Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
THE LOVE OF WOMAN—GIULIA AND HER
LOVER
Silence
, and calmness, and moonlight were without the walls of the
Arestino villa; for the goddess of night shone sweetly but coldly on the city
of Florence, and asserted her empire even over the clouds that ere now had
seemed laden with storm. Nor beamed she there alone—that fair Diana; for a
countless host of handmaidens—the silver-faced stars—had spread themselves over
the deep purple sky; and there—there—they all shone in subdued and modest
glory—those myriads of beacons floating on the eternal waves of that far-off
and silent sea!
Shine on, sweet regent of the
night—and ye, too, silver-faced stars, whose countenances are reflected and
multiplied endlessly, as they are rocked to and fro, on the deep blue bosom of
the Arno; while on the banks of that widely-famed stream, Nature herself, as if
wearied of her toils, appears to be sleeping.
Would that the soul of man could
thus lie down in its night of sorrow or of racking passion, on the margin of
the waters of hope, confident that the slumber of contentment and peace will
seal his eyelids, heavy with long vigils in a world where conflicting interests
need constant watching, and that the stillness of the unfathomable depths of
those waters will impart its influence unto him!
For, oh! if calmness, silence,
and moonlight prevail without the walls of the Arestino villa, yet within there
be hearts agitated by passions and emotions, from which the gentle genius of
slumber shrinks back aghast.
In the brilliantly lighted
apartment, to which we have already introduced our readers, the Countess Giulia
receives her lover, the dissipated but handsome Marquis of Orsini; the
bandit-captain is concealed behind the richly-worked tapestry; and at the door—not
the little private one—of that room, an old man is listening; an old man whose
ashy pale countenance, clinched hands, quivering white lips, and wildly rolling
eyes indicate how terrible are the feelings which agitate within his breast.
This old man was the Count of
Arestino, one of the mightiest nobles of the republic. Naturally his heart was
good, and his disposition kind and generous—but, then, he was an Italian—and he
was jealous! Need we say more to account for the
change which had now taken place
in his usually calm, tranquil, yet dignified, demeanor? Or shall we inform our
readers that at the banquet to which he had been invited at a friend’s villa
that evening, he had overheard two young nobles, in a conversation which the
generous wine they had been too freely imbibing rendered indiscreetly loud,
couple the names of Giulia Arestino, his own much-loved wife, and Manuel
d’Orsini, in a manner which suddenly excited a fearful, a blasting suspicion in
his mind? Stealing away unperceived from the scene of revelry, the count had
returned unattended to the immediate vicinity of his mansion; and from the
shade of a detached building he had observed the Marquis of Orsini traverse the
gardens and enter a portico leading to the private staircase communicating with
that wing of the palace which contained the suit of apartments occupied by
Giulia.
This was enough to strengthen the
suspicion already excited in the old nobleman’s mind; but not quite sufficient
to confirm it. The countess had several beautiful girls attached to her person;
and the marquis might have stooped to an intrigue with one of them. The Lord of
Arestino was therefore resolved to act with the caution of a prudent man: but
he was also prepared to avenge, in case of the worst, with the spirit of an
Italian.
He hurried round to the principal
entrance of his palace, and gave some brief but energetic instructions to a
faithful valet, who instantly departed to execute them. The count then ascended
the marble staircase, traversed the corridors leading toward his lady’s
apartments, and placed himself against the door of that one wherein Giulia had
already received her lover.
Thus, while silence, and
calmness, and moonlight reign without—yet within the walls of the Arestino
mansion a storm has gathered, to explode fearfully. And all through the
unlawful, but not less ardent, love of Giulia for the spendthrift Marquis of
Orsini!
