Si fractus illabatur orbis,
Impavidum ferient ruinæ.
Horace.
At last the day arrived, when, exposed to a public trial, Matilda was
conducted to the tribunal of il Consiglio di Dieci.
The inquisitors were not, as before, at a table in the middle of the
apartment; but a sort of throne was raised at one end, on which a
stern-looking man, whom she had never seen before, sat: a great number
of Venetians were assembled, and lined all sides of the apartment.
Many, in black vestments, were arranged behind the superior’s throne;
among whom Matilda recognised those who had before examined her.
Conducted by two officials, with a faltering step, a pallid cheek, and
downcast eye, Matilda advanced to that part of the chamber where sat
the superior.
The dishevelled ringlets of her hair floated unconfined over her
shoulders: her symmetrical and elegant form was enveloped in a thin
white robe.
The expression of her sparkling eyes was downcast and humble; yet,
seemingly unmoved by the scene before her, she remained in silence at
the tribunal.
The curiosity and pity of every one, as they gazed on the loveliness of
the beautiful culprit, was strongly excited.
“Who is she? who is she?” ran in inquiring whispers round the
apartment. No one could tell.
Again deep silence reigned--not a whisper interrupted the appalling
calm.
At last the superior, in a sternly solemn voice, said--
“Matilda Contessa di Laurentini, you are here arraigned on the murder
of La Marchesa di Strobazzo: canst thou deny it? canst thou prove to
the contrary? My ears are open to conviction. Does no one speak for the
accused?”
He ceased: uninterrupted silence reigned. Again he was about--again,
with a look of detestation and horror, he had fixed his penetrating eye
upon the trembling Matilda, and had unclosed his mouth to utter the
fatal sentence, when his attention was arrested by a man who rushed
from the crowd, and exclaimed, in a hurried tone--
“La Contessa di Laurentini is innocent.”
“Who are you, who dare assert that?” exclaimed the superior, with an
air of doubt.
“I am,” answered he, “Ferdinand Zeilnitz, a German, the servant of La
Contessa di Laurentini, and I dare assert that she is innocent.”
“Your proof,” exclaimed the superior, with a severe frown.
“It was late,” answered Ferdinand, “when I entered the apartment, and
then I beheld two bleeding bodies, and La Contessa di Laurentini, who
lay bereft of sense on the sofa.”
“Stop!” exclaimed the superior.
Ferdinand obeyed.
The superior whispered to one in black vestments, and soon four
officials entered, bearing on their shoulders an open coffin.
The superior pointed to the ground: the officials deposited their
burden, and produced, to the terror-struck eyes of the gazing
multitude, Julia, the lovely Julia, covered with innumerable and
ghastly gashes.
All present uttered a cry of terror--all started, shocked and amazed,
from the horrible sight; yet some, recovering themselves, gazed at the
celestial loveliness of the poor victim to revenge, which, unsubdued by
death, still shone from her placid features.
A deep-drawn sigh heaved Matilda’s bosom; tears, spite of all her
firmness, rushed into her eyes; and she had nearly fainted with dizzy
horror; but, overcoming it, and collecting all her fortitude, she
advanced towards the corse of her rival, and, in the numerous wounds
which covered it, saw the fiat of her future destiny.
She still gazed on it--a deep silence reigned--not one of the
spectators, so interested were they, uttered a single word--not a
whisper was heard through the spacious apartment.
“Stand off! guilt-stained, relentless woman,” at last exclaimed the
superior fiercely: “is it not enough that you have persecuted, through
life, the wretched female who lies before you--murdered by you? Cease,
therefore, to gaze on her with looks as if your vengeance was yet
insatiated. But retire, wretch: officials, take her into your custody;
meanwhile, bring the other prisoner.”
Two officials rushed forward, and led Matilda to some distance from
the tribunal: four others entered, leading a man of towering height
and majestic figure. The heavy chains with which his legs were bound
rattled as he advanced.
Matilda raised her eyes--Zastrozzi stood before her.
She rushed forwards--the officials stood unmoved.
“Oh Zastrozzi!” she exclaimed--“dreadful, wicked has been the tenor
of our lives; base, ignominious, will be its termination: unless
we repent, fierce, horrible, may be the eternal torments which
will rack us, ere four-and-twenty hours are elapsed. Repent then,
Zastrozzi; repent! and as you have been my companion in apostasy from
virtue, follow me likewise in dereliction of stubborn and determined
wickedness.”
This was pronounced in a low and faltering voice.
“Matilda,” replied Zastrozzi, whilst a smile of contemptuous atheism
played over his features--“Matilda, fear not: fate wills us to die: and
I intend to meet death, to encounter annihilation, with tranquillity.
Am I not convinced of the non-existence of a Deity? am I not convinced
that death will but render this soul more free, more unfettered? Why
need I then shudder at death? why need any one, whose mind has risen
above the shackles of prejudice, the errors of a false and injurious
superstition.”
Here the superior interposed, and declared he could allow private
conversation no longer.
Quitting Matilda, therefore, Zastrozzi, unappalled by the awful scene
before him, unshaken by the near approach of agonising death, which
he now fully believed he was about to suffer, advanced towards the
superior’s throne.
Every one gazed on the lofty stature of Zastrozzi, and admired his
dignified mien and dauntless composure, even more than they had the
beauty of Matilda.
Every one gazed in silence, and expected that some extraordinary charge
would be brought against him.
The name of Zastrozzi, pronounced by the superior, had already broken
the silence, when the culprit, gazing disdainfully on his judge, told
him to be silent, for he would spare him much needless trouble.
“I am a murderer,” exclaimed Zastrozzi; “I deny it not: I buried my
dagger in the heart of him who injured me; but the motives which led me
to be an assassin were at once excellent and meritorious: for I swore,
at a loved mother’s death-bed, to avenge her betrayer’s falsehood.
“Think you that whilst I perpetrated the deed I feared the punishment?
or whilst I revenged a parent’s cause, that the futile torments which I
am doomed to suffer here, had any weight in my determination? No--no.
If the vile deceiver, who brought my spotless mother to a tomb of
misery, fell beneath the dagger of one who swore to revenge her--if I
sent him to another world, who destroyed the peace of one I loved more
than myself in this, am I to be blamed?”
Zastrozzi ceased, and with an expression of scornful triumph, folded
his arms.
“Go on!” exclaimed the superior.
“Go on! go on!” echoed from every part of the immense apartment.
He looked around him. His manner awed the tumultuous multitude; and,
in uninterrupted silence, the spectators gazed upon the unappalled
Zastrozzi, who, towering as a demi-god, stood in the midst.
“Am I then called upon,” said he, “to disclose things which bring
painful remembrances to my mind? Ah, how painful! But no matter; you
shall know the name of him who fell beneath this arm: you shall know
him, whose memory, even now, I detest more than I can express. I care
not who knows my actions, convinced as I am, and convinced to all
eternity as I shall be, of their rectitude. Know then, that Olivia
Zastrozzi was my mother; a woman in whom every virtue, every amiable
and excellent quality, I firmly believe to have been centred.
“The father of him, who, by my arts committed suicide but six days ago
in La Contessa di Laurentini’s mansion, took advantage of a moment of
weakness, and disgraced her who bore me. He swore, with the most sacred
oaths, to marry her--but he was false.
“My mother soon brought me into the world. The seducer married another;
and, when the destitute Olivia begged a pittance to keep her from
starving, her proud betrayer spurned her from his door, and tauntingly
bade her exercise her profession. ‘The crime I committed with thee,
perjured one!’ exclaimed my mother, as she left his door, ‘shall be
my last!’--and, by heavens! she acted nobly. A victim to falsehood,
she sank early to the tomb; and, ere her thirtieth year, she died--her
spotless soul fled to eternal happiness. Never shall I forget--though
but fourteen when she died--never shall I forget her last commands.
‘My son,’ said she, ‘my Pietrino, revenge my wrongs--revenge them on
the perjured Verezzi--revenge them on his progeny for ever!’
“And, by heaven! I think I have revenged them. Ere I was twenty-four,
the false villain, though surrounded by seemingly impenetrable
grandeur; though forgetful of the offence to punish which this arm was
nerved, sank beneath my dagger. But I destroyed his _body_ alone,”
added Zastrozzi, with a terrible look of insatiated vengeance: “time
has taught me better: his son’s _soul_ is hell-doomed to all eternity:
he destroyed himself; but my machinations, though unseen, effected his
destruction.
“Matilda di Laurentini! Hah! why do you shudder? When, with repeated
stabs, you destroyed her who now lies lifeless before you in her
coffin, did you not reflect upon what must be your fate? You have
enjoyed him whom you adored--you have even been married to him--and,
for the space of more than a month, have tasted unutterable joys; and
yet you are unwilling to pay the price of your happiness--by heavens, I
am not!” added he, bursting into a wild laugh. “Ah, poor fool, Matilda,
did you think it was from friendship I instructed you to gain Verezzi?
No, no--it was revenge which induced me to enter into your schemes with
zeal; which induced me to lead her whose lifeless form lies yonder,
to your house, foreseeing the effect it would have upon the strong
passions of your husband.
“And now,” added Zastrozzi, “I have been candid with you. Judge, pass
your sentence--but I know my doom; and, instead of horror, experience
some degree of satisfaction at the arrival of death, since all I have
to do on earth is completed.”
Zastrozzi ceased; and, unappalled, fixed his expressive gaze upon the
superior.
Surprised at Zastrozzi’s firmness, and shocked at the crimes of which
he had made so unequivocal an avowal, the superior turned away in
horror.
Still Zastrozzi stood unmoved, and fearlessly awaited the fiat of his
destiny.
The superior whispered to one in black vestments. Four officials rushed
in, and placed Zastrozzi on the rack.
Even whilst writhing under the agony of almost insupportable torture
his nerves were stretched, Zastrozzi’s firmness failed him not; but,
upon his soul-illumined countenance, played a smile of most disdainful
scorn--and, with a wild, convulsive laugh of exulting revenge, he died.
THE END.
ST. IRVYNE;
OR,
_THE ROSICRUCIAN_:
A ROMANCE.
BY
A GENTLEMAN
OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD.
_LONDON_:
Printed for J. J. Stockdale,
41, Pall Mall.
1811.
[Decoration]
ST. IRVYNE;
OR,
_THE ROSICRUCIAN_.
CHAPTER I.
Red thunder-clouds, borne on the wings of the midnight whirlwind,
floated, at fits, athwart the crimson-coloured orbit of the moon: the
rising fierceness of the blast sighed through the stunted shrubs,
which, bending before its violence, inclined towards the rocks whereon
they grew: over the blackened expanse of heaven, at intervals,
was spread the blue lightning’s flash; it played upon the granite
heights, and, with momentary brilliancy, disclosed the terrific
scenery of the Alps, whose gigantic and misshapen summits, reddened
by the transitory moonbeam, were crossed by black fleeting fragments
of the tempest-cloud. The rain, in big drops, began to descend, and
the thunder-peals, with louder and more deafening crash, to shake
the zenith, till the long-protracted war echoing from cavern to
cavern, died, in indistinct murmurs, amidst the far-extended chain
of mountains. In this scene, then, at this horrible and tempestuous
hour, without one existent earthly being whom he might claim as
friend, without one resource to which he might fly as an asylum from
the horrors of neglect and poverty, stood Wolfstein;--he gazed upon
the conflicting elements; his youthful figure reclined against a
jutting granite rock; he cursed his wayward destiny, and implored the
Almighty of Heaven to permit the thunderbolt, with crash terrific
and exterminating, to descend upon his head, that a being useless to
himself and to society might no longer, by his existence, mock Him
who ne’er made aught in vain. “And what so horrible crimes have I
committed,” exclaimed Wolfstein, driven to impiety by desperation;
“what crimes which merit punishment like this? What, what is death? Ah,
dissolution! thy pang is blunted by the hard hand of long-protracted
suffering--suffering unspeakable, indescribable!” As thus he spoke,
a more terrific paroxysm of excessive despair revelled through every
vein; his brain swam around in wild confusion, and, rendered delirious
by excess of misery, he started from his flinty seat, and swiftly
hastened towards the precipice, which yawned widely beneath his feet.
