SOLITUDE.
ABELLINO had already passed six weeks in Venice, and yet, either from
want of opportunity, or of inclination, he had suffered his daggers to
remain idle in their sheaths. This proceeded partly from his not being
as yet sufficiently acquainted with the windings and turnings, the
bye-lanes and private alleys of the town, and partly because he had
hitherto found no customers, whose murderous designs stood in need of his
helping hand.
This want of occupation was irksome to him in the extreme; he panted for
action, and was condemned to indolence.
With a melancholy heart did he roam through Venice, and number every step
with a sigh. He frequented the public places, the taverns, the gardens,
and every scene which was dedicated to amusement. But nowhere could he
find what ho sought—tranquillity.
One evening he had loitered beyond the other visitants in a public
garden, situated on one of the most beautiful of the Venetian islands.
He strolled from arbour to arbour, threw himself down on the sea-shore,
and watched the play of the waves as they sparkled in the moonshine.
“Four years ago,” said he, with a sigh, “just such a heavenly evening was
it, that I stole from Valeria’s lips the first kiss, and heard from
Valeria’s lips for the first time the avowal that she loved me.”
He was silent, and abandoned himself to the melancholy recollections
which thronged before his mind’s eye.
Everything around him was so calm, so silent! Not a single zephyr sighed
among the blades of grass; but a storm raged in the bosom of Abellino.
“Four years ago could I have believed that a time would come when I
should play the part of a bravo in Venice! Oh, where are they flown, the
golden hopes and plans of glory which smiled upon me in the happy days of
my youth? I am a bravo: to be a beggar were to be something better.”
“When my good old father, in the enthusiasm of paternal vanity, so oft
threw his arms around my neck, and cried, ‘My boy, thou wilt render the
name of Rosalvo glorious!’ God, as I listened, how was my blood on fire?
What thought I not, what that was good and great did I not promise myself
to do! The father is dead, and the son is a Venetian bravo! When my
preceptors praised and admired me, and, carried away by the warmth of
their feelings, clapped my shoulder, and exclaimed, ‘Count, thou wilt
immortalise the ancient race of Rosalvo!’ Ha, in those blessed moments
of sweet delirium, how bright and beauteous stood futurity before me!
When, happy in the performance of some good deed, I returned home, and
saw Valeria hasten to receive me with open arms, and when, while she
clasped me to her bosom I heard her whisper ‘Oh, who could forbear to
love the great Rosalvo?’ God! oh, God! Away, away, glorious visions of
the past. To look on you drives me mad!”
He was again silent; he bit his lips in fury, raised one emaciated hand
to heaven, and struck his forehead violently with the other.
“An assassin, the slave of cowards and rascals, the ally of the greatest
villains that the Venetian sun ever shines upon, such is now the great
Rosalvo. Fie, ah, fie on’t; and yet to this wretched lot hath fatality
condemned me.”
Suddenly he sprang from the ground after a long silence; his eyes
sparkled, his countenance was changed; he drew his breath easier.
“Yes, by Heaven, yes. Great as Count Rosalvo, that can I be no longer;
but from being great as a Venetian bravo, what prevents me? Souls in
bliss,” he exclaimed, and sank on his knee, while he raised his folded
hands to heaven, as if about to pronounce the most awful oath, “Spirit of
my father; spirit of Valeria, I will not become unworthy of you. Hear
me, if your ghosts are permitted to wander near me, hear me swear that
the bravo shall not disgrace the origin, nor render vain the hopes which
soothed you in the bitterness of death. No, sure as I live, I will be
the only dealer in this miserable trade, and posterity shall be compelled
to honour that name, which my actions shall render illustrious.”
He bowed his forehead till it touched the earth, and his tears flowed
plenteously. Vast conceptions swelled his soul; he dwelt on wondrous
views, till their extent bewildered his brain; yet another hour elapsed,
and he sprang from the earth to realise them.
“I will enter into no compact against human nature with five miserable
cut-throats. _Alone_ will I make the Republic tremble, and before eight
days are flown, these murderous knaves shall swing upon a gibbet. Venice
shall no longer harbour _five_ banditti; _one_ and _one_ only shall
inhabit here, and that one shall beard the Doge himself, shall watch over
right and wrong, and according as he judges, shall reward and punish.
Before eight days are flown, the State shall be purified from the
presence of these outcasts of humanity, and then shall I stand here
alone. Then must every villain in Venice, who hitherto has kept the
daggers of my companions in employment, have recourse to me; then shall I
know the names and persons of all those cowardly murderers, of all those
illustrious profligates, with whom Matteo and his companions carry on the
trade of blood. And then—Abellino! Abellino, that is the name. Hear
it, Venice, hear it, and tremble.”
Intoxicated with the wildness of his hopes, he rushed out of the garden.
He summoned a gondolier, threw himself into the boat, and hastened to the
dwelling of Cinthia, where the inhabitants already were folded in the
arms of sleep.