The Bravo

by James Fenimore Cooper

"Don Camillo Monforte, I am, like yourself, a Christian."

  "Ha! Thou knowest me—'tis Battista, the gondolier that I once entertained in my household?"

  "Signore, 'tis not Battista."

  As he spoke, the stranger faced the moon, in a manner that threw all of its mild light upon his features.

  "Jacopo!" exclaimed the duke, recoiling, as did all in Venice habitually, when that speaking eye was unexpectedly met.

  "Signore—Jacopo."

  In a moment the rapier of Don Camillo glittered in the rays of the moon.

  "Keep thy distance, fellow, and explain the motive that hath brought thee thus across my solitude!"

  The Bravo smiled, but his arms maintained their fold.

  "I might, with equal justice, call upon the Duke of Sant' Agata to furnish reasons why he wanders at this hour among the Hebrew graves."

  "Nay, spare thy pleasantry; I trifle not with men of thy reputation; if any in Venice have thought fit to employ thee against my person, thou wilt have need of all thy courage and skill ere thou earnest thy fee."

  "Put up thy rapier, Don Camillo, here is none to do you harm. Think you, if employed in the manner you name, I would be in this spot to seek you? Ask yourself whether your visit here was known, or whether it was more than the idle caprice of a young noble, who finds his bed less easy than his gondola. We have met, Duke of Sant' Agata, when you distrusted my honor less."

  "Thou speakest true, Jacopo," returned the noble, suffering the point of his rapier to fall from before the breast of the Bravo, though he still hesitated to withdraw the weapon. "Thou sayest the truth. My visit to this spot is indeed accidental, and thou could'st not have possibly foreseen it. Why art thou here?"

  "Why are these here?" demanded Jacopo, pointing to the graves at his feet. "We are born, and we die—that much is known to us all; but the when and the where are mysteries, until time reveals them."

  "Thou art not a man to act without good motive. Though these Israelites could not foresee their visit to the Lido, thine hath not been without intention."

  "I am here, Don Camillo Monforte, because my spirit hath need of room. I want the air of the sea—the canals choke me—I can only breathe in freedom on this bank of sand!"

  "Thou hast another reason, Jacopo?"

  "Aye, Signore—I loathe yon city of crimes!"

  As the Bravo spoke, he shook his hand in the direction of the domes of St. Mark, and the deep tones of his voice appeared to heave up from the depths of his chest.

  "This is extraordinary language for a—"

  "Bravo; speak the word boldly, Signore—it is no stranger to my ears. But even the stiletto of a Bravo is honorable, compared to that sword of pretended justice which St. Mark wields! The commonest hireling of Italy—he who will plant his dagger in the heart of his friend for two sequins, is a man of open dealing, compared to the merciless treachery of some in yonder town!"

  "I understand thee, Jacopo; thou art, at length, proscribed. The public voice, faint as it is in the Republic, has finally reached the ears of thy employers, and they withdraw their protection."

  Jacopo regarded the noble, for an instant, with an expression so ambiguous, as to cause the latter insensibly to raise the point of his rapier, but when he answered it was with his ordinary quiet.

  "Signor Duca," he said, "I have been thought worthy to be retained by Don Camillo Monforte!"

  "I deny it not—and now that thou recallest the occasion, new light breaks in upon me. Villain, to thy faithlessness I owe the loss of my bride!"

  Though the rapier was at the very throat of Jacopo, he did not flinch. Gazing at his excited companion, he laughed in a smothered manner, but bitterly.

  "It would seem that the Lord of Sant' Agata wishes to rob me of my trade," he said. "Arise, ye Israelites, and bear witness, lest men doubt the fact! A common bravo of the canals is waylaid, among your despised graves, by the proudest Signor of Calabria! You have chosen your spot in mercy, Don Camillo, for sooner or later this crumbling and sea-worn earth is to receive me. Were I to die at the altar itself, with the most penitent prayer of holy church on my lips, the bigots would send my body to rest among these hungry Hebrews and accursed heretics. Yes, I am a man proscribed, and unfit to sleep with the faithful!"