“For what then should I longer drag on the galling chain of existence?”
cried Wolfstein; and his impious expression was borne onwards by the
hot and sulphurous thunder-blast.
The midnight meteors danced above the gulf upon which Wolfstein
wistfully gazed. Palpable, impenetrable darkness seemed to hang upon
it; impenetrable even by the flaming thunderbolt. “Into this then
shall I plunge myself?” soliloquized the wretched outcast, “and by one
rash act endanger, perhaps, eternal happiness;--deliver myself up,
perhaps, to the anticipation and experience of never-ending torments?
Art thou the God then, the Creator of the universe, whom canting
monks call the God of mercy and forgiveness, and sufferest thou thy
creatures to become the victims of tortures such as fate has inflicted
on me? Oh, God! take my soul; why should I longer live?” Thus having
spoken, he sank on the rocky bosom of the mountains. Yet, unheeding the
exclamations of the maddened Wolfstein, fiercer raged the tempest.
The battling elements, in wild confusion, seemed to threaten nature’s
dissolution; the ferocious thunderbolt, with impetuous violence,
danced upon the mountains, and, collecting more terrific strength,
severed gigantic rocks from their else eternal basements; the masses,
with sound more frightful than the bursting thunder-peal, dashed
towards the valley below. Horror and desolation marked their track.
The mountain-rills, swoln by the waters of the sky, dashed with direr
impetuosity from the Alpine summits; their foaming waters were hidden
in the darkness of midnight, or only became visible when the momentary
scintillations of the lightning rested on their whitened waves. Fiercer
still than nature’s wildest uproar were the feelings of Wolfstein’s
bosom; his frame, at last, conquered by the conflicting passions of
his soul, no longer was adequate to sustain the unequal contest, but
sank to the earth. His brain swam wildly, and he lay entranced in total
insensibility.
What torches are those that dispel the distant darkness of midnight,
and gleam, like meteors, athwart the blackness of the tempest? They
throw a wavering light over the thickness of the storm: they wind along
the mountains: they pass the hollow valleys. Hark! the howling of the
blast has ceased,--the thunderbolts have dispersed, but yet reigns
darkness. Distant sounds of song are borne on the breeze; the sounds
approach. A low bier holds the remains of one whose soul is floating
in the regions of eternity: a black pall covers him. Monks support
the lifeless clay: others precede, bearing torches, and chanting a
requiem for the salvation of the departed one. They hasten towards the
convent of the valley, there to deposit the lifeless limbs of one who
has explored the frightful path of eternity before them. And now they
had arrived where lay Wolfstein: “Alas!” said one of the monks, “there
reclines a wretched traveller. He is dead; murdered, doubtlessly, by
the fell bandits who infest these wild recesses.”
They raised from the earth his form: yet his bosom throbbed with the
tide of life: returning animation once more illumed his eye: he started
on his feet, and wildly inquired why they had awakened him from that
slumber which he had hoped to have been eternal. Unconnected were his
expressions, strange and impetuous the fire darting from his restless
eyeballs. At length, the monks succeeded in calming the desperate
tumultuousness of his bosom, calming at least in some degree; for he
accepted their proffered tenders of a lodging, and essayed to lull to
sleep, for awhile, the horrible idea of dereliction which pressed upon
his loaded brain.
While thus they stood, loud shouts rent the air, and, before Wolfstein
and the monks could well collect their scattered faculties, they found
that a troop of Alpine bandits had surrounded them. Trembling, from
apprehension, the monks fled every way. None, however, could escape.
“What! old grey-beards,” cried one of the robbers, “do you suppose
that we will permit you to evade us: you who feed upon the strength of
the country, in idleness and luxury, and have compelled many of our
noble fellows, who otherwise would have been ornaments to their country
in peace, thunderbolts to their enemies in war, to seek precarious
subsistence as Alpine bandits? If you wish for mercy, therefore,
deliver unhesitatingly your joint riches.” The robbers then despoiled
the monks of whatever they might adventitiously have taken with them,
and, turning to Wolfstein, the apparent chieftain told him to yield his
money likewise. Unappalled, Wolfstein advanced towards them. The chief
held a torch; its red beams disclosed the expression of stern severity
and unyielding loftiness which sate upon the brow of Wolfstein.
“Bandit,” he answered fearlessly, “I have none,--no money--no hope--no
friends; nor do I care for existence! Now judge if such a man be a fit
victim for fear! No! I never trembled!”
A ray of pleasure gleamed in the countenance of the bandit as Wolfstein
spoke. Grief, in inerasible traces, sate deeply implanted on the front
of the outcast. At last, the chief, advancing to Wolfstein, who stood
at some little distance, said, “My companions think that so noble a
fellow as you appear to be, would be no unworthy member of our society;
and, by Heaven, I am of their opinion. Are you willing to become one of
us?”
Wolfstein’s dark gaze was fixed upon the ground: his contracted eyebrow
evinced deep thought: he started from his reverie, and, without
hesitation, consented to their proposal.
Long was it past the hour of midnight when the banditti troop, with
their newly-acquired associate, advanced along the pathless Alps.
The red glare of the torches which each held, tinged the rocks and
pine-trees, through woods of which they occasionally passed, and alone
dissipated the darkness of night. Now had they arrived at the summit
of a wild and rocky precipice, but the base indeed of another which
mingled its far-seen and gigantic outline with the clouds of heaven. A
door, which before had appeared part of the solid rock, flew open at
the chieftain’s touch, and the whole party advanced into the spacious
cavern. Over the walls of the lengthened passages putrefaction had
spread a bluish clamminess; damps hung around, and, at intervals,
almost extinguished the torches, whose glare was scarcely sufficient
to dissipate the impenetrable obscurity. After many devious windings
they advanced into the body of the cavern: it was spacious and
lofty. A blazing wood fire threw its dubious rays upon the misshapen
and ill-carved walls. Lamps suspended from the roof, dispersed the
subterranean gloom, not so completely however, but that ill-defined
shades lurked in the arched distances, whose hollow recesses led to
different apartments.
The gang had sate down in the midst of the cavern to supper, which
a female, whose former loveliness had left scarce any traces on her
cheek, had prepared. The most exquisite and expensive wines apologised
for the rusticity of the rest of the entertainment, and induced freedom
of conversation, and wild, boisterous merriment, which reigned until
the bandits, overcome by the fumes of the wine which they had drunk,
sank to sleep. Wolfstein, left again to solitude and silence, reclining
on his mat in a corner of the cavern, retraced, in mental, sorrowing
review, the past events of his life: ah! that eventful existence whose
fate had dragged the heir of a wealthy potentate in Germany from the
lap of luxury and indulgence, to become a vile associate of viler
bandits, in the wild and trackless deserts of the Alps. Around their
dwellings, lofty inaccessible acclivities reared their barren summits;
they echoed to no sound save the wild hoot of the night-raven, or the
impatient yelling of the vulture, which hovered on the blast in quest
of scanty sustenance. These were the scenes without: noisy revelry and
tumultuous riot reigned within. The mirth of the bandits appeared to
arise independently of themselves; their hearts were void and dreary.
Wolfstein’s limbs pillowed on the flinty bosom of the earth: those
limbs which had been wont to recline on the softest, the most luxurious
sofas. Driven from his native country by an event which imposed upon
him an insuperable barrier to ever again returning thither, possessing
no friends, not having one single resource from which he might obtain
support, where could the wretch, the exile, seek for an asylum but with
those whose fortunes, expectations, and characters were desperate, and
marked as darkly, by fate, as his own?
Time fled, and each succeeding day inured Wolfstein more and more to
the idea of depriving his fellow-creatures of their possessions. In a
short space of time the high-souled and noble Wolfstein, though still
high-souled and noble, became an experienced bandit. His magnanimity
and courage, even whilst surrounded by the most threatening dangers,
and the unappalled expression of countenance with which he defied
the dart of death, endeared him to the robbers; whilst with him they
all asserted that they felt, as it were, instinctively impelled to
deeds of horror and danger, which, otherwise, must have remained
unattempted even by the boldest. His was every daring expedition,
his the scheme which demanded depth of judgment and promptness of
execution. Often, whilst at midnight the band lurked perhaps beneath
the overhanging rocks, which were gloomily impended above them, in
the midst, perhaps, of one of those horrible tempests whereby the
air, in those Alpine regions, is so frequently convulsed, would the
countenance of the bandits betray some slight shade of alarm and awe;
but that of Wolfstein was fixed, unchanged, by any variation of scenery
or action. One day it was when the chief communicated to the banditti
notice which he had received by means of spies, that an Italian Count
of immense wealth was journeying from Paris to his native country, and,
at a late hour the following evening, would pass the Alps near this
place; “They have but few attendants,” added he, “and those few will
not come this way; the postilion is in our interest, and the horses are
to be overcome with fatigue when they approach the destined spot: you
understand.”
The evening came. “I,” said Wolfstein, “will roam into the country, but
will return before the arrival of our wealthy victim.” Thus saying, he
left the cavern, and wandered out amidst the mountains.
It was autumn. The mountain-tops, the scattered oaks which occasionally
waved their lightning-blasted heads on the summits of the far-seen
piles of rock, were gilded by the setting glory of the sun; the trees,
yellowed by the waning year, reflected a glowing teint from their thick
foliage; and the dark pine-groves which were stretched half-way up the
mountain sides, added a more deepened gloom to the shades of evening,
which already began to gather rapidly above the scenery.
It was at this dark and silent hour, that Wolfstein, unheeding the
surrounding objects,--objects which might have touched with awe, or
heightened to devotion, any other breast,--wandered alone--pensively
he wandered--dark images for futurity possessed his soul: he shuddered
when he reflected upon what had passed; nor was his present situation
calculated to satisfy a mind eagerly panting for liberty and
independence. Conscience too, awakened conscience, upbraided him for
the life which he had selected, and, with silent whisperings, stung his
soul to madness. Oppressed by thoughts such as these, Wolfstein yet
proceeded, forgetful that he was to return before the arrival of their
destined victim--forgetful indeed was he of every external existence;
and, absorbed in himself, with arms folded, and eyes fixed upon the
earth, he yet advanced. At last he sank on a mossy bank, and, guided by
the impulse of the moment, inscribed on a tablet the following lines;
for the inaccuracy of which, the perturbation of him who wrote them,
may account; he thought of past times while he marked the paper with--
’Twas dead of the night, when I sat in my dwelling;
One glimmering lamp was expiring and low;
Around, the dark tide of the tempest was swelling,
Along the wild mountains night-ravens were yelling,--
They bodingly presaged destruction and woe.
’Twas then that I started!--the wild storm was howling.
Nought was seen, save the lightning, which danced in the sky;
Above me, the crash of the thunder was rolling,
And low, chilling murmurs, the blast wafted by.
My heart sank within me: unheeded the war
Of the battling clouds, on the mountain-tops, broke;
Unheeded the thunder-peal crash’d in mine ear--
This heart, hard as iron, is stranger to fear;
But conscience in low, noiseless whispering spoke.
’Twas then that her form on the whirlwind upholding,
The ghost of the murder’d Victoria strode;
In her right hand a shadowy shroud she was holding,
She swiftly advanced to my lonesome abode.
I wildly then call’d on the tempest to bear me----
Overcome by the wild retrospection of ideal horror, which these
swiftly-written lines excited in his soul, Wolfstein tore the paper,
on which he had written them, to pieces, and scattered them about
him. He arose from his recumbent posture, and again advanced through
the forest. Not far had he proceeded, ere a mingled murmur broke upon
the silence of night--it was the sound of human voices. An event so
unusual in these solitudes, excited Wolfstein’s momentary surprise;
he started, and looking around him, essayed to discover whence those
sounds proceeded. What was the astonishment of Wolfstein, when he found
that a detached party, who had been sent in pursuit of the Count, had
actually overtaken him, and, at this instant, were dragging from the
carriage the almost lifeless form of a female, whose light symmetrical
figure, as it leant on the muscular frame of the robber who supported
it, afforded a most striking contrast. They had, before his arrival,
plundered the Count of all his riches, and, enraged at the spirited
defence which he had made, had inhumanly murdered him, and cast his
lifeless body adown the yawning precipice. Transfixed by a jutting
point of granite rock, it remained there to be devoured by the ravens.
