Percy Bysshe Shelley - Delphi Poets Series

by Percy Bysshe Shelley

  “Let us drink,” he exclaimed, “to the health of the chieftain’s bride — let us drink to their mutual happiness.” A smile of pleasure irradiated the countenance of the chief: — that he whom he had supposed to be a dangerous rival, should thus publicly forego any claim to the affections of Megalena, was indeed pleasure.

  “Health and mutual happiness to the chieftain and his bride!” re-echoed from every part of the table.

  Cavigni raised the goblet to his lips: he was about to quaff the tide of death, when Ginotti, one of the robbers, who sat next to him, upreared his arm, and dashed the cup of destruction to the earth. A silence, as if in expectation of some terrible event, reigned throughout the cavern.

  Wolfstein turned his eyes towards the chief; — the dark and mysterious gaze of Ginotti arrested his wandering eyeball; its expression was too marked to be misunderstood; — he trembled in his inmost soul, but his countenance yet retained its unchangeable expression. Ginotti spoke not, nor willed he to assign any reason for his extraordinary conduct; the circumstance was shortly forgotten, and the revelry went on undisturbed by any other event.

  Ginotti was one of the boldest of the robbers; he was the distinguished favourite of the chief, and, although mysterious and reserved, his society was courted with more eagerness, than such qualities might, abstractedly considered, appear to deserve. None knew his history — that he concealed within the deepest recesses of his bosom; nor could the most suppliant entreaties, or threats of the most horrible punishments, have wrested from him one particular concerning it. Never had he once thrown off the mysterious mask, beneath which his character was veiled, since he had become an associate of the band. In vain the chief required him to assign some reason for his late extravagant conduct; he said it was mere accident, but with an air, which more than convinced every one, that something lurked behind which yet remained unknown. Such, however, was their respect for Ginotti, that the occurrence passed almost without a comment.

  Long now had the hour of midnight gone by, and the bandits had retired to repose. Wolfstein retired too to his couch, but sleep closed not his eyelids; his bosom was a scene of the wildest anarchy; the conflicting passions revelled dreadfully in his burning brain: — love, maddening, excessive, unaccountable idolatry, as it were, which possessed him for Megalena, urged him on to the commission of deeds which conscience represented as beyond measure wicked, and which Ginotti’s glance convinced him were by no means unsuspected. Still so unbounded was his love for Megalena (madness rather than love), that it overbalanced every other consideration, and his unappalled soul resolved to persevere in its determination even to destruction!

  Cavigni’s commands respecting Megalena had been obeyed: — the door of her cell was fastened, and the ferocious chief resolved to let her lie there till the suffering and confinement might subdue her to his will. Megalena endeavoured, by every means, to soften the obdurate heart of her attendant; at length, her mildness of manner induced Agnes to regard her with pity; and before she quitted the cell, they were so far reconciled to each other, that they entered into a comparison of their mutual situations; and Agnes was about to relate to Megalena the circumstances which had brought her to the cavern, when the fierce Cavigni entered, and, commanding Agnes to withdraw, said, “Well, proud girl, are you now in a better humour to return the favour with which your superior regards you?”

  “No!” heroically answered Megalena.

  “Then,” rejoined the chief, “if within four-and-twenty hours you hold yourself not in readiness to return my love, force shall wrest the jewel from its casket.” Thus having said, he abruptly quitted the cell.

  So far had Wolfstein’s proposed toast, at the banquet, gained on the unsuspecting ferociousness of Cavigni, that he accepted the former’s artful tender of service, in the way of persuasion with Megalena, supposing, by Wolfstein’s manner, that they had been cursorily acquainted before. Wolfstein, therefore, entered the apartment of Megalena.

  At the sight of him Megalena arose from her recumbent posture, and hastened joyfully to meet him; for she remembered that Wolfstein had rescued her from the insults of the banditti, on the eventful evening which had subjected her to their control.

