Persevering in the prosecution of her design, the time passed away
slowly to Matilda; for Verezzi’s frame, becoming every day more
emaciated, threatened, to her alarmed imagination, approaching
dissolution--slowly to Verezzi, for he waited with impatience for the
arrival of death, since nothing but misery was his in this world.
Useless would it be to enumerate the conflicts in Matilda’s soul:
suffice it to say that they were many, and that their violence
progressively increased.
Verezzi’s illness at last assumed so dangerous an appearance that
Matilda, alarmed, sent for a physician.
The humane man who had attended Verezzi before was from home, but one,
skilful in his profession, arrived, who declared that a warmer climate
could alone restore Verezzi’s health.
Matilda proposed to him to remove to a retired and picturesque spot
which she possessed in the Venetian territory. Verezzi, expecting
speedy dissolution, and conceiving it to be immaterial where he died,
consented; and, indeed, he was unwilling to pain one so kind as Matilda
by a refusal.
The following morning was fixed for the journey.
The morning arrived, and Verezzi was lifted into the chariot, being yet
extremely weak and emaciated.
Matilda, during the journey, by every care, every kind and sympathising
attention, tried to drive away Verezzi’s melancholy; sensible that,
could the weight which pressed upon his spirits be removed, he would
speedily regain health. But no! it was impossible. Though he was
grateful for Matilda’s attention, a still deeper shade of melancholy
overspread his features; a more heart-felt inanity and languor
sapped his life. He was sensible of a total distaste of former
objects--objects which, perhaps, had formerly forcibly interested
him. The terrific grandeur of the Alps, the dashing cataract, as it
foamed beneath their feet, ceased to excite those feelings of awe which
formerly they were wont to inspire. The lofty pine-groves inspired no
additional melancholy, nor did the blooming valleys of Piedmont, or the
odoriferous orangeries which scented the air, gladden his deadened soul.
They travelled on--they soon entered the Venetian territory, where, in
a gloomy and remote spot, stood the Castella di Laurentini.
It was situated in a dark forest--lofty mountains around lifted their
aspiring and craggy summits to the skies.
The mountains were clothed half up by ancient pines and plane-trees,
whose immense branches stretched far; and above, bare granite rocks, on
which might be seen occasionally a scathed larch, lifted their gigantic
and misshapen forms.
In the centre of an amphitheatre, formed by these mountains, surrounded
by wood, stood the Castella di Laurentini, whose grey turrets and
time-worn battlements overtopped the giants of the forest.
Into this gloomy mansion was Verezzi conducted by Matilda. The only
sentiment he felt was surprise at the prolongation of his existence.
As he advanced, supported by Matilda and a domestic, into the castella,
Matilda’s soul, engrossed by one idea, confused by its own unquenchable
passions, felt not that ecstatic, that calm and serene delight, only
experienced by the innocent, and which is excited by a return to the
place where we have spent our days of infancy.
No--she felt not this; the only pleasurable emotion which her return
to this remote castella afforded was the hope that, disengaged from
the tumult of, and proximity to the world, she might be the less
interrupted in the prosecution of her madly-planned schemes.
Though Verezzi’s melancholy seemed rather increased than diminished by
the journey, yet his health was visibly improved by the progressive
change of air and variation of scenery, which must, at times,
momentarily alleviate the most deep-rooted grief; yet, again in a
fixed spot--again left to solitude and his own torturing reflections,
Verezzi’s mind returned to his lost, his still adored Julia. He thought
of her ever; unconsciously he spoke of her; and, by his rapturous
exclamations, sometimes almost drove Matilda to desperation.
Several days thus passed away. Matilda’s passion, which, mellowed by
time, and diverted by the variety of objects, and the hurry of the
journey, had relaxed its violence, now, like a stream pent up, burst
all bounds.
But one evening, maddened by the tender protestations of eternal
fidelity to Julia’s memory which Verezzi uttered, her brain was almost
turned.
