Two days afterwards, my husband returned from his hunting party, bringing
some game with him. It was now late in the fall, and the forest trees
were tinted with many and various dyes, but the charms of nature had
no charms for me then, it was all dark and desolate, like my soul.
This strange, unlooked for event in my new married life, carried back
my thoughts to the miserable days of infancy, and the lonely hours I
spent as a wandering beggar girl in the streets of Vienna; the ideas the
speculative mind of childhood then indulged in, again returned to me, and
I began to take an inverted view of everything, and to look on nature and
human beings with an abstracted gaze.
The evening of my husband’s return, I was standing on the balcony of the
castle, when he rode up to the gates, followed by his grooms; he rode
well, and his appearance was distinguished on horseback; seeing me, he
lifted his hat, and smiled, then disappeared under the gateway.
Knowing he would expect me to meet him, I slowly dragged myself to the
banqueting hall, for so entirely were my feelings toward him changed,
that now I would have avoided, where formerly I should joyfully have
sprung to his arms.
He stood surrounded by his dogs and servants, giving directions to the
grooms: saddles and housings, and game were lying about.
“My love, excuse me a moment; I will see you in your drawing-room
presently,” said Monsieur de Serval, as I came toward him. Seeing him
occupied with his retainers and servants, and glad to be alone, I went to
my salon, and sat down to my piano; I began a sweet air from one of the
operas I had formerly performed; it was Norma’s reproach to Polileo, and,
as I sang it, I felt how applicable it was to my own case. A heavy hand
was laid firmly on my shoulder, and turning, I saw Pasiphae.
“My lady, Monsieur de Serval has come back; I saw him just now in the
hall.’
“I know it, Pasiphae, I have just seen him; how is she, is she quiet?”
“No, my lady, rather wild and noisy this evening; oh, you had better not
let him know what you have discovered.”
“I shall tell him the truth; I am not afraid to speak the truth,
Pasiphae; it should at all times be spoken; no blame shall fall on you;
be quieted, you are safe.”
The sudden entrance of my husband interrupted us, as I was about
asking some question about the unhappy Isodore. At the sight of him,
notwithstanding the injury I was satisfied he had done that poor woman,
the thousand fascinating remembrances of the last six months crowded
fast upon me; and, in looking on his fair face, whatever wickedness that
face concealed, I felt I loved him still. It was a delusion, when I
imagined I could so quickly learn to hate him. In fact, the transitions
of human feelings are like the seasons of the year, so gradually do we
pass from one line of feeling to the other extreme, that we are ourselves
unconscious when the end is attained. Thus it was with me; I did finally
consummate the climax of indifference and contempt towards my husband,
but not then: I had not reached it then.
Pasiphae made a low obeisance to her stern master, and left us alone.
As usual, Rinaldo kissed me; I submitted to the caress without returning
it: noticing my coldness, a cloud gathered on his brow.
“You receive me very indifferently, Genevra, on my return from a perilous
bear hunt.”
“I feel indifferent at this moment, Rinaldo.’
“Pray, may I inquire, signora, the cause of this change?” said he, and
drew his stately figure to its full height, and regarded me searchingly.
“I can easily explain it, monsieur: I have been in the right wing of the
castle, and have seen the lunatic you keep shut up there, Lady Isodore.”
He started back, as if shot; then rage shone in his eyes, and he angrily
exclaimed,
“You have been to those deserted apartments: how dared you go there, what
took you there?”
“My feet, of course, were the mechanical operators on the occasion,
monsieur,” answered I, derisively; “but curiosity was the only motive I
had at first, till gaining access, I beheld the victim of your cruelty.”
“You, Genevra, _you_, to pry into my secret affairs: you, whom I have
taken from a disgraceful profession, and elevated in rank to any lady in
the land, to talk to me of cruelty;” and foaming with rage he tore up and
down the room like a madman.
“Would, monsieur, for my peace of mind, my happiness, that you could
undo what you consider so great an honor, and restore me to that
‘disgraceful profession,’ which I have every reason to regret having
left for the arms of a libertine; and a home that has been desecrated
by wanton violence. Yes, when the night before last I went to those
rooms, and gazed with feelings of intense pity upon that forlorn being, I
plainly beheld the life you have hitherto led, and to which you will of
course return, after the novelty of my love has worn away. Oh, little did
I think, when I pledged you my whole heart and soul at the altar, little
did I dream that my affection would be thus requited by living witnesses
of shame and horror like this.”
