University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.

When Monaldi awoke the next morning, his
reason was returned; but he was so feeble that
his attendants could only perceive it in the change
of his countenance. The sympathy in such a
transition is not confined to friends or relatives;
for there is no species of calamity more universally
touching than madness, and no joy more general
than that which follows the restoration of reason.
Though surrounded by strangers, no sooner
did Monaldi open his eyes and begin to speak
through them like an intelligent being, than, with
the exception of his, there was not a dry eye seen
in the room; and when he at last spoke, and inquired
where he was, their joy became so tumultuous
that the physician was obliged to order them
away.

This is but one instance of the many anomalies
of human nature; for amongst all these whose
humane sympathy was here excited, there was
scarcely one, perhaps, who might not, in other circumstances,

have easily been tempted to cheat, or
slander, or betray the very object of their present
compassion.

Whether this feeling be called virtuous, or not,
it is not to be relied on as any evidence of goodness.
There is nothing indeed deserving the
name that is not equally so under all circumstances;
an integrity which principle alone can
ensure; the true proof of which is where, opposed
to our interest, it triumphs over self.
And yet this incidental virtue has its use, nay, it
seems to be a common providential tax, that not
even the bad should escape adding something,
however small, to the general stock of happiness;
for even the most selfish must be limited in his
conflicts, and find thousands about him to whom
he may be kind and compassionate without the
cost even of a calculation; the world would else
be at a stand, and the mass of men locked up in
individual jealousies amidst the universal barter of
benefits.

When the Physician had pronounced Monaldi
out of danger, and he had so far recovered as to
sit up and converse without difficulty, Maldura
ventured to enter his chamber.

“Is it you, Doctor” said Monaldi, for the dim
light of the room prevented his seeing distinctly.

“No,” replied Maldura; “the doctor is in Naples,
and will not return before to-morrow.

“Sure I should know those tones,” said Monaldi,
reaching forward, “and yet it cannot be.
Who is it then?” Maldura then drew nearer.
“Blessed Heaven! Maldura! But, speak — is
it indeed my friend? or does this uncertain light
mock me?”

“You are not deceived,” said Maldura: “'t is
even he whom you once — It is Maldura.”

“It is indeed!” said Monaldi, as soon as his
emotion allowed him utterance. “My best, my
earliest friend. But how came you here? Yet I
need not ask; for the kindness of Maldura's heart
would have traced me.”

Maldura turned away and covered his face in
agony; for he had now to taste the bitter draught
of praise unmerited — of praise made still more
bitter in coming from the unsuspecting victim of
his own villany.

“Nay, do not weep,” said Monaldi, mistaking
the cause of his emotion. “I seem, it is true, a
sorry spectacle, but that is nothing: I have been
snatched from death — and more — I am restored
with reason. Do not weep then, but rather rejoice,
and aid me in giving thanks to that merciful
Being who has still spared me, guilty as I am.”

Maldura, making an effort to collect himself,
again took the hand of his friend. “Monaldi,”
said he, “I would pray with thee, but — ”

“You believe not?” said Monaldi mournfully.
“Alas, I had hoped that your early opinions had
passed away with the vainglory of youth.”

“You mistake me,” replied Maldura, “I
thought not to deny your request, but only to
defer for awhile — ”

“But why?” interrupted Monaldi. “Is not
praise due for signal mercy?

“Because you know not yet the full measure of
that mercy.”

“What mean you?” cried Monaldi, starting up
in the bed. “Is there — can there be — alas!
no; the world is nothing now to me. Yet I will
not repine; for this is mercy — oh, how far beyond
my deserts, that I am still permitted, though with
a life of sorrow, even here to atone for that accursed
deed. But I speak perhaps of what to you
is a mystery.” Maldura was silent, for he knew
not how to reply. “It must be so,” continued
Monaldi, “else you would not be here.”

“Not so,” answered Maldura.

“You know it then?”

“But too well.”

“And yet, because your friend — you come to

comfort a murderer. So pure yourself, yet so
compassionate of guilt! There is but one Maldura.”

Maldura only replied with a groan. “Would,”
he thought, “there were never one!”

