Accustomed as she was to scenes of horror, and firm and dauntless as was Matilda’s soul, yet this was too much to behold with composure. She rushed towards him, and lifted him from the floor. In a delirium of terror, she wildly called for help. Unconscious of every thing around her, she feared Verezzi had destroyed himself. She clasped him to her bosom, and called on his name, in an ecstasy of terror.
The domestics, alarmed by her exclamations, rushed in. Once again they lifted the insensible Verezzi into the bed — every spark of life seemed now to have been extinguished; for the transport of horror which had torn his soul was almost too much to be sustained. A physician was again sent for — Matilda, maddened by desperation, in accents almost inarticulate from terror, demanded hope or despair from the physician.
He, who was a man of sense, declared his opinion, that Verezzi would speedily recover, though he knew not the event which might take place in the crisis of the disorder, which now rapidly approached.
The remonstrances of those around her were unavailing, to draw Matilda from the bed-side of Verezzi.
She sat there, a prey to disappointed passion, silent, and watching every turn of the hapless Verezzi’s countenance, as, bereft of sense, he lay extended on the bed before her.
The animation which was wont to illumine his sparkling eye was fled: the roseate colour which had tinged his cheek had given way to an ashy paleness-he was insensible to all around him. Matilda sat there the whole day, and silently administered medicines to the unconscious Verezzi, as occasion required.
Towards night, the physician again came. Matilda’s head thoughtfully leant upon her arm as he entered the apartment.
“Ah, what hope? what hope?” wildly she exclaimed.
The physician calmed her, and bid her not despair: then observing her pallid countenance, he said, he believed she required his skill as much as his patient.
“Oh! heed me not,” she exclaimed; “but how is Verezzi? will he live or die?”
The physician advanced towards the emaciated Verezzi — he took his hand.
A burning fever raged through his veins.
“Oh, how is he?” exclaimed Matilda, as, anxiously watching the humane physician’s countenance, she thought a shade of sorrow spread itself over his features—”but tell me my fate quickly,” continued she: “I am prepared to hear the worst — prepared to hear that he is even dead already.”
As she spoke this, a sort of desperate serenity overspread her features — she seized the physician’s arm, and looked steadfastly on his countenance, and then, as if overcome by unwonted exertions, she sank fainting at his feet.
The physician raised her, and soon succeeded in recalling her fleeted faculties.
Overcome by its own violence, Matilda’s despair became softened, and the words of the physician operated as a balm upon her soul, and bid her feel hope.
She again resumed her seat, and waited with smothered impatience for the event of the decisive crisis, which the physician could now no longer conceal.
She pressed his burning hand in hers, and waited, with apparent composure, for eleven o’clock.
Slowly the hours passed — the clock of Passau tolled each lingering quarter as they rolled away, and hastened towards the appointed time, when the chamberdoor of Verezzi was slowly opened by Ferdinand.
“Ha! why do you disturb me now?” exclaimed Matilda, whom the entrance of Ferdinand had roused from a profound reverie.
“Signora!” whispered Ferdinand—”Signor waits below: he wishes to see you there.”
“Ah!” said Matilda thoughtfully, “conduct him here.”
Ferdinand departed to obey her — footsteps were heard in the passage, and immediately afterwards stood before Matilda.
“Matilda!” exclaimed he, “why do I see you here? what accident has happened which confines you to this chamber?”
“Ah!” replied Matilda, in an undervoice, “look in that bed — behold Verezzi! emaciated and insensible — in a quarter of an hour, perhaps, all animation will be fled — fled for ever!” continued she, as a deeper expression of despair shaded her beautiful features.
advanced to the foot of the bed — Verezzi lay, as if dead, before his eyes; for the ashy hue of his lips, and his sunken inexpressive eye, almost declared that his spirit was fled.
gazed upon him with an indefinable expression of insatiated vengeance — indefinable to Matilda, as she gazed upon the expressive countenance of her coadjutor in crime.
“Matilda! I want you; come to the lower saloon; I have something to speak to you of,” said .
