Melmoth the Wanderer

by Charles Maturin

  *

  ‘From the period of this communication, Melmoth’s tenderness for his wife visibly increased.

  ‘Heaven only knows the source of that wild fondness with which he contemplated her, and in which was still mingled something of ferocity. His warm look seemed like the glow of a sultry summer day, whose heat announces a storm, and compels us by its burning oppression, to look to the storm almost for relief.

  ‘It is not impossible that he looked to some future object of his fearful experiment – and a being so perfectly in his power as his own child, might have appeared to him fatally fitted for his purpose – the quantum of misery, too, necessary to qualify the probationer, it was always in his own power to inflict.8 Whatever was his motive, he assumed as much tenderness as it was possible for him to assume, and spoke of the approaching event with the anxious interest of a human father.

  ‘Soothed by his altered manner, Isidora bore with silent sufferance the burden of her situation, with all its painful accompaniments of indisposition and dejection, aggravated by hourly fear and mysterious secresy. She hoped he would at length reward her by an open and honourable declaration, but this hope was expressed only in her patient smiles. The hour approached fast, and fearful and indefinite apprehensions began to overshadow her mind, relative to the fate of the infant about to be born under circumstances so mysterious.

  ‘At his next nightly visit, Melmoth found her in tears.

  ‘Alas!’ said she in answer to his abrupt inquiry, and brief attempt at consolation, ‘How many causes have I for tears – and how few have I shed? If you would have them wiped away, be assured it is only your hand can do it. I feel,’ she added, ‘that this event will be fatal to me – I know I shall not live to see my child – I demand from you the only promise that can support me even under this conviction’ – Melmoth interrupted her by the assurance, that these apprehensions were the inseparable concomitants of her situation, and that many mothers, surrounded by a numerous offspring, smiled as they recollected their fears that the birth of each would be fatal to them.

  ‘Isidora shook her head. ‘The presages,’ said she, ‘that visit me, are such as never visited mortality in vain. I have always believed, that as we approach the invisible world, its voice becomes more audible to us, and grief and pain are very eloquent interpreters between us and eternity – quite distinct from all corporeal suffering, even from all mental terror, is that deep and unutterable impression which is alike incommunicable and ineffaceable – it is as if heaven spoke to us alone, and told us to keep its secret, or divulge it on the condition of never being believed. Oh! Melmoth, do not give that fearful smile when I speak of heaven – soon I may be your only intercessor there.’ ‘My dear saint,’ said Melmoth, laughing and kneeling to her in mockery, ‘let me make early interest for your mediation – how many ducats will it cost me to get you canonized? – you will furnish me, I hope, with an authentic account of legitimate miracles – one is ashamed of the nonsense that is sent monthly to the Vatican.’ ‘Let your conversion be the first miracle on the list,’ said Isidora, with an energy that made Melmoth tremble – it was dark – but she felt that he trembled – she pursued her imagined triumph – ‘Melmoth,’ she exclaimed, ‘I have a right to demand one promise from you – for you I have sacrificed every thing – never was woman more devoted – never did woman give proofs of devotion like mine. I might have been the noble, honoured wife of one who would have laid his wealth and titles at my feet. In this my hour of danger and suffering, the first families in Spain would have been waiting round my door. Alone, unaided, unsustained, unconsoled, I must undergo the terrible struggle of nature – terrible to those whose beds are smoothed by the hands of affection, whose agonies are soothed by the presence of a mother – who hears the first feeble cry of her infant echoed by the joy of exulting noble relatives. Oh Melmoth! what must be mine! I must suffer in secresy and in silence! I must see my babe torn from me before I have even kissed it, – and the chrism-mantle will be one of that mysterious darkness which your fingers have woven! Yet grant me one thing – one thing!’ continued the suppliant, growing earnest in her prayer even to agony: ‘swear to me that my child shall be baptised according to the forms of the Catholic church, – that it shall be a Christian as far as those forms can make it, – and I shall feel that, if all my fearful presages are fulfilled, I shall leave behind me one who will pray for his father, and whose prayer may be accepted. Promise me, – swear to me,’ she added, in intenser agony, ‘that my child shall be a Christian! Alas! if my voice be not worthy to be heard in heaven, that of a cherub may! Christ himself suffered children to come unto him while on earth, and will he repel them in heaven? – Oh! no, – no! he will not repel yours!’

