“Nina! Nina!”
She turned toward me still smiling — her eyes were bright, her face had regained its habitual color, and as she stood in the dim light, with her rich tresses falling about her, and the clustering gems massed together in a glittering fire against her white skin, she looked unnaturally, wildly beautiful. She nodded to me, half graciously, half haughtily, but gave me no answer. Moved with quick pity I called again:
“Nina!”
She laughed again — the same terrible laugh.
“Si, si! Son’ bella, son’ bellissima!” she murmured. “E tu, Guido mio? Tu m’ami?”
Then raising one hand as though commanding attention she cried:
“Ascolta!” and began to sing clearly though feebly:
“Ti saluto, Rosignuolo!
Nel tuo duolo — ti saluto!
Sei l’amante della rosa
Che morendo si fa sposa!”
As the old familiar melody echoed through the dreary vault, my bitter wrath against her partially lessened; with the swiftness of my southern temperament a certain compassion stirred my soul. She was no longer quite the same woman who had wronged and betrayed me — she had the helplessness and fearful innocence of madness — in that condition I could not have hurt a hair of her head. I stepped hastily forward — I resolved to take her out of the vault — after all I would not leave her thus — but as I approached, she withdrew from me, and with an angry stamp of her foot motioned me backward, while a dark frown knitted her fair brows.
“Who are you?” she cried, imperiously. “You are dead, quite dead! How dare you come out of your grave!”
And she stared at me defiantly — then suddenly clasping her hands as though in ecstasy, and seeming to address some invisible being at her side, she said, in low, delighted tones:
“He is dead, Guido! Are you not glad?” She paused, apparently expecting some reply, for she looked about her wonderingly, and continued— “You did not answer me — are you afraid? Why are you so pale and stern? Have you just come back from Rome? What have you heard? That I am false? — oh, no! I will love you still — Ah! I forgot! you also are dead, Guido! I remember now — you cannot hurt me any more — I am free — and quite happy!”
Smiling, she continued her song:
“Ti saluto, Sol di Maggio
Col two raggio ti saluto!
Sei l’Apollo del passato
Sei l’amore incoronato!”
Again — again! — that hollow rumbling and crackling sound overhead. What could it be?
“L’amore incoronato!” hummed Nina fitfully, as she plunged her round, jeweled arm down again into the chest of treasure. “Si, si! Che morendo si fa sposa — che morendo si fa sposa — ah!”
This last was an exclamation of pleasure; she had found some toy that charmed her — it was the old mirror set in its frame of pearls. The possession of this object seemed to fill her with extraordinary joy, and she evidently retained no consciousness of where she was, for she sat down on the upturned coffin, which had held my living body, with absolute indifference. Still singing softly to herself, she gazed lovingly at her own reflection, and fingered the jewels she wore, arranging and rearranging them in various patterns with one hand, while in the other she raised the looking-glass in the flare of the candles which lighted up its quaint setting. A strange and awful picture she made there — gazing with such lingering tenderness on the portrait of her own beauty — while surrounded by the moldering coffins that silently announced how little such beauty was worth — playing with jewels, the foolish trinkets of life, in the abode of skeletons, where the password is death! Thinking thus, I gazed at her, as one might gaze at a dead body — not loathingly any more, but only mournfully. My vengeance was satiated. I could not wage war against this vacantly smiling mad creature, out of whom the spirit of a devilish intelligence and cunning had been torn, and who therefore was no longer the same woman. Her loss of wit should compensate for my loss of love. I determined to try and attract her attention again. I opened my lips to speak — but before the words could form themselves, that odd rumbling noise again broke on my ears — this time with a loud reverberation that rolled overhead like the thunder of artillery. Before I could imagine the reason of it — before I could advance one step toward my wife, who still sat on the upturned coffin, smiling at herself in the mirror — before I could utter a word or move an inch, a tremendous crash resounded through the vault, followed by a stinging shower of stones, dust, and pulverized mortar! I stepped backward amazed, bewildered — speechless — instinctively shutting my eyes — when I opened them again all was darkness — all was silence! Only the wind howled outside more frantically than ever — a sweeping gust whirled through the vault, blowing some dead leaves against my face, and I heard the boughs of trees creaking noisily in the fury of the storm. Hush! — was that a faint moan? Quivering in every limb, and sick with a nameless dread, I sought in my pocket for matches — I found them. Then with an effort, mastering the shuddering revulsion of my nerves, I struck a light. The flame was so dim that for an instant I could see nothing. I called loudly:
“Nina!” There was no answer.