Her tumultuous soul, agitated by contending emotions, flashed from her
eyes. Unable to disguise the extreme violence of her sensations, in an
ecstasy of despairing love, she rushed from the apartment where she had
left Verezzi, and, unaccompanied, wandered into the forest, to calm her
emotions, and concert some better plans of revenge; for, in Verezzi’s
presence, she scarcely dared to think.
Her infuriated soul burned with fiercest revenge: she wandered into the
trackless forest, and, conscious that she was unobserved, gave vent to
her feelings in wild exclamations.
“Oh, Julia! hated Julia! words are not able to express my detestation
of thee. Thou hast destroyed Verezzi. Thy cursed image, revelling
in his heart, has blasted my happiness for ever; but, ere I die, I
will taste revenge--oh! exquisite revenge!” She paused--she thought
of the passion which consumed her. “Perhaps one no less violent has
induced Julia to rival me,” said she. Again the idea of Verezzi’s
illness--perhaps his death--infuriated her soul. Pity, chased away by
vengeance and disappointed passion, fled. “Did I say that I pitied
thee? Detested Julia, much did my words belie the feelings of my soul.
No--no--thou shalt not escape me. Pity thee!”
Again immersed in corroding thought, she heeded not the hour, till
looking up, she saw the shades of night were gaining fast upon the
earth. The evening was calm and serene: gently agitated by the evening
zephyr, the lofty pines sighed mournfully. Far to the west appeared
the evening star, which faintly glittered in the twilight. The scene
was solemnly calm, but not in unison with Matilda’s soul. Softest,
most melancholy music, seemed to float upon the southern gale. Matilda
listened--it was the nuns at a convent, chanting the requiem for the
soul of a departed sister.
“Perhaps gone to heaven!” exclaimed Matilda, as, affected by the
contrast, her guilty soul trembled. A chain of horrible racking
thoughts pressed upon her soul; and, unable to bear the acuteness of
her sensations, she hastily returned to the castella.
Thus, marked only by the varying paroxysms of the passions which
consumed her, Matilda passed the time: her brain was confused, her
mind agitated by the ill success of her schemes, and her spirits, once
so light and buoyant, were now depressed by disappointed hope.
“What shall I next concert?” was the mental inquiry of Matilda. “Ah! I
know not.”
She suddenly started--she thought of Zastrozzi.
“Oh! that I should have till now forgotten Zastrozzi,” exclaimed
Matilda, as a new ray of hope darted through her soul. “But he is now
at Naples, and some time must necessarily elapse before I can see him.”
“Oh, Zastrozzi, Zastrozzi! would that you were here!”
No sooner had she well arranged her resolutions, which before had been
confused by eagerness, than she summoned Ferdinand, on whose fidelity
she dared to depend, and bid him speed to Naples, and bear a letter,
with which he was entrusted, to Zastrozzi.
Meanwhile Verezzi’s health, as the physician had predicted, was so
much improved by the warm climate and pure air of the Castella di
Laurentini, that, though yet extremely weak and emaciated, he was able,
as the weather was fine, and the summer evenings tranquil, to wander,
accompanied by Matilda, through the surrounding scenery.
In this gloomy solitude, where, except the occasional and infrequent
visits of a father confessor, nothing occurred to disturb the uniform
tenour of their life, Verezzi was everything to Matilda--she thought of
him ever: at night, in dreams, his image was present to her enraptured
imagination. She was uneasy, except in his presence; and her soul,
shook by contending paroxysms of the passion which consumed her, was
transported by unutterable ecstasies of delirious and maddening love.
Her taste for music was exquisite; her voice of celestial sweetness;
and her skill, as she drew sounds of soul-touching melody from the
harp, enraptured the mind to melancholy pleasure.
The affecting expression of her voice, mellowed as it was by the
tenderness which at times stole over her soul, softened Verezzi’s
listening ear to ecstasy.
Yet, again recovering from the temporary delight which her seductive
blandishments had excited, he thought of Julia. As he remembered her
ethereal form, her retiring modesty, and unaffected sweetness, a more
violent, a deeper pang of regret and sorrow assailed his bosom, for
having suffered himself to be even momentarily interested by Matilda.