I felt excited to a terrible degree: the recollection of her injuries,
and my own shame, had excited me to a point I should, ordinarily, have
believed myself incapable of: with his arms folded and head depressed, my
husband contemplated me.
“If you have finished, signora, I should like to take the liberty of
speaking,” said he, ironically.
“No, I have not done; I never could find words sufficiently strong to
express my disgust and horror of such actions. Other women, perhaps,
creatures of sensual, vulgar souls, might feel jealous of the husband’s
love, forgetting the villany extended to the betrayed one; but I do not.
I blame you, not her—whoever she may have been, whatever she may have
done.”
“Will you hear me, lady?” again demanded he, in the same cool tone as
before.
“Yes, monsieur; speak on. I have expressed my thoughts: now speak yours.”
Haughtily I flung myself on a couch, and, looking him in the face,
awaited his remarks.
“The unfortunate woman you have seen,” said Monsieur de
Serval—endeavoring to compose his features and his voice to
calmness—“that unfortunate is a Spanish woman, from Madrid—her name is
Lady Isodore Dosamados—she was of a noble, but impoverished family: when
I first became her lover, I never enticed her from habits of morality;
she voluntarily became my companion. When I passed through Spain, on my
return to Italy, she attached herself to me, and I brought her here: it
was her own jealous temper, exasperating my irritable one, which brought
her to her present condition. If she chose to excite me to a quarrel, and
work upon my feelings until, losing all consciousness, I inflicted a blow
that crazed her, it was her own fault; I did not intend to harm her; but
immoral women, when enraged, are more like wild beasts than human beings:
thus it was with her. I have provided for her during her insanity, and
will continue to do so as long as her wretched life continues.”
“I do not believe all you wish to impress me with as truth, in regard to
your moderation and kindness to her,” I replied, as he paused, evidently
expecting me to say something. “I don’t believe all you say; for
Pasiphae”—I stopped abruptly, remembering my promise not to implicate her.
“What of her?” cried he, sternly.
“Nothing.”
“I know what you would say: that she has told you many delightful tales
of my cruelty, as you call it; well, let the old woman have her say:
women and children should never be contradicted; her crazy ward will
not live long; I only retain her now because she can manage her better
than any other. When Isodore dies she shall go quickly: and as for you,
signora, learn that I take neither reproof nor advice from my wife
however much I love her: and beware how you provoke my anger thus a
second time.”
He stamped out of the room, and his heavy tread re-echoed along the
corridor. Amazed at his temper, I sat still, thinking over what he had
said, and wondering if he had spoken the truth: which, in that case,
would have been some extenuation of his fault, when Pasiphae came rushing
into the room, her face expressing the greatest terror, and frantically
wringing her hands, she threw herself on her knees before me, and stared,
without speaking.
“What is the matter, Pasiphae? what has happened? what ails you?” I cried.
“Oh, terrible! my lady. When I went back to the rooms, an hour ago—when I
left you here with master—I found Lady Isodore had got out of her room.
Frightened nearly to death, I went to hunt her. It seems she had wandered
along the corridor, which is dark and gloomy in the evening, and not
seeing the great staircase, tripped over it, and fell from top to bottom,
fracturing her skull, and bruising her body dreadfully. I found her lying
senseless at the bottom of the steps, and got the men to carry her up to
bed. Oh! come with me, dear lady; come quickly? she may be dead even now.”
I needed no urging to fly through the dim galleries, to the deserted
apartments: Pasiphae following as fast as her legs would carry her.
There, stretched on her couch, apparently lifeless, her wild face cut
and gashed with wounds, blood streaming from her head, lay poor Isodore.
The physician was already in attendance, bathing the blood from her face
and head, and two or three of the household domestics, in astonishment,
beheld what they had never dreamed of before,—that the deserted wing
of the castle was tenanted by a lunatic. Her existence there, during
the period of her insanity, had always been a mystery,—known but to one
or two, who carefully guarded the secret,—and they now stood gaping in
stupid wonder.
I assisted the physician in bandaging that poor head, and applied
aromatic vinegar to her hands and nose. The esculapius eyed her with that
peculiar expression physicians bestow on those whose case they consider
hopeless. For an hour, perhaps, she lay insensible. I stood rubbing her
hands, while tears fell fast from my face on that poor distorted one.
Presently a slight shiver ran through her frame, her eyes opened
spasmodically, then closed again: she opened and shut her hands like one
in intense pain, then she groaned sorrowfully. Old Pasiphae buried her
weeping countenance in the pillows of the bed.