  ‘Melmoth listened to her with feelings that it is better to suppress than explain or expatiate on. Thus solemnly adjured, however, he promised that the child should be baptised; and added, with an expression which Isidora’s delight at this concession did not give her time to understand, that it should be a Christian as far as the rites and ceremonies of the Catholic church could make it one. While he added many a bitter hint of the inefficacy of any external rites – and the impotentiality of any hierarchy – and of the deadly and desperate impositions of priests under every dispensation – and exposed them with a spirit at once ludicrous and Satanic, – a spirit that mingled ridicule with horror, and seemed like a Harlequin in the infernal regions, flirting with the furies, Isidora still repeated her solemn request that her child, if it survived her, should be baptised. To this he assented; and added, with a sarcastic and appalling levity, – ‘And a Mahometan, if you should change your mind, – or any other mythology you please to adopt; – only send me word, – priests are easily obtained, and ceremonies cheaply purchased! Only let me know your future intentions, – when you know them yourself.’ – ‘I shall not be here to tell you,’ said Isidora, replying with profound conviction to this withering levity, like a cold winter day to the glow of a capricious summer one, that blends the sunshine and the lightning; – ‘Melmoth, I shall not be here then!’ And this energy of despair in a creature so young, so inexperienced, except in the vicissitudes of the heart, formed a strong contrast to the stony apathy of one who had traversed life from Dan to Beersheba, and found all barren, or – made it so.9

  ‘At this moment, while Isidora wept the cold tears of despair, without daring to ask the hand of him she loved to dry them, the bells of a neighbouring convent, where they were performing a mass for the soul of a departed brother, suddenly rung out. Isidora seized that moment, when the very air was eloquent with the voice of religion, to impress its power on that mysterious being whose presence inspired her equally with terror and with love. ‘Listen, – listen!’ she cried. The sounds came slowly and stilly on, as if it was an involuntary expression of that profound sentiment that night always inspires, – the reverberating watch-word from sentinel to sentinel, when wakeful and reflecting minds have become the ‘watchers of the night.*’ The effect of these sounds was increased, by their catching from time to time the deep and thrilling chorus of the voices, – these voices more than harmonized, they were coincident with the toll of the bell, and seemed like them set in involuntary motion, – music played by invisible hands.

  ‘Listen,’ repeated Isidora, ‘is there no truth in the voice that speaks to you in tones like these? Alas! if there be no truth in religion, there is none on earth! Passion itself evanishes into an illusion, unless it is hallowed by the consciousness of a God and of futurity. That sterility of the heart that forbids the growth of divine feeling, must be hostile also to every tender and generous sentiment. He who is without a God must be without a heart! Oh my love, will you not, as you bend over my grave, wish my last slumbers to have been soothed by sounds like these, – wish that they may whisper peace to your own? Promise me, at least, that you will lead your child to my tomb-stone, – that you will suffer it to read the inscription that tells I died in the faith of Christ, and the hope of immorta
lity. Its tears will be powerful pleaders to you not to deny it the consolation that faith has given me in hours of suffering, and the hopes with which it will illuminate my parting hour. Oh promise me this at least, that you will suffer your child to visit my grave – that is all. Do not interrupt or distract the impression by sophistry or levity, or by that wild and withering eloquence that flashes from your lips, not to enlighten but to blast. You will not weep, but you will be silent, – leave Heaven and nature free to their work. The voice of God will speak to its heart, and my spirit, as it witnesses the conflict, will tremble though in paradise, – and, even in heaven, will feel an added joy, when it beholds the victory won. Promise me, then, – swear to me!’ she added, with agonizing energy of tone and gesture. ‘Your child shall be a Christian!’ said Melmoth.

  CHAPTER XXXV

  – Oh, spare me, Grimbald!

  I will tempt hermits for thee in their cells.

  And virgins in their dreams.

  DRYDEN’S KING ARTHUR1

  It is a singular, but well-attested fact, that women who are compelled to undergo all the inconveniences and uneasiness of clandestine pregnancy, often fare better than those whose situation is watched over by tender and anxious relatives; and that concealed or illegitimate births are actually attended with less danger and suffering than those which have all the aid that skill and affection can give. So it appeared likely to fare with Isidora. The retirement in which her family lived – the temper of Donna Clara, as slow to suspect from want of penetration, as she was eager in pursuing an object once discovered, from the natural cupidity of a vacant mind – these circumstances, combined with the dress of the day, the enormous and enveloping fardingale, gave safety to her secret, at least till the arrival of its crisis. As this crisis approached, one may easily imagine the secret and trembling preparation – the important nurse, proud of the trust reposed in her – the confidential maid – the faithful and discreet medical attendant – to obtain all these Melmoth supplied her amply with money – a circumstance that would have surprised Isidora, as his appearance was always remarkably plain and private, if, at this moment of anxiety, any thought but that of the hour could have found room in her mind.