  “Lovely, adored girl,” he exclaimed, “short is my time: pardon, therefore, the abruptness of my address. The chief has sent me to persuade you to become united to him; but I love you, I adore you to madness. I am not what I seem. Answer me! — time is short.”

  An indefinable sensation, unfelt before, swelled through the passion-quivering frame of Megalena. “Yes, yes,” she cried, “I will — I love you—” At this instant the voice of Cavigni was heard in the passage. Wolfstein started from his knees, and pressing the fair hand presented to his lips with exulting ardour, departed hastily to give an account of his mission to the anxious Cavigni; who restrained himself in the passage without, and, slightly mistrusting Wolfstein, was about to advance to the door of the cell to listen to their conversation, when Wolfstein quitted Megalena.

  Megalena, again in solitude, began to reflect upon the scenes which had been lately acted. She thought upon the words of Wolfstein, unconscious wherefore they were a balm to her mind: she reclined upon her wretched pallet. It was now night: her thoughts took a different turn; the melancholy wind sighing along the crevices of the cavern, and the dismal sound of rain which pattered fast, inspired mournful reflection. She thought of her father, — her beloved father; — a solitary wanderer on the face of the earth; or, most probably, thought she, his soul rests in death. Horrible idea If the latter, she envied his fate; if the former, she even supposed it preferable to her present abode. She again thought of Wolfstein; she pondered on his last words: — an escape from the cavern: oh delightful idea! Again her thoughts recurred to her father: tears bedewed her cheeks; she took a pencil, and, actuated by the feelings of the moment, inscribed on the wall of her prison these lines:

  Ghosts of the dead! have I not heard your yelling

  Rise on the night-rolling breath of the blast.

  When o’er the dark ether the tempest is swelling.

  And on eddying whirlwind the thunder-peal past?

  For oft have I stood on the dark height of Jura.

  Which frowns on the valley that opens beneath;

  Oft have I brav’d the chill night-tempest’s fury.

  Whilst around me, I thought, echo’d murmurs of death.

  And now, whilst the winds of the mountain are howling.

  O father! thy voice seems to strike on mine ear;

  In air whilst the tide of the night-storm is rolling.

  It breaks on the pause of the elements’ jar.

  On the wing of the whirlwind which roars o’er the mountain

  Perhaps rides the ghost of my sire who is dead;

  On the mist of the tempest which hangs o’er the fountain.

  Whilst a wreath of dark vapour encircles his head. Here she paused, and, ashamed of the exuberance of her imagination, obliterated from the wall the characters which she had traced: the wind still howled dreadfully: in fearful anticipation of the morrow, she threw herself on the bed, and, in sleep, forgot the misfortunes which impended over her.

  Meantime, the soul of Wolfstein was disturbed by ten thousand conflicting passions; revenge and disappointed love agonized his soul to madness; and he resolved to quench the rude feelings of his bosom in the blood of his rival. But, again he thought of Ginotti; he thought of the mysterious intervention which his dark glances proved not to be accidental. To him it was an inexplicable mystery; which the more he reflected upon, the less able was he to unravel. He had mixed the poison, unseen, as he thought, by any one; certainly unseen by Ginotti, whose back was unconcernedly turned at the time. He planned, therefore, a second attempt, unawed by what had happened before, for the destruction of Cavigni, which he resolved to put into execution this night.

