Percy Bysshe Shelley

by Percy Bysshe Shelley

  A servant entered, and announced supper.

  “Is Ferdinand returned?” hastily inquired Matilda.

  The domestic answered in the negative. — She sighed deeply, and struck her forehead.

  Footsteps were heard in the antichamber without.

  “There is Ferdinand!” exclaimed Matilda, exultingly, as he entered—”Well, well! have you found Verezzi? Ah! speak quickly! ease me of this horrible suspense.”

  “Signora!” said Ferdinand, “it grieves me much to be obliged to declare, that all my endeavours have been inefficient to find Il Conte Verezzi — .”

  “Oh, madness! madness!” exclaimed Matilda; “is it for this that I have plunged into the dark abyss of crime? — is it for this that I have despised the delicacy of my sex, and, braving consequences, have offered my love to one who despises me — who shuns me, as does the barbarous Verezzi? But if he is in Passau — if he is in the environs of the city, I will find him.”

  Thus saying, despising the remonstrances of her domestics, casting off all sense of decorum, she rushed into the streets of Passau. A gloomy silence reigned through the streets of the city; it was past midnight, and every inhabitant seemed to be sunk in sleep — sleep which Matilda was almost a stranger to. Her white robes floated on the night air — her shadowy and dishevelled hair flew over her form, which, as she passed the bridge, seemed to strike the boatmen below with the idea of some supernatural and ethereal form.

  She hastily crossed the bridge — she entered the fields on the right — the Danube, whose placid stream was scarcely agitated by the wind, reflected her symmetrical form, as, scarcely knowing what direction she pursued, Matilda hastened along its banks. Sudden horror, resistless despair, seized her brain, maddened as it was by hopeless love.

  “What have I to do in this world, my fairest prospect blighted, my fondest hope rendered futile?” exclaimed the frantic Matilda, as, wound up to the highest pitch of desperation, she attempted to plunge herself into the river.

  But life fled; for Matilda, caught by a stranger’s arm, was prevented from the desperate act.

  Overcome by horror, she fainted.

  Some time did she lie in a state of torpid insensibility, till the stranger, filling his cap with water from the river, and sprinkling her pallid countenance with it, recalled to life the miserable Matilda.

  What was her surprise, what was her mingled emotion of rapture and doubt, when the moon-beam disclosed to her view the countenance of Verezzi, as in anxious solicitude he bent over her elegantly-proportioned form!

  “By what chance,” exclaimed the surprised Verezzi, “do I see here La Contessa di Laurentini? did not I leave you at your Italian castella? I had hoped you would have ceased to persecute me, when I told you that I was irrevocably another’s.”

  “Oh, Verezzi!” exclaimed Matilda, casting herself at his feet, “I adore you to madness — I love you to distraction. If you have one spark of compassion, let me not sue in vain — reject not one who feels it impossible to overcome the fatal, resistless passion which consumes her.”

  “Rise, Signora,” returned Verezzi—”rise; this discourse is improper — it is not suiting the dignity of your rank, or the delicacy of your sex: but suffer me to conduct you to yon cottage, where, perhaps, you may deign to refresh yourself, or pass the night.”

  The moon-beams played upon the tranquil waters of the Danube, as Verezzi silently conducted the beautiful Matilda to the humble dwelling where he resided.

  Claudine waited at the door, and had begun to fear that some mischance had befallen Verezzi, as, when he arrived at the cottage-door, it was long past his usual hour of return.

  It was his custom, during those hours when the twilight of evening cools the air, to wander through the adjacent rich scenery, though he seldom prolonged his walks till midnight.

  He supported the fainting form of Matilda as he advanced towards Claudine. The old woman’s eyes had lately failed her, from extreme age; and it was not until Verezzi called to her that she saw him, accompanied by La Contessa di Laurentini.

  “Claudine,” said Verezzi, “I have another claim upon your kindness: this lady, who has wandered beyond her knowledge, will honour our cottage so far as to pass the night here. If you would prepare the pallet which I usually occupy for her, I will repose this evening on the turf, and will now get supper ready. Signora,” continued he, addressing Matilda, “some wine would, I think, refresh your spirits; permit me to fill you a glass of wine.”

