by F.W.
Originally published in Reynolds's Miscellany of Romance, General Literature, Science, and Art (John Dicks) vol.8 #211 (24 Jul 1852).
"No! the eye is certainly not the most beautiful part of the human countenance. As regards myself, I declare that this feature of the human face always inspires me with horror."
These words, pronounced in the midst of a brilliant soirée at Lady B—'s, excited great astonishment; an explanation was called for, from all parts of the room, of such a paradox, the more paradoxical, as the speaker, a young man, with a face of marble paleness, had the most beautiful black eyes in the world.
"I speak of the eye, merely as eye," explained the young man: "and not of the expression, nor the life which animates it. I contend that as soon as the eye ceases to vary, like the camelion, in colour, according to the fluctuation of the feelings, it becomes the most horrible looking thing I know of. The hand or the face of a corpse ceases to be beautiful; but the eye becomes horror-striking. Look for some time fixedly into the eye of your dearest friend, without any other motive than to see what the eye is like; it will quickly appear glassy, dull, and fill you with the idea of ghastly death. The curious investigator may make the experiment with his own eye by looking into the mirror."
A long pause followed this speech. A few only of the company were smiling; the greater part were thoughtful, and fearing to look into the eyes of their companions, lest they should confirm the young man's singular opinion.
Lady B—, the hostess, anxious to relieve the uneasy feeling which prevailed among her guests, quickly addressed the young man. "Mr. Delcano," she said, "you have sinned against all the ladies here present, whose eyes will, at any rate, be found attractive. Now, in the name of these insulted fair ones, I condemn you to make a gallant impromptu on the eyes of your amiable neighbour; but in order to render your punishment a light one, I allow you to repeat the verse in the language of your native country, in Italian.”
The young man thus addressed, bowed gracefully to his beautiful hostess, and turning his gaze on the lady, repeated some verses from Petrarch with so much taste and feeling, that the whole company, and particularly the lady, expressed the greatest satisfaction; and all unpleasant feelings were quickly forgotten.
During the foregoing conversation, an intimate friend of the hostess, that gazed upon the young man with inquiring looks, at last, taking Lady B— on one side, he asked, "What did you call the pale Italian?"
"Delcano," she replied: "he is of a high Neapolitan family, and came over here about six months ago. He pays court to Florence Conway, the lovely young widow of nineteen; and that is the reason I inflicted on him the punishment of repeating verses on her eyes. Rumour says he is about to marry the young widow."
"In order to justify my inquiries," said the baronet, "you must allow me to relate to you a travelling adventure. Two years ago I passed the summer in Naples, and from the other sojourners at the hotel where I was staying, one young man was distinguished by the extreme beauty of his features, and also his voice. He was called Angelo. His room was facing mine, but separated by the garden of the hotel; and when in the morning his melodious notes, borne by the soft Italian breeze, and mingling with the perfume of the orange blossoms, stole into my window, I fancied myself in some enchanted region. I did not know Italian, and he did not speak English; so our intercourse was limited to a few ordinary compliments, and we never became acquainted. I had been some weeks at Naples, when one morning I saw Angelo riding out with his servant, and could not help admiring his richly tinted smiling countenance and noble attitude. In the evening I heard that Angelo had taken a violent cold, had fallen into convulsions, and was not expected to live. About midnight the cries of the servant awoke me; Angelo had just expired. My predilection for the deceased made me desirous of seeing his body; it was arrayed in the habiliments of death, but the features were not at all altered—only the death pallor was spread over the countenance.
"In my presence the servant closed the eyes of the deceased; in my presence the notary made an inventory of his effects. The poor servant was so overcome by grief that we were obliged to take him by force from the cold body of his master. All the residents of the hotel agreed to attend the body to its last resting-place. The hour at which the funeral was to take place had arrived; the coffin was already in the hall of the hotel, and the bearers were about to raise it on their shoulders, when a travelling carriage stopped at the door of the hotel. A lady, accompanied by two maid-servants, alighted. Angelo's servant turned pale as death. 'Pardon,' he cried, 'pardon! See what a spectacle is before your eyes!'—'Wretches!' cried the lady, whilst the colour rose to her cheeks; then addressing herself to the bearers, she ordered the coffin to be opened. The men refused; the lady showed a magistrate's order, and the coffin-lid was immediately removed. The stranger looked at the deceased attentively without betraying the slightest emotion; she removed his collar, which concealed a bright red mark, and turning to her companions, she said, 'It is he!' No tears were visible in her eyes; but her hand was observed to tremble convulsively, when she made a sign for the coffin to be again closed. I witnessed all these proceedings as I stood only a few paces from the coffin; and I, as well as the rest of the inmates of the hotel, was struck with astonishment.
