My marriage morning dawned bright and clear, though the high wind of
the past night still prevailed and sent the white clouds scudding
rapidly, like ships running a race, across the blue fairness of the
sky. The air was strong, fresh, and exhilarating, and the crowds that
swarmed into the Piazza del Popolo, and the Toledo, eager to begin the
riot and fun of Giovedi Grasso, were one and all in the highest good
humor. As the hours advanced, many little knots of people hurried
toward the cathedral, anxious, if possible, to secure places in or near
the Chapel of San Gennaro, in order to see to advantage the brilliant
costumes of the few distinguished persons who had been invited to
witness my wedding. The ceremony was fixed to take place at eleven, and
at a little before half past ten I entered my carriage, in company with
the Duke di Marina as best man, and drove to the scene of action. Clad
in garments of admirable cut and fit, with well-brushed hair and beard,
and wearing a demeanor of skillfully mingled gravity and gayety, I bore
but little resemblance to the haggard, ferocious creature who had faced
me in the mirror a few hours previously.
A strange and secret mirth too possessed me, a sort of half-frenzied
merriment that threatened every now and then to break through the mask
of dignified composure it was necessary for me to wear. There were
moments when I could have laughed, shrieked, and sung with the fury of
a drunken madman. As it was, I talked incessantly; my conversation was
flavored with bitter wit and pungent sarcasm, and once or twice my
friend the duke surveyed me with an air of wondering inquiry, as though
he thought my manner forced or unnatural. My coachman was compelled to
drive rather slowly, owing to the pressing throngs that swarmed at
every corner and through every thoroughfare, while the yells of the
masqueraders, the gambols of street clowns, the firing of toy guns, and
the sharp explosion of colored bladders, that were swung to and fro and
tossed in the air by the merry populace, startled my spirited horses
frequently, and caused them to leap and prance to a somewhat dangerous
extent, thus attracting more than the customary attention to my
equipage. As it drew up at last at the door of the chapel, I was
surprised to see what a number of spectators had collected there. There
was a positive crowd of loungers, beggars, children, and middle-class
persons of all sorts, who beheld my arrival with the utmost interest
and excitement.
In accordance with my instructions a rich crimson carpet had been laid
down from the very edge of the pavement right into the church as far as
the altar; a silken awning had also been erected, under which bloomed a
miniature avenue of palms and tropical flowers. All eyes were turned
upon me curiously as I stepped from my carriage and entered the chapel,
side by side with the duke, and murmurs of my vast wealth and
generosity were audibly whispered as I passed along. One old crone,
hideously ugly, but with large, dark piercing eyes, the fading lamps of
a lost beauty, chuckled and mumbled as she craned her skinny throat
forward to observe me more closely. “Ay, ay! The saints know he need be
rich and generous—_pover’uomo_ to fill _her_ mouth. A little red cruel
mouth always open, that swallows money like macaroni, and laughs at the
suffering poor! Ah! that is bad, bad! He need be rich to satisfy
_her_!”
The Duke di Marina caught these words and glanced quickly at me, but I
affected not to have heard. Inside the chapel there were a great number
of people, but my own invited guests, not numbering more than twenty or
thirty, were seated in the space apportioned to them near the altar,
which was divided from the mere sight-seers by means of a silken rope
that crossed the aisle. I exchanged greetings with most of these
persons, and in return received their congratulations; then I walked
with a firm deliberate step up to the high altar and there waited. The
magnificent paintings on the wall round me seemed endowed with
mysterious life—the grand heads of saints and martyrs were turned upon
me as though they demanded—“_must_ thou do this thing? Hast thou no
forgiveness?”
And ever my stern answer, “Nay; if hereafter I am tortured in eternal
flame for all ages, yet now—now while I live, I will be avenged!”
A bleeding Christ suspended on His cross gazed at me reproachfully with
long-enduring eyes of dreadful anguish—eyes that seemed to say, “Oh,
erring man, that tormentest thyself with passing passions, shall not
thine own end approach speedily?—and what comfort wilt thou have in thy
last hour?”
And inwardly I answered, “None! No shred of consolation can ever again
be mine—no joy, save fulfilled revenge! And this I will possess though
the heavens should crack and the earth split asunder! For once a
woman’s treachery shall meet with punishment—for once such strange
uncommon justice shall be done!”