  Matilda silently accepted his offer — their eyes met — those of Matilda were sparkling and full of meaning.

  “Verezzi!” exclaimed Matilda, “I arrived but four days since at Passau — I have eagerly inquired for you — oh! how eagerly! — Will you accompany me to-morrow to Passau?”

  “Yes,” said Verezzi, hesitatingly.

  Claudine soon joined them. Matilda exulted in the success of her schemes, and Claudine being present, the conversation took a general turn. The lateness of the hour, at last, warned them to separate.

  Verezzi, left to solitude and his own reflections, threw himself on the turf, which extended to the Danube below. — Ideas of the most gloomy nature took possession of his soul; and, in the event of the evening, he saw the foundation of the most bitter misfortunes.

  He could not love Matilda; and though he never had seen her but in the most amiable light, he found it impossible to feel any sentiment towards her, save cold esteem. Never had he beheld those dark shades in her character, which, if developed, could excite nothing but horror and detestation: he regarded her as a woman of strong passions, who, having resisted them to the utmost of her power, was at last borne away in the current — whose brilliant virtues one fault had obscured — as such he pitied her: but still could he not help observing a comparison between her and Julia, whose feminine delicacy shrunk from the slightest suspicion, even of indecorum. Her fragile form, her mild heavenly countenance, was contrasted with all the partiality of love, to the scintillating eye, the commanding countenance, the bold expressive gaze, of Matilda.

  He must accompany her on the morrow to Passau. — During their walk, he determined to observe a strict silence; or, at all events, not to hazard one equivocal expression, which might be construed into what it was not meant for.

  The night passed away — morning came, and the tops of the far-seen mountains were gilded by the rising sun.

  Exulting in the success of her schemes, and scarcely able to disguise the vivid feelings of her heart, the wily Matilda, as early she descended to the narrow parlour, where Claudine had prepared a simple breakfast, affected a gloom she was far from feeling.

  An unequivocal expression of innocent and mild tenderness marked her manner towards Verezzi: her eyes were cast on the ground, and her every movement spoke meekness and sensibility.

  At last, breakfast being finished, the time arrived when Matilda, accompanied by Verezzi, pursued the course of the river, to retrace her footsteps to Passau. A gloomy silence for some time prevailed — at last Matilda spoke.

  “Unkind Verezzi! is it thus that you will ever slight me? is it for this that I have laid aside the delicacy of my sex, and owned to you a passion which was but too violent to be concealed? — Ah! at least pity me! I love you: oh! I adore you to madness!”

  She paused — the peculiar expression which beamed in her dark eye, told the tumultuous wishes of her bosom.

  “Distress not yourself and me, Signora,” said Verezzi, “by these unavailing protestations. Is it for you — is it for Matilda,” continued he, his countenance assuming a smile of bitterest scorn, “to talk of love to the lover of Julia?”

  Rapid tears coursed down Matilda’s cheek. She sighed — the sigh seemed to rend her inmost bosom.

  So unexpected a reply conquered Verezzi. He had been prepared for reproaches, but his feelings could not withstand Matilda’s tears.

  “Ah! forgive me, Signora,” exclaimed Verezzi, “if my brain, crazed by disappointments, dictated words which my h
eart intended not.”

  “Oh!” replied Matilda, “it is I who am wrong: led on by the violence of my passion, I have uttered words, the bare recollection of which fills me with horror. Oh! forgive, forgive an unhappy woman, whose only fault is loving you too well.”

  As thus she spoke, they entered the crowded streets of Passau, and, proceeding rapidly onwards, soon arrived at La Contessa di Laurentini’s hotel.

  CHAPTER VI.

  The character of Matilda has been already so far revealed, as to render it unnecessary to expatiate upon it farther. Suffice it to say, that her syren illusions, and well-timed blandishments, obtained so great a power over the imagination of Verezzi, that his resolution to return to Claudine’s cottage before sun-set became every instant fainter and fainter.