"The lady then took the servant on one side, and after making some violent remarks to him, she allowed the funeral to go on. The servant followed his master, giving vent to the most violent expressions of grief. I saw the coffin lowered into the grave; I heard the clods of earth fall on the top of it. When I returned to the hotel, I heard that the lady—Angelo's sister, as the landlord pretended—had quitted the hotel, taking with her all the moveable goods of the deceased. The servant departed to convey the sad intelligence of his master's death to another relative, who by will was made legatee of the greater part of the deceased's fortune. Now the image of the dead man, which has ever continued vivid in my memory, has this evening been newly called forth in that Italian's face. Methinks I am looking at the same being who, two years ago, I saw laid in the silent grave so many miles away from here. Yes, the more I look at him, the stronger the impression that I behold the same face. Not the fine glowing countenance of the living Angelo, but the pale face of the dead Angelo; the face which I twice saw lying in the coffin."
The hostess, who had listened attentively to the narrative of the baronet, became alarmed. "Now," she said, "it is my task to complete the history—I mean the mystery. Deleano's name is, indeed, Angelo!"
"Is it possible?" asked the baronet.
"And that is not all," continued Lady B—. "At the last ball he wore the fantastic costume of the middle age, and through his lace collar I distinctly perceived the mark you have spoken of."
"Wonderful!" ejaculated the baronet. "The same face—the same voice—the same name; altogether the same as when I first knew him, with the exception of the paleness and the air of melancholy which pervades him. But how came he to win the heart of the charming young widow?"
"How are hearts generally won?" asked Lady B—. "Is there anything in nature more incomprehensible than a woman's heart. Besides, Florence Conway belongs to the M— family; and you know that some peculiarities have been hereditary from time immemorial in both the male and the female line of descendants. The male members of that family are all subject to a quiet, innocent sort of madness, which attacks them between the ages of thirty and thirty-five. The females are more favoured; they are merely of dreamy, enthusiastic, and romantic dispositions, attaching much importance to the prophesies of gipsies and such people. With a true enthusiasm does Florence love Delcano, whose glacial exterior envelops, she thinks, an ardent passion. She loves him devotedly, in spite of the aversion in which her brother holds him."
"Her brother? And how is the young man?" inquired the baronet, significantly putting his finger to his forehead.
"Oh," answered Lady B—, "he is just entering upon the critical period of life, and I do not think he will prove an exception to his male ancestors. He has studied with great zeal the science of medicine, in order to escape the fate of his family; but I fear that his too great scientific researches have already conducted him into the path which leads to the lunatic asylum."
"And in this family," ejaculated the baronet, "Delcano is to enter! A man who, perhaps, has not any more the right to walk among living beings. Well, my dear lady B—, I have told you the mystery, which, perhaps, is a natural one, and, perhaps, no mystery at all. It would be best to keep what we know secret at any rate, in order not to disturb the peace of others."
Thus speaking, the baronet gave his arm to Lady B—; and they both mingled again with the company.
The evening passed away as such evenings usually do; but the secret was not kept, as proposed. A young Spanish officer—who was attached to the embassy from his court—had heard the whole conversation, which was the more interesting to him as he had paid assiduous court to Florence Conway without success; and had been for some time consumed by a feeling of jealousy and revenge towards his successful rival.
The account which Lady B— had given of the character of Florence Conway, was a correct one. Her love for Delcano was of that impassioned, romantic nature which marked her every action. A widow of independent fortune, young and beautiful, she could not fail to attract a circle of admirers. At first her whole love had been centred in her infant; and she refused many offers. But the romantic appearance of Delcano had caused her to change her mind; and she the more easily became attached to him, as he always showed the greatest attachment to her child, who in return appeared fonder of the Italian than of any other stranger.
