The Bravo (28 page)

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 was shortly beheld quivering
in the rays of the moon, 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 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."