Looking back on the incidents of those strange feverish weeks that
preceded my wedding-day, they seemed to me like the dreams of a dying
man. Shifting colors, confused images, moments of clear light, hours of
long darkness—all things gross, refined, material, and spiritual were
shaken up in my life like the fragments in a kaleidoscope, ever
changing into new forms and bewildering patterns. My brain was clear;
yet I often questioned myself whether I was not going mad—whether all
the careful methodical plans I formed were but the hazy fancies of a
hopelessly disordered mind? Yet no; each detail of my scheme was too
complete, too consistent, too business-like for that. A madman may have
a method of action to a certain extent, but there is always some slight
slip, some omission, some mistake which helps to discover his
condition. Now, _I_ forgot nothing—I had the composed exactitude of a
careful banker who balances his accounts with the most elaborate
regularity. I can laugh to think of it all now; but _then_—then I
moved, spoke, and acted like a human machine impelled by stronger
forces than my own—in all things precise, in all things inflexible.
Within the week of my return from Avellino my coming marriage with the
Countess Romani was announced. Two days after it had been made public,
while sauntering across the Largo del Castello, I met the Marquis
D’Avencourt. I had not seen him since the morning of the duel, and his
presence gave me a sort of nervous shock. He was exceedingly cordial,
though I fancied he was also slightly embarrassed After a few
commonplace remarks he said, abruptly:
“So your marriage will positively take place?”
I forced a laugh.
“_Ma_! _certamente_! Do you doubt it?”
His handsome face clouded and his manner grew still more constrained.
“No; but I thought—I had hoped—”
“_Mon cher_,” I said, airily, “I perfectly understand to what you
allude. But we men of the world are not fastidious—we know better than
to pay any heed to the foolish love-fancies of a woman before her
marriage, so long as she does not trick us afterward. The letters you
sent me were trifles, mere trifles! In wedding the _Contessa_ Romani I
assure you I believe I secure the most virtuous as well as the most
lovely woman in Europe!” And I laughed again heartily.
D’Avencourt looked puzzled; but he was a punctilious man, and knew how
to steer clear of a delicate subject. He smiled.
“_A la bonne heure_,” he said—“I wish you joy with all my heart! You
are the best judge of your own happiness; as for me—_vive la liberté_!”
And with a gay parting salute he left me. No one else in the city
appeared to share his foreboding scruples, if he had any, about my
forthcoming marriage. It was everywhere talked of with as much interest
and expectation as though it were some new amusement invented to
heighten the merriment of carnival. Among other things, I earned the
reputation of being a most impatient lover, for now I would consent to
no delays. I hurried all the preparations on with feverish
precipitation. I had very little difficulty in persuading Nina that the
sooner our wedding took place the better; she was to the full as eager
as myself, as ready to rush on her own destruction as Guido had been.
Her chief passion was avarice, and the repeated rumors of my supposed
fabulous wealth had aroused her greed from the very moment she had
first met me in my assumed character of the Count Oliva. As soon as her
engagement to me became known in Naples, she was an object of envy to
all those of her own sex who, during the previous autumn, had laid out
their store of fascinations to entrap me in vain—and this made her
perfectly happy. Perhaps the supremest satisfaction a woman of this
sort can attain to is the fact of making her less fortunate sisters
discontented and miserable! I loaded her, of course, with the costliest
gifts, and she, being the sole mistress of the fortune left her by her
“late husband,” as well as of the unfortunate Guido’s money, set no
limits to her extravagance. She ordered the most expensive and
elaborate costumes; she was engaged morning after morning with
dressmakers, tailors, and milliners, and she was surrounded by a
certain favored “set” of female friends, for whose benefit she
displayed the incoming treasures of her wardrobe till they were ready
to cry for spite and vexation, though they had to smile and hold in
their wrath and outraged vanity beneath the social mask of complacent
composure. And Nina loved nothing better than to torture the poor women
who were stinted of pocket-money with the sight of shimmering satins,
soft radiating plushes, rich velvets, embroidery studded with real
gems, pieces of costly old lace, priceless scents, and articles of
_bijouterie_; she loved also to dazzle the eyes and bewilder the brains
of young girls, whose finest toilet was a garb of simplest white stuff
unadorned save by a cluster of natural blossoms, and to send them away
sick at heart, pining for they knew not what, dissatisfied with
everything, and grumbling at fate for not permitting them to deck
themselves in such marvelous “arrangements” of costume as those
possessed by the happy, the fortunate future Countess Oliva.