One of the extinguished candles was near me; I lighted it with trembling hands and held it aloft — then I uttered a wild shriek of horror! Oh, God of inexorable justice, surely Thy vengeance was greater than mine! An enormous block of stone, dislodged by the violence of the storm, had fallen from the roof of the vault; fallen sheer down over the very place where she had sat a minute or two before, fantastically smiling! Crushed under the huge mass — crushed into the very splinters of my own empty coffin, she lay — and yet — and yet — I could see nothing, save one white hand protruding — the hand on which the marriage-ring glittered mockingly! Even as I looked, that hand quivered violently — beat the ground — and then — was still! It was horrible. In dreams I see that quivering white hand now, the jewels on it sparkling with derisive luster. It appeals, it calls, it threatens, it prays! and when my time comes to die, it will beckon me to my grave! A portion of her costly dress was visible — my eyes lighted on this — and I saw a slow stream of blood oozing thickly from beneath the stone — the ponderous stone that no man could have moved an inch — the stone that sealed her awful sepulcher! Great Heaven! how fast the crimson stream of life trickled! — staining the snowy lace of her garment with a dark and dreadful hue! Staggering feebly like a drunken man — half delirious with anguish — I approached and touched that small white hand that lay stiffly on the ground — I bent my head — I almost kissed it, but some strange revulsion rose in my soul and forbade the act!
In a stupor of dull agony I sought and found the crucifix of the monk Cipriano that had fallen to the floor — I closed the yet warm finger-tips around it and left it thus; an unnatural, terrible calmness froze the excitement of my strained nerves.
“’Tis all I can do for thee!” I muttered, incoherently. “May Christ forgive thee, though I cannot!”
And covering my eyes to shut out the sight before me I turned away. I hurried in a sort of frenzy toward the stairway — on reaching the lowest step I extinguished the torch I carried. Some impulse made me glance back — and I saw what I see now — what I shall always see till I die! An aperture had been made through the roof of the vault by the fall of the great stone, and through this the fitful moon poured down a long ghostly ray. The green glimmer, like a spectral lamp, deepened the surrounding darkness, only showing up with fell distinctness one object — that slender protruding wrist and hand, whiter than Alpine snow! I gazed at it wildly — the gleam of the jewels down there hurt my eyes — the shine of the silver crucifix clasped in those little waxen fingers dazzled my brain — and with a frantic cry of unreasoning terror, I rushed up the steps with a maniac speed — opened the iron gate through which she would pass no more, and stood at liberty in the free air, face to face with a wind as tempestuous as my own passions. With what furious haste I shut the entrance to the vault! with what fierce precaution I
locked and doubled-locked it! Nay, so little did I realize that she was actually dead, that I caught myself saying aloud— “Safe — safe at last! She cannot escape — I have closed the secret passage — no one will hear her cries — she will struggle a little, but it will soon be over — she will never laugh any more — never kiss — never love — never tell lies for the fooling of men! — she is buried as I was — buried alive!”
Muttering thus to myself with a sort of sobbing incoherence, I turned to meet the snarl of the savage blast of the night, with my brain reeling, my limbs weak and trembling — with the heavens and earth rocking before me like a wild sea — with the flying moon staring aghast through the driving clouds — with all the universe, as it were, in a broken and shapeless chaos about me; even so I went forth to meet my fate — and left her!
Unrecognized, untracked, I departed from Naples. Wrapped in my cloak, and stretched in a sort of heavy stupor on the deck of the “Rondinella,” my appearance apparently excited no suspicion in the mind of the skipper, old Antonio Bardi, with whom my friend Andrea had made terms for my voyage, little aware of the real identity of the passenger he recommended.
The morning was radiantly beautiful — the sparkling waves rose high on tiptoe to kiss the still boisterous wind — the sunlight broke in a wide smile of springtide glory over the world! With the burden of my agony upon me — with the utter exhaustion of my overwrought nerves, I beheld all things as in a feverish dream — the laughing light, the azure ripple of waters — the receding line of my native shores — everything was blurred, indistinct, and unreal to me, though my soul, Argus-eyed, incessantly peered down, down into those darksome depths where she lay, silent forever. For now I knew she was dead. Fate had killed her — not I. All unrepentant as she was, triumphing in her treachery to the last, even in her madness, still I would have saved her, though she strove to murder me.
Yet it was well the stone had fallen — who knows! — if she had lived — I strove not to think of her, and drawing the key of the vault from my pocket, I let it drop with a sudden splash into the waves. All was over — no one pursued me — no one inquired whither I went. I arrived at Civita Vecchia unquestioned; from thence I travelled to Leghorn, where I embarked on board a merchant trading vessel bound for South America. Thus I lost myself to the world; thus I became, as it were, buried alive for the second time. I am safely sepulchered in these wild woods, and I seek no escape.
Wearing the guise of a rough settler, one who works in common with others, hewing down tough parasites and poisonous undergrowths in order to effect a clearing through these pathless solitudes, none can trace in the strong stern man, with the care-worn face and white hair, any resemblance to the once popular and wealthy Count Oliva, whose disappearance, so strange and sudden, was for a time the talk of all Italy. For, on one occasion when visiting the nearest town, I saw an article in a newspaper, headed “Mysterious Occurrence in Naples,” and I read every word of it with a sensation of dull amusement.
From it I learned that the Count Oliva was advertised for. His abrupt departure, together with that of his newly married wife, formerly Contessa Romani, on the very night of their wedding, had created the utmost excitement in the city. The landlord of the hotel where he stayed was prosecuting inquiries — so was the count’s former valet, one Vincenzo Flamma. Any information would be gratefully received by the police authorities. If within twelve months no news were obtained, the immense properties of the Romani family, in default of existing kindred, would be handed over to the crown.
