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Letter XV

The Count de St. Julian to the Marquis of Pescara

Livorno

My lord,

I hoped before this time to have presented before you the form of that injured friend, which, if your heart is not yet callous to every impression, must be more blasting to your sight, than all the chimeras that can be conjured up by a terrified imagination, or a guilty conscience. I no sooner received the accursed intelligence at Zamora, than I flew with the speed of lightning. I permitted no consideration upon earth to delay me till I arrived at Alicant. But the sea was less favourable to the impatience of my spirit. I set sail in a boisterous and unpromising season. I have been long tossed about at the mercy of the ocean. I thank God, after having a thousand times despaired of it, that I have at length set foot in a port of Italy. It is distant indeed, but the ardour of my purpose were sufficient to cut short all intermission.

My lord, I trusted you as my own soul. No consideration could have moved me to entertain a moment's suspicion of your fidelity. I placed in your hand the most important pledge it ever was my fortune to possess. I employed no guard. I opened to you an unsuspecting bosom, and you have stung me to the heart. I gave you the widest opportunity, and it is through my weak and groundless confidence that you have reached me. You have employed without scruple all those advantages it put into your hands. You have undermined me at your ease. I left you to protect my life's blood, my heart of heart, from every attack, to preserve the singleness of her affections, and the constancy of her attachment. It was yours to have breathed into her ear the sighs of St. Julian. It was yours ambitiously to expatiate upon his amiable qualities. You were every day to have added fuel to the flame. You were to have presented Matilda to my arms, more beautiful, more tender, more kind, than she had ever appeared. From this moment then, let the name of trust be a by-word for the profligate to scoff at! Let the epithet of friend be a mildew to the chaste and uncorrupted ear! Let mutual confidence be banished from the earth, and men, more savage than the brute, devour each other!

Was it possible, my lord, that you should dream, that the benefits you had formerly conferred upon me, could deprive my resentment of all its sting under the present provocation! If you did, believe me, you were most egregiously mistaken. It is true I owed you much, and heaven has not cursed me with a heart of steel. What bounds did I set to my gratitude? I left my natal shore, I braved all the dangers of the ocean, I fought in foreign climes the power of requital. I fondly imagined that I could never discharge so vast obligations. But the invention of your lordship is more fertile than mine. You have found the means to blot them in a moment. Yes, my lord, from henceforth all contract between us is canceled. You have set us right upon our first foundations. Friendship, affection, pity, I give you to the winds! Come to my bosom, unmixed malignity, black-boiling revenge! You are now the only inmates welcome to my heart.

Oh, Rinaldo, that character once so dear to me, that youth over whose opening inclinations I watched with so unremitting care, is it you that are the author of so severe a misfortune? I held you to my breast. I poured upon your head all that magazine of affection and tenderness, with which heaven had dowered me. Never did one man so ardently love another. Never did one man interest himself so much in another's truth and virtue, in another's peace and happiness. I formed you for heroism. I cultivated those features in your character which might have made you an ornament to your country and mankind. I strewed your path with flowers, I made the couch beneath you violets and roses. Hear me, yet hear me! Learn to perceive all the magnitude of your crime. You have murdered your friend. You have wounded him in the tenderest part. You have seduced the purest innocence and the most unexampled truth. For is it possible that Matilda, erewhile the pattern of every spotless excellence, could have been a party in the black design?

But it is no longer time for the mildness of censure and the sobriety of reproach. I would utter myself in the fierce and unqualified language of invective. You have sinned beyond redemption. I would speak daggers. I would wring blood from your heart at every word. But no; I will not waste myself in angry words. I will not indulge to the bitterness of opprobrium. Nothing but the anguish of my soul should have wrung from me these solitary lines. Nothing but the fear of not surviving to my revenge, should have prevented me from forestalling them in person.—I will meet thee at Cerenzo.

Letter XVI

The Marquis of San Severino to the Marchioness of Pescara

Cerenzo

Madam,

I am truly sorry that it falls to my lot to communicate to you the distressing tidings with which it is perfectly necessary you should be acquainted. The marquis, your husband, and my most dear friend, has this morning fallen in a duel at this place. I am afraid it will be no alleviation of the unfortunate intelligence, if I add, that the hand by which he fell, was that of the count de St. Julian.