Poor maidens! had they but known all they would not have envied her!
Women are too fond of measuring happiness by the amount of fine clothes
they obtain, and I truly believe dress is the one thing that never
fails to console them. How often a fit of hysterics can be cut short by
the opportune arrival of a new gown!
My wife, in consideration of her approaching second nuptial, had thrown
off her widow’s crape, and now appeared clad in those soft subdued
half-tints of color that suited her fragile, fairy-like beauty to
perfection. All her old witcheries and her graceful tricks of manner
and speech were put forth again for my benefit. I knew them all so
well! I understood the value of her light caresses and languishing
looks so thoroughly! She was very anxious to attain the full dignity of
her position as the wife of so rich a nobleman as I was reputed to be,
therefore she raised no objection when I fixed the day of our marriage
for Giovedi Grasso. Then the fooling and mumming, the dancing,
shrieking, and screaming would be at its height; it pleased my whim to
have this other piece of excellent masquerading take place at the same
time.
The wedding was to be as private as possible, owing to my wife’s
“recent sad bereavements,” as she herself said with a pretty sigh and
tearful, pleading glance. It would take place in the chapel of San
Gennaro, adjoining the cathedral. We were married there before! During
the time that intervened, Nina’s manner was somewhat singular. To me
she was often timid, and sometimes half conciliatory. Now and then I
caught her large dark eyes fixed on me with a startled, anxious look,
but this expression soon passed away. She was subject, too, to wild
fits of merriment, and anon to moods of absorbed and gloomy silence. I
could plainly see that she was strung up to an extreme pitch of nervous
excitement and irritability, but I asked her no questions. If—I
thought—if she tortured herself with memories, all the better—if she
saw, or fancied she saw, the resemblance between me and her “dear dead
Fabio,” it suited me that she should be so racked and bewildered.
I came and went to and fro from the villa as I pleased. I wore my dark
glasses as usual, and not even Giacomo could follow me with his
peering, inquisitive gaze; for since the night he had been hurled so
fiercely to the ground by Guido’s reckless and impatient hand, the poor
old man had been paralyzed, and had spoken no word. He lay in an upper
chamber, tended by Assunta, and my wife had already written to his
relatives in Lombardy, asking them to send for him home.
“Of what use to keep him?” she had asked me.
True! Of what use to give even roof-shelter to a poor old human
creature, maimed, broken, and useless for evermore? After long years of
faithful service, turn him out, cast him forth! If he die of neglect,
starvation, and ill-usage, what matter?—he is a worn-out tool, his day
is done—let him perish. I would not plead for him—why should I? I had
made my own plans for his comfort—plans shortly to be carried out; and
in the mean time Assunta nursed him tenderly as he lay speechless, with
no more strength than a year-old baby, and only a bewildered pain in
his upturned, lack-luster eyes. One incident occurred during these last
days of my vengeance that struck a sharp pain to my heart, together
with a sense of the bitterest anger. I had gone up to the villa
somewhat early in the morning, and on crossing the lawn I saw a dark
form stretched motionless on one of the paths that led directly up to
the house. I went to examine it, and started back in horror—it was my
dog Wyvis shot dead. His silky black head and forepaws were dabbled in
blood—his honest brown eyes were glazed with the film of his dying
agonies. Sickened and infuriated at the sight, I called to a gardener
who was trimming the shrubbery.
“Who has done this?” I demanded.
The man looked pityingly at the poor bleeding remains, and said, in a
low voice:
“It was _madama_’s order, _signor_. The dog bit her yesterday; we shot
him at daybreak.”
I stooped to caress the faithful animal’s body, and as I stroked the
silky coat my eyes were dim with tears.
“How did it happen?” I asked in smothered accents. “Was your lady
hurt?”
The gardener shrugged his shoulders and sighed.
“Ma!—no! But he tore the lace on her dress with his teeth and grazed
her hand. It was little, but enough. He will bite no more—_povera
bestia_!”
I gave the fellow five francs.
“I liked the dog,” I said briefly, “he was a faithful creature. Bury
him decently under that tree,” and I pointed to the giant cypress on
the lawn, “and take this money for your trouble.”
