The enticing smile, the modest-seeming eye,
Beneath whose beauteous beams, belying heaven,
Lurk searchless cunning, cruelty, and death.
Thomson.
Still did Matilda’s blandishments--her unremitting attention--inspire
Verezzi with a softened tenderness towards her. He regarded her as one
who, at the risk of her own life, had saved his; who loved him with an
ardent affection, and whose affection was likely to be lasting: and
though he could not regard her with that enthusiastic tenderness with
which he even yet adored the memory of his Julia, yet he might esteem
her--faithfully esteem her--and felt not that horror at uniting himself
with her as formerly. But a conversation which he had with Julia
recurred to his mind: he remembered well, that when they had talked of
their speedy marriage, she had expressed an idea, that a union in this
life might endure to all eternity; and that the chosen of his heart on
earth, might, by congeniality of sentiment, be united in heaven.
The idea was hallowed by the remembrance of his Julia; but chasing
it, as an unreal vision, from his mind, again his high sentiments of
gratitude prevailed.
Lost in these ideas, involved in a train of thought, and unconscious
where his footsteps led him, he quitted the castella. His reverie was
interrupted by low murmurs, which seemed to float on the silence of the
forest; it was scarcely audible, yet Verezzi felt an undefinable wish
to know what it was. He advanced towards it--it was Matilda’s voice.
Verezzi approached nearer, and from within heard her voice in
complaints. He eagerly listened. Her sobs rendered the words which in
passionate exclamations burst from Matilda’s lips, almost inaudible. He
still listened--a pause in the tempest of grief which shook Matilda’s
soul seemed to have taken place.
“Oh! Verezzi--cruel, unfeeling Verezzi!” exclaimed Matilda, as a fierce
paroxysm of passion seized her brain--“will you thus suffer one who
adores you to linger in hopeless love, and witness the excruciating
agony of one who idolizes you, as I do, to madness?”
As she spoke thus, a long-drawn sigh closed the sentence.
Verezzi’s mind was agitated by various emotions as he stood; but
rushing in at last, [he] raised Matilda in his arms, and tenderly
attempted to comfort her.
She started as he entered--she heeded not his words; but, seemingly
overcome by shame, cast herself at his feet, and hid her face in his
robe.
He tenderly raised her, and his expressions convinced her that the
reward of all her anxiety was now about to be reaped.
The most triumphant anticipation of transports to come filled her
bosom; yet, knowing it to be necessary to dissemble--knowing that a
shameless claim on his affections would but disgust Verezzi, she said:
“Oh! Verezzi, forgive me: supposing myself to be alone--supposing no
one overheard the avowal of the secret of my soul, with which, believe
me, I never more intended to have importuned you, what shameless
sentiments--shameless even in solitude--have I not given vent to. I
can no longer conceal, that the passion with which I adore you is
unconquerable, irresistible; but, I conjure you, think not upon what
you have this moment heard to my disadvantage; nor despise a weak
unhappy creature, who feels it impossible to overcome the fatal passion
which consumes her.
“Never more will I give vent, even in solitude, to my love--never more
shall the importunities of the hapless Matilda reach your ears. To
conquer a passion fervent, tender as mine is impossible.”
As she thus spoke, Matilda, seemingly overcome by shame, sank upon the
turf.
A sentiment stronger than gratitude, more ardent than esteem, and more
tender than admiration, softened Verezzi’s heart as he raised Matilda.
Her symmetrical form shone with tenfold loveliness to his heated fancy;
inspired with sudden fondness, he cast himself at her feet.
A Lethean torpor crept upon his senses; and, as he lay prostrate before
Matilda, a total forgetfulness of every former event of his life swam
in his dizzy brain. In passionate exclamations he avowed unbounded love.
“Oh Matilda! dearest, angelic Matilda!” exclaimed Verezzi, “I
am even now unconscious what blinded me--what kept me from
acknowledging my adoration of thee!--adoration never to be changed by
circumstances--never effaced by time.”
The fire of voluptuous, of maddening love scorched his veins, as he
caught the transported Matilda in his arms, and, in accents almost
inarticulate with passion, swore eternal fidelity.
“And accept my oath of everlasting allegiance to thee, adored
Verezzi,” exclaimed Matilda; “accept my vows of eternal, indissoluble
love.”