His lordship left Cosenza, I understand, with the declared intention of honouring me with a visit at Naples. He accordingly arrived at my palace in the evening of the second day after he left you. He there laid before me a letter he had received from the count, from which it appeared that the misunderstanding was owing to a rivalship of no recent date in the affections of your ladyship. It is not my business to enter into the merits of the dispute. You, madam, are doubtless too well acquainted with the laws of modern honour, pernicious in many instances, and which have proved so fatal to the valuable life of the marquis, not to know that the intended rencounter, circumstanced as it was, could not possibly have been prevented.

As we were informed that the count de St. Julian was detained by sickness at Livorno, we continued two days longer at Naples before we set out for our place of destination at Cerenzo. We arrived there on the evening of the twenty-third, and the count de St. Julian the next day at noon. We were soon after waited upon in form by signor Hippolito Borelli, who had been a fellow student with each of these young noblemen at the university of Palermo. He requested an interview with me, and informing me that he attended the count in quality of second, we began to adjust those minutiae, which are usually referred to the decision of those who exercise that character.

The count and the marquis had fixed their quarters at the two principal hotels of this place. Of consequence there was no sort of intercourse between them during the remainder of the day. In the evening we were attended by the baron of St. Angelo, who had heard by chance of our arrival. We spent the remainder of the day in much gaiety, and I never saw the marquis of Pescara exert himself more, or display more collectedness and humour, than upon this occasion. After we separated, however, he appeared melancholy and exhausted. He was fatigued with the repeated journies he had performed, and after having walked up and down the room, for some time, in profound thought, he retired pretty early to his chamber.

The next day at six in the morning we repaired according to appointment to the ramparts. We found the count de St. Julian and his friend arrived before us. As we approached, the marquis made a slight congee to the count, which was not returned by the other. "My lord," cried the marquis,—"Stop," replied his antagonist, in a severe and impatient tone. "This is no time for discussions. It was not that purpose that brought me hither." My lord of Pescara appeared somewhat hurt at so peremptory and unceremonious a rejoinder, but presently recovered himself. Each party then took his ground, and they fired their pistols without any other effect, than the shoulder of the count being somewhat grazed by one of the balls.

Signor Borelli and myself now interposed, and endeavoured to compromise the affair. Our attempt however presently appeared perfectly fruitless. Both parties were determined to proceed to further action. The marquis, who at first had been perfectly calm, was now too impatient and eager to admit of a moment's delay. The count, who had then appeared agitated and disturbed, now assumed a collected air, a ferociousness and intrepidity, which, though it seemed to wait an opportunity of displaying itself, was deaf as the winds, and immoveable as the roots of Vesuvius.

They now drew their swords. The passes of both were for some time rendered ineffectual. But at length the marquis, from the ardour of his temper seemed to lay aside his guard, and the count de St. Julian, by a sudden thrust, run his antagonist through the body. The marquis immediately fell, and having uttered one groan, he expired. The sword entered at the left breast, and proceeded immediately to the heart.

The count, instead of appearing at all disturbed at this event, or attempting to embrace the opportunity of flight, advanced immediately towards the body, and bending over it, seemed to survey its traits with the profoundest attention. The surgeon who had attended, came up at this instant, but presently perceived that his art was become totally useless. During however this short examination, the count de St. Julian recovered from his reverie, and addressing himself to me, "My lord," said he, "I shall not attempt to fly from the laws of my country. I am indeed the challenger, but I have done nothing, but upon the matures! deliberation, and I shall at all times be ready to answer my conduct." Though I considered this mode of proceeding as extremely singular I did not however think it became me, as the friend of the marquis of Pescara, to oppose his resolution. He has accordingly entered into a recognizance before the gonfaloniere, to appear at a proper time to take his trial at the city of Naples.