“But no,” added Monaldi; “I do injustice to
your principles. You come to call him to repentance.”

“No — you need not — at least in the degree.”

“Say not so,” cried Monaldi; “you know not
the damning nature of my crime. The guilt of
blood is on me — that were enough — but that
blood too was innocent. Yet, dreadful as is this
aggravation, still do I bless Heaven that I was permitted
to know it ere we parted. No, Maldura,
deeply as it sinks me in misery, I would not exchange
this blissful conviction, wrought as it was
in agony and blood, and breathed into my soul by
her dying lips — for all the joys (might even my
spirit taste them) which the whole world could
give.”

“Thank Heaven!” thought Maldura, “he believes
her innocent. He has now only to bear the
shock of joy.”

“Doubt you then,” continued Monaldi, “that I
need repentance?”

“I do not doubt — though I repeat my words.”

“I cannot understand you.”

“Nor will you until you know — but I wander
from my purpose.”

“What purpose?”

“You shall hear. But have you courage? Do
you think you could bear — ”

“What?”

“The fulness of joy.”

“Oh, torture me not,” said Monaldi, grasping
his hand with violence. “A dream of hope has
come to me — speak quickly — for I fear that I
could not survive its vanishing.”

“Then, live,” said Maldura, “for your wife — ”

“Speak!” said Monaldi, with a piercing scream.

“She lives!” said Maldura.

Monaldi, losing his hold, fell back speechless on
the bed. Maldura instantly sprang to his assistance;
but he had not fainted. “Heaven be
praised!” said Maldura, “at least one mountain is
off my soul.”

For a long time Monaldi lay without word or
motion; at length, drawing a deep sigh, he gently
clasped his hands, and raising his eyes upwards,
seemed to be engaged in prayer. His wretched
companion knelt beside the bed, and bending over
it, continued in that posture till, overwhelmed by
the sense of guilt, he sunk exhausted on the

floor. This was the first prayer that Maldura had
uttered since his days of childhood; and the consciousness
that it was so, carried his thoughts back
over a dreary and long-forgotten waste of years:
no wonder then, that he sank appalled, when, at
every step, some buried sin, now rising up before
him, added to the long array, like an army of
spectres.

“My friend,” said Monaldi, reaching out his
hand, “come near me. My strength has returned.”

“Blessed be God!” said Maldura, “if that I
might say so.”

Monaldi, pressing his hand, made a sign to him
to sit by the bed. “I am strong enough,” said
he, “to hear the particulars. How was it? how
did she survive the blow? I thought I saw her
die — but my reason was gone.”

Maldura then related in a few words what he
had gathered from report; and concluded by telling
him that he had already written to Rosalia and
her father to acquaint them with his situation, and
that he had since despatched another messenger
with the tidings of his recovery.

“And yet her ashy cheek — the leaden eye,
which has so long haunted me,” said Monaldi,
“were they not real? Speak to me, Maldura —

for this strange place — all I have heard, seem so
like a dream.”

“ 'T is all real,” answered Maldura.

“Mysterious Providence, how dost thou watch
over and baffle the sinner for his good! And you
saw her?”

“No. I said not that I saw her — ”

“Nay, then,” interrupted Monaldi, with a distrustful
look.

“But I had the account from your family surgeon.
I think his name is Vannini.”

“ 'T is true then!” cried Monaldi, “the whole
world would not make me doubt it now. Bless
him! Oh, Maldura — ” He stopped, for the
fulness of his joy verged to pain, for a minute
almost to agony, when a flood of tears relieved
him.

“Devil!” thought Maldura, “and I would have
broken this heart.”

“Give me your hand,” said Monaldi. “Yes,
't is real.”

The touch shot maddening to Maldura's brain.
He withdrew his hand, and covered his face.

“What is the matter — are you ill?” asked Monaldi.

“Think not of me,” said Maldura. “I would
have but one thought — of yourself.”

“So like you! yourself ever last. Then be it
so. You tell me that my poor wife was soon recovered.
Did she — yes, she forgave me — she
must have inquired after me.”

