He never sought to unbosom himself to me; there
appeared to be a settled corroding anguish in his bosom that neither
could be soothed "by silence nor by speaking." A devouring melancholy
preyed upon his heart, and seemed to be drying up the very blood in his
veins. It was not a soft melancholy - the disease of the affections; but
a parching, withering agony. I could see at times that his mouth was
dry and feverish; he almost panted rather than breathed; his eyes were
bloodshot; his cheeks pale and livid; with now and then faint streaks
athwart them - baleful gleams of the fire that was consuming his heart.
As my arm was within his, I felt him press it at times with a
convulsive motion to his side; his hands would clinch themselves
involuntarily, and a kind of shudder would run through his frame. I
reasoned with him about his melancholy, and sought to draw from him the
cause - he shrunk from all confiding. "Do not seek to know it," said he,
"you could not relieve it if you knew it; you would not even seek to
relieve it - on the contrary, I should lose your sympathy; and that,"
said he, pressing my hand convulsively, "that I feel has become too
dear to me to risk."
I endeavored to awaken hope within him. He was young; life had a
thousand pleasures in store for him; there is a healthy reaction in the
youthful heart; it medicines its own wounds -
"Come, come," said I, "there is no grief so great that youth cannot
outgrow it." - "No! no!" said he, clinching his teeth, and striking
repeatedly, with the energy of despair, upon his bosom - "It is
here - here - deep-rooted; draining my heart's blood. It grows and grows,
while my heart withers and withers! I have a dreadful monitor that
gives me no repose - that follows me step by step; and will follow me
step by step, until it pushes me into my grave!"
As he said this he gave involuntarily one of those fearful glances over
his shoulder, and shrunk back with more than usual horror. I could not
resist the temptation to allude to this movement, which I supposed to
be some mere malady of the nerves. The moment I mentioned it his face
became crimsoned and convulsed - he grasped me by both hands: "For God's
sake," exclaimed he, with a piercing agony of voice - "never allude to
that again; let us avoid this subject, my friend; you cannot relieve
me, indeed you cannot relieve me; but you may add to the torments I
suffer; - at some future day you shall know all."
I never resumed the subject; for however much my curiosity might be
aroused, I felt too true compassion for his sufferings to increase them
by my intrusion. I sought various ways to divert his mind, and to
arouse him from the constant meditations in which he was plunged. He
saw my efforts, and seconded them as far as in his power, for there was
nothing moody or wayward in his nature; on the contrary, there was
something frank, generous, unassuming, in his whole deportment. All the
sentiments that he uttered were noble and lofty. He claimed no
indulgence; he asked no toleration. He seemed content to carry his load
of misery in silence, and only sought to carry it by my side. There was
a mute beseeching manner about him, as if he craved companionship as a
charitable boon; and a tacit thankfulness in his looks, as if he felt
grateful to me for not repulsing him.
I felt this melancholy to be infectious. It stole over my spirits;
Interfered with all my gay pursuits, and gradually saddened my life;
yet I could not prevail upon myself to shake off a being who seemed to
hang upon me for support. In truth, the generous traits of character
that beamed through all this gloom had penetrated to my heart. His
bounty was lavish and open-handed. His charity melting and spontaneous.
Not confined to mere donations, which often humiliate as much as they
relieve. The tone of his voice, the beam of his eye, enhanced every
gift, and surprised the poor suppliant with that rarest and sweetest of
charities, the charity not merely of the hand, but of the heart.
Indeed, his liberality seemed to have something in it of self-abasement
and expiation. He humbled himself, in a manner, before the mendicant.
"What right have I to ease and affluence," would he murmur to himself,
"when innocence wanders in misery and rags?"
The Carnival time arrived. I had hoped that the gay scenes which then
Presented themselves might have some cheering effect. I mingled with
him in the motley throng that crowded the place of St. Mark. We
frequented operas, masquerades, balls. All in vain. The evil kept
growing on him; he became more and more haggard and agitated. Often,
after we had returned from one of these scenes of revelry, I have
entered his room, and found him lying on his face on the sofa: his
hands clinched in his fine hair, and his whole countenance bearing
traces of the convulsions of his mind.
The Carnival passed away; the season of Lent succeeded; Passion week
arrived. We attended one evening a solemn service in one of the
churches; in the course of which a grand piece of vocal and
instrumental music was performed relating to the death of our Saviour.
I had remarked that he was always powerfully affected by music; on this
occasion he was so in an extraordinary degree. As the peeling notes
swelled through the lofty aisles, he seemed to kindle up with fervor.
His eyes rolled upwards, until nothing but the whites were visible; his
hands were clasped together, until the fingers were deeply imprinted in
the flesh.