Madam, I thought it my duty to be thus minute in relating the particulars of this unfortunate affair. I shall not descend to any animadversions upon the conduct and language of the count de St. Julian. They will come to be examined and decided upon in a proper place. In the mean time permit me to offer my sincerest condolences upon the loss you have sustained in the death of my amiable friend. If it be in my power to be of service to your ladyship, with respect to the funeral, or any other incidental affairs, you may believe that I shall account it my greatest honour to alleviate in any degree the misfortune you have suffered. With the sincerest wishes for the welfare of yourself and your amiable son, I have the honour to be,

Madam,

Your most obedient and very faithful servant,

The marquis of San Severino.

Letter XVII

The Answer

Cosenza

My lord,

You were not mistaken when you supposed that the subject of your letter would both afflict and surprize me in the extremest degree. The unfortunate event to which it principally relates, is such as cannot but affect me nearly. And separate from this, there is a veil of mystery that hangs over the horrid tale, behind which I dare not pry, but with the most trembling anxiety, but which will probably in a very short time be totally removed.

Your lordship, I am afraid, is but too well acquainted with the history of the correspondence between myself and my deceased lord. I was given to understand that the count de St. Julian was married to the daughter of the duke of Aranda. I thought I had but too decisive evidence of the veracity of the story. And you, my lord, I remember, were one of the witnesses by which it was confirmed. Yet how is this to be reconciled with the present catastrophe? Can I suppose that the count, after being settled in Spain, should have deserted these connexions, in order to come over again to that country in which he had forfeited all pretensions to character and reputation, and to commence a quarrel so unjust and absurd, with the man to whom he was bound by so numerous obligations?

My lord, I have revolved all the circumstances that are communicated to me in your alarming letter. The oftener I peruse it, and the more maturely I consider them, the more does it appear that the count de St. Julian has all the manners of conscious innocence and injured truth. It is impossible for an impostor to have acted throughout with an air so intrepid and superior. Your lordship's account, so far as it relates to the marquis, is probably the account of a friend, but it is impossible not to perceive, that his behaviour derives no advantage from being contrasted with that of his antagonist.

You will readily believe, that it has cost me many efforts to assemble all these thoughts, and to deliver these reasonings in so connected a manner. At first my prejudices against the poor and unprotected stranger were so deeply rooted, that I had no suspicion of their injustice. I regarded the whole as a dream; I considered every circumstance as beyond the cognizance of reason, and founded entirely in madness and frenzy. I painted to myself the count de St. Julian, whom I had known for a character so tender and sincere, as urged along with all the stings of guilt, and agitated with all the furies of remorse. I at once pitied his sufferings, and lamented their mortal and destructive consequences. I regarded yourself and every person concerned in the melancholy affair, as actuated by the same irrational spirit, and united to overwhelm one poor, trembling, and defenceless woman.

But the delusion was of no long continuance. I soon perceived that it was impossible for a maniac to be suffered to proceed to so horrid extremities. I perceived in every thing that related to the count, a spirit very different from that of frenzy. It is thus that I have plunged from uncertainty to uncertainty. From adopting a solution wild and absurd, I am thrown back upon a darkness still more fearful, and am lost in conjectures of the most tremendous nature.

And where is it that I am obliged to refer my timid enquiries? Alas, I have no friend upon whose bosom to support myself, I have no relation to interest in my cause. I am forlorn, forsaken and desolate. By nature not formed for defence, not braced to encounter the storms of calamity, where shall I hide my unprotected head? Forgive me, my lord, if I am mistaken; pardon the ravings of a distracted mind. It is possible I am obliged to recur to him from whom all my misfortunes took their source, who has guided unseen all those movements to which this poor and broken heart is the sacrifice. Perhaps the words that now flow from my pen, are directed to the disturber of my peace, the interceptor of all that happiness most congenial to my heart, the murderer of my husband!

Where, in the mean time, where is this countess, this dreaded rival? You, my lord, have perhaps ere this time seen her. Tell me, what are those ineffable charms that seduced a heart which was once so constant? St. Julian was never mercenary, and I have a fortune that might have filled out his most unbounded wishes. What is that strange fascination, what that indescribable enchantment, that sunk a character so glorious, that libertines venerated, and the friends of virtue adored, to a depth so low and irretrievable? I have thought much of it, I have turned it every way in my mind, but I can never understand it. The more I reflect the further I am bewildered.

