Percy Bysshe Shelley

by Percy Bysshe Shelley

  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.”

  “Oh! !” said Matilda,—”kind, excellent Zastrozzi; what words can express the gratitude which I feel towards you — what words can express the bliss exquisite, celestial, which I owe to your advice; yet still, amid the roses of successful love — amid the ecstasies of transporting voluptuousness — fear, blighting chilly fear, damps my hopes of happiness. Julia, the hated, accursed Julia’s image, is the phantom which scares my otherwise certain confidence of eternal delight: could she but be hurled to destruction — could some other artifice of my friend sweep her from the number of the living—”

  “‘Tis enough, Matilda,” interrupted ; “‘tis enough: in six days hence meet me here; meanwhile, let not any corroding anticipations destroy your present happiness: fear not; but, on the arrival of your faithful Zastrozzi, expect the earnest of the happiness which you wish to enjoy for ever.”

  Thus saying, departed, and Matilda retraced her steps to her castella.

  Amid the delight, the ecstasy, for which her soul had so long panted — amid the embraces of him whom she had fondly supposed alone to constitute all terrestrial happiness, racking, corroding thoughts possessed Matilda’s bosom.

  Deeply musing on schemes of future delight — delight established by the gratification of most diabolical revenge, her eyes fixed upon the ground, heedless what path she pursued, Matilda advanced along the forest.

  A voice aroused her from her reverie — it was Verezzi’s — the well-known, the tenderly-adored tone, struck upon her senses forcibly: she started, and, hastening towards him, soon allayed those fears which her absence had excited in the fond heart of her spouse, and on which account he had anxiously quitted the castella to search for her.

  Joy, rapturous, ecstatic happiness, untainted by fear, unpolluted by reflection, reigned for six days in Matilda’s bosom.

  Five days passed away, the sixth arrived, and, when the evening came, Matilda, with eager and impatient steps, sought the forest.

  The evening was gloomy, dense vapours overspread the air; the wind, low and hollow, sighed mournfully in the gigantic pine trees, and whispered in low hissings among the withered shrubs which grew on the rocky prominences.

  Matilda waited impatiently for the arrival of . At last his towering form emerged from an interstice in the rocks.

  He advanced towards her.

  “Success! Victory!
my Matilda,” exclaimed , in an accent of exultation—”Julia is—”

  “You need add no more,” interrupted Matilda: “kind, excellent , I thank thee; but yet do say how you destroyed her — tell me by what racking, horrible torments, you launched her soul into eternity. Did she perish by the dagger’s point? or did the torments of poison send her, writhing in agony, to the tomb.”

  “Yes,” replied ; “she fell at my feet, overpowered by resistless convulsions. Who more ready than myself to restore the Marchesa’s fleeted senses — who more ready than myself to account for her fainting, by observing, that the heat of the assembly had momentarily overpowered her. But Julia’s senses were fled for ever; and it was not until the swiftest gondola in Venice had borne me far towards your castella, that il consiglio di dieci searched for, without discovering the offender.

  “Here I must remain; for, were I discovered, the fatal consequences to us both are obvious. Farewell for the present,” added he, “meanwhile happiness attend you; but go not to Venice.”

  “Where have you been so late, my love?” tenderly inquired Verezzi as she returned. “I fear lest the night air, particularly that of so damp an evening as this, might affect your health.”

  “No, no, my dearest Verezzi, it has not,” hesitatingly answered Matilda.

  “You seem pensive, you seem melancholy, my Matilda,” said Verezzi: “lay open your heart to me. I am afraid something, of which I am ignorant, presses upon your bosom.

  “Is it the solitude of this remote castella which represses the natural gaiety of your soul? Shall we go to Venice?”

  “Oh! no, no!” hastily and eagerly interrupted Matilda: “not to Venice — we must not go to Venice.”

  Verezzi was slightly surprised, but imputing her manner to indisposition, it passed off.

  Unmarked by events of importance, a month passed away. Matilda’s passion, unallayed by satiety, unconquered by time, still raged with its former fierceness — still was every earthly delight centred in Verezzi; and, in the air-drawn visions of her imagination, she portrayed to herself that this happiness would last for ever.

  It was one evening that Verezzi and Matilda sat, happy in the society of each other, that a servant entering, presented the latter with a sealed paper.

  The contents were: “Matilda Contessa di Laurentini is summoned to appear before the holy inquisition — to appear before its tribunal, immediately on the receipt of this summons.”

  Matilda’s cheek, as she read it, was blanched with terror. The summons — the fatal, irresistible summons, struck her with chilly awe. She attempted to thrust it into her bosom; but, unable to conceal her terror, she essayed to rush from the apartment — but it was in vain: her trembling limbs refused to support her, and she sank fainting on the floor.

  Verezzi raised her — he restored her fleeting senses; he cast himself at her feet, and in the tenderest, most pathetic accents, demanded the reason of her alarm. “And if,” said he, “it is any thing of which I have unconsciously been guilty — if it is any thing in my conduct which has offended you, oh! how soon, how truly would I repent. Dearest Matilda, I adore you to madness: tell me then quickly — confide in one who loves you as I do.”

  “Rise, Verezzi,” exclaimed Matilda, in a tone expressive of serene horror: “and since the truth can no longer be concealed, peruse that letter.”

  She presented him the fatal summons. He eagerly snatched it: breathless with impatience, he opened it. But what words can express the consternation of the affrighted Verezzi, as the summons, mysterious and inexplicable to him, pressed upon his straining eye-ball. For an instant he stood fixed in mute and agonising thought. At last, in the forced serenity of despair, he demanded what was to be done.

  Matilda answered not; for her soul, borne on the pinions of anticipation, at that instant portrayed to itself ignominious and agonising dissolution.

