There followed a long drowsy time of stillness and shadow. I seemed to
have fallen in some deep well of delicious oblivion and obscurity.
Dream-like images still flitted before my fancy—these were at first
undefinable, but after awhile they took more certain shapes. Strange
fluttering creatures hovered about me—lonely eyes stared at me from a
visible deep gloom; long white bony fingers grasping at nothing made
signs to me of warning or menace. Then—very gradually, there dawned
upon my sense of vision a cloudy red mist like a stormy sunset, and
from the middle of the blood-like haze a huge black hand descended
toward me. It pounced upon my chest—it grasped my throat in its
monstrous clutch, and held me down with a weight of iron. I struggled
violently—I strove to cry out, but that terrific pressure took from me
all power of utterance. I twisted myself to right and left in an
endeavor to escape—but my tyrant of the sable hand had bound me in on
all sides. Yet I continued to wrestle with the cruel opposing force
that strove to overwhelm me—little by little—inch by inch—so! At last!
One more struggle—victory! I woke! Merciful God! Where was I? In what
horrible atmosphere—in what dense darkness? Slowly, as my senses
returned to me, I remembered my recent illness. The monk—the man
Pietro—where were they? What had they done to me? By degrees, I
realized that I was lying straight down upon my back—the couch was
surely very hard? Why had they taken the pillows from under my head? A
pricking sensation darted through my veins—I felt my own hands
curiously—they were warm, and my pulse beat strongly, though fitfully.
But what was this that hindered my breathing? Air—air! I must have air!
I put up my hands—horror! They struck against a hard opposing substance
above me. Quick as lightning then the truth flashed upon my mind! I had
been buried—buried alive; this wooden prison that inclosed me was a
coffin! A frenzy surpassing that of an infuriated tiger took swift
possession of me—with hands and nails I tore and scratched at the
accursed boards—with all the force of my shoulders and arms I toiled to
wrench open the closed lid! My efforts were fruitless! I grew more
ferociously mad with rage and terror. How easy were all deaths compared
to one like this! I was suffocating—I felt my eyes start from their
sockets—blood sprung from my mouth and nostrils—and icy drops of sweat
trickled from my forehead. I paused, gasping for breath. Then, suddenly
nerving myself for one more wild effort, I hurled my limbs with all the
force of agony and desperation against one side of my narrow prison. It
cracked—it split asunder!—and then—a new and horrid fear beset me, and
I crouched back, panting heavily. If—if I were buried in the ground—so
ran my ghastly thoughts—of what use to break open the coffin and let in
the mold—the damp wormy mold, rich with the bones of the dead—the
penetrating mold that would choke up my mouth and eyes, and seal me
into silence forever! My mind quailed at this idea—my brain tottered on
the verge of madness! I laughed—think of it!—and my laugh sounded in my
ears like the last rattle in the throat of a dying man. But I could
breathe more easily—even in the stupefaction of my fears—I was
conscious of air. Yes!—the blessed air had rushed in somehow. Revived
and encouraged as I recognized this fact, I felt with both hands till I
found the crevice I had made, and then with frantic haste and strength
I pulled and dragged at the wood, till suddenly the whole side of the
coffin gave way, and I was able to force up the lid. I stretched out my
arms—no weight of earth impeded their movements—I felt nothing but
air—empty air. Yielding to my first strong impulse, I leaped out of the
hateful box, and fell—fell some little distance, bruising my hands and
knees on what seemed to be a stone pavement. Something weighty fell
also, with a dull crashing thud close to me. The darkness was
impenetrable. But there was breathing room, and the atmosphere was cool
and refreshing. With some pain and difficulty I raised myself to a
sitting position where I had fallen. My limbs were stiff and cramped as
well as wounded, and I shivered as with strong ague. But my senses were
clear—the tangled chain of my disordered thoughts became even and
connected—my previous mad excitement gradually calmed, and I began to
consider my condition. I had certainly been buried alive—there was no
doubt of that. Intense pain had, I suppose, resolved itself into a long
trance of unconsciousness—the people of the inn where I had been taken
ill had at once believed me to be dead of cholera, and with the
panic-stricken, indecent haste common in all Italy, especially at a
time of plague, had thrust me into one of those flimsy coffins which
were then being manufactured by scores in Naples—mere shells of thin
deal, nailed together with clumsy hurry and fear. But how I blessed
their wretched construction! Had I been laid in a stronger casket, who
knows if even the most desperate frenzy of my strength might not have
proved unavailing! I shuddered at the thought. Yet the question
remained—Where was I? I reviewed my case from all points, and for some
time could arrive at no satisfactory conclusion. Stay, though! I
remembered that I had told the monk my name; he knew that I was the
only descendant of the rich Romani family. What followed? Why,
naturally, the good father had only done what his duty called upon him
