Many years since, when I was a young man, and had just left
Oxford, I was sent on the grand tour to finish my education. I
believe my parents had tried in vain to inoculate me with wisdom;
so they sent me to mingle with society, in hopes I might take it
the natural way. Such, at least, appears to be the reason for
which nine-tenths of our youngsters are sent abroad.
In the course of my tour I remained some time at Venice. The
romantic character of the place delighted me; I was very much
amused by the air of adventure and intrigue that prevailed in
this region of masks and gondolas; and I was exceedingly smitten
by a pair of languishing black eyes, that played upon my heart
from under an Italian mantle. So I persuaded myself that I was
lingering at Venice to study men and manners. At least I
persuaded my friends so, and that answered all my purpose.
Indeed, I was a little prone to be struck by peculiarities in
character and conduct, and my imagination was so full of romantic
associations with Italy, that I was always on the lookout for
adventure.
Every thing chimed in with such a humor in this old mermaid of a
city. My suite of apartments were in a proud, melancholy palace
on the grand canal, formerly the residence of a Magnifico, and
sumptuous with the traces of decayed grandeur. My gondolier was
one of the shrewdest of his class, active, merry, intelligent,
and, like his brethren, secret as the grave; that is to say,
secret to all the world except his master. I had not had him a
week before he put me behind all the curtains in Venice. I liked
the silence and mystery of the place, and when I sometimes saw
from my window a black gondola gliding mysteriously along in the
dusk of the evening, with nothing visible but its little
glimmering lantern, I would jump into my own zenduletto, and give
a signal for pursuit. But I am running away from my subject with
the recollection of youthful follies, said the Baronet, checking
himself; “let me come to the point.”
Among my familiar resorts was a Cassino under the Arcades on one
side of the grand square of St. Mark. Here I used frequently to
lounge and take my ice on those warm summer nights when in Italy
every body lives abroad until morning. I was seated here one
evening, when a group of Italians took seat at a table on the
opposite side of the saloon. Their conversation was gay and
animated, and carried on with Italian vivacity and gesticulation.
I remarked among them one young man, however, who appeared to
take no share, and find no enjoyment in the conversation; though
he seemed to force himself to attend to it. He was tall and
slender, and of extremely prepossessing appearance. His features
were fine, though emaciated. He had a profusion of black glossy
hair that curled lightly about his head, and contrasted with the
extreme paleness of his countenance. His brow was haggard; deep
furrows seemed to have been ploughed into his visage by care, not
by age, for he was evidently in the prime of youth. His eye was
full of expression and fire, but wild and unsteady. He seemed to
be tormented by some strange fancy or apprehension. In spite of
every effort to fix his attention on the conversation of his
companions, I noticed that every now and then he would turn his
head slowly round, give a glance over his shoulder, and then
withdraw it with a sudden jerk, as if something painful had met
his eye. This was repeated at intervals of about a minute, and he
appeared hardly to have got over one shock, before I saw him
slowly preparing to encounter another.
After sitting some time in the Cassino, the party paid for the
refreshments they had taken, and departed. The young man was the
last to leave the saloon, and I remarked him glancing behind him
in the same way, just as he passed out at the door. I could not
resist the impulse to rise and follow him; for I was at an age
when a romantic feeling of curiosity is easily awakened. The
party walked slowly down the Arcades, talking and laughing as
they went. They crossed the Piazzetta, but paused in the middle
of it to enjoy the scene. It was one of those moonlight nights so
brilliant and clear in the pure atmosphere of Italy. The
moon-beams streamed on the tall tower of St. Mark, and lighted up
the magnificent front and swelling domes of the Cathedral. The
party expressed their delight in animated terms. I kept my eye
upon the young man. He alone seemed abstracted and self-occupied.
I noticed the same singular, and, as it were, furtive glance over
the shoulder that had attracted my attention in the Cassino. The
party moved on, and I followed; they passed along the walks
called the Broglio; turned the corner of the Ducal palace, and
getting into a gondola, glided swiftly away.
The countenance and conduct of this young man dwelt upon my mind.
There was something in his appearance that interested me
exceedingly. I met him a day or two after in a gallery of
paintings. He was evidently a connoisseur, for he always singled
out the most masterly productions, and the few remarks drawn from
him by his companions showed an intimate acquaintance with the
art. His own taste, however, ran on singular extremes. On
Salvator Rosa in his most savage and solitary scenes; on Raphael,
Titian, and Corregio in their softest delineations of female
beauty. On these he would occasionally gaze with transient
enthusiasm. But this seemed only a momentary forgetfulness. Still
would recur that cautious glance behind, and always quickly
withdrawn, as though something terrible had met his view.
