Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
“My vengeance was thus far
gratified—the bravos were dismissed, and I locked myself up in my chamber for
several days, to brood upon all I had done, and occasionally to feast my eyes
with the grim remains of him who had dared to love my wife. During those days
of seclusion I would see no one save the servant who brought me my meals. From
him I learnt that the countess was dangerously ill—that she was indeed dying,
and that she besought me to visit her if only for a moment. But I
refused—implacably refused. I was convinced that she craved my forgiveness; and
that I could not give.
“Dr. Duras, who attended upon
her, came to the door of my chamber and implored me to grant him an
interview:—then Nisida sought a similar boon; but I was deaf to each and all.
“Yes—for there was still a being
on whom I yet longed to wreak my vengeance;—and that being was yourself,
Francisco? I looked upon you as the living evidence of my dishonor—the
memorial of your mother’s
boundless guilt. But I recoiled in horror from the idea of staining my hands
with the blood of a little child—yet I feared if I came near you—if I saw your
clinging affectionately to Vitangela—if I heard you innocently and
unconsciously mock me by calling me ‘father!’—I felt I should be unable to
restrain the fury of my wrath!
“I know not how long I should
have remained in the seclusion of my own chamber—perhaps weeks and months, but
one morning shortly after daybreak, I was informed by the only servant whom I
would admit near me, that the countess had breathed her last during the night,
and that Nisida was so deeply affected by her mother’s death, that she, poor
girl, was dangerously ill. Then I became frantic on account of my daughter; and
I quitted my apartment, not only to see that proper aid was administered to
her, but to complete the scheme of vengeance which I had originally formed. Thus,
in the first place, Dr. Duras was enjoined to take up his abode altogether in
the Riverola Palace, so long as Nisida should require his services; and, on the
other hand, a splendid funeral was ordered for the Countess Riverola. But
Vitangela’s remains went not in the velvet-covered coffin to the family
vault;—no—her flesh was buried in the same soil where rotted the flesh of her
paramour—and her skeleton was suspended from the same beam to which his bones
had been already hung. For I thought within myself: ‘This is the first time
that the wife of a Count of Riverola has ever brought dishonor and disgrace
upon her husband; and I will take care that it shall be the last. To Nisida
will I leave all my estates—all my wealth, save a miserable pittance as an
inheritance for the bastard Francisco. She shall inherit the title, and the man
on whom she may confer her hand shall be the next Count of Riverola. The
wedding-day will be marked by a revelation of the mystery of this cabinet; and
the awful spectacle will teach him, whoever he may be, to watch his wife
narrowly—and will teach
her
what it is to prove unfaithful to a
fond husband! To both, the lesson will be as useful as the manner of conveying
it will be frightful, and they will hand down the tradition to future scions of
the Riverola family. Francisco, too, shall learn the secrets of the cabinet; he
shall be taught why he is disinherited—why I have hated him: and thus even from
the other world shall the spirits of the vile paramour and the adulterous wife behold
the consequences of their crime perpetuated in this.’
“Such were my thoughts—such were
my intentions. But an appalling calamity forced me to change my views. Nisida,
after a long and painful illness, became deaf and dumb; and Dr. Duras gave me
no hope of the restoration of her lost faculties.
“Terrible visitation! Then was it
that I reasoned with myself—that I deliberated long and earnestly upon the
course which I should pursue. It was improbable that, afflicted as Nisida was,
she would ever marry; and I felt grieved, deeply grieved, to think that you,
Francisco, being disinherited, and Nisida remaining single, the proud title of
Riverola would become extinct; I therefore resolved on the less painful
alternative
of
disinheriting you altogether; and I accordingly made a will by which I left you
the estates, with the contingent title Count of Riverola, under certain
conditions which might yet alienate both property and rank from you, and endow
therewith your sister Nisida. For should she recover the faculties of speech
and hearing by the time she shall have attained the age of thirty-six, she will
yet be marriageable and may have issue; but should that era in her life pass,
and she still be deaf and dumb, all hope of her recovery will be dead!