to do. He had seen me laid in the vault of my ancestors—the great
Romani vault that had never been opened since my father’s body was
carried to its last resting-place with all the solemn pomp and
magnificence of a wealthy nobleman’s funeral obsequies. The more I
thought of this the more probable it seemed. The Romani vault! Its
forbidding gloom had terrified me as a lad when I followed my father’s
coffin to the stone niche assigned to it, and I had turned my eyes away
in shuddering pain when I was told to look at the heavy oaken casket
hung with tattered velvet and ornamented with tarnished silver, which
contained all that was left of my mother, who died young. I had felt
sick and faint and cold, and had only recovered myself when I stood out
again in the free air with the blue dome of heaven high above me. And
now I was shut in the same vault—a prisoner—with what hope of escape? I
reflected. The entrance to the vault, I remembered, was barred by a
heavy door of closely twisted iron—from thence a flight of steep steps
led downward—downward to where in all probability I now was. Suppose I
could in the dense darkness feel my way to those steps and climb up to
that door—of what avail? It was locked—nay, barred—and as it was
situated in a remote part of the burial-ground, there was no likelihood
of even the keeper of the cemetery passing by it for days—perhaps not
for weeks. Then must I starve? Or die of thirst? Tortured by these
imaginings, I rose up from the pavement and stood erect. My feet were
bare, and the cold stone on which I stood chilled me to the marrow. It
was fortunate for me, I thought, that they had buried me as a cholera
corpse—they had left me half-clothed for fear of infection. That is, I
had my flannel shirt on and my usual walking trousers. Something there
was, too, round my neck; I felt it, and as I did so a flood of sweet
and sorrowful memories rushed over me. It was a slight gold chain, and
on it hung a locket containing the portraits of my wife and child. I
drew it out in the darkness; I covered it with passionate kisses and
tears—the first I had shed since my death—like trance-tears scalding
and bitter welled into my eyes. Life was worth living while Nina’s
smile lightened the world! I resolved to fight for existence, no matter
what dire horrors should be yet in store for me. Nina—my love—my
beautiful one! Her face gleamed out upon me in the pestilent gloom of
the charnel-house; her eyes beckoned me—her young faithful eyes that
were now, I felt sure, drowned in weeping for my supposed death. I
seemed to see my tender-hearted darling sobbing alone in the empty
silence of the room that had witnessed a thousand embraces between
herself and me; her lovely hair disheveled; her sweet face pale and
haggard with the bitterness of grief! Baby Stella, too, no doubt she
would wonder, poor innocent! why I did not come to swing her as usual
under the orange boughs. And Guido—brave and true friend! I thought of
him with tenderness. I felt I knew how deep and lasting would be his
honest regret for my loss. Oh, I would leave no means of escape
untried; I would find some way out of this grim vault! How overjoyed
they would all be to see me again—to know that I was not dead after
all! What a welcome I should receive! How Nina would nestle into my
arms; how my little child would cling to me; how Guido would clasp me
by the hand! I smiled as I pictured the scene of rejoicing at the dear
old villa—the happy home sanctified by perfect friendship and faithful
love!
A deep hollow sound booming suddenly on my ears startled me—one! two!
three! I counted the strokes up to twelve. It was some church bell
tolling the hour. My pleasing fancies dispersed—I again faced the drear
reality of my position. Twelve o’clock! Midday or midnight? I could not
tell. I began to calculate. It was early morning when I had been taken
ill—not much past eight when I had met the monk and sought his
assistance for the poor little fruit-seller who had after all perished
alone in his sufferings. Now supposing my illness had lasted some
hours, I might have fallen into a trance—died—as those around me had
thought, somewhere about noon. In that case they would certainly have
buried me with as little delay as possible—before sunset at all events.
Thinking these points over one by one, I came to the conclusion that
the bell I had just heard must have struck midnight—the midnight of the
very day of my burial. I shivered; a kind of nervous dread stole over
me. I have always been physically courageous, but at the same time, in
spite of my education, I am somewhat superstitious—what Neapolitan is
not? it runs in the southern blood. And there was something unutterably
fearful in the sound of that midnight bell clanging harshly on the ears
of a man pent up alive in a funeral vault with the decaying bodies of
his ancestors close within reach of his hand! I tried to conquer my
feelings—to summon up my fortitude. I endeavored to reason out the best
method of escape. I resolved to feel my way, if possible, to the steps
of the vault, and with this idea in my mind I put out my hands and
began to move along slowly and with the utmost care. What was that? I
stopped; I listened; the blood curdled in my veins! A shrill cry,
piercing, prolonged, and melancholy, echoed through the hollow arches
of my tomb. A cold perspiration broke out all over my body—my heart
beat so loudly that I could hear it thumping against my ribs.
