Responde meum argumentum--nomen est nomen--_ergo_, quod tibi est
nomen--responde argumentum.
_BEAUMONT and FLETCHER’S Wit at several Weapons._
“That night was the one fixed on for the union of Isidora and Melmoth.
She had retired early to her chamber, and sat at the casement watching
for his approach for hours before she could probably expect it. It might
be supposed that at this terrible crisis of her fate, she felt agitated
by a thousand emotions,--that a soul susceptible like hers felt itself
almost torn in pieces by the struggle,--but it was not so. When a mind
strong by nature, but weakened by fettering circumstances, is driven to
make one strong spring to free itself, it has no leisure to calculate
the weight of its hindrances, or the width of its leap,--it sits with
its chains heaped about it, thinking only of the bound that is to be its
liberation--or----
“During the many hours that Isidora awaited the approach of this
mysterious bridegroom, she felt nothing but the awful sense of that
approach, and of the event that was to follow. So she sat at her
casement, pale but resolute, and trusting in the extraordinary promise
of Melmoth, that by whatever means he was enabled to visit her, by those
she would be enabled to effect her escape, in spite of her well-guarded
mansion, and vigilant household.
“It was near one (the hour at which Fra Jose, who was sitting in
consultation with her mother over that melancholy letter, heard the
noise alluded to in the preceding chapter) when Melmoth appeared in the
garden, and, without uttering a word, threw up a ladder of ropes, which,
in short and sullen whispers, he instructed her to fasten, and assisted
her to descend. They hurried through the garden,--and Isidora, amid all
the novelty of her feelings and situation, could not avoid testifying
her surprise at the facility with which they passed through the
well-secured garden gate.
“They were now in the open country,--a region far wilder to Isidora than
the flowery paths of that untrodden isle, where she had no enemy. Now in
every breeze she heard a menacing voice,--in the echoes of her own light
steps she heard the sound of steps pursuing her.
“The night was very dark,--unlike the midsummer nights in that delicious
climate. A blast sometimes cold, sometimes stifling from heat, indicated
some extraordinary vicissitude in the atmosphere. There is something
very fearful in this kind of wintry feeling in a summer night. The cold,
the darkness, followed by intense heat, and a pale, meteoric lightning,
seemed to unite the mingled evils of the various seasons, and to trace
their sad analogy to life,--whose stormy summer allows youth little to
enjoy, and whose chilling winter leaves age nothing to hope.
“To Isidora, whose sensibilities were still so acutely physical, that
she could feel the state of the elements as if they were the oracles of
nature, which she could interpret at sight,--this dark and troubled
appearance seemed like a fearful omen. More than once she paused,
trembled, and turned on Melmoth a glance of doubt and terror,--which the
darkness of the night, of course, prevented him from observing. Perhaps
there was another cause,--but as they hurried on, Isidora’s strength and
courage began to fail together. She perceived that she was borne on with
a kind of supernatural velocity,--her breath failed,--her feet
faultered,--and she felt like one in a dream.
“Stay!” she exclaimed, gasping from weakness, “stay!--whither am I
going?--where do you bear me?”--“To your nuptials,” answered Melmoth, in
low and almost inarticulate tones;--but whether rendered so by emotion,
or by the speed with which they seemed to fly along, Isidora could not
discover.
“In a few moments, she was forced to declare herself unable to proceed,
and leaned on his arm, gasping and exhausted. “Let me pause,” said she
ominously, “in the name of God!” Melmoth returned no answer. He paused,
however, and supported her with an appearance of anxiety, if not of
tenderness.
“During this interval, she gazed around her, and tried to distinguish
the objects near; but the intense darkness of the night rendered this
almost impossible,--and what she _could_ discover, was not calculated to
dispel her alarm. They seemed to be walking on a narrow and precipitous
path close by a shallow stream, as she could guess, by the hoarse and
rugged sound of its waters, as they fought with every pebble to win
their way. This path was edged on the other side by a few trees, whose
stunted growth, and branches tossing wild and wide to the blast that now
began to whisper mournfully among them, seemed to banish every image of
a summer night from the senses, and almost from the memory. Every thing
around was alike dreary and strange to Isidora, who had never, since her
arrival at the villa, wandered beyond the precincts of the garden,--and
who, even if she had, would probably have found no clue to direct her
where she now was. “This is a fearful night,” said she, half internally.