  Before he had become an associate with the band of robbers, the conscience of Wolfstein was clear; clear, at least, from the commission
of any wilful and deliberate crime: for, alas! an event almost too dreadful for narration, had compelled him to quit his native country, in indigence and disgrace. His courage was equal to his wickedness; his mind was unalienable from its purpose; and whatever his will might determine, his boldness would fearlessly execute, even though hell and destruction were to yawn beneath his feet, and essay to turn his unappalled soul from the accomplishment of his design. Such was the guilty Wolfstein; a disgraceful fugitive from his country, a vile associate of a band of robbers, and a murderer, at least in intent, if not in deed. He shrunk not at the commission of crimes; he was now the hardened villain; eternal damnation, tortures inconceivable on earth, awaited him. “Foolish, degrading idea!” he exclaimed, as it momentarily glanced through his mind; “am I worthy of the celestial Megalena, if I shrink at the price which it is necessary I should pay for her possession?” This idea banished every other feeling from his heart; and, smothering the stings of conscience, a decided resolve of murder took possession of him — the determining, within himself, to destroy the very man who had given him an asylum, when driven to madness by the horrors of neglect and poverty. He stood in the night-storm on the mountains; he cursed the intervention of Ginotti, and secretly swore that nor heaven nor hell again should dash the goblet of destruction from the mouth of the detested Cavigni. The soul of Wolfstein too, insatiable in its desires, and panting for liberty, ill could brook the confinement of idea, which the cavern of the bandits must necessarily induce. He longed again to try his fortune; he longed to re-enter that world which he had never tried but once, and that indeed for a short time; sufficiently long, however, to blast his blooming hopes, and to graft on the stock, which otherwise might have produeed virtue, the fatal seeds of vice.

  CHAPTER. II.

  The fiends of fate are heard to rave.

  And the death-angel flaps his broad wing o’er the wave.

  It was midnight; and all the robbers were assembled in the banquet-hall, amongst whom, bearing in his bosom a weight of premeditated crime, was Wolfstein; he sat by the chief. They discoursed on indifferent subjects; the sparkling goblet went round; loud laughter succeeded. The ruffians were rejoicing over some plunder which they had taken from a traveller, whom they had robbed of immense wealth; they had left his body a prey to the vultures of the mountains. The table groaned with the pressure of the feast. Hilarity reigned around: reiterated were the shouts of merriment and joy; if such could exist in a cavern of robbers.

  It was long past midnight: another hour, and Megalena must be Cavigni’s. This idea rendered Wolfstein callous to every sting of conscience; and he eagerly awaited an opportunity when he might, unperceived, infuse poison into the goblet of one who confided in him. Ginotti sat opposite to Wolfstein: his arms were folded, and his gaze rested fixedly upon the fearless countenance of the murderer. Wolfstein shuddered when he beheld the brow of the mysterious Ginotti contracted, his marked features wrapped in inexplicable mystery.

  All were now heated by wine, save the wily villain who destined murder; and the awe-inspiring Ginotti, whose reservedness and mystery, not even the hilarity of the present hour could dispel.

  Conversation appearing to flag, Cavigni exclaimed, “Steindolph, you know some old German stories; cannot you tell one, to deceive the lagging hours?”

  Steindolph was famed for his knowledge of metrical spectre tales, and the gang were frequently wont to hang delighted on the ghostly wonders which he related.

  “Excuse, then, the mode of my telling it,” said Steindolph, “and I will with pleasure. I learnt it whilst in Germany; my old grandmother taught it me, and I can repeat it as a ballad.”—”Do, do,” re-echoed from every part of the cavern. — Steindolph thus began:

  BALLAD.

  I.

  The death-bell beats! —

  The mountain repeats

  The echoing sound of the knell;

  And the dark monk now

  Wraps the cowl round his brow.

  As he sits in his lonely cell.

  II.

  And the cold hand of death

  Chills his shuddering breath.

  As he lists to the fearful lay

  Which the ghosts of the sky.

  As they sweep wildly by.

  Sing to departed day.

  And they sing of the hour

  When the stern fates had power

  To resolve Rosa’s form to its clay.

  III.

  But that hour is past;

  And that hour was the last

  Of peace to the dark monk’s brain.

  Bitter tears, from his eyes, gush’d silent and fast;

  And he strove to suppress them in vain.

  IV.

  Then his fair cross of gold he dash’d on the floor.

  When the death-knell struck on his ear. Delight is in store

  For her evermore;

  But for me is fate, horror, and fear.

  V.

  Then his eyes wildly roll’d.

  When the death-bell toll’d.

  And he rag’d in terrific woe.