But whither am I wandering? What strange passion is it, that I so carefully suppressed, over which I so loudly triumphed, that now bursts its limits? How fatal and deplorable is that train of circumstances, that brings a name, that was once inscribed on my heart, to my remembrance, accompanied with attendants, that awaken all my tenderness, and breathe new life into each forgotten endearment! Is it for me, a wife, a mother, to entertain these guilty thoughts? And can they respect him by whose fatal hand my husband fell? How low is the once spotless Matilda della Colonna sunk!

But I will not give way to this dereliction and despair. I think my heart is not made of impenetrable stuff. I think I cannot long survive afflictions thus complicated, and trials thus severe. But so long as I remain in this world of calamity, I will endeavour to act in a manner not unworthy of myself. I will not disgrace the race from which I sprung. Whatever others may do, I will not dishonour the family to which I am united. I may be miserable, but I will not be guilty. I may be a monument of anguish, but I will not be an example of degeneracy.

Gracious heaven! if I have been deceived, what a train of artifice and fraud rushes upon my terrified recollection? How carefully have all my passions, in the unguarded hour of anguish and misery, been wrought and played upon? All the feelings of a simple and undissembling mind have been roused by turns, to excite me to a deed, from which rectitude starts back with horror, which integrity blushes to look on! And have I been this poor and abject tool in the hand of villains? And are there hearts cool and obdurate enough, to watch all the trembling starts of wretchedness, to seduce the heart that has given itself up to despair? Can they look on with frigid insensibility, can they behold distress with no other eye but that of interest, with no other watch but that which discovers how it may be disgraced for ever? Oh, wretched Matilda! whither, whither hast thou been plunged!

My memory is up in arms. I cannot now imagine how I was induced to so decisive and adventurous a step. But I was full of the anguish of disappointment, and the resentment of despair. How assiduously was I comforted? What sympathy, what angelic tenderness seemed to flow from the lips of him, in whose heart perhaps there dwelt every dishonourable and unsated passion? It was all a chaos. My heart was tumultuous hurry, without leisure for retrospect, without a moment for deliberation. And do I dare to excuse myself? Was I not guilty, unpardonably guilty? Oh, a mind that knew St. Julian should have waited for ages, should have revolved every circumstance a thousand times, should have disbelieved even the evidence of sense, and the demonstration of eternal truth! Accursed precipitation! Most wicked speed! No, I have not suffered half what I have deserved. Heap horrors on me, thou dreadful dispenser of avenging providence! I will not complain. I will expire in the midst of agonies without a groan!

But these thoughts must be banished from my heart for ever. Wretched as I am, I am not permitted the consolation of penitence, I am not free to accuse and torment myself. No, that step has been taken which can never be repealed. The marquis of Pescara was my husband, and whatever were his true character, I will not crush his memory and his fame. I have, I fear, unadvisedly entered into connexions, and entailed upon myself duties. But these connexions shall now be sacred; these duties shall be discharged to the minutest tittle. Oh, poor and unprotected orphan, thou art cast upon the world without a friend! But thou shalt never want the assiduity of a mother. Thou, at least, are guileless and innocent. Thou shalt be my only companion. To watch over thee shall be the sole amusement that Matilda will henceforth indulge herself. That thou wilt remind me of my errors, that I shall trace in thee gradually as thy years advance, the features of him to whom my unfortunate life owed all its colour, will but make thee a more proper companion, an object more congenial to the sorrows of my soul.

Letter XVIII

_The Count de St. Julian to the Marchioness of Pescara

Cerenzo_

Madam,

You may possibly before this letter comes to your hands have learned an event that very nearly interests both you and me. If you have not, it is not in my power at this time to collect together the circumstances, and reduce them to the form of a narration. The design of my present letter is of a very different kind. Shall I call that a design, which is the consequence of an impulse urging me forward, without the consent of my will, and without time for deliberation?