“Doctor,” said I, “tell me the real truth; will she recover from these
terrible wounds?”
“My dear signora, to be candid with you, I must say, judging from the
severity of the fracture on the skull, she never will. She may linger a
day or two; but I scarcely think she will survive that length of time;
the poor woman has killed herself.”
This announcement, delivered with the habitual coolness of gentlemen of
that profession, was a thunder-bolt to me.
“Going to die, do you say? Oh, heavens! how dreadful.”
After leaving a potion to be taken at a certain hour, the physician went
away, promising to call at day-break, and we were left with the sufferer
alone. Monsieur de Serval had been informed of the sad event. Pasiphae
said he made no remark, but strode past her to his room, and locked
himself in. Probably if he felt any sentiment at all, it was one of joy
at the prospect of release from his illicit tie. Oh! how selfish are men
where their pride or vanity is touched, or their vices exposed.
All night I watched beside her. She remained in a state of stupor,
manifesting no life, save by a feeble groan now and then, and sometimes
opening those great eyes, and then relapsing into lethargy.
The physician was punctual to his promise, and the gray dawn had scarce
been born ere he came. He administered something which momentarily
revived her, and in the course of the day she spoke. Oh! strange
problem,—spoke sanely! with that singular precision we frequently see
in the insane restored to mind. Her memory reverted and dated from the
fatal moment when the blow was given which shattered that fair temple of
reason.
I had not seen Rinaldo since the hour of ten, the night before, and as
he was acquainted with the sad disaster, I wondered at his indifference
to what the physician too prophetically foresaw—her death-bed. Alas!
thought I, as I leaned over her and watched the slow dawning of mental
consciousness, and the confused look and air of intense agony her face
showed,—alas! it seems to be my fate to be connected with the worthless
and unhappy. My husband, whom I thought so perfect—so repentant of former
follies and determined to amend in future—has sadly disappointed me.
The world I imagined so beautiful an Elysium, I find the abode of fair
deceit, and corrupt and rotten at the core. Oh, life! where are thy
pleasures unmingled with the alloy of pain? or is it thus in everything?
No sooner do we possess it, than we discover it to be like those lovely
apples of the shores of the Red Sea, very fair to look upon; but, when
tasted, bitter as wormwood—rotten as dust.
Pasiphae disturbed the sad tenor of my thoughts, by directing my
attention to the door, at which stood Monsieur de Serval. Thinking his
presence the indication of a better mood,—of a feeling of compassion
toward his unhappy mistress,—I sprang toward him, and, forgetting our
quarrel, caught his hand in mine. He looked melancholy; and I thought I
could trace remorse on those delicate features.
“Oh, Rinaldo!” I cried, “you see what has happened. Last night, while
the nurse was absent from the room, she left the apartment, and not
seeing the great staircase, stepped off it and fractured her skull. The
physician says she cannot survive. How terrible it is—is it not—to see
one die who has led such a life? Come close to her; she is regaining her
senses—her right mind.”
My husband started. He evidently expected to see her crazed still, and
did not want to meet face to face, with reason restored, the woman he
had brutalized; but as she lay there and looked at him, intellect shone
in those dark oriental eyes,—not the quick, sharp, wandering stare of
insanity. She recognised him, and feebly beckoned with her hands. I
gently drew him to the bed-side. She made a motion as if to be raised,
and I lifted her in my arms and laid her head on my breast. The blood
had oozed out from the bandages, and her hair was clotted with it: her
face was deadly pale, and the mists of death had already settled there;
her eyes were growing languid and dim, and hands and feet very cold.
My husband looked at her with that expression of self-consciousness of
having inflicted wrong which alone can impress the human features, ere
the heart is altogether hardened and depraved. As I have said, her
memory flew back four years before, and she thought the quarrel and the
deed had just occurred.
“Nevermind, dear Rinaldo, I forgive you. Don’t grieve, though I die from
it. I know I am high tempered; I provoked you to do it; I did not mean to
make you angry: don’t grieve. Here, Pasiphae, bandage my head; put me to
bed: when I recover I will try and be a better woman—more deserving of
your love.”
In agony I glanced at the physician; she had no idea of her real state;
she knew not that death, in a few hours, would take her for his own. The
good man eyed her with an air of interest, for this was a strange case.
