Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
Overjoyed at the idea of finding
a human being in a spot which he had at first deemed totally uninhabited, and
filled with the hope that the stranger might be able to give him some
information relative to the geographical position of the isle, and even perhaps
aid him in forming a raft by which they might together escape from the oasis of
the Mediterranean, Wagner proceeded toward the mountains. By degrees the
wondrous beauty of the scene became wilder, more imposing, but less bewitching,
and when he reached the acclivities of the hill, the groves of fruits and
copses of myrtles and citrons, of vines and almond shrubs, were succeeded by
woods of mighty trees.
Further on still the forests
ceased and Fernand entered on a wild region of almost universal desolation, yet
forming one of the sublimest spectacles that nature can afford. The sounds of
torrents, as yet concealed from his view, and resembling the murmur of ocean’s
waves, inspired feelings of awe; and it was now for the first time since he
entered on the region of desolation, having left the clime of loveliness nearly
a mile behind, that his attention was drawn to the nature of the soil, which
was hard and bituminous in appearance.
The truth almost immediately
struck him: there was a volcano amongst those mountains up which he was
ascending; and it was the lava which had produced that desolation, and which,
cold and hardened, formed the soil whereon he walked. It was now past midday;
and he seated himself once more to repose his limbs, wearied with the fatigues
of the ascent and overcome by the heat that was there intolerable. At the
distance of about two hundred yards on his right was a solitary tree, standing
like a sign to mark the tomb of nature’s vegetation. Upon this tree his eyes
were fixed listlessly, and he was marveling within himself how that single
scion of the forest could have been spared, when the burning lava, whenever the
eruption might have taken place, had hurled down and reduced to cinders its
verdant brethren.
Suddenly his attention was more
earnestly riveted upon the dense and wide-spreading foliage of that tree; for
the boughs were shaken in an extraordinary manner, and something appeared to be
moving about amongst the canopy of leaves. In another minute a long,
unmistakable, appalling object darted forth—a monstrous snake—suspending itself
by the tail to one of the lower boughs, and disporting playfully with its
hideous head toward the ground. Then, with a sudden coil, it drew itself back
into the tree, the entire foliage of which was shaken with the horrible
gambolings of the reptile.
Wagner remembered the frightful
spectacle which he had beholden in Ceylon, and an awful shudder crept through
his frame; for, although he knew that he bore a charmed life, yet he shrank
with a loathing from the idea of having to battle with such a horrible serpent.
Starting from the ground, he rushed—flew,
rather
than ran, higher up the acclivity, and speedily entered on a wild scene of
rugged and barren rocks: but he cared not whither the windings of the natural
path which he now pursued might lead him, since he had escaped from the view of
the hideous boa-constrictor gamboling in the solitary tree.
Wearied with his wanderings, and
sinking beneath the oppressive heat of the sun, Wagner was rejoiced to find a
cavern in the side of a rock, where he might shelter and repose himself. He
entered, and lay down upon the hard soil; the sounds of the torrents, which
rolled still unseen amidst the chasms toward which he had approached full near,
produced a lulling influence upon him, and in a few minutes his eyes were
sealed in slumber. When he awoke he found himself in total darkness. He started
up, collected his scattered ideas, and advanced to the mouth of the cavern.
The sun had set: but outside the
cave an azure twilight prevailed, and the adjacent peaks of the mountains stood
darkly out from the partially though faintly illuminated sky.
While Wagner was gazing long and
intently upon the sublime grandeur of the scene, a strange phenomenon took
place. First a small cloud appeared on the summit of an adjacent hill; then
gradually this cloud became more dense and assumed a human shape. Oh! with what
interest—what deep, enthusiastic interest, did Fernand contemplate the
spectacle; for his well-stored mind at once suggested to him that he was now
the witness of that wondrous optical delusion, called the mirage.
Some human being in the plain on
the other side of that range of mountains was the subject of that sublime
scene; might it not be the individual of whom he was in search, the owner of
the doublet? But, ah! wherefore does Wagner start with surprise?
The shadow of that human being,
as it gradually assumed greater density and a more defined shape—in a word, as
it was now properly developed by the reflection of twilight—wore the form of a
female! Were there, then, many inhabitants on the opposite side of the
mountains? or was there only one female, she whose reflected image he now
beheld? He knew not; but at all events the pleasure of human companionship
seemed within his reach; the presence of the doublet had convinced him that
there was another man upon the island, and now the mirage showed him the
semblance of a woman!
Vast—colossal—like a dense, dark,
shapely cloud, stood that reflected being in the sky; for several minutes it
remained thus, and though Wagner could trace no particular outline of features,
yet it seemed to him as if the female were standing in a pensive attitude. But
as the twilight gradually subsided, or rather yielded to the increasing
obscurity, the image was absorbed likewise in the growing gloom; until the
dusky veil of night made the entire vault above of one deep, uniform, purple
hue. Then Wagner once more returned to the cavern, with the resolution of
crossing the range of hills on the ensuing morn.
