tumult was suddenly sentenced to banishment, and his property
confiscated. The Marchese Torella went into exile alone. Like my father,
he was a widower: he had one child, the almost infant Juliet, who was
left under my father’s guardianship. I should certainly have been unkind
to the lovely girl, but that I was forced by my position to become her
protector. A variety of childish incidents all tended to one point,—to
make Juliet see in me a rock of defence; I in her, one who must perish
through the soft sensibility of her nature too rudely visited, but for
my guardian care. We grew up together. The opening rose in May was not
more sweet than this dear girl. An irradiation of beauty was spread over
her face. Her form, her step, her voice—my heart weeps even now, to
think of all of relying, gentle, loving, and pure, that she enshrined.
When I was eleven and Juliet eight years of age, a cousin of mine, much
older than either—he seemed to us a man—took great notice of my
playmate; he called her his bride, and asked her to marry him. She
refused, and he insisted, drawing her unwillingly towards him. With the
countenance and emotions of a maniac I threw myself on him—I strove to
draw his sword—I clung to his neck with the ferocious resolve to
strangle him: he was obliged to call for assistance to disengage himself
from me. On that night I led Juliet to the chapel of our house: I made
her touch the sacred relics—I harrowed her child’s heart, and profaned
her child’s lips with an oath, that she would be mine, and mine only.
Well, those days passed away. Torella returned in a few years, and
became wealthier and more prosperous than ever. When I was seventeen, my
father died; he had been magnificent to prodigality; Torella rejoiced
that my minority would afford an opportunity for repairing my fortunes.
Juliet and I had been affianced beside my father’s deathbed—Torella was
to be a second parent to me.
I desired to see the world, and I was indulged. I went to Florence, to
Rome, to Naples; thence I passed to Toulon, and at length reached what
had long been the bourne of my wishes, Paris. There was wild work in
Paris then. The poor king, Charles the Sixth, now sane, now mad, now a
monarch, now an abject slave, was the very mockery of humanity. The
queen, the dauphin, the Duke of Burgundy, alternately friends and
foes,—now meeting in prodigal feasts, now shedding blood in
rivalry,—were blind to the miserable state of their country, and the
dangers that impended over it, and gave themselves wholly up to
dissolute enjoyment or savage strife. My character still followed me. I
was arrogant and self-willed; I loved display, and above all, I threw
off all control. My young friends were eager to foster passions which
furnished them with pleasures. I was deemed handsome—I was master of
every knightly accomplishment. I was disconnected with any political
party. I grew a favourite with all: my presumption and arrogance was
pardoned in one so young: I became a spoiled child. Who could control
me? not the letters and advice of Torella—only strong necessity visiting
me in the abhorred shape of an empty purse. But there were means to
refill this void. Acre after acre, estate after estate, I sold. My
dress, my jewels, my horses and their caparisons, were almost unrivalled
in gorgeous Paris, while the lands of my inheritance passed into
possession of others.
The Duke of Orleans was waylaid and murdered by the Duke of Burgundy.
Fear and terror possessed all Paris. The dauphin and the queen shut
themselves up; every pleasure was suspended. I grew weary of this state
of things, and my heart yearned for my boyhood’s haunts. I was nearly a
beggar, yet still I would go there, claim my bride, and rebuild my
fortunes. A few happy ventures as a merchant would make me rich again.
Nevertheless, I would not return in humble guise. My last act was to
dispose of my remaining estate near Albaro for half its worth, for ready
money. Then I despatched all kinds of artificers, arras, furniture of
regal splendour, to fit up the last relic of my inheritance, my palace
in Genoa. I lingered a little longer yet, ashamed at the part of the
prodigal returned, which I feared I should play. I sent my horses. One
matchless Spanish jennet I despatched to my promised bride: its
caparisons flamed with jewels and cloth of gold. In every part I caused
to be entwined the initials of Juliet and her Guido. My present found
favour in hers and in her father’s eyes.
Still to return a proclaimed spendthrift, the mark of impertinent
wonder, perhaps of scorn, and to encounter singly the reproaches or
taunts of my fellow-citizens, was no alluring prospect. As a shield
between me and censure, I invited some few of the most reckless of my
comrades to accompany me: thus I went armed against the world, hiding a
rankling feeling, half fear and half penitence, by bravado.