And my spirit wrapped itself again in somber meditative silence. The
sunlight fell gloriously through the stained windows—blue, gold,
crimson, and violet shafts of dazzling radiance glittered in lustrous
flickering patterns on the snowy whiteness of the marble altar, and
slowly, softly, majestically, as though an angel stepped forward, the
sound of music stole on the incense-laden air. The unseen organist
played a sublime voluntary of Palestrina’s, and the round harmonious
notes came falling gently on one another like drops from a fountain
trickling on flowers.
I thought of my last wedding-day, when I had stood in this very place,
full of hope, intoxicated with love and joy, when Guido Ferrari had
been by my side, and had drunk in for the first time the poisoned
draught of temptation from the loveliness of my wife’s face and form;
when I, poor fool! would as soon have thought that God could lie, as
that either of these whom I adored could play me false. I drew the
wedding-ring from my pocket and looked at it—it was sparklingly bright
and appeared new. Yet it was old—it was the very same ring I had drawn
off my wife’s finger the day before; it had only been burnished afresh
by a skilled jeweler, and showed no more marks of wear than if it had
been bought that morning.
The great bell of the cathedral boomed out eleven, and as the last
stroke swung from the tower, the chapel doors were flung more widely
open: then came the gentle rustle of trailing robes, and turning, I
beheld my wife. She approached, leaning lightly on the arm of the old
Chevalier Mancini, who, true to his creeds of gallantry, had accepted
with alacrity the post of paternal protector to the bride on this
occasion; and I could not well wonder at the universal admiration that
broke in suppressed murmurs from all assembled, as this most fair
masterpiece of the devil’s creation paced slowly and gracefully up the
aisle. She wore a dress of clinging white velvet made with the greatest
simplicity—a lace veil, priceless in value and fine as gossamer, draped
her from head to foot—the jewels I had given her flashed about her like
scintillating points of light, in her hair, at her waist, on her breast
and uncovered arms.
Being as she deemed herself, a widow, she had no bride-maids; her train
was held up by a handsome boy clad in the purple and gold costume of a
sixteenth century page—he was the youngest son of the Duke di Marina.
Two tiny girls of five and six years of age went before, strewing white
roses and lilies, and stepping daintily backward as though in
attendance on a queen; they looked like two fairies who had slipped out
of a midnight dream, in their little loose gowns of gold-colored plush,
with wreaths of meadow daffodils on their tumbled curly hair. They had
been well trained by Nina herself, for on arrival at the altar they
stood demurely, one on each side of her, the pretty page occupying his
place behind, and still holding up the end of the velvet train with a
charming air of hauteur and self-complacency.
The whole cortege was a picture in its way, as Nina had meant it to be:
she was fond of artistic effects. She smiled languishingly upon me as
she reached the altar, and sunk on her knees beside me in prayer. The
music swelled forth with redoubled grandeur, the priests and acolytes
appeared, the marriage service commenced. As I placed the ring on the
book I glanced furtively at the bride; her fair head was bent
demurely—she seemed absorbed in holy meditations. The priest having
performed the ceremony of sprinkling it with holy water, I took it
back, and set it for the second time on my wife’s soft white little
hand—set it in accordance with the Catholic ritual, first on the thumb,
then on the second finger, then on the third, and lastly on the fourth,
where I left it in its old place, wondering as I did so, and murmured,
“_In Nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, Amen_!” whether she
recognized it as the one she had worn so long! But it was evident she
did not; her calm was unbroken by even so much as a start or tremor;
she had the self-possession of a perfectly satisfied, beautiful, vain,
and utterly heartless woman.
The actual ceremony of marriage was soon over; then followed the Mass,
in which we, the newly-wedded pair, were compelled, in submission to
the rule of the Church, to receive the Sacrament. I shuddered as the
venerable priest gave me the Sacred Host. What had I to do with the
inward purity and peace this memento of Christ is supposed to leave in
our souls? Methought the Crucified Image in the chapel regarded me
afresh with those pained eyes, and said, “Even so dost thou seal thine
own damnation!” Yet _she_, the true murderess, the arch liar, received
the Sacrament with the face of a rapt angel—the very priest himself
seemed touched by those upraised, candid, glorious eyes, the sweet lips
so reverently parted, the absolute, reliable peace that rested on that
white brow, like an aureole round the head of a saint!