Wolfstein joined the banditti; and, although he could not recall the
deed, lamented the wanton cruelty which had been practised upon the
Count. As for the female, whose grace and loveliness made so strong an
impression upon him, he demanded that every soothing attention should
be paid to her, and his desire was enforced by the commands of the
chief, whose dark eye wandered wildly over the beauties of the lovely
Megalena de Metastasio, as if he had secretly destined them for himself.
At last they arrived at the cavern; every resource which the cavern
of a gang of lawless and desperate villains might afford, was
brought forward to restore the fainted Megalena to life: she soon
recovered--she slowly opened her eyes, and started with surprise to
behold herself surrounded by a rough set of desperadoes, and the gloomy
walls of the cavern, upon which darkness hung, awfully visible. Near
her sate a female, whose darkened expression of countenance seemed
perfectly to correspond with the horror prevalent throughout the
cavern; her face, though bearing the marks of an undeniable expression
of familiarity with wretchedness, had some slight remains of beauty.
It was long past midnight when each of the robbers withdrew to repose.
But his mind was too much occupied by the events of the evening to
allow the unhappy Wolfstein to find quiet;--at an early hour he rose
from his sleepless couch, to inhale the morning breeze. The sun had but
just risen; the scene was beautiful; everything was still, and seemed
to favour that reflection, which even propinquity to his abandoned
associates imposed no indefinably insuperable bar to. In spite of his
attempts to think upon other subjects, the image of the fair Megalena
floated in his mind. Her loveliness had made too deep an impression
on it to be easily removed; and the hapless Wolfstein, ever the
victim of impulsive feeling, found himself bound to her by ties, more
lasting than he had now conceived the transitory tyranny of woe could
have imposed. For never had Wolfstein beheld so singularly beautiful
a form;--her figure cast in the mould of most exact symmetry; her
blue and love-beaming eyes, from which occasionally emanated a wild
expression, seemingly almost superhuman; and the auburn hair which hung
in unconfined tresses down her damask cheek--formed a resistless _tout
ensemble_.
Heedless of every external object, Wolfstein long wandered. The
protracted sound of the bandits’ horn struck at last upon his ear, and
aroused him from his reverie. On his return to the cavern, the robbers
were assembled at their meal; the chief regarded him with marked and
jealous surprise as he entered, but made no remark. They then discussed
their uninteresting and monotonous topics, and the meal being ended,
each villain departed on his different business.
Megalena, finding herself alone with Agnes (the only woman, save
herself, who was in the cavern, and who served as an attendant on the
robbers), essayed, by the most humble entreaties and supplications, to
excite pity in her breast: she conjured her to explain the cause for
which she was thus imprisoned, and wildly inquired for her father. The
guilt-bronzed brow of Agnes was contracted by a sullen and malicious
frown: it was the only reply which the inhuman female deigned to
return. After a pause, however, she said, “Thou thinkest thyself my
superior, proud girl; but time may render us equals. Submit to that,
and you may live on the same terms as I do.”
There appeared to lurk a meaning in these words, which Megalena found
herself incompetent to develop; she answered not, therefore, and
suffered Agnes to depart unquestioned. The wretched Megalena, a prey
to despair and terror, endeavoured to revolve in her mind the events
which had brought her to this spot, but an unconnected stream of ideas
pressed upon her brain. The sole light in her cell was that of a dismal
lamp which, by its uncertain flickering, only dissipated the almost
palpable obscurity, in a sufficient degree more assuredly to point
out the circumambient horrors. She gazed wistfully around, to see if
there were any outlet; none there was, save the door whereby Agnes
had entered, which was strongly barred on the outside. In despair
she threw herself on the wretched pallet. “For what cause, then, am
I thus entombed alive?” soliloquized the hapless Megalena; “would
it not be preferable at once to annihilate the spark of life which
burns but faintly within my bosom? O my father! where art thou? Thy
tombless corpse, perhaps, is torn into a thousand pieces by the fury
of the mountain cataract.--Little didst thou presage misfortunes such
as these!--little didst thou suppose that our last journey would have
caused thy immature dissolution--my infamy and misery, not to end but
with my hapless existence! Here there is none to comfort me, none to
participate my miseries!” Thus speaking, overcome by a paroxysm of
emotion, she sank on the bed, and bedewed her fair face with tears.
Whilst, oppressed by painful retrospection, the outcast orphan was
yet kneeling, Agnes entered, and, not even noticing her distress,
bade her prepare to come to the banquet where the troop of bandits
was assembled. In silence, along the vaulted and gloomy passages, she
followed her conductress, from whose stern and forbidding gaze her
nature shrunk back enhorrored, till they reached that apartment of the
cavern where the revelry waited but for her arrival to commence. On
her entering, Cavigni, the chief, led her to a seat on his right hand,
and paid her every attention which his froward nature could stoop to
exercise towards a female; she received his civilities with apparent
complacency; but her eye was frequently fascinated, as it were, towards
the youthful Wolfstein, who had caught her attention the evening
before. His countenance, spite of the shade of woe with which the hard
hand of suffering had marked it, was engaging and beautiful; not that
beauty which may be freely acknowledged, but inwardly confessed by
every beholder with sensations penetrating and resistless; his figure
majestic and lofty, and the fire which flashed from his expressive eye,
indefinably to herself, penetrated the inmost soul of the isolated
Megalena. Wolfstein regarded Cavigni with indignation and envy; and,
though almost ignorant himself of the dreadful purpose of his soul,
resolved in his own mind an horrible deed. Cavigni was enraptured with
the beauty of Megalena, and secretly vowed that no pains should be
spared to gain to himself the possession of an object so lovely. The
anticipated delight of gratified voluptuousness revelled in every vein
as he gazed upon her; his eye flashed with a triumphant expression of
lawless love, yet he determined to defer the hour of his happiness
till he might enjoy more free, unrestrained delight, with his adored
fair one. She gazed on the chief, however, with an ill-concealed
aversion; his dark expression of countenance, the haughty severity, and
contemptuous frown, which habitually sate on his brow, invited not, but
rather repelled a reciprocality of affection, which the haughty chief,
after his own attachment, entertained not the most distant doubt of. He
was, notwithstanding, conscious of her coldness, but attributing it to
virgin modesty, or to the novel situation into which she had suddenly
been thrown, paid her every attention; nor did he omit to promise her
every little comfort which might induce her to regard him with esteem.
Still, though veiled beneath the most artful dissimulation, did the
fair Megalena pant ardently for liberty--for, oh! liberty is sweet,
sweeter even than all the other pleasures of life, to full satiety,
without it.
Cavigni essayed, by every art, to gain her over to his desires; but
Megalena, regarding him with aversion, answered with an haughtiness
which she was unable to conceal, and which his proud spirit might ill
brook. Cavigni could not disguise the vexation which he felt, when,
increased by resistance, Megalena’s dislike towards him remained no
longer a secret: “Megalena,” said he, at last, “fair girl, thou shalt
be mine--we will be wedded to-morrow, if you think the bands of love
not sufficiently forcible to unite us.”
“No bands shall ever unite me to you!” exclaimed Megalena. “Even though
the grave were to yawn beneath my feet, I would willingly precipitate
myself into its gulf, if the alternative of that, or an union with you,
were proposed to me.”
Rage swelled Cavigni’s bosom almost to bursting--the conflicting
passions of his soul were too tumultuous for utterance;--in an hurried
tone, he commanded Agnes to show Megalena to her cell: she obeyed, and
they both quitted the apartment.
Wolfstein’s soul, sublimed by the most infuriate paroxysms of
contending emotions, battled wildly. His countenance retained, however,
but one expression,--it was of dark and deliberate revenge. His stern
eye was fixed upon Cavigni;--he decided at this instant to perpetrate
the deed he had resolved on. Leaving his seat, he intimated his
intention of quitting the cavern for an instant.
Cavigni had just filled his goblet. Wolfstein, as he passed,
dexterously threw a little white powder into the wine of the chief.
When Wolfstein returned, Cavigni had not yet quaffed the deadly
draught: rising, therefore, he exclaimed aloud, “Fill your goblets,
all.” Every one obeyed, and sat in expectation of the toast which he
was about to propose.
“Let us drink,” he exclaimed, “to the health of the chieftain’s
bride--let us drink to their mutual happiness.” A smile of pleasure
irradiated the countenance of the chief:--that he whom he had supposed
to be a dangerous rival, should thus publicly forego any claim to the
affections of Megalena, was indeed pleasure.
“Health and mutual happiness to the chieftain and his bride!” re-echoed
from every part of the table.
Cavigni raised the goblet to his lips: he was about to quaff the tide
of death, when Ginotti, one of the robbers, who sat next to him,
upreared his arm, and dashed the cup of destruction to the earth.
A silence, as if in expectation of some terrible event, reigned
throughout the cavern.
Wolfstein turned his eyes towards the chief;--the dark and mysterious
gaze of Ginotti arrested his wandering eyeball; its expression was
too marked to be misunderstood:--he trembled in his inmost soul, but
his countenance yet retained its unchangeable expression. Ginotti
spoke not, nor willed he to assign any reason for his extraordinary
conduct; the circumstance was shortly forgotten, and the revelry went
on undisturbed by any other event.
Ginotti was one of the boldest of the robbers; he was the distinguished
favourite of the chief, and, although mysterious and reserved,
his society was courted with more eagerness, than such qualities
might, abstractedly considered, appear to deserve. None knew his
history--_that_ he concealed within the deepest recesses of his own
bosom; nor could the most suppliant entreaties, or threats of the most
horrible punishments, have wrested from him one particular concerning
it. Never had he once thrown off the mysterious mask, beneath which his
character was veiled, since he had become an associate of the band.
In vain the chief required him to assign some reason for his late
extravagant conduct; he said it was mere accident, but with an air,
which more than convinced every one that something lurked behind which
yet remained unknown. Such, however, was their respect for Ginotti,
that the occurrence passed almost without a comment.
Long now had the hour of midnight gone by, and the bandits had retired
to repose. Wolfstein retired too to his couch, but sleep closed not his
eyelids; his bosom was a scene of the wildest anarchy; the conflicting
passions revelled dreadfully in his burning brain:--love, maddening,
excessive, unaccountable idolatry, as it were, which possessed him for
Megalena, urged him on to the commission of deeds which conscience
represented as beyond measure wicked, and which Ginotti’s glance
convinced him were by no means unsuspected. Still so unbounded was his
love for Megalena (madness rather than love), that it overbalanced
every other consideration, and his unappalled soul resolved to
persevere in its determination even to destruction!
Cavigni’s commands respecting Megalena had been obeyed:--the door of
her cell was fastened, and the ferocious chief resolved to let her lie
there till the suffering and confinement might subdue her to his will.
Megalena endeavoured, by every means, to soften the obdurate heart
of her attendant; at length, her mildness of manner induced Agnes to
regard her with pity; and before she quitted her cell, they were so
far reconciled to each other that they entered into a comparison of
their mutual situations; and Agnes was about to relate to Megalena the
circumstances which had brought her to the cavern, when the fierce
Cavigni entered, and, commanding Agnes to withdraw, said, “Well, proud
girl, are you now in a better humour to return the favour with which
your superior regards you?”
“No!” heroically answered Megalena.
“Then,” rejoined the chief, “if within four-and-twenty hours you hold
yourself not in readiness to return my love, force shall wrest the
jewel from its casket.” Thus having said, he abruptly quitted the cell.
So far had Wolfstein’s proposed toast, at the banquet, gained on the
unsuspecting ferociousness of Cavigni, that he accepted the former’s
artful tender of service, in the way of persuasion with Megalena,
supposing, by Wolfstein’s manner, that they had been cursorily
acquainted before. Wolfstein, therefore, entered the apartment of
Megalena.