I arrived in Genoa. I trod the pavement of my ancestral palace. My proud
step was no interpreter of my heart, for I deeply felt that, though
surrounded by every luxury, I was a beggar. The first step I took in
claiming Juliet must widely declare me such. I read contempt or pity in
the looks of all. I fancied that rich and poor, young and old, all
regarded me with derision. Torella came not near me. No wonder that my
second father should expect a son’s deference from me in waiting first
on him. But, galled and stung by a sense of my follies and demerit, I
strove to throw the blame on others. We kept nightly orgies in Palazzo
Carega. To sleepless, riotous nights followed listless, supine mornings.
At the Ave Maria we showed our dainty persons in the streets, scoffing
at the sober citizens, casting insolent glances on the shrinking women.
Juliet was not among them—no, no; if she had been there, shame would
have driven me away, if love had not brought me to her feet.
I grew tired of this. Suddenly I paid the Marchese a visit. He was at
his villa, one among the many which deck the suburb of San Pietro
d’Arena. It was the month of May, the blossoms of the fruit-trees were
fading among thick, green foliage; the vines were shooting forth; the
ground strewed with the fallen olive blooms; the firefly was in the
myrtle hedge; heaven and earth wore a mantle of surpassing beauty.
Torella welcomed me kindly, though seriously; and even his shade of
displeasure soon wore away. Some resemblance to my father—some look and
tone of youthful ingenuousness, softened the good old man’s heart. He
sent for his daughter—he presented me to her as her betrothed. The
chamber became hallowed by a holy light as she entered. Hers was that
cherub look, those large, soft eyes, full dimpled cheeks, and mouth of
infantine sweetness, that expresses the rare union of happiness and
love. Admiration first possessed me; she is mine! was the second proud
emotion, and my lips curled with haughty triumph. I had not been the
_enfant gâté_ of the beauties of France not to have learnt the art of
pleasing the soft heart of woman. If towards men I was overbearing, the
deference I paid to them was the more in contrast. I commenced my
courtship by the display of a thousand gallantries to Juliet, who, vowed
to me from infancy, had never admitted the devotion of others; and who,
though accustomed to expressions of admiration, was uninitiated in the
language of lovers.
For a few days all went well. Torella never alluded to my extravagance;
he treated me as a favourite son. But the time came, as we discussed the
preliminaries to my union with his daughter, when this fair face of
things should be overcast. A contract had been drawn up in my father’s
lifetime. I had rendered this, in fact, void by having squandered the
whole of the wealth which was to have been shared by Juliet and myself.
Torella, in consequence, chose to consider this bond as cancelled, and
proposed another, in which, though the wealth he bestowed was
immeasurably increased, there were so many restrictions as to the mode
of spending it, that I, who saw independence only in free career being
given to my own imperious will, taunted him as taking advantage of my
situation, and refused utterly to subscribe to his conditions. The old
man mildly strove to recall me to reason. Roused pride became the tyrant
of my thought: I listened with indignation—I repelled him with disdain.
“Juliet, thou art mine! Did we not interchange vows in our innocent
childhood? Are we not one in the sight of God? and shall thy
cold-hearted, cold-blooded father divide us? Be generous, my love, be
just; take not away a gift, last treasure of thy Guido—retract not thy
vows—let us defy the world, and, setting at nought the calculations of
age, find in our mutual affection a refuge from every ill.”
Fiend I must have been with such sophistry to endeavour to poison that
sanctuary of holy thought and tender love. Juliet shrank from me
affrighted. Her father was the best and kindest of men, and she strove
to show me how, in obeying him, every good would follow. He would
receive my tardy submission with warm affection, and generous pardon
would follow my repentance;—profitless words for a young and gentle
daughter to use to a man accustomed to make his will law, and to feel in
his own heart a despot so terrible and stern that he could yield
obedience to nought save his own imperious desires! My resentment grew
with resistance; my wild companions were ready to add fuel to the flame.
We laid a plan to carry off Juliet. At first it appeared to be crowned
with success. Midway, on our return, we were overtaken by the agonized
father and his attendants. A conflict ensued. Before the city guard came
to decide the victory in favour of our antagonists, two of Torella’s
servitors were dangerously wounded.