She then repeated the same words more audibly, perhaps in hope of some
answering and consolatory sounds. Melmoth was silent--and her spirits
subdued by fatigue and emotion, she wept. “Do you already repent the
step you have taken?” said he, laying a strange emphasis on the
word--already. “No, love, no!” replied Isidora, gently wiping away her
tears; “it is impossible for me ever to repent it. But this
loneliness,--this darkness,--this speed,--this silence,--have in them
something almost awful. I feel as if I were traversing some unknown
region. Are these indeed the winds of heaven that sigh around me? Are
these trees of nature’s growth, that nod at me like spectres? How hollow
and dismal is the sound of the blast!--it chills me though the night is
sultry!--and those trees, they cast their shadows over my soul! Oh, is
this like a bridal night?” she exclaimed, as Melmoth, apparently
disturbed at these words, attempted to hurry her on--“Is this like a
bridal? No father, no brother, to support me!--no mother near me!--no
kiss of kindred to greet me!--no congratulating friends!”--and her fears
increasing, she wildly exclaimed, “Where is the priest to bless our
union?--where is the church under whose roof we are to be united?”
“As she spoke, Melmoth, drawing her arm under his, attempted to lead her
gently forward. “There is,” said he, “a ruined monastery near--you may
have observed it from your window.”--“No! I never saw it. Why is it in
ruins?”--“I know not--there were wild stories told. It was said the
Superior, or Prior, or--I know not what--had looked into certain books,
the perusal of which was not altogether sanctioned by the rules of his
order--books of magic they called them. There was much noise about it, I
remember, and some talk of the Inquisition,--but the end of the business
was, the Prior disappeared, some said into the prisons of the
Inquisition, some said into safer custody--(though how that could be, I
cannot well conceive)--and the brethren were drafted into other
communities, and the building became deserted. There were some offers
made for it by the communities of other religious houses, but the evil,
though vague and wild reports, that had gone forth about it, deterred
them, on inquiry, from inhabiting it,--and gradually the building fell
to ruin. It still retains all that can sanctify it in the eyes of the
faithful. There are crucifixes and tomb-stones, and here and there a
cross set up where there has been murder,--for, by a singular
congeniality of taste, a banditti has fixed their seat there now,--and
the traffic of gold for souls, once carried on so profitably by the
former inmates, is exchanged for that of souls for gold, by the
present.”
“At these words, Melmoth felt the slender arm that hung on his
withdrawn,--and he perceived that his victim, between shuddering and
struggling, had _shrunk from his hold_. “But there,” he added, “even
amid those ruins, there dwells a holy hermit,--one who has taken up his
residence near the spot,--he will unite us in his oratory, according to
the rites of your church. He will speak the blessing over us,--and one
of us, at least, shall be blessed.”--“Hold!” said Isidora, repelling,
and standing at what distance from him she could,--her slight figure
expanding to that queen-like dignity with which nature had once invested
her as the fair and sole sovereign of her own island-paradise. “Hold!”
she repeated--“approach me not by another step,--address me not by
another word,--till you tell me when and where I am to be united to
you,--to become your wedded wife! I have borne much of doubt and
terror,--of suspicion and persecution,--but”---- “Hear me, Isidora,”
said Melmoth, terrified at this sudden burst of resolution. “Hear _me_,”
answered the timid but heroic girl, springing, with the elasticity of
her early movements, upon a crag that hung over their stony path, and
clinging to an ash-tree that had burst through its fissures--“Hear me!
Sooner will you rend this tree from its bed of stone, than me from its
trunk! Sooner will I dash this body on the stony bed of the stream that
groans below my feet, than descend into your arms, till you swear to me
they will bear me to honour and safety! For you I have given up all that
my newly-taught duties have told me was holy!--all that my heart long
ago whispered I ought to love! Judge by what I _have_ sacrificed, of
what I _can_ sacrifice--and doubt not that I would be my own victim ten
thousand times sooner than yours!”--“By all that you deem holy!” cried
Melmoth, humbling himself even to kneel before her as she stood,--“my
intentions are as pure as your own soul!--the hermitage is not an
hundred paces off. Come, and do not, by a fantastic and causeless
apprehension, frustrate all the magnanimity and tenderness you have
hitherto shewed, and which have raised you in my eyes not only above
your sex, but above your whole species. Had you not been what you are,
and what no other but you could be, you had never been the bride of
Melmoth. With whom but you did he ever seek to unite his dark and
inscrutable destiny? Isidora,” he added, in tones more potent and
emphatic, perceiving she still hesitated, and clung to the
tree--“Isidora, how weak, how unworthy of you is this! You are in my
power,--absolutely, hopelessly in my power. No human eye can see
_me_--no human arm can aid _you_. You are as helpless as infancy in my
grasp. This dark stream would tell no tales of deeds that stained its
waters,--and the blast that howls round you would never waft your groans
to mortal ear! You are in my power, yet I seek not to abuse it. I offer
you my hand to conduct you to a consecrated building, where we shall be
united according to the fashion of your country--and will you still
persevere in this fanciful and profitless waywardness?”
