Percy Bysshe Shelley - Delphi Poets Series
Page 133
Sleep fled not, as usual, from her pillow; but, overcome by excessive drowsiness, she soon sank to rest.
Confused dreams floated in her imagination, in which she sometimes supposed that she had gained Verezzi; at others, that, snatched from her ardent embrace, he was carried by an invisible power over rocky mountains, or immense and untravelled heaths, and that, in vainly attempting to follow him, she had lost herself in the trackless desert.
Awakened from disturbed and unconnected dreams, she arose.
The most tumultuous emotions of rapturous exultation filled her soul as she gazed upon her victim, who was sitting at a window which overlooked the waving forest.
Matilda seated herself by him, and most enchanting, most pensive music, drawn by her fingers from a harp, thrilled his soul with an ecstasy of melancholy; tears rolled rapidly down his cheeks; deep drawn, though gentle sighs heaved his bosom: his innocent eyes were mildly fixed upon Matilda, and beamed with compassion for one, whose only wish was gratification of her own inordinate desires, and destruction to his opening prospects of happiness.
She, with a ferocious pleasure, contemplated her victim; yet, curbing the passions of her soul, a meekness, a wellfeigned sensibility, characterised her downcast eye.
She waited, with the smothered impatience of expectation, for the evening: then, had affirmed, that she would lay a firm foundation for her happiness.
Unappalled, she resolved to brave the dagger’s point: she resolved to bleed; and though her life-blood were to issue at the wound, to dare the event.
The evening at last arrived: the atmosphere was obscured by vapour, and the air more chill than usual; yet, yielding to the solicitations of Matilda, Verezzi accompanied her to the forest.
Matilda’s bosom thrilled with inconceivable happiness, as she advanced towards the spot: her limbs, trembling with ecstasy, almost refused to support her. Unwonted sensations — sensations she had never felt before, agitated her bosom; yet, steeling her soul, and persuading herself that celestial transports would be the reward of firmness, she fearlessly advanced.
The towering pine-trees waved in the squally wind — the shades of twilight gained fast on the dusky forest — the wind died away, and a deep, a gloomy silence reigned.
They now had arrived at the spot which had asserted would be the scene of an event which might lay the foundation of Matilda’s happiness.
She was agitated by such violent emotions, that her every limb trembled, and Verezzi tenderly asked the reason of her alarm.
“Oh! nothing, nothing!” returned Matilda; but, stung by more certain anticipation of ecstasy by his tender inquiry, her whole frame trembled with tenfold agitation, and her bosom was filled with more unconquerable transport.
On the right, the thick umbrage of the forest trees, rendered undistinguishable any one who might lurk there; on the left, a frightful precipice yawned, at whose base a deafening cataract dashed with tumultuous violence; around, mishapen and enormous masses of rock; and beyond, a gigantic and blackened mountain, reared its craggy summit to the skies.
They advanced towards the precipice. Matilda stood upon the dizzy height — her senses almost failed her, and she caught the branch of an enormous pine which impended over the abyss.
“How frightful a depth!” exclaimed Matilda.
“Frightful indeed,” said Verezzi, as thoughtfully he contemplated the terrific depth beneath.
They stood for some time gazing on the scene in silence.
Footsteps were heard — Matilda’s bosom thrilled with mixed sensations of delight and apprehension, as, summoning all her fortitude, she turned round. — A man advanced towards them.
“What is your business?” exclaimed Verezzi.
“Revenge!” returned the villain, as, raising a dagger high, he essayed to plunge it in Verezzi’s bosom, but Matilda lifted her arm, and the dagger piercing it, touched not Verezzi. Starting forward, he fell to the earth, and the ruffian instantly dashed into the thick forest.
Matilda’s snowy arm was tinged with purple gore: the wound was painful, but an expression of triumph flashed from her eyes, and excessive pleasure dilated her bosom: the blood streamed fast from her arm, and tinged the rock whereon they stood with a purple stain.
Verezzi started from the ground, and seeing the blood which streamed down Matilda’s garments, in accents of terror demanded where she was wounded.