At the sight of him Megalena arose from her recumbent posture, and
hastened joyfully to meet him; for she remembered that Wolfstein had
rescued her from the insults of the banditti, on the eventful evening
which had subjected her to their control.
“Lovely, adored girl,” he exclaimed, “short is my time: pardon,
therefore, the abruptness of my address. The chief has sent me to
persuade you to become united to him; but I love you, I adore you to
madness. I am not what I seem. Answer me!--time is short.”
An indefinable sensation, unfelt before, swelled through the
passion-quivering frame of Megalena. “Yes, yes,” she cried, “I will--I
love you----” At this instant the voice of Cavigni was heard in the
passage. Wolfstein started from his knees, and pressing the fair hand
presented to his lips with exulting ardour, departed hastily to give an
account of his mission to the anxious Cavigni, who restrained himself
in the passage without, and, slightly mistrusting Wolfstein, was about
to advance to the door of the cell to listen to their conversation,
when Wolfstein quitted Megalena.
Megalena, again in solitude, began to reflect upon the scenes which
had been lately acted. She thought upon the words of Wolfstein,
unconscious wherefore they were a balm to her mind: she reclined upon
her wretched pallet. It was now night: her thoughts took a different
turn; the melancholy wind sighing along the crevices of the cavern,
and the dismal sound of rain, which pattered fast, inspired mournful
reflection. She thought of her father,--her beloved father;--a solitary
wanderer on the face of the earth; or, most probably, thought she, his
soul rests in death. Horrible idea! If the latter, she envied his fate;
if the former, she even supposed it preferable to her present abode.
She again thought of Wolfstein; she pondered on his last words:--an
escape from the cavern: oh, delightful idea! Again her thoughts
recurred to her father: tears bedewed her cheeks; she took a pencil,
and, actuated by the feelings of the moment, inscribed on the wall of
her prison these lines:--
Ghosts of the dead! have I not heard your yelling
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the blast,[1]
When o’er the dark ether the tempest is swelling,
And on eddying whirlwind the thunder-peal past?
For oft have I stood on the dark height of Jura,
Which frowns on the valley that opens beneath;
Oft have I braved the chill night-tempest’s fury,
Whilst around me, I thought, echo’d murmurs of death.
And now, whilst the winds of the mountain are howling,
O father! thy voice seems to strike on mine ear;
In air whilst the tide of the night-storm is rolling,
It breaks on the pause of the elements’ jar.
On the wing of the whirlwind which roars o’er the mountain
Perhaps rides the ghost of my sire who is dead;
On the mist of the tempest which hangs o’er the fountain,
Whilst a wreath of dark vapour encircles his head.
Here she paused, and, ashamed of the exuberance of her imagination,
obliterated from the wall the characters which she had traced: the wind
still howled dreadfully: in fearful anticipation of the morrow, she
threw herself on the bed, and, in sleep, forgot the misfortunes which
impended over her.
Meantime, the soul of Wolfstein was disturbed by ten thousand
conflicting passions; revenge and disappointed love agonized his soul
to madness; and he resolved to quench the rude feelings of his bosom
in the blood of his rival. But, again he thought of Ginotti; he
thought of the mysterious intervention which his dark glances proved
not to be accidental. To him it was an inexplicable mystery; which the
more he reflected upon, the less able was he to unravel. He had mixed
the poison, unseen, as he thought, by any one; certainly unseen by
Ginotti, whose back was unconcernedly turned at the time. He planned,
therefore, a second attempt, unawed by what had happened before, for
the destruction of Cavigni, which he resolved to put into execution
this night.
Before he had become an associate with the band of robbers, the
conscience of Wolfstein was clear; clear, at least, from the commission
of any wilful and deliberate crime; for, alas! an event almost too
dreadful for narration, had compelled him to quit his native country,
in indigence and disgrace. His courage was equal to his wickedness;
his mind was unalienable from its purpose; and whatever his will might
determine, his boldness would fearlessly execute, even though hell
and destruction were to yawn beneath his feet, and essay to turn his
unappalled soul from the accomplishment of his design. Such was the
guilty Wolfstein; a disgraceful fugitive from his country, a vile
associate of a band of robbers, and a murderer, at least in intent, if
not in deed. He shrunk not at the commission of crimes; he was now the
hardened villain; eternal damnation, tortures inconceivable on earth,
awaited him. “Foolish, degrading idea!” he exclaimed, as it momentarily
glanced through his mind; “am I worthy of the celestial Megalena,
if I shrink at the price which it is necessary I should pay for her
possession?” This idea banished every other feeling from his heart;
and, smothering the stings of conscience, a decided resolve of murder
took possession of him--the determining, within himself, to destroy the
very man who had given him an asylum, when driven to madness by the
horrors of neglect and poverty. He stood in the night-storm on the
mountains; he cursed the intervention of Ginotti, and secretly swore
that nor heaven nor hell again should dash the goblet of destruction
from the mouth of the detested Cavigni. The soul of Wolfstein too,
insatiable in its desires, and panting for liberty, ill could brook the
confinement of idea, which the cavern of the bandits must necessarily
induce. He longed again to try his fortune; he longed to re-enter that
world which he had never tried but once, and that indeed for a short
time; sufficiently long, however, to blast his blooming hopes, and to
graft on the stock, which otherwise might have produced virtue, the
fatal seeds of vice.
[1] Taken almost word for word from the poem of Lachin y Gair in
Byron’s _Hours of Idleness_. Newark, 1807, p. 130.--Ed.
CHAPTER II.
The fiends of fate are heard to rave,
And the death-angel flaps his broad wing o’er the wave.
It was midnight; and all the robbers were assembled in the
banquet-hall, amongst whom, bearing in his bosom a weight of
premeditated crime, was Wolfstein; he sat by the chief. They discoursed
on indifferent subjects; the sparkling goblet went round; loud laughter
succeeded. The ruffians were rejoicing over some plunder which they
had taken from a traveller, whom they had robbed of immense wealth;
they had left his body a prey to the vultures of the mountains. The
table groaned with the pressure of the feast. Hilarity reigned around:
reiterated were the shouts of merriment and joy; if such could exist in
a cavern of robbers.
It was long past midnight: another hour, and Megalena must be
Cavigni’s. This idea rendered Wolfstein callous to every sting of
conscience; and he eagerly awaited an opportunity when he might,
unperceived, infuse poison into the goblet of one who confided in him.
Ginotti sat opposite to Wolfstein: his arms were folded, and his gaze
rested fixedly upon the fearless countenance of the murderer. Wolfstein
shuddered when he beheld the brow of the mysterious Ginotti contracted,
his marked features wrapped in inexplicable mystery.
All were now heated by wine, save the wily villain who destined murder;
and the awe-inspiring Ginotti, whose reservedness and mystery, not even
the hilarity of the present hour could dispel.
Conversation appearing to flag, Cavigni exclaimed, “Steindolph, you
know some old German stories; cannot you tell one, to deceive the
lagging hours?”
Steindolph was famed for his knowledge of metrical spectre tales, and
the gang were frequently wont to hang delighted on the ghostly wonders
which he related.
“Excuse, then, the mode of my telling it,” said Steindolph, “and I will
with pleasure. I learnt it whilst in Germany; my old grandmother taught
it me, and I can repeat it as a ballad.”--“Do, do,” re-echoed from
every part of the cavern.--Steindolph thus began:
Ballad.
I.
The death-bell beats!
The mountain repeats
The echoing sound of the knell;
And the dark monk now
Wraps the cowl round his brow,
As he sits in his lonely cell.
II.
And the cold hand of death
Chills his shuddering breath,
As he lists to the fearful lay
Which the ghosts of the sky,
As they sweep wildly by,
Sing to departed day.
And they sing of the hour
When the stern fates had power
To resolve Rosa’s form to its clay.
III.
But that hour is past;
And that hour was the last
Of peace to the dark monk’s brain.
Bitter tears, from his eyes, gush’d silent and fast:
And he strove to suppress them in vain.
IV.
Then his fair cross of gold he dash’d on the floor,
When the death-knell struck on his ear.
Delight is in store
For her evermore;
But for me is fate, horror, and fear.
V.
Then his eyes wildly roll’d,
When the death-bell toll’d,
And he raged in terrific woe.
And he stamp’d on the ground,
But when ceased the sound
Tears again began to flow.
VI.
And the ice of despair
Chill’d the wide throb of care,
And he sat in mute agony still;
Till the night-stars shone through the cloudless air,
And the pale moonbeam slept on the hill.
VII.
Then he knelt in his cell:--
And the horrors of hell
Were delights to his agonized pain.
And he pray’d to God to dissolve the spell,
Which else must for ever remain.
VIII.
And in fervent prayer he knelt on the ground,
Till the abbey bell struck One:
His feverish blood ran chill at the sound:
A voice hollow and horrible murmur’d around,
“The term of thy penance is done!”
IX.
Grew dark the night;
The moonbeam bright
Wax’d faint on the mountain high;
And, from the black hill,
Went a voice cold and still,--
“Monk! thou art free to die.”
X.
Then he rose on his feet,
And his heart loud did beat,
And his limbs they were palsied with dread;
Whilst the grave’s clammy dew
O’er his pale forehead grew;
And he shudder’d to sleep with the dead.
XI.
And the wild midnight storm
Raved around his tall form,
As he sought the chapel’s gloom:
And the sunk grass did sigh
To the wind, bleak and high,
As he searched for the new-made tomb.
XII.
And forms, dark and high,
Seem’d around him to fly,
And mingle their yells with the blast
And on the dark wall
Half-seen shadows did fall,
As enhorror’d he onward pass’d.
XIII.
And the storm-fiend’s wild rave
O’er the new-made grave,
And dread shadows, linger around.
The Monk call’d on God his soul to save,
And, in horror, sank on the ground.
XIV.
Then despair nerved his arm
To dispel the charm,
And he burst Rosa’s coffin asunder.
And the fierce storm did swell
More terrific and fell,
And louder peal’d the thunder.
XV.
And laugh’d, in joy, the fiendish throng,
Mix’d with ghosts of the mouldering dead:
And their grisly wings, as they floated along,
Whistled in murmurs dread.
XVI.
And her skeleton form the dead Nun rear’d,
Which dripp’d with the chill dew of hell.
In her half-eaten eyeballs two pale flames appear’d,
And triumphant their gleam on the dark Monk glared,
As he stood within the cell.
XVII.
And her lank hand lay on his shuddering brain;
But each power was nerved by fear.--
“I never, henceforth, may breathe again;
Death now ends mine anguish’d pain.--
The grave yawns,--we meet there.”
XVIII.
And her skeleton lungs did utter the sound,
So deadly, so lone, and so fell,
That in long vibrations shudder’d the ground;
And as the stern notes floated around,
A deep groan was answer’d from hell.
As Steindolph concluded, an universal shout of applause echoed through
the cavern. Every one had been so attentive to the recitation of the
robber, that no opportunity of perpetrating his resolve had appeared to
Wolfstein. Now all again was revelry and riot, and the wily designer
eagerly watched for the instant when universal confusion might favour
his attempt to drop, unobserved, the powder into the goblet of the
chief. With a gaze of insidious and malignant revenge was the eye of
Wolfstein fixed upon the chieftain’s countenance. Cavigni perceived it
not; for he was heated with wine, or the unusual expression of his
associate’s face must have awakened suspicion, or excited remark. Yet
was Ginotti’s gaze fixed upon Wolfstein, who, like a sanguinary and
remorseless ruffian, sat expectantly waiting the instant of death. The
goblet passed round:--at the moment when Wolfstein mingled the poison
with Cavigni’s wine, the eyes of Ginotti, which before had regarded him
with the most dazzling scrutiny, were intentionally turned away. He
then arose from the table, and, complaining of sudden indisposition,
retired. Cavigni raised the goblet to his lips--
“Now, my brave fellows,” he exclaimed, “the hour is late; but before we
retire, I here drink success and health to every one of you.”
