 | CHAPTER XVI. The bravo |  |
16. CHAPTER XVI.
Fi da lin;
O pescator! dell' onda,
Fi da lin;
Vien pescar in qua,
Colla bella tua barca,
Colla bella se ne va,
Fi da lin, lin, la—
Venetian Boat Song.
The moon was at the height. Its rays fell in a
flood on the swelling domes and massive roofs of
Venice, while the margin of the town was brilliantly
defined by the glittering bay. The natural and
gorgeous setting was more than worthy of that picture
of human magnificence; for at that moment,
rich as was the queen of the Adriatic in her works
of art, the grandeur of her public monuments, the
number and splendor of her palaces, and most else
that the ingenuity and ambition of man could attempt,
she was but secondary in the glories of the
hour.
Above was the firmament, gemmed with worlds,
and sublime in immensity. Beneath lay the broad
expanse of the Adriatic, endless to the eye, tranquil
light. Here and there a low island, reclaimed
from the sea by the patient toil of a thousand
years, dotted the Lagunes, burthened with the group
of some conventual dwellings, or picturesque with
the modest roofs of a hamlet of the fishermen.
Neither oar, nor song, nor laugh, nor flap of sail,
nor jest of mariner, disturbed the stillness. All in
the near view was clothed in midnight loveliness,
and all in the distance bespoke the solemnity of nature
at peace. The city and the Lagunes, the gulf
and the dreamy Alps, the interminable plain of Lombardy,
and the blue void of heaven, lay alike, in a
common and grand repose.
There suddenly appeared a gondola. It issued
from among the watery channels of the town, and
glided upon the vast bosom of the bay, noiseless as
the fancied progress of a spirit. A practised and
nervous arm guided its movement, which was unceasing
and rapid. So swift indeed was the passage
of the boat, as to denote pressing haste on the part
of the solitary individual it contained. It held the
direction of the Adriatic, steering between one of
the more southern outlets of the bay and the well-known
island of St. Giorgio. For half an hour the
exertions of the gondolier were unrelaxed, though
his eye was often cast behind him, as if he distrusted
pursuit; and as often did he gaze ahead, betraying
an anxious desire to reach some object that was
yet invisible. When a wide reach of water lay between
him and the town, however, he permitted his
oar to rest, and he lent all his faculties to a keen and
anxious search.
A small dark spot was discovered on the water
still nearer to the sea. The oar of the gondolier
dashed the element behind him, and his boat again
glided away, so far altering its course as to show
that all indecision was now ended. The darker spot
and it soon assumed the form and dimensions of a
boat at anchor. Again the gondolier ceased his efforts,
and he leaned forward, gazing intently at this
undefined object, as if he would aid his powers of
sight by the sympathy of his other faculties. Just
then the notes of music came softly across the Lagunes.
The voice was feeble even to trembling, but
it had the sweetness of tone and the accuracy of
execution which belong so peculiarly to Venice. It
was the solitary man, in the distant boat, indulging
in the song of a fisherman. The strains were sweet,
and the intonations plaintive to melancholy. The
air was common to all who plied the oar in the canals,
and familiar to the ear of the listener. He
waited until the close of a verse had died away, and
then he answered with a strain of his own. The
alternate parts were thus maintained until the music
ceased, by the two singing a final verse in chorus.
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 Savior, Jacopo, in those
bright stars, that moon, the blue heavens, the misty
bank of mountain, the waters on which we float, ay,
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—ay,
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.
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 toward 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,
In the gaiety of their palaces, and among the companions
of their pleasures, none will speak you fairer
of humanity and justice—ay—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
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,
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.
“Ay, 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 passing 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
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 Lagunes! 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
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; ay, 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
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 arisen, 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's 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 the 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, of 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 canst thou in charity with thy
fellows, pray to Him who died for the race, in behalf
of those who have injured thee?”
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. Canst 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 seekst has escaped.
This aged man is a fisherman named Antonio, and
one who cannot have gravely offended St. Mark.
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
moon-lit 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 recognized 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
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. The bravo | |