  “What is to be done?” again, in a deeper tone of despair, demanded Verezzi.

  “We must instantly to Venice,” returned Matilda, collecting her scattered faculties: “we must to Venice; there, I believe, we may be safe. But in some remote corner of the city we must for the present fix our habitations: we must condescend to curtail our establishment; and, above all, we must avoid particularity. But will my Verezzi descend from the rank of life in which his birth has placed him, and with the outcast Matilda’s fortunes quit grandeur?”

  “Matilda! dearest Matilda!” exclaimed Verezzi, “talk not thus; you know I am ever yours; you know I love you, and with you, could conceive a cottage elysium.”

  Matilda’s eyes flushed with momentary triumph as Verezzi spoke thus, amid the alarming danger which impended her: under the displeasure of the inquisition, whose motives for prosecution are inscrutable, whose decrees are without appeal, her soul, in the possession of all it held dear on earth, secure of Verezzi’s affection, thrilled with pleasurable emotions, yet not unmixed with alarm.

  She now prepared to depart. Taking, therefore, out of all her domestics, but the faithful Ferdinand, Matilda, accompanied by Verezzi, although the evening was far advanced, threw herself into a chariot, and leaving every one at the castella unacquainted with her intentions, took the road through the forest which led to Venice.

  The convent bell, almost inaudible from distance, tolled ten as the carriage slowly ascended a steep which rose before it.

  “But how do you suppose, my Matilda,” said Verezzi, “that it will be possible for us to evade the scrutiny of the inquisition?”

  “Oh!” returned Matilda, “we must not appear in our true characters — we must disguise them.”

  “But,” inquired Verezzi, “what crime do you suppose the inquisition to allege against you?”

  “Heresy, I suppose,” said Matilda. “You know, an enemy has nothing to do but lay an accusation of heresy against any unfortunate and innocent individual, and the victim expires in horrible tortures, or lingers the wretched remnant of his life in dark and solitary cells.”

  A convulsive sigh heaved Verezzi’s bosom.

  “And is that then to be my Matilda’s destiny?” he exclaimed in horror. “No — Heaven will never permit such excellence to suffer.”

  Meanwhile they had arrived at the Brenta. The Brenta’s stream glided silently beneath the midnight breeze towards the Adriatic.

  Towering poplars, which loftily raised their spiral forms on its bank, cast a gloomier shade upon the placid wave.

  Matilda and Verezzi entered a gondola, and the grey tints of approaching morn had streaked the eastern ether, before they entered the grand canal at Venice; and passing the Rialto, proceeded onwards to a small, though not inelegant mansion, in the eastern suburbs.

  Every thing here, though not grand, was commodious; and as they entered it, Verezzi expressed his approbation of living here retired.

  Seemingly secure from the scrutiny of the inquisition, Matilda and Verezzi passed some days of uninterrupted happiness.

  At last, one evening Verezzi, tired even with monotony of ecstasy, proposed to Matilda to take the gondola, and go to a festival which was to be celebrated at St. Mark’s Place.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  The evening was serene. — Fleecy clouds floated on the horizon — the moon’s full orb, in cloudless majesty, hung high in air, and was reflected in silver brilliancy by every wave of the Adriatic, as, gently agitated by the evening breeze, they dashed against innumerable gondolas which crowded the Laguna.

  Exquisite harmony, borne on the pinions of the tranquil air, floated in varying murmurs: it sometimes died away, and then again swelling louder, in melodious undulations softened to pleasure every listening ear.

  Every eye which gazed on the fairy scene beamed with pleasure; unrepressed gaiety filled every heart but Julia’s, as with a vacant stare, unmoved by feelings of pleasure, unagitated by the gaiety which filled every other soul, she contemplated the varied scene. A magnificent gondola carried the Marchesa di Strobazzo; and the innumerable flambeaux which blazed around her ri
valled the meridian sun.

  It was the pensive, melancholy Julia, who, immersed in thought, sat unconscious of every external object, whom the fierce glance of Matilda measured with a haughty expression of surprise and revenge. The dark fire which flashed from her eye, more than told the feelings of her soul, as she fixed it on her rival; and had it possessed the power of the basilisk’s, Julia would have expired on the spot.

  It was the ethereal form of the now forgotten Julia which first caught Verezzi’s eye. For an instant he gazed with surprise upon her symmetrical figure, and was about to point her out to Matilda, when, in the downcast countenance of the enchanting female, he recognised his long-lost Julia.

  To paint the feelings of Verezzi — as Julia raised her head from the attitude in which it was fixed, and disclosed to his view that countenance which he had formerly gazed on in ecstasy, the index of that soul to which he had sworn everlasting fidelity — is impossible.

  The Lethean torpor, as it were, which before had benumbed him; the charm, which had united him to Matilda, was dissolved.

  All the air-built visions of delight, which had but a moment before floated in gay variety in his enraptured imagination, faded away, and, in place of these, regret, horror, and despairing repentance, reared their heads amid the roses of momentary voluptuousness.

  He still gazed entranced, but Julia’s gondola, indistinct from distance, mocked his straining eyeball.

  For a time neither spoke: the gondola rapidly passed onwards, but, immersed in thought, Matilda and Verezzi heeded not its rapidity.

  They had arrived at St. Mark’s Place, and the gondolier’s voice, as he announced it, was the first interruption of the silence.

  They started. — Verezzi now, for the first time, aroused from his reverie of horror, saw that the scene before him was real; and that the oaths of fidelity which he had so often and so fervently sworn to Julia were broken.

  The extreme of horror seized his brain — a frigorific torpidity of despair chilled every sense, and his eyes, fixedly, gazed on vacancy.