Wolfstein involuntarily shuddered.--Cavigni quaffed the liquor to the
dregs!--the cup fell from his trembling hand. The chill dew of death
sat upon his forehead: in terrific convulsions he fell headlong; and,
inarticulately uttering, “I am poisoned,” sank seemingly lifeless
on the earth. Sixty robbers at once rushed forward to raise him;
and, reclining in their arms, with an horrible and harrowing shriek,
the spark of life fled from his body for ever. A robber, skilled
in surgery, opened a vein; but no blood followed the touch of the
lancet.--Wolfstein advanced to the body, unappalled by the crime
which he had committed; and tore aside the vest from its bosom; that
bosom was discoloured by large spots of livid purple, which, by their
premature appearance, declared the poison which had been used to
destroy him, to be excessively powerful.
Every one regretted the death of the brave Cavigni; every one was
surprised at the mode of his death; and, by his abruptly quitting the
apartment, the suspicion fell upon Ginotti, who was consequently sent
for by Ardolph, a robber whom they had chosen chieftain, Wolfstein
having declined the proffered distinction.
Ginotti arrived. His stern countenance was changed not by the
execrations showered on him by everyone. He yet remained unmoved, and
apparently careless what sentiments others might entertain of him;
he deigned not even to deny the charge. This coolness seemed to have
convinced everyone, the new chief in particular, of his innocence.
“Let every one,” said Ardolph, “be searched; and if his pockets contain
poison which could have effected this, let him die.” This method was
universally applauded. As soon as the acclamations were stilled,
Wolfstein advanced forwards and spoke thus:
“Any longer to conceal that it was I who perpetrated the deed, were
useless. Megalena’s loveliness inflamed me:--I envied one who was about
to possess it.--I have murdered him!”
Here he was interrupted by the shouts of the bandits; and he was about
to be delivered to death, when Ginotti advanced. His superior and
towering figure inspired awe even in the hearts of the bandits. They
were silent.
“Suffer Wolfstein,” he exclaimed, “to depart unhurt. _I_ will answer
for his never publishing our retreat: _I_ will promise that never more
shall you behold him.”
Every one submitted to Ginotti: for who could resist the superior
Ginotti? From the gaze of Ginotti Wolfstein’s soul shrank, enhorrored,
in confessed inferiority: he who had shrunk not at death, had shrunk
not to avow himself guilty of murder, and had prepared to meet its
reward, started from Ginotti’s eye-beam as from the emanation of some
superior and preter-human being.
“Quit the cavern!” said Ginotti.--“May I not remain here until the
morrow?” inquired Wolfstein.--“If to-morrow’s rising sun finds you in
this cavern,” returned Ginotti, “I must deliver you up to the vengeance
of those whom you have injured.”
Wolfstein retired to his solitary cell, to retrace, in his mind, the
occurrences of this eventful night. What was he now? an isolated
wicked wanderer; not a being on earth whom he could call a friend,
and carrying with him that never-dying tormentor--conscience. In
half-waking dreams passed the night; the ghost of him whom he had so
inhumanly destroyed, seemed to cry for justice at the throne of God;
bleeding, pale, and ghastly, it pressed on his agonized brain; and
confused, inexplicable visions flitted in his imagination, until the
freshness of the morning breeze warned him to depart. He collected
together all those valuables which had fallen to his share as plunder,
during his stay in the cavern: they amounted to a large sum. He rushed
from the cavern; he hesitated;--he knew not whither to fly. He walked
fast, and essayed, by exercise, to smother the feelings of his soul;
but the attempt was fruitless. Not far had he proceeded, ere, stretched
on the earth apparently lifeless, he beheld a female form. He advanced
towards it--it was Megalena!
A tumult of exulting and inconceivable transport rushed through his
veins as he beheld her--her for whom he had plunged into the abyss of
crime. She slept, and, apparently overcome by the fatigues which she
had sustained, her slumber was profound. Her head reclined upon the
jutting root of a tree; the tint of health and loveliness sat upon her
cheek.
When the fair Megalena awakened, and found herself in the arms of
Wolfstein, she started: yet, turning her eyes, she beheld it was no
enemy, and the expression of terror gave way to pleasure. In the
general confusion had Megalena escaped from the abode of the bandits.
The destinies of Wolfstein and Megalena were assimilated by similarity
of situations; and, before they quitted the spot, so far had this
reciprocal feeling prevailed, that they swore mutual affection.
Megalena then related her escape from the cavern, and showed Wolfstein
jewels, to an immense amount, which she had secreted.
“At all events, then,” said Wolfstein, “we may defy poverty; for I have
about me jewels to the value of ten thousand zechins.”
“We will go to Genoa,” said Megalena.
“We will, my fair one. There, entirely devoted to each other, we will
defy the darts of misery.”
Megalena returned no answer, save a look of else inexpressible love.
It was now the middle of the day; neither Wolfstein nor Megalena had
tasted food since the preceding night; and faint from fatigue, Megalena
scarce could move onwards. “Courage, my love,” said Wolfstein; “yet
a little way, and we shall arrive at a cottage, a sort of inn, where
we may wait until the morrow, and hire mules to carry us to Placenza,
whence we can easily proceed to the goal of our destination.”
Megalena collected her strength: in a short time they arrived at the
cottage, and passed the remainder of the day in plans respecting the
future. Wearied with unusual exertions, Megalena early retired to
an inconvenient bed, which, however, was the best the cottage could
afford; and Wolfstein, lying along the bench by the fireplace, resigned
himself to meditation; for his mind was too much disturbed to let him
sleep.
Although Wolfstein had every reason to rejoice at the success which
had crowned his schemes; although the very event had occurred which
his soul had so much and so eagerly panted for; yet, even now, in
possession of all he held valuable on earth, was he ill at ease.
Remorse for his crimes tortured him: yet, steeling his conscience, he
essayed to smother the fire which burned in his bosom; to change the
tenour of his thoughts--in vain! he could not. Restless passed the
night, and the middle of the day beheld Wolfstein and Megalena far from
the habitation of the bandits.
They intended, if possible, to reach Breno that night, and thence, on
the following day, to journey towards Genoa. They had descended the
southern acclivity of the Alps. It was now hastening towards spring,
and the whole country began to gleam with the renewed loveliness of
nature. Odoriferous orange-groves scented the air. Myrtles bloomed on
the sides of the gentle eminences which they occasionally ascended.
The face of nature was smiling and gay; so was Megalena’s heart: with
exulting and speechless transport it bounded within her bosom. She
gazed on him who possessed her soul; although she felt no inclination
in her bosom to retrace the events, by means of which an obscure
bandit, undefinable to herself, had gained the eternal love of the
former haughty Megalena de Metastasio.
They soon arrived at Breno. Wolfstein dismissed the muleteer, and
conducted Megalena into the interior of the inn, ordering at the same
time a supper. Again were repeated protestations of eternal affection,
avowals of indissoluble love; but it is sufficient to conceive what
cannot be so well described.
It was near midnight; Wolfstein and Megalena sat at supper, and
conversed with that unrestrainedness and gaiety which mutual confidence
inspired, when the door was opened, and the innkeeper announced the
arrival of a man who wished to speak with Wolfstein.
“Tell him,” exclaimed Wolfstein, rather surprised, and wishing to guard
against the possibility of danger, “that I will not see him.”
The landlord left the room, and in a short time returned. A man
accompanied him: he was of gigantic stature, and masked. “He would take
no denial, signor,” said the landlord, in exculpation, as he left the
room.
The stranger advanced to the table at which Wolfstein and Megalena
sat: he threw aside his mask, and disclosed the features of--Ginotti!
Wolfstein’s frame became convulsed with involuntary horror: he started.
Megalena was surprised.
Ginotti, at length, broke the terrible silence.
“Wolfstein,” he said, “I saved you from, otherwise, inevitable death;
by _my_ means alone have you gained Megalena:--what do I then deserve
in return?” Wolfstein looked on the countenance: it was stern and
severe, yet divested of the terrible expression which had before caused
his frame to shudder with excess of alarm.
“My eternal gratitude,” returned Wolfstein, hesitatingly.
“Will you promise, that when, destitute and a wanderer, I demand your
protection, when I beseech you to listen to the tale which I shall
relate, you _will_ listen to me; that, when I am dead, you will bury
me, and suffer my soul to rest in the endless slumber of annihilation?
Then will you repay me for the benefits which I have conferred upon
you?”
“I will,” replied Wolfstein; “I will perform all that you require.”
“Swear it!” exclaimed Ginotti.
“I swear.”
Ginotti then abruptly quitted the apartment; the sound of his footsteps
was heard descending the stairs; and, when they were no longer audible,
a weight seemed to have been taken from the breast of Wolfstein.
“How did that man save your life?” inquired Megalena.
“He was one of our band,” replied Wolfstein, evasively; “and, on a
plundering excursion, his pistol-ball entered the heart of the man,
whose sabre, lifted aloft, would else have severed my head from my
body.”
“Dear Wolfstein, who are you?--whence came you?--for you were not
always an Alpine bandit?”
“That is true, my adored one; but fate presents an insuperable
barrier to my ever relating the events which occurred previously to my
connexion with the banditti. Dearest Megalena, if you love me, never
question me concerning my _past_ life, but rest satisfied with the
conviction, that my future existence shall be devoted to you, and to
you alone.” Megalena felt surprise; but, although eagerly desiring to
unravel the mystery in which Wolfstein shrouded himself, desisted from
inquiry.
Ginotti’s mysterious visit had made too serious an impression on the
mind of Wolfstein to be lightly erased. In vain he essayed to appear
easy and unembarrassed, while he conversed with Megalena. He attempted
to drown thought in wine--but in vain:--Ginotti’s strange injunction
pressed, like a load of ice, upon his breast. At last, the hour being
late, they both retired to their respective rooms.
Early on the following morning, Wolfstein arose, to arrange the
necessary preparations for their journey to Genoa; whither he had sent
a servant whom he hired at Breno, to prepare accommodations for their
arrival. Needless were it minutely to describe each trivial event which
occurred during their journey to Genoa.
On the morning of the fourth day, they found themselves within a
short distance of the city. They determined on the plan they should
adopt, and, in a short space of time, arriving at Genoa, took up their
residence in a mansion on the outermost extremity of the city.
CHAPTER III.
Whence, and what art thou, execrable shape,
That darest, though grim and terrible, advance
Thy miscreated front athwart my way?--
Paradise Lost.
Time passed; and, settled in their new habitation, Megalena and
Wolfstein appeared to defy the arrows of vengeful destiny.
Wolfstein resolved to allow some time to elapse before he spoke of the
subject nearest to his heart, of herself, to Megalena. One evening,
however, overcome by the passion which, by mutual indulgence, had
become resistless, he cast himself at her feet, and, avowing most
unbounded love, demanded the promised return. A slight spark of virtue
yet burned in the bosom of the wretched girl; she essayed to fly from
temptation; but Wolfstein, seizing her hand, said, “And is my adored
Megalena a victim then to prejudice? Does she believe, that the Being
who created us gave us passions which never were to be satiated? Does
she suppose that Nature created us to become the tormentors of each
other?”
“Ah! Wolfstein,” Megalena said tenderly, “rise!--You know too well the
chain which unites me to you is indissoluble; you know that I must be
thine; where, therefore, is there an appeal?”
“To thine own heart, Megalena; for, if my image implanted there is not
sufficiently eloquent to confirm your hesitating soul, I would wish not
for a casket that contains a jewel unworthy of my possession.”
Megalena involuntarily started at the strength of his expression;
she felt how completely she was his, and turned her eyes upon his
countenance, to read in it the meaning of his words.--His eyes gleamed
with excessive and confiding love.
“Yes,” exclaimed Megalena, “yes, prejudice avaunt! once more
reason takes her seat, and convinces me that to be Wolfstein’s is
not criminal. O Wolfstein! if for a moment Megalena has yielded to
the imbecility of nature, believe that she yet knows how to recover
herself, to reappear in her proper character. Ere I knew you, a void
in my heart, and a tasteless carelessness of those objects which
now interest me, confessed your unseen empire; my heart longed for
something which now it has attained. I scruple not, Wolfstein, to aver
that it is you:--Be mine, then, and let our affection end not but with
our existence!”
