Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
NISIDA AND WAGNER—FRANCISCO AND
FLORA—THE APPROACH OF SUNSET
Upward
of two months had passed away
since the occurrences related in the preceding chapter, and it was now the 31st
of January, 1521.
The sun was verging toward the
western hemisphere, but the rapid flight of the hours was unnoticed by Nisida
and Fernand Wagner, as they were seated together in one of the splendid saloons
of the Riverola mansion.
Their looks were fixed on each
other’s countenance; the eyes of Fernand expressing tenderness and admiration,
those of Nisida beaming with all the passions of her ardent and sensual soul.
Suddenly the lady raised her
hands, and by the rapid play of the fingers, asked, “Fernand, do you indeed
love me as much as you would have me believe I am beloved?”
“Never in this world was woman so
loved as you,” he replied, by the aid of the same language.
“And yet I am an unfortunate
being—deprived of those qualities which give the greatest charm to the
companionship of those who love.”
“But you are eminently beautiful,
my Nisida; and I can fancy how sweet, how rich-toned would be your voice, could
your lips frame the words, ‘
I love
thee!
’”
A profound sigh agitated the
breast of the lady; and at the same time her lips quivered strangely, as if she
were essaying to speak.
Wagner caught her to his breast;
and she wept long and plenteously. Those tears relieved her; and she returned
his warm, impassioned kisses with an ardor that convinced him how dear he had
become to that afflicted, but transcendently beautiful being. On her side, the
blood in her veins appeared to circulate like molten lead; and her face, her
neck, her bosom were suffused with burning blushes.
At length, raising her head, she
conveyed this wish to her companion: “Thou hast given me an idea which may
render me ridiculous in your estimation; but it is a whim, a fancy, a caprice,
engendered only by the profound
affection I entertain for thee. I would that thou shouldst say, in thy softest,
tenderest tones, the words ‘
I love
thee!
’ and, by the wreathing of thy lips, I shall see enough to
enable my imagination to persuade itself that those words have really fallen
upon my ears.”
Fernand smiled assent; and, while
Nisida’s eyes were fixed upon him with the most enthusiastic interest, he said,
“I love thee!”
The sovereign beauty of her
countenance was suddenly lighted up with an expression of ineffable joy, of
indescribable delight; and, signaling the assurance, “I love thee, dearest,
dearest Fernand!” she threw herself into his arms.
But almost at the same moment
voices were heard in the adjacent room: and Wagner, gently disengaging himself
from Nisida’s embrace, hastily conveyed to her an intimation of the vicinity of
others.
The lady gave him to understand
by a glance that she comprehended him; and they remained motionless, fondly
gazing upon each other.
“I know not how it has occurred,
Flora,” said the voice of Francisco, speaking in a tender tone, in the
adjoining room—“I know not how it has occurred that I should have addressed you
in this manner—so soon, too, after the death of my lamented father, and while
these mourning garments yet denote the loss which myself and sister have
sustained——”
“Oh! my lord, suffer me to
retire,” exclaimed Flora Francatelli, in a tone of beseeching earnestness; “I
should not have listened to your lordship so long in the gallery of pictures,
much less have accompanied your lordship hither.”
“I requested thee to come with me
to this apartment, Flora, that I might declare, without fear of our interview
being interrupted, how dear, how very dear, thou art to me, and how honorable
is the passion with which thou hast inspired me. Oh, Flora,” exclaimed the
young count, “I could no longer conceal my love for thee! My heart was bursting
to reveal its secret; and when I discovered thee alone, ere now, in the gallery
of pictures, I could not resist the favorable opportunity accident seemed to
have afforded for this avowal.”
“Alas! my lord,” murmured Flora,
“I know not whether to rejoice or be sorrowful at the revelation which has this
day met my ears.”
“And yet you said ere now that
you could love me, that you did love me in return,” ejaculated Francisco.
“I spoke truly, my lord,”
answered the bashful maiden; “but, alas! how can the humble, obscure,
portionless Flora become the wife of the rich, powerful and honored Count of
Riverola? There is an inseparable gulf fixed between us, my lord.”