This portion of my history weighs most heavily with me. Changed man as I
am, I abhor myself in the recollection. May none who hear this tale ever
have felt as I. A horse driven to fury by a rider armed with barbed
spurs was not more a slave than I to the violent tyranny of my temper. A
fiend possessed my soul, irritating it to madness. I felt the voice of
conscience within me; but if I yielded to it for a brief interval, it
was only to be a moment after torn, as by a whirlwind, away—borne along
on the stream of desperate rage—the plaything of the storms engendered
by pride. I was imprisoned, and, at the instance of Torella, set free.
Again I returned to carry off both him and his child to France, which
hapless country, then preyed on by freebooters and gangs of lawless
soldiery, offered a grateful refuge to a criminal like me. Our plots
were discovered. I was sentenced to banishment; and, as my debts were
already enormous, my remaining property was put in the hands of
commissioners for their payment. Torella again offered his mediation,
requiring only my promise not to renew my abortive attempts on himself
and his daughter. I spurned his offers, and fancied that I triumphed
when I was thrust out from Genoa, a solitary and penniless exile. My
companions were gone: they had been dismissed the city some weeks
before, and were already in France. I was alone—friendless, with neither
sword at my side, nor ducat in my purse.
I wandered along the sea-shore, a whirlwind of passion possessing and
tearing my soul. It was as if a live coal had been set burning in my
breast. At first I meditated on what _I should do_. I would join a band
of freebooters. Revenge!—the word seemed balm to me; I hugged it,
caressed it, till, like a serpent, it stung me. Then again I would
abjure and despise Genoa, that little corner of the world. I would
return to Paris, where so many of my friends swarmed; where my services
would be eagerly accepted; where I would carve out fortune with my
sword, and make my paltry birthplace and the false Torella rue the day
when they drove me, a new Coriolanus, from her walls. I would return to
Paris—thus on foot—a beggar—and present myself in my poverty to those I
had formerly entertained sumptuously? There was gall in the mere thought
of it.
The reality of things began to dawn upon my mind, bringing despair in
its train. For several months I had been a prisoner: the evils of my
dungeon had whipped my soul to madness, but they had subdued my
corporeal frame. I was weak and wan. Torella had used a thousand
artifices to administer to my comfort; I had detected and scorned them
all, and I reaped the harvest of my obduracy. What was to be done?
Should I crouch before my foe, and sue for forgiveness?—Die rather ten
thousand deaths!—Never should they obtain that victory! Hate—I swore
eternal hate! Hate from whom?—to whom?—From a wandering outcast—to a
mighty noble! I and my feelings were nothing to them: already had they
forgotten one so unworthy. And Juliet!—her angel face and sylph-like
form gleamed among the clouds of my despair with vain beauty; for I had
lost her—the glory and flower of the world! Another will call her
his!—that smile of paradise will bless another!
Even now my heart fails within me when I recur to this rout of
grim-visaged ideas. Now subdued almost to tears, now raving in my agony,
still I wandered along the rocky shore, which grew at each step wilder
and more desolate. Hanging rocks and hoar precipices overlooked the
tideless ocean; black caverns yawned; and for ever, among the seaworn
recesses, murmured and dashed the unfruitful waters. Now my way was
almost barred by an abrupt promontory, now rendered nearly impracticable
by fragments fallen from the cliff. Evening was at hand, when, seaward,
arose, as if on the waving of a wizard’s wand, a murky web of clouds,
blotting the late azure sky, and darkening and disturbing the till now
placid deep. The clouds had strange, fantastic shapes, and they changed
and mingled and seemed to be driven about by a mighty spell. The waves
raised their white crests; the thunder first muttered, then roared from
across the waste of waters, which took a deep purple dye, flecked with
foam. The spot where I stood looked, on one side, to the widespread
ocean; on the other, it was barred by a rugged promontory. Round this
cape suddenly came, driven by the wind, a vessel. In vain the mariners
tried to force a path for her to the open sea—the gale drove her on the
rocks. It will perish!—all on board will perish! Would I were among
them! And to my young heart the idea of death came for the first time
blended with that of joy. It was an awful sight to behold that vessel
struggling with her fate. Hardly could I discern the sailors, but I
heard them. It was soon all over! A rock, just covered by the tossing
waves, and so unperceived, lay in wait for its prey. A crash of thunder
broke over my head at the moment that, with a frightful shock, the
vessel dashed upon her unseen enemy. In a brief space of time she went
to pieces. There I stood in safety; and there were my fellow-creatures
battling, how hopelessly, with annihilation. Methought I saw them
struggling—too truly did I hear their shrieks, conquering the barking
surges in their shrill agony. The dark breakers threw hither and thither
the fragments of the wreck: soon it disappeared. I had been fascinated
to gaze till the end: at last I sank on my knees—I covered my face with
my hands. I again looked up; something was floating on the billows
towards the shore. It neared and neared. Was that a human form? It grew
more and more distinct; and at last a mighty wave, lifting the whole
freight, lodged it upon a rock. A human being bestriding a sea-chest!—a
human being! Yet was it one? Surely never such had existed before—a
misshapen dwarf, with squinting eyes, distorted features, and body
deformed, till it became a horror to behold. My blood, lately warming
towards a fellow-being so snatched from a watery tomb, froze in my
heart. The dwarf got off his chest; he tossed his straight, struggling
hair from his odious visage.