Oh!
how beautiful—how enchantingly
beautiful seemed Nisida, as her delicate feet bore her glancingly along the
sunny banks of the crystal stream, to the soft music of its waters. How the
slight drapery which she wore set off the rich undulations of that magnificent
form! How the wreaths and garlands of fantastically woven flowers became the
romantic loveliness of her person—that glowing Hebe of the South!
Holding in her fair hand a light,
slim wand, and moving through the delicious vale with all the soft abandonment
of gait and limb which feared no intrusion on her solitude, she appeared that
Mediterranean island’s queen. What, though the evening breeze, disporting with
her raiment, lifted it from her glowing bosom?—she cared not; no need for sense
of shame was there! What though she laid aside her vesture to disport in the
sea at morn?—no furtive glances did she cast round; no haste did she make to
resume her garments; for whose eye, save that of God, beheld her?
But was she happy? Alas! there
were moments when despair seized upon her soul; and, throwing herself on the
yellow sand, or on some verdant bank, she would weep—oh! she would weep such
bitter, bitter tears, that those who have been forced to contemplate her
character with aversion, must now be compelled to pity her.
Yes; for there were times when
all the loveliness of that island seemed but a hideous place of exile, an
abhorrent monotony which surrounded her—grasped her—clung to her—hemmed her in,
as if it were an evil spirit, having life and the power to torture her. She
thought of those whom she loved, she pondered upon all the grand schemes of her
existence, and she felt herself cut off from a world to which there were so
many ties to bind her, and in which she had so much to do. Then she would give
way to all the anguish of her soul—an anguish that amounted to the deepest,
blackest despair, when her glances wildly swept the cloudless horizon, and
beheld not a sail—no! nor a speck on the ocean to engender hope. But when this
tempest of grief and passion was past, she would be angry with herself for
having yielded to it; and, in order to distract her thoughts from subjects of
gloom, she would bound toward the groves, light as a fawn, the dazzling
whiteness of her naked and polished ankles gleaming in contrast with the
verdure of the vale.
One morning after Nisida had been
many, many days on the island, she was seated on the sand, having just
completed her simple toilet on emerging from the mighty bath that lay stretched
in glassy stillness far as the eye could reach, when she suddenly sprung upon
her feet, and threw affrighted looks around her. Had she possessed the faculty
of hearing, it would be thought that she was thus startled by the sound of a
human voice which had at that
instant broken upon the solemn stillness of the isle—a human voice emanating
from a short distance behind her. As yet she saw no one; but in a few moments a
man emerged from the nearest grove, and came slowly toward her.
He was dressed in a light jerkin,
trunk-breeches, tight hose, and boot—in all as an Italian gentleman of that
day, save in respect to hat and doublet, of which he had none. Neither wore he
a sword by his side, nor carried any weapons of defense; and it was evident he
approached the island queen with mingled curiosity and awe.
Perhaps he deemed her to be some
goddess, endowed with the power and the will to punish his intrusion on her
realm; or peradventure his superstitious imagination dwelt on the tales which
sailors told in those times—how mermaids who fed on human flesh dwelt on the
coasts of uninhabited islands, and assuming the most charming female forms,
lured into their embrace the victims whom shipwreck cast upon their strand, and
instead of lavishing on them the raptures of love, made them the prey of their
ravenous maws.
Whatever were his thoughts, the
man drew near with evident distrust. But, now—why does Nisida’s countenance
become suddenly crimson with rage? why rushes she toward the stores which still
remained piled up on the strand? and wherefore, with the rapidity of the most
feverish impatience, does she hurl the weapons of defense into the sea, all
save one naked sword, with which she arms herself? Because her eagle glance,
quicker than that of the man who is approaching her, has recognized
him
,
ere he has even been struck with a suspicion relative to who
she
is—and that man is Stephano Verrina!
Now, Nisida! summon all thine
energies to aid thee; for a strong, a powerful, a remorseless man, devoured
with lust for thee, is near. And thou art so ravishingly beautiful in thy
aerial drapery, and thy wreaths of flowers, that an anchorite could not view
thee with indifference! Ah! Stephano starts—stops short—advances: the suspicion
has struck him! The aquiline countenance, those brilliant large, dark eyes,
that matchless raven hair, that splendid symmetrical maturity of form, and
withal, that close compression of the vermilion lips, O Nisida! have been
scanned in rapid detail by the brigand!
“Nisida!” he exclaimed; “Yes, it
is she!”
And he bounded toward her with
outstretched arms.
But the sharp sword was presented
to his chest; and the lady stood with an air of such resolute determination,
that he stopped short gazing upon her with mingled wonderment and admiration.
