Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
But we cannot linger on this
portion of our tale. Suffice it to say that Wagner exerted all his eloquence,
all his powers of persuasion to induce Nisida to turn a kind glance upon him;
and it was only when, goaded to desperation by her stern silence and her
implacable mien, he exclaimed, “Since I am no longer worthy of even a look or a
syllable, I will quit thee forever!” It was only when these words conveyed to
Nisida a frightful menace of loneliness, that she relented and gradually
suffered herself to be appeased. But vainly did she question him relative to
the cause of his absence on this occasion; he offered a variety of excuses, and
she believed none of them.
The month that followed was
characterized by many quarrels and disputes; for Nisida’s soul acquired all the
restlessness which had marked it ere she was thrown on the island, but which
solitude at first and then the possession of Wagner, had for a time so greatly
subdued. Nevertheless, there were still occasions when she would cling to
Wagner with all the confiding fondness of one who remembered how he had saved
her life from the hideous anaconda, and who looked up to him as her only joy
and solace in that clime, the beauty of which became painful with its
monotony—yes, she would cling to him as they roved along the sands together—she
would gaze up into his countenance, and as she read assurances of the deepest
affection in his fine dark eyes, she would exclaim rapturously, “Oh! how
handsome—how god-like art thou, my Fernand! Pardon me—pardon me, that I should
ever have nursed resentment against thee!”
It was when she was in such a
mood as this that he murmured in her ears, “Nisida dearest, thou hast thy
secret which I have never sought to penetrate. I also have my secret, beloved
one, as I hinted to thee on that day which united us in this island; and into
that mystery of mine thou mayest not look. But at certain intervals I must
absent myself from thee for a few hours, as I hitherto have done; and on my
return, O dearest Nisida! let me not behold that glorious countenance of thine
clouded with anger and with gloom!”
Then ere she could utter a word
of reply, he sealed her lips with kisses—he pressed her fervently to his heart,
and at that moment she thought he seemed so divinely handsome, and she felt so
proud of possessing the love of a man invested with such superhuman beauty and
such a splendid intellect, that she attempted not a remonstrance nor a
complaint against what was but the preface to a fifth absence of
four-and-twenty hours. And when Fernand Wagner reappeared again, his Nisida
hastened to meet him as he descended from the mountains—those mountains which were
crossed over by a surefooted and agile man with so much difficulty, and which
he knew it would be
impossible
for him to traverse during that mad career in which he was monthly doomed to
whirl along in his lupine shape—yes, she hurried to meet him—receiving him with
open arms—smiled tenderly upon him—and led him to the sea-shore, where she had
spread the noonday meal in the most inviting manner.
The unwearied and unchanging
nature of his love had touched her heart; and, during the long hours of his
fifth absence, she had reasoned on the folly of marring the sweet harmony which
should prevail between the only two human tenants of that island. The afternoon
passed more happily than many and many a previous day had done; Nisida thought
that Fernand had never seemed so handsome, though somewhat pale, and he fancied
that his companion had never appeared so magnificently beautiful as now, while
she lay half reclining in his arms, the rays of the setting sun faintly
illuminating her aquiline countenance, and giving a glossy richness to the
luxuriant black hair which floated negligently over her naked shoulders.
When the last beams of the orb of
day died flickeringly in the far horizon, the tender pair retired to their hut
rejoicing in the serene and happy way in which the last few hours had glided
over their heads—when a dark figure passed along the sand and stopped at a
short distance from the door of the rudely constructed tenement.
And assuredly this was no mortal
being—nor wore it now a mortal shape—but Satan—in all the horrors of his
ugliness, though still invested with that sublimity of mien which marked the
mighty fallen angel—Satan, clothed in terrors ineffable, it was.
For a few moments he stood
contemplating the hut wherein the sleepers lay; dread lightnings flushed from
his eyes, and the forked electric fluid seemed to play round his haughty brow,
while his fearful countenance, the features of which no human pen may venture
to describe, expressed malignant hate, anticipated triumph, and tremendous
scorn.
Then, extending his right hand
toward the hut, and speaking in that deep sonorous tone, which when heard by
mortal ears, seemed to jar against the very soul, he chanted the following
incantation:—
“Woman of wild and fierce
desires!
Why languish thus the wonted
fires
That arm’d thine heart and nerved
thine hand
To do whate’er thy firmness
planned?
Has maudlin love subdued thy
soul,
Once so impatient of control?