  His companion spoke with so strange a mixture of irony and melancholy, that the purpose of Don Camillo wavered. But remembering his loss, he shook the rapier's point, and continued:—

  "Thy taunts and effrontery will not avail thee, knave," he cried. "Thou knowest that I would have engaged thee as the leader of a chosen band, to favor the flight of one dear from Venice."

  "Nothing more true, Signore."

  "And thou didst refuse the service?"

  "Noble duke, I did."

  "Not content with this, having learned the particulars of my project, thou sold the secret to the Senate?"

  "Don Camillo Monforte, I did not. My engagements with the council would not permit me to serve you; else, by the brightest star of yonder vault! it would have gladdened my heart to have witnessed the happiness of two young and faithful lovers. No—no—no; they know me not, who think I cannot find pleasure in the joy of another. I told you that I was the Senate's, and there the matter ended."

  "And I had the weakness to believe thee, Jacopo, for thou hast a character so strangely compounded of good and evil, and bearest so fair a name for observance of thy faith, that the seeming frankness of the answer lulled me to security. Fellow, I have been betrayed, and that at the moment when I thought success most sure."

  Jacopo manifested interest, but, as he moved slowly on, accompanied by the vigilant and zealous noble, he smiled coldly, like one who had pity for the other's credulity.

  "In bitterness of soul, I have cursed the whole race for its treachery," continued the Neapolitan.

  "This is rather for the priore of St. Mark, than for the ear of one who carries a public stiletto."

  "My gondola has been imitated—the liveries of my people copied—my bride stolen. Thou answerest not, Jacopo?"

  "What answer would you have? You have been cozened, Signore, in a state, whose very prince dare not trust his secrets to his wife. You would have robbed Venice of an heiress, and Venice has robbed you of a bride. You have played high, Don Camillo, and have lost a heavy stake. You have thought of your own wishes and rights, while you have pretended to serve Venice with the Spaniard."

  Don Camillo started in surprise.

  "Why this wonder, Signore? You forget that I have lived much among those who weigh the chances of every political interest, and that your name is often in their mouths. This marriage is doubly disagreeable to Venice, who has nearly as much need of the bridegroom as of the bride. The council hath long ago forbidden the banns."

  "Aye—but the means?—explain the means by which I have been duped, lest the treachery be ascribed to thee."

  "Signore, the very marbles of the city give up their secrets to the state. I have seen much, and understood much, when my superiors have believed me merely a tool; but I have seen much that even those who employed me could not comprehend. I could have foretold this consummation of your nuptials, had I known of their celebration."

  "This thou could'st not have done, without being an agent of their treachery."

  "The schemes of the selfish may be foretold; it is only the generous and the honest that baffle calculation. He who can gain a knowledge of the present interest of Venice is master of her dearest secrets of state; for what she wishes she will do, unless the service cost too dear. As for the means—how can they be wanting in a household like yours, Signore?"

  "I trusted none but those deepest in my confidence."

  "Don Camillo, there is not a servitor in your palace, Gino alone excepted, who is not a hireling of the Senate, or of its agents. The very gondoliers who row you to your daily pleasures have had their hauds crossed with the Republic's sequins. Nay, they are not only paid to watch you, but to watch each other."

  "Can this be true!"
>
  "Have you ever doubted it, Signore?" asked Jacopo, looking up like one who admired another's simplicity.

  "I knew them to be false—pretenders to a faith that in secret they mock; but I had not believed they dared to tamper with the very menials of my person. This undermining of the security of families is to destroy society at its core."

  "You talk like one who hath not been long a bridegroom, Signore," said the Bravo with a hollow laugh. "A year hence, you may know what it is to have your own wife turning your secret thoughts into gold."

  "And thou servest them, Jacopo?"

  "Who does not, in some manner suited to his habits? We are not masters of our fortune, Don Camillo, or the Duke of Sant' Agata would not be turning his influence with a relative to the advantage of the Republic. What I have done hath not been done without bitter penitence, and an agony of soul that your own light servitude may have spared you, Signore."

  "Poor Jacopo!"

  "If I have lived through it all, 'tis because one mightier than the state hath not deserted me. But, Don Camillo Monforte, there are crimes which pass beyond the powers of man to endure."