He approached her, perceiving my wish; and, taking one of her hands in
his, said quietly,
“My good lady, listen to me. You are not aware of your condition at
present; you are only this moment regaining your mind; you have been
insane for several years, till last night, escaping from the room, you
fell down stairs, and that sudden concussion has been the means of
restoring your mind. It is my duty to tell you that a very few hours will
close your life; you cannot live longer than to-morrow.”
“Been insane,” repeated she, with a scornful, indignant air, “you are
dreaming, man; it was only a moment ago Rinaldo and I were quarrelling,
and, enraged, he struck me with a pistol. I am very sorry; but, oh! how
strangely my head feels: oh! how painful! what ails me? why am I lying
here surrounded by people? how dim everything looks. I cannot distinguish
anything: why is this? Get lights: I must arise and dress. I must find
Rinaldo: where is he?”
She pushed me violently away from her, and with the last effort of
strength, sprung from her bed to her feet. Seeing my husband, she threw
herself on his neck, and wildly sobbing, kissed him. It was an awful
sight, to behold that woman, already in the embraces of death, hugging
and clinging to what had once constituted her joy of existence. I felt
no jealousy, for I ever possessed this peculiar trait; the moment an
object of affection disappoints me, that moment affection and infatuation
disappear. I felt a sentiment of bitter shame and regret that I had given
myself to such a man;—that is what I experienced as I witnessed this
strange scene.
He looked annoyed,—not grieved; and once or twice tried to lay her down
on the bed, but her personal strength, to which was added additional
power by the strong excitement under which she labored, frustrated
his endeavor. Her disordered hair hung down her back; the bruised and
bandaged head, covered with blood, presented a ghastly sight. Her thin
hands, which clasped his neck, scratched and wounded; and the long night
robe she wore dabbled with blood.
“No, no, no,” she cried; “I have you; I have you: now you shall not go
till you promise to love me, and forgive me my anger.”
“Take her away, Pasiphae: rid me of the mad woman,” shouted my husband.
“Why do you stand there, stupidly inactive, when you see me thus annoyed?
Take her off my neck: put her in bed.”
At the sound of his loud vindictive voice she relapsed her hold,
staggered back, and mournfully gazing on his enraged face, shivered,
turned, if possible, more pale,—then fell flat on the floor!
“Oh, miserable man!” I exclaimed, as the nurse raised the death-stricken,
inanimate form, and laid it on the bed, while the doctor darted looks of
contempt at him. “Oh, apology for humanity! and have you no pity for the
unhappy sufferer from your vices?”
“Why did you summon me here, madam, to witness this mummery? We all must
die some day, it matters not how. Do I wish to behold the death-bed of a
lunatic? Can _I_ assist her final departure? Why have you called me?—to
anger me, I suppose.”
“Well, monsieur, if you think it too great a condescension to see her
die, go; leave the room,—I will attend the poor dying creature.”
Without replying, save by a look of scorn and anger, he departed. I could
easily understand that he felt doubly angered when he reflected (as he
must have done) that my discovery of his illicit connexion necessarily
would weaken, if not wholly obliterate, my love for him. It was this
that inspired his rage, and made him hate the unfortunate object of it.
His love for me was still unabated;—not so mine. A bar of ice seemed
placed between us. In this respect women and men differ greatly, for
though a man may indulge himself in many loves, yet he generally returns
to the lawful one. On the contrary, when a woman’s affections are
once thoroughly alienated, they seldom return to the first object of
attachment.
I cannot think of that woman’s death-bed without bitter regret, nor
write this portion of my memoir without dropping tears upon the page.
Recovering from the stupor into which she had fallen when he repulsed
her,—her eyes roved anxiously round in search of him. Not seeing him, she
closed them again, and remained motionless. An hour passed by: finding
she did not stir, I felt her hands and feet,—they were growing colder and
colder, and her eyes more dim. She was an hour nearer death.
“She will be dead before twilight, lady,” said the physician, having
felt her pulse. “Poor thing! her death is very painful; she has suffered
much.”
“Yes, I have suffered much,” was her audible reply, to our astonishment,
and she uplifted her eyes and joined her hands as if praying. I
remembered Monsieur de Serval’s description of his mother’s death-bed,
and wondered how he could treat thus the last moments of his neglected
mistress. So easy is it to express fine sentiments which one does not
feel, and never practise! Fine words cost nothing, and may be equally
well said by a bad as a noble soul; but fine actions _must_ result from a
good heart.