“If _I_ am damned, then is _she_ thrice damned!” I said to myself,
recklessly. “I dare say hell is wide enough for us to live apart when
we get there.”
Thus I consoled my conscience, and turned resolutely away from the
painted appealing faces on the wall—the faces that in their various
expressions of sorrow, resignation, pain, and death seemed now to be
all pervaded by another look, that of astonishment—astonishment, so I
fancied, that such a man as I, and such a woman as she, should be found
in the width of the whole world, and should be permitted to kneel at
God’s altar without being struck dead for their blasphemy!
Ah, good saints, well may you be astonished! Had you lived in our day
you must have endured worse martyrdoms than the boiling oil or the
wrenching rack! What you suffered was the mere physical pain of torn
muscles and scorching flesh, pain that at its utmost could not last
long; but your souls were clothed with majesty and power, and were
glorious in the light of love, faith, hope, and charity with all men.
WE have reversed the position _you_ occupied! We have partly learned,
and are still learning, how to take care of our dearly beloved bodies,
how to nourish and clothe them and guard them from cold and disease;
but our souls, good saints, the souls that with you were
everything—_these_ we smirch, burn, and rack, torture and destroy—these
we stamp upon till we crush out God’s image therefrom—these we spit and
jeer at, crucify and drown! _There_ is the difference between you, the
strong and wise of a fruitful olden time, and we, the miserable, puny
weaklings of a sterile modern age.
Had you, sweet St. Dorothy, or fair child-saint Agnes, lived in this
day, you would have felt something sharper than the executioner’s
sword; for being pure, you would have been dubbed the worst of
women—being prayerful, you would have been called hypocrites—being
faithful, you would have been suspected of all vileness—being loving,
you would have been mocked at more bitterly than the soldiers of
Pontius Pilate mocked Christ; but you would have been _free_—free to
indulge your own opinions, for ours is the age of liberty. Yet how much
better for you to have died than have lived till now!
Absorbed in strange, half-morose, half-speculative fancies, I scarcely
heard the close of the solemn service. I was roused by a delicate touch
from my wife, and I woke, as it were, with a start, to hear the
sonorous, crashing chords of the wedding-march in “Lohengrin”
thundering through the air. All was over: my wife was _mine_
indeed—mine most thoroughly—mine by the exceptionally close-tied knot
of a double marriage—mine to do as I would with “_till death should us
part_.” How long, I gravely mused, how long before death could come to
do us this great service? And straightway I began counting, counting
certain spaces of time that must elapse before—I was still absorbed in
this mental arithmetic, even while I mechanically offered my arm to my
wife as we entered the vestry to sign our names in the marriage
register. So occupied was I in my calculations that I nearly caught
myself murmuring certain numbers aloud. I checked this, and recalling
my thoughts by a strong effort, I strove to appear interested and
delighted, as I walked down the aisle with my beautiful bride, through
the ranks of admiring and eager spectators.
On reaching the outer doors of the chapel several flower-girls emptied
their full and fragrant baskets at our feet; and in return, I bade one
of my servants distribute a bag of coins I had brought for the purpose,
knowing from former experience that it would be needed. To tread across
such a heap of flowers required some care, many of the blossoms
clinging to Nina’s velvet train—we therefore moved forward slowly.
Just as we had almost reached the carriage, a young girl, with large
laughing eyes set like flashing jewels in her soft oval face, threw
down in my path a cluster of red roses. A sudden fury of impotent
passion possessed me, and I crushed my heel instantly and savagely upon
the crimson blossoms, stamping upon them again and again so violently
that my wife raised her delicate eyebrows in amazement, and the
pressing people who stood round us, shrugged their shoulders, and gazed
at one another with looks of utter bewilderment—while the girl who had
thrown them shrunk back in terror, her face paling as she murmured,
“_Santissima Madonna_! _mi fa paura_!” I bit my lip with vexation,
inwardly cursing the weakness of my own behavior. I laughed lightly in
answer to Nina’s unspoken, half-alarmed inquiry.
“It is nothing—a mere fancy of mine. I hate red roses! They look to me
like human blood in flower!”
