Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
*****
How calm and beautiful lay the
waters of the Golden Horn beneath the light of that lovely moon which shone so
chastely and so serenely above, as if pouring its argent luster upon a world
where no evil passions were known—no hearts were stained with crime—no iniquity
of human imagining was in the course of perpetration. But, ah! what sound is
that which breaks on the silence of the night! Is it the splash of oars? No—for
the two black slaves who guide yon boat which has shot out from the shore into
the center of the gulf, are resting on the slight sculls—the boat itself, too,
is now stationary—and not a ripple is stirred up by its grotesquely-shaped
prow. What, then, was that sound?
’Twas the voice of agony bursting
from woman’s throat; and the boat is about to become the scene of a deed of
horror, though one of frequent—alas! too frequent—occurrence in that clime, and
especially on that gulf.
The gag has slipped from
Calanthe’s mouth; and a long loud scream of agonizing despair sweeps over the
surface of the water—rending the calm and moonlit air—but dying away ere it can
raise an echo on either shore. Strong are the arms and relentless
is the black monster who has now
seized the unhappy Greek maiden in his ferocious grasp—while the luster of the
pale orb of night streams on that countenance lately radiant with impassioned
hope, but now convulsed with indescribable horror.
Again the scream bursts from the
victim’s lips; but its thrilling, cutting agony is interrupted by a sudden
plunge—a splash—a gurgling and a rippling of the waters—and the corpse of the
murdered Calanthe is borne toward the deeper and darker bosom of the Bosporus.
The sun was already dispersing
the orient mists, when the chief of the three black slaves once more stood in
the presence of the grand vizier, who had passed the night in the anteroom,
alone, and a prey to the most lively mental tortures. So noiselessly and
reptile-like did the hideous Ethiopian steal into the apartment, that he was
within a yard of the grand vizier ere the latter was aware that the door had
even opened. Ibrahim started as if from a snake about to spring upon him—for
the ominous bowstring swung negligently from the slave’s hand, and the imperial
signet still glistened on his finger.
“Mighty pasha!” spoke the
Ethiopian in a low and cold tone; “thus saith the Sultana Valida: ‘Cease to
treat thy wife with neglect. Hasten to her—throw thyself at her feet—implore
her pardon for the past—and give her hope of affection for the future. Shouldst
thou neglect this warning, then every night will the rival whom thou preferrest
to her be torn from thine arms, and be devoted as food for the fishes. She whom
thou didst so prefer this night that is passed sleeps in the dark green bed of
the Bosporus. Take warning, pasha; for the bowstring may be used at last.
Moreover, see that thou revealest not to the Princess Aischa the incident of
the night, nor the nature of the threats which send thee back repentant to her
arms.’”
And, with these words, the slave
glided hastily from the room, leaving the grand vizier a prey to feelings of
ineffable horror. His punishment on earth had begun—and he knew it. What had
his ambition gained? Though rich, invested with high rank, and surrounded by
every luxury, he was more wretched than the meanest slave who was accustomed to
kiss the dust at his feet.
But, subduing the fearful
agitation which oppressed him—composing his feelings and his countenance as
well as he was able, the proud and haughty Ibrahim hastened to implore
admittance to his wife’s chamber, and when the boon was accorded, and he found
himself in her presence, he besought her pardon in a voice and with a manner
expressive of the most humiliating penitence. Thus, at the moment when
thousands—perhaps millions, were envying the bright fortunes and glorious
destiny of Ibrahim the Happy, as he was denominated—the dark and terrible
despotism of the Sultana Valida made him tremble for his life, and compelled
him to sue at Aischa’s feet for pardon. And if, at the same instant of his
crushed spirit and wounded pride, there were a balm found to soothe the racking
fibers of his heart, the anodyne consisted in the tender love which Aischa
manifested toward him, and the
touching sincerity with which she assured him of her complete forgiveness.