He looked surprised but grateful, and promised to do my bidding. Once
more sorrowfully caressing the fallen head of perhaps the truest friend
I ever possessed, I strode hastily into the house, and met Nina coming
out of her morning-room, clad in one of her graceful trailing garments,
in which soft lavender hues were blended like the shaded colors of late
and early violets.
“So Wyvis has been shot?” I said, abruptly.
She gave a slight shudder.
“Oh, yes; is it not sad? But I was compelled to have it done. Yesterday
I went past his kennel within reach of his chain, and he sprung
furiously at me for no reason at all. See!” And holding up her small
hand she showed me three trifling marks in the delicate flesh. “I felt
that you would be so unhappy if you thought I kept a dog that was at
all dangerous, so I determined to get rid of him. It is always painful
to have a favorite animal killed; but really Wyvis belonged to my poor
husband, and I think he has never been quite safe since his master’s
death, and now Giacomo is ill—”
“I see!” I said, curtly, cutting her explanations short.
Within myself I thought how much more sweet and valuable was the dog’s
life than hers. Brave Wyvis—good Wyvis! He had done his best—he had
tried to tear her dainty flesh; his honest instincts had led him to
attempt rough vengeance on the woman he had felt was his master’s foe.
And he had met his fate, and died in the performance of duty. But I
said no more on the subject. The dog’s death was not alluded to again
by either Nina or myself. He lay in his mossy grave under the cypress
boughs—his memory untainted by any lie, and his fidelity enshrined in
my heart as a thing good and gracious, far exceeding the
self-interested friendship of so-called Christian humanity.
The days passed slowly on. To the revelers who chased the flying steps
of carnival with shouting and laughter, no doubt the hours were brief,
being so brimful of merriment; but to me, who heard nothing save the
measured ticking of my own timepiece of revenge, and who saw naught
save its hands, that every second drew nearer to the last and fatal
figure on the dial, the very moments seemed long and laden with
weariness. I roamed the streets of the city aimlessly, feeling more
like a deserted stranger than a well-known envied nobleman, whose
wealth made him the cynosure of all eyes. The riotous glee, the music,
the color that whirled and reeled through the great street of Toledo at
this season bewildered and pained me. Though I knew and was accustomed
to the wild vagaries of carnival, yet this year they seemed to be out
of place, distracting, senseless, and all unfamiliar.
Sometimes I escaped from the city tumult and wandered out to the
cemetery. There I would stand, dreamily looking at the freshly turned
sods above Guido Ferrari’s grave. No stone marked the spot as yet, but
it was close to the Romani vault—not more than a couple of yards away
from the iron grating that barred the entrance to that dim and fatal
charnel-house. I had a drear fascination for the place, and more than
once I went to the opening of that secret passage made by the brigands
to ascertain if all was safe and undisturbed. Everything was as I had
left it, save that the tangle of brush-wood had become thicker, and
weeds and brambles had sprung up, making it less visible than before,
and probably rendering it more impassable. By a fortunate accident I
had secured the key of the vault. I knew that for family burial-places
of this kind there are always two keys—one left in charge of the keeper
of the cemetery, the other possessed by the person or persons to whom
the mausoleum belongs, and this other I managed to obtain.
On one occasion, being left for some time alone in my own library at
the villa, I remembered that in an upper drawer of an old oaken
escritoire that stood there, had always been a few keys belonging to
the doors of cellars and rooms in the house. I looked, and found them
lying there as usual; they all had labels attached to them, signifying
their use, and I turned them over impatiently, not finding what I
sought. I was about to give up the search, when I perceived a large
rusty iron key that had slipped to the back of the drawer; I pulled it
out, and to my satisfaction it was labeled “Mausoleum.” I immediately
took possession of it, glad to have obtained so useful and necessary an
implement; I knew that I should soon need it. The cemetery was quite
deserted at this festive season—no one visited it to lay wreaths of
flowers or sacred mementoes on the last resting-places of their
friends. In the joys of the carnival who thinks of the dead? In my
frequent walks there I was always alone; I might have opened my own
vault and gone down into it without being observed, but I did not; I
contented myself with occasionally trying the key in the lock, and
assuring myself that it worked without difficulty.