“You were sought after through every town
and village. Even now, I believe the search is
continued.”

“Thank Heaven! she was spared that shock.
Had she discovered me at one time — Oh, my
friend, you know not what I have suffered.”

“But too well,” thought Maldura. “And yet,”
he added aloud, as if willing to take from the load
on his conscience, “the loss of reason must have
blunted you too much.”

“You say right. What I endured at that time
I know not; 't is now but a dark dream to my
memory. But this is not my first return to reason.
I had a lucid interval of many days — such
days! — No, your innocent heart cannot even
shadow them — you have not felt remorse.”

“I must bear it,” said Maldura to himself.
“Then let it come — all! Go on.”

“When I came to myself I awoke, as I thought,
with a sensation of extreme cold. I was lying on
the snow, on one of the desolate ridges of the
Apennines. How I came there I knew not — and
I thought I was dreaming; but I soon found that

I had recovered from madness. I shuddered.
Yet my recollections of it were dim and shadowy,
and they passed away. Not so what followed —
the remembrance of the night which sent me forth
a maniac; my poor wife — murdered, and innocent
— yet forgiving her murderer. This was the
misery, Maldura. I had taken vengeance upon
me, when I should have forgiven even my deadliest
enemy. I was a murderer of one who loved
me! No — you must first know remorse to know
what I have gone through. But I will not recall
it.”

“Nay, on — I would know all,” said Maldura,
whose self-abhorrence now became greedy of penance.

“Perhaps you are right,” answered Monaldi.
'T is wholesome for the mind to look on past suffering
— and most so when happy. And I — 't is
hardly painful to recall it now. But one instance
is enough. About sunrise one day I found myself
standing on the edge of a precipice; I looked
down, and saw, some hundred feet below me, and
rising from out a bed of mist, a multitude of
jagged rocks. On the peak of one of them I perceived
something white; I drew nearer, and found
it to be the skeleton of a mule. The surest foot,
thought I, may stumble at last. It seemed a type

of myself. As the mist cleared away, I looked
again, and a little lower down I descried the bones
and tattered garments of a man. The skull had
fallen from the body, and lay grinning upward as
if in mockery of my horror. Presently it appeared
to move; a moment after, a small snake wound
itself out of one of the eye-holes. At another time
this would have made me shudder; but I now
caught at it with a perverse avidity: it seemed to
call up the living man before me. I saw him with
all his innumerable nerves, and those sensitive
messengers speeding with the abhorred touch of
the reptile to his brain. I saw his hair bristling
with terror, and heard his cry echo among the
rocks. I then thought of his form in death, now
blanched and mottled with weather-stains, impenetrable
to injury, though man and beast were
leagued against it, though the mountain I stood
on should topple down and grind it to powder. A
horrid feeling of envy gushed from my heart. I
called it happy, and hung over it with a kind of
furious longing — gazing, and gazing — till, methought,
something — I know not what — seemed
to force me from the precipice, and I fell on
my knees. It was the first time I had dared to
do so.”

“ 'T was for me to have envied it!” said Maldura,
thinking unconsciously aloud.

“You!” exclaimed Monaldi.

“Go on,” said Maldura.

“I know not how long I continued in prayer,”
resumed Monaldi, “but when I arose my despair
was gone; my remorse was now changed to repentance.
Then followed hope — such hope —
oh, my friend, as only the broken heart can know
when the healing comes from Heaven.”

“But such as mine,” said Maldura, in a half-smothered
voice — his heart failed him, and he
stopped.

Monaldi continued. “How my reason again
wandered — But I see it distresses you. We
will leave the past then, and talk of the future —
or rather of the present. But why do you shake
so, and look so pale? Nay, forgive me that I have
asked such a question — as if you could hear my
tale unmoved. Oh, Maldura, you have the heart
of a child.”

“This is too much,” said Maldura, moving
away from the bed.

“Nay,” said Monaldi, “do not think of my
sufferings; they are passed. Think only of my
present happiness; for I know not the mortal with
whom I would now exchange lots. Come, my
friend, dwell no more on the past, but think of the

world I possess. For is not that a world, beyond
which the heart has no craving? And what more
could I ask, with such a wife, and such a friend?”