“Oh! if it concerned my soul’s eternal happiness, I could not now attend,” exclaimed Matilda, energetically: “in less than a quarter of an hour, perhaps, all I hold dear on earth will be dead; with him, every hope, every wish, every tie which binds me to earth. Oh!” exclaimed she, her voice assuming a tone of extreme horror, “see how pale he looks!”
bade Matilda farewell, and went away.
The physician yet continued watching, in silence, the countenance of Verezzi: it still retained its unchanging expression of fixed despair.
Matilda gazed upon it, and waited with the most eager, yet subdued impatience, for the expiration of the few minutes which yet remained — she still gazed.
The features of Verezzi’s countenance were slightly convulsed.
The clock struck eleven.
His lips unclosed — Matilda turned pale with terror; yet mute, and absorbed by expectation, remained rooted to her seat.
She raised her eyes, and hope again returned, as she beheld the countenance of the humane physician lighted up with a beam of pleasure.
She could no longer contain herself, but, in an ecstasy of pleasure, as excessive as her grief and horror before had been violent, in rapid and hurried accents questioned the physician. The physician, with an expressive smile, pressed his finger on his lip. She understood the movement; and, though her heart was dilated with sudden and excessive delight, she smothered her joy, as she had before her grief, and gazed with rapturous emotion on the countenance of Verezzi, as, to her expectant eyes, a blush of animation tinged his before-pallid countenance. Matilda took his hand — the pulses yet beat with feverish violence. She gazed upon his countenance — the film, which before had overspread his eye, disappeared: returning expression pervaded its orbit, but it was the expression of deep, of rooted grief.
The physician made a sign to Matilda to withdraw.
She drew the curtain before her, and, in anxious expectation, awaited the event.
A deep, a long-drawn sigh, at last burst from Verezzi’s bosom. He raised himself — his eyes seemed to follow some form, which imagination had portrayed in the remote obscurity of the apartment, for the shades of night were but partially dissipated by a lamp which burnt on a table behind. He raised his almost nerveless arm, and passed it across his eyes, as if to convince himself, that what he saw was not an illusion of the imagination. He looked at the physician, who sat near to and silent by the bedside, and patiently awaited whatever event that might occur.
Verezzi slowly arose, and violently exclaimed, “Julia! Julia! my long-lost Julia, come!” And then, more collectedly, he added, in a mournful tone, “Ah no! you are dead; lost, lost for ever!”
He turned round, and saw the physician, but Matilda was still concealed.
“Where am I?” inquired Verezzi, addressing the physician. “Safe, safe,” answered he: “compose yourself; all will be well.”
“Ah, but Julia?” inquired Verezzi, with a tone so expressive of despair, as threatened returning delirium.
“Oh! compose yourself,” said the humane physician: “you have been very ill: this is but an illusion of the imagination; and even now, I fear, that you labour under that delirium which attends a brain-fever.”
Verezzi’s nerveless frame again sunk upon the bed — still his eyes were open, and fixed upon vacancy: he seemed to be endeavouring to arrange the confusion of ideas which pressed upon his brain.
/> Matilda undrew the curtain; but, as her eye met the physician’s, his glance told her to place it in its original situation.
As she thought of the events of the day her heart was dilated by tumultuous, yet pleasurable emotions. She conjectured, that were Verezzi to recover, of which she now entertained but little doubt, she might easily erase from his heart the boyish passion which before had possessed it; might convince him of the folly of supposing that a first attachment is fated to endure for ever; and, by unremitting assiduity in pleasing him — by soft, quiet attentions, and an affected sensibility, might at last acquire the attainment of that object, for which her bosom had so long and so ardently panted.
Soothed by these ideas, and willing to hear from the physician’s mouth a more explicit affirmation of Verezzi’s safety than his looks had given, Matilda rose, for the first time since his illness, and, unseen by Verezzi, approached the physician.—”Follow me to the saloon,” said Matilda.