Again—again—that weird shriek, followed by a whir and flap of wings. I
breathed again.
“It is an owl,” I said to myself, ashamed of my fears; “a poor innocent
bird—a companion and watcher of the dead, and therefore its voice is
full of sorrowful lamentation—but it is harmless,” and I crept on with
increased caution. Suddenly out of the dense darkness there stared two
large yellow eyes, glittering with fiendish hunger and cruelty. For a
moment I was startled, and stepped back; the creature flew at me with
the ferocity of a tiger-cat! I fought with the horrible thing in all
directions; it wheeled round my head, it pounced toward my face, it
beat me with its large wings—wings that I could feel but not see; the
yellow eyes alone shone in the thick gloom like the eyes of some
vindictive demon! I struck at it right and left—the revolting combat
lasted some moments—I grew sick and dizzy, yet I battled on recklessly.
At last, thank Heaven! the huge owl was vanquished; it fluttered
backward and downward, apparently exhausted, giving one wild screech of
baffled fury, as its lamp-like eyes disappeared in the darkness.
Breathless, but not subdued—every nerve in my body quivering with
excitement—I pursued my way, as I thought, toward the stone staircase
feeling the air with my outstretched hands as I groped along. In a
little while I met with an obstruction—it was hard and cold—a stone
wall, surely? I felt it up and down and found a hollow in it—was this
the first step of the stair? I wondered; it seemed very high. I touched
it cautiously—suddenly I came in contact with something soft and clammy
to the touch like moss or wet velvet. Fingering this with a kind of
repulsion, I soon traced out the oblong shape of a coffin. Curiously
enough, I was not affected much by the discovery. I found myself
monotonously counting the bits of raised metal which served, as I
judged, for its ornamentation. Eight bits lengthwise—and the soft wet
stuff between—four bits across; then a pang shot through me, and I drew
my hand away quickly, as I considered—_whose_ coffin was this? My
father’s? Or was I thus plucking, like a man in delirium, at the
fragments of velvet on that cumbrous oaken casket wherein lay the
sacred ashes of my mother’s perished beauty? I roused myself from the
apathy into which I had fallen. All the pains I had taken to find my
way through the vault were wasted; I was lost in the profound gloom,
and knew not where to turn. The horror of my situation presented itself
to me with redoubled force. I began to be tormented with thirst. I fell
on my knees and groaned aloud.
“God of infinite mercy!” I cried. “Saviour of the world! By the souls
of the sacred dead whom Thou hast in Thy holy keeping, have pity upon
me! Oh, my mother! if indeed thine earthly remains are near me—think of
me, sweet angel in that heaven where thy spirit dwells at rest—plead
for me and save me, or let me die now and be tortured no more!”
I uttered these words aloud, and the sound of my wailing voice ringing
through the somber arches of the vault was strange and full of
fantastic terror to my own ears. I knew that were my agony much further
prolonged I should go mad. And I dared not picture to myself the
frightful things which a maniac might be capable of, shut up in such a
place of death and darkness, with moldering corpses for companions! I
remained on my knees, my face buried in my hands. I forced myself into
comparative calmness, and strove to preserve the equilibrium of my
distracted mind. Hush! What exquisite far-off floating voice of cheer
was that? I raised my head and listened, entranced!
“Jug, jug, Jug! lodola, lodola! trill-lil-lil! sweet, sweet, sweet!”
It was a nightingale. Familiar, delicious, angel-throated bird! How I
blessed thee in that dark hour of despair! How I praised God for thine
innocent existence! How I sprung up and laughed and wept for joy, as,
all unconscious of me, thou didst shake out a shower of pearly
warblings on the breast of the soothed air! Heavenly messenger of
consolation!—even now I think of thee with tenderness—for thy sweet
sake all birds possess me as their worshiper; humanity has grown
hideous in my sight, but the singing-life of the woods and hills—how
pure, how fresh!—the nearest thing to happiness on this side heaven!