She shuddered slightly.
“What a horrible idea! How can you think of such a thing?”
I made no response, but assisted her into the carriage with elaborate
care and courtesy; then entering it myself, we drove together back to
the hotel, where the wedding breakfast awaited us.
This is always a feast of general uneasiness and embarrassment
everywhere, even in the sunny, pleasure-loving south; every one is glad
when it is over, and when the flowery, unmeaning speeches and
exaggerated compliments are brought to a fitting and happy conclusion.
Among my assembled guests, all of whom belonged to the best and most
distinguished families in Naples, there was a pervading atmosphere of
undoubted chilliness: the women were dull, being rendered jealous of
the bride’s beauty and the richness of her white velvets and jewels;
the men were constrained, and could scarcely force themselves into even
the appearance of cordiality—they evidently thought that, with such
wealth as mine, I would have done much better to remain a bachelor. In
truth, Italians, and especially Neapolitans, are by no means
enthusiastic concerning the supposititious joys of marriage. They are
apt to shake their heads, and to look upon it as a misfortune rather
than a blessing. “_L’altare è la tomba dell’ amore_,” is a very common
saying with us, and very commonly believed.
It was a relief to us all when we rose from the splendidly appointed
table, and separated for a few hours. We were to meet again at the
ball, which was fixed to commence at nine o’clock in the evening. The
cream of the event was to be tasted _then_—the final toasting of the
bride was to take place _then_—_then_ there would be music, mirth and
dancing, and all the splendor of almost royal revelry. I escorted my
wife with formal courtesy to a splendid apartment which had been
prepared for her, for she had, as she told me, many things to do—as,
for instance, to take off her bridal robes, to study every detail of
her wondrous ball costume for the night, and to superintend her maid in
the packing of her trunks for the next day’s journey. _The next day_! I
smiled grimly—I wondered how she would enjoy her trip! Then I kissed
her hand with the most profound respect and left her to repose—to
refresh and prepare herself for the brilliant festivity of the evening.
Our marriage customs are not as coarse as those of some countries; a
bridegroom in Italy thinks it scarcely decent to persecute his bride
with either his presence or his caresses as soon as the Church has made
her his. On the contrary, if ardent, he restrains his ardor—he forbears
to intrude, he strives to keep up the illusion, the rose-colored light,
or rather mist, of love as long as possible, and he has a wise,
instinctive dread of becoming over-familiar; well knowing that nothing
kills romance so swiftly and surely as the bare blunt prose of close
and constant proximity. And I, like other gentlemen of my rank and
class, gave my twice-wedded wife her liberty—the last hours of liberty
she would ever know. I left her to busy herself with the trifles she
best loved—trifles of dress and personal adornment, for which many
women barter away their soul’s peace and honor, and divest themselves
of the last shred of right and honest principle merely to outshine
others of their own sex, and sow broadcast heart-burnings, petty
envies, mean hatreds and contemptible spites, where, if they did but
choose, there might be a widely different harvest.
It is easy to understand the feelings of Marie Stuart when she arrayed
herself in her best garments for her execution: it was simply the
heroism of supreme vanity, the desire to fascinate if possible the very
headsman. One can understand any beautiful woman being as brave as she.
Harder than death itself would it have seemed to her had she been
compelled to appear on the scaffold looking hideous. She was resolved
to make the most of her charms so long as life lasted. I thought of
that sweet-lipped, luscious-smiling queen as I parted from my wife for
a few brief hours: royal and deeply injured lady though she was, she
merited her fate, for she was treacherous—there can be no doubt of
that. Yet most people reading her her story pity her—I know not why. It
is strange that so much of the world’s sympathy is wasted on false
women!
I strolled into one of the broad _loggie_ of the hotel, from whence I
could see a portion of the Piazza del Popolo, and lighting a cigar, I
leisurely watched the frolics of the crowd. The customary fooling
proper to the day was going on, and no detail of it seemed to pall on
the good-natured, easily amused folks who must have seen it all so
often before. Much laughter was being excited by the remarks of a
vender of quack medicines, who was talking with extreme volubility to a
number of gayly dressed girls and fishermen. I could not distinguish
his words, but I judged he was selling the “elixir of love,” from his
absurd amatory gestures—an elixir compounded, no doubt, of a little
harmless _eau sucré_.