Returning from one of these excursions late on a mild afternoon toward
the end of the week preceding my marriage, I bent my steps toward the
Molo, where I saw a picturesque group of sailors and girls dancing one
of those fantastic, graceful dances of the country, in which
impassioned movement and expressive gesticulation are everything. Their
steps were guided and accompanied by the sonorous twanging of a
full-toned guitar and the tinkling beat of a tambourine. Their
handsome, animated faces, their flashing eyes and laughing lips, their
gay, many-colored costumes, the glitter of beads on the brown necks of
the maidens, the red caps jauntily perched on the thick black curls of
the fishermen—all made up a picture full of light and life thrown up
into strong relief against the pale gray and amber tints of the
February sky and sea; while shadowing overhead frowned the stern dark
walls of the Castel Nuovo.
It was such a scene as the English painter Luke Fildes might love to
depict on his canvas—the one man of to-day who, though born of the land
of opaque mists and rain-burdened clouds, has, notwithstanding these
disadvantages, managed to partly endow his brush with the exhaustless
wealth and glow of the radiant Italian color. I watched the dance with
a faint sense of pleasure—it was full of so much harmony and delicacy
of rhythm. The lad who thrummed the guitar broke out now and then into
song—a song in dialect that fitted into the music of the dance as
accurately as a rosebud into its calyx. I could not distinguish all the
words he sung, but the refrain was always the same, and he gave it in
every possible inflection and variety of tone, from grave to gay, from
pleading to pathetic.
“Che bella cosa è de morire acciso,
Nnanze a la porta de la nnamorata!”[5]
[5] Neapolitan dialect.
meaning literally—“How beautiful a thing to die, suddenly slain at the
door of one’s beloved!”
There was no sense in the thing, I thought half angrily—it was a stupid
sentiment altogether. Yet I could not help smiling at the ragged,
barefooted rascal who sung it: he seemed to feel such a gratification
in repeating it, and he rolled his black eyes with lovelorn intensity,
and breathed forth sighs that sounded through his music with quite a
touching earnestness. Of course he was only following the manner of all
Neapolitans, namely, acting his song; they all do it, and cannot help
themselves. But this boy had a peculiarly roguish way of pausing and
crying forth a plaintive “Ah!” before he added “_Che bella cosa_,”
etc., which gave point and piquancy to his absurd ditty. He was
evidently brimful of mischief—his expression betokened it; no doubt he
was one of the most thorough little scamps that ever played at
“_morra_,” but there was a charm about his handsome dirty face and
unkempt hair, and I watched him amusedly, glad to be distracted for a
few minutes from the tired inner workings of my own unhappy thoughts.
In time to come, so I mused, this very boy might learn to set his song
about the “beloved” to a sterner key, and might find it meet, not to be
slain himself, but to slay _her_! Such a thing—in Naples—was more than
probable. By and by the dance ceased, and I recognized in one of the
breathless, laughing sailors my old acquaintance Andrea Luziani, with
whom I had sailed to Palermo. The sight of him relieved me from a
difficulty which had puzzled me for some days, and as soon as the
little groups of men and women had partially dispersed, I walked up to
him and touched him on the shoulder. He started, looked round
surprised, and did not appear to recognize me. I remembered that when
he had seen me I had not grown a beard, neither had I worn dark
spectacles. I recalled my name to him; his face cleared and he smiled.
“Ah! _buon giorno, eccellenza_!” he cried. “A thousand pardons that I
did not at first know you! Often have I thought of you! often have I
heard your name—ah! what a name! Rich, great, generous!—ah! what a glad
life! And on the point of marrying—ah, _Dio_! love makes all the
troubles go—so!” and taking his cigar from his mouth, he puffed a ring
of pale smoke into the air and laughed gayly. Then suddenly lifting his
cap from his clustering black hair, he added, “All joy be with you,
_eccellenza_!”
I smiled and thanked him. I noticed he looked at me curiously.
“You think I have changed in appearance, my friend?” I said.
The Sicilian looked embarrassed.
“_Ebbene_! we must all change,” he answered, lightly, evading my
glance. “The days pass on—each day takes a little bit of youth away
with it. One grows old without knowing it!”
I laughed.
“I see,” I observed. “You think I have aged somewhat since you saw me?”
“A little, _eccellenza_,” he frankly confessed.
“I have suffered severe illness,” I said, quietly, “and my eyes are
still weak, as you perceive,” and I touched my glasses. “But I shall
get stronger in time. Can you come with me for a few moments? I want
your help in a matter of importance.”
He nodded a ready assent and followed me.