“As he spoke, Isidora looked round her helplessly--every object was a
confirmation of his arguments--she shuddered and submitted. But as they
walked on in silence, she could not help interrupting it to give
utterance to the thousand anxieties that oppressed her heart.
“But you speak,” said she, in a suppressed and pleading tone,--“you
speak of religion in words that make me tremble--you speak of it as the
fashion of a country,--as a thing of form, of accident, of habit. What
faith do you profess?--what church do you frequent?--what holy rites do
you perform?”--“I venerate all faiths--alike, I hold all religious
rites--pretty much in the same respect,” said Melmoth, while his former
wild and scoffing levity seemed to struggle vainly with a feeling of
involuntary horror. “And do you then, indeed, believe in holy things?”
asked Isidora. “Do you indeed?” she repeated anxiously. “_I believe in a
God_,” answered Melmoth, in a voice that froze her blood; “you have
heard of those who believe and tremble,--such is he who speaks to you!”
“Isidora’s acquaintance with the book from which he quoted, was too
limited to permit her to understand the allusion. She knew, according to
the religious education she had received, more of her breviary than her
Bible; and though she pursued her inquiry in a timid and anxious tone,
she felt no additional terror from words she did not understand.
“But,” she continued, “Christianity is something more than a belief in a
God. Do you also believe in all that the Catholic church declares to be
essential to salvation? Do you believe that”---- And here she added a
name too sacred, and accompanied with terms too awful, to be expressed
in pages so light as these(1). “I believe it all--I know it all,”
answered Melmoth, in a voice of stern and reluctant confession. “Infidel
and scoffer as I may appear to you, there is no martyr of the Christian
church, who in other times blazed for his God, that has borne or
exhibited a more resplendent illustration of his faith, than I shall
bear one day--and for ever. There is a slight difference only between
our testimonies in point of duration. They burned for the truths they
loved for a few moments--not so many perchance. Some were suffocated
before the flames could reach them,--but I am doomed to bear my
attestation to the truth of the gospel, amid fires that shall burn for
ever and ever. See with what a glorious destiny yours, my bride, is
united! You, as a Christian, would doubtless exult to see your husband
at the stake,--and amid the faggots to prove his devotion. How it must
ennoble the sacrifice to think that it is to last to eternity!”
(1) Here Monçada expressed his surprise at this passage, (as savouring
more of Christianity than Judaism), considering it occurred in the
manuscript of a Jew.
“Melmoth uttered these words in ears that heard no longer. Isidora had
fainted; and hanging with one cold hand on his arm still, fell a
helpless, senseless weight on the earth. Melmoth, at this sight, shewed
more feeling than he could have been suspected of. He disentangled her
from the folds of her mantle, sprinkled water from the stream on her
cold cheek, and supported her frame in every direction where a breath of
air was to be caught. Isidora recovered; for her swoon was that of
fatigue more than fear; and, with her recovery, her lover’s short-lived
tenderness seemed to cease. The moment she was able to speak he urged
her to proceed,--and while she feebly attempted to obey him, he assured
her, her strength was perfectly recovered, and that the place they had
to reach was but a few paces distant. Isidora struggled on. Their path
now lay up the ascent of a steep hill,--they left the murmur of the
stream, and the sighing of trees, behind them,--the wind, too, had sunk,
but the night continued intensely dark,--and the absence of all sound
seemed to Isidora to increase the desolateness of the scene. She wished
for something to listen to beside her impeded and painful respiration,
and the audible beatings of her heart. As they descended the hill on the
other side, the murmuring of the waters became once more faintly
audible; and this sound she had longed to hear again, had now, amid the
stillness of the night, a cadence so melancholy, that she almost wished
it hushed again.
“Thus always, to the unhappy, the very fulfilment of their morbid
wishings becomes a source of disappointment, and the change they hoped
for is desirable only as it gives them cause to long for another change.