The physician obeyed, and, by his fervent assurances of Verezzi’s safety and speedy recovery, confirmed Matilda’s fluctuating hopes. “But,” added the physician, “though my patient will recover if his mind be unruffled, I will not answer for his re-establishment should he see you, as his disorder, being wholly on the mind, may be possibly augmented by—”
The physician paused, and left Matilda to finish the sentence; for he was a man of penetration and judgement, and conjectured that some sudden and violent emotion, of which she was the cause, occasioned his patient’s illness. This conjecture became certainty, as, when he concluded, he observed Matilda’s face change to an ashy paleness.
“May I not watch him — attend him?” inquired Matilda imploringly.
“No,” answered the physician: “in the weakened state in which he now is, the sight of you might cause immediate dissolution.”
Matilda started, as if overcome by horror at the bare idea, and promised to obey his commands.
The morning came — Matilda arose from a sleepless couch, and with hopes yet unconfirmed sought Verezzi’s apartment.
She stood near the door, listening. — Her heart palpitated with tremulous violence, as she listened to Verezzi’s breathing — every sound from within alarmed her. At last she slowly opened the door, and, though adhering to the physician’s directions in not suffering Verezzi to see her, she could not deny herself the pleasure of watching him, and busying herself in little offices about his apartment.
She could hear Verezzi question the attendant collectedly, yet as a person who was ignorant where he was, and knew not the events which had immediately preceded his present state.
At last he sank into a deep sleep — Matilda now dared to gaze on him: the hectic colour which had flushed his cheek was fled, but the ashy hue of his lips had given place to a brilliant vermilion — She gazed intently on his countenance.
A heavenly, yet faint smile, diffused itself over his countenance — his hand slightly moved.
Matilda, fearing that he would awake, again concealed herself. She was mistaken; for, on looking again, he still slept.
She still gazed upon his countenance. The visions of his sleep were changed, for tears came fast from under his eyelids, and a deep sigh burst from his bosom.
Thus passed several days: Matilda still watched, with most affectionate assiduity, by the bedside of the unconscious Verezzi.
The physician declared that his patient’s mind was yet in too irritable a state to permit him to see Matilda, but that he was convalescent.
One evening she sat by his bedside, and gazing upon the features of the sleeping Verezzi, felt unusual softness take possession of her soul — an indefinable and tumultuous emotion shook her bosom — her whole frame thrilled with rapturous ecstasy, and seizing the hand, which lay motionless beside her, she imprinted on it a thousand burning kisses.
“Ah, Julia! Julia! is it you?” exclaimed Verezzi, as he raised his enfeebled frame; but perceiving his mistake, as he cast his eyes on Matilda, sank back, and fainted.
Matilda hastened with restoratives, and soon succeeded in recalling to life Verezzi’s fleeted faculties.
CHAPTER IX.
Art thou afraid
To be the same in thine own act and valour
As thou art in desire? would’st thou have that
Which thou esteemest the ornament of life.
Or live a coward in thine own esteem.
Letting I dare not wait upon I would?
— Macbeth.
For love is heaven, and heaven is love.
— Lay of the Last Minstrel.
The soul of Verezzi was filled with irresistible disgust, as, recovering, he found himself in Matilda’s arms. His whole frame trembled with chilly horror, and he could scarcely withhold himself from again fainting. He fixed his eyes upon the countenance — they met hers — an ardent fire, mingled with a touching softness, filled their orbits.
In a hurried and almost inarticulate accent, he reproached Matilda with perfidy, baseness, and even murder. The roseate colour which had tinged Matilda’s cheek, gave place to an ashy hue — the animation which had sparkled in her eye, yielded to a confused expression of apprehension, as the almost delirious Verezzi uttered accusations he knew not the meaning of; for his brain, maddened by the idea of Julia’s death, was whirled round in an ecstasy of terror.
Matilda seemed to have composed every passion: a forced serenity overspread her features, as, in a sympathising and tender tone, she entreated him to calm his emotions, and giving him a composing medicine, left him.
She descended to the saloon.
