Melmoth the Wanderer 1820

by Charles Robert Maturin

  ‘“Squabbling about your supper?’ cried Everhard, bursting among them with a wild and feeble laugh, – ‘Why, here’s enough for to-morrow – and to-morrow.’ And he flung indeed ample means for two days’ subsistence on the table, but he looked paler and paler. The hungry family devoured the hoard, and forgot to ask the cause of his increasing paleness, and obviously diminished strength.

  *

  ‘“They had long been without any domestics, and as Everhard disappeared mysteriously every day, the daughters were sometimes employed on the humble errands of the family. The beauty of the elder daughter, Julia, was so conspicuous, that her mother had often undertaken the most menial errands herself, rather than send her daughter into the streets unprotected. The following evening, however, being intently employed in some domestic occupation, she allowed Julia to go out to purchase their food for to-morrow, and lent her veil for the purpose, directing her daughter to arrange it in the Spanish fashion, with which she was well acquainted, so as to hide her face.

  ‘“Julia, who went with trembling steps on her brief errand, had some-how deranged her veil, and a glimpse of her beauty was caught by a cavalier who was passing. The meanness of her dress and occupation suggested hopes to him which he ventured to express. Julia burst from him with the mingled terror and indignation of insulted purity, but her eyes rested with unconscious avidity on the handful of gold which glittered in his hand. – She thought of her famishing parents, – of her own declining strength, and neglected useless talents. The gold still sparkled before her, – she felt – she knew not what, and to escape from some feelings is perhaps the best victory we can obtain over them. But when she arrived at home, she eagerly thrust the small purchase she had made into her mother’s hand, and, though hitherto gentle, submissive, and tractable, announced, in a tone of decision that seemed to her startled mother (whose thoughts were always limited to the exigencies of the hour) like that of sudden insanity, that she would rather starve than ever again tread the streets of Seville alone.

  ‘“As Ines retired to her bed, she thought she heard a feeble moan from the room where Everhard lay, and where, from their being compelled to sell the necessary furniture of the bed, he had entreated his parents to allow Maurice to sleep with him, alleging that the warmth of his body would be a substitute for artificial covering to his little brother. Twice those moans were heard, but Ines did not dare to awake Walberg, who had sunk into that profound sleep which is as often the refuge of intolerable misery, as that of saturated enjoyment. A few moments after, when the moans had ceased, and she had half persuaded herself it was only the echo of that wave that seems for ever beating in the ears of the unfortunate, – the curtains of her bed were thrown open, and the figure of a child covered with blood, stained in breast, arms, and legs, appeared before her, and cried, – ‘It is Everhard’s blood – he is bleeding to death, – I am covered with his blood! – Mother – mother – rise and save Everhard’s life!’ The object, the voice, the words, seemed to Ines like the imagery of some terrible dream, such as had lately often visited her sleep, till the tones of Maurice, her youngest, and (in her heart) her favourite child, made her spring from the bed, and hurry after the little blood-spotted figure that paddled before her on its naked feet, till she reached the adjoining room where Everhard lay. Amid all her anguish and fear, she trod as lightly as Maurice, lest she should awake Walberg.

  ‘“The moon-light fell strongly through the unshuttered windows on the wretched closet that just contained the bed. Its furniture was sufficiently scanty, and in his spasms Everhard had thrown off the sheet. So he lay, as Ines approached his bed, in a kind of corse-like beauty, to which the light of the moon gave an effect that would have rendered the figure worthy the pencil of a Murillo, a Rosa, or any of those painters, who, inspired by the genius of suffering, delight in representing the most exquisite of human forms in the extremity of human agony. A St Bartholomew flayed, with his skin hanging about him in graceful drapery – a St Laurence, broiled on a gridiron, and exhibiting his finely-formed anatomy on its bars, while naked slaves are blowing the coals beneath it, – even these were inferior to the form half-veiled, – half-disclosed by the moon-light as it lay. The snow-white limbs of Everhard were extended as if for the inspection of a sculptor, and moveless, as if they were indeed what they resembled, in hue and symmetry, those of a marble statue. His arms were tossed above his head, and the blood was trickling fast from the opened veins of both, – his bright and curled hair was clotted with the red stream that flowed from his arms, – his lips were blue, and a faint and fainter moan issued from them as his mother hung over him. This sight banished in a moment all other fears and feelings, and Ines shrieked aloud to her husband for assistance. Walberg, staggering from his sleep, entered the room, – the object before him was enough. Ines had only strength left to point to it. The wretched father rushed out in quest of medical aid, which he was obliged to solicit gratuitously, and in bad Spanish, while his accents betrayed him at every door he knocked at, – and closed them against him as a foreigner and a heretic. At length a barber-surgeon (for the professions were united in Seville) consented, with many a yawn, to attend him, and came duly armed with lint and styptics. The distance was short, and he was soon by the bed of the young sufferer. The parents observed, with consternation unspeakable, the languid looks of recognition, the ghastly smile of consciousness, that Everhard viewed him with, as he approached the bed; and when he had succeeded in stopping the hæmorrhage, and bound up the arms, a whisper passed between him and the patient, and the latter raised his bloodless hand to his lips, and uttered, ‘Remember our bargain.’ As the man retired, Walberg followed, and demanded to know the meaning of the words he had heard. Walberg was a German, and choleric – the surgeon was a Spaniard, and cool. ‘I shall tell you to-morrow, Senhor,’ said he, putting up his instruments, – ‘in the mean time be assured of my gratuitous attendance on your son, and of his certain recovery. We deem you heretics in Seville, but that youth is enough to canonize the whole family, and cover a multitude of sins.’ And with these words he departed. The next day he attended Everhard, and so for several, till he was completely recovered, always refusing the slightest remuneration, till the father, whom misery had made suspicious of every thing and nothing, watched at the door, and heard the horrible secret. He did not disclose it to his wife, – but from that hour, it was observed that his gloom became more intense, and the communications he used to hold with his family, on the subject of their distress, and the modes of evading it by hourly expedients, utterly and finally ceased.