Flags tossed on the breeze, trumpets brayed, drums beat;
_improvisatores_ twanged their guitars and mandolins loudly to attract
attention, and failing in their efforts, swore at each other with the
utmost joviality and heartiness; flower-girls and lemonade-sellers made
the air ring with their conflicting cries: now and then a shower of
chalky confetti flew out from adjacent windows, dusting with white
powder the coats of the passers-by; clusters of flowers tied with
favors of gay-colored ribbon were lavishly flung at the feet of
bright-eyed peasant girls, who rejected or accepted them at pleasure,
with light words of badinage or playful repartee; clowns danced and
tumbled, dogs barked, church bells clanged, and through all the waving
width of color and movement crept the miserable, shrinking forms of
diseased and loathly beggars whining for a _soldo_, and clad in rags
that barely covered their halting, withered limbs.
It was a scene to bewilder the brain and dazzle the eyes, and I was
just turning away from it out of sheer fatigue, when a sudden cessation
of movement in the swaying, whirling crowd, and a slight hush, caused
me to look out once more. I perceived the cause of the momentary
stillness—a funeral cortege appeared, moving at a slow and solemn pace;
as it passed across the square, heads were uncovered, and women crossed
themselves devoutly. Like a black shadowy snake it coiled through the
mass of shifting color and brilliance—another moment, and it was gone.
The depressing effect of its appearance was soon effaced—the merry
crowds resumed their thousand and one freaks of folly, their shrieking,
laughing and dancing, and all was as before. Why not?
The dead are soon forgotten; none knew that better than I! Leaning my
arms lazily on the edge of the balcony, I finished smoking my cigar.
That glimpse of death in the midst of life had filled me with a certain
satisfaction. Strangely enough, my thoughts began to busy themselves
with the old modes of torture that used to be legal, and that, after
all, were not so unjust when practiced upon persons professedly vile.
For instance, the iron coffin of Lissa—that ingeniously contrived box
in which the criminal was bound fast hand and foot, and then was forced
to watch the huge lid descending slowly, slowly, slowly, half an inch
at a time, till at last its ponderous weight crushed into a flat and
mangled mass the writhing wretch within, who had for long agonized
hours watched death steadily approaching. Suppose that _I_ had such a
coffin now! I stopped my train of reflection with a slight shudder. No,
no; she whom I sought to punish was so lovely, such a softly colored,
witching, gracious body, though tenanted by a wicked soul—she should
keep her beauty! I would not destroy that—I would be satisfied with my
plan as already devised.
I threw away the end of my smoked-out cigar and entered my own rooms.
Calling Vincenzo, who was now resigned and even eager to go to
Avellino, I gave him his final instructions, and placed in his charge
the iron cash-box, which, unknown to him, contained 12,000 francs in
notes and gold. This was the last good action I could do: it was a
sufficient sum to set him up as a well-to-do farmer and fruit-grower in
Avellino with Lilla and her little dowry combined. He also carried a
sealed letter to _Signora_ Monti, which I told him she was not to open
till a week had elapsed; this letter explained the contents of the box
and my wishes concerning it; it also asked the good woman to send to
the Villa Romani for Assunta and her helpless charge, poor old
paralyzed Giacomo, and to tend the latter as well as she could till his
death, which I knew could not be far off.
I had thought of everything as far as possible, and I could already
foresee what a happy, peaceful home there would be in the little
mountain town guarded by the Monte Vergine. Lilla and Vincenzo would
wed, I knew; _Signora_ Monti and Assunta would console each other with
their past memories and in the tending of Lilla’s children; for some
little time, perhaps, they would talk of me and wonder sorrowfully
where I had gone; then gradually they would forget me, even as I
desired to be forgotten.
Yes; I had done all I could for those who had never wronged me. I had
acquitted myself of my debt to Vincenzo for his affection and fidelity;
the rest of my way was clear. I had no more to do save the _one thing_,
the one deed which had clamored so long for accomplishment. Revenge,
like a beckoning ghost, had led me on step by step for many weary days
and months, which to me had seemed cycles of suffering; but now it
paused—it faced me—and turning its blood-red eyes upon my soul said,
“Strike!”