“Never, never shall it end!” enthusiastically exclaimed Wolfstein.
“Never!--What can break the bond joined by congeniality of sentiment,
cemented by an union of soul which must endure till the intellectual
particles which compose it become annihilated? Oh! never shall it end;
for when, convulsed by nature’s latest ruin, sinks the fabric of this
perishable globe; when the earth is dissolved away, and the face of
heaven is rolled from before our eyes like a scroll; then will we seek
each other, and, in eternal, indivisible, although immaterial union,
shall we exist to all eternity.”
Yet the love with which Wolfstein regarded Megalena, notwithstanding
the strength of his expressions, though fervent and excessive, at
first, was not of that nature which was likely to remain throughout
existence; it was like the blaze of the meteor at midnight, which
glares amid the darkness for awhile, and then expires; yet did
he love her now; at least if heated admiration of her person and
accomplishments, independently of mind, be love.
* * * * *
Blessed in mutual affection, if so it may be called, the time passed
swift to Wolfstein and Megalena. No incident worthy of narration
occurred to disturb the uninterrupted tenour of their existence.
Tired, at last, even with delight, which had become monotonous
from long continuance, they began to frequent the public places. It
was one evening, nearly a month subsequent to their first residence
at Genoa, that they went to a party at the Duca di Thice. It was
there that he beheld the gaze of one of the crowd fixed upon him.
Indefinable to himself were the emotions which shook him; in vain
he turned to every part of the saloon to avoid the scrutiny of the
stranger’s gaze; he was not able to give formation, in his own mind,
to the ideas which struck him; they were acknowledged, however, in
his heart, by sensations awful, and not to be described. He knew that
he had before seen the features of the stranger; but he had forgotten
Ginotti; for it was Ginotti--from whose scrutinizing glance Wolfstein
turned appalled;--it was Ginotti, of whose strangely and fearfully
gleaming eyeball Wolfstein endeavoured to evade the fascination in
vain. His eyes, resistlessly attracted to the sphere of chill horror
that played around Ginotti’s glance, in vain were fixed on vacuity;
in vain attempted to notice other objects. Complaining to Megalena of
sudden and violent indisposition, Wolfstein with her retired, and they
quickly reached the steps of their mansion. Arrived there, Megalena
tenderly inquired the cause of Wolfstein’s illness, but his vague
answers and unconnected exclamations, soon led her to suppose it was
not corporeal. She entreated him to acquaint her with the reason of his
indisposition; Wolfstein, however, wishing to conceal from Megalena
the true cause of his emotions, evasively told her that he had felt
excessively faint from the heat of the assembly; she well knew, by his
manner, that he had not told her truth, but affected to be satisfied,
resolving, at some future period, to develop the mystery with which he
evidently was environed. Retired to rest, Wolfstein’s mind, torn by
contending paroxysms of passion, admitted not of sleep; he ruminated
on the mysterious reappearance of Ginotti; and the more he reflected,
the more did the result of his reflections lead him astray. The strange
gaze of Ginotti, and the consciousness that he was completely in the
power of so indefinable a being; the consciousness that, wheresoever
he might go, Ginotti would still follow him, pressed upon Wolfstein’s
heart. Ignorant of what connexion they could have with this mysterious
observer of his actions, his crimes recurred in hideous and disgustful
array to the bewildered mind of Wolfstein; he reflected, that, although
now exulting in youthful health and vigour, the time would come, the
dreadful day of retribution, when endless damnation would yawn beneath
his feet, and he would shrink from eternal punishment before the
tribunal of that God whom he had insulted. To evade death, unconscious
why, became an idea on which he dwelt with earnestness; he thought on
it for a time, and being mournfully convinced of its impossibility,
strove to change the tenour of his reflections.
While these thoughts dwelt in his mind, sleep crept imperceptibly over
his senses; yet, in his visions, was Ginotti present. He dreamed that
he stood on the brink of a frightful precipice, at whose base, with
deafening and terrific roar, the waves of the ocean dashed; that, above
his head, the blue glare of the lightning dispelled the obscurity of
midnight, and the loud crashing of the thunder was rolled franticly
from rock to rock; that, along the cliff on which he stood, a figure,
more frightful than the imagination of man is capable of portraying,
advanced towards him, and was about to precipitate him headlong from
the summit of the rock whereon he stood, when Ginotti advanced, and
rescued him from the grasp of the monster; that no sooner had he done
this, than the figure dashed Ginotti from the precipice--his last
groans were borne on the blast which swept the bosom of the ocean.
Confused visions then obliterated the impressions of the former, and he
rose in the morning restless and unrefreshed.
A weight which his utmost efforts could not remove, pressed upon
the bosom of Wolfstein; his mind, superior and towering as it was,
found all its energies inefficient to conquer it. As a last resource,
therefore, this wretched victim of vice and folly sought the
gaming-table; a scene which alone could raise the spirits of one who
required something important, even in his pastimes, to interest him. He
staked large sums; and, although he concealed his haunts from Megalena,
she soon discovered them. For a time, fortune smiled; till one evening
he entered his mansion, desperate from ill luck, and, accusing his own
hapless destiny, could no longer conceal the truth from Megalena. She
reproved him mildly, and her tenderness had such an effect on Wolfstein
that he burst into tears, and promised her that never again would he
yield to the vicious influence of folly.
The rapid days rolled on, and each one brought the conviction to
Wolfstein more strongly, that Megalena was not the celestial model of
perfection which his warm imagination had portrayed; he began to find
in her, not the exhaustless mine of interesting converse which he had
once supposed. Possession, which, when unassisted by real, intellectual
love, clogs man, increases the ardent, uncontrollable passions of
woman even to madness. Megalena yet adored Wolfstein with most fervent
love:--although yet greatly attached to Megalena, although he would
have been uneasy were she another’s, Wolfstein no longer regarded her
with that idolatrous affection which had filled his bosom towards her.
Feelings of this nature naturally drove Wolfstein occasionally from
home to seek for employment--and what employment, save gaming, could
Genoa afford to Wolfstein? In what other occupation was it possible
that he could engage? It was done: he broke his promise to Megalena,
and became even a more devoted votary to gambling than before.
How powerful are the attractions of delusive vice! Wolfstein soon
staked large sums--larger even than ever. With what anxiety did
he watch the dice! How were his eyeballs strained with mingled
anticipation of wealth and poverty! Now fortune smiled; yet he
concealed even his good luck from Megalena. At length the tide changed
again: he lost immense sums; and desperate from a series of ill
success, cursed his hapless destiny, and with wildest emotions rushed
into the street. Again he solemnly swore to Megalena, that never more
would he risk their mutual happiness by his folly.
Still, hurried away by the impulse of a burning desire of interesting
his deadened feelings, did Wolfstein, false to his promise, seek the
gaming-table; he had staked an enormous amount; and the fatal throw was
at this instant about to decide the fate of the unhappy Wolfstein.
A pause, as if some dreadful event were about to occur, ensued; each
gazed upon the countenance of Wolfstein, which, desperate from danger,
retained, however, an expressive firmness.
A stranger stood before Wolfstein on the opposite side of the table.
He appeared to have no interest in what was going forward, but, with
unmoved gaze, fixed his eyes upon his countenance.
Wolfstein felt an instinctive shuddering thrill through his frame,
when, oh horrible confirmation of his wildest apprehensions! it
was--Ginotti!--the terrible, the mysterious Ginotti, whose dire
scrutiny, resting upon Wolfstein, chilled his soul with excessive
affright.
A sensation of extreme and conflicting emotions shook the inmost
recesses of Wolfstein’s heart; for an instant his brain swam around in
wildest commotion, yet he steeled his resolution, even to the horrors
of hell and destruction; he gazed on the mysterious scrutineer who
stood before him, and, regardless of the sum he had staked, and which
before had engaged his whole attention, and excited his liveliest
interest, dashed the box convulsively upon the table, and followed
Ginotti, who was about to quit the apartment, resolving to clear up a
fatality which hung around him, and appeared to blast his prospects;
for of the misfortunes which had succeeded his association with the
bandits, he had not the slightest doubt in his own mind, that Ginotti
was the cause.
With reflections a scene of the wildest anarchy, Wolfstein resolved to
unravel the mystery in which he saw Ginotti was shrouded; and resolved,
therefore, to devote that night towards finding out his abode. With
feelings such as these, he rushed into the street, and followed the
gigantic form of Ginotti, who stalked onwards majestically, as if
conscious of safety, and wholly ignorant of the eager scrutiny with
which Wolfstein watched his every movement.
It was midnight--yet they continued to advance; a feeling of
desperation urged Wolfstein onwards; he resolved to follow Ginotti,
even to the extremity of the universe. They passed through many bye and
narrow streets; the darkness was complete; but the rays of the lamps,
as they fell upon the lofty form of Ginotti, guided the footsteps of
Wolfstein.
They had reached the end of the Strada Nuova; the lengthened sound of
Ginotti’s footsteps was all that struck upon Wolfstein’s ear. On a
sudden, Ginotti’s figure disappeared from Wolfstein’s gaze; in vain he
looked around him, in vain he searched every recess, wherein he might
have secreted himself--Ginotti was gone!
To describe the surprise mingled with awe, which possessed Wolfstein’s
bosom, is impossible. In vain he searched every part. He proceeded
to the bridge; a party of fishermen were waiting there; he inquired
of them, had they seen a man of superior stature pass? they appeared
surprised at his question, and unanimously answered in the negative.
While varying emotions tumultuously contended within his bosom,
Wolfstein, ever the victim of extraordinary events, paused awhile,
revolving the mystery both of Ginotti’s appearance and disappearance.
That business of an important nature led him to Genoa, he doubted
not; his indifference at the gaming-table, his particular regard of
Wolfstein, left, in the mind of the latter, no doubt, but that he took
a terrible and mysterious interest in whatever related to him.
All now was silent. The inhabitants of Genoa lay wrapped in sleep,
and, save the occasional conversation of the fishermen who had just
returned, no sound broke on the uninterrupted stillness, and thick
clouds obscured the star-beams of heaven.
Again Wolfstein searched that part of the city which lay near Strada
Nuova; but no one had seen Ginotti; although all wondered at the wild
expressions and disordered mien of Wolfstein. The bell tolled the hour
of three ere Wolfstein relinquished his pursuit; finding, however,
further inquiry fruitless, he engaged a chair to take him to his
habitation, where he doubted not that Megalena anxiously awaited his
return.
Proceeding along the streets, the obscurity of the night was not so
great but that he observed the figure of one of the chairmen to be
above that of common men, and that he had drawn his hat forwards
to conceal his countenance. His appearance, however, excited no
remark; for Wolfstein was too much absorbed in the idea which related
individually to himself, to notice what, perhaps, at another time,
might have excited wonder. The wind sighed moaningly along the stilly
colonnades, and the grey light of morning began to appear above the
eastern eminences.
They entered the street which soon led to the abode of Wolfstein, who
fixed his eyes upon the chairman. His gigantic proportions struck him
with involuntary awe: such is the unaccountable connexion of idea in
the mind of man. He shuddered. Such a man, thought he, is Ginotti: such
a man is he who watches my every action, whose power I feel within
myself is resistless, and not to be evaded. He sighed deeply when he
reflected on the terrible connexion, dreadful although mysterious,
which subsisted between himself and Ginotti. His soul sank within him
at the idea of his own littleness, when a fellow-mortal might be able
to gain so strong, though sightless, an empire over him. He felt that
he was no longer independent. Whilst these thoughts agitated his mind,
the chair had stopped at his habitation. He turned round to discharge
the chairman’s fare, when, casting his eyes on his countenance, which
hitherto had remained concealed--oh, horrible and chilling conviction!
he recognized in his dark features those of the terrific Ginotti. As
if hell had yawned at the feet of the hapless Wolfstein, as if some
spectre of the night had blasted his straining eyeball, so did he stand
transfixed. His soul shrank with mingled awe and abhorrence from a
being who, even to himself, was confessedly superior to the proud and
haughty Wolfstein. Ere well he could calm his faculties, agitated by so
unexpected an interview, Ginotti said,
“Wolfstein! long have I known you; long have I marked you as the only
man who now exists, worthy, and appreciating the value of what I have
in store for you. Inscrutable are my intentions; seek not, therefore,
to develop them: time will do it in a far more complete manner. You
shall not now know the motive for my, to you, unaccountable actions:
strive not, therefore, to unravel them: You may frequently see me:
never attempt to speak or follow; for, if you do----” Here the eyes of
Ginotti flashed with coruscations of inexpressible fire, and his every
feature became animated by the tortures which he was about to describe;
but he suddenly checked himself, and only added: “Attend to these my
directions, but try, if possible, to forget me. I am not what I seem.