“Oh! think not upon that,” she exclaimed, “but tell me — ah! tell me,” said she, in a voice of well-feigned alarm, “are you wounded mortally? Oh! what sensations of terror shook me, when I thought that the dagger’s point, after having pierced my arm, had drunk your life-blood.”
“Oh!” answered Verezzi, “I am not wounded; but let us haste to the castella.”
He then tore part of his vest, and with it bound Matilda’s arm. Slowly they proceeded towards the castella.
“What villain, Verezzi,” said Matilda, “envious of my happiness, attempted his life, for whom I would ten thousand times sacrifice my own? Oh! Verezzi, how I thank God, who averted the fatal dagger from thy heart!”
Verezzi answered not; but his heart, his feelings, were irresistibly touched by Matilda’s behaviour. Such noble contempt of danger, so ardent a passion, as to risk her life to preserve his, filled his breast with a tenderness towards her; and he felt that he could now deny her nothing, not even the sacrifice of the poor remains of his happiness, should she demand it.
Matilds’s breast meanwhile swelled with sensations of unutterable delight: her soul, borne on the pinions of anticipated happiness, flashed in triumphant glances from her fiery eyes. She could scarcely forbear clasping Verezzi in her arms, and claiming him as her own; but prudence, and a fear of in what manner a premature declaration of love might be received, prevented her.
They arrived at the castella, and a surgeon from the neighbouring convent was sent for by Verezzi.
The surgeon soon arrived, examined Matilda’s arm, and declared that no unpleasant consequences could ensue. — Retired to her own apartment, those transports, which before had been allayed by Verezzi’s presence, now, unrestrained by reason, involved Matilda’s senses in an ecstasy of pleasure.
She threw herself on the bed, and, in all the exaggerated colours of imagination, portrayed the transports which ‘s artifice has opened to her view.
Visions of unreal bless floated during the whole night in her disordered fancy: her senses were whirled around in alternate ecstasies of happiness and despair, as almost palpable dreams pressed upon her disturbed brain.
At one time she imagined that Verezzi, consenting to their union, presented her his hand: that at her touch the flesh crumbled from it, and, a shrieking spectre, he fled from her view: again, silvery clouds floated across her sight, and unconnected, disturbed visions occupied her imagination till the morning.
Verezzi’s manner, as he met Matilda the following morning, was unusually soft and tender; and in a voice of solicitude, he inquired concerning her health.
The roseate flush of animation which tinged her cheek, the triumphant glance of animation which danced in her scintillating eye, seemed to render the inquiry unnecessary.
A dewy moisture filled her eyes, as she gazed with an expression of tumultuous, yet repressed rapture, upon the hapless Verezzi.
Still did she purpose, in order to make her triumph more certain, to protract the hour of victory; and, leaving her victim, wandered into the forest to seek . When she arrived at the cottage, she learnt that he had walked forth. — She soon met him.
“Oh! — my best Zastrozzi!” exclaimed Matilda, “what a source of delight have you opened to me! Verezzi is mine — oh! transporting thought! will be mine for ever. That distant manner which he usually affected towards me, is changed to a sweet, an ecstatic expression of tenderness. Oh! Zastrozzi, receive my best, my most fervent thanks.”
“Julia need not die then,” muttered ; “when once you possess Verezzi, her destruction is of little consequence.”
“Oh! Julia must die,” said Matilda, “or I shall never be safe; such an influence does her image possess over Verezzi’s mind, that I am convinced, were he to know that she lived, an estrangement from me would be the consequence. Oh! quickly let me hear that she is dead. I can never enjoy uninterrupted happiness until her dissolution.”
“What you have just pronounced is Julia’s death-warrant,” said , as he disappeared among the thick trees.
Matilda returned to the castella.
Verezzi, at her return, expressed a tender apprehension, lest, thus wounded, she should have hurt herself by walking; but Matilda quieted his fears, and engaged him in interesting conversation, which seemed not to have for its object the seduction of his affection; though the ideas conveyed by her expressions were so artfully connected with it, and addressed themselves so forcibly to Verezzi’s feelings, that he was convinced he ought to love Matilda, though he felt that within himself, which, in spite of reason — in spite of reflection — told him that it was impossible.
