Art thou afraid
To be the same in thine own act and valour
As thou art in desire? Wouldst thou have that
Which thou esteemest the ornament of life,
Or live a coward in thine own esteem,
Letting _I dare not_ wait upon _I would_?--Macbeth.
For love is heaven, and heaven is love.
--_Lay of the Last Minstrel._
The soul of Verezzi was filled with irresistible disgust, as,
recovering, he found himself in Matilda’s arms. His whole frame
trembled with chilly horror, and he could scarcely withhold himself
from again fainting. He fixed his eyes upon the countenance--they met
hers--an ardent fire, mingled with a touching softness, filled their
orbits.
In a hurried and almost inarticulate accent, he reproached Matilda with
perfidy, baseness, and even murder. The roseate colour which had tinged
Matilda’s cheek, gave place to an ashy hue--the animation which had
sparkled in her eye, yielded to a confused expression of apprehension,
as the almost delirious Verezzi uttered accusations he knew not the
meaning of; for his brain, maddened by the idea of Julia’s death, was
whirled round in an ecstasy of terror.
Matilda seemed to have composed every passion; a forced serenity
overspread her features, as, in a sympathising and tender tone,
she entreated him to calm his emotions, and giving him a temporary
medicine, left him.
She descended to the saloon.
“Ah! he yet despises me--he even hates me,” ejaculated Matilda. “An
irresistible antipathy--irresistible, I fear, as my love for him is
ardent, has taken possession of his soul towards me. Ah! miserable,
hapless being that I am! doomed to have my fondest hope, my brightest
prospect, blighted.”
Alive alike to the tortures of despair and the illusions of hope,
Matilda, now in an agony of desperation, impatiently paced the saloon.
Her mind was inflamed by a more violent emotion of hate towards Julia,
as she recollected Verezzi’s fond expressions: she determined, however,
that were Verezzi not to be hers, he should never be Julia’s.
Whilst thus she thought, Zastrozzi entered.
The conversation was concerning Verezzi.
“How shall I gain his love, Zastrozzi?” exclaimed Matilda. “Oh! I will
renew every tender office--I will watch by him day and night, and, by
unremitting attentions, I will try to soften his flinty soul. But,
alas! it was but now that he started from my arms in horror, and, in
accents of desperation, accused me of perfidy--of murder. Could I be
perfidious to Verezzi, my heart, which burns with so fervent a fire,
declares I could not, and murder----”
Matilda paused.
“Would thou could say thou wert guilty, or even accessary to _that_,”
exclaimed Zastrozzi, his eye gleaming with disappointed ferocity.
“Would Julia of Strobazzo’s heart was reeking on my dagger!”
“Fervently do I join in that wish, my best Zastrozzi,” returned
Matilda: “but, alas! what avail wishes--what avail useless
protestations of revenge, whilst Julia yet lives?--yet lives, perhaps,
again to obtain Verezzi--to clasp him constant to her bosom--and
perhaps--oh, horror! perhaps to----”
Stung to madness by the picture which her fancy had portrayed, Matilda
paused.
Her bosom heaved with throbbing palpitations; and, whilst describing
the success of her rival, her warring soul shone apparent from her
scintillating eyes.
Zastrozzi, meanwhile, stood collected in himself; and, scarcely heeding
the violence of Matilda, awaited the issue of her speech.
He besought her to calm herself, nor, by those violent emotions, unfit
herself for prosecuting the attainment of her fondest hope.
“Are you firm?” inquired Zastrozzi.
“Yes!”
“Are you resolved? Does fear, amid the other passions, shake your soul?”
“No, no--this heart knows not to fear--this breast knows not to
shrink,” exclaimed Matilda eagerly.
“Then be cool--be collected,” returned Zastrozzi, “and thy purpose is
effected.”
Though little was in these words which might warrant hope, yet
Matilda’s susceptible soul, as Zastrozzi spoke, thrilled with
anticipated delight.