“Am I not my own master? Can I
not consult my own happiness in that most solemn and serious of the world’s
duties—marriage?” cried Francisco, with all the generous ardor of youth and his
own noble disposition.
“Your lordship is free and
independent in point of fact,” said
Flora,
in a low, tender and yet impressive tone; “but your lordship has
relations—friends.”
“My relations will not thwart the
wishes of him whom they love,” answered Francisco; “and those who place
obstacles in the way of my felicity cannot be denominated my friends.”
“Oh! my lord—could I yield myself
up to the hopes which your language inspires!” cried Flora.
“You can—you may, dearest girl!”
exclaimed the young count. “And now I know that you love me! But many months
must elapse ere I can call thee mine; and, indeed, a remorse smites my heart
that I have dared to think of my own happiness, so soon after a mournful
ceremony has consigned a parent to the tomb. Heaven knows that I do not the
less deplore his loss—but wherefore art thou so pale, so trembling, Flora?”
“Meseems that a superstitious awe
of evil omens has seized upon my soul,” returned the maiden, in a tremulous
tone. “Let us retire, my lord; the Lady Nisida may require my services
elsewhere.”
“Nisida!” repeated Francisco, as
if the mention of his sister’s name had suddenly awakened new ideas in his
mind.
“Ah! my lord,” said Flora,
sorrowfully, “you now perceive that there is at least one who may not learn
with satisfaction the alliance which your lordship would form with the poor and
humble dependent.”
“Nay, by my patron saint, thou
hast misunderstood me!” exclaimed the young count warmly. “Nisida will not
oppose her brother’s happiness; and her strong mind will know how to despise
those conventional usages which require that high birth should mate with high
birth, and wealth ally itself to wealth. Yes; Nisida will consult my felicity
alone; and when I ere now repeated her name as it fell from your lips, it was
in a manner reproachful to myself, because I have retained my love for thee a
secret from her. A secret from Nisida! Oh! I have been cruel, unjust, not to
have confided in my sister long ago! And yet,” he added more slowly, “she might
reproach me for my selfishness in bestowing a thought on marriage soon, so very
soon, after a funeral! Flora, dearest maiden, circumstances demand that the
avowal which accident and opportunity have led me this day to make, should
exist as a secret, known only unto yourself and me. But, in a few months I will
explain all to my sister, and she will greet thee as her brother’s chosen
bride. Are thou content, Flora, that our mutual love should remain thus
concealed until the proper time shall come for its revelation?”
“Yes, my lord, and for many
reasons,” was the answer.
“For many reasons, Flora!”
exclaimed the young count.
“At least for more than one,”
rejoined the maiden. “In the first instance, it is expedient your lordship
should have due leisure to reflect upon the important step which you propose to
take—a step conferring so much honor on myself, but which may not insure your
happiness.”
“If this be a specimen of thy
reasons, dear maiden,” exclaimed
Francisco,
laughing, “I need hear no more. Be well assured,” he added seriously, “that
time will not impair the love I experience for you.”
Flora murmured a reply which did
not reach Wagner, and immediately afterward the sound of her light steps was
heard retreating from the adjacent room. A profound silence of a few minutes
occurred; and then Francisco also withdrew.
Wagner had been an unwilling
listener to the preceding conversation; but while it was in progress, he from
time to time threw looks of love and tenderness on his beautiful companion, who
returned them with impassioned ardor.
Whether it were that her
irritable temper was impatient of the restraint imposed upon herself and her
lover by the vicinity of others, or whether she was annoyed at the fact of her
brother and Flora being so long together (for Wagner had intimated to her who
their neighbors were, the moment he had recognized their voices), we cannot
say; but Nisida showed an occasional uneasiness of manner, which she, however,
studied to subdue as much as possible, during the scene that took place in the
adjoining apartment.
Fernand did not offer to convey
to her any idea of the nature of the conversation which occupied her brother
and Flora Francatelli; neither did she manifest the least curiosity to be
enlightened on that head.