CHAPTER XIII.
The enticing smile, the modest-seeming eye.
Beneath whose beauteous beams, belying heaven.
Lurk searchless cunning, cruelty, and death.
— Thomson.
Still did Matilda’s blandishments — her unremitting attention — inspire Verezzi with a softened tenderness towards her. — He regarded her as one who, at the risk of her own life, had saved his; who loved him with an ardent affection, and whose affection was likely to be lasting: and though he could not regard her with that enthusiastic tenderness with which he even yet adored the memory of his Julia, yet he might esteem her — faithfully esteem her — and felt not that horror at uniting himself with her as formerly. But a conversation which he had with Julia recurred to his mind: he remembered well, that when they had talked of their speedy marriage, she had expressed an idea, that a union in this life might endure to all eternity; and that the chosen of his heart on earth, might, by congeniality of sentiment, be united in heaven.
The idea was hallowed by the remembrance of his Julia; but chasing it, as an unreal vision, from his mind, again his high sentiments of gratitude prevailed.
Lost in these ideas, involved in a train of thought, and unconscious where his footsteps led him, he quitted the castella. His reverie was interrupted by low murmurs, which seemed to float on the silence of the forest: it was scarcely audible, yet Verezzi felt an undefinable wish to know what it was. He advanced towards it — it was Matilda’s voice.
Verezzi approached nearer, and from within heard her voice in complaints. — He eagerly listened. — Her sobs rendered the words, which in passionate exclamations burst from Matilda’s lips, almost inaudible. He still listened — a pause in the tempest of grief which shook Matilda’s soul seemed to have taken place.
“Oh! Verezzi — cruel, unfeeling Verezzi!” exclaimed Matilda, as a fierce paroxysm of passion seized her brain—”will you thus suffer one who adores you, to linger in hopeless love, and witness the excruciating agony of one who idolises you, as I do, to madness?”
As she spoke thus, a long-drawn sigh closed the sentence.
Verezzi’s mind was agitated by various emotions as he stood; but rushing in at last, raised Matilda in his arms, and tenderly attempted to comfort her.
She started as he entered — she heeded not his words; but, seemingly overcome by shame, cast herself at his feet, and hid her face in his robe.
He tenderly raised her, and his expressions convinced her, that the reward of all her anxiety was now about to be reaped.
The most triumphant anticipation of transports to come filled her bosom; yet, knowing it to be necessary to dissemble — knowing that a shameless claim on his affections would but disgust Verezzi, she said —
“Oh! Verezzi, forgive me: supposing myself to be alone — supposing no one overheard the avowal of the secret of my soul, with which, believe me, I never more intended to have importuned you, what shameless sentiments — shameless even in solitude — have I not given vent to. I can no longer conceal, that the passion with which I adore you is unconquerable, irresistible: but, I conjure you, think not upon what you have this moment heard to my disadvantage; nor despise a weak unhappy creature, who feels it impossible to overcome the fatal passion which consumes her.
“Never more will I give vent, even in solitude, to my love — never more shall the importunities of the hapless Matilda reach your ears. To conquer a passion fervent, tender as mine, is impossible.”
As she thus spoke, Matilda, seemingly overcome by shame, sank upon the turf.
A sentiment stronger than gratitude, more ardent than esteem, and more tender than admiration, softened Verezzi’s heart as he raised Matilda. Her symmetrical from shone with tenfold loveliness to his heated fancy: inspired with sudden fondness, he cast himself at her feet.
A Lethean torpor crept upon his senses; and, as he lay prostrate before Matilda, a total forgetfulness of every former event of his life swam in his dizzy brain. In passionate exclamations he avowed unbounded love.
“Oh, Matilda! dearest, angelic Matilda!” exclaimed Verezzi, “I am even now unconscious what blinded me — what kept me from acknowledging my adoration of thee! — adoration never to be changed by circumstances — never effaced by time.”
The fire of voluptuous, of maddening love, scorched his veins, as he caught the transported Matilda in his arms, and, in accents almost inarticulate with passion, swore eternal fidelity.
