of the privileged. As he passed through the door, however, he felt his hopes revive, for he saw the aged prince, unable any longer to suppress his feelings, hastening towards his still silent companion, with both hands extended, eyes moistening with tears, and a look that betrayed the emotions of one anxious to find relief in human sympathies.

  Chapter XXXI

  *

  "On—on—

  It Is our knell, or that of Venice.—On."

  MARINO FALIERO.

  Another morning called the Venetians to their affairs. Agents of the police had been active in preparing the public mind, and as the sun rose above the narrow sea, the squares began to fill. There were present the curious citizen in his, cloak and cap, bare-legged laborers in wondering awe, the circumspect Hebrew in his gaberdine and beard, masked gentlemen, and many an attentive stranger from among the thousands who still frequented that declining mart. It was rumored that an act of retributive justice was about to take place, for the peace of the town and the protection of the citizen. In short, curiosity, idleness, and revenge, with all the usual train of human feelings, had drawn together a multitude eager to witness the agonies of a fellow-creature.

  The Dalmatians were drawn up near the sea, in a manner to inclose the two granite columns of the Piazzetta. Their grave and disciplined faces fronted inwards towards the African pillars, those well known landmarks of death. A few grim warriors of higher rank paced the flags before the troops, while a dense crowd filled the exterior space. By special favor more than a hundred fishermen were grouped within the armed men, witnesses that their class had revenge. Between the lofty pedestals of St. Theodore and the winged lion lay the block and the axe, the basket and the saw-dust; the usual accompaniments of justice in that day. By their side stood the executioner.

  At length a movement in the living mass drew every eye towards the gate of the palace. A murmur arose, the multitude wavered, and a small body of the Sbirri came into view. Their steps were swift like the march of destiny. The Dalmatians opened to receive these ministers of fate into their bosom, and closing their ranks again, appeared to preclude the world with its hopes from the condemned. On reaching the block between the columns the Sbirri fell off in files, waiting at a little distance, while Jacopo was left before the engines of death attended by his ghostly counsellor, the Carmelite. The action left them open to the gaze of the throng.

  Father Anselmo was in the usual attire of a bare-footed friar of his order. The cowl of the holy man was thrown back, exposing his mortified lineaments and his self-examining eye to those around. The expression of his countenance was that of bewildered uncertainty, relieved by frequent but fitful glimmerings of hope. Though his lips were constant in prayer, his looks wandered, by an irrepressible impulse, from one window of the Doge's palace to another. He took his station near the condemned, however, and thrice crossed himself fervently.

  Jacopo had tranquilly placed his person before the block. His head was bare, his cheek colorless, his throat and neck uncovered from the shoulders, his body in its linen, and the rest of his form was clad in the ordinary dress of a gondolier. He kneeled with his face bowed to the block, repeated a prayer, and rising he faced the multitude with dignity and composure. As his eye moved slowly over the array of human countenances by which he was environed, a hectic glowed on his features, for not one of them all betrayed sympathy in his sufferings. His breast heaved, and those nearest to his person thought the self-command of the miserable man was about to fail him. The result disappointed expectation. There was a shudder, and the limbs settled into repose.

  "Thou hast looked in vain among the multitude for a friendly eye?" said the Carmelite, whose attention had been drawn to the convulsive movement.

  "None here have pity for an assassin."

  "Remember thy Redeemer, son. He suffered ignominy and death for a race that denied his Godhead, and derided his sorrows."

  Jacopo crossed himself, and bowed his head in reverence.

  "Hast thou more prayers to repeat, father?" demanded the chief of the Sbirri; he who was particularly charged with the duty of the hour." Though the illustrious councils are so sure in justice, they are merciful to the souls of sinners."

  "Are thy orders peremptory?" asked the monk, unconsciously fixing his eye again on the windows of the palace. "Is it certain that the prisoner is to die?"

  The officer smiled at the simplicity of the question, but with the apathy of one too much familiarized with human suffering to admit of compassion.

  "Do any doubt it?" he rejoined. "It is the lot of man, reverend monk; and more especially is it the lot of those on whom the judgment of St. Mark has alighted. It were better that your penitent looked to his soul."

  "Surely thou hast thy private and express commands! They have named a minute when this bloody work is to be performed?"

  "Holy Carmelite, I have. The time will not be weary, and you will do well to make the most of it, unless you have faith already in the prisoner's condition."

  As he spoke, the officer threw a glance at the dial of the square, and walked coolly away. The action left the priest and the prisoner again alone between the columns. It was evident that the former could not yet believe in the reality of the execution.

  "Hast thou no hope, Jacopo?" he asked.

  "Carmelite, in my God.

  "They cannot commit this wrong! I shrived Antonio—I witnessed his fate, and the Prince knows it!"

  "What is a Prince and his justice, where the selfishness of a few rules! Father, thou art new in the Senate's service."

  "I shall not presume to say that God will blast those who do this deed, for we canno
t trace the mysteries of his wisdom. This life and all this world can offer, are but specks in his omniscient eye, and what to us seems evil may be pregnant with good.—Hast thou faith in thy Redeemer, Jacopo?"

  The prisoner laid his hand upon his heart and smiled, with the calm assurance that none but those who are thus sustained can feel.

  "We will again pray, my son."

  The Carmelite and Jacopo kneeled side by side, the latter bowing his head to the block, while the monk uttered a final appeal to the mercy of the Deity. The former arose, but the latter continued in the suppliant attitude. The monk was so full of holy thoughts that, forgetting his former wishes, he was nearly content the prisoner should pass into the fruition of that hope which elevated his own mind. The officer and executioner drew near, the former touching the arm of Father Anselmo, and pointing towards the distant dial.

  "The moment is near," he whispered, more from habit than in any tenderness to the prisoner.

  The Carmelite turned instinctively towards the palace, forgetting in the sudden impulse all but his sense of earthly justice. There were forms at the windows, and he fancied a signal to stay the impending blow was about to be given.

  "Hold!" he exclaimed. "For the love of Maria of most pure memory, be not too hasty!"

  The exclamation was repeated by a shrill female voice, and then Gelsomina, eluding every effort to arrest her, rushed through the Dalmatians, and reached the group between the granite columns. Wonder and curiosity agitated the multitude, and a deep murmur ran through the square.

  "'Tis a maniac!" cried one.

  "'Tis a victim of his arts!" said another, for when men have a reputation for any particular vice, the world seldom fails to attribute all the rest.

  Gelsomina seized the bonds of Jacopo, and endeavored frantically to release his arms.

  "I had hoped thou would'st have been spared this sight, poor Gessina!" said the condemned.

  "Be not alarmed!" she answered, gasping for breath. "They do it in mockery; 't is one of their wiles to mislead—but they cannot—no, they dare not harm a hair of thy head, Carlo!"