Heavens! he had never beheld so glorious a specimen of female loveliness as
that whereon his eyes were fastened,—fastened beyond the possibility of
withdrawal. How glossy black was that hair with its diadem of white roses! How
miserably poor appeared the hues of the carnations and the pinks that formed
her necklace, when in contrast with her flushing cheeks! How dingy were the
lilies at her waist, compared with her heaving breast!
The reason of the brigand
reeled, his brain swam round, and for a moment it seemed to him that she was
not a being of this world; not the Nisida he had known and carried off from
Italy, but a goddess, another and yet the same in all the glory of those
matchless charms which had heretofore ravished—no, maddened him!
And now the spirit of this bold
and reckless man was subdued—subdued, he knew not how nor wherefore; but still
subdued by the presence of her whom he had deemed lost in the waves, but who
seemed to stand before him, with flowers upon her brow and a sharp weapon in
her hand—radiant, too, with loveliness of person, and terrible with the fires
of hatred and indignation!
Yes! he was
subdued—overawed—rendered timid as a young child in her presence; and sinking
upon his knees, he exclaimed—forgetful that he was addressing Nisida the deaf
and dumb—“Oh! fear not—I will not harm thee! But, my God! take compassion on
me—spurn me not—look not with such terrible anger upon one who adores, who
worships you! How is it that I tremble and quail before you—I, once so
reckless, so rude. But, oh! to kiss that fair hand—to be your slave—to watch
over you—to protect you—and all this but for thy smiles in return—I should be
happy—supremely happy! Remember—we are alone on this island—and I am the
stronger; I might compel you by force to yield to me—to become mine; but I will
not harm you—no, not a hair of your head, if you will only smile upon me! And
you will require one to defend and protect you—yes, even here in this island,
apparently so secure and safe;—for there are terrible things in this
clime—dreadful beings, far more formidable than whole hordes of savage
men—monsters so appalling that not all thy courage, nor all thy energy would
avail thee a single moment against them. Yes, lady, believe me when I tell thee
this! For many—many days have I dwelt, a lonely being, on the other side of
this isle, beyond that chain of mountains—remaining on that shore to which the
wild waves carried me on the night of shipwreck. But I hurried away at last—I
dared all the dangers of mighty precipices, yawning chasms, and roaring
torrents—the perils of yon mountains—rather than linger on the other side. For
the anaconda, lady, is the tenant of this island—the monstrous snake—the
terrible boa, whose dreadful coils, if wound round that fair form of yours,
would crush it into a hideous, loathsome mass?”
Stephano had spoken so rapidly,
and with such fevered excitement that he had no time to reflect whether he were
not wasting his words upon a being who could not hear them; until exhausted and
breathless with the volubility of his utterance he remembered that he was
addressing himself to Nisida the deaf and dumb. But happily his appealing and
his suppliant posture had softened the lady: for toward the end of his long
speech a change came over her countenance, and she dropped the point of her
sword toward the ground.
Stephano rose, and stood gazing
on her for a few moments with eyes that seemed to devour her. His mind had
suddenly
recovered much of
its wonted boldness and audacity. So long as Nisida seemed terrible as well as
beautiful, he was subdued;—now that her eyes had ceased to dart forth
lightnings, and the expression of her countenance had changed from indignation
and resolute menace to pensiveness and a comparatively mournful softness, the
bandit as rapidly regained the usual tone of his remorseless mind.
Yes; he stood gazing on her for a
few moments, with eyes that seemed to devour her:—then, in obedience to the
impulse of maddening desire, he rushed upon her, and in an instant wrenched the
sword from her grasp. But rapid as lightning, Nisida bounded away from him, ere
he could wind his arms around her; and fleet as the startled deer, she hastened
toward the groves.
Stephano, still retaining the
sword in his hand, pursued her with a celerity which was sustained by his
desire to possess her and by his rage that she had escaped him. But the race
was unequal as that of a lion in chase of a roe; for Nisida seemed borne along
as it were upon the very air. Leaving the groves on her left she dashed into
the vale. Along the sunny bank of the limpid stream she sped;—on, on toward a
forest that bounded the valley at the further end, and rose amphitheatrically
up toward the regions of the mountains!
Stephano Verrina still pursued
her, though losing ground rapidly; but still he maintained the chase. And now
the verge of the forest is nearly gained; and in its mazes Nisida hopes to be
enabled to conceal herself from the ruffian whom, by a glance hastily cast
behind from time to time, she ascertains to be upon her track. But, oh! whither
art thou flying thus wildly, beauteous Nisida?—into what appalling perils art
thou rushing, as it were, blindly? For there, in the tallest tree on the verge
of the forest to which thou now art near,—there, amidst the bending boughs and
the quivering foliage—one of the hideous serpents which infest the higher
region of the isle is disporting—the terrible anaconda—the monstrous boa, whose
dreadful coils, if wound round that fair form of thine, would crush it into a
loathsome mass!