How I existed I cannot tell - what
rocks and precipices I braved, and how I braved them, I know not. I
kept on and on - trying to outtravel the curse that clung to me. Alas,
the shrieks of Bianca rung for ever in my ear. The horrible countenance
of my victim was for ever before my eyes. "The blood of Filippo cried
to me from the ground." Rocks, trees, and torrents all resounded with
my crime.
Then it was I felt how much more insupportable is the anguish of
remorse than every other mental pang. Oh! could I but have cast off
this crime that festered in my heart; could I but have regained the
innocence that reigned in my breast as I entered the garden at Sestri;
could I but have restored my victim to life, I felt as if I could look
on with transport even though Bianca were in his arms.
By degrees this frenzied fever of remorse settled into a permanent
malady of the mind. Into one of the most horrible that ever poor wretch
was cursed with. Wherever I went, the countenance of him I had slain
appeared to follow me. Wherever I turned my head I beheld it behind me,
hideous with the contortions of the dying moment. I have tried in every
way to escape from this horrible phantom; but in vain. I know not
whether it is an illusion of the mind, the consequence of my dismal
education at the convent, or whether a phantom really sent by heaven to
punish me; but there it ever is - at all times - in all places - nor has
time nor habit had any effect in familiarizing me with its terrors. I
have travelled from place to place, plunged into amusements - tried
dissipation and distraction of every kind - all - all in vain.
I once had recourse to my pencil as a desperate experiment. I painted
an exact resemblance of this phantom face. I placed it before me in
hopes that by constantly contemplating the copy I might diminish the
effect of the original. But I only doubled instead of diminishing the
misery.
Such is the curse that has clung to my footsteps - that has made my life
a burthen - but the thoughts of death, terrible. God knows what I have
suffered. What days and days, and nights and nights, of sleepless
torment. What a never-dying worm has preyed upon my heart; what an
unquenchable fire has burned within my brain. He knows the wrongs that
wrought upon my poor weak nature; that converted the tenderest of
affections into the deadliest of fury. He knows best whether a frail
erring creature has expiated by long-enduring torture and measureless
remorse, the crime of a moment of madness. Often, often have I
prostrated myself in the dust, and implored that he would give me a
sign of his forgiveness, and let me die. -
Thus far had I written some time since. I had meant to leave this
record of misery and crime with you, to be read when I should be no
more. My prayer to heaven has at length been heard. You were witness to
my emotions last evening at the performance of the Miserere; when the
vaulted temple resounded with the words of atonement and redemption. I
heard a voice speaking to me from the midst of the music; I heard it
rising above the pealing of the organ and the voices of the choir; it
spoke to me in tones of celestial melody; it promised mercy and
forgiveness, but demanded from me full expiation. I go to make it.
To-morrow I shall be on my way to Genoa to surrender myself to justice.
You who have pitied my sufferings; who have poured the balm of sympathy
into my wounds, do not shrink from my memory with abhorrence now that
you know my story. Recollect, when you read of my crime I shall have
atoned for it with my blood!
When the Baronet had finished, there was an universal desire expressed
to see the painting of this frightful visage. After much entreaty the
Baronet consented, on condition that they should only visit it one by
one. He called his housekeeper and gave her charge to conduct the
gentlemen singly to the chamber. They all returned varying in their
stories: some affected in one way, some in another; some more, some
less; but all agreeing that there was a certain something about the
painting that had a very odd effect upon the feelings.
I stood in a deep bow window with the Baronet, and could not help
expressing my wonder. "After all," said I, "there are certain mysteries
in our nature, certain inscrutable impulses and influences, that
warrant one in being superstitious. Who can account for so many persons
of different characters being thus strangely affected by a mere
painting?"
"And especially when not one of them has seen it!" said the Baronet
with a smile.
"How?" exclaimed I, "not seen it?"
"Not one of them?" replied he, laying his finger on his lips in sign of
secrecy. "I saw that some of them were in a bantering vein, and I did
not choose that the memento of the poor Italian should be made a jest
of. So I gave the housekeeper a hint to show them all to a different
chamber!"
Thus end the Stories of the Nervous Gentleman.
PART SECOND.
BUCKTHORNE AND HIS FRIENDS.
"'Tis a very good world that we live in,
To lend, or to spend, or to give in;
But to beg, or to borrow, or get a man's own,
'Tis the very worst world, sir, that ever was known."
LINES FROM AN INN WINDOW.