The moment the young lovers had
quitted the next room Wagner intimated the fact to Nisida; but at the same
instant, just as he was about to bestow upon her a tender caress, a dreadful,
an appalling reminiscence burst upon him with such overwhelming force that he
fell back stupefied on the sofa.
Nisida’s countenance assumed an
expression of the deepest solicitude, and her eloquent, sparkling eyes,
implored him to intimate to her what ailed him.
But, starting wildly from his
seat, and casting on her a look of such bitter, bitter anguish, that the
appalling emotions thus expressed struck terror to her soul—Fernand rushed from
the room.
Nisida sprung to the window; and,
though the obscurity of the evening now announced the last flickerings of the
setting sunbeams in the west, she could perceive her lover dashing furiously on
through the spacious gardens that surrounded the Riverola Palace.
On—on he went toward the River
Arno; and in a few minutes was out of sight.
Alas! intoxicated with love, and
giving himself up to the one delightful idea—that he was with the beauteous
Nisida—then, absorbed in the interest of the conversation which he had
overheard between Francisco and Flora—Wagner had forgotten until it was nearly
too late,
that the sun was about to
set on the last day of the month
.
’Twas
the hour of sunset.
The eastern horizon, with its
gloomy and somber twilight, offered a strange contrast to the glorious glowing
hues of vermilion, and purple, and gold, that blended in long streaks athwart
the western sky.
For even the winter sunset of
Italy is accompanied with resplendent tints—as if an emperor, decked with a
refulgent diadem, were repairing to his imperial couch.
The declining rays of the orb of
light bathed in molten gold the pinnacles, steeples, and lofty palaces of proud
Florence, and toyed with the limpid waves of the Arno, on whose banks
innumerable villas and casinos already sent forth delicious strains of music,
broken only by the mirth of joyous revelers.
And by degrees as the sun went
down, the palaces of the superb city began to shed light from their lattices,
set in rich sculptured masonry; and here and there, where festivity prevailed,
grand illuminations sprung up with magical quickness, the reflection from each
separate galaxy rendering it bright as day far, far around.
Vocal and instrumental melody
floated through the still air; and the perfume of exotics, decorating the halls
of the Florentine nobles, poured from the widely-opened portals, and rendered
the air delicious.
For Florence was gay that evening—the
last day of each month being the one which the wealthy lords and high-born
ladies set apart for the reception of their friends.
The sun sank behind the western
hills; and even the hothouse flowers closed up their buds—as if they were
eyelids weighed down by slumber, and not to wake until the morning should
arouse them again to welcome the return of their lover—that glorious sun!
Darkness seemed to dilate upon
the sky like an image in the midst of a mirage, expanding into superhuman
dimensions—then rapidly losing its shapeliness, and covering the vault above
densely and confusedly.
But, by degrees, countless stars
began to stud the colorless canopy of heaven, like gems of orient splendor; for
the last—last flickering ray of the twilight in the west had expired in the
increasing obscurity.
But, hark! what is that wild and
fearful cry?
In the midst of a wood of
evergreens on the banks of the Arno, a man—young, handsome, and splendidly
attired—has thrown himself upon the ground, where he writhes like a stricken
serpent, in horrible convulsions.
He is the prey of a demoniac
excitement: an appalling consternation is on him—madness is in his brain—his
mind is on fire.
Lightnings appear to gleam from
his eyes, as if his soul were dismayed, and withering within his breast.
“Oh! no—no!” he cries with
a piercing shriek, as if wrestling madly, furiously, but vainly against some
unseen fiend that holds him in his grasp.
And the wood echoes to that
terrible wail; and the startled bird flies fluttering from its bough.
But, lo! what awful change is
taking place in the form of that doomed being? His handsome countenance
elongates into one of savage and brute-like shape; the rich garments which he
wears become a rough, shaggy, and wiry skin; his body loses its human contours,
his arms and limbs take another form; and, with a frantic howl of misery, to
which the woods give horribly faithful reverberations, and, with a rush like a
hurling wind, the wretch starts wildly away, no longer a man, but a monstrous
wolf!