  “And will you thus leave me?” exclaimed Matilda, in accents of the bitterest anguish, as Verezzi prepared to depart—”will you thus leave unnoticed, her who, for your sake alone, casting aside the pride of high birth, has wandered, unknown, through foreign climes? Oh! if I have (led away by love for you) outstepped the bounds of modesty, let me not, oh! let me not be injured by others with impunity. Stay, I entreat thee, Verezzi, if yet one spark of compassion lingers in your breast — stay and defend me from those who vainly seek one who is irrevocably thine.”

  With words such as these did the wily Matilda work upon the generous passions of Verezzi. Emotions of pity, of compassion, for one whose only fault he supposed to be love for him, conquered Verezzi’s softened soul.

  “Oh! Matilda,” said he, “though I cannot love thee — though my soul is irrevocably another’s — yet, believe me, I esteem, I admire thee; and it grieves me that a heart, fraught with so many and so brilliant virtues, has fixed itself on one who is incapable of appreciating its value.”

  The time passed away, and each returning sun beheld Verezzi still at Passau — still under Matilda’s proof. That softness, that melting tenderness, which she knew so well how to assume, began to convince Verezzi of the injustice of the involuntary hatred which had filled his soul towards her. Her conversation was fraught with sense and elegant ideas. She played to him in the cool of the evening; and often, after sun-set, they rambled together into the rich scenery and luxuriant meadows which are washed by the Danube.

  Claudine was not forgotten: indeed, Matilda first recollected her, and, by placing her in an independent situation, added a new claim to the gratitude of Verezzi.

  In this manner three weeks passed away. Every day did Matilda practise new arts, employ new blandishments, to detain under her roof the fascinated Verezzi.

  The most select parties in Passau, flitted in varied movements to exquisite harmony, when Matilda perceived Verezzi’s spirits to be ruffled by recollection.

  When he seemed to prefer solitude, a moonlight walk by the Danube was proposed by Matilda; or, with skilful fingers, she drew from her harp sounds of the most heart-touching, most enchanting melody. Her behaviour towards him was soft, tender, and quiet, and might rather have characterised the mild, serene love of a friend or sister, than the ardent, unquenchable fire, which burnt, though concealed, within Matilda’s bosom.

  It was one calm evening that Matilda and Verezzi sat in a back saloon, which overlooked the gliding Danube. Verezzi was listening, with all the enthusiasm of silent rapture, to a favourite soft air which Matilda sang, when a loud rap at the hall door startled them. A domestic entered, and told Matilda that a stranger, on particular business, waited to speak with her.

  “Oh!” exclaimed Matilda, “I cannot attend to him now; bid him wait.”

  The stranger was impatient, and would not be denied.

  “Desire him to come in, then,” said Matilda.

  The domestic hastened to obey her commands.

  Verezzi had arisen to leave the room. “No,” cried Matilda, “sit still; I shall soon dismiss the fellow; besides, I have no secrets from you.” Verezzi took his seat.

  The wide folding-doors which led into the passage were open.

  Verezzi observed Matilda, as she gazed fixedly through them, to grow pale.

  He could not see the cause, as he was seated on a sofa at the other end of the saloon.

  Suddenly she started from her seat — her whole frame seemed convulsed by agitation, as she rushed through the door.

  Verezzi heard an agitated voice exclaim, “Go! go! to-morrow morning!”

  Matilda returned — she seated herself again at the harp which she had quitted, and essayed to compose herself; but it was in vain — she was too much agitated.

  Her voice, as she again attempted to sing, refused to perform its office; and her humid hands, as they swept the strings of the harp, violently trembled.

  “Matilda,” said Verezzi, in a sympathising tone, “what has agitated you? Make me a repository of your sorrows: I would, if possible, alleviate them.”

  “Oh no,” said Matilda, affecting unconcern; “nothing — nothing has happened. I was even myself unconscious that I appeared agitated.”

  Verezzi affected to believe her, and assumed a composure which he felt not. The conversation changed, and Matilda assumed her wonted mien. The lateness of the hour at last warned them to separate.