“Ah! he yet despises me — he even hates me,” ejaculated Matilda. “An irresistible antipathy — irresistible, I fear, as my love for him is ardent, has taken possession of his soul towards me. Ah! miserable, hapless being that I am! doomed to have my fondest hope, my brightest prospect, blighted.”
Alive alike to the tortures of despair and the illusions of hope, Matilda, now in an agony of desperation, impatiently paced the saloon.
Her mind was inflamed by a more violent emotion of hate towards Julia, as she recollected Verezzi’s fond expressions: she determined, however, that were Verezzi not to be hers, he should never be Julia’s.
Whilst thus she thought, entered
The conversation was concerning Verezzi.
“How shall I gain his love, ?” exclaimed Matilda. “Oh! I will renew every tender office — I will watch by him day and night, and, by unremitting attentions, I will try to soften his flinty soul. But, alas! it was but now that he started from my arms in horror, and, in accents of desperation, accused me of perfidy — of murder. Could I be perfidious to Verezzi, my heart, which burns with so fervent a fire, declares I could not, and murder—”
Matilda paused.
“Would thou could say thou were guilty, or even accessary to that,” exclaimed , his eye gleaming with disappointed ferocity. “Would Julia of Strobazzo’s heart was reeking on my dagger!”
“Fervently do I join in that wish, my best ,” returned Matilda: “but, alas! what avail wishes — what avail useless protestations of revenge, whilst Julia yet lives? — yet lives, perhaps, again to obtain Verezzi — to clasp him constant to her bosom — and perhaps — oh, horror! perhaps to—”.
Stung to madness by the picture which her fancy had portrayed, Matilda paused.
Her bosom heaved with throbbing palpitations; and, whilst describing the success of her rival, her warring soul shone apparent from her scintillating eyes.
, meanwhile, stood collected in himself; and scarcely heeding the violence of Matilda, awaited the issue of her speech.
He besought her to calm herself, nor, by those violent emotions, unfit herself for prosecuting the attainment of her fondest hope.
“Are you firm?” inquired .
“Yes!”
“Are you resolved? Does fear, amid the other passions, shake your soul?”
“No, no — this heart knows not to fear — this breast knows not to shrink,” ex
claimed Matilda eagerly.
“Then be cool — be collected,” returned , “and thy purpose is effected.”
Though little was in these words which might warrant hope, yet Matilda’s susceptible soul, as spoke, thrilled with anticipated delight.
“My maxim, therefore,” said , “through life has been, wherever I am, whatever passions shake my inmost soul, at least to appear collected. I generally am; for, by suffering no common events, no fortuitous casualty to disturb me, my soul becomes steeled to more interesting trials. I have a spirit, ardent, impetuous as thine; but acquaintance with the world has induced me to veil it, though it still continues to burn within my bosom. Believe me, I am far from wishing to persuade you from your purpose — No — any purpose undertaken with ardour, and prosecuted with perseverance, must eventually be crowned with success. Love is worthy of any risque — I felt it once, but revenge has now swallowed up every other feeling of my soul — I am alive to nothing but revenge. But even did I desire to persuade you from the purpose on which your heart is fixed, I should not say it was wrong to attempt it; for whatever procures pleasure is right, and consonant to the dignity of man, who was created for no other purpose but to obtain happiness; else, why were passions given us? why were those emotions, which agitate my breast, and madden my brain, implanted in us by nature? As for the confused hope of a future state, why should we debar ourselves of the delights of this, even though purchased by what the misguided multitude calls immorality?”
Thus sophistically argued, . — His soul, deadened by crime, could only entertain confused ideas of immortal happiness; for in proportion as human nature departs from virtue, so far are they also from being able clearly to contemplate the wonderful operations, the mysterious ways of Providence.
Coolly and collectedly argued : he delivered his sentiments with the air of one who was wholly convinced of the truth of the doctrines he uttered, — a conviction to be dissipated by shunning proof.
Percy Bysshe Shelley - Delphi Poets Series Page 130