Gradually twilight drew near, and she was sinking momently. Raised on my
breast, I held one hand in mine;—she seemed laboring to say something. I
stooped to the level of her ear, and tried to catch the sound. Her voice
was low, faint, and broken.
“Dear lady,” at last I thought I heard her say; “I thank you for your
kindness, whoever you may be, and—,” she paused, as if to reflect, “tell
him I forgive him the injury he has done me.”
Backward she fell from my supporting arms on her pillow: slower and
slower came her breath; more fixed grew her eyes; her hands grasped
convulsively at the bed clothes. I heard a rattling sound from her
throat; then the eyelids remained half closed, the mouth half open;
the hands released their hold, and the physician, bending over her,
said,—“Madame, she is dead!”
I burst into tears, and fled from the chamber of death to my own room,
and there wept long and bitterly, both for her and for myself.
* * * * *
Pasiphae told me, some days after, that the corpse had been buried in
a cemetery two miles from the castle,—that M. de Serval had gone to
the room and looked at the dead, and she saw, or fancied she saw, him
shed tears. The old woman, now her insane charge was dead,—so strong is
habit,—really seemed to regret the loss, and continually talked of her.
For myself, I felt wretched, and wept at early dawn, at bright noon, and
again when dark night came on. I thought of my husband: I regretted his
behaviour; and notwithstanding all, I wished—oh, I don’t know what I
wished; but one thing I know is certain, that death, had he come then,
would not have found me unwilling to go.
For two weeks after Isodore’s death, I remained alone in my apartments.
The communication between them and monsieur’s having been, by my order,
closed, lest he might intrude upon me. I neglected my dress, and my long
ringlets hung in wild disorder around my face. I wore a black dress,
as if in mourning, for my soul was mourning; and thus attired, and thus
lonely, I sat opposite a mirror, in which I beheld myself,—not the joyous
bride of six months ago, but pale, dejected, and melancholy; and thus I
sat and mused to no purpose, when my waist was clasped by a well known
hand, and a mouth, whose kisses I can never forget, imprinted one on my
cheek, as Rinaldo’s voice murmured in my ear:
“Genevra, I am miserable, living thus without you. Let the past be
forgotten and forgiven: let us love each other as we did before this sad
affair. You cannot so quickly have learned to hate me, have you?”
I hesitated a moment, I confess: then love triumphed over every other
feeling, and throwing myself into his arms, we fervently kissed each
other, and he promised to lead a better life. Of that, however, from what
I now comprehended of my husband’s character and habits, I had little
hope; for any habit, when once confirmed, be it _rouéism_, gambling, or
drinking, obtains such fascinating influence over the mind, that it is
rarely, if ever, relinquished. Still I endeavored to cherish a fondness,
which I felt his outlandish behavior would soon oblige me to abandon.
The novelty of possession had now worn off, and he began to wish for
other society than mine; accordingly he resumed his acquaintance with the
neighboring nobility, and frequently the banqueting hall resounded with
their boisterous conviviality to a late hour of night. Then my husband
would be carried in the arms of his grooms in a state of drunkenness to
bed, while his guests were borne off in a similar condition to theirs. At
first, when I gently reproached him with his excesses, he seemed grieved,
listened to me quietly, and answered sorrowfully, that he knew he did
wrong; but soon this gentleness changed to roughness, and if I spoke
reprovingly, he sternly bade me be silent, and not presume to admonish
him, of what he was the best judge of. Thus in alternations of coldness,
reproaches, quarrels, and reconciliations, a year of married life passed
away.
As I became more estranged from him, I missed the gayeties and pleasures
of Naples, which his affections had for a few months compensated me for
the loss of. I often thought of Blanche, of my teacher, and the kind
Madame Bonni. Monsieur Belmont had heard nothing of Blanche, though
within the year, inquiry had often been made by him concerning her.
My kind hostess had not forgotten me, and her love was often sent; my
teacher’s letters I carefully treasured, and read each one with double
care; they seemed like tidings of life: for the quiet chateau, the
rustic neighborhood, could scarcely be designated by that name; and my
regular existence, systematic as a clock, partook largely of lifeless
monotony. Rinaldo, it is true, made amends to bacchus for my dullness,
for night after night found him at the gaming table, playing high, or
carousing with his noisy companions. When, sometimes, I saw him excited
with wine, I could with difficulty realize that it was the same refined
man, whose sweet voice, and gentle ways had won my virgin heart, on
the beautiful shores of Parthenope. Guilo, my husband’s valet, said
that although his master had always lived high and been very gay, yet,
during the first months of our marriage, he had behaved much better than
formerly, and the worthy domestic appeared astonished to see him return
to his old habits; but he did not reflect, that the object for which this
good behavior was cultivated was attained, and there was no longer any
need of playing a part.
