“Filippo!”
“May the God of heaven curse him!” cried I, extending my clinched
fists aloft.
“Oh do not curse him—do not curse him!” exclaimed she—“He is—he
is —my husband!”
This was all that was wanting to unfold the perfidy that had been
practised upon me. My blood boiled like liquid fire in my veins.
I gasped with rage too great for utterance. I remained for a time
bewildered by the whirl of horrible thoughts that rushed through
my mind. The poor victim of deception before me thought it was
with her I was incensed. She faintly murmured forth her
exculpation. I will not dwell upon it. I saw in it more than she
meant to reveal. I saw with a glance how both of us had been
betrayed. “’Tis well!” muttered I to myself in smothered accents
of concentrated fury. “He shall account to me for this!”
Bianca overhead me. New terror flashed in her countenance. “For
mercy’s sake do not meet him—say nothing of what has passed—for
my sake say nothing to him—I only shall be the sufferer!”
A new suspicion darted across my mind—“What!” exclaimed I—“do you
then _fear_ him—is he _unkind_ to you—tell me,” reiterated I,
grasping her hand and looking her eagerly in the face—“tell
me—_dares_ he to use you harshly!”
“No! no! no!” cried she faltering and embarrassed; but the glance
at her face had told me volumes. I saw in her pallid and wasted
features; in the prompt terror and subdued agony of her eye a
whole history of a mind broken down by tyranny. Great God! and
was this beauteous flower snatched from me to be thus trampled
upon? The idea roused me to madness. I clinched my teeth and my
hands; I foamed at the mouth; every passion seemed to have
resolved itself into the fury that like a lava boiled within my
heart. Bianca shrunk from me in speechless affright. As I strode
by the window my eye darted down the alley. Fatal moment! I
beheld Filippo at a distance! My brain was in a delirium—I sprang
from the pavilion, and was before him with the quickness of
lightning. He saw me as I came rushing upon him—he turned pale,
looked wildly to right and left, as if he would have fled, and
trembling drew his sword.
“Wretch!” cried I, “well may you draw your weapon!”
I spake not another word—I snatched forth a stiletto, put by the
sword which trembled in his hand, and buried my poniard in his
bosom. He fell with the blow, but my rage was unsated. I sprang
upon him with the blood-thirsty feeling of a tiger; redoubled my
blows; mangled him in my frenzy, grasped him by the throat, until
with reiterated wounds and strangling convulsions he expired in
my grasp. I remained glaring on the countenance, horrible in
death, that seemed to stare back with its protruded eyes upon me.
Piercing shrieks roused me from my delirium. I looked round and
beheld Bianca flying distractedly towards us. My brain whirled. I
waited not to meet her, but fled from the scene of horror. I fled
forth from the garden like another Cain, a hell within my bosom,
and a curse upon my head. I fled without knowing whither—almost
without knowing why—my only idea was to get farther and farther
from the horrors I had left behind; as if I could throw space
between myself and my conscience. I fled to the Apennines, and
wandered for days and days among their savage heights. How I
existed I cannot tell—what rocks and precipices I braved, and how
I braved them, I know not. I kept on and on—trying to outtravel
the curse that clung to me. Alas, the shrieks of Bianca rung for
ever in my ear. The horrible countenance of my victim was for
ever before my eyes. “The blood of Filippo cried to me from the
ground.” Rocks, trees, and torrents all resounded with my crime.
Then it was I felt how much more insupportable is the anguish of
remorse than every other mental pang. Oh! could I but have cast
off this crime that festered in my heart; could I but have
regained the innocence that reigned in my breast as I entered the
garden at Sestri; could I but have restored my victim to life, I
felt as if I could look on with transport even though Bianca were
in his arms.
By degrees this frenzied fever of remorse settled into a
permanent malady of the mind. Into one of the most horrible that
ever poor wretch was cursed with. Wherever I went, the
countenance of him I had slain appeared to follow me. Wherever I
turned my head I beheld it behind me, hideous with the
contortions of the dying moment. I have tried in every way to
escape from this horrible phantom; but in vain. I know not
whether it is an illusion of the mind, the consequence of my
dismal education at the convent, or whether a phantom really sent
by heaven to punish me; but there it ever is—at all times—in all
places—nor has time nor habit had any effect in familiarizing me
with its terrors. I have travelled from place to place, plunged
into amusements—tried dissipation and distraction of every
kind—all—all in vain.
I once had recourse to my pencil as a desperate experiment. I
painted an exact resemblance of this phantom face. I placed it
before me in hopes that by constantly contemplating the copy I
might diminish the effect of the original. But I only doubled
instead of diminishing the misery.
Such is the curse that has clung to my footsteps—that has made my
life a burthen—but the thoughts of death, terrible. God knows
what I have suffered. What days and days, and nights and nights,
of sleepless torment. What a never-dying worm has preyed upon my
heart; what an unquenchable fire has burned within my brain. He
knows the wrongs that wrought upon my poor weak nature; that
converted the tenderest of affections into the deadliest of fury.
He knows best whether a frail erring creature has expiated by
long-enduring torture and measureless remorse, the crime of a
moment of madness. Often, often have I prostrated myself in the
dust, and implored that he would give me a sign of his
forgiveness, and let me die.—
Thus far had I written some time since. I had meant to leave this
record of misery and crime with you, to be read when I should be
no more. My prayer to heaven has at length been heard. You were
witness to my emotions last evening at the performance of the
Miserere; when the vaulted temple resounded with the words of
atonement and redemption. I heard a voice speaking to me from the
midst of the music; I heard it rising above the pealing of the
organ and the voices of the choir; it spoke to me in tones of
celestial melody; it promised mercy and forgiveness, but demanded
from me full expiation. I go to make it. To-morrow I shall be on
my way to Genoa to surrender myself to justice. You who have
pitied my sufferings; who have poured the balm of sympathy into
my wounds, do not shrink from my memory with abhorrence now that
you know my story. Recollect, when you read of my crime I shall
have atoned for it with my blood!
When the Baronet had finished, there was an universal desire
expressed to see the painting of this frightful visage. After
much entreaty the Baronet consented, on condition that they
should only visit it one by one. He called his housekeeper and
gave her charge to conduct the gentlemen singly to the chamber.
They all returned varying in their stories: some affected in one
way, some in another; some more, some less; but all agreeing that
there was a certain something about the painting that had a very
odd effect upon the feelings.
I stood in a deep bow window with the Baronet, and could not help
expressing my wonder. “After all,” said I, “there are certain
mysteries in our nature, certain inscrutable impulses and
influences, that warrant one in being superstitious. Who can
account for so many persons of different characters being thus
strangely affected by a mere painting?”
“And especially when not one of them has seen it!” said the
Baronet with a smile.
“How?” exclaimed I, “not seen it?”
“Not one of them?” replied he, laying his finger on his lips in
sign of secrecy. “I saw that some of them were in a bantering
vein, and I did not choose that the memento of the poor Italian
should be made a jest of. So I gave the housekeeper a hint to
show them all to a different chamber!”
Thus end the Stories of the Nervous Gentleman.