  And he stamp’d on the ground, —

  But when ceas’d the sound.

  Tears again began to flow.

  VI.

  And the ice of despair

  Chill’d the wild throb of care.

  And he sate in mute agony still;

  Till the night-stars shone through the cloudless air.

  And the pale moon-beam slept on the hill.

  VII.

  Then he knelt in his cell: —

  And the horrors of hell

  Were delights to his agoniz’d pain.

  And he pray’d to God to dissolve the spell.

  Which else must for ever remain.

  VIII.

  And in fervent pray’r he knelt on the ground.

  Till the abbey bell struck One:

  His feverish blood ran chill at the sound:

  A voice hollow and horrible murmur’d around —

  “The term of thy penance is done!”

  IX.

  Grew dark the night;

  The moon-beam bright

  Wax’d faint on the mountain high;

  And, from the black hill.

  Went a voice cold and still, —

  “Monk! thou art free to die.”

  X.

  Then he rose on his feet.

  And his heart loud did beat.

  And his limbs they were palsied with dread;

  Whilst the grave’s clammy dew

  O’er his pale forehead grew;

  And he shudder’d to sleep with the dead.

  XI.

  And the wild midnight storm

  Rav’d around his tall form.

  As he sought the chapel’s gloom:

  And the sunk grass did sigh

  To the wind, bleak and high.

  As he search’d for the new-made tomb.

  XII.

  And forms, dark and high.

  Seem’d around him to fly.

  And mingle their yells with the blast:

  And on the dark wall

  Half-seen shadows did fall.

  As enhorror’d he onward pass’d.

  XIII.

  And the storm-fiend’s wild rave

  O’er the new-made grave.

  And dread shadows, linger around.

  The Monk call’d on God his soul to save.

  And, in horror, sank on the ground.

  XIV.

  Then despair nerv’d his arm

  To dispel the charm.

  And he burst Rosa’s coffin asunder.

  And the fierce storm did swell

  More terrific and fell.

  And louder peal’d the thunder.

  XV.

  And laugh’d, in joy, the fiendish throng.

  Mix’d with ghosts of the mouldering dead:

  And their grisly wings, as they floated along.

  Whistled in murmurs dread.

  XVI.

  And h
er skeleton form the dead Nun rear’d.

  Which dripp’d with the chill dew of hell.

  In her half-eaten eyeballs two pale flames appear’d.

  And triumphant their gleam on the dark Monk glar’d.

  As he stood within the cell.

  XVII.

  And her lank hand lay on his shuddering brain;

  But each power was nerv’d by fear. —

  “I never, henceforth, may breathe again;

  Death now ends mine anguish’d pain. —

  The grave yawns, — we meet there.”

  XVIII.

  And her skeleton lungs did utter the sound.

  So deadly, so lone, and so fell.

  That in long vibrations shudder’d the ground;

  And as the stern notes floated around.

  A deep groan was answer’d from hell.

  As Steindolph concluded, an universal shout of applause echoed through the cavern. Every one had been so attentive to the recitation of the robber, that no opportunity of perpetrating his resolve had appeared to Wolfstein. Now all again was revelry and riot, and the wily designer eagerly watched for the instant when universal confusion might favour his attempt to drop, unobserved, the powder into the goblet of the chief. With a gaze of insidious and malignant revenge was the eye of Wolfstein fixed upon the chieftain’s countenance. Cavigni perceived it not; for he was heated with wine, or the unusual expression of his associate’s face must have awakened suspicion, or excited remark. Yet was Ginotti’s gaze fixed upon Wolfstein, who, like a sanguinary and remorseless ruffian, sat expectantly waiting the instant of death. The goblet passed round: — at the moment when Wolfstein mingled the poison with Cavigni’s wine, the eyes of Ginotti, which before had regarded him with the most dazzling scrutiny, were intentionally turned away: he then arose from the table, and, complaining of sudden indisposition, retired. Cavigni raised the goblet to his lips —