Sober-minded men, philosophic
reasoners, persons of business-habits, stern moralists—all these may ridicule
the poet or the novelist who makes Love his everlasting theme; they may hug
themselves, in the apathy of their own cold hearts, with the belief that all
the attributes of the passion have been immensely exaggerated; but they are in
error, deeply, profoundly, indisputably in error. For Love, in its various
phases, among which are Jealousy, Suspicion, Infidelity, Rivalry, and Revenge,
has agitated the world from time immemorial—has overthrown empires, has
engendered exterminating wars, and has extended its despotic sway alike over
the gorgeous city of a consummate civilization, and the miserable wigwam of a
heathen barbarism! Who, then, can wonder—if the theme of Love be universal—that
it should have evoked the rude and iron eloquence of the Scandinavian Scald as
well as the soft and witching poesy of the bards of more genial climes, or that
its praises or its sorrows should be sung on the banks of the Arno, the Seine,
or the Thames, as well as amidst the pathless forests of America, or the
burning sands of Africa, or in the far-off islands of the Southern Seas.
But, alas! it is thou, O
woman! who art called on to make the most cruel sacrifices at the altar of this
imperious deity—love! If thou lovest honorably, ’tis well; but if thou lovest
unlawfully how wretched is thy fate! The lover, for whose sake thou hast
forgotten thy duties as a wife, has sacrificed nothing to thee, whilst thou
hast sacrificed everything to him. Let the
amour
be discovered, and who suffers? Thou!
He loses not caste, station, name, nor honor;—thou art suddenly robbed of all
these! The gilded saloons of fashion throw open their doors to the seducer; but
bars of adamant defend that entrance against the seduced. For his sake thou
risketh contumely, shame, reviling, scorn, and the lingering death of a
breaking heart,—for
thee
he would not risk one millionth part
of all that! Shouldst thou be starving, say to him, “Go forth and steal to give
me bread; dare the dishonor of the deed, and make the sacrifice of thy good
name for me. Or go and forge, or swindle, or lie foully, so that thou bringest
me bread; for have I not dared dishonor, made the sacrifice of my good name,
and done as much, ay, far more than all that, for thee?”
Shouldst thou, poor, seduced,
weak one, address thy seducer thus, he will look upon thee as a fiend-like
tempter—he will rush from thy sight—he will never see thee more; his love will
be suddenly converted into hatred! Yes, man demands that woman should dishonor
herself for
his
sake; but he will not allow a speck to
appear upon what he calls
his
good name—no, not to save that poor,
confiding, lost creature from the lowest depths and dregs of penury into which
her frailty may have plunged her!
Such is the selfishness of man!
Where is his chivalry?
But let us return to the Arestino
Palace.
The moment Manuel d’Orsini
entered the apartment by means of the private door, he embraced Giulia with a
fondness which was more than half affected—at least on that occasion—and she
herself returned the kiss less warmly than usual—but this was because she was
constrained and embarrassed by the presence of the bandit-captain, who was
concealed behind the tapestry.
“You appear cool—distant,
Giulia,” said Manuel, casting upon her an inquiring glance.
“And you either love me less, or
you have something on your mind,” returned the countess, in a low tone.
“In the first instance you are
wrong—in the second you are right, my well-beloved,” answered the marquis. “But
tell me——”
“Speak lower, Manuel—we may be
overheard. Some of my dependents are in the adjacent room, and——”
“And you wish me to depart as
soon as possible, no doubt?” said the marquis, impatiently.
“Oh! Manuel—how can you reproach
me thus?” asked Giulia, in a voice scarcely above a whisper; for that woman who
dared be unfaithful to her husband revolted from the thought that a
coarse-minded bandit should be in a position to overhear her conversation with
her lover:—“how can you reproach me thus, Manuel?” she repeated;—“have I not
given thee all the proofs
of
tenderest love which woman can bestow? Have I not risked everything for thee?”
“I do not reproach you, Giulia,”
he replied, pressing his hand to his brow, “but I am unhappy—miserable!”
And he flung himself upon the
nearest ottoman.
“Oh! what has occurred to
distract thee thus?” exclaimed the countess, forgetting the presence of
Stephano Verrina in the all-absorbing interest of her lover’s evident grief.
