THE DAGGERS.
ABELLINO, this Italian Hercules, all terrible as he appeared to be, was
not long a member of this society before his companions felt towards him
sentiments of the most unbounded esteem. All loved, all valued him, for
his extraordinary talents for a bravo’s trade, to which he seemed
peculiarly adapted, not only by his wonderful strength of body, but by
the readiness of his wit, and his never-failing presence of mind. Even
Cinthia was inclined to feel some little affection for him, but—he really
was too ugly.
Matteo, as Abellino was soon given to understand, was the captain of this
dangerous troop. He was one who carried villainy to the highest pitch of
refinement, incapable of fear, quick and crafty, and troubled with less
conscience than a French financier. The booty and price of blood, which
his associates brought in daily, were always delivered up to him: he gave
each man his share, and retained no larger portion for himself than was
allotted to the others. The catalogue of those whom he had despatched
into the other world was already too long for him to have repeated it:
many names had slipped his memory, but his greatest pleasure in his hour
of relaxation was to relate such of these murderous anecdotes as he still
remembered, in the benevolent intention of inspiring his hearers with a
desire to follow his example. His weapons were kept separate from the
rest, and occupied a whole apartment. Here were to be found daggers of a
thousand different fashions, _with_ guards and _without_ them; two,
three, and four-edged. Here were stored air-guns, pistols, and
blunderbusses; poisons of various kinds and operating in various ways;
garments fit for every possible disguise, whether to personate the monk,
the Jew, or the mendicant; the soldier, the sailor, or the gondolier.
One day he summoned Abellino to attend him in his armoury.
“Mark me,” said he, “thou wilt turn out a brave fellow, that I can see
already. It is now time that you should earn that bread for yourself
which hitherto you have owed to our bounty. Look! Here thou hast a
dagger of the finest steel; you must charge for its use by the inch. If
you plunge it only one inch deep into the bosom of his foe, your employer
must reward you with only one sequin: if two inches, with ten sequins; if
three, with twenty; if the whole dagger, you may then name your own
price. Here is next a glass poniard; whomsoever this pierces, that man’s
death is certain. As soon as the blow is given, you must break the
dagger in the wound. The flesh will close over the point which has been
broken off, and which will keep its quarters till the day of
resurrection! Lastly, observe this metallic dagger; its cavity conceals
a subtle poison, which, whenever you touch this spring, will immediately
infuse death into the veins of him whom the weapon’s point hath wounded.
Take these daggers. In giving them I present you with a capital capable
of bringing home to you most heavy and most precious interest.”
Abellino received the instruments of death, but his hand shook as it
grasped them.
“Possessed of such unfailing weapons, of what immense sums must your
robberies have made you master!”
“Scoundrel!” interrupted Matteo, frowning and offended, “amongst us
robbery is unknown. What? Dost take us for common plunderers, for mere
thieves, cut-purses, housebreakers, and villains of that low, miserable
stamp?”
“Perhaps what you wish me to take you for is something worse; for, to
speak openly, Matteo, villains of that stamp are contented within
plundering a purse or a casket, which can easily be filled again; but
that which we take from others is a jewel which a man never has but once,
and which stolen can never be replaced. Are we not, then, a thousand
times more atrocious plunderers?”
“By the house at Loretto, I think you have a mind to moralise, Abellino?”
“Hark ye, Matteo, only one question. At the Day of Judgment, which think
you will hold his head highest, the thief or the assassin?”
“Ha! ha! ha!”
“Think not that Abellino speaks thus from want of resolution. Speak but
the word, and I murder half the senators of Venice; but still—”
“Fool! know, the bravo must be above crediting the nurse’s antiquated
tales of vice and virtue. What is virtue? What is vice? Nothing but
such things as forms of government, custom, manners, and education have
made sacred: and that which men are able to make honourable at one time,
it is in their power to make dishonourable at another, whenever the
humour takes them; had not the senate forbidden us to give opinions
freely respecting the politics of Venice, there would have been nothing
wrong in giving such opinions; and were the senate to declare that it is
right to give such opinions, that which to-day is thought a crime would
be thought meritorious to-morrow. Then, prithee, let us have no more of
such doubts as these. We are men, as much as the Doge and his senators,
and have reasons as much as _they_ have to lay down the law of right and
wrong, and to alter the law of right and wrong, and to decree what shall
be vice, and what shall be virtue.”
Abellino laughed. Matteo proceeded with increased animation—
“Perhaps you will tell me that your trade is _dishonourable_! And what,
then, is the thing called _honour_! ’Tis a word, an empty sound, a mere
fantastic creature of the imagination! Ask, as you traverse some
frequented street, in what honour consists? The usurer will answer—’To
be honourable is to be rich, and he has most honour who can heap up the
greatest quantity of sequins.’ ’By no means,’ cries the voluptuary;
‘honour consists in being beloved by a very handsome woman, and finding
no virtue proof against your attacks.’ ‘How mistaken!’ interrupts the
general; ‘to conquer whole cities, to destroy whole armies, to ruin all
provinces, _that_ indeed brings _real_ honour.’ The man of learning
places his renown in the number of pages which he has either written or
read; the tinker, in the number of pots and kettles which he has made or
mended; the nun, in the number of _good_ things which she has done, or
_bad_ things which she has resisted; the coquette, in the list of her
admirers; the Republic, in the extent of her provinces; and thus, my
friend, every one thinks that honour consists in something different from
the rest. And why, then, should not the bravo think that honour consists
in reaching the perfection of his trade, and in guiding a dagger to the
heart of an enemy with unerring aim?”
“By my life, ’tis a pity, Matteo, that you should be a bravo; the schools
have lost an excellent teacher of philosophy.”
“Do you think so? Why, the fact is thus, Abellino. I was educated in a
monastery; my father was a dignified prelate in Lucca, and my mother a
nun of the Ursuline order, greatly respected for her chastity and
devotion. Now, Signor, it was thought fitting that I should apply
closely to my studies; my father, good man, would fain have made me a
light of the Church; but I soon found that I was better qualified for an
incendiary’s torch. I followed the bent of my genius, yet count I not my
studies thrown away, since they taught me more philosophy than to tremble
at phantoms created by my own imagination. Follow my example, friend,
and so farewell.”