Has amorous play enslaved the
mind
Where erst no common chains
confined?
Has tender dalliance power to
kill
The wild, indomitable will?
No more must love thus paralyze
And crush thine iron energies;
No more must maudlin passion stay
Thy despot soul’s remorseless
sway;
Henceforth thy lips shall cease
to smile
Upon the beauties of this Isle;
Henceforth thy mental
glance shall roam,
O’er the Mediterranean foam,
Toward thy far-off Tuscan home!
Alarms for young Francisco’s
weal,
And doubts into thy breast steal;
While retrospection carries back
Thy memory o’er time’s beaten
track
And stops at that dread hour when
thou
With burning eyes and flashing
brow,
Call’d Heaven to hear the solemn
vow
Dictated with the latest breath
Of the fond mother on the
untimely bed of death.”
Thus spoke the demon; and having
chanted the incantation, full of menace and of deep design, he turned to
depart.
Sleep was still upon the eyes of
Fernand and Nisida as they lay in each other’s arms—the island and the sea,
too, were sleeping in the soft light of the silver moon, and the countless
stars which gemmed the vault of heaven,—when the dark figure passed along the
sand, away from the rudely-constructed tenement.
When
the sun rose again from the
orient wave, Fernand repaired to the grove, as was his wont, to gather fruits
for the morning repast, while Nisida bathed her fair form in the waters of the
Mediterranean.
But there was a gloom upon that
lady’s brow, and there was a somber flashing in her large dark eyes which
denoted an incipient conflict of emotions stirring within her breast.
She had retired to rest, as we
have seen on the previous evening, with a heart glowing toward her beloved and
handsome Fernand—she had fallen asleep with the tender sounds of his musical
yet manly voice in her ears, and the image of his beautiful countenance in her
mind—but in the night—she knew not at what hour—strange dreams began to oppress
her, ominous visions filled her with anxiety.
It seemed as if some being,
having right to reproach and power to taunt, whispered to her as she slept,
stern remonstrances against the idle, voluptuous, and dreaming life she was
leading, mocking her for passing her time in the maudlin delights of love,
calling upon her to arouse her latent energies and shake off that luxurious
lethargy, teaching her to look upon the island, beauteous though it were, as one
vast prison in which she was confined, from whence there were, nevertheless,
means of escape, raising up before her mental vision all the most alluring and
bustling scenes of her own fair, native city of Florence, then bitterly
reproaching her for having allowed her soul to be more wrapped up in the
society of Fernand Wagner, than solicitous, as it was wont to be, for the
welfare of her brother Francisco, creating, too, wild doubts in her imagination
as to whether circumstances might not, after all, have united her brother and
Flora Francatelli in the bonds of a union which for many reasons she abhorred,
and lastly thundering in her ears
the
terrific accusation that she was perjured to a solemn and an awful vow pledged
by her lips, on a dread occasion, and to the dictating voice of her dying
mother.
When she awoke in the morning her
brain appeared to be in confusion, but as her thoughts gradually settled
themselves in the various cells of the seat of memory, the entire details of
her long dream assumed the semblance of a connected chain, even as we have just
described them.
For these thoughts had arisen in
the nature and order commanded by the demon.
Fernand Wagner saw that the mind
of his lovely companion, his charming bride, was ruffled; and, as he embraced
her tenderly, he inquired the cause. His caresses for the moment soothed her,
and induced her to struggle against the ideas which oppressed:
for
there are thoughts that Satan excites within us
, which we can
wrestle with—ay, and conquer if we will.
Finding that Nisida became more
composed, and that she treated her mournfulness and his agitation merely as the
results of a disagreeable dream, Fernand rose, hastened to perform his own
ablutions, and then repaired to the adjacent grove, as above stated. But Nisida
remained not long in the Mediterranean’s mighty bath; the moment Wagner had
departed from her presence, thoughts which had recently passed in sad
procession through her brain came back with renewed vigor; forcing themselves,
as it were, upon her contemplation, because she offered but a feeble resistance
to their returning invasion. And as she stood on the shore, having donned her
scant clothing, and now combing out her long, luxuriant hair, to the silk
richness of which the salt water had lent a more glorious gloss—she became a
prey to an increasing restlessness—an augmenting anxiety, a longing to quit the
island, and an earnest desire to behold her brother Francisco once again,
sentiments and cravings which gave to her countenance an expression of somber
lowering and concentrated passion, such as it was wont to exhibit in those days
when her simulated deafness and dumbness forced her to subdue all the workings
of her excited soul, and compress her vermilion lips to check the ebullition of
that language which on those occasions struggled to pour itself forth.