When on the morning following the soiree at Lady B—'s, Delcano paid his usual visit to Florence, he was more pressing than ever that she should accelerate the projected marriage. With all candour confessing her full belief in magic power, she told Delcano that she had consulted a celebrated astrologer, who had predicted that the hour was not yet come. "Has not my image appeared yet in his magic mirror?" inquired Delcano, fixing upon Florence a penetrating look.
"Pray have pity on my woman's weakness," said Florence, “and do not stare at me so seriously," she continued. "Since yesterday that look quite frightens me."
"And why since yesterday?" asked Delcano.
"Have you forgotten that you alarmed the whole company last evening, with your remarks about the eyes? And now when you look on me so fixedly, I cannot help feeling a sort of horror as if I were encountering the face of a—" And she stopped short.
"Of a dead person—do you not mean?" said Delcano, smiling. "Yes! my paleness—I am sometimes affrighted myself when I look in the mirror—But I have not always been so pale; there was colour in my cheeks at one time; but a single day was sufficient to make that colour fade for ever."
"There you are again referring to past sufferings!" exclaimed Florence. "How often have I entreated you to allow me to share your grief? Again I beg you to open your heart to her who loves you devotedly. Pray do! Yes! and then I will—yes, I will consent to—"
Florence did not finish her speech; but she hid her blushing face on the bosom of her lover.
"What!" ejaculated Delcano. "Will you, in spite of the wise astrologer's samples, consent to fix the time for our union? Will you sacrifice your supernatural belief to your curiosity? Now, for my love's sake, I cannot accept this sacrifice. No! graves should not speak! Pray let me be silent as they are."
"Again mysterious language!" said Florence. "Away with this cloud! Do I not possess your heart? Keep then your secret till you think well to reveal it."
At that moment Herbert, the little boy who had fallen asleep on the couch just as Delcano entered, extended his little arms, and uttered the sweet name, "Mamma." With feelings of the holiest parental love, Florence left the side of her lover, and knelt beside her child. Delcano rose from his seat, and joined the pair. The boy perceived him, smiled, and lisped out, "Mamma." The mother kissed her child, and blushed as she encountered the admiring look of Delcano, who was bending over the couch. The darkness of the past moments had disappeared in the happiness of the present.
Just then a noise was heard. Delcano turned his head, and beheld Henry Melville, the brother of Florence, standing behind his sister.
"A very interesting group! Is it not, my future brother-in-law?" he said to Delcano in a sarcastic tone. "A very interesting group, indeed, my sister! You and your husband elect, united in love, and bending over that little angel. Umph! the boy grows nicer every day! Umph! provided he does not have water on the brain."
"Henry!" exclaimed the anxious mother, "how dare you make such a supposition?"
"Well, answered Henry, "nature is working out slowly the destruction of her work. This prominent forehead is a very bad augury."
"We will leave you, herald of misfortune!" cried Florence, taking her boy from the couch, and hurrying with him out of the room.
Deleano, following her with his eye, could scarcely master his indignation. "There !" he said at last; you see that joy flies whenever you approach!"
"Joy! joy, did you say?" inquired Henry Melville. "Did I not well to humble this silly joy of a mother?"
"Did I not know that you are a fool, a cruel fool, I would make you pay dearly for such language," answered Delcano.
"The fool is yourself!" cried Melville in a rage. "If I had my scalpel with me I would take the skin from your head in order to make room for your brains—the brains escaped from death."
Thus speaking, Melville had laid his hand on Delcano, who threw away the madman; and Florence, who heard the violent scuffling, rushed into the room.
"Peace! moderation!" she cried, quite alarmed.
Delcano seized his hat. "You will never see me in your house again if you do not close the door against that madman," he cried with vehemence; and after uttering this determination, he ran out of the room, pursued by the enraged looks of Melville, and the supplicating looks of Florence.
"Heartless brother!" ejaculated she. "How can you afflict your sister? How can you wound the best feelings of her heart?"