On, on he goes: the wood is
cleared—the open country is gained. Tree, hedge, and isolated cottage appear
but dim points in the landscape—a moment seen, the next left behind; the very
hills appear to leap after each other.
A cemetery stands in the
monster’s way, but he turns not aside—through the sacred inclosure—on, on he
goes. There are situated many tombs, stretching up the slope of a gentle
acclivity, from the dark soil of which the white monuments stand forth with
white and ghastly gleaming, and on the summit of the hill is the church of St.
Benedict the Blessed.
From the summit of the ivy-grown
tower the very rooks, in the midst of their cawing, are scared away by the
furious rush and the wild howl with which the Wehr-Wolf thunders over the
hallowed ground.
At the same instant a train of
monks appear round the angle of the church—for there is a funeral at that hour;
and their torches flaring with the breeze that is now springing up, cast an
awful and almost magical light on the dark gray walls of the edifice, the
strange effect being enhanced by the prismatic reflection of the lurid blaze
from the stained glass of the oriel window.
The solemn spectacle seemed to
madden the Wehr-Wolf. His speed increased—he dashed through the funeral
train—appalling cries of terror and alarm burst from the lips of the holy
fathers—and the solemn procession was thrown into confusion. The coffin-bearers
dropped their burden, and the corpse rolled out upon the ground, its
decomposing countenance seeming horrible by the glare of the torch-light.
The monk who walked nearest the
head of the coffin was thrown down by the violence with which the ferocious
monster cleared its passage; and the venerable father—on whose brow sat the
snow of eighty winters—fell with his head against a monument, and his brains
were dashed out.
On, on fled the Wehr-Wolf, over
mead and hill, through valley and dale. The very wind seemed to make way: he
clove the air—he appeared to skim the ground—to fly.
Through the romantic glades and
rural scenes of Etruria the monster sped—sounds, resembling shrieking howls,
bursting ever and anon from his foaming mouth—his red eyes glaring in the
dusk of the evening like ominous
meteors—and his whole aspect so full of appalling ferocity, that never was seen
so monstrous, so terrific a spectacle!
A village is gained; he turns not
aside, but dashes madly through the little street formed by the huts and
cottages of the Tuscan vine-dressers.
A little child is in his path—a
sweet, blooming, ruddy, noble boy; with violet-colored eyes and flaxen
hair—disporting merrily at a short distance from his parents, who are seated at
the threshold of their dwelling.
Suddenly a strange and ominous
rush—an unknown trampling of rapid feet falls upon their ears; then, with a
savage cry, a monster sweeps past.
“My child! my child!” screams the
affrighted mother; and simultaneously the shrill cry of an infant in the sudden
agony of death carries desolation to the ear!
’Tis done—’twas but the work of a
moment; the wolf has swept by, the quick rustling of his feet is no longer
heard in the village. But those sounds are succeeded by awful wails and
heart-rending lamentations: for the child—the blooming, violet-eyed,
flaxen-haired boy—the darling of his poor but tender parents, is weltering in
his blood!
On, on speeds the destroyer,
urged by an infernal influence which maddens the more intensely because its
victim strives vainly to struggle against it: on, on, over the beaten road—over
the fallow field—over the cottager’s garden—over the grounds of the rich one’s
rural villa.
And now, to add to the horrors of
the scene, a pack of dogs have started in pursuit of the
wolf—dashing—hurrying—pushing—pressing upon one another in all the anxious
ardor of the chase.
The silence and shade of the open
country, in the mild starlight, seem eloquently to proclaim the peace and
happiness of a rural life; but now that silence is broken by the mingled
howling of the wolf, and the deep baying of the hounds—and this shade is
crossed and darkened by the forms of the animals as they scour so fleetly—oh!
with such whirlwind speed along.
But that Wehr-Wolf bears a
charmed life; for though the hounds overtake him—fall upon him—and attack him
with all the courage of their nature, yet does he hurl them from him, toss them
aside, spurn them away, and at length free himself from their pursuit
altogether!