“My maxim, therefore,” said Zastrozzi, “through life has been, wherever
I am, whatever passions shake my inmost soul, at least to _appear_
collected. I generally am; for, by suffering no common events, no
fortuitous casualty to disturb me, my soul becomes steeled to more
interesting trials. I have a spirit, ardent, impetuous as thine; but
acquaintance with the world has induced me to veil it, though it still
continues to burn within my bosom. Believe me, I am far from wishing to
persuade you from your purpose. No--any purpose undertaken with ardour,
and prosecuted with perseverance, must eventually be crowned with
success. Love is worthy of any risk--I felt it once, but revenge has
now swallowed up every other feeling of my soul--I am alive to nothing
but revenge. But even did I desire to persuade you from the purpose on
which your heart is fixed, I should not say it was wrong to attempt it;
for whatever procures pleasure is right, and consonant to the dignity
of man, who was created for no other purpose but to obtain happiness;
else, why were passions given us? why were those emotions which agitate
my breast and madden my brain implanted in us by nature? As for the
confused hope of a future state, why should we debar ourselves of the
delights of this, even though purchased by what the misguided multitude
calls immorality?”
Thus sophistically argued Zastrozzi. His soul, deadened by crime, could
only entertain confused ideas of immortal happiness; for in proportion
as human nature departs from virtue, so far are they also from being
able clearly to contemplate the wonderful operations, the mysterious
ways of Providence.
Coolly and collectedly argued Zastrozzi: he delivered his sentiments
with the air of one who was wholly convinced of the truth of the
doctrines he uttered,--a conviction to be dissipated by shunning proof.
Whilst Zastrozzi thus spoke, Matilda remained silent,--she paused.
Zastrozzi must have strong powers of reflection; he must be convinced
of the truth of his own reasoning, thought Matilda, as eagerly she yet
gazed on his countenance. Its unchanging expression of firmness and
conviction still continued.
“Ah!” said Matilda, “Zastrozzi, thy words are a balm to my soul. I
never yet knew thy real sentiments on this subject; but answer me, do
you believe that the soul decays with the body, or if you do not, when
this perishable form mingles with its parent earth, where goes the
soul which now actuates its movements? perhaps, it wastes its fervent
energies in tasteless apathy, or lingering torments.”
“Matilda,” returned Zastrozzi, “think not so; rather suppose that, by
its own innate and energetical exertions, this soul must endure for
ever, that no fortuitous occurrences, no incidental events, can affect
its happiness; but by daring boldly, by striving to verge from the
beaten path, whilst yet trammelled in the chains of mortality, it will
gain superior advantages in a future state.”
“But religion! oh, Zastrozzi!”
“I thought thy soul was daring,” replied Zastrozzi; “I thought thy
mind was towering; and did I then err in the different estimate I had
formed of thy character? O yield not yourself, Matilda, thus to false,
foolish, and vulgar prejudices--for the present, farewell.”
Saying this, Zastrozzi departed.
Thus, by an artful appeal to her passions, did Zastrozzi extinguish the
faint spark of religion which yet gleamed in Matilda’s bosom.
In proportion as her belief of an Omnipotent power, and consequently
her hopes of eternal salvation declined, her ardent and unquenchable
passion for Verezzi increased, and a delirium of guilty love filled her
soul.
“Shall I then call him mine for ever?” mentally inquired Matilda; “will
the passion which now consumes me possess my soul to all eternity? Ah!
well I know it will; and when emancipated from this terrestrial form,
my soul departs; still its fervent energies unrepressed, will remain;
and in the union of soul to soul, it will taste celestial transports.”
An ecstasy of tumultuous and confused delight rushed through her veins;
she stood for some time immersed in thought. Agitated by the emotions
of her soul, her every limb trembled. She thought upon Zastrozzi’s
sentiments. She almost shuddered as she reflected; yet was convinced
by the cool and collected manner in which he had delivered them. She
thought on his advice, and steeling her soul, repressing every emotion,
she now acquired that coolness so necessary to the attainment of her
desire.
Thinking of nothing else, alive to no idea but Verezzi, Matilda’s
countenance assumed a placid serenity--she even calmed her soul, she
bid it restrain its emotions, and the passions which so lately had
battled fiercely in her bosom were calmed.