I write this letter with a hand dyed with the blood of your husband. Let not the idea startle you. Matilda is advanced too far to be frightened with bugbears. What, shall a mind inured to fickleness and levity, a mind that deserted, without reason and without remorse, the most constant of lovers, and that recked not the consequences, shall such a mind be terrified at the sight of the purple blood, or be moved from its horrid tranquility by all the tragedies that an universe can furnish?

Matilda, I have slain your husband, and I glory in the deed. I will answer it in the face of day. I will defy that man to come forward, and when he views the goary, lifeless corse, say to me with a tone of firmness and conviction, "Thou hast done wrong."

And now I have but one business more with life. It is to arraign the fair and traiterous author of all my misfortunes. Start not at the black catalogue. Flinch not from the detail of infernal mischief. The mind that knows how to perpetrate an action, should know how to hear the story of it repeated, and to answer it in all its circumstances.

Matilda, I loved you. Alas, this is to say little! All my thoughts had you for their centre. I was your slave. With you I could encounter tenfold calamity, and call it happiness. Banished from you, the world was a colourless and confused chaos. One moment of displeasure, one interval of ambiguous silence crouded my imagination with every frantic apprehension. One smile, one word of soft and soothing composition, fell upon my soul like odoriferous balm, was a dulcet and harmonious sound, that soothed my anguish into peace, that turned the tempest within me to that still and lifeless calm, where not a breath disturbs the vast serene.

And this is the passion you have violated. You have trampled upon a lover, who would have sacrificed his life to save that tender and enchanting frame from the impression of a thorn. And yet, Matilda, if it had been only a common levity, I would have pardoned it. If you had given your hand to the first chance comer, I would have drenched the cup of woe in solitude and darkness. Not one complaint from me should have reached your ear. If you could have found tranquility and contentment, I would not have been the avenging angel to blast your prospects.

But there are provocations that the human heart cannot withstand. I did not come from the hand of nature callous and intrepid, I was the stoic of philosophy and reason. To lose my mistress and my friend at once. To lose them!—Oh, ten thousand deaths would have been mercy to the loss! Had they been tossed by tempests, had they been torn from my eyes by whirlwinds, I would have viewed the scene with eye-balls of stiffened horn. But to find all that upon which I had placed my confidence, upon which I rested my weary heart, foul and false at once: to have those bosoms, in which I fondly thought I reigned adored, combined in one damned plot to overwhelm and ruin me—Indeed, Matilda, it was too much!

Well, well. Be at peace my soul. I have taken my revenge. But revenge is not a passion congenial to the spirit of St. Julian. It was once soft and tender as a babe. You might have bended and moulded it into what form you pleased. But I know not how it is, it is now remorseless and unfeeling as a rock. I have swam in horror, and I am not satiated. I could hear tales of distress, and I could laugh at their fancied miseries. I could view all the tragedies of battle, and walk up and down amidst seas of blood with tranquility. It is well. I did not think I could have done all this. But inexplicable and almighty providence strengthens, indurates the heart for the scenes of detestation to which it is destined.

And is it Rinaldo that I have slain? That friend that I held a thousand times to my bosom, that friend over whose interests I have watched without weariness? Many a time have I dropped the tear of oblivion over his youthful wanderings. I exulted in the fruits of all my toil. Yes, Matilda, I have seen the drops of sacred pity bedew his cheek. I have seen his bosom heave with generous resentment, and heroic resolution. Oh, there was a time, when the author of nature might have looked down upon his work, and said, "This is a man." What benefits did not I receive from his munificent character, and wide extended hand?

And who made me his judge and his avenger? What right had I to thrust my sword into his heart? He now lies a lifeless corse. Upon his breast I see the gaping and death-giving wound. The blood bursts forth in continued streams. His hair is clotted with it. That cheek, that lately glowed, is now pale and sallow. All his features are deformed. The fire in his eye is extinguished for ever. Who has done this? What wanton and sacrilegious hand has dared deface the work of God? It could not be his preceptor, the man upon whom he heaped a thousand benefits? It could not be his friend? Oh, Rinaldo, all thy errors lie buried in the damp and chilly tomb, but thy blood shall for ever rise to accuse me!