I encountered him frequently afterwards. At the theatre, at
balls, at concerts; at the promenades in the gardens of San
Georgio; at the grotesque exhibitions in the square of St. Mark;
among the throng of merchants on the Exchange by the Rialto. He
seemed, in fact, to seek crowds; to hunt after bustle and
amusement; yet never to take any interest in either the business
or gayety of the scene. Ever an air of painful thought, of
wretched abstraction; and ever that strange and recurring
movement, of glancing fearfully over the shoulder. I did not know
at first but this might be caused by apprehension of arrest; or
perhaps from dread of assassination. But, if so, why should he go
thus continually abroad; why expose himself at all times and in
all places?
I became anxious to know this stranger. I was drawn to him by
that Romantic sympathy that sometimes draws young men towards
each other. His melancholy threw a charm about him in my eyes,
which was no doubt heightened by the touching expression of his
countenance, and the manly graces of his person; for manly beauty
has its effect even upon man. I had an Englishman’s habitual
diffidence and awkwardness of address to contend with; but I
subdued it, and from frequently meeting him in the Cassino,
gradually edged myself into his acquaintance. I had no reserve on
his part to contend with. He seemed on the contrary to court
society; and in fact to seek anything rather than be alone.
When he found I really took an interest in him he threw himself
entirely upon my friendship. He clung to me like a drowning man.
He would walk with me for hours up and down the place of St.
Mark—or he would sit until night was far advanced in my
apartment; he took rooms under the same roof with me; and his
constant request was, that I would permit him, when it did not
incommode me, to sit by me in my saloon. It was not that he
seemed to take a particular delight in my conversation; but
rather that he craved the vicinity of a human being; and above
all, of a being that sympathized with him. “I have often heard,”
said he, “of the sincerity of Englishmen—thank God I have one at
length for a friend!”
Yet he never seemed disposed to avail himself of my sympathy
other than by mere companionship. He never sought to unbosom
himself to me; there appeared to be a settled corroding anguish
in his bosom that neither could be soothed “by silence nor by
speaking.” A devouring melancholy preyed upon his heart, and
seemed to be drying up the very blood in his veins. It was not a
soft melancholy—the disease of the affections; but a parching,
withering agony. I could see at times that his mouth was dry and
feverish; he almost panted rather than breathed; his eyes were
bloodshot; his cheeks pale and livid; with now and then faint
streaks athwart them—baleful gleams of the fire that was
consuming his heart. As my arm was within his, I felt him press
it at times with a convulsive motion to his side; his hands would
clinch themselves involuntarily, and a kind of shudder would run
through his frame. I reasoned with him about his melancholy, and
sought to draw from him the cause—he shrunk from all confiding.
“Do not seek to know it,” said he, “you could not relieve it if
you knew it; you would not even seek to relieve it—on the
contrary, I should lose your sympathy; and that,” said he,
pressing my hand convulsively, “that I feel has become too dear
to me to risk.”
I endeavored to awaken hope within him. He was young; life had a
thousand pleasures in store for him; there is a healthy reaction
in the youthful heart; it medicines its own wounds—
“Come, come,” said I, “there is no grief so great that youth
cannot outgrow it.”—“No! no!” said he, clinching his teeth, and
striking repeatedly, with the energy of despair, upon his
bosom—“It is here—here—deep-rooted; draining my heart’s blood. It
grows and grows, while my heart withers and withers! I have a
dreadful monitor that gives me no repose—that follows me step by
step; and will follow me step by step, until it pushes me into my
grave!”
As he said this he gave involuntarily one of those fearful
glances over his shoulder, and shrunk back with more than usual
horror. I could not resist the temptation to allude to this
movement, which I supposed to be some mere malady of the nerves.
The moment I mentioned it his face became crimsoned and
convulsed—he grasped me by both hands: “For God’s sake,”
exclaimed he, with a piercing agony of voice—“never allude to
that again; let us avoid this subject, my friend; you cannot
relieve me, indeed you cannot relieve me; but you may add to the
torments I suffer;—at some future day you shall know all.”
I never resumed the subject; for however much my curiosity might
be aroused, I felt too true compassion for his sufferings to
increase them by my intrusion. I sought various ways to divert
his mind, and to arouse him from the constant meditations in
which he was plunged. He saw my efforts, and seconded them as far
as in his power, for there was nothing moody or wayward in his
nature; on the contrary, there was something frank, generous,
unassuming, in his whole deportment. All the sentiments that he
uttered were noble and lofty. He claimed no indulgence; he asked
no toleration. He seemed content to carry his load of misery in
silence, and only sought to carry it by my side. There was a mute
beseeching manner about him, as if he craved companionship as a
charitable boon; and a tacit thankfulness in his looks, as if he
felt grateful to me for not repulsing him.