I sometimes took long walks through that fair valley, and among the lofty
hills which majestically surrounded it. I amused and entertained myself
with the observation of nature, in its many different, yet all beautiful
modifications; I saw the birds, as they floated on the wing; I saw the
waving of the foliage of the forest trees, and the clouds as they moved
through the dewy atmosphere, for an eternal mist ever hung over those
mountains and that valley. The shepherds tended their flocks there, and
thither in harvest and vintage time came the pretty village girls, and
the hardy mountaineers, to gather the fruitful grape. Sometimes sitting
beneath some lofty tree, I reflected on the sottishness of the heart,
which, the more it possesses, the more it wants; I wondered if there was
any such thing as happiness, in what it consisted, and where to be found;
and then I wondered if it was exemplified by the epicurean belief, that
happiness must consist in banishing from the mind all painful thoughts,
and wholly surrendering oneself, spiritually and bodily, to pleasure:
or if the doctrine of the stoics was true, that happiness or misery,
pleasure or pain, was a principle of the mind, and could not be affected
by external objects; that if the mind was properly tutored, it would be
incapable of any other feeling than that of rational, quiet contentment;
it would be insensible to the cares and sorrows of life, regarding all
things with the proud eyes of ethereal, idealized philosophy. I inclined
towards the stoics, and resolved, if possible, so to school my mind, that
no earthly disappointment should surprise or vex me; but, unfortunately,
it is much easier to make resolves, than to keep them.
Sometimes I extended my rambles to Isodore’s grave,—a simple mound of
earth, unmarked by tablet or tomb-stone. She had now been dead several
months, and the grass and wild flowers grew luxuriantly above the mound.
I often sat down on it, and fixing my eyes on the starry worlds over
head, at twilight time, sought to penetrate the secrets of futurity, and
read my destiny in their eternal light. I thought of the thousands and
thousands of years that had passed into eternity since first they were
hung there. “Why! oh, why?” I cried aloud from the fulness of my heart;
“why is it that the beautiful, the great, the good, all moulder back
to dust, and are forgotten, while these shine on, bright as when first
placed there, coeval with the Great Spirit, from time to eternity?—while
we die, and, oh, worse than all! know not what is to come hereafter!”
Such gloomy thoughts occupied my mind, as I slowly returned home after
twilight had deepened into sombre night, my clothes damp with dew.
“Pasiphae,” said I, as I flung myself into my fauteuil, tired and
sorrowful; “get me some dry clothes, and arrange the fire. Where is
Monsieur de Serval? is he at home?”
“Master was inquiring for you, my lady, this evening, and I sought for
you, but could not find you, when Guilo told me he saw you go out the
castle gate, and take the forest road. I told master, and he went away to
his shooting gallery.”
As she spoke he entered the room, in his hunting dress, looking very
pale after his night’s carouse. We kissed each other; but the salute had
little of the fervor of former days.
“I was looking for you this evening, Genevra, but you were not in your
apartments.”
“No; I went to take a walk in the woods.”
He began whistling as he walked up and down, evidently wishing Pasiphae
gone. Anticipating his wish, after I had changed shoes and stockings, I
dismissed her.
“I wished to see you,” said he, after she had gone, “to tell you that I
am going away again, a hundred miles back into the country, on a hunting
party, to be absent a week. When I return I shall bring a friend with me,
the Count Calabrella, to spend some days.”
“Yes,” said I, mechanically.
Continuing his walk, he looked at me as I sat.
“You don’t look well of late, Genevra; your face has lost its freshness;
your eyes their brightness.”
“I feel altered externally and internally.”
“I think I am something changed myself within the last year. Let me
see,” said he, reflectively; “yes, this is the anniversary of our
marriage:—the year has been an eventful one to me.” He seemed to expect
some remark, and I determined to touch him to the quick.
“Yes,” I replied, as if unconsciously; “it is five months since Isodore
died: how sad her death-bed was!”
His face flushed, and he exclaimed fiercely:
“Why do you speak of that woman? why do you remind me of her? She
is dead; well, let her rest in peace, and cease to torment me with
recollections of her.”