Verezzi’s whole frame was agitated by unwonted and ardent emotions. He
called Matilda his wife--in the delirium of sudden fondness, he clasped
her to his bosom--“and though love like ours,” exclaimed the infatuated
Verezzi, “wants not the vain ties of human laws, yet, that our love
may want not any sanction which could possibly be given to it, let
immediate orders be given for the celebration of our union.”
Matilda exultingly consented; never had she experienced sensations
of delight like these: the feelings of her soul flushed in exulting
glances from her fiery eyes. Fierce, transporting triumph filled her
soul as she gazed on her victim, whose mildly-beaming eyes were now
characterised by a voluptuous expression. Her heart beat high with
transport: and as they entered the castella, the swelling emotions of
her bosom were too tumultuous for utterance.
Wild with passion, she clasped Verezzi to her beating breast; and,
overcome by an ecstasy of delirious passion, her senses were whirled
round in confused and inexpressible delight. A new and fierce passion
raged likewise in Verezzi’s breast; he returned her embrace with
ardour, and clasped her in fierce transports.
But the adoration with which he now regarded Matilda, was a different
sentiment from that chaste and mild emotion which had characterised his
love for Julia: that passion, which he had fondly supposed would end
but with his existence, was effaced by the arts of another.
Now was Matilda’s purpose attained--the next day would behold her his
bride--the next day would behold her fondest purpose accomplished.
With the most eager impatience, the fiercest anticipation of transport,
did she wait for its arrival.
Slowly passed the day, and slowly did the clock toll each lingering
hour as it rolled away.
The following morning at last arrived: Matilda arose from a sleepless
couch--fierce, transporting triumph flashed from her eyes as she
embraced her victim. He returned it--he called her his dear and
ever-beloved spouse; and, in all the transports of maddening love,
declared his impatience for the arrival of the monk who was to unite
them. Every blandishment--every thing which might dispel reflection,
was this day put in practice by Matilda.
The monk at last arrived: the fatal ceremony--fatal to the peace of
Verezzi--was performed.
A magnificent feast had been previously arranged: every luxurious
viand, every expensive wine, which might contribute to heighten
Matilda’s triumph, was present in profusion.
Matilda’s joy, her soul-felt triumph, was too great for utterance--too
great for concealment. The exultation of her inmost soul flashed in
expressive glances from her scintillating eyes, expressive of joy
intense--unutterable.
Animated with excessive delight, she started from the table, and
seizing Verezzi’s hand, in a transport of inconceivable bliss, dragged
him in wild sport and varied movements to the sound of swelling and
soul touching melody.
“Come, my Matilda,” at last exclaimed Verezzi, “come, I am weary of
transport--sick with excess of unutterable pleasure: let us retire, and
retrace in dreams the pleasures of the day.”
Little did Verezzi think that this day was the basis of his future
misery; little did he think that, amid the roses of successful and
licensed voluptuousness, regret, horror, and despair would arise, to
blast the prospects which, Julia being forgot, appeared so fair, so
ecstatic.
The morning came. Inconceivable emotions--inconceivable to those
who have never felt them--dilated Matilda’s soul with an ecstasy
of inexpressible bliss; every barrier to her passion was thrown
down--every opposition conquered; still was her bosom the scene of
fierce and contending passions.
Though in possession of every thing which her fancy had portrayed with
such excessive delight, she was far from feeling that innocent and calm
pleasure which soothes the soul, and, calming each violent emotion,
fills it with a serene happiness. No--_her_ brain was whirled around in
transports; fierce, confused transports of visionary and unreal bliss:
though her every pulse, her every nerve, panted with the delight of
gratified and expectant desire; still was she not happy: she enjoyed
not that tranquillity which is necessary to the existence of happiness.
In this temper of mind, for a short period she left Verezzi, as she had
appointed a meeting with her coadjutor in wickedness.
She soon met him.
“I need not ask,” exclaimed Zastrozzi, “for well do I see, in those
triumphant glances, that Verezzi is thine; that the plan which we
concerted when last we met, has put you in possession of that which
your soul panted for.”