She again went to Verezzi’s apartment, but, as she approached, vague
fears lest he should have penetrated her schemes confused her: but his
mildly beaming eyes, as she gazed upon them, convinced her that the
horrid expressions which he had before uttered were merely the effect
of temporary delirium.
“Ah, Matilda!” exclaimed Verezzi, “where have you been?”
Matilda’s soul, alive alike to despair and hope, was filled with
momentary delight as he addressed her; but bitter hate, and
disappointed love, again tortured her bosom, as he exclaimed in accents
of heart-felt agony: “Oh! Julia, my long-lost Julia!”
“Matilda,” said he, “my friend, farewell; I feel that I am dying,
but I feel pleasure,--oh! transporting pleasure, in the idea that I
shall soon meet my Julia. Matilda,” added he, in a softened accent,
“farewell for ever.” Scarcely able to contain the emotions which the
idea alone of Verezzi’s death excited, Matilda, though the crisis of
the disorder, she knew, had been favourable, shuddered--bitter hate,
even more rancorous than ever, kindled in her bosom against Julia,
for to hear Verezzi talk of her with soul-subduing tenderness, but
wound up her soul to the highest pitch of uncontrollable vengeance.
Her breast heaved violently, her dark eye, in expressive glances,
told the fierce passions of her soul; yet, sensible of the necessity
of controlling her emotions, she leaned her head upon her hand, and
when she answered Verezzi, a calmness, a melting expression of grief,
overspread her features. She conjured him, in the most tender, the most
soothing terms, to compose himself; and though Julia was gone for ever,
to remember that there was yet one in the world, one tender friend who
would render the burden of life less insupportable.
“Oh! Matilda,” exclaimed Verezzi, “talk not to me of comfort, talk not
of happiness. All that constituted my comfort, all to which I looked
forward with rapturous anticipation of happiness, is fled---fled for
ever.”
Ceaselessly did Matilda watch by the bedside of Verezzi; the melting
tenderness of his voice, the melancholy, interesting expression of his
countenance, but added fuel to the flame which consumed her; her soul
was engrossed by one idea; every extraneous passion was conquered, and
nerved for the execution of its fondest purpose; a seeming tranquillity
overspread her mind, not that tranquillity which results from conscious
innocence and mild delights, but that which calms every tumultuous
emotion for a time; when, firm in a settled purpose, the passions but
pause, to break out with more resistless violence. In the meantime,
the strength of Verezzi’s constitution overcame the malignity of his
disorder, returning strength again braced his nerves, and he was able
to descend to the saloon.
The violent grief of Verezzi had subsided into a deep and settled
melancholy; he could now talk of his Julia, indeed it was his constant
theme; he spoke of her virtues, her celestial form, her sensibility,
and by his ardent professions of eternal fidelity to her memory,
unconsciously almost drove Matilda to desperation. Once he asked
Matilda how she died; for on the day when the intelligence first turned
his brain, he waited not to hear the particulars; the bare fact drove
him to instant madness.
Matilda was startled at the question, yet ready invention supplied the
place of a premeditated story.
“Oh! my friend,” said she, tenderly, “unwillingly do I tell you that
for you she died; disappointed love, like a worm in the bud, destroyed
the unhappy Julia; fruitless were all her endeavours to find you;
till at last, concluding that you were lost to her for ever, a deep
melancholy by degrees consumed her, and gently led to the grave. She
sank into the arms of death without a groan.”
“And there shall I soon follow her,” exclaimed Verezzi, as a severer
pang of anguish and regret darted through his soul. “I caused her
death, whose life was far, far dearer to me than my own. But now it is
all over, my hopes of happiness in this world are blasted, blasted for
ever.”
As he said this, a convulsive sigh heaved his breast, and the tears
silently rolled down his cheeks; for some time in vain were Matilda’s
endeavours to calm him, till at last, mellowed by time, and overcome
by reflection, his violent and fierce sorrow was softened into a fixed
melancholy.