“O Italy! Italy!” she exclaimed
in an impassioned tone; “shall I ever behold thee again? O! my beloved native
land, thou too, fair city, whose name is fraught with so many varied
reminiscences for me, am I doomed never to visit ye more?”
“Nisida—dearest Nisida!” said
Wagner, who had returned to her unperceived, and unheard—for his feet passed
noiselessly over the sand; “wherefore those passionate exclamations? why this
anxious longing to revisit the busy, bustling world? Are not the calm and
serene delights of this island sufficient for our happiness? or art thou
wearied of me who love thee so tenderly?”
“I am not wearied of thee, my
Fernand!” replied Nisida, “nor do I fail to appreciate all thy tender affection
toward me. But—I can conceal it from myself and from thee no longer—I
am overcome with the monotony of
this isle. Unvaried sunshine during the day, unchanging calmness by night, pall
upon the soul. I crave variety, even the variety that would be afforded by a
magnificent storm, or the eruption of yon sleeping volcano. My thoughts wander
in spite of myself toward Italy; I think, too, of my brother—the young and
inexperienced Francisco! Moreover, there is in our mansion at Florence, a
terrible mystery which prying eyes may seek to penetrate,—a closet containing a
fearful secret, which, if published to the world, would heap loathing
execrations and disgrace on the haughty name of Riverola! And now Francisco is
the sole guardian of that mystery, which he himself knows not, or at least knew
not, when last we were together. But it requires a strong and energetic mind,
like my own, to watch over that awful secret. And now, Fernand, dear Fernand,
thou canst not blame me, thou wilt not reproach me, if I experience an
irresistible longing to return to my native land?”
“And know you not, Nisida,” said
Wagner, in a tone of mingled mournfulness and reproach, “that, even if there
were any means for thee to return to Florence, I could not accompany thee? Dost
thou not remember that I informed thee, that being doomed to death, I escaped
from the power of the authorities—it matters not how; and that were I to set
foot in Florence, it would be to return to my dungeon?”
“Alas! all this I remember
well—too well!” exclaimed Nisida. “And think not, my Fernand, that I feel no
pang, when I lay bare to thee the state of my soul. But if it were possible for
us to go to Italy, thou couldst dwell secretly and retiredly in some suburb of
Florence, and we should be together often—very often!”
“No—Nisida,” answered Wagner;
“that were impossible! Never more may I venture into that city—and if thou
couldst even find the means to revisit thy native clime, thither must thou go,
and there must thou dwell
alone
!”
For Wagner knew full well that
were the lady to return to Florence, she would hear of the frightful incidents
which marked his trial and also the day of his escape; and, though he had at
first inclined to impart to her the terrible secret of his fate—yet subsequent
and more calm deliberation in his own mind had convinced him of the imprudence
of giving her love a shock by such a tremendous—such an appalling revelation.
“Fernand,” said Nisida, breaking
silence after a long pause, during which she was wrapped in profound
meditation, “thy words go to my heart like fiery arrows! O my handsome—my
beautiful—my beloved Fernand, why does destiny thus persecute us? It is
impossible for thee to return to Florence:—it is equally impossible for me to
renounce the first opportunity which Heaven may afford for me to repair
thither! My God! wherefore do our fates tend in such opposite directions? to
separate from thee were maddening: to abandon my brother Francisco—to desert
the grave and solemn interests which demand my presence at home, were to render
myself perjured to a vow
which
I breathed and which Heaven witnessed, when I knelt long years ago at the
death-bed of my mother!”
“After all thou hast said, my
beloved Nisida,” exclaimed Fernand, in a voice expressive of the deepest
melancholy, “I should be wrong—I should be even criminal to listen only to the
whispering of my own selfishness and retain thee here, did opportunity serve
for thy departure. But on this island shall I remain—perhaps forever! And if
the time should come when you grew wearied of that bustling world across the
sea, and thy memory traveled to this lonely isle where thy Fernand was left
behind thee,—haply thou wouldst embark to return hither and pass the remainder
of thy days with one who can never cease to love thee!”
Tears came into the eyes of
Nisida—of her who so seldom, so very seldom wept;—and throwing herself into
Wagner’s arms, she exclaimed, “God grant that I may revisit my native land; and
believe me, oh! believe me, when I declare that I would come back to thee the moment
the interests of my brother no longer demanded my presence!”