*****
Return we again to that
Mediterranean island on which Fernand Wagner and the beauteous Nisida espoused
each other by solemn vows plighted in the face of Heaven, and where they have
now resided for six long months. At first how happy—how supremely happy was
Nisida, having tutored herself so far to forget the jarring interests of that
world which lay beyond the sea, as to abandon her soul without reservation to
the delights of the new existence on which she had entered. Enabled once more
to use that charming voice which God had given her, but which had remained
hushed for so many years,—able also to listen to the words that fell from the
lips of her lover, without being forced to subdue and crush the emotions which
they excited,—and secure in the possession of him to whom she was so madly
devoted, and who manifested such endearing tenderness toward herself, Nisida
indeed felt as if she were another being, or endowed with the lease of a new
life.
At first, too, how much had
Wagner and Nisida to say to each other,—how many fond assurances to give—how
many protestations of unalterable affection to make! For hours would they sit
together upon the seashore, or on the bank of the limpid stream in the valley,
and converse almost unceasingly, wearying not of each other’s discourse, and
sustaining the interests and the enjoyment of that interchange of thoughts by
flying from topic to topic just as their unshackled imagination suggested. But
Fernand never questioned Nisida concerning the motive which had induced her to
feign dumbness and deafness for so many years; she had given him to understand
that family reasons of the deepest importance, and involving dreadful mysteries
from the contemplation of which she recoiled with horror, had prompted so
tremendous a self-martyrdom:—and he loved her too well to outrage her feelings
by urging her to touch more than she might choose on that topic.
Careful not to approach the
vicinity of large trees, for fear of these dreadful tenants of the isle who
might be said to divide its sovereignty with them, the lovers—may we not
venture to call them husband and wife?—would ramble hand-in-hand, along the
stream’s enchanting banks, in the calm hours of moonlight, which lent softer
charms to the scene than when the gorgeous sun was bathed all in gold. Or else
they would wander on the sands to the musical murmur of the rippling sea,—their
arms clasping each other’s neck—their eyes exchanging glances of fondness—hers
of ardent passion, his of more melting tenderness. But there was too much
sensuality in the disposition of Nisida to render her love for Wagner
sufficient and powerful enough to insure permanent contentment with her present
lot.
The first time that the fatal eve
drew near when he must exchange the shape of man for that of a horrid wolf, he
had said to her, “Beloved Nisida, I remember that there are finer and different
fruits on the other side of the island, beyond the range of mountains; and I
should rejoice to obtain for thee a variety.
Console
thyself for a few hours during mine absence; and on my return we shall
experience renewed and increased happiness, as if we were meeting again after a
long separation.” Vainly did Nisida assure him that she reckoned not for a more
extensive variety of fruits than those which the nearest grove yielded, and
that she would rather have his society than all the luxuries which his absence
and return might bring; he overruled her remonstrances—and she at length
permitted him to depart. Then he crossed the mountains by means of the path
which he had described when he escaped from the torrent at the point where the
tree stretched across the stream, as described in the preceding chapter; and on
the other side of the range of hills he fulfilled the dreadful destiny of the
Wehr-Wolf! On his return to Nisida—after an absence of nearly twenty-four
hours, for the time occupied in crossing and recrossing the mountains was
considerable—he found her gloomy and pensive. His long absence had vexed her:
she in the secrecy of her own heart had felt a craving for a change of
scene—and she naturally suspected that it was to gratify a similar want that
Fernand had undertaken the transmontane journey. She received his fruits
coldly; and it was some time ere he could succeed in winning her back to
perfect good humor.
The next interval of a month
glided away, the little incident which had for a moment ruffled the harmony of
their lives was forgotten—at least by Nisida;—and so devoted was Fernand in his
attention, so tenderly sincere in his attachment toward her—and so joyful, too,
was she in the possession of one whose masculine beauty was almost superhumanly
great, that those incipient cravings for change of scene—those nascent longings
for a return to the great and busy world, returned but seldom and were even
then easily subdued in her breast.