“You never had a friend,” said Maldura.

“Never had!” repeated Monaldi, with a feeling
rather of perplexity than astonishment. “Maldura,
why do you talk so wildly?”

Maldura made no reply, but, returning to the
bed, drew a chair near it. His eyes were bent
downward, and he seemed inwardly struggling
with some violent emotion. “ 'T is done!” he
said at last, while a flush of gloomy satisfaction
passed over his brow: “the proud neck bends to
the yoke.”

“Whose neck?” asked Monaldi.

“Monaldi,” said Maldura, without heeding the
question, “you said you believed your wife innocent.
On what was your faith founded?”

“On her own words.”

“On nothing more?”

The faint color, which the excitement of the
moment had brought to Monaldi's cheek, now
suddenly gave place to a corpse-like whiteness.

“ 'T is even as I thought,” said Maldura to himself;
“another fiend might rekindle his suspicions
with a breath.” And he repeated the question.

“Wherefore do you ask?” said Monaldi.

“You shall know. But answer me. Had you
no other ground of faith?”

“They were her dying words — at least so
thought she as well as I. I needed no more.”

“And would they serve you, think you, as a
lasting panoply? And you — would no insinuation,
no future circumstance touch you with
doubt?”

“I think — nay, I know they would not. Yet
why — oh, do not torture me — but if you know
aught — speak at once.”

“You have said enough,” replied Maldura, “to
determine my course. You would not again murder,
for your heart is changed; but for the rest —
Monaldi, you need more than your wife's words;
and you shall have it. You believe — but I know
her to be innocent.”

“You!”

“You shall have proof which you cannot doubt.
Listen — You first saw Fialto in your gateway?”

“Fialto! How know you — ”

“No matter. Answer me.”

“I did so.”

“You saw him then almost daily in Romero's
shop, or sauntering by your house; looking up at
your windows, and always seeming confused when

detected. Next you met him at the theatre —
then as you were returning home near your house.”

Monaldi listened with amazement. “Good
heaven! you could have learnt these particulars
only from the wretch himself.”

“You will know how I came by them. Had
not you a servant called Antonio?”

“Yes.”

“He was a creature of Fialto's. Through him
his employer became apprized of all your movements
— your visit to the theatre — your projected
journey to Genezzano: this last intelligence suggested
the letter, which was put into your hand,
as if by mistake. You were addressed as Gieuseppe
— ”

“Monstrous!”

“Ay — there are devils that walk the earth
even now. But listen. Then followed the last
damning proof. The effect of the letter was anticipated
— it needed but little knowledge of man
to have done it — your suppressing it; your feigned
journey; your return. Accordingly Fialto was
prepared to meet you, the wretch Antonio having
admitted and secreted him at an early hour in
your dressing-room.”

“Enough,” cried Monaldi; “I need no more.”

“Nay, I must through. Your approach was

then announced by a preconcerted signal from one
who had dogged you from Rome, and back. Soon
after, your step being heard on the stairs, Fialto
stole forth from the closet; you were at the door;
he sprang towards the bed, and seized your sleeping
wife.”

“Merciful heaven! that human malice should
have so pursued me!”

“Was it not a web worthy of fiends?”

“Horrible!”

“You had been unlike man to have broken
through it.”

“The frightful scene still makes me shudder.
But, tell me — what was the motive for this cruel
villany?”

“Revenge.”

“Revenge! — for what? I had never injured
him. I knew not even the name of Fialto till we
met in the theatre.”

“Think not of him; he was but the instrument
— and a fit one too, for his name alone were
enough to blast the peace of any house he might
enter. What he did was for that with which hell
is paved — for gold.”

“Of whom speak you then?”

“Of the devil that employed him — to whose

black and envious soul the libertine Fialto's seems
almost bright; of one who hated you.”

“Hated me! I have never harmed living creature,
knowingly.”

