Madam,
You may possibly before this letter comes to your hands have learned an
event that very nearly interests both you and me. If you have not, it is
not in my power at this time to collect together the circumstances, and
reduce them to the form of a narration. The design of my present letter
is of a very different kind. Shall I call that a design, which is the
consequence of an impulse urging me forward, without the consent of my
will, and without time for deliberation?
I write this letter with a hand dyed with the blood of your husband. Let
not the idea startle you. Matilda is advanced too far to be frightened
with bugbears. What, shall a mind inured to fickleness and levity,
a mind that deserted, without reason and without remorse, the most
constant of lovers, and that recked not the consequences, shall such a
mind be terrified at the sight of the purple blood, or be moved from its
horrid tranquility by all the tragedies that an universe can furnish?
Matilda, I have slain your husband, and I glory in the deed. I will
answer it in the face of day. I will defy that man to come forward,
and when he views the goary, lifeless corse, say to me with a tone of
firmness and conviction, "Thou hast done wrong."
And now I have but one business more with life. It is to arraign the
fair and traiterous author of all my misfortunes. Start not at the black
catalogue. Flinch not from the detail of infernal mischief. The mind
that knows how to perpetrate an action, should know how to hear the
story of it repeated, and to answer it in all its circumstances.
Matilda, I loved you. Alas, this is to say little! All my thoughts had
you for their centre. I was your slave. With you I could encounter
tenfold calamity, and call it happiness. Banished from you, the world
was a colourless and confused chaos. One moment of displeasure, one
interval of ambiguous silence crouded my imagination with every frantic
apprehension. One smile, one word of soft and soothing composition, fell
upon my soul like odoriferous balm, was a dulcet and harmonious sound,
that soothed my anguish into peace, that turned the tempest within me
to that still and lifeless calm, where not a breath disturbs the vast
serene.
And this is the passion you have violated. You have trampled upon a
lover, who would have sacrificed his life to save that tender and
enchanting frame from the impression of a thorn. And yet, Matilda, if
it had been only a common levity, I would have pardoned it. If you had
given your hand to the first chance comer, I would have drenched the cup
of woe in solitude and darkness. Not one complaint from me should have
reached your ear. If you could have found tranquility and contentment, I
would not have been the avenging angel to blast your prospects.
But there are provocations that the human heart cannot withstand. I did
not come from the hand of nature callous and intrepid, I was the stoic
of philosophy and reason. To lose my mistress and my friend at once. To
lose them!--Oh, ten thousand deaths would have been mercy to the loss!
Had they been tossed by tempests, had they been torn from my eyes by
whirlwinds, I would have viewed the scene with eye-balls of stiffened
horn. But to find all that upon which I had placed my confidence, upon
which I rested my weary heart, foul and false at once: to have those
bosoms, in which I fondly thought I reigned adored, combined in one
damned plot to overwhelm and ruin me--Indeed, Matilda, it was too much!
Well, well. Be at peace my soul. I have taken my revenge. But revenge is
not a passion congenial to the spirit of St. Julian. It was once soft
and tender as a babe. You might have bended and moulded it into what
form you pleased. But I know not how it is, it is now remorseless and
unfeeling as a rock. I have swam in horror, and I am not satiated.
I could hear tales of distress, and I could laugh at their fancied
miseries. I could view all the tragedies of battle, and walk up and down
amidst seas of blood with tranquility. It is well. I did not think I
could have done all this. But inexplicable and almighty providence
strengthens, indurates the heart for the scenes of detestation to which
it is destined.
And is it Rinaldo that I have slain? That friend that I held a thousand
times to my bosom, that friend over whose interests I have watched
without weariness? Many a time have I dropped the tear of oblivion over
his youthful wanderings. I exulted in the fruits of all my toil. Yes,
Matilda, I have seen the drops of sacred pity bedew his cheek. I have
seen his bosom heave with generous resentment, and heroic resolution.
Oh, there was a time, when the author of nature might have looked down
upon his work, and said, "This is a man." What benefits did not I
receive from his munificent character, and wide extended hand?
And who made me his judge and his avenger? What right had I to thrust my
sword into his heart? He now lies a lifeless corse. Upon his breast
I see the gaping and death-giving wound. The blood bursts forth in
continued streams. His hair is clotted with it. That cheek, that lately
glowed, is now pale and sallow. All his features are deformed. The fire
in his eye is extinguished for ever. Who has done this? What wanton and
sacrilegious hand has dared deface the work of God? It could not be his
preceptor, the man upon whom he heaped a thousand benefits? It could not
be his friend? Oh, Rinaldo, all thy errors lie buried in the damp and
chilly tomb, but thy blood shall for ever rise to accuse me!