A rush of strength and courage invigorated me. A new idea entered my
brain. I determined to follow the voice of the nightingale. It sung on
sweetly, encouragingly—and I began afresh my journeyings through the
darkness. I fancied that the bird was perched on one of the trees
outside the entrance of the vault, and that if I tried to get within
closer hearing of its voice, I should most likely be thus guided to the
very staircase I had been so painfully seeking. I stumbled along
slowly. I felt feeble, and my limbs shook under me. This time nothing
impeded my progress; the nightingale’s liquid notes floated nearer and
nearer, and hope, almost exhausted, sprung up again in my heart. I was
scarcely conscious of my own movements. I seemed to be drawn along like
one in a dream by the golden thread of the bird’s sweet singing. All at
once I caught my foot against a stone and fell forward with some force,
but I felt no pain—my limbs were too numb to be sensible of any fresh
suffering. I raised my heavy, aching eyes in the darkness; as I did so
I uttered an exclamation of thanksgiving. A slender stream of
moonlight, no thicker than the stem of an arrow, slanted downward
toward me, and showed me that I had at last reached the spot I
sought—in fact, I had fallen upon the lowest step of the stone
stairway. I could not distinguish the entrance door of the vault, but I
knew that it must be at the summit of the steep ascent. I was too weary
to move further just then. I lay still where I was, staring at the
solitary moon-ray, and listening to the nightingale, whose rapturous
melodies now rang out upon my ears with full distinctness. _One_! The
harsh-toned bell I had heard before clanged forth the hour. It would
soon be morning; I resolved to rest till then. Utterly worn out in body
and mind, I laid down my head upon the cold stones as readily as if
they had been the softest cushions, and in a few moments forgot all my
miseries in a profound sleep.
I must have slumbered for some time, when I was suddenly awakened by a
suffocating sensation of faintness and nausea, accompanied by a sharp
pain on my neck as though some creatures were stinging me. I put my
hand up to the place—God! shall I ever forget the feel of the _thing_
my trembling fingers closed upon! It was fastened in my flesh—a winged,
clammy, breathing horror! It clung to me with a loathly persistency
that nearly drove me frantic, and wild with disgust and terror I
screamed aloud! I closed both hands convulsively upon its fat, soft
body—I literally tore it from my flesh and flung it as far back as I
could into the interior blackness of the vault. For a time I believe I
was indeed mad—the echoes rang with the piercing shrieks I could not
restrain! Silent at last through sheer exhaustion I glared about me.
The moonbeam had vanished, in its place lay a shaft of pale gray light,
by which I could easily distinguish the whole length of the staircase
and the closed gateway at its summit. I rushed up the ascent with the
feverish haste of a madman—I grasped the iron grating with both hands
and shook it fiercely. It was firm as a rock, locked fast. I called for
help. Utter silence answered me. I peered through the closely twisted
bars. I saw the grass, the drooping boughs of trees, and straight
before my line of vision a little piece of the blessed sky, opal tinted
and faintly blushing with the consciousness of the approaching sunrise.
I drank in the sweet fresh air, a long trailing branch of the wild
grape vine hung near me; its leaves were covered thickly with dew. I
squeezed one hand through the grating and gathered a few of these green
morsels of coolness—I ate them greedily. They seemed to me more
delicious than any thing I had ever tasted, they relieved the burning
fever of my parched throat and tongue. The glimpse of the trees and sky
soothed and calmed me. There was a gentle twittering of awaking birds,
my nightingale had ceased singing.
I began to recover slowly from my nervous terrors, and leaning against
the gloomy arch of my charnel house I took courage to glance backward
down the steep stairway up which I had sprung with such furious
precipitation. Something white lay in a corner on the seventh step from
the top. Curious to see what it was, I descended cautiously and with
some reluctance; it was the half of a thick waxen taper, such as are
used in the Catholic ritual at the burial of the dead. No doubt it had
been thrown down there by some careless acolyte, to save himself the
trouble of carrying it after the service had ended. I looked at it
meditatively. If I only had a light! I plunged my hands half
abstractedly into the pockets of my trousers—something jingled! Truly
they had buried me in haste. My purse, a small bunch of keys, my
card-case—one by one I drew them out and examined them surprisedly—they
looked so familiar, and withal so strange! I searched again; and this
time found something of real value to one in my condition—a small box
of wax vestas. Now, had they left me my cigar-case? No, that was gone.
It was a valuable silver one—no doubt the monk, who attended my
supposed last moments, had taken it, together with my watch and chain,
to my wife.
Well, I could not smoke, but I could strike a light. And there was the
funeral taper ready for use. The sun had not yet risen. I must
certainly wait till broad day before I could hope to attract by my
shouts any stray person who might pass through the cemetery. Meanwhile,
a fantastic idea suggested itself. I would go and look at my own
coffin! Why not? It would be a novel experience. The sense of fear had
entirely deserted me; the possession of that box of matches was
sufficient to endow me with absolute hardihood. I picked up the
church-candle and lighted it; it gave at first a feeble flicker, but
afterward burned with a clear and steady flame. Shading it with one
hand from the draught, I gave a parting glance at the fair daylight
that peeped smilingly in through my prison door, and then went
down—down again into the dismal place where I had passed the night in
such indescribable agony.