"I hate the Italian!" said Henry.
"Why?" inquired Florence.
"You cannot understand why, Florence," answered Henry. "There is something not right about that man. Before I entered the room I thought I saw a pale vampyre lying on the temples of your child, and sucking away his brains."
"Delcano appears to me like a spectre animated with the artificial life given by a hot-bed."
"Stop!" interjected Florence. "Do not infect me with your morbid ideas!"
"I have no morbid ideas," replied Melville; "I am not a madman, as that Italian said. The malady which affected my ancestors, cannot affect me; for I oppose science to the hereditary disorder. I may be suddenly struck by death; but mad I shall never be! I have made good use of my time; I have studied every branch of the medical art. I am initiated in all the mysteries of the human brain, and for that reason, whenever I see a man, I think of his skull. Whether at the ball, the concert, or the theatre, I see nothing else than human bodies and skulls; and for this reason I avoid society."
Florence could not bear such conversation any longer. She rose to ring the bell, saying she would order a light. But her brother placed himself before her, saying, "No light, I pray! Look, the moon comes out of a cloud. How she casts her beams about you; she puts a silver crown upon your head. Oh, Florence! why will you be the bride of that Italian?"
"Do not speak of him!" cried Florence.
"I would not, but I cannot help it. This Italian haunts me. He is not like other men. In other men I recognise the fundamental system of the human structure; but in this Delcano my scientific knowledge is at a loss. He always appeared to my eyes as a snow-white phantom. Life he has, but it is an artificial life, which sustains itself upon the life of others. I always drive away this idea for my own sake—for yours; I would not indulge in the belief. But now I have discovered for a certainty that my idea was a correct one. This morning I have been visited by a gentleman who has resided in Italy, and he saw Delcano dead, and was present at his funeral some years ago in Naples; and now the same Delcano is here."
Melville, then, in spite of the remonstrances of his sister, entered into all the details which had been related to him by the Spanish officer, the unsuccessful wooer of Florence. The poor young lady was enchained to the side of her brother; fifty times did she make an effort to move, but was prevented, as if by some supernatural power, as well as by Melville. After he had finished the history, he said, "Now, what shall we conclude from all this? Some philosophers may say that Delcano belongs to a class of beings which philosophy does not recognise the existence of. But short-sighted philosophical men do not understand such matters. Have you not heard of spirits, who enter into dead bodies, stimulate them into artificial life; and though they cannot entirely conceal their cadaverous nature, deceive poor women, and suck the blood out of their hearts, or out of the hearts of any children they can get hold of, in order to sustain their own spectral existence? Such a creature is Delcano!"
Florence had fainted, and fallen into the arms of her brother. The lunatic laying her upon the couch, rang the bell, committed her to the care of the servants, and left the house.
Poor Florence passed a restless and feverish night; but the light of morning threw its rays into her soul. She became calmer, and considered the history of Deleano's death as the conjuration of Melville's imagination. She knew her brother's malady; she knew the inveterate hatred which he bore to Delcano and to her child; and this last consideration made her feel the necessity of forbidding him her house, and also of accelerating her marriage with Delcano. This resolution once taken, she became calmer, and was about to write to both parties, when her maid announced a visit from the fortune-teller, whom in her foolish faith she was in the habit of consulting. It was an unusual time for the woman's appearance, and Florence was rather unwilling to be disturbed; but the persuasions of her maid, as well as some slight yearnings of her own superstition, caused her to allow the woman to be admitted.
"Well, am I to see my husband to-day?" she asked of the sibyl.
The woman arranged her magic mirror upon the table, and commenced her incantations.
"What do you see?" inquired Florence, impatiently.
"An hotel at Naples!" commenced the fortune-teller. "A handsome man riding on horseback—a sick-bed—an open grave—My God! what is this?"
"What! what do you see?" cried the excited Florence.
The woman, with strange gestures, and in broken sentences, continued, "A young man in grave-clothes is coming out of a grave—he holds a marriage garland in one hand—he seizes a child—Oh, God! he is sucking its blood—"
Florence heard no more. Finding the madman's words confirmed by the sibyl, she again fainted. A serious illness was the result of her interview with the fortune-teller.