“By St. Beelzebub!” he exclaimed, “I have been well bested.” He looked
round and saw me. “Oh, by the fiend! here is another ally of the mighty
One. To what saint did you offer prayers, friend—if not to mine? Yet I
remember you not on board.”
I shrank from the monster and his blasphemy. Again he questioned me, and
I muttered some inaudible reply. He continued:—
“Your voice is drowned by this dissonant roar. What a noise the big
ocean makes! Schoolboys bursting from their prison are not louder than
these waves set free to play. They disturb me. I will no more of their
ill-timed brawling. Silence, hoary One!—Winds, avaunt!—to your
homes!—Clouds, fly to the antipodes, and leave our heaven clear!”
As he spoke, he stretched out his two long, lank arms, that looked like
spider’s claws, and seemed to embrace with them the expanse before him.
Was it a miracle? The clouds became broken and fled; the azure sky first
peeped out, and then was spread a calm field of blue above us; the
stormy gale was exchanged to the softly breathing west; the sea grew
calm; the waves dwindled to riplets.
“I like obedience even in these stupid elements,” said the dwarf. “How
much more in the tameless mind of man! It was a well-got-up storm, you
must allow—and all of my own making.”
It was tempting Providence to interchange talk with this magician. But
_Power_, in all its shapes, is respected by man. Awe, curiosity, a
clinging fascination, drew me towards him.
“Come, don’t be frightened, friend,” said the wretch: “I am
good-humoured when pleased; and something does please me in your
well-proportioned body and handsome face, though you look a little
woe-begone. You have suffered a land—I, a sea wreck. Perhaps I can allay
the tempest of your fortunes as I did my own. Shall we be friends?”—And
he held out his hand; I could not touch it. “Well, then, companions—that
will do as well. And now, while I rest after the buffeting I underwent
just now, tell me why, young and gallant as you seem, you wander thus
alone and downcast on this wild sea-shore.”
The voice of the wretch was screeching and horrid, and his contortions
as he spoke were frightful to behold. Yet he did gain a kind of
influence over me, which I could not master, and I told him my tale.
When it was ended, he laughed long and loud: the rocks echoed back the
sound: hell seemed yelling around me.
“Oh, thou cousin of Lucifer!” said he; “so thou too hast fallen through
thy pride; and, though bright as the son of Morning, thou art ready to
give up thy good looks, thy bride, and thy well-being, rather than
submit thee to the tyranny of good. I honour thy choice, by my soul!—So
thou hast fled, and yield the day; and mean to starve on these rocks,
and to let the birds peck out thy dead eyes, while thy enemy and thy
betrothed rejoice in thy ruin. Thy pride is strangely akin to humility,
methinks.”
As he spoke, a thousand fanged thoughts stung me to the heart.
“What would you that I should do?” I cried.
“I!—Oh, nothing, but lie down and say your prayers before you die. But,
were I you, I know the deed that should be done.”
I drew near him. His supernatural powers made him an oracle in my eyes;
yet a strange unearthly thrill quivered through my frame as I said,
“Speak!—teach me—what act do you advise?”
“Revenge thyself, man!—humble thy enemies!—set thy foot on the old man’s
neck, and possess thyself of his daughter!”
“To the east and west I turn,” cried I, “and see no means! Had I gold,
much could I achieve; but, poor and single, I am powerless.”