In the morning they say, Would to God it were evening!--Evening
comes,--and in the evening they say, Would to God it were morning! But
Isidora had no time to analyse her feelings,--a new apprehension struck
her,--and, as she could well guess from the increasing speed of Melmoth,
and head thrown backward impatiently, and often, it had probably reached
him too. A sound they had been for some time watching, (without
communicating their feelings to each other), became every moment more
distinct. It was the sound of a human foot, evidently pursuing them,
from the increasing quickness of its speed, and a certain sharpness of
tread, that irresistibly gave the idea of hot and anxious pursuit.
Melmoth suddenly paused, and Isidora hung trembling on his arm. Neither
of them uttered a word; but Isidora’s eyes, instinctively following the
slight but fearful waving of his arm, saw it directed towards a figure
so obscure, that it at first appeared like a spray moving in the misty
night,--then was lost in darkness as it descended the hill,--and then
appeared in a human form, as far as the darkness of the night would
permit its shape to be distinguishable. It came on--its steps were more
and more audible, and its shape almost distinct.--Then Melmoth suddenly
quitted Isidora, who, shivering with terror, but unable to utter a word
that might implore him to stay, stood alone, her whole frame trembling
almost to dissolution, and her feet feeling as if she were nailed to the
spot where she stood. What passed she knew not. There was a short and
darkened struggle between two figures,--and, in this fearful interval,
she imagined she heard the voice of an ancient domestic, much attached
to her, call on her, first in accents of expostulation and appeal, then
in choaked and breathless cries for help--help--help!--Then she heard a
sound as if a heavy body fell into the water that murmured below.--It
fell heavily--the wave groaned--the dark hill groaned in answer, like
murderers exchanging their stilled and midnight whispers over their work
of blood--and all was silent. Isidora clasped her cold and convulsed
fingers over her eyes, till a whispering voice, the voice of Melmoth,
uttered, “Let us hasten on, my love.”--“Where?” said Isidora, not
knowing the meaning of the words she uttered.--“To the ruined monastery,
my love,--to the hermitage, where the holy man, the man of your faith,
shall unite us.”--“Where are the steps that pursued us?” said Isidora,
suddenly recovering her recollection.--“They will pursue you no
more.”--“But I saw a figure.”--“But you will see it no more.”--“I heard
something fall into that stream--heavily--like a corse.”--“There was a
stone that fell from the precipice of the hill--the waters splashed, and
curled, and whitened round it for a moment, but they have swallowed it
now, and appear to have such a relish for the morsel, that they will not
be apt to resign it.”
“In silent horror she proceeded, till Melmoth, pointing to a dusky and
indefinite mass of what, in the gloom of night, bore, according to the
eye or the fancy, the shape of a rock, a tuft of trees, or a massive and
unlighted building, whispered, “There is the ruin, and near it stands
the hermitage,--one moment more of effort,--of renewed strength and
courage, and we are there.” Urged by these words, and still more by an
undefinable wish to put an end to this shadowy journey,--these
mysterious fears,--even at the risk of finding them worse than verified
at its termination, Isidora exerted all her remaining strength, and,
supported by Melmoth, began to ascend the sloping ground on which the
monastery had once stood. There had been a path, but it was now all
obstructed by stones, and rugged with the knotted and interlaced roots
of the neglected trees that had once formed its shelter and its grace.