  *

  ‘On the evening supposed to be that preceding the dreaded event, Melmoth had thrown an unusual degree of tenderness into his manner – he gazed on her frequently with anxious and silent fondness – he seemed to have something to communicate which he had not courage to disclose. Isidora, well versed in the language of the countenance, which is often, more than that of words, the language of the heart, intreated him to tell her what he looked. ‘Tour father is returning,’ said Melmoth reluctantly. ‘He will certainly be here in a few days, perhaps in a few hours.’ Isidora heard him in silent horror. ‘My father!’ she cried – ‘I have never seen my father. – Oh, how shall I meet him now! And is my mother ignorant of this? – would she not have apprized me?’ – ‘She is ignorant at present; but she will not long be so.’ – ‘And from whence could you have obtained intelligence that she is ignorant of?’ Melmoth paused some time, – his features assumed a more contracted and gloomy character than they had done laterally2 – he answered with slow and stern reluctance – ‘Never again ask me that question – the intelligence that I can give you must be of more importance to you than the means by which I obtain it – enough for you that it is true.’ – ‘Pardon me, love,’ said Isidora; ‘it is probable that I may never again offend you – will you not, then, forgive my last offence?’

  ‘Melmoth seemed too intently occupied with his own thoughts to answer even her tears. He added, after a short and sullen pause, ‘Your betrothed bridegroom is coming with your father – Montilla’s father is dead – the arrangements are all concluded for your nuptials – your bridegroom is coming to wed the wife of another – with him comes your fiery, foolish brother, who has set out to meet his father and his future relative. There will be a feast prepared in the house on the occasion of your future nuptials – you may hear of a strange guest appearing at your festival – I will be there!’

  ‘Isidora stood stupified with horror. ‘Festival!’ she repeated – ‘a bridal festival! – and I already wedded to you, and about to become a mother!’

  *

  ‘At this moment the trampling of many horsemen was heard as they approached the villa – the tumult of the domestics hurrying to admit and receive them, resounded through the apartments – and Melmoth, with a gesture that seemed to Isidora rather like a menace than a farewell, instantly disappeared; and within an hour, Isidora knelt to the father she had never till then beheld – suffered herself to be saluted by Montilla – and accepted the embrace of her brother, who, in the petulance of his spirit, half rejected the chill and altered form that advanced to greet him.

  *

  ‘Every thing at the family meeting was conducted in true Spanish formality. Aliaga kissed the cold hand of his withered wife – the numerous domestics exhibited a grave joy at the return of their master – Fra Jose assumed increased importance, and called for dinner in a louder tone. Montilla, the lover, a cold and quiet character, took things as they occurred.

  ‘Every thing lay hushed under a brief and treacherous calm. Isidora, who trembled at the approaching danger, felt her terrors on a sudden suspended. It was not so very near as she apprehended – and she bore with tolerable patience the daily mention of her approaching nuptials, while she was momently3 harassed by her confidential servants with hints of the impossibility of the event of which they were in expectation, being much longer delayed. Isidora heard, felt, endured all with courage – the grave congratulation of her father and mother – the self-complacent attentions of Montilla, sure of the bride and of her dower – the sullen compliance of the brother, who, unable to refuse his consent, was for ever hinting that his sister might have formed a higher connection. All these passed over her mind like a dream – the reality of her existence seemed internal, and she said to herself. – ‘Were I at the altar, were my hand locked in that of Montilla, Melmoth would rend me from him.’ A wild but deeply-fixed conviction – a wandering image of preternatural power, overshadowed her mind while she thought of Melmoth; – and this image, which had caused her so much terror and inquietude in her early hours of love, now formed her only resource against the hour of inconceivable suffering; as those unfortunate females in the Eastern Tales, whose beauty has attracted the fearful passion of some evil genie, are supposed to depend, at their nuptial hour, on the presence of the seducing spirit, to tear from the arms of the agonized parent, and the distracted bridegroom, the victim whom he has reserved for himself, and whose wild devotion to him gives a dignity to the union so unhallowed and unnatural.*

  *

  ‘Aliaga’s heart expanded amid the approaching completion of the felicitous plans he had formed, and with his heart, his purse, which was its depositary, opened also, and he resolved to give a splendid fete in honour of his daughter’s nuptials. Isidora remembered Melmoth’s prediction of a fatal festival; and his words, ‘I will be there,’ gave her for a time a kind of trembling confidence. But as the preparations were carried on under her very eye, – as she was hourly consulted about the disposal of the ornaments, and the decorations of the apartments, – her resolution failed, and while she uttered a few incoherent words, her eye was glazed with horror.