A few weeks afterwards Delcano, who had vainly endeavoured to see Florence, received the following letter:—
"In vain you have tried to conceal that which was not to remain unknown to me. The veil which enveloped you is thrown aside—I know all—we must part for ever!"
Delcano was thunderstruck on reading this letter. He resolved at any risk to see Florence once more, and then to leave her and her country for ever. He managed to get into the house unperceived, and hastened to the well-known sitting-room of Florence. The apartment was vacant, and seized by a scruple of conscience, he thought he would leave the house again without having fulfilled his intention. On passing the adjoining room he noticed that the door stood ajar. He looked in, still wishing to see Florence, and to ask her pardon. Florence was not there; but there lay the boy on the couch as before, wrapped in sleep. To look at him—Florence's image—to whom he had hoped to be a father—to embrace Florence in her child—he could not deny himself this satisfaction. In a moment he was at the couch of the sleeping boy; he fell on his knees, and imprinting a fervent kiss on the forehead of the child, he breathed a silent prayer.
"Narsligi! Angelo Narsligi!" cried a deep voice at his side. He jumped up, and beheld a tall woman in man's attire before him.
"Theresa! you here?" His lips still moved, but his tongue refused to articulate another word.
"You are surprised?" said the woman, with every expression of anger. "Yes! I have come here to see the woman who has captivated the wizard who can live and die at pleasure."
"I have ceased to live for you, perhaps through you!" returned Delcano. "Go away from hence."
"Not without you!" cried the woman. "You belong to me! I entreat you to follow me."
"Follow you? Never! I am dead, quite dead, you know—"
"You are not dead yet, but you shall be!" exclaimed the woman, furiously, taking a stiletto from her bosom.
During the foregoing conversation, little Herbert had awakened; and, seeing Delcano, had stretched out his arms to him, and Delcano had received the boy into his embrace.
"You intend to murder me?" said Angelo. "At any rate spare this innocent boy."
"No!" replied the woman: "I will not murder you, but I will murder the boy who would defraud me of my inheritance."
The fury had brandished her stiletto. Angelo endeavoured with his arms to shield the child; but the aim was sure, and the weapon had entered the child's breast. The boy uttered a cry, and dropped his head, as if lifeless, upon Delcano's shoulder.
"Cursed woman!" shouted Angelo, and was about to seize her; but she, alarmed at her own deed, had fled precipitately.
Delcano laid Herbert upon the couch, and found to his great delight that the boy still breathed. He tore the garment from his little breast, and examined the wound. He trembled; the wound inflicted by the three-edged weapon had closed. As the only chance of preserving the life of the boy, he applied his lips to the wound. His efforts were soon rewarded, blood began to flow, and the child's respiration became easier. Delcano, wholly absorbed in the accomplishment of his duty, had not perceived Florence, who, with her brother, was standing in the doorway, petrified almost into a statue at the spectacle which presented itself.
"Do you see, sister?" cried Melville; "the vampyre sucks the life-blood from your Herbert!"
"Barbarian!" cried Florence, "give me my child! my child!" With the superhuman strength of maternal love, Florence had soon snatched her boy from the arms of Delcano. He tried to speak—to approach Florence.
"Back!" cried Henry Melville; and he clasped Delcano with all the fury of madness. "Keep your sanguinary mouth away, inhabitant of the grave!"
The bell was rung—the servants entered.
"Keep away from me," cried Delcano in a voice of thunder; and throwing away Melville, he snatched a pistol from his breast and exclaimed, "Whoever touches me is a dead man. A mad woman stabbed your child—not I. Farewell, Florence. I have not taken the life of your child. No! I have done my best; the only thing that could be done to save it. My hands are pure from this misdeed!"
With supernatural strength Delcano cleared his way through the servants, who endeavoured to secure him—gave a violent blow to Melville, who intercepted his passage through the doorway—and gained the street.