I felt this melancholy to be infectious. It stole over my
spirits; Interfered with all my gay pursuits, and gradually
saddened my life; yet I could not prevail upon myself to shake
off a being who seemed to hang upon me for support. In truth, the
generous traits of character that beamed through all this gloom
had penetrated to my heart. His bounty was lavish and
open-handed. His charity melting and spontaneous. Not confined to
mere donations, which often humiliate as much as they relieve.
The tone of his voice, the beam of his eye, enhanced every gift,
and surprised the poor suppliant with that rarest and sweetest of
charities, the charity not merely of the hand, but of the heart.
Indeed, his liberality seemed to have something in it of
self-abasement and expiation. He humbled himself, in a manner,
before the mendicant. “What right have I to ease and affluence,”
would he murmur to himself, “when innocence wanders in misery and
rags?”
The Carnival time arrived. I had hoped that the gay scenes which
then Presented themselves might have some cheering effect. I
mingled with him in the motley throng that crowded the place of
St. Mark. We frequented operas, masquerades, balls. All in vain.
The evil kept growing on him; he became more and more haggard and
agitated. Often, after we had returned from one of these scenes
of revelry, I have entered his room, and found him lying on his
face on the sofa: his hands clinched in his fine hair, and his
whole countenance bearing traces of the convulsions of his mind.
The Carnival passed away; the season of Lent succeeded; Passion
week arrived. We attended one evening a solemn service in one of
the churches; in the course of which a grand piece of vocal and
instrumental music was performed relating to the death of our
Saviour.
I had remarked that he was always powerfully affected by music;
on this occasion he was so in an extraordinary degree. As the
peeling notes swelled through the lofty aisles, he seemed to
kindle up with fervor. His eyes rolled upwards, until nothing but
the whites were visible; his hands were clasped together, until
the fingers were deeply imprinted in the flesh. When the music
expressed the dying agony, his face gradually sunk upon his
knees; and at the touching words resounding through the church,
“_Jesu mori_,” sobs burst from him uncontrolled. I had never seen
him weep before; his had always been agony rather than sorrow. I
augured well from the circumstance. I let him weep on
uninterrupted. When the service was ended we left the church. He
hung on my arm as we walked homewards, with something of a softer
and more subdued manner; instead of that nervous agitation I had
been accustomed to witness. He alluded to the service we had
heard. “Music,” said he, “is indeed the voice of heaven; never
before have I felt more impressed by the story of the atonement
of our Saviour. Yes, my friend,” said he, clasping his hands with
a kind of transport, “I know that my Redeemer liveth.”
We parted for the night. His room was not far from mine, and I
heard him for some time busied in it. I fell asleep, but was
awakened before daylight. The young man stood by my bed-side,
dressed for travelling. He held a sealed packet and a large
parcel in his hand, which he laid on the table. “Farewell, my
friend,” said he, “I am about to set forth on a long journey;
but, before I go, I leave with you these remembrances. In this
packet you will find the particulars of my story. When you read
them, I shall be far away; do not remember me with aversion. You
have been, indeed, a friend to me. You have poured oil into a
broken heart,—but you could not heal it.—Farewell—let me kiss
your hand—I am unworthy to embrace you.” He sunk on his knees,
seized my hand in despite of my efforts to the contrary, and
covered it with kisses. I was so surprised by all this scene that
I had not been able to say a word.
But we shall meet again, said I, hastily, as I saw him hurrying
towards the door.
“Never—never in this world!” said he, solemnly. He sprang once
more to my bed-side—seized my hand, pressed it to his heart and
to his lips, and rushed out of the room.
Here the Baronet paused. He seemed lost in thought, and sat
looking upon the floor and drumming with his fingers on the arm
of his chair.
“And did this mysterious personage return?” said the inquisitive
gentleman. “Never!” replied the Baronet, with a pensive shake of
the head: “I never saw him again.” “And pray what has all this to
do with the picture?” inquired the old gentleman with the
nose—“True!” said the questioner—“Is it the portrait of this
crack-brained Italian?” “No!” said the Baronet drily, not half
liking the appellation given to his hero; “but this picture was
inclosed in the parcel he left with me. The sealed packet
contained its explanation. There was a request on the outside
that I would not open it until six months had elapsed. I kept my
promise, in spite of my curiosity. I have a translation of it by
me, and had meant to read it, by way of accounting for the
mystery of the chamber, but I fear I have already detained the
company too long.”
Here there was a general wish expressed to have the manuscript
read; particularly on the part of the inquisitive gentleman. So
the worthy Baronet drew out a fairly written manuscript, and
wiping his spectacles, read aloud the following story: