University of Virginia Library

THE ADVENTURE
OF
THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.

Many years since, when I was a young man,
and had just left Oxford, I was sent on the grand
tour to finish my education. I believe my parents
had tried in vain to inoculate me with wisdom;
so they sent me to mingle with society, in
hopes I might take it the natural way. Such, at
least, appears to be the reason for which nine-tenths
of our youngsters are sent abroad.

In the course of my tour I remained some time
at Venice. The romantic character of the place
delighted me; I was very much amused by the
air of adventure and intrigue that prevailed in this
region of masks and gondolas; and I was exceedingly
smitten by a pair of languishing black
eyes, that played upon my heart from under an
Italian mantle. So I persuaded myself that I

was lingering at Venice to study men and manners.
At least I persuaded my friends so, and
that answered all my purpose. Indeed, I was a
little prone to be struck by peculiarities in character
and conduct, and my imagination was so
full of romantic associations with Italy, that I was
always on the look out for adventure.

Every thing chimed in with such a humour in
this old mermaid of a city. My suite of apartments
were in a proud, melancholy palace on the
grand canal, formerly the residence of a Magnifico,
and sumptuous with the traces of decayed
grandeur. My gondolier was one of the shrewdest
of his class, active, merry, intelligent, and,
like his brethren, secret as the grave; that is to
say, secret to all the world except his master. I
had not had him a week before he put me behind
all the curtains in Venice. I liked the silence and
mystery of the place, and when I sometimes saw
from my window a black gondola gliding mysteriously
along in the dusk of the evening, with
nothing visible but its little glimmering lantern, I
would jump into my own zenduletto, and give a

signal for pursuit. But I am running away from
my subject with the recollection of youthful follies,
said the Baronet, checking himself, “let me
come to the point.”

Among my familiar resorts was a Cassino under
the Arcades on one side of the grand square
of St. Mark. Here I used frequently to lounge
and take my ice on those warm summer nights
when in Italy every body lives abroad until morning.
I was seated here one evening, when a
groupe of Italians took seat at a table on the opposite
side of the saloon. Their conversation
was gay and animated, and carried on with Italian
vivacity and gesticulation.

I remarked among them one young man, however,
who appeared to take no share, and find no
enjoyment in the conversation; though he seemed
to force himself to attend to it. He was tall
and slender, and of extremely prepossessing appearance.
His features were fine, though emaciated.
He had a profusion of black glossy hair
that curled lightly about his head, and contrasted
with the extreme paleness of his countenance.

His brow was haggard; deep furrows seemed to
have been ploughed into his visage by care, not
by age, for he was evidently in the prime of
youth. His eye was full of expression and fire,
but wild and unsteady. He seemed to be tormented
by some strange fancy or apprehension.
In spite of every effort to fix his attention on the
conversation of his companions, I noticed that
every now and then he would turn his head slowly
round, give a glance over his shoulder, and
then withdraw it with a sudden jerk, as if something
painful had met his eye. This was repeated
at intervals of about a minute; and he appeared
hardly to have got over one shock, before I
saw him slowly preparing to encounter another.

After sitting some time in the Cassino, the party
paid for the refreshments they had taken, and
departed. The young man was the last to leave
the saloon, and I remarked him glancing behind
him in the same way, just as he passed out at the
door. I could not resist the impulse to rise and
follow him; for I was at an age when a romantic
feeling of curiosity is easily awakened. The

party walked slowly down the Arcades, talking
and laughing as they went. They crossed the
Piazzetta, but paused in the middle of it to enjoy
the scene. It was one of those moonlight
nights so brilliant and clear in the pure atmosphere
of Italy. The moon-beams streamed
on the tall tower of St. Mark, and lighted up
the magnificent front and swelling domes of the
Cathedral. The party expressed their delight in
animated terms. I kept my eye upon the young
man. He alone seemed abstracted and self-occupied.
I noticed the same singular, and as it
were, furtive glance over the shoulder that had
attracted my attention in the Cassino. The
party moved on, and I followed; they passed
along the walks called the Broglio; turned the
corner of the Ducal palace, and getting into a
gondola, glided swiftly away.

The countenance and conduct of this young
man dwelt upon my mind. There was something
in his appearance that interested me exceedingly.
I met him a day or two after in a
gallery of paintings. He was evidently a connoisseur,

for he always singled out the most masterly
productions, and the few remarks drawn
from him by his companions showed an intimate
acquaintance with the art. His own taste, however,
ran on singular extremes. On Salvator
Rosa in his most savage and solitary scenes; on
Raphael, Titian and Corregio in their softest delineations
of female beauty. On these he would
occasionally gaze with transient enthusiasm.
But this seemed only a momentary forgetfulness.
Still would recur that cautious glance behind,
and always quickly withdrawn, as though something
terrible had met his view.