“And accept my oath of everlasting allegiance to thee, adored Verezzi,” exclaimed Matilda: “accept my vows of eternal, indissoluble love.”
Verezzi’s whole frame was agitated by unwonted and ardent emotions. He called Matilda his wife — in the delirium of sudden fondness he clasped her to his bosom—”and though love like ours,” exclaimed the infatuated Verezzi, “wants not the vain ties of human laws, yet, that our love may want not any sanction which could possibly be given to it, let immediate orders be given for the celebration of our union.”
Matilda exultingly consented: never had she experienced sensations of delight like these: the feelings of her soul flushed in exulting glances from her fiery eyes. Fierce, transporting triumph filled her soul as she gazed on her victim, whose mildly-beaming eyes were now characterised by a voluptuous expression. Her heart beat high with transport; and, as they entered the castella, the swelling emotions of her bosom were too tumultuous for utterance.
Wild with passion, she clasped Verezzi to her beating breast; and, overcome by an ecstasy of delirious passion, her senses were whirled around in confused and inexpressible delight. A new and fierce passion raged likewise in Verezzi’s breast: he returned her embrace with ardour, and clasped her in fierce transports.
But the adoration with which he now regarded Matilda, was a different sentiment from that chaste and mild emotion which had characterised his love for Julia: that passion, which he had fondly supposed would end but with his existence, was effaced by the arts of another.
Now was Matilda’s purpose attained — the next day would behold her his bride — the next day would behold her fondest purpose accomplished.
With the most eager impatience, the fiercest anticipation of transport, did she wait for its arrival.
Slowly passed the day, and slowly did the clock toll each lingering hour as it rolled away.
The following morning at last arrived: Matilda arose from a sleepless couch — fierce, transporting triumph, flashed from her eyes as she embraced her victim. He returned it — he called her his dear and ever-beloved spouse; and, in all the transports of maddening love, declared his impatience for the arrival of the monk who was to unite them. Every blandishment — every thing which might dispel reflection, was this day put in practice by Matilda.
The monk at last arrived: the fatal ceremony — fatal to the peace of Verezzi — was performed.
A magnificent feast had
been previously arranged; every luxurious viand, every expensive wine, which might contribute to heighten Matilda’s triumph, was present in profusion.
Matilda’s joy, her soul-felt triumph, was too great for utterance — too great for concealment. The exultation of her inmost soul flashed in expressive glances from her scintillating eyes, expressive of joy intense — unutterable.
Animated with excessive delight, she started from the table, and, seizing Verezzi’s hand, in a transport of inconceivable bliss, dragged him in wild sport and varied movements, to the sound of swelling and soul-touching melody.
“Come, my Matilda,” at last exclaimed Verezzi, “come, I am weary of transport — sick with excess of unutterable pleasure: let us retire, and retrace in dreams the pleasures of the day.”
Little did Verezzi think that this day was the basis of his future misery: little did he think that, amid the roses of successful and licensed voluptuousness, regret, horror, and despair would arise, to blast the prospects which, Julia being forgot, appeared so fair, so ecstatic.
The morning came. — Inconceivable emotions — inconceivable to those who have never felt them — dilated Matilda’s soul with an ecstasy of inexpressible bliss: every barrier to her passion was thrown down — every opposition conquered; still was her bosom the scene of fierce and contending passions.
Though in possession of every thing which her fancy had portrayed with such excessive delight, she was far from feeling that innocent and clam pleasure which soothes the soul, and, calming each violent emotion, fills it with a serene happiness. No — her brain was whirled around in transports; fierce, confused transports of visionary and unreal bliss: though her every pulse, her every nerve, panted with the delight of gratified and expectant desire; still was she not happy; she enjoyed not that tranquillity which is necessary to the existence of happiness.
In this temper of mind, for a short period she left Verezzi, as she had appointed a meeting with her coadjutor in wickedness.
She soon met him.
“I need not ask,” exclaimed , “for well do I see, in those triumphant glances, that Verezzi is thine; that the plan which we concerted when last we met, has put you in possession of that which your soul panted for.”