The Bravo (29 page)

"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; aye, 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 seated, and his lips moved,
either in prayer or 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 risen, 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 is 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, 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 can'st 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. 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.

"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!"