“Oh! Zastrozzi!” said Matilda,--“kind, excellent Zastrozzi; what words
can express the gratitude which I feel towards you--what words can
express the bliss, exquisite, celestial, which I owe to your advice?
yet still, amid the roses of successful love--amid the ecstasies of
transporting voluptuousness--fear, blighting chilly fear, damps my
hopes of happiness. Julia, the hated, accursed Julia’s image, is
the phantom which scares my otherwise certain confidence of eternal
delight: could she but be hurled to destruction--could some other
artifice of my friend sweep her from the number of the living----”
“’Tis enough, Matilda,” interrupted Zastrozzi; “’tis enough: in six
days hence meet me here; meanwhile, let not any corroding anticipations
destroy your present happiness; fear not; but, on the arrival of your
faithful Zastrozzi, expect the earnest of the happiness which you wish
to enjoy for ever.”
Thus saying, Zastrozzi departed, and Matilda retraced her steps to her
castella.
Amid the delight, the ecstasy, for which her soul had so long
panted--amid the embraces of him whom she had fondly supposed alone
to constitute all terrestrial happiness, racking, corroding thoughts
possessed Matilda’s bosom.
Deeply musing on schemes of future delight--delight established by
the gratification of most diabolical revenge, her eyes fixed upon the
ground, heedless what path she pursued, Matilda advanced along the
forest.
A voice aroused her from her reverie--it was Verezzi’s--the well-known,
the tenderly-adored tone, struck upon her senses forcibly; she started,
and hastening towards him, soon allayed those fears which her absence
had excited in the fond heart of her spouse, and on which account he
had anxiously quitted the castella to search for her.
Joy, rapturous, ecstatic happiness, untainted by fear, unpolluted by
reflection, reigned for six days in Matilda’s bosom.
Five days passed away, the sixth arrived, and, when the evening came,
Matilda, with eager and impatient steps, sought the forest.
The evening was gloomy, dense vapours overspread the air; the wind, low
and hollow, sighed mournfully in the gigantic pine-trees, and whispered
in low hissings among the withered shrubs which grew on the rocky
prominences.
Matilda waited impatiently for the arrival of Zastrozzi. At last his
towering form emerged from an interstice in the rocks.
He advanced towards her.
“Success! Victory! my Matilda,” exclaimed Zastrozzi, in an accent of
exultation--“Julia is----”
“You need add no more,” interrupted Matilda: “kind, excellent
Zastrozzi, I thank thee; but yet do say how you destroyed her--tell me
by what racking, horrible torments you launched her soul into eternity.
Did she perish by the dagger’s point? or did the torments of poison
send her, writhing in agony, to the tomb?”
“Yes,” replied Zastrozzi; “she fell at my feet, overpowered by
resistless convulsions. Who more ready than myself to restore the
Marchesa’s fleeted senses--who more ready than myself to account
for her fainting, by observing, that the heat of the assembly had
momentarily overpowered her? But Julia’s senses were fled for ever;
and it was not until the swiftest gondola in Venice had borne me far
towards your castella, that _il consiglio di dieci_ searched for,
without discovering the offender.
“Here I must remain; for, were I discovered, the fatal consequences to
us both are obvious. Farewell for the present,” added he; “meanwhile,
happiness attend you; but go not to Venice.”
“Where have you been so late, my love?” tenderly inquired Verezzi as
she returned. “I fear lest the night air, particularly that of so damp
an evening as this, might affect your health.”
“No, no, my dearest Verezzi, it has not,” hesitatingly answered Matilda.
“You seem pensive, you seem melancholy, my Matilda,” said Verezzi; “lay
open your heart to me. I am afraid something, of which I am ignorant,
presses upon your bosom. Is it the solitude of this remote castella
which represses the natural gaiety of your soul? Shall we go to Venice?”
“Oh! no, no!” hastily and eagerly interrupted Matilda: “not to
Venice--we must not go to Venice.”
Verezzi was slightly surprised, but imputing her manner to
indisposition, it passed off.
Unmarked by events of importance, a month passed away. Matilda’s
passion, unallayed by satiety, unconquered by time, still raged with
its former fierceness--still was every earthly delight centred in
Verezzi; and in the air-drawn visions of her imagination, she portrayed
to herself that this happiness would last for ever.
It was one evening that Verezzi and Matilda sat, happy in the society
of each other, that a servant entering, presented the latter with a
sealed paper.
The contents were: “Matilda Contessa di Laurentini is summoned to
appear before the Holy Inquisition--to appear before its tribunal,
immediately on the receipt of this summons.”
Matilda’s cheek, as she read it, was blanched with terror. The
summons--the fatal, irresistible summons, struck her with chilly awe.