The time may come, _will_ most probably arrive, when I shall appear in
my real character to you. You, Wolfstein, have I singled out from the
whole world to make the depositary----” He ceased, and abruptly quitted
the spot.
CHAPTER IV.
--Nature shrinks back
Enhorror’d from the lurid gaze of vengeance,
E’en in the deepest caverns, and the voice
Of all her works lies hush’d.
Olympia.
On Wolfstein’s return to his habitation, he found Megalena in anxious
expectation of his arrival. She feared that some misfortune had
befallen him. Wolfstein related to her the events of the preceding
night; they appeared to her mysterious and inexplicable: nor could she
offer any consolation to the wretched Wolfstein.
The occurrences of the preceding evening left a load upon his breast,
which all the gaieties of Genoa were insufficient to dispel: eagerly he
longed for the visit of Ginotti. Slow dragged the hours: each day did
he expect it, and each succeeding day brought but disappointment to his
expectations.
Megalena too, the beautiful, the adored Megalena, was no longer what
formerly she was, the innocent girl hanging on his support, and
depending wholly upon him for defence and protection; no longer, with
mild and love-beaming eyes, she regarded the haughty Wolfstein as a
superior being, whose look or slightest word was sufficient to decide
her on any disputed point. No; dissipated pleasures had changed the
former mild and innocent Megalena. Far, far different was she than
when she threw herself into his arms on their escape from the cavern,
and, with a blush, smiled upon the first declaration of Wolfstein’s
affection.
Now, immersed in a succession of gay pleasures, Megalena was no
longer the gentle interesting she, whose soul of sensibility would
tremble if a worm beneath her feet expired; whose heart would sink
within her at the tale of others’ woe. She had become a fashionable
belle, and forgot, in her new character, the fascinations of her
old one. Still, however, was she ardently, solely, and resistlessly
attached to Wolfstein: his image was implanted in her soul, never to
be effaced by casualty, never erased by time. No coolness apparently
took place between them; but, although unperceived and unacknowledged
by each, an indifference evidently did exist between them. Among the
various families whom their residence in Genoa had rendered familiar
to Wolfstein and Megalena, none were more so than that of il Conte
della Anzasca; it consisted of himself, la Contessa, and a daughter of
exquisite loveliness, named Olympia.
This girl, mistress of every fascinating accomplishment, uniting
in herself to great brilliancy and playfulness of wit, a person
alluring beyond description, was in her eighteenth year. From habitual
indulgence, her passions, naturally violent and excessive, had become
irresistible; and when once she had fixed a determination in her mind,
that determination must either be effected, or she must cease to exist.
Such, then, was the beautiful Olympia, and as such she conceived a
violent and unconquerable passion for Wolfstein. His towering and
majestic form, his expressive and regular features, beaming with
somewhat of softness; yet pregnant with a look as if woe had beat
to the earth a mind whose native and unconfined energies aspired to
heaven--all, all told her, that, without him, she must either cease
to be, or drag on a life of endless and irremediable woe. Nourished
by restless imagination, her passion soon attained a most unbridled
height: instead of conquering a feeling which honour, generosity,
virtue, all forbade ever to be gratified, she gloried within herself
at having found one on whom she might with justice fix her burning
attachment; for although the object of them had never before been
present to her mind, the desires for that object, although unseen, had
taken root long, long ago. A false system of education, and a wrong
expansion of ideas, as they became formed, had been put in practice
with respect to her youthful mind; and indulgence strengthened the
passions which it behoved restraint to keep within proper bounds,
and which have unfolded themselves as coadjutors of virtue, and not
as promoters of vicious and illicit love. Fiercer, nevertheless, in
proportion as greater obstacles appeared in the prosecution of her
resolve, flamed the passion of the devoted Olympia. Her brain was
whirled round in the fiercest convulsions of expectant happiness; the
anticipation of gratified voluptuousness swelled her bosom even to
bursting, yet did she rein-in the boiling emotions of her soul, and
resolved to be sufficiently cool, more certainly to accomplish her
purpose.
It was one night when Wolfstein’s mansion was the scene of gaiety, that
this idea first suggested itself to the mind of Olympia, and unfolded
itself to her, as it really was, love for Wolfstein. In vain the
suggestions of generosity, the voice of conscience, which told her how
doubly wicked would be the attempt of alienating from her the lover of
her friend Megalena, in audible, though noiseless, accents spoke; in
vain the native modesty of her sex represented in its real and hideous
colours what she was about to do: still Olympia was resolved.
That night, in the solitude of her own chamber, in the palazzo of her
father, she retraced in her mind the various events which had led
to her present uncontrollable passion, which had employed her whole
thoughts, and rendered her, as it were, dead to every other outward
existence. The wild transports of maddening desire raved terrific
within her breast: she endeavoured to smother the ideas which presented
themselves; but the more she strove to erase them from her mind, the
more vividly were they represented in her heated and enthusiastic
imagination. “And will he not return my love?” she exclaimed: “will
he not?--ah! a bravo’s dagger shall pierce his heart, and thus will I
reward him for his contempt of Olympia della Anzasca. But no! it is
impossible. I will cast myself at his feet; I will avow to him the
passion which consumes me,--will swear to be ever, ever his! Can he
then cast me from him? Can he despise a woman whose only fault is love,
nay, idolatry, adoration for him?”
She paused.--The tumultuous passions of her soul were now too fierce
for utterance--too fierce for concealment or restraint. The hour was
late; the moon poured its mildly-lustrous beams upon the lengthened
colonnades of Genoa, when Olympia, overcome by emotions such as these,
quitted her father’s palazzo, and hastened, with rapid and unequal
footsteps, towards the mansion of Wolfstein. The streets were by no
means crowded; but those who yet lingered in them gazed with slight
surprise on the figure of Olympia, which, light and symmetrical as a
celestial sylphid, passed swiftly onwards.
She soon arrived at the habitation of Wolfstein, and sent the domestic
to announce that one wished to speak with him, whose business was
pressing and secret. She was conducted into an apartment, and there
awaited the arrival of Wolfstein. A confused expression of awe played
upon his features as he entered; but it suddenly gave place to that of
surprise. He started upon perceiving Olympia, and said,
“To what, Lady Olympia, do I owe the unforeseen pleasure of your visit?
What so mysterious business have you with me?” continued he playfully.
“But come, we had just sat down to supper; Megalena is within.”----“Oh!
if you wish to see me expire in horrible torments at your feet,
inhuman Wolfstein, call for Megalena! and then will your purpose be
accomplished.”--“Dearest Lady Olympia, compose yourself, I beseech
you,” said Wolfstein: “what, what agitates you?”--“Oh! pardon, pardon
me,” she exclaimed, with maniac wildness, “pardon a wretched female who
knows not what she does! Oh! resistlessly am I impelled to this avowal:
resistlessly am I impelled to declare to you, that I love you! adore
you to distraction!--Will you return my affection? But ah! I rave!
Megalena, the beloved Megalena, claims you as her own; and the wretched
Olympia must moan the blighted prospects which were about to open fair
before her eyes.”
“For Heaven’s sake, dear lady, compose yourself; recollect who you are;
recollect the loftiness of birth and loveliness of form which are so
eminently yours. This, this is far beneath Olympia.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed, franticly casting herself at his feet, and
bursting into a passion of tears, “what are birth, fame, fortune, and
all the advantages which are casually given to me! I swear to thee,
Wolfstein, that I would sacrifice not only these, but even all my
hopes of future salvation, even the forgiveness of my Creator, were
it required from me. O Wolfstein, kind, pitying Wolfstein, look down
with an eye of indulgence on a female whose only crime is resistless,
unquenchable adoration of you.”
She panted for breath, her pulses beat with violence, her eyes swam,
and overcome by the conflicting passions of her soul, the frame of
Olympia fell, sickening with faintness, on the ground. Wolfstein raised
her, and tenderly essayed to recall the senses of the hapless girl.
Recovering, and perceiving her situation, Olympia started, seemingly,
horrified, from the arms of Wolfstein. The energies of her high mind
instantly resumed their functions, and she exclaimed, “Then, base and
ungrateful Wolfstein, you refuse to unite your fate with mine? My love
is ardent and excessive, but the revenge which may follow the despiser
of it is far more impetuous; reflect well then ere you drive Olympia
della Anzasca to despair.”--“No reflection, in the present instance, is
needed, lady,” replied Wolfstein, coolly, yet determinedly. “What man
of honour needs a moment’s rumination to discover what nature has so
inerasibly implanted in his bosom--the sense of right and wrong? I am
connected with a female whom I love, who confides in me; in what manner
should I merit her confidence, if I join myself to another? nor can the
loveliness, the exquisite, the unequalled loveliness of the beautiful
Olympia della Anzasca compensate me for breaking an oath sworn to
another.”
He paused.--Olympia spake not, but appeared to be awaiting the dreadful
fiat of her destiny.
“Olympia,” Wolfstein continued, “pardon me! Were I not irrevocably
Megalena’s, I must be thine: I esteem you, I admire you, but my love is
another’s.”
The passion which before had choked Olympia’s utterance, appeared to
give way to the impetuousness of her emotions.
“Then,” she said, as a solemnity of despair toned her voice to
firmness, “then you are irrevocably another’s?”
“I am compelled to be explicit; I am compelled to say, I am another’s
for ever!” fervently returned Wolfstein.
Again fainting from the excess of painful feeling which vibrated
through her frame, Olympia fell at Wolfstein’s feet: again he raised
her, and, in anxious solicitude, watched her varying countenance. At
the critical instant when Olympia had just recovered from the faintness
which had oppressed her, the door burst open, and disclosed to the
view of the passion-grieving Olympia, the detested form of Megalena. A
silence, resembling that when a solemn pause in the midnight-tempest
announces that the elements only hesitate to collect more terrific
force for the ensuing explosion, took place, while Megalena surveyed
Olympia and Wolfstein. Still she spoke not; yet the silence, even more
terrible than the commotion which followed, continued to prevail.
Olympia dashed by Megalena, and faintly articulating “Vengeance!”
rushed into the street, and bent her rapid flight to the Palazzo di
Anzasca.
“Wolfstein,” said Megalena, her voice quivering with excessive emotion,
“Wolfstein, how have I deserved this? How have I deserved a dereliction
so barbarous and unprovoked? But no!” she added in a firmer tone,
“no, I will leave you! I will show that I can bear the tortures of
disappointed love, better than you can evade the scrutiny of one who
did adore thee.”
In vain Wolfstein put in practice every soothing art to tranquillize
the agitation of Megalena. Her frame trembled with violent shuddering;
yet her soul, as it were, superior to the form which enshrined it,
loftily towered, and retained its firmness amidst the frightful chaos
which battled within.
“Now,” said she to Wolfstein, “I will leave you.”
“O God! Megalena, dearest, adored Megalena!” exclaimed Wolfstein,
passionately, “stop--I love you, must ever love you: deign, at least,
to hear me.”
“What good would accrue from that?” gloomily inquired Megalena.