Hours, days passed lingering away. They walked in the evenings around
the environs of the castella--woods, dark and gloomy, stretched
far--cloud-capt mountains reared their gigantic summits high; and,
dashing amidst the jutting rocks, foaming cataracts, with sudden and
impetuous course, sought the valley below.
Amid this scenery the wily Matilda usually led her victim.
One evening when the moon, rising over the gigantic outline of the
mountain, silvered the far-seen cataract, Matilda and Verezzi sought
the forest.
For a time neither spoke: the silence was uninterrupted, save by
Matilda’s sighs, which declared that violent and repressed emotions
tortured the bosom within.
They silently advanced into the forest. The azure sky was spangled with
stars--not a wind agitated the unruffled air--not a cloud obscured the
brilliant concavity of heaven. They ascended an eminence, clothed with
towering wood; the trees around formed an amphitheatre. Beneath, by a
gentle ascent, an opening showed an immense extent of forest, dimly
seen by the moon, which overhung the opposite mountain. The craggy
heights beyond might distinctly be seen, edged by the beams of the
silver moon.
Verezzi threw himself on the turf.
“What a beautiful scene, Matilda!” he exclaimed.
“Beautiful indeed,” returned Matilda. “I have admired it ever, and
brought you here this evening on purpose to discover whether you
thought of the works of nature as I do.”
“Oh! fervently do I admire this,” exclaimed Verezzi, as, engrossed by
the scene before him, he gazed enraptured.
“Suffer me to retire for a few minutes,” said Matilda.
Without waiting for Verezzi’s answer, she hastily entered a small tuft
of trees. Verezzi gazed surprised; and soon sounds of such ravishing
melody stole upon the evening breeze, that Verezzi thought some spirit
of the solitude had made audible to mortal ears ethereal music.
He still listened--it seemed to die away--and again a louder, a more
rapturous swell, succeeded.
The music was in unison with the scene--it was in unison with Verezzi’s
soul: and the success of Matilda’s artifice, in this respect, exceeded
her most sanguine expectation.
He still listened--the music ceased--and Matilda’s symmetrical form
emerging from the wood, roused Verezzi from his vision.
He gazed on her--her loveliness and grace struck forcibly upon his
senses; her sensibility, her admiration of objects which enchanted him,
flattered him; and her judicious arrangement of the music left no doubt
in his mind but that, experiencing the same sensations herself, the
feelings of his soul were not unknown to her.
Thus far everything went on as Matilda desired. To touch his feelings
had been her constant aim: could she find anything which interested
him; anything to divert his melancholy: or could she succeed in
effacing another from his mind, she had no doubt but that he would
quickly and voluntarily clasp her to his bosom.
By affecting to coincide with him in everything--by feigning to
possess that congeniality of sentiment and union of idea which he
thought so necessary to the existence of love, she doubted not soon to
accomplish her purpose.
But sympathy and congeniality of sentiment, however necessary to that
love which calms every fierce emotion, fills the soul with a melting
tenderness, and, without disturbing it, continually possesses the soul,
was by no means consonant to the ferocious emotions, the unconquerable
and ardent passion which revelled through Matilda’s every vein.
When enjoying the society of him she loved, calm delight, unruffled
serenity, possessed not her soul. No--but, inattentive to every
object but him, even her proximity to him agitated her with almost
uncontrollable emotion.
Whilst watching his look, her pulse beat with unwonted violence, her
breast palpitated, and, unconscious of it herself, an ardent and
voluptuous fire darted from her eyes.
Her passion too, controlled as it was in the presence of Verezzi,
agitated her soul with progressively increasing fervour. Nursed by
solitude, and wound up, perhaps, beyond any pitch which another’s soul
might be capable of, it sometimes almost maddened her.
Still, surprised at her own forbearance, yet strongly perceiving the
necessity of it, she spoke not again of her passion to Verezzi.