  The Bravo shuddered, and he moved among the despised graves in silence.

  "They have then proved too ruthless even for thee?" said Don Camillo, who watched the contracting eye and heaving form of his companion, in wonder.

  "Signore, they have. I have witnessed, this night, a proof of their heartlessness and bad faith, that hath caused me to look forward to my own fate. The delusion is over; from this hour I serve them no longer."

  The Bravo spoke with deep feeling, and his companion fancied, strange as it was coming from such a man, with an air of wounded integrity. Don Camillo knew that there was no condition of life, however degraded or lost to the world, which had not its own particular opinions of the faith due to its fellows; and he had seen enough of the sinuous course of the oligarchy of Venice, to understand that it was quite possible its shameless and irresponsible duplicity might offend the principles of even an assassin. Less odium was attached to men of that class, in Italy and at that day, than will be easily imagined in a country like this; for the radical defects and the vicious administration of the laws, caused an irritable and sensitive people too often to take into their own hands the right of redressing their own wrongs. Custom had lessened the odium of the crime; and though society denounced the assassin himself, it is scarcely too much to say, that his employer was regarded with little more disgust than the religious of our time regard the survivor of a private combat. Still it was not usual for nobles like Don Camillo to hold intercourse, beyond that which the required service exacted, with men of Jacopo's cast; but the language and manner of the Bravo so strongly attracted the curiosity, and even the sympathy of his companion, that the latter unconsciously sheathed his rapier and drew nearer.

  "Thy penitence and regrets, Jacopo, may lead thee yet nearer to virtue," he said, "than mere abandonment of the Senate's service. Seek out some godly priest, and ease thy soul by confession and prayer."

  The Bravo trembled in every limb, and his eye turned wistfully to the countenance of the other.

  "Speak, Jacopo; even I will hear thee, if thou would'st remove the mountain from thy breast."

  "Thanks, noble Signore! a thousand thanks for this glimpse of sympathy to which I have long been a stranger! None know how dear a word of kindness is to one who has been condemned by all, as I have been. I have prayed—I have craved—I have wept for some ear to listen to my tale, and I thought I had found one who would have heard me without scorn, when the cold policy of the Senate struck him. I came here to commune with the hated dead, when chance brought us together. Could I—" the Bravo paused and looked doubtfully again at his companion.

  "Say on, Jacopo."

  "I have not dared to trust my secrets even to the confessional, Signore, and can I be so bold as to offer them to you."

  "Truly, it is a strange behest!"

  "Signore, it is. You are noble, I am of humble blood. Your ancestors were senators and Doges of Venice, while mine have been, since the fishermen first built their huts in the Lagunes, laborers on the canals, and rowers of gondolas. You are powerful, and rich, and courted; while I am denounced, and in secret, I fear, condemned. In short, you are Don Camillo Monforte, and I am Jacopo Frontoni!"

  Don Camillo was touched, for the Bravo spoke without bitterness, and in deep sorrow.

  "I would thou wert at the confessional, poor Jacopo!" he said; "I am little able to give ease to such a burden."

  "Signore, I have lived too long shut out from the good wishes of my fellows, and I can bear with it no longer. The accursed Senate may cut me off without warning, and then who will stop to look at my grave! Signore, I must speak or die!"

  "Thy case is piteous, Jacopo! Thou hast need of ghostly counsel."

  "Here is no priest, Signore, and I carry a weight past bearing. The only man who has shown interest in me, for three long and dreadful years, is gone!"

  "But he will return, poor Jacopo."

  "Signore, he will never return. He is with the fishes of the Lagunes."

  "By thy hand, monster!"

  "By the justice of the illustrious Republic," said the Bravo, with a smothered but bitter smile.

  "Ha! they are then awake to the acts of thy class? Thy repentance is the fruit of fear!"

  Jacopo seemed choked. He had evidently counted on the awakened sympathy of his companion, notwithstanding the difference in their situations, and to be thus thrown off again, unmanned him. He shuddered, and every muscle and nerve appeared about to yield its power. Touched by so unequivocal signs of suffering, Don Camillo kept close at his side, reluctant to enter more deeply into the feelings of one of his known character, and yet unable to desert a fellow-creature in so grievous agony.