“As they approached, in spite of the darkness of the night, the ruin
began to assume a distinct and characteristic appearance, and Isidora’s
heart beat less fearfully, when she could ascertain, from the remains of
the tower and spire, the vast Eastern window, and the crosses still
visible on every ruined pinnacle and pediment, like religion triumphant
amid grief and decay, that this had been a building destined for sacred
purposes. A narrow path, that seemed to wind round the edifice,
conducted them to a front which overlooked an extensive cemetery, at the
extremity of which Melmoth pointed out to her an indistinct object,
which he said was the hermitage, and to which he would hasten to intreat
the hermit, who was also a priest, to unite them. “May I not accompany
you?” said Isidora, glancing round on the graves that were to be her
companions in solitude.--“It is against his vow,” said Melmoth, “to
admit a female into his presence, except when obliged by the course of
his duties.” So saying he hasted away, and Isidora, sinking on a grave
for rest, wrapt her veil around her, as if its folds could exclude even
thought. In a few moments, gasping for air, she withdrew it; but as her
eye encountered only tomb-stones and crosses, and that dark and
sepulchral vegetation that loves to shoot its roots, and trail its
unlovely verdure amid the joints of grave-stones, she closed it again,
and sat shuddering and alone. Suddenly a faint sound, like the murmur of
a breeze, reached her,--she looked up, but the wind had sunk, and the
night was perfectly calm. The same sound recurring, as of a breeze
sweeping past, made her turn her eyes in the direction from which it
came, and, at some distance from her, she thought she beheld a human
figure moving slowly along on the verge of the inclosure of the
burial-ground. Though it did not seem approaching her, (but rather
moving in a slow circuit on the verge of her view), conceiving it must
be Melmoth, she rose in expectation of his advancing to her, and, at
this moment, the figure, turning and half-pausing, seemed to extend its
arm toward her, and wave it once or twice, but whether with a motion or
purpose of warning or repelling her, it was impossible to discover,--it
then renewed its dim and silent progress, and the next moment the ruins
hid it from her view. She had no time to muse on this singular
appearance, for Melmoth was now at her side urging her to proceed. There
was a chapel, he told her, attached to the ruins, but not like them in
decay, where sacred ceremonies were still performed, and where the
priest had promised to join them in a few moments. “He is there before
us,” said Isidora, adverting to the figure she had seen; “I think I saw
him.”--“Saw whom?” said Melmoth, starting, and standing immoveable till
his question was answered.--“I saw a figure,” said Isidora,
trembling--“I thought I saw a figure moving towards the ruin.”--“You are
mistaken,” said Melmoth; but a moment after he added, “We ought to have
been there before him.” And he hurried on with Isidora. Suddenly
slackening his speed, he demanded, in a choaked and indistinct voice, if
she had ever heard any music precede his visits to her,--any sounds in
the air. “Never,” was the answer.--“You are sure?”--“Perfectly sure.”
“At this moment they were ascending the fractured and rugged steps that
led to the entrance of the chapel,--now they passed under the dark and
ivied porch,--now they entered the chapel, which, even in darkness,
appeared to the eyes of Isidora ruinous and deserted. “He has not yet
arrived,” said Melmoth, in a disturbed voice; “Wait there a moment.” And
Isidora, enfeebled by terror beyond the power of resistance, or even
intreaty, saw him depart without an effort to detain him. She felt as if
the effort would be hopeless. Left thus alone, she glanced her eyes
around, and a faint and watery moon-beam breaking at that moment through
the heavy clouds, threw its light on the objects around her. There was a
window, but the stained glass of its compartments, broken and
discoloured, held rare and precarious place between the fluted shafts of
stone. Ivy and moss darkened the fragments of glass, and clung round the
clustered pillars. Beneath were the remains of an altar and crucifix,
but they seemed like the rude work of the first hands that had ever been
employed on such subjects. There was also a marble vessel, that seemed
designed to contain holy water, but it was empty,--and there was a stone
bench, on which Isidora sunk down in weariness, but without hope of
rest. Once or twice she looked up to the window, through which the
moon-beams fell, with that instinctive feeling of her former existence,
that made companions of the elements, and of the beautiful and glorious
family of heaven, under whose burning light she had once imagined the
moon was her parent, and the stars her kindred. She gazed on the window
still, like one who loved the light of nature, and drank health and
truth from its beams, till a figure passing slowly but visibly before
the pillared shafts, disclosed to her view the face of that ancient
servant, whose features she remembered well. He seemed to regard her
with a look, first of intent contemplation,--then of compassion,--the
figure then passed from before the ruined window, and a faint and
wailing cry rung in the ears of Isidora as it disappeared.
“At that moment the moon, that had so faintly lit the chapel, sunk
behind a cloud, and every thing was enveloped in darkness so profound,
that Isidora did not recognize the figure of Melmoth till her hand was
clasped in his, and his voice whispered, “He is here--ready to unite
us.” The long-protracted terrors of this bridal left her not a breath to
utter a word withal, and she leaned on the arm that she felt, not in
confidence, but for support. The place, the hour, the objects, all were
hid in darkness. She heard a faint rustling as of the approach of
another person,--she tried to catch certain words, but she knew not what
they were,--she attempted also to speak, but she knew not what she said.
All was mist and darkness with her,--she knew not what was
muttered,--she felt not that the hand of Melmoth grasped hers,--but she
felt that the hand that united them, and clasped their palms within his
own, was as _cold as that of death_.