I encountered him frequently afterwards. At
the theatre, at balls, at concerts; at the promenades
in the gardens of San Georgio; at the
grotesque exhibitions in the square of St. Mark;
among the throng of merchants on the Exchange
by the Rialto. He seemed, in fact, to seek
crowds; to hunt after bustle and amusement;
yet never to take any interest in either the business
or gayety of the scene. Ever an air of
painful thought, of wretched abstraction; and

ever that strange and recurring movement, of
glancing fearfully over the shoulder. I did not
know at first but this might be caused by apprehension
of arrest; or perhaps from dread of assassination.
But, if so, why should he go thus
continually abroad; why expose himself at all
times and in all places?

I became anxious to know this stranger.
I was drawn to him by that romantic sympathy
that sometimes draws young men towards each
other. His melancholy threw a charm about
him in my eyes, which was no doubt heightened
by the touching expression of his countenance,
and the manly graces of his person; for
manly beauty has its effect even upon man. I
had an Englishman's habitual diffidence and
awkwardness of address to contend with; but
I subdued it, and from frequently meeting him
in the Cassino, gradually edged myself into his
acquaintance. I had no reserve on his part to
contend with. He seemed on the contrary to
court society; and in fact to seek any thing
rather than be alone.

When he found I really took an interest in
him he threw himself entirely upon my friendship.
He clung to me like a drowning man. He
would walk with me for hours up and down the
place of St. Marks—or he would sit until night
was far advanced in my apartment; he took
rooms under the same roof with me; and his
constant request was, that I would permit him,
when it did not incommode me, to sit by me in
my saloon. It was not that he seemed to take a
particular delight in my conversation; but rather
that he craved the vicinity of a human being; and
above all, of a being that sympathized with him.
“I have often heard,” said he, “of the sincerity of
Englishmen—thank God I have one at length
for a friend!”

Yet he never seemed disposed to avail himself
of my sympathy other than by mere companionship.
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 endeavoured 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 a 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 pealing
notes swelled through the lofty aisles, he seemed
to kindle up with fervour. 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. When the
music expressed the dying agony, his face gradually
sunk upon his knees; and at the touching
words resounding through the church “Jesu
mori,” sobs burst from him uncontrouled. I had
never seen him weep before; his had always
been agony rather than sorrow. I augured well
from the circumstance. I let him weep on uninterrupted.
When the service was ended, we
left the church. He hung on my arm as we
walked homewards, with something of a softer
and more subdued manner; instead of that nervous
agitation I had been accustomed to witness.
He alluded to the service we had heard. “Music,”
said he, “is indeed the voice of heaven;
never before have I felt more impressed by the
story of the atonement of our Saviour. Yes, my
friend,” said he, clasping his hands with a kind
of transport, “I know that my Redeemer liveth.”

We parted for the night. His room was not
far from mine, and I heard him for some time
busied in it. I fell asleep, but was awakened
before daylight. The young man stood by my

bed side, dressed for travelling. He held a sealed
pacquet and a large parcel in his hand, which he
laid on the table. “Farewell, my friend,” said
he, “I am about to set forth on a long journey;
but, before I go, I leave with you these remembrances.
In this pacquet you will find the particulars
of my story. When you read them, I
shall be far away; do not remember me with
aversion. You have been, indeed, a friend to me.
You have poured oil into a broken heart,—but
you could not heal it.—Farewell—let me kiss
your hand—I am unworthy to embrace you.”
He sunk on his knees, seized my hand in despite
of my efforts to the contrary, and covered it with
kisses. I was so surprised by all this scene that
I had not been able to say a word.

But we shall meet again, said I, hastily, as I
saw him hurrying towards the door.

“Never—never in this world!” said he solemnly.
He sprang once more to my bed side
—seized my hand, pressed it to his heart and to
his lips, and rushed out of the room.

Here the Baronet paused. He seemed lost

in thought, and sat looking upon the floor and
drumming with his fingers on the arm of his
chair.

“And did this mysterious personage return?”
said the inquisitive gentleman. “Never!” replied
the Baronet, with a pensive shake of the
head: “I never saw him again.” And pray
what has all this to do with the picture? inquired
the old gentleman with the nose—“True!”
said the questioner—“Is it the portrait of this
crack-brained Italian?” “No!” said the Baronet,
drily, not half liking the appellation given
to his hero; but this picture was inclosed in the
parcel he left with me. The sealed pacquet contained
its explanation. There was a request on
the outside that I would not open it until six
months had elapsed. I kept my promise, in
spite of my curiosity. I have a translation of it
by me, and had meant to read it, by way of accounting
for the mystery of the chamber, but I
fear I have already detained the company too long.

Here there was a general wish expressed to
have the manuscript read; particularly on the

part of the inquisitive gentleman. So the worthy
Baronet drew out a fairly written manuscript, and
wiping his spectacles, read aloud the following
story:—