The dwarf had been seated on his chest as he listened to my story. Now
he got off; he touched a spring; it flew open! What a mine of wealth—of
blazing jewels, beaming gold, and pale silver—was displayed therein. A
mad desire to possess this treasure was born within me.
“Doubtless,” I said, “one so powerful as you could do all things.”
“Nay,” said the monster humbly, “I am less omnipotent than I seem. Some
things I possess which you may covet; but I would give them all for a
small share, or even for a loan of what is yours.”
“My possessions are at your service,” I replied bitterly—“my poverty, my
exile, my disgrace—I make a free gift of them all.”
“Good! I thank you. Add one other thing to your gift, and my treasure is
yours.”
“As nothing is my sole inheritance, what besides nothing would you
have?”
“Your comely face and well-made limbs.”
I shivered. Would this all-powerful monster murder me? I had no dagger.
I forgot to pray—but I grew pale.
“I ask for a loan, not a gift,” said the frightful thing: “lend me your
body for three days—you shall have mine to cage your soul the while,
and, in payment, my chest. What say you to the bargain?—Three short
days.”
We are told that it is dangerous to hold unlawful talk; and well do I
prove the same. Tamely written down, it may seem incredible that I
should lend any ear to this proposition; but, in spite of his unnatural
ugliness, there was something fascinating in a being whose voice could
govern earth, air, and sea. I felt a keen desire to comply; for with
that chest I could command the worlds. My only hesitation resulted from
a fear that he would not be true to his bargain. Then, I thought, I
shall soon die here on these lonely sands, and the limbs he covets will
be mine no more:—it is worth the chance. And, besides, I knew that, by
all the rules of art-magic, there were formula and oaths which none of
its practisers dared break. I hesitated to reply; and he went on, now
displaying his wealth, now speaking of the petty price he demanded, till
it seemed madness to refuse. Thus is it;—place our bark in the current
of the stream, and down, over fall and cataract it is hurried; give up
our conduct to the wild torrent of passion, and we are away, we know not
whither.
He swore many an oath, and I adjured him by many a sacred name; till I
saw this wonder of power, this ruler of the elements, shiver like an
autumn leaf before my words; and as if the spirit spake unwillingly and
perforce within him, at last, he, with broken voice, revealed the spell
whereby he might be obliged, did he wish to play me false, to render up
the unlawful spoil. Our warm life-blood must mingle to make and to mar
the charm.
Enough of this unholy theme. I was persuaded—the thing was done. The
morrow dawned upon me as I lay upon the shingles, and I knew not my own
shadow as it fell from me. I felt myself changed to a shape of horror,
and cursed my easy faith and blind credulity. The chest was there—there
the gold and precious stones for which I had sold the frame of flesh
which nature had given me. The sight a little stilled my emotions: three
days would soon be gone.
They did pass. The dwarf had supplied me with a plenteous store of food.
At first I could hardly walk, so strange and out of joint were all my
limbs; and my voice—it was that of the fiend. But I kept silent, and
turned my face to the sun, that I might not see my shadow, and counted
the hours, and ruminated on my future conduct. To bring Torella to my
feet—to possess my Juliet in spite of him—all this my wealth could
easily achieve. During dark night I slept, and dreamt of the
accomplishment of my desires. Two suns had set—the third dawned. I was
agitated, fearful. Oh expectation, what a frightful thing art thou, when
kindled more by fear than hope! How dost thou twist thyself round the
heart, torturing its pulsations! How dost thou dart unknown pangs all
through our feeble mechanism, now seeming to shiver us like broken
glass, to nothingness—now giving us a fresh strength, which can _do_
nothing, and so torments us by a sensation, such as the strong man must
feel who cannot break his fetters, though they bend in his grasp. Slowly
paced the bright, bright orb up the eastern sky; long it lingered in the
zenith, and still more slowly wandered down the west: it touched the
horizon’s verge—it was lost! Its glories were on the summits of the
cliff—they grew dun and grey. The evening star shone bright. He will
soon be here.
He came not!—By the living heavens, he came not!—and night dragged out
its weary length, and, in its decaying age, “day began to grizzle its
dark hair;” and the sun rose again on the most miserable wretch that
ever upbraided its light. Three days thus I passed. The jewels and the
gold—oh, how I abhorred them!