  The more Verezzi thought upon the evening’s occurrence, the more did a conviction in his mind, inexplicable even to himself, strengthen, that Matilda’s agitation originated in something of consequence. He knew her mind to be superior to common circumstance and fortuitous casualty, which might have ruffled an inferior soul. Besides, the words which he had heard her utter—”Go! go! to-morrow morning!” — and though he resolved to disguise his real sentiments, and seem to let the subject drop, he determined narrowly to scrutinise Matilda’s conduct; and, particularly, to know what took place on the following morning. — An indefinable presentiment that something horrible was about to occur, filled Verezzi’s mind. A long chain of retrospection ensued — he could not forget the happy hours which he had passed with Julia; her interesting softness, her ethereal form, pressed on his aching sense.

  Still did he feel his soul irresistibly softened towards Matilda — her love for him flattered his vanity; and though he could not feel reciprocal affection towards her, yet her kindness in rescuing him from his former degraded situation, her altered manner towards him, and her unremitting endeavours to please, to humour him in every thing, called for his warmest, his sincerest gratitude.

  The morning came — Verezzi arose from a sleepless couch, and descending into the breakfast-parlour, there found Matilda.

  He endeavoured to appear the same as usual, but in vain; for an expression of reserve and scrutiny was apparent on his features.

  Matilda perceived it, and shrunk abashed from his keen gaze.

  The meal passed away in silence.

  “Excuse me for an hour or two,” at last stammered out Matilda—”my steward has accounts to settle;” and she left the apartment.

  Verezzi had now no doubt but that the stranger, who had caused Matilda’s agitation the day before, was now returned to finish his business.

  He moved towards the door to follow her — he stopped.

  What right have I to pry into the secrets of another? thought Verezzi: besides, the business which this stranger has with Matilda cannot possibly concern me.

  Still was he compelled, by an irresistible fascination, as it were, to unravel what appeared to him so mysterious an affair. He endeavoured to believe it to be as she affirmed; he endeavoured to compose himself: he took a book, but his eyes wandered insensibly.

  Thrice he hesitated — thrice he shut the door of the apartment; till at last, a curiosity, unaccountable even to himself, propelled him to seek Matilda.

  Mechanically he moved along the passage. He met one of the domestics — he inquired where Matilda was.

  “In the grand saloon,” was the reply.

  With trembling steps he advanced towards it — The folding-doors were open — He saw Matilda and the stranger standing at the remote end of the apartment
.

  The stranger’s figure, which was towering and majestic, was rendered more peculiarly striking, by the elegantly proportioned form of Matilda, who leant on a marble table near her; and her gestures, as she conversed with him, manifested the most eager impatience, the deepest interest.

  CHAPTER VII.

  At so great a distance, Verezzi could not hear their conversation; but, by the low murmurs which occasionally reached his ear, he perceived that, whatever it might be, they were both equally interested in the subject.

  For some time he contemplated them with mingled surprise and curiosity — he tried to arrange the confused murmurs of their voices, which floated along the immense and vaulted apartment, but no articulate sound reached his ear.

  At last Matilda took the stranger’s hand: she pressed it to her lips with an eager and impassioned gesture, and led him to the opposite door of the saloon.

  Suddenly the stranger turned, but as quickly regained his former position, as he retreated through the door; not quickly enough, however, but, in the stranger’s fire-darting eye, Verezzi recognised him who had declared eternal enmity at the cottage on the heath.

  Scarcely knowing where he was, or what to believe, for a few moments Verezzi stood bewildered, and unable to arrange the confusion of ideas which floated in his brain, and assailed his terror-struck imagination. He knew not what to believe — what phantom it could be that, in the shape of , blasted his straining eye-balls — Could it really be Zastrozzi? Could his most rancorous, his bitterest enemy, be thus beloved, thus confided in, by the perfidious Matilda?

  For several moments he stood doubting what he should resolve upon. At one while he determined to reproach Matilda with treachery and baseness, and overwhelm her in the mid career of wickedness; but at last concluding it to be more politic to dissemble and subdue his emotions, he went into the breakfast-parlour which he had left, and seated himself as if nothing had happened, at a drawing which he had left incomplete.