  ‘The entertainment was to be a masked ball; and Isidora, who imagined that this might suggest to Melmoth some auspicious expedient for her escape, watched in vain for some hint of hope, – some allusion to the probability of this event facilitating her extrication from those snares of death that seemed compassing her about. He never uttered a word, and her dependence on him was at one moment confirmed, at another shaken to its foundation, by this terrible silence. In one of these latter moments, the anguish of which was increased beyond expression by a conviction that her hour of danger was not far distant, she exclaimed to Melmoth – ‘Take me – take me from this place! My existence is nothing – it i
s a vapour that soon must be exhaled – but my reason is threatened every moment! I cannot sustain the horrors to which I am exposed! All this day I have been dragged through rooms decorated for my impossible nuptials! – Oh, Melmoth, if you no longer love me, at least commiserate me! Save me from a situation of horror unspeakable! – have mercy on your child, if not on me! I have hung on your looks, – I have watched for a word of hope – you have not uttered a sound – you have not cast a glance of hope on me! I am wild! – I am reckless of all but the imminent and present horrors of to-morrow – you have talked of your power to approach, to enter these walls without suspicion or discovery – you boasted of that cloud of mystery in which you could envelope yourself. Oh! in this last moment of my extremity, wrap me in its tremendous folds, and let me escape in them, though they prove my shroud! – Think of the terrible night of our marriage! I followed you then in fear and confidence – your touch dissolved every earthly barrier – your steps trod an unknown path, yet I followed you! – Oh! If you really possess that mysterious and inscrutable power, which I dare not either question or believe, exert it for me in this terrible emergency – aid my escape – and though I feel I shall never live to thank you, the silent suppliant will remind you by its smiles of the tears that I now shed; and if they are shed in vain, its smile will have a bitter eloquence as it plays with the flowers on its mother’s grave!’

  ‘Melmoth, as she spoke, was profoundly silent, and deeply attentive. He said at last, ‘Do you then resign yourself to me?’ – ‘Alas! have I not?’ – ‘A question is not an answer. Will you, renouncing all other engagements, all other hopes, depend on me solely for your extrication from this fearful emergency?’ – ‘I will – I do!’ – ‘Will you promise, that if I render you the service you require, if I employ the power you say I have alluded to, you will be mine?’ – ‘Yours! – Alas! am I not yours already?’ – ‘You embrace my protection, then? You voluntarily seek the shelter of that power which I can promise? You yourself will me to employ that power in effecting your escape? – Speak – do I interpret your sentiments aright? – I am unable to exercise those powers you invest me with, unless you yourself require me to do so. I have waited – I have watched for the demand – it has been made – would that it never had!’ An expression of the fiercest agony corrugated his stern features as he spoke. – ‘But it may yet be withdrawn – reflect!’ – ‘And you will not then save me from shame and danger? Is this the proof of your love – is this the boast of your power?’ said Isidora, half frantic at this delay. ‘If I adjure you to pause – if I myself hesitate and tremble – it is to give time for the salutary whisper of your better angel.’5 ‘Oh! save me, and you shall be my angel!’ said Isidora, falling at his feet. Melmoth shook through his whole frame as he heard these words. He raised and soothed her, however, with promises of safety, though in a voice that seemed to announce despair – and then turning from her, burst into a passionate soliloquy. ‘Immortal Heaven! what is man? – A being with the ignorance, but not the instinct, of the feeblest animals! – They are like birds – when thy hand, O Thou whom I dare not call Father, is on them, they scream and quiver, though the gentle pressure is intended only to convey the wanderer back to his cage – while, to shun the light fear that scares their senses, they rush into the snare that is spread in their sight, and where their captivity is hopeless!’ As he spoke, hastily traversing the room, his foot struck against a chair on which a gorgeous dress was spread. ‘What is this?’ he exclaimed – ‘What ideot trumpery, what May-queen foolery is this?’ – ‘It is the habit I am to wear at the feast to-night,’ said Isidora – ‘My attendants are coming – I hear them at the door – oh, with what a throbbing heart I shall put on this glittering mockery! – But you will not desert me then?’ she added, with wild and breathless anxiety. ‘Tear not,’ said Melmoth, solemnly – ‘You have demanded my aid, and it shall be accorded. May your heart tremble no more when you throw off that habit, than now when you are about to put it on!’