Percy Bysshe Shelley

by Percy Bysshe Shelley

  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 her 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 —

  “Now, my brave fellows,” he exclaimed, “the hour is late; but before we retire, I here drink success and health to every one of you.”

  Wolfstein involuntarily shuddered. — Cavigni quaffed the liquor to the dregs! — the cup fell from his trembling hand. The chill dew of death sat upon his forehead: in terrific convulsion he fell headlong; and, inarticulately uttering “I am poisoned,” sank seemingly lifeless on the earth. Sixty robbers at once rushed forward to raise him; and, reclining in their arms, with an horrible and harrowing shriek, the spark of life fled from his body for ever. A robber, skilled in surgery, opened a vein; but no blood followed the touch of the lancet. — Wolfstein advanced to the body, unappalled by the crime which he had committed, and tore aside the vest from its bosom: that bosom was discoloured by large spots of livid purple, which, by their premature appearance, declared the poison which had been used to destroy him, to be excessively powerful.

  Every one regretted the death of the brave Cavigni; every one was surprised at the mode of his death: and, by his abruptly quitting the apartment, the suspicion fell upon Ginotti, who was consequently sent for by Ardolph, a robber whom they had chosen chieftain, Wolfstein having declined the proffered distinction.

  Ginotti arrived. — His stern countenance was changed not by the execrations showered on him by every one. He yet remained unmoved, and apparently careless what sentiments others might entertain of him: he deigned not even to deny the charge. This coolness seemed to have convinced every one, the new chief in particular, of his innocence.

  “Let every one,” said Ardolph, “be searched; and if his pockets contain poison which could have effected this, let him die.” This method was universally applauded. As soon as the acclamations were stilled, Wolfstein advanced forwards, and spoke thus:

  “Any longer to conceal that it was I who perpetrated the deed, were useless. Megalena’s loveliness inflamed me: — I envied one who was about to possess it. — I have murdered him!”

  Here he was interrupted by the shouts of the bandits; and he was about to be delivered to death, when Ginotti advanced. His superior and towering figure inspired awe even in the hearts of the bandits. They were silent.

  “Suffer Wolfstein,” he exclaimed, “to depart unhurt. I will answer for his never publishing our retreat: I will promise that never more shall you behold him.”

  Every one submitted to Ginotti: for who could resist the superior Ginotti? From the gaze of Ginotti Wolfstein’s soul shrank, enhorrored, in confessed infer
iority: he who had shrunk not at death, had shrunk not to avow himself guilty of murder, and had prepared to meet its reward, started from Ginotti’s eye-beam as from the emanation of some superior and preter-human being.

  “Quit the cavern!” said Ginotti.—”May I not remain here until the morrow?” inquired Wolfstein.—”If tomorrow’s rising sun finds you in this cavern,” returned Ginotti, “I must deliver you up to the vengeance of those whom you have injured.”

  Wolfstein retired to his solitary cell, to retrace, in his mind, the occurrences of this eventful night. What was he now? — an isolated wicked wanderer; not a being on earth whom he could call a friend, and carrying with him that never-dying tormentor — conscience. In half-waking dreams passed the night: the ghost of him whom he had so inhumanly destroyed, seemed to cry for justice at the throne of God; bleeding, pale, and ghastly, it pressed on his agonized brain; and confused, inexplicable visions flitted in his imagination, until the freshness of the morning breeze warned him to depart. He collected together all those valuables which had fallen to his share as plunder, during his stay in the cavern: they amounted to a large sum. He rushed from the cavern; he hesitated, — he knew not whither to fly. He walked fast, and essayed, by exercise, to smother the feelings of his soul; but the attempt was fruitless. Not far had he proceeded, ere, stretched on the earth apparently lifeless, he beheld a female form. He advanced towards it — it was Megalena!

  A tumult of exulting and inconceivable transport rushed through his veins as he beheld her — her for whom he had plunged into the abyss of crime. She slept, and, apparently overcome by the fatigues which she had sustained, her slumber was profound. Her head reclined upon the jutting root of a tree: the tint of health and loveliness sat upon her cheek.

  When the fair Megalena awakened, and found herself in the arms of Wolfstein, she started; yet, turning her eyes, she beheld it was no enemy, and the expression of terror gave way to pleasure. In the general confusion had Megalena escaped from the abode of the bandits. The destinies of Wolfstein and Megalena were assimilated by similarity of situations; and, before they quitted the spot, so far had this reciprocal feeling prevailed, that they swore mutual affection. Megalena then related her escape from the cavern, and showed Wolfstein jewels, to an immense amount, which she had secreted.

  “At all events, then,” said Wolfstein, “we may defy poverty; for I have about me jewels to the value of ten thousand zechins.”

  “We will go to Genoa,” said Megalena. “We will, my fair one. There, entirely devoted to each other, we will defy the darts of misery.”

  Megalena returned no answer, save a look of else inexpressible love.

  It was now the middle of the day; neither Wolfstein nor Megalena had tasted food since the preceding night; and faint, from fatigue, Megalena scarce could move onwards. “Courage, my love,” said Wolfstein; “yet a little way, and we shall arrive at a cottage, a sort of inn, where we may wait until the morrow, and hire mules to carry us to Placenza, whence we can easily proceed to the goal of our destination.”

  Megalena collected her strength: in a short time they arrived at the cottage, and passed the remainder of the day in plans respecting the future. Wearied with unusual exertions, Megalena early retired to an inconvenient bed, which, however, was the best the cottage could afford; and Wolfstein, lying along the bench by the fireplace, resigned himself to meditation; for his mind was too much disturbed to let him sleep.