“Know you not then that virtue, genius, success,
are all, to the evil mind, causes of hatred?
You doubt it. Oh, the pure in heart are slow of
faith in evil. But you shall have proof — living
proof. Do not interrupt me. There was a time
when you, Monaldi, were but one of the multitude.
You may recall it if you look back to your days of
boyhood — to the school at Bologna. You were
then deemed one of little promise — next to nothing.
No doubt your quiet and retired habits led
to the opinion; but so it was — and the opinion
was general. You may remember too the reputation
which I then held; your own estimation of
my talents; that of our masters; of the whole
school. I stood alone — the first — without a rival.
Could there have been a greater contrast? No.
The general voice had placed us at opposite extremes:
and I thought it just. Yet, because of
your praise, I courted your acquaintance. Your
confiding heart readily opened to receive me, and
— in an evil hour, you called me — friend.”

“Stop!” cried Monaldi, convulsively grasping
Maldura's arm; for a suspicion of the truth now

flashed upon him, and his horror became intolerable.

“ 'T will soon be over,” replied Maldura.

“I cannot hear it,” said Monaldi — “I must
not.”

“I must on,” answered Maldura; “for the
finger of Power is upon me — and I cannot choose
but speak.” Then, averting his face and looking
from Monaldi, he continued with increasing rapidity.
“Elated with praise, full — nay, drunk with
hope — and sure of fulfilling every early prediction
— I began my career. But I will not go over
the horrible ground — at every step I sunk — lower
and lower — 'till — yes, I must speak it — till my
very name was blurred with the common mass.
What followed then? Envy and loathing of all
above me.”

Monaldi groaned. “Impede me not,” said
Maldura, hurrying onward, “but listen. I now
return to you. What was then your course? From
obscurity, neglect, almost from contempt; when
no one even thought of, dreamt of such a being —
with the suddenness of a meteor you burst upon
the world. In a moment all eyes were upon you
— every tongue, every heart was yours. How think
you I heard, saw, felt all this? — how beheld
this fame — this boon of the world, for which alone

I had coveted life — snatched from my grasp, and
lavished unmeasured on the very man with whom
my proud spirit would have once disdained to contend?
I cursed you from my heart.”

Monaldi gasped for breath.

Maldura continued. “You can now understand
my greeting when we first met in Rome — why,
knowing your voice, I fled from the gate-way —
why I rejected your daily kindnesses — why almost
spurned your last generous proffer. But your fame
was not all that haunted and goaded me; though
I could not forgive, I should yet have endured it
in silence. Your reputation was followed by another
offence still deadlier to my pride: you supplanted
me in my love. For in my days of hope
I had loved your wife — had offered my hand —
and been rejected. You afterwards saw and won
her. This was the blow that felled me. The news
of your marriage passed through my heart like
lightning, scathing every human feeling — and I
swore by my misery that I would blast your happiness.”

Monaldi's teeth chattered as with an ague: his
hands were crossed upon his breast, his head sunk
between his shoulders, and his whole body drawn
up as if under the influence of terror; yet his
eyes remained fastened on Maldura, as though a

fearful charm made it impossible to withdraw them.
But Maldura saw not — thought not of this effect
of his disburthening conscience; his thoughts were
on himself, and, his eyes turned from Monaldi to
the opposite wall, he continued to speak like one
impelled by the rack. “It was for this purpose I
sought Fialto. 'Twas I — I was his employer.
'Twas I caused him to hang about your house —
to waylay you from the theatre — to write the
letter. Yes, it was I — ” repeated Maldura, when,
with a terrific shout, Monaldi leaped from the bed.
“Avaunt fiend!”

Maldura stood aghast.

“Back! back to hell!” vociferated Monaldi.

“Yes, I deserve it,” said Maldura, — “Hell is
my place. Even now” —

“What's your name?”

“Is it — can it be!” said Maldura — “Heaven
forbid. Do you not know me! 'T is I — Maldura.”

“You Maldura!” cried the maniac, with a
scornful laugh. Maldura's hair rose with horror.
“Thou liest! Maldura was my friend — he was
honest, righteous. He had no wings as thou hast.
Avaunt, devil!”

“ 'T is over!” said Maldura, clasping his hands
in agony — “my measure is full — ” and he rushed
from the chamber.