  "Signor Duca," said the Bravo, with a pathos in his voice that went to the heart of his auditor, "leave me. If they ask for a proscribed man, let them come here; in the morning they will find my body near the graves of the heretics."

  "Speak, I will hear thee."

  Jacopo looked up with doubt expressed on his features.

  "Unburden thyself; I will listen, though thou recounted the assassination of my dearest friend."

  The oppressed Bravo gazed at him, as if he still distrusted his sincerity. His face worked, and his look became still more wistful; but as Don Camillo faced the moon, and betrayed the extent of his sympathy, the other burst into tears.

  "Jacopo, I will hear thee—I will hear thee, poor Jacopo!" cried Don Camillo, shocked at this exhibition of distress in one so stern by nature. A wave from the hand of the Bravo silenced him, and Jacopo, struggling with himself for a moment, spoke.

  "You have saved a soul from perdition, Signore," he said, smothering his emotion. "If the happy knew how much power belongs to a single word of kindness—a glance of feeling, when given to the despised, they would not look so coldly on the miserable. This night must have been my last, had you cast me off without pity—but you will hear my tale, Signore—you will not scorn the confession of a Bravo?"

  "I have promised. Be brief, for at this moment I have great care of my own."

  "Signore, I know not the whole of your wrongs, but they will not be less likely to be redressed for this grace."

  Jacopo made an effort to command himself, when he commenced his tale.

  The course of the narrative does not require that we should accompany this extraordinary man though the relation of the secrets he imparted to Don Camillo. It is enough for our present purposes to say, that, as he proceeded, the young Calabrian noble drew nearer to his side, and listened with growing interest. The Duke of Sant' Agata scarcely breathed, while his companion, with that energy of language and feeling which marks Italian character, recounted his secret sorrows, and the scenes in which he had been an actor. Long before he was done, Don Camillo had forgotten his own private causes of concern, and, by the time the tale was finished, every shade of disgust had given place to an ungovernab
le expression of pity. In short, so eloquent was the speaker, and so interesting the facts with which he dealt, that he seemed to play with the sympathies of the listener, as the improvisatore of that region is known to lead captive the passions of the admiring crowd.

  During the time Jacopo was speaking, he and his wondering auditor had passed the limits of the despised cemetery; and as the voice of the former ceased, they stood on the outer beach of the Lido. When the low tones of the Bravo were no longer audible, they were succeeded by the sullen wash of the Adriatic.

  "This surpasseth belief!" Don Camillo exclaimed after a long pause, which had only been disturbed by the rush and retreat of the waters.

  "Signore, as holy Maria is kind! it is true."

  "I doubt you not, Jacopo—poor Jacopo! I cannot distrust a tale thus told! Thou hast, indeed, been a victim of their hellish duplicity, and well mayest thou say, the load was past bearing. What is thy intention?"

  "I serve them no longer, Don Camillo—I wait only for the last solemn scene, which is now certain, and then I quit this city of deceit, to seek my fortune in another region. They have blasted my youth, and loaded my name with infamy—God may yet lighten the load!"

  "Reproach not thyself beyond reason, Jacopo, for the happiest and most fortunate of us all are not above the power of temptation. Thou knowest that even my name and rank have not, altogether, protected me from their arts."

  "I know them capable, Signore, of deluding angels! Their arts are only surpassed by their means, and their pretence of virtue by their indifference to its practice."

  "Thou sayest true, Jacopo: the truth is never in greater danger, than when whole communities lend themselves to the vicious deception of seemliness, and without truth there is no virtue. This it is to substitute profession for practice—to use the altar for a worldly purpose—and to bestow power without any other responsibility than that which is exacted by the selfishness of caste! Jacopo—poor Jacopo! thou shalt be my servitor—I am lord of my own seignories, and once rid of this specious Republic, I charge myself with the care of thy safety and fortunes. Be at peace as respects thy conscience: I have interest near the Holy See, and thou shalt not want absolution!"