  Although Wolfstein had every reason to rejoice at the success which had crowned his schemes; although the very event had occurred which his soul had so much and so eagerly panted for; yet, even now, in possession of all he held valuable on earth, was he ill at ease. Remorse for his crimes, tortured him: yet, steeling his conscience, he essayed to smother the fire which burned within his bosom; to change the tenour of his thoughts — in vain! he could not. Restless passed the night, and the middle of the day beheld Wolfstein and Megalena far from the habitation of the bandits.

  They intended, if possible, to reach Breno that night, and thence, on the following day, to journey towards Genoa. They had descended the southern acclivity of the Alps. It was now hastening towards spring, and the whole country began to gleam with the renewed loveliness of nature. Odoriferous orange-groves scented the air. Myrtles bloomed on the sides of the gentle eminences which they occasionally ascended. The face of nature was smiling and gay; so was Megalena’s heart: with exulting and speechless transport it bounded within her bosom. She gazed on him who possessed her soul; although she felt no inclination in her bosom to retrace the events, by means of which an obscure bandit, undefinable to herself, had gained the eternal love of the former haughty Megalena di Metastasio.

  They soon arrived at Breno. Wolfstein dismissed the muleteer, and conducted Megalena into the interior of the inn, ordering at the same time a supper. Again were repeated protestations of eternal affection, avowals of indissoluble love; but it is sufficient to conceive what cannot be so well described.

  It was near midnight; Wolfstein and Megalena sat at supper, and conversed with that unrestrainedness and gaiety which mutual confidence inspired, when the door was opened, and the innkeeper announced the arrival of a man who wished to speak with Wolfstein.

  “Tell him,” exclaimed Wolfstein, rather surprised, and wishing to guard against the possibility of danger, “that I will not see him.”

  The landlord left the room, and, in a short time, returned. A man accompanied him: he was of gigantic stature, and masked. “He would take no denial, Signor,” said the landlord, in exculpation, as he left the room.

  The stranger advanced to the table at which Wolfstein and Megalena sat: he threw aside his mask, and disclosed the features of — Ginotti! Wolfstein’s frame became convulsed with involuntary horror: he started. Megalena was surprised.

  Ginotti, at length, broke the terrible silence.

  “Wolfstein,” he said, “I saved you from, otherwise, inevitable death; by my means alone have you gained Megalena: — what do I then deserve in return?” Wolfstein looked on the countenance: it was stern and severe, yet divested of the terrible expression which had before caused his frame to shudder with excess of alarm.

  “My eternal gratitude,” returned Wolfstein, hesitatingly.

  “Will you promise, that when, destitute and a wanderer, I demand your protection, when I beseech you to listen to the tale which I shall relate, you will listen to me; that, when I am dead, you will bury me, and suffer my soul to rest in the endless slumber of annihilation? Then will you repay me for the benefits which I have conferred upon you.”

  “I will,” replied Wolfstein, “I will perform all that you require.”

  “Swear it!” exclaimed Ginotti.

  “I swear.”

  Ginotti then abruptly quitted the apartment; the sound of his footsteps was heard descending the stairs; and, when they were no longer audible, a weight seemed to have been taken from the breast of Wolfstein.

  “How did that man save your life?” inquired Megalena.

  “He was one of our band,” replied Wolfstein, evasively, “and, on a plundering excursion, his pistol-ball entered the heart of the man, whose sabre, lifted aloft, would else have severed my head from my body.”

  “Dear Wolfstein, who are you? — whence came you? — for you were not always an Alpine bandit?”

  “That is true, my adored one; but fate presents an insuperable barrier to my ever relating the events which occurred previously to my connexion with the banditti. Dearest Megalena, if you love me, never question me concerning my past life, but rest satisfied with the conviction, that my future existence shall be devoted to you, and to you alone.” Megalena felt surprise; but although eagerly desiring to unravel the mystery in which Wolfstein shrouded himself, desisted from inquiry.

  Ginotti’s mysterious visit had made too serious an impression on the mind of Wolfstein to be lightly erased. In vain he essayed to appear easy and unembarrassed while he conversed with Megalena. He attempted to drown thou
ght in wine — but in vain: — Ginotti’s strange injunction pressed, like a load of ice, upon his breast. At last, the hour being late, they both retired to their respective rooms.

  Early on the following morning, Wolfstein arose, to arrange the necessary preparations for their journey to Genoa; whither he had sent a servant whom he hired at Breno, to prepare accommodations for their arrival. — Needless were it minutely to describe each trivial event which occurred during their journey to Genoa.

  On the morning of the fourth day, they found themselves within a short distance of the city. They determined on the plan which they should adopt, and, in a short space of time, arriving at Genoa, took up their residence in a mansion on the outermost extremity of the city.

  CHAPTER. III.

  Whence, and what art thou, execrable shape.

  That dar’st, though grim and terrible, advance

  Thy miscreated front athwart my way?

  Paradise Lost.

  Time passed; and, settled in their new habitation, Megalena and Wolfstein appeared to defy the arrows of vengeful destiny.

  Wolfstein resolved to allow some time to elapse before he spoke of the subject nearest to his heart, of herself, to Megalena. One evening, however, overcome by the passion which, by mutual indulgence, had become resistless, he cast himself at her feet, and, avowing most unbounded love, demanded the promised return. A slight spark of virtue yet burned in the bosom of the wretched girl; she essayed to fly from temptation; but Wolfstein, seizing her hand, said, “And is my adored Megalena a victim then to prejudice? Does she believe, that the Being who created us gave us passions which never were to be satiated? Does she suppose that Nature created us to become the tormentors of each other?”

  “Ah! Wolfstein,” Megalena said tenderly, “rise! — You know too well the chain which unites me to you is indissoluble; you know that I must be thine; where, therefore, is there an appeal?”