  ‘“Everhard, now recovered, but still pale as the widow of Seneca, was at last able to join the family consultation, and give advice, and suggest resources, with a mental energy that his physical weakness could not overcome. The next day, when they were assembled to debate on the means of procuring subsistence for the following one, they for the first time missed their father. At every word that was uttered, they turned to ask for his sanction – but he was not there. At last he entered the room, but without taking a part in their consultation. He leaned gloomily against the wall, and while Everhard and Julia, at every sentence, turned their appealing looks towards him, he sullenly averted his head. Ines, appearing to pursue some work, while her trembling fingers could scarce direct the needle, made a sign to her children not to observe him. Their voices were instantly depressed, and their heads bent closely towards each other. Mendicity appeared the only resource of this unfortunate family, – and they agreed, that the evening was the best time for trying its effect. The unhappy father remained rocking against the shattered wainscot till the arrival of evening. Ines repaired the clothes of the children, which were now so decayed, that every attempt at repair made a fresh rent, and the very thread she worked with seemed less attenuated than the worn-out materials it wrought on.

  ‘“The grandfather, still seated in his ample chair by the care of Ines, (for his son had grown very indifferent about him), watched her moving fingers, and ex
claimed, with the petulance of dotage, ‘Aye, – you are arraying them in embroidery, while I am in rags. – In rags!’ he repeated, holding out the slender garments which the beggared family could with difficulty spare him. Ines tried to pacify him, and showed her work, to prove that it was the remnants of her children’s former dress she was repairing; but, with horror unutterable, she perceived her husband incensed at these expressions of dotage, and venting his frantic and fearful indignation in language that she tried to bury the sound of, by pressing closer to the old man, and attempting to fix his bewildered attention on herself and her work. This was easily accomplished, and all was well, till they were about to separate on their wretched precarious errands. Then a new and untold feeling trembled at the heart of one of the young wanderers. Julia remembered the occurrence of a preceding evening, – she thought of the tempting gold, the flattering language, and the tender tone of the young cavalier. She saw her family perishing around her for want, – she felt it consuming her own vitals, – and as she cast her eye round the squalid room, the gold glittered brighter and brighter in her eye. A faint hope, aided perhaps by a still more faint suggestion of venial pride, swelled in her heart. ‘Perhaps he might love me,’ she whispered to herself, ‘and think me not unworthy of his hand.’ Then despair returned to the charge. ‘I must die of famine,’ she thought, ‘if I return unaided, – and why may I not by my death benefit my family! I will never survive shame, but they may, – for they will not know it!’ – She went out, and took a direction different from that of the family.

  ‘“Night came on, – the wanderers returned slowly one by one, – Julia was the last. Her brothers and sisters had each obtained a trifling alms, for they had learned Spanish enough to beg in, – and the old man’s face wore a vacant smile, as he saw the store produced, which was, after all, scarce sufficient to afford a meal for the youngest. ‘And have you brought us nothing, Julia?’ said her parents. She stood apart, and in silence. Her father repeated the question in a raised and angry voice. She started at the sound, and, rushing forward, buried her head in her mother’s bosom. ‘Nothing, – nothing,’ she cried, in a broken and suffocated voice; ‘I tried, – my weak and wicked heart submitted to the thought for a moment, – but no, – no, not even to save you from perishing, could I! – I came home to perish first myself!’ Her shuddering parents comprehended her, – and amid their agony they blessed her and wept, – but not from grief. The meal was divided, of which Julia at first steadily refused to partake, as she had not contributed to it, till her reluctance was overcome by the affectionate importunity of the rest, and she complied.

  ‘“It was during this division of what all believed to be their last meal, that Walberg gave one of those proofs of sudden and fearful violence of temper, bordering on insanity, which he had betrayed latterly. He seemed to notice, with sullen displeasure, that his wife had (as she always did) reserved the largest portion for his father. He eyed it askance at first, muttering angrily to himself. Then he spoke more aloud, though not so as to be heard by the deaf old man, who was sluggishly devouring his sordid meal. Then the sufferings of his children seemed to inspire him with a kind of wild resentment, and he started up, exclaiming, ‘My son sells his blood to a surgeon, to save us from perishing!* My daughter trembles on the verge of prostitution, to procure us a meal!’ Then fiercely addressing his father, ‘And what dost thou do, old dotard? Rise up, – rise up, and beg for us thyself, or thou must starve!’ – and, as he spoke, he raised his arm against the helpless old man. At this horrid sight, Ines shrieked aloud, and the children, rushing forward, interposed. The wretched father, incensed to madness, dealt blows among them, which were borne without a murmur; and then, the storm being exhausted, he sat down and wept.