Wolfstein rushed towards her; he threw himself at her feet and
exclaimed, “If ever, for one instant, my soul was alienated from
thee--if ever it swerved from the affection which I have sworn to
thee--may the red right hand of God instantaneously dash me beneath
the lowest abyss of hell! O Megalena! is it as a victim of groundless
jealousy that I have immolated myself at the altar of thy perfections?
Have I only raised myself to this summit of happiness to feel more
deeply the fall of which thou art the cause? O Megalena! if yet one
spark of thy former love lingers in thy breast, oh! believe one who
swears that he must be thine even till the particles which compose the
soul devoted to thee, become annihilated.”--He paused.
Megalena heard his wildly enthusiastic expressions in sullen silence.
She looked upon him with a stern and severe gaze:--he yet lay at her
feet, and, hiding his face upon the earth, groaned deeply. “What
proof,” exclaimed Megalena, impatiently, “what proof will Wolfstein,
the deceiver, bring to satisfy me that his love is still mine?”
“Seek for proof in my heart,” returned Wolfstein, “that heart which yet
is bleeding from the thorns which thou, cruel girl, hast implanted in
it: seek it in my every action, and then will the convinced Megalena
know that Wolfstein is hers irrevocably--body and soul, for ever!”
“Yet, I believe thee not!” said Megalena: “for the haughty Olympia
della Anzasca would scarcely recline in the arms of a man who was not
entirely devoted to her.”
Yet were the charms of Megalena unfaded; yet their empire over
Wolfstein excessive and complete.
“Still I believe thee not,” continued she, as a smile of expectant
malice sat upon her cheek. “I require some proof which will assuredly
convince me that I am yet beloved: give me proof, and Megalena will
again be Wolfstein’s.”--“Oh!” said Wolfstein, mournfully, “what
farther proof can I give, but my oath, that never in soul or body have
I broken the allegiance that I formerly swore to thee?”
“The death of Olympia!” gloomily returned Megalena.
“What mean you?” said Wolfstein, starting.
“I mean,” continued Megalena, collectedly, as if what she was about to
utter had been the result of serious cogitation: “I mean that, if ever
you wish again to possess my affections, ere to-morrow morning, Olympia
must expire!”
“Murder the innocent Olympia?”
“Yes!”
A pause ensued, during which the mind of Wolfstein, torn by ten
thousand warring emotions, knew not on what to resolve. He gazed upon
Megalena: her symmetrical form shone with tenfold loveliness to his
enraptured imagination: again he resolved to behold those eyes beam
with affection for him, which were now gloomily fixed upon the ground.
“Will nothing else convince Megalena that Wolfstein is eternally hers?”
“Nothing.”
“’Tis done, then,” exclaimed Wolfstein, “’tis done. Yet,” he muttered,
“I may suffer for this premeditated act tortures now inconceivable; I
may writhe, convulsed, in immaterial agony, for ever and for ever--ah!
I cannot. No!” he continued, “Megalena, I am again yours; I will
immolate the victim which thou requirest as a sacrifice to our love.
Give me a dagger, which may sweep off from the face of the earth one
who is hateful to thee! Adored creature, give me the dagger, and I will
restore it to thee dripping with Olympia’s hated blood; it shall have
first been buried in her heart.”
“Then, then again art thou mine own! again art thou the idolized
Wolfstein, whom I was wont to love!” said Megalena, enfolding him in
her embrace. Perceiving her returning softness, Wolfstein essayed
to induce her to spare him the frightful proof of the ardour of his
attachment; but she started from his arms as he spoke, and exclaimed:
“Ah! base deceiver, do you hesitate?”
“Oh, no! I do not hesitate, dearest Megalena;--give me a dagger, and I
go.”
“Here, follow me then,” returned Megalena. He followed her to the
supper-room.
“It is useless to go yet, it has but yet struck one; the inhabitants
of il Palazzo della Anzasca will, about two, be nearly all retired
to rest; till then, let us converse on what we were about to do.” So
far did Megalena’s seductive blandishment, her artful selection of
converse, win upon Wolfstein, that, when the destined hour approached,
his sanguinary soul thirsted for the blood of the comparatively
innocent Olympia.
“Well!” he cried, swallowing down an overflowing goblet of wine, “now
the time is come; now suffer me to go, and tear the soul of Olympia
from her hated body.” His fury amounted almost to delirium, as,
masked, and having a dagger, which Megalena had given him, concealed
beneath his garments, he proceeded rapidly along the streets towards
the Palazzo della Anzasca. So eager was he to shed the life-blood of
Olympia, that he flew, rather than ran, along the silent streets of
Genoa. The colonnades of the lofty Palazzo della Anzasca resounded to
his rapid footsteps; he stopped at its lofty portal:--it was open;
unperceived he entered, and, hiding himself behind a column, according
to the directions of Megalena, waited there. Soon advancing through the
hall, he saw the sylph-like figure of the lovely Olympia; with silent
tread he followed it, experiencing not the slightest sentiment of
remorse within his bosom for the deed which he was about to perpetrate.
He followed her to her apartment, and secreting himself until Olympia
might have sunk into sleep, with sanguinary and remorseless patience,
when her loud breathing convinced him that her slumber was profound, he
arose from his place of concealment, and advanced to the bed, wherein
Olympia lay. Her light tresses, disengaged from the band which had
confined them, floated around a countenance, superhumanly beautiful,
and whose expression, even in slumber, appeared to be tinted by
Wolfstein’s refusal; convulsive sighs heaved her fair bosom, and tears,
starting from under her eyelids, fell profusely down her damask cheek.
Wolfstein gazed upon her in silence. “Cruel, inhuman Megalena!” he
mentally soliloquized, “could nothing but immolation of this innocence
appease thee?” Again he stifled the stings of rebelling conscience;
again the unquenchable ardour of his love for Megalena stimulated him
to the wildest pitch of fury: he raised high the dagger, and, drawing
aside the covering which veiled her alabaster bosom, paused an instant,
to decide in what place it were most instantaneously destructive to
strike. Again a mournful smile irradiated her lovely features; it
played with a sweet softness on her countenance: it seemed as though
she smiled in defiance of the arrows of destiny, but that her soul,
nevertheless, lingered with the wretch who sought her life. Maddened by
the sight of so much beauteous innocence, even the desperate Wolfstein,
forgetful of the danger which he must thereby incur, hurled the dagger
from him. The sound awakened Olympia: she started up in surprise;
but her alarm was changed into ecstasy, when she beheld the idolized
possessor of her soul standing before her.
“I was dreaming of you,” said Olympia, scarcely knowing whether this
were not a dream; but, impulsively following the first emotions of
her soul. “I dreamed that you were about to murder me. It is not so,
Wolfstein, no! you would not murder one who adores you?”
“Murder Olympia! O God! no!--I take Heaven to witness, that I never
_now_ could do it!”
“Nor could you ever, I hope, dear Wolfstein; but drive away thoughts
like these, and remember that Olympia lives but for thee; and the
moment which takes from her your affections seals the death-like fiat
of her destiny.” These asseverations, strengthened by the most solemn
and deadly vows that he would return to Megalena the destroyer of
Olympia, flashed across Wolfstein’s mind. Perpetrate the deed, now, he
could not; his soul became a scene of most terrific agony. “Wilt thou
be mine?” exclaimed the enraptured Olympia, as a ray of hope arose in
her mind. “Never! never can I,” groaned the agitated Wolfstein; “I
am irrevocably, indissolubly another’s.” Maddened by this death-blow
to all expectations of happiness, which the deluded Olympia had so
fondly anticipated, she leaped wildly from the bed. A light and flowing
night-dress alone veiled her form, her alabaster bosom was shaded by
the light ringlets of her hair which rested unconfined upon it. She
threw herself at the feet of Wolfstein. On a sudden, as if struck by
some thought, she started convulsively from the earth: for an instant
she paused.
The rays of a lamp, which stood in a recess of the apartment, fell full
upon the dagger of Wolfstein. Eagerly Olympia sprung towards it; and,
ere Wolfstein was aware of her dreadful intent, plunged it into her
bosom. Weltering in purple gore, she fell; no groan, no sigh escaped
her lips. A smile, which the pangs of dissolution could not dispel,
played on her convulsed countenance; it irradiated her features with
celestially awful, although terrific expression. “Ineffectually have I
endeavoured to conquer the ardent feelings of my soul; now I overcome
them,” were her last words. She uttered them in a tone of firmness,
and, falling back, expired in torments, which her fine, her expressive
features declared that she gloried in.
All was silent in the chamber of death: the stillness was frightful.
The agonies which Wolfstein endured were past description: for a time
he neither moved nor spoke. The pale glare of the lamp fell upon the
features of Olympia, from which the tinge of life had fled for ever.
Suddenly, and in despite of himself, were the affections of Wolfstein
turned from Megalena: he could not but now regard her as a fiend,
who had been the cause of Olympia’s destruction; who had urged him
to a deed from which his nature now shrunk as from annihilation. A
wild paroxysm of awful alarm seized upon him: he knelt by the side
of Olympia’s corpse; he kissed it, bathed it with his tears, and
imprecated a thousand curses on himself. Her features, although
convulsed by the agonies of violent dissolution, retained an unchanging
image of loveliness, which never might fade away. Her beautiful
bosom, in which her hand yet held the fatal dagger, was discoloured
with blood, and those affection-beaming orbs were now closed in the
never-ending slumber of the grave. Unable longer to endure a sight of
so much horror, Wolfstein started up, and forgetful of everything save
the frightful deed which he had witnessed, rushed from the Palazzo
della Anzasca, and mechanically retraced his way towards his own
habitation.
Not once that night had Megalena closed her eyes. Her infuriate
passions had wound her soul up to a deadly calmness of expectation.
She had not, during the whole of the night, retired to rest, but sat,
with sanguinary patience, cursing the lagging hours that they passed
so slowly, and waiting to hear tidings of death. Morning had begun
to streak the eastern sky with gray, when Wolfstein hurried into the
supper-room, where Megalena still sat, wildly exclaiming, “The deed
is done!” Megalena entreated him to be calm, and more collectedly, to
communicate the events which had occurred during the night.
“In the first place,” he said in an accent of feigned horror, “the
officers of justice are alarmed!”
Deadly affright chilled the soul of Megalena: she turned pale, and,
gasping for breath, inquired eagerly respecting the success of his
attempt.
“O God!” exclaimed Wolfstein, “that has succeeded but too well! the
hapless Olympia welters in her life-blood!”
“Joy! joy!” franticly exclaimed Megalena, her eagerness for revenge
overcoming, for the moment, every other feeling.
“But, Megalena,” continued Wolfstein, “she fell not by my hand: no, she
smiled on me in her sleep, and when she awoke, finding me deaf to her
solicitations, snatched my dagger, and buried it in her bosom.”
“Did you _wish_ to prevent the deed?” inquired Megalena.
“Oh, good God of Heaven! thou knowest my heart: I would sacrifice every
remaining earthly good were Olympia again alive!”
Megalena spoke not, but a smile of exquisitely gratified malice
illumined her features with terrific flame.
“We must instantly quit Genoa,” said Wolfstein: “the name on the mask
which I left in the Palazzo della Anzasca, will remove all doubt that I
was the murderer of Olympia. Yet indeed I care not much for death; if
you will it so, Megalena, we will even, as it is, remain in Genoa.”
“Oh! no, no!” eagerly cried Megalena: “Wolfstein, I love you beyond
expression, and Genoa is destruction; let us seek, therefore, some
retired spot, where we may for awhile at least secrete ourselves. But,
Wolfstein, are you persuaded that I love you? need there more proof be
required than that I wished the death of another for thee? it was on
_that_ account alone that I desired the destruction of Olympia, that
thou mightest be more completely and irresistibly mine.”
Wolfstein answered not: the feelings of his soul were far different;
the expression of his countenance plainly evinced them: and Megalena
regretted that her effervescent passions should have led her to so rash
an avowal of her contempt of virtue. They then separated to arrange
their affairs, prior to their departure, which, on account of the
pressing necessity of the case, must take place immediately. They took
with them but two domestics, and collecting all their stock of money,
they were soon far from pursuit and Genoa.