She attempted to thrust it into her bosom; but, unable to conceal her
terror, she assayed to rush from the apartment--but it was in vain: her
trembling limbs refused to support her, and she sank fainting on the
floor.
Verezzi raised her--he restored her fleeting senses; he cast himself
at her feet, and in the tenderest, most pathetic accents, demanded the
reason of her alarm. “And if,” said he, “it is any thing of which I
have unconsciously been guilty--if it is any thing in my conduct which
has offended you, oh! how soon, how truly would I repent. Dearest
Matilda, I adore you to madness: tell me then quickly--confide in one
who loves you as I do.”
“Rise, Verezzi,” exclaimed Matilda, in a tone expressive of serene
horror: “and since the truth can no longer be concealed, peruse that
letter.”
She presented him the fatal summons. He eagerly snatched it; breathless
with impatience, he opened it. But what words can express the
consternation of the affrighted Verezzi, as the summons, mysterious
and inexplicable to him, pressed upon his straining eyeball? For an
instant he stood fixed in mute and agonizing thought. At last, in the
forced serenity of despair, he demanded what was to be done.
Matilda answered not: for her soul, borne on the pinions of
anticipation, at that instant portrayed to itself ignominious and
agonizing dissolution.
“What is to be done?” again, in a deeper tone of despair, demanded
Verezzi.
“We must instantly to Venice,” returned Matilda, collecting her
scattered faculties; “we must to Venice; there, I believe, we may be
safe. But in some remote corner of the city we must for the present fix
our habitation; we must condescend to curtail our establishment; and
above all, we must avoid particularity. But will my Verezzi descend
from the rank of life in which his birth has placed him, and with the
outcast Matilda’s fortunes quit grandeur?”
“Matilda! dearest Matilda!” exclaimed Verezzi, “talk not thus; you know
I am ever yours; you know I love you, and with you, could conceive a
cottage elysium.”
Matilda’s eyes flashed with momentary triumph as Verezzi spoke thus,
amid the alarming danger which impended her: under the displeasure of
the inquisition, whose motives for prosecution are inscrutable, whose
decrees are without appeal, her soul, in the possession of all it held
dear on earth, secure of Verezzi’s affection, thrilled with pleasurable
emotions, yet not unmixed with alarm.
She now prepared to depart. Taking, therefore, out of all her
domestics, but the faithful Ferdinand, Matilda, accompanied by Verezzi,
although the evening was far advanced, threw herself into a chariot,
and leaving every one at the castella unacquainted with her intentions,
took the road through the forest which led to Venice.
The convent bell, almost inaudible from distance, tolled ten as the
carriage slowly ascended a steep which rose before it.
“But how do you suppose, my Matilda,” said Verezzi, “that it will be
possible for us to evade the scrutiny of the inquisition?”
“Oh!” returned Matilda, “we must not appear in our true characters--we
must disguise them.”
“But,” inquired Verezzi, “what crime do you suppose the inquisition to
allege against you?”
“Heresy, I suppose,” said Matilda. “You know an enemy has nothing to do
but lay an accusation of heresy against any unfortunate and innocent
individual, and the victim expires in horrible tortures, or lingers the
wretched remnant of his life in dark and solitary cells.”
A convulsive sigh heaved Verezzi’s bosom.
“And is that then to be my Matilda’s destiny?” he exclaimed in horror.
“No--Heaven will never permit such excellence to suffer.”
Meanwhile they had arrived at the Brenta. The Brenta’s stream glided
silently beneath the midnight breeze towards the Adriatic.
Towering poplars, which loftily raised their spiral forms on its bank,
cast a gloomier shade upon the placid wave.
Matilda and Verezzi entered a gondola, and the grey tints of
approaching morn had streaked the eastern ether, before they entered
the Grand Canal at Venice; and passing the Rialto, proceeded onwards to
a small, though not inelegant mansion, in the eastern suburbs.
Everything here, though not grand, was commodious; and as they entered
it, Verezzi expressed his approbation of living here retired.
Seemingly secure from the scrutiny of the inquisition, Matilda and
Verezzi passed some days of uninterrupted happiness.
At last, one evening, Verezzi, tired even with monotony of ecstasy,
proposed to Matilda to take the gondola, and go to a festival which was
to be celebrated at St. Mark’s Place.