  ‘“At this moment, to the astonishment and terror of all except Walberg, the old man, who, since the night of his wife’s interment, had never moved but from his chair to his bed, and that not without assistance, rose suddenly from his seat, and, apparently in obedience to his son, walked with a firm and steady pace towards the door. When he had reached it, he paused, looked back on them with a fruitless effort at recollection, and went out slowly; – and such was the terror felt by all at this last ghastly look, which seemed like that of a corse moving on to the place of its interment, that no one attempted to oppose his passage, and several moments elapsed before Everhard had the recollection to pursue him.

  ‘“In the mean time, Ines had dismissed her children, and sitting as near as she dared to the wretched father, attempted to address some soothing expressions to him. Her voice, which was exquisitely sweet and soft, seemed to produce a mechanical effect on him. He turned towards her at first, – then leaning his head on his arm, he shed a few silent tears, – then flinging it on his wife’s bosom, he wept aloud. Ines seized this moment to impress on his heart the horror she felt from the outrage he had committed, and adjured him to supplicate the mercy of God for a crime, which, in her eyes, appeared scarce short of parricide. Walberg wildly asked what she alluded to; and when, shuddering, she uttered the words, – ‘Your father, – your poor old father!’ – he smiled with an expression of mysterious and supernatural confidence that froze her blood, and, approaching her ear, softly whispered, ‘I have no father! He is dead, – long dead! I buried him the night I dug my mother’s grave! Poor old man,’ he added with a sigh, ‘it was the better for him, – he would have lived only to weep, and perish perhaps with hunger. But I will tell you, Ines, – and let it be a secret, I wondered what made our provisions decrease so, till what was yesterday sufficient for four, is not to-day sufficient for one. I watched, and at last I discovered – it must be a secret – an old goblin, who daily visited this house. It came in the likeness of an old man in rags, and with a long white beard, and it devoured every thing on the table, while the children stood hungry by! But I struck at – I cursed it, – I chased it in the name of the All-powerful, and it is gone. Oh it was a fell devouring goblin! – but it will haunt us no more, and we shall have enough. Enough,’ said the wretched man, involuntarily returning to his habitual associations, – ‘enough for to-morrow!’

  ‘“Ines, overcome with horror at this obvious proof of insanity, neither interrupted or opposed him; she attempted only to soothe him, internally praying against the too probable disturbance of her own intellects. Walberg saw her look of distrust, and, with the quick jealousy of partial insanity, said, ‘If you do not credit me in that, still less, I suppose, will you in the account of that fearful visitation with which I have latterly been familiar.’ – ‘Oh, my beloved!’ said Ines, who recognized in these words the source of a fear that had latterly, from some extraordinary circumstances in her husband’s conduct, taken possession of her soul, and made the fear even of famine trifling in comparison, – ‘I dread lest I understand you too well. The anguish of want and of famine I could have borne, – aye, and seen you bear, but the horrid words you have lately uttered, the horrid thoughts that escape you in your sleep, – when I think on these, and guess at’ – ‘You need not guess,’ said Walberg, interrupting her, ‘I will tell you all.’ And, as he spoke, his countenance changed from its expression of wildness to one of perfect sanity and calm confidence, – his features relaxed, his eye became steady, and his tone firm. – ‘Every night since our late distresses, I have wandered out in search of some relief, and supplicated every passing stranger; – latterly, I have met every night the enemy of man, who’ – ‘Oh cease, my love, to indulge these horrible thoughts, – they are the results of your disturbed unhappy state of mind.’ – ‘Ines, listen to me. I see that figure as plainly as I see yours, – I hear his voice as distinctly as you hear mine this moment. Want and misery are not naturally fertile in the production of imagination, – they grasp at realities too closely. No man, who wants a meal, conceives that a banquet is spread before him, and that the tempter invites him to sit down and eat at his ease. No, – no, Ines, the evil one, or some devoted agent of his in human form, besets me every night, – and how I
shall longer resist the snare, I know not.’ – ‘And in what form does he appear?’ said Ines, hoping to turn the channel of his gloomy thoughts, while she appeared to follow their direction. ‘In that of a middle-aged man, of a serious and staid demeanour, and with nothing remarkable in his aspect except the light of two burning eyes, whose lustre is almost intolerable. He fixes them on me sometimes, and I feel as if there was fascination in their glare. Every night he besets me, and few like me could have resisted his seductions. He has offered, and proved to me, that it is in his power to bestow all that human cupidity could thirst for, on the condition that – I cannot utter! It is one so full of horror and impiety, that, even to listen to it, is scarce less a crime than to comply with it!’