But I wished him to hear of her. I thought it only an act of justice to
her injured memory, and I continued quietly:
“You feel, then, no remorse for your past conduct toward her, monsieur?
no regret, yet she loved you much; and if she erred, it may have been
through unhappy circumstances, or through an overweening attachment to
you.”
“She sinned through nothing of the sort,” cried he sharply,—“her affair
with me was not the only one she ever had. She had been a notorious
woman long before I ever saw her. As for the deep regrets you talk of, I
feel none. I consider I acted honorably in taking care of a lunatic, and
suffering myself to be frequently annoyed by the antics of a crazy woman.
She is better off where she is.”
I saw my husband was impenetrable to any feeling on the subject, and
feeling misanthropic myself, I cared not to enter into a wordy war.
Relapsing into silence and thought, I sat motionless. One thing I plainly
perceived, that he was piqued that I pitied the dead Isodore, and
manifested neither anger, contempt, nor hatred for her memory; he would
rather have seen me furiously jealous, retaining the recollection of her
error, and hating her name. But I had lost all hatred for anything and
everything, and was sinking into a listless apathy.
“Well, farewell till we meet again,” said Monsieur de Serval, abruptly,
after a moment’s pause.
“Farewell, monsieur.”
We shook hands, and he departed. I watched from my window, and saw his
close travelling carriage rolled into the court-yard. Guilo placed
numerous packages, boxes of cigars, and comfites on the front seat; then
my husband entered it, his hat slouched over his eyes, and enveloped in
his great coat. Guilo mounted behind; the postillion huzza’d, and they
rattled away down the valley road.
I did not miss him; his society was no longer necessary to my very
existence. We could live apart for days, weeks, months, without the
same regrets and longings we should have experienced during the first
months of married life. During his absence I busied myself in household
affairs, rode on horseback, played and sang, and endeavored to kill time
as fast as possible. I was very young, and my tastes and habits still
bordered closely on girlhood—I might almost say childhood. Pasiphae,
with her weird-like countenance, as she sat over the fire in the
banqueting hall on those chilly autumnal nights, and told me strange
ghost stories, often laughed at the childish alarm I showed at her tales.
She was my confidante, and, in fact, only friend, in that wild region.
To her I confided all my thoughts, my griefs, and fears, and hopes. She
sympathized with, but could not advise me.
The week of his absence passed quietly away: nothing of moment occurred
worth relating, and I was sitting in my salon reading a romance, when
Pasiphae entered, saying Guilo had arrived in advance of his master, and
announced that Monsieur de Serval would be with me within half an hour.
Upon the delivery of his message I consulted my mirror. Pasiphae declared
herself satisfied with my appearance. I remember with vivid distinctness
the dress I wore: it was a dark, deep crimson velvet, made high in the
neck, and long sleeves concealed my arms: the rich, heavy folds of
the robe swept the floor; a Grecian head-dress of lama lace formed my
coiffure, and my hair fell in long ringlets to my waist.
“Ah, my lady; I never saw you look so beautiful,” said the faithful
creature, in an ecstacy of delight; for the slightest thing will throw an
Italian into a fit of enthusiasm. “That head-dress is so charming, and
the robe so handsome! Ah, if fine dress only made people happy, it would
be worth wishing for.”
“Pasiphae, I think I heard monsieur’s carriage driving into the
court-yard. See if it is him.”
As I spoke, I heard voices and heavy steps in the hall, and before she
could reach the door, it was opened hastily, and my husband entered,
followed by a figure so wrapped up in coats and shawls, that I could
scarcely discern what it was. Pasiphae hastened to relieve this muffled
form of its encumbrances, after disburdening my husband: and when the
stranger, stepping toward me, bowed,—the first glance at his face told
me that I beheld the stranger of the opera. The same beautiful eyes were
bent upon me, and the low deep tones of his voice struck my ear as he
said:
“Madame, I am happy to make the acquaintance of the wife of my friend.”
I felt the blood rush to my brow, my neck, my very hands, as I
tremblingly replied:
“Count, you are most welcome to our home.”
Rinaldo did not notice my embarrassment; he was occupied in giving orders
about the luggage, the game, and a hundred other things; and when he
had completed these commands, turning to me, who had been saying some
confused nothings to the visitor, he said:
“Come, count, and you, madame, let us proceed to the supper room, and
after we have rendered our duties there, we will return hither for
conversation.”