Angelo Narsligi, Neapolitan by birth, and the son of one of the richest merchants in Naples, fell in love with a Roman lady, belonging to one of the noblest families, but whose fortune had been lost. He asked her hand in marriage, and it was bestowed on him, on account of his riches. But poor Angelo soon found that he had married a haughty, despotic, and dissipated woman, whose pride of ancestry was continually showing itself, and reflecting on the humbler origin of her husband. Instead of a honeymoon, Angelo tasted a moon of bitterness. At last, wearied by her dissipated life, he went to Naples, where he lived incognito. But his wife soon discovered his retreat, and followed him. As she was anxious to obtain his large fortune for her own expenditure, she watched over his every movement. The young Neapolitan had proved too well the character of his wife to place the least faith in her. He knew that she was capable of killing him for the sake of his fortune; and he therefore determined to make a will in favour of his brother. The wife had managed to bribe Angelo's servant over to her side, so through him she discovered the project, and determined, in concert with the servant, to poison Angelo before it could be carried into execution. There was no positive proof against her, as the servant himself died soon afterwards; but it was the general belief that poison had been administered. When she arrived at the funeral,—for she was the lady of whom we have before spoken,—she learned that her deceased husband had lost no time in making his will, and that his fortune was indeed to descend to her brother. This very fact was the cause of the violent words which she had with the servant at the foot of the coffin.
But Angelo was not dead. He was only in a trance, and was recalled to life in a singular manner. He wore a ring of immense value on his finger, which not even his wife had thought to remove before his burial. One of the undertaker's men had noticed this, and determined to possess himself of the gem. Accordingly he returned at night to the grave, opened the coffin, and finding it impossible to remove the ring, he proceeded to cut the finger of the corpse; as had often been done before in similar cases. The first stroke of the knife aroused Angelo from his death-sleep, and now the robber fell almost lifeless into the grave which Angelo prepared to leave. The moment was a terrible one for both men. The first man beholding a dead person return to life; and the second awakening as out of a sleep, and finding himself in grave-clothes, lying in a coffin, surrounded by coffins, and having before him a man attempting to cut off his finger. However, they each recovered from their fright: the robber begged for pardon in the name of his wife and children; and Angelo was willing to accord pardon on condition that the events of the night should be kept secret. Angelo remained hidden for a few days at the house of the man, and learned the particulars of his wife's visit to his coffin—she who should not have known that he was dead! He therefore resolved to remain dead for her for ever. At night he left his place of concealment, disguised in the clothes of the undertaker's man. He went to his brother, and told him all. They agreed together that Angelo should assume a false name and go to England, where his brother would remit him his income. In England he became acquainted with Florence, with whom he fell in love.
Did he really believe that he could without criminality contract a fresh union? We do not know—but it is certain that when Florence wrote him the last letter, she did not know that he was married; she was only guided by her superstitious faith. The Spanish officer had made good use of the history he had overheard. He conveyed the account to Florence's mad brother; and it was he also who had bribed Florence's maid and the fortune-teller; causing the latter to get up the scene with the magic mirror. So determined was he to work the ruin of his rival, that he wrote to Naples, and discovered Angelo's whole history. Then he communicated with Angelo's wife, who immediately hastened to England.
When Angelo returned home after the scene at the house of Florence, he was seized by a violent fever, and thrown on a sick bed, from which he was not permitted to rise. Before dying, he had the satisfaction to hear that the boy Herbert had recovered from his wound, and that Florence had pardoned him. He did not alter his will; he merely added a clause—that his body should lie three days before burial.
There was again a soirée at Lady B—'s house. The baronet was there, in mourning.
"Have you lost a relative?" said Lady B—.
"No," replied the baronet; "I have to-day attended the funeral of the Italian, who as you know died some days ago. I have witnessed his second burial, and I consider it right to retain for a time my mourning garments. In the dead, I recognised the living Angelo; not he with the pale face. When I looked at him in his coffin this time, the former colour of his countenance had returned."
"And do you know anything about Florence Conway?" interrogated Lady B—.
"She has determined to devote her life to the education of her son, who is quite restored to health," replied the baronet.
"And her brother?" again asked the lady.
"He has been declared a lunatic by several eminent doctors," returned her visitor.
"And the Spanish officer?" inquired Lady B—.
"He has quitted England," replied the baronet.