“Thus if she still be so deeply
afflicted at that age, you, Francisco, will inherit the vast estates and the
lordly title which, through the circumstances of your birth, it grieves me to
believe will ever devolve upon you.
“Such were my motives for making
that will which you are destined to hear read, doubtless before the time comes
for you to peruse this manuscript. And having made that will, and experiencing
the sad certainty that my unfortunate daughter will never become qualified to
inherit my title and fortune, but that the name of Riverola must be perpetuated
through your marriage, I have determined that to you and to your bride alone
shall the dread secrets of the cabinet be revealed.”
Thus terminated the manuscript.
Powerful in meaning and strong in
expression as the English language may be rendered by one who has the least
experience in the proper combination of words, yet it becomes totally
inadequate to the task of conveying an idea of those feelings—those harrowing
emotions—those horrifying sentiments, which were excited in the breasts of
Francisco di Riverola and the beautiful Flora by the revolution of the
manuscript. At first the document begat a deep and mournful interest, as it
related the interviews of the late count with Vitangela in the streets of Naples;
then amazement was engendered by the announcement of that lovely and unhappy
being’s ignominious parentage—but a calmness was diffused through the minds of
Flora and Francisco, as if they had found a resting place amidst the exciting
incidents of the narrative when they reached that part which mentioned the
marriage.
Their feelings were, however,
destined to be speedily and most painfully wrung once more; and Francisco could
scarcely restrain his indignation—yes, his indignation even against the memory
of his deceased father—when he perused those injurious suspicions which were
recorded in reference to the honor of his mother. Though unable to explain the
mystery in which all that part of the narrative was involved, yet he felt
firmly convinced that his mother was innocent; and he frequently interrupted
himself in the perusal of the manuscript to give utterance to passionate
ejaculations expressive of that opinion. But it was when the hideous tragedy
rapidly developed itself, and the history of the presence of two skeletons in
the closet was detailed, it was then that language became powerless to describe
the mingled wrath and disgust which Francisco felt, or to delineate the
emotions of boundless horror and wild amazement
that were excited in the bosom
of Flora. In spasmodic shuddering did the young countess cling to her husband
when she had learned how fearfully accurate was the manner in which the few
lines of the manuscript which she had read many months previously in Nisida’s
boudoir, fitted in the text, and how appalling was the tale which the entire
made. She was cruelly shocked, and her heart bled for that fine young man whom
she was so proud to call her husband, but whom his late father had loathed to
recognize as a son. And Nisida—what were her feelings as she lay stretched upon
a couch, listening to the contents of the manuscript which she had read before?
At first one hope—one idea was dominant in her soul, the hope that Flora would
be crushed even to death by revelations which were indeed almost sufficient to
overwhelm a gentle disposition and freeze the vital current in the tender and
compassionate heart.
But as Francisco read on, and
when he came to those passages which described the sufferings and the cruel
fate of her mother, then Nisida became a prey to the most torturing
feelings—dreadful emotions were expressed by her convulsed countenance and
wildly-glaring eyes—and she muttered deep and bitter anathemas against the
memory of her own father. For well does the reader know that she had loved her
mother to distraction; and thus the horrifying detail of the injuries heaped
upon the head and on the name of that revered parent aroused all her fiercest
passions of rage and hate as completely as if that history had been new to her,
and as if she were now becoming acquainted with it for the first time. Indeed,
so powerful, so terrible, was the effect produced by the revival of all those
dread reminiscences and heart-rending emotions on the part of Nisida that,
forgetting her malignant spite and her infernal hope with regard to Flora, she
threw her whole soul into the subject of the manuscript: and the torrent of
feelings to which she thus gave way was crushing and overwhelming to a woman of
such fierce passions, and who had received so awful a shock as that which had
stretched her on the couch where she now lay. For the fate of him whom she had
loved with such ardor, and the revulsion that her affection experienced on
account of the ghastly spectacle which Wagner presented to her view in his
dying moments—the disgust and loathing which had been inspired in her mind by
the thought that she had ever fondled that being in her arms and absolutely
doted on the superhuman beauty that had changed to such revolting ugliness, it
was all this that had struck her down—paralyzed her—inflicted a mortal, though
not an instantaneous blow upon that woman so lately full of energy, so strong
in moral courage, and so full of vigorous health. Thus impressed with the
conviction that her end was approaching, the moment the perusal of the
manuscript was concluded the Lady Nisida said, in a faint and dying tone of
voice:
“Francisco, draw near—as near as
possible—and listen to what I have now to communicate, for it is in my power to
clear up all doubt, all mystery relative to the honor of our sainted mother,
and convince thee that no stigma, no disgrace attaches itself to thy birth!”