All my husband’s movements were abrupt and singular, otherwise I should
have been astonished at this sudden interruption. Count Calabrella
offered me his arm, and leaning on that strong arm, and looking on that
handsome, energetic face, which afterwards became, oh! how dear to me,
I followed my stern lord, who strode before, to the banqueting hall.
Rinaldo sat at the head of the table, myself and his guest at each side.
By the brilliant light of the lamps around us, I could more fully observe
the stranger. The count was opposite in appearance to my husband; he was
taller, of an athletic form, strong, and manly. His eyes, large, languid,
yet sparkling, sometimes flashed fire, sometimes were the impersonation
of repose. His hands, and feet were rather large, not so delicate as
Monsieur de Serval’s. His whole appearance was rather massive, not
feminine or soft, as was the look, the whole person of my husband.
Rinaldo’s face was flushed from wine, and he talked loudly and gayly,
not to me, but to his friend. He talked most of his ill success on the
bear hunt, cursing the ill attendance of the servants and grooms. He
drank glass after glass of wine, and his evanescent spirits grew higher
and higher under the influence. I regarded him with feelings of painful
regret, but he seemed not to observe my earnest looks, save by a return
glance of scorn.
The count appeared embarrassed. I saw he felt for me and for his friend,
and looked relieved when the repast was over, and we returned to the
salon. He must have seen the coldness existing between my husband and
myself, for he also seemed infected by it, and after several efforts
at a general conversation, asked me to favor him with a song. I did
so with alacrity, to relieve the tedium which seemed to pervade the
drawing room: yet though I sang, I did so mechanically. One idea dwelt
in my mind—who was this Count Calabrella, this man, whose beautiful eyes
had so long before haunted me, like a foreshadowing dream of futurity?
How strange that he should so unexpectedly cross my path now, when a
married woman; now, when his acquaintance could be nothing to me. Still,
the same presentiment haunted me, that my destiny in future would have
something to do with him; and as I glanced around at him, as he sat near
my husband, listening to the song, leaning on the arm of the sofa, his
strongly marked features distinctly shown by the glancing firelight, what
a contrast did that manly form, so energetic, breathing, living,—speaking
of nobility of soul,—what a contrast did it not present to my fair, yet
dissipated, reckless husband! He had thrown himself in an attitude of
ease upon a sofa, and with his eyes closed, seemed half asleep. That was
scarcely polite to his guest, but Rinaldo cared not what any one thought;
he cared more for his own comfort, than for fixed rules of etiquette.
The count drew his chair towards me, and remarked, “Your castle, madame,
is delightfully situated here, in this beautiful ravine; I have often
heard Monsieur de Serval speak of his mountain home, but never, till now,
had an opportunity of seeing it.”
“Yes, the castle is a charming summer residence, though rather dreary in
winter.”
“I have never,” continued he, “been so far north before; my attendance
on his majesty has hitherto prevented me from travelling to any great
extent; and Naples and its environs, you know, do not afford any great
variety to one who has been accustomed to it a lifetime.”
“You are, then, from Naples, beautiful Naples!” Numerous recollections
were recalled by that name; and I looked down, and almost unconsciously
sighed. When I raised my eyes, I met those of the stranger, bent
curiously on my face: he seemed endeavoring to read my thoughts; and I
blushed as I met that look, though I scarce knew why myself.
“Yes,” said he, in reply to my remark, “beautiful Naples was my
birth-place; and there I have lived the principal part of my life.”
Here Rinaldo, raising himself from his recumbent posture, joined us, and
began turning over the music leaves on the piano.
“My wife sings one of these songs magnificently, count,” said he, as he
sought among the other music for it. “Oh! here it is: oblige us madame,
by singing it.”
It was the song for Ajesha: ‘We have lived and loved together in sunlight
and in tears;’ and I felt the tears gush into my own eyes, as I executed
it. It brought back, bright as yesterday, the night of its first
representation—Blanche’s spirited acting—the presence and applause of
the royal family. The tones lingered on my lips, as if they obeyed the
impulse of my heart, and by remaining, could recall bygone hours more
forcibly to mind.
“That is a charming melody,” said the count; “and it is needless to
admire that voice, whose far-spread fame has roused all Italy.”
I felt weary, and, as it was growing late, on a look from my husband, we
retired; he, accompanying his friend to a bedchamber, and I returning to
my cheerful apartment; where, by the blazing fire, I sat down to dream
and reflect, on what, alas! on what too many mortals while away existence
in—dreams, unsubstantial, unreal dreams.