And now the moon rises with
unclouded splendor, like a maiden looking from her lattice screened with purple
curtains; and still the monster hurries madly on with unrelaxing speed.
For hours has he pursued his way
thus madly; and, on a sudden, as he passes the outskirts of a sleeping town,
the church-bell is struck by the watcher’s hand to proclaim midnight.
Over the town, over the
neighboring fields—through the far-off forest, clanged that iron tongue: and
the Wehr-Wolf sped all the faster, as if he were running a race with that Time
whose voice had just spoken.
On, on went the Wehr-Wolf; but
now his course began to deviate
from
the right line which he had hitherto pursued, and to assume a curved direction.
From a field a poor man was
turning an ox into the main road, that he might drive the animal to his
master’s residence by daylight; the wolf swept by, and snapped furiously at the
ox as he passed: and the beast, affrighted by the sudden appearance, gushing
sound, and abrupt though evanescent attack of the infuriate monster, turned on
the herdsman and gored him to death.
On went the terrific wolf, with
wilder and more frequent howlings, which were answered in a thousand tones from
the rocks and caverns overlooking the valley through whose bosom he was now
careering with whirlwind speed along.
It was now two o’clock in the
morning, and he had already described an immense circuit from the point where
he had begun to deviate from a direct course.
At a turning of the road, as he
emerged from the valley, the monster encountered a party of village girls
repairing with the produce of their dairies, and of their poultry-yards, to
some still far distant town, which they had hoped to reach shortly after
daybreak.
Fair, gay, and smiling was the
foremost maiden, as the bright moon and the silver starlight shone upon her
countenance; but that sweet face, clad in the richest hues of health, was
suddenly convulsed with horror, as the terrible Wehr-Wolf thundered by with
appalling howls.
For a few moments the foremost
village maiden stood rooted to the spot in speechless horror: then, uttering a
wild cry, she fell backward, rolled down a steep bank, and was ingulfed in the
rapid stream that chafed and fretted along the side of the path.
Her companions shrieked in agony
of mind—the wail was echoed by a despairing cry from the drowning girl—a cry
that swept frantically over the rippling waters; and, in another moment, she
sank to rise no more!
The breeze had by this time
increased to a sharp wind, icy and cold, as it usually is, even in southern
climes, when the dawn is approaching; and the gale now whistled through the
branches of the evergreen wood in the neighborhood of Florence—that vicinity to
which the Wehr-Wolf was at length returning!
Still was his pace of arrow-like
velocity—for some terrible power appeared to urge him on; and though his limbs
failed not, though he staggered not in his lightning speed, yet did the foam at
his mouth, the thick flakes of perspiration on his body, and the steam that
enveloped him as in a dense vapor, denote how distressed the unhappy being in
reality was.
At last—at last a faint tinge was
visible above the eastern horizon; gradually the light increased and put to
flight the stars.
But now the Oriental sky was to
some extent obscured with clouds; and the Wehr-Wolf gnashed his teeth with
rage, and uttered a savage howl, as if impatient of the delay of dawn.
His speed began to relax; the
infernal influence which had governed him for so many hours already grew less
stern, less
powerful, and
as the twilight shone forth more plainly in proportion did the Wehr-Wolf’s
velocity diminish.
Suddenly a piercing chill darted
through his frame, and he fell in strong convulsions upon the ground, in the
midst of the same wood where his transformation had taken place on the
preceding evening.
The sun rose angrily, imparting a
lurid, reddened hue to the dark clouds that hung upon the Oriental heaven, as
if the mantling curtains of a night’s pavilion strove to repel the wooing
kisses of the morn; and the cold chill breeze made the branches swing to and
fro with ominous flapping, like the wings of the fabulous Simoorg.
But in the midst of the appalling
spasmodic convulsions, with direful writhings on the soil, and with cries of
bitter anguish, the Wehr-Wolf gradually threw off his monster-shape; and at the
very moment when the first sunbeam penetrated the wood and glinted on his face
he rose a handsome, young, and perfect man once more!