“Alas! my beloved sister,”
exclaimed the young count, “you speak in a faint voice, you are very ill! In
the name of the Holy Virgin! I conjure you to allow me to send for Dr. Duras!”
“No, Francisco,” said Nisida, her
voice recovering somewhat of its power as she continued to address him: “I
implore you to let me have my own way, to follow my own inclinations! Do not
thwart me, Francisco; already I feel as if molten lead were pouring through my
brain, and a tremendous weight lies upon my heart! Forbear, then, from
irritating me, my well-beloved Francisco——”
“Oh! Nisida,” cried the young
count, throwing his arms around his sister’s neck and embracing her fondly; “if
you love me now, if you ever loved me, grant me one boon! By the memory of our
sainted mother I implore you, by your affection for her I adjure you, Nisida——”
“Speak, speak, Francisco,”
interrupted his sister, hastily: “I can almost divine the nature of the boon
you crave—and—my God!” she added, tears starting from her eyes, as a painful
thought flashed across her brain,—“perhaps I have been too harsh—too severe! At
all events, it is not now—on my death-bed—that I can nurse resentment——”
“Your death-bed!” echoed
Francisco, in a tone or acute anguish, while the sobs which convulsed the bosom
of the young countess were heard alike by him and his sister.
“Yes, dearest brother, I am
dying,” said Nisida, in a voice of profound and mournful conviction; “and
therefore let me not delay those duties and those explanations which can alone
unburden my heart of the weight that lies upon it! And first, Francisco, be thy
boon granted—for I know that thou wouldst speak to me of her who is now thy
bride. Come to my arms, then. Flora, embrace me as a sister, and forgive me if
thou canst, for I have been a fierce and unrelenting enemy to thee!”
“Oh, let the past be forgotten,
my friend, my sister!” exclaimed the weeping Flora, as she threw herself into
Nisida’s outstretched arms.
And the young wife and the young
woman embraced each other tenderly—for deep regrets and pungent remorse at last
attuned the mind of Nisida to sweet and holy sympathy.
“And now,” said Nisida, “sit down
by my side, and listen to the explanations which I have promised. Give me your
hand. Flora, dear Flora, let me retain it in mine; for at the last hour, and
when I am about to leave this fair and beauteous earth, I feel an ardent
longing to love those who walk upon its face, and to be loved by them in
return. But, alas, alas!” she added, somewhat bitterly, “reflections and
yearnings of this nature come too late! O Flora! the picture of life is spread
before you—while from me it is rapidly receding, and dissolving into the past.
Like our own fair city of palaces and flowers, when seen from a distance
beneath the glorious lights of the morning, may that glorious picture continue
to appear to thee; and may’st thou never draw near enough to recognize the
false splendors in which gorgeous hues may deck the things of this world;
may’st thou never be brought so close to the sad realities of existence as to
be forced to contemplate the
breaking hearts that dwell in palaces, or to view in disgust the slime upon
flowers.”