“Am I ever to find thee oppressed
with care—thee, who art so young—and so gloriously handsome?” she added, her
voice suddenly sinking to a whisper.
Manuel gazed for a few moments,
without speaking, on the countenance of his mistress as she leant over him:
then, in a deep, hollow tone—a tone the despair of which was too real and
natural to be in the slightest degree affected, he said, “Giulia, I am a
wretch,—unworthy of all this sweet love of thine!—I have broken the solemn vow
which I pledged thee—I have violated my oath——”
“Oh, Manuel!” ejaculated the
countess, still forgetting the presence of the bandit: “thou hast——”
“Gambled once more—and lost!”
cried the marquis wildly. “And the sum that I am bound in honor to pay on
Monday—by noon, is nearly equal in amount to that which thy generosity lent me
the other day.”
“Holy Virgin aid you, my unhappy
Manuel!” said Giulia.
“For thou canst not?” exclaimed
the young noble, with a profound sigh. “Oh! I am well aware that I have no
claim upon thee——”
“Ah! wherefore that reproach?—for
a reproach it is!” interrupted the countess. “No claim on me! Hast thou not my
heart? and in giving thee that, Manuel, I laid at thy feet a poor offering,
which, though so poor, yet absorbs all others of which I may dispose! Do not
reproach me, Manuel—for I would lay down my life to save thy soul from pain, or
thy name from dishonor!”
“Now art thou my own Giulia!”
cried the marquis, pressing her hand to his lips. “An accursed fatality seems
to hang over me! This habit of gaming entraps me as the wine cup fascinates the
bibber who would fain avoid it, but cannot. Listen to me for one moment,
Giulia. In the public casino—which, as thou well knowest, is a place of resort
where fortunes are lost and won in an hour—ay, sometimes in a minute—I have met
a man whose attire is good, and whose purse is well filled, but whose
countenance I like as little as I should that of the captain of the sbirri, or
his lieutenant, if I had committed a crime. This individual of whom I speak—for
I know not his name—was the favored votary of Dame Fortune who won of me that
sum which thy kindness, Giulia, alone enabled me to pay but a few days past.
And now am I a second time this man’s debtor. An hour ago he entered the
casino; he stayed but for ten minutes—and in that time——”
“Oh! Manuel, is not this conduct
of thine something bordering on madness?” interrupted the countess. “And if
thou art
thus wedded to
that fatal habit, how canst thou find room in thy heart for a single gleam of
affection for me?”
“Now dost thou reproach me in thy
turn, Giulia!” exclaimed the young marquis. “But believe me, my angel,” he
continued, exerting all his powers to bend her to his purpose,—“believe me when
I declare—oh! most solemnly declare, by all that I put faith in, and by all I
hope for hereafter—that could I be relieved from this embarrassment—extricated
from this difficulty——”
“Heavens! how can it be done?”
interrupted the countess, casting her eyes wildly round; for the time was
passing—she suddenly remembered that the bandit was still concealed in the
room—and then, her husband might return earlier than was expected.
“Oh! if you despair of the means,
Giulia,” said the marquis, “I must fly from Florence—I must exile myself
forever from the city of my birth, and which is still more endeared to me
because,” he added, sinking his voice to a tender tone,—“because, my
well-beloved, it contains thee!”
“No, Manuel—you must not quit
Florence and leave a dishonored name behind thee!” exclaimed this lovely woman,
who was thus sublimely careful of the reputation of him for whom she had so
long compromised her own. “What can be done? would that I had the means to
raise this sum——”
“It is with shame that I
suggest——” said Manuel.
“What? Speak—speak! The means?”
“Thy jewels, dearest—thy
diamonds——”
“Merciful heavens! if you did but
know all!” cried Giulia, almost frantically. “These diamonds were pledged to
the Jew Isaachar ben Solomon, to raise the sum with which thy last debt was
paid, Manuel; and—but forgive me if I did not tell thee all this before—not
half an hour has elapsed since——”