When the second fatal date after
their union on the island approached, Wagner was compelled to urge some new but
necessarily trivial excuse for again crossing the mountains; and Nisida’s
remonstrances were more authoritative and earnest than on the previous
occasion. Nevertheless he succeeded in obtaining her consent: but during his
absence of four or five-and-twenty hours, the lady had ample leisure to ponder
on home—the busy world across the sea—and her well-beloved brother Francisco.
Fernand when he came back, found her gloomy and reserved; then, as he essayed
to wean her from her dark thoughts, she responded petulantly and even
reproachingly.
The ensuing month glided away as
happily as the two former ones; and though Fernand’s attentions and
manifestations of fondness increased, if possible, still Nisida would
frequently sigh and look wistfully at the sea as if she would have joyed to
behold a sail in the horizon. The third time the fatal close of the month drew
nigh, Wagner knew not how to act; but some petulance on the part of Nisida
furnished him with an excuse which his generous heart only had recourse to with
the deepest, the keenest anguish. Throwing back the harsh word at her whom he
loved so devotedly, he exclaimed, “Nisida, I leave thee for a few hours until
thy good humor shall have returned;” and without
waiting for a reply he darted
toward the mountains. For some time the lady remained seated gloomily upon the
sand; but as hour after hour passed away, and the sun went down, and the moon
gathered power to light the enchanting scene of landscape and of sea, she grew
uneasy and restless. Throughout that night she wandered up and down on the
sands, now weeping at the thought that she herself had been unkind—then angry
at the conviction that Fernand was treating her more harshly than she deserved.
It was not till the sun was high
in the heavens that Wagner reappeared; and though Nisida was in reality
delighted to find all her wild alarms, in which the monstrous snakes of the
isle entered largely, thus completely dissipated, yet she concealed the joy
which she experienced in beholding his safe return, and received him with
gloomy hauteur. Oh! how her conduct went to Wagner’s heart!—for he knew that,
so long as the direful necessity which had compelled his absence remained
unexplained, Nisida was justified in attributing that absence to unkind
feelings and motives on his part. A thousand times that day was he on the point
of throwing himself at her feet and revealing all the details of that frightful
destiny; but he dared not—oh! no, he dared not—and a profound melancholy seized
upon his soul. Nisida now relented, chiefly because she herself felt miserable
by the contemplation of his unhappiness; and harmony was restored between them.
But during the fourth month of
their union, the lady began to speak more frequently and frankly of the
weariness and monotony of their present existence; and when Fernand essayed to
console her, she responded by deep-drawn sighs. His love was based on those
enduring elements which would have rendered him content to dwell forever with
Nisida on that island, which had no sameness for him so long as she was there
to be his companion; but
her
love subsisted rather sensually than
mentally; and now that her fierce and long-pent up desires had experienced
gratification, she longed to return to the land of her birth, to embrace her
brother Francisco; yes, even though she should be again compelled to simulate
the deaf and dumb. The close of the fourth month was at hand, and Wagner was at
a loss how to act. New excuses for a fresh absence were impossible; and it was
with a heart full of anguish that he was compelled to seize an opportunity in
the afternoon of the last day of the month, to steal away from Nisida and
hasten across the mountains. Oh! what would she think of his absence now?—an
absence for which he had not prepared her, and which was not on this occasion
justified by any petulance or willfulness on her part? The idea was maddening,
but there was no alternative.
It was noon on the ensuing day
when Fernand Wagner, pale and care-worn, again sought that spot on the strand
where the rudely constructed cottage stood; but Nisida was not within the hut.
He roved along the shore to a considerable distance, and still beheld her not.
Terrible alarms now oppressed him. Could she have done some desperate deed to
rid herself of an existence whereof she was weary? or had some fatal accident
befallen
her. From the
shore he hastened to the valley; and there, seated by the side of the crystal
stream, he beheld the object of his search. He ran—he flew toward her; but she
seemed not to observe him; and when he caught a glimpse of her countenance, he
shrank back in dismay—it was so pale, and yet so expressive of deep,
concentrated rage!