Unremittingly Matilda attended him, and gratified his every wish;
she, conjecturing that solitude might be detrimental to him, often
entertained parties, and endeavoured by gaiety to drive away his
dejection; but if Verezzi’s spirits were elevated by company and
merriment, in solitude again they sank, and a deeper melancholy, a
severer regret possessed his bosom, for having allowed himself to be
momentarily interested by any thing but the remembrance of his Julia;
for he felt a soft, a tender and ecstatic emotion of regret, when
retrospection portrayed the blissful time long since gone by, while,
happy in the society of her whom he idolized, he thought he could
never be otherwise than then, enjoying the sweet, the serene delights
of association with a congenial mind; he often now amused himself in
retracing with his pencil, from memory, scenes which, though in his
Julia’s society he had beheld unnoticed, yet were now hallowed by the
remembrance of her: for he always associated the idea of Julia with the
remembrance of those scenes which she had so often admired, and where,
accompanied by her, he had so often wandered.
Matilda, meanwhile, firm in the purpose of her soul, unremittingly
persevered; she calmed her mind, and though, at intervals, shook
by almost superhuman emotions, before Verezzi a fixed serenity, a
well-feigned sensibility, and a downcast tenderness, marked her manner.
Grief, melancholy, a fixed, a quiet depression of spirits, seemed to
have calmed every fiercer feeling when she talked with Verezzi of his
lost Julia; but, though subdued for the present, revenge, hate, and the
fervour of disappointed love, burned her soul.
Often, when she had retired from Verezzi, when he had talked with
tenderness, as he was wont, of Julia, and sworn everlasting fidelity to
her memory, would Matilda’s soul be tortured by fiercest desperation.
One day, when conversing with him of Julia, she ventured to hint,
though remotely, at her own faithful and ardent attachment.
“Think you,” replied Verezzi, “that because my Julia’s spirit is no
longer enshrined in its earthly form, that I am the less devotedly,
the less irrevocably hers?--No! no! I was hers, I am hers, and to all
eternity shall be hers: and when my soul, divested of mortality,
departs into another world, even amid the universal wreck of nature,
attracted by congeniality of sentiment, it will seek the unspotted
spirit of my idolized Julia. Oh, Matilda! thy attention, thy kindness,
calls for my warmest gratitude--thy virtue demands my sincerest esteem;
but, devoted to the memory of my Julia, I can _love_ none but her.”
Matilda’s whole frame trembled with unconquerable emotion, as thus
determinedly he rejected her; but, calming the more violent passions, a
flood of tears rushed from her eyes; and, as she leant over the back of
a sofa on which she reclined, her sobs were audible.
Verezzi’s soul was softened towards her--he raised the humbled Matilda,
and bid her be comforted, for he was conscious that her tenderness
towards him deserved not an unkind return.
“Oh! forgive, forgive me!” exclaimed Matilda, with well-feigned
humility: “I knew not what I said.” She then abruptly left the saloon.
Reaching her own apartment, Matilda threw herself on the floor, in an
agony of mind too great to be described. Those infuriate passions,
restrained as they had been in the presence of Verezzi, now agitated
her soul with inconceivable terror. Shook by sudden and irresistible
emotions, she gave vent to her despair.
“Where, then, is the boasted mercy of God,” exclaimed the frantic
Matilda, “if he suffer his creatures to endure such agony as
this? or where his wisdom, if he implant in the heart passions
furious--uncontrollable--as mine, doomed to destroy their happiness?”
Outraged pride, disappointed love, and infuriate revenge, revelled
through her bosom. Revenge, which called for innocent blood--the blood
of the hapless Julia.
Her passions were now wound up to the highest pitch of desperation.
In indescribable agony of mind, she dashed her head against the
floor--she imprecated a thousand curses upon Julia, and swore eternal
revenge.
At last, exhausted by their own violence, the warring passions
subsided--a calm took possession of her soul--she thought again upon
Zastrozzi’s advice--Was she now cool? was she now collected?
She was now immersed in a chain of thought; unaccountable, even to
herself, was the serenity which had succeeded.