There was much more to the same effect, and I read it with the utmost indifference. Why do they not search the Romani vault? — I thought gloomily — they would find some authentic information there! But I know the Neapolitans well; they are timorous and superstitious; they would as soon hug a pestilence as explore a charnel house. One thing gladdened me; it was the projected disposal of my fortune. The crown, the Kingdom of Italy, was surely as noble an heir as a man could have! I returned to my woodland hut with a strange peace on my soul.
As I told you at first, I am a dead man — the world, with its busy life and aims, has naught to do with me. The tall trees, the birds, the whispering grasses are my friends and my companions — they, and they only, are sometimes the silent witnesses of the torturing fits of agony that every now and then overwhelm me with bitterness. For I suffer always. That is natural. Revenge is sweet! — but who shall paint the horrors of memory? My vengeance now recoils upon my own head. I do not complain of this — it is the law of compensation — it is just. I blame no one — save Her, the woman who wrought my wrong. Dead as she is I do not forgive her; I have tried to, but I cannot! Do men ever truly forgive the women who ruin their lives? I doubt it. As for me, I feel that the end is not yet — that when my soul is released from its earthly prison, I shall still be doomed in some drear dim way to pursue her treacherous flitting spirit over the black chasms of a hell darker than Dante’s — she in the likeness of a wandering flame — I as her haunting shadow; she, flying before me in coward fear — I, hasting after her in relentless wrath — and this forever and ever!
But I ask no pity — I need none. I punished the guilty, and in doing so suffered more than they — that is as it must always be. I have no regret and no remorse; only one thing troubles me — one little thing — a mere foolish fancy! It comes upon me in the night, when the large-faced moon looks at me from heaven. For the moon is grand in this climate; she is like a golden-robed empress of all the worlds as she sweeps in lustrous magnificence through the dense violet skies. I shut out her radiance as much as I can; I close the blind at the narrow window of my solitary forest cabin; and yet do what I will, one wide ray creeps in always — one ray that eludes all my efforts to expel it. Under the door it comes, or through some unguessed cranny in the wood-work. I have in vain tried to find the place of its entrance.
The color of the moonlight in this climate is of a mellow amber — so I cannot understand why that pallid ray that visits me so often, should be green — a livid, cold, watery green; and in it, like a lily in an emerald pool, I see a little white hand on which the jewels cluster thick like drops of dew! The hand moves — it lifts itself — the small fingers point at me threateningly — they quiver — and then — they beckon me slowly, solemnly, commandingly onward! — onward! — to some infinite land of awful mysteries where Light and Love shall dawn for me no more.
THE END
Thelma
CONTENTS
BOOK I. THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
BOOK II. THE LAND OF MOCKERY
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER XXII.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHAPTER XXIV.
CHAPTER XXV.
CHAPTER XXVI.
CHAPTER XXVII.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
CHAPTER XXIX.
CHAPTER XXX.
BOOK III. THE LAND OF THE LONG SHADOW
CHAPTER XXXI.
CHAPTER XXXII.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
BOOK I. THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN.
CHAPTER I.
“Dream by dream shot through her eyes, and each
Outshone the last that lighted.”
SWINBURNE.
Midnight, — without darkness, without stars! Midnight — and the unwearied sun stood, yet visible in the heavens, like a victorious king throned on a dais of royal purple bordered with gold. Th
e sky above him, — his canopy, — gleamed with a cold yet lustrous blue, while across it slowly flitted a few wandering clouds of palest amber, deepening, as they sailed along, to a tawny orange. A broad stream of light falling, as it were, from the centre of the magnificent orb, shot lengthwise across the Altenfjord, turning its waters to a mass of quivering and shifting color that alternated from bronze to copper, — from copper to silver and azure. The surrounding hills glowed with a warm, deep violet tint, flecked here and there with touches of bright red, as though fairies were lighting tiny bonfires on their summits. Away in the distance a huge mass of rock stood out to view, its rugged lines transfigured into ethereal loveliness by a misty veil of tender rose pink, — a hue curiously suggestive of some other and smaller sun that might have just set. Absolute silence prevailed. Not even the cry of a sea-mew or kittiwake broke the almost deathlike stillness, — no breath of wind stirred a ripple on the glassy water. The whole scene might well have been the fantastic dream of some imaginative painter, whose ambition soared beyond the limits of human skill. Yet it was only one of those million wonderful effects of sky and sea which are common in Norway, especially on the Altenfjord, where, though beyond the Arctic circle, the climate in summer is that of another Italy, and the landscape a living poem fairer than the visions of Endymion.
There was one solitary watcher of the splendid spectacle. This was a man of refined features and aristocratic appearance, who, reclining on a large rug of skins which he had thrown down on the shore for that purpose, was gazing at the pageant of the midnight sun and all its stately surroundings, with an earnest and rapt expression in his clear hazel eyes.
“Glorious! beyond all expectation, glorious!” he murmured half aloud, as he consulted his watch and saw that the hands marked exactly twelve on the dial. “I believe I’m having the best of it, after all. Even if those fellows get the Eulalie into good position they will see nothing finer than this.”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 73