They embraced fondly, and then
sat down upon the sand to partake of their morning repast.
But the thoughts of both were
naturally intent upon the recent topic of their discourse; and their conversation,
though each endeavored to force it into other channels, reverted to the subject
which was now uppermost in their minds.
“What must my poor brother
Francisco conjecture to be the cause of my prolonged, and to him mysterious
absence?” said Nisida, as her eyes were cast wistfully over the wide expanse of
waters. “Methinks that I have already hinted to thee how the foolish passion
which he had conceived for a maiden of low degree and obscure birth, compelled
me, in accordance with his nearest and best interest, to consign the object of
his boyish love to the convent of the Carmelites? Yes, and it was with surprise
and dismay incredible that I heard, ere I was torn away from Florence by the
villain Stephano, how that convent was sacked and destroyed by unknown
marauders——”
“Full intelligence of which
terrible sacrilege you communicated to me by signs the second and last time you
visited me in my dungeon,” observed Wagner.
“And I heard also, with increased
fear,” continued Nisida, “that some of the inmates of that convent had escaped;
and, being unable, in consequence of my simulated deafness and dumbness, to set
on foot the necessary inquiries, I could not learn whether Flora Francatelli
was amongst those who had so escaped the almost general ruin. O! if she should
have survived that fatal night—and if she should have again encountered my
brother! Alas! thou perceivest, my Fernand, how necessary it is for me to quit
the island on the first occasion which may serve for that purpose!”
“And wouldst thou, Nisida,” asked
Wagner reproachfully, “place thyself as a barrier between the Count of Riverola
and her whom he loves?”
“Yes!” ejaculated Nisida, her
countenance suddenly assuming
a
stern and imperious expression: “for the most important interests are involved
in the marriage which he may contract. But enough of this, Fernand,” she added,
relapsing into a more tender mood. “And now tell me—canst thou blame me for the
longing desire which has seized upon me—the ardent craving to return to
Florence?”
“Nay—I do not blame thee, dearest
Nisida!” he exclaimed; “but I pity thee—I feel for thee! Because,” he
continued, “if I understand rightly, thou wilt be compelled to feign deafness
and dumbness once more, in order to work out thy mysterious aims;—thou wilt be
compelled to submit to that awful martyrdom—that terrible duplicity which thou
wilt find so painful and difficult to resume, after the full enjoyment of the
blessed faculties of speech and hearing.”
“Alas! such will be my duty!”
murmured Nisida; “and oh! that destiny is a sad one! But,” she exclaimed, after
a moment’s pause, and as a reminiscence appeared suddenly to strike her, “dost
thou not think that even such a destiny as that becomes tolerable, when it is
fulfilled as the only means of carrying out the conditions of a vow breathed to
a well-beloved and dying mother? But wearisome—oh! crushingly tedious was that
mode of existence;—and the first bright day of real happiness which I enjoyed,
was that when I first knew that thou didst love me! And again, Fernand—oh!
again was I supremely happy when, one evening—thou may’st remember well,—it was
the eve that my brother and the minion Flora exchanged tender words together in
the room adjoining that where we were seated—on that evening, Fernand, I
besought by signs that thou wouldst breathe the words—
I love thee!
and thou didst so—and I drank in those
words as a person dying with thirst would imbibe pure spring water placed to
his lips!”
Fernand pressed Nisida to his
heart—for he saw, in spite of her anxiety to return to Italy, that she really
loved him.
But though sensual and
impassioned feelings led the beauteous Nisida thus frequently to melt into
softness and tenderness when she contemplated the wondrously handsome
countenance of Fernand, yet from this day forth her longing to return to Italy
became more earnest—more irresistible; and she would compel him to sit by her
side for hours together on the shore, while she eagerly watched for the
appearance of a sail in the horizon. And Fernand, who divined her object,
himself now longed for the advent of a ship;—so sincere was his love for Nisida
that he was ready to make any sacrifice in order to promote her happiness. Thus
passed away the sixth month; and on the afternoon of the last day thereof, when
Wagner was about to observe to her that the time had now arrived for him to
pass the mountains once again, she said of her own accord, “Fernand, my
beloved, when next you visit the other side of the island, you would do well to
raise some sign, or leave some permanent mark to show that there are
inhabitants on this island. For a ship might touch at that point—the sailors
might seek the shore for water, and they would then search
to discover where those who
raised the signal-post are dwelling.”