The Countess Ida :: :: University of Virginia Library

He rose and reached from his bookcase a pair of
travelling pistols, and, placing them in his bosom,
rushed from his house into the street. At first he knew
not whether it was dark or light; whether the weather
was fair or cloudy, nor had he any precise idea of what
he intended to do, or where he meant to go. He had
not walked far when he saw a man. He was a sentinel.
For the first time in his life he felt unable to bear
the eyes of a fellow-being. The swollen wound upon
his face seemed a mountain, and he forgot everything
but the desire to withdraw himself into solitude—darkness
—and silence—away from the gaze of all—even
were it in the grave. Then there came to him again,
as he walked, startling thoughts of self-destruction.
Only death could relieve him from the agony of his
heart. He cast his eyes about him upon the surrounding
objects — the long, quiet streets — the deserted
squares — the silent houses — the soft, waving trees.
He wondered to behold such tranquillity—such peace

—after all his anguish. He walked beneath the soft
branches with shame—he shrank from the moonlight
reflected against the houses—the very pavement he
seemed to tread on as an intruder—as a felon; and he
looked around him like guilt, stolen in the night from
its lurking-place—ashamed—and fearful of being seen.

“Ah,” thought Claude, as a moment of calm reflection
came to him with the soft air and balmy night-breeze,
“little dreams he who, rude in nature, bad
in heart, and feeble in understanding—without principle,
feeling, or religion—with no restraints in this
world, and no communings with the other—ah, little
thinks the common, vulgar mind of the dread act he
perpetrates when he launches a blow against a fellow-being.”

He bent his steps towards his favourite Park. His
thoughts now rolled through his mind less confusedly.
He was no longer mad, but they had a deep and solemn
motion. He passed through the tall Branden-bourg
gate. The guard at his post looked at him; he
shrank from his eye, and the man seemed inclined to
stop him, but did not.

“He sees,” said Claude, “humiliation in my very
walk.”

There is something in a night-ramble which restores
the agitated soul to itself. He felt the rapid motion—
the cool, sweet air abate, sooth, and calm the heat which
till now had oppressed him. He penetrated into the
beautiful recesses of the luxuriant wood. It was again
a bright moonlight, and the scene touched him through
all his agitation and awoke other feelings.

“Receive me!” he said, “pure shades; receive the
outcast, now doubly outcast. Receive the stained, the
shamed, the fallen! Shrink not from me, ye flowers,
nor turn away your protecting arms, ye calm old trees,
who stand for ages through sun and storm, and never
know what he who steals beneath your path knows
to-night. When last I walked here I was as pure and
scatheless as yourselves; now I am apart from other

men, unless I dip my hands in blood! Oh, that it
were for ever night! Oh, could I remain for ever here,
alone with you—where no blood flows at my feet, and
no hisses sound in my ears. A blow! a blow! Poor,
poor Rossi! He went mad; and it was this same
hand that struck him too. God! when he told me of
it, I little knew what a blow was. Why did not the
lightning arrest that rash hand ere it cast on me this
fatal misery. I should have killed him, but I was held
—for good or for evil. Killed! what if I had killed
him? What is killing? what is life? what is death?
Will not God pardon it? Can I be punished for not
bearing a burden beyond my strength? and, after all,
who says killing is not right? The Holy Scriptures
call out `blood for blood;' and is not a blow blood?
Is it not worse? We have killed each other since
Abel's time—daily and hourly. It is our nature. It
enters into the plan of Providence. All things kill.
The soft dove snatches the golden insect—the hawk
pierces the dove—the lion tears his prey—the boar
has his tusk—the serpent his sting. This sweet forest,
so fair to view, is but a scene of continual massacre.
The microscope, that discovers animalcules invisible
to the naked eye, finds them killing each other.
I have surely been led away by idle theories of human
excellence. I have set myself apart as better than my
fellow-beings. I am not. I do not wish to be. God
made us mortal. I will kill this man. I will meet
him—and one of us shall die. Perhaps, now, he will
not—then still I will kill him. To-morrow—a week
hence — a year — twenty years — standing amid his
friends—asleep—awake—in bed—in the fields—in the
dance—at the very altar, on his knees in repentant
prayer—I will kill him—I will have his heart's blood!”

He paused. The last words had been spoken aloud.
They sounded like the imprecations of a demon escaped
from hell, amid these soft glades and perfumed
bowers.

“Alas! what am I become? What bloody and

dark demon has entered my body? Is this indeed honour?
Is this duty? Our Redeemer suffered a blow!
* * * * But that sublime tradition which paints
the wandering Jew—there is meaning in it. * * *
* * * * Oh God!” he continued, after pacing on
yet farther, “I am lost. I acknowledge myself weak.
I know not what I say or do. I am rushing blindly
upon murder—upon death. The very fiends in the
shape of human reason seem goading and urging me
on. Alas! human reason is vain. I have listened to
it too long. As yet my hands are pure from blood—as
yet I do not stand before the throne of Heaven, uncalled
but by my own passion. There is a higher power—I
appeal to Him. I will not decide in my rashness.
What do I care for man's opinion?”

He lifted his hands and eyes to Heaven. It was
near morning, and the sky was singularly transparent.
He gazed breathless upon its quiet, eternal fields—
the serene order of its glittering worlds—the hushed
groups of stars — the moon pure, high, bright, and
calm as the virtue which he had forgotten—as the innocence
he had nearly thrown away. A dark cloud,
of which the summit was piled up, mass above mass,
like the silver Pyrenean cliffs above the blue Mediterranean,
and whose base, black and definitely marked
against the radiant air, lay stretched like a huge rock
in a summer deep, gave to that upper world of light
a new and awful aspect. As he gazed a sudden breeze
came softly rushing over the tree-tops—kissing the
murmuring leaves—reaching the face of the half-maddened
being below—cooling his brow, and cheek, and
heart—lifting the hair from his hot forehead—and wafting
to his senses and to his soul, in a cloud of perfume,
a consciousness of love—of hope—of life—of
peace—of Heaven. At the same moment large tears
rose to his burning eyelids and rolled down his cheeks;
and, throwing himself upon the ground—alone, in that
silent wood—unseen but by watchful stars—the proudest
spirit that ever walked the globe bent to earthly
anguish, and he wept, convulsively, like a child.

Oh, Elkington! Could a wretch like thee bend that
brow to the grassy ground, and shake with almost fatal
pangs a heart which was to thee as the floating
eagle to the howling cur? Thou hast triumphed—but
beware! The triumph of guilt is a wrong against
Heaven. The good man is the child of God, and God
is omnipresent, and he is around us—in the very air—
when we know it not.

There is a blessing in tears. They are waters from
Heaven, and they cleanse the soul to its pristine peace
and purity.

“It is not right,” muttered Claude, “to take human
life for human passion. Shall I not leave the task of
punishing to the sublime Being who rules the universe?
Is he absent? is he powerless?”

A peal of thunder burst over the starting earth ere
the last word had left his lip; at the same moment the
lightning darted with a blinding intensity. The tremendous
volume of sound paused after the first shock
—rolled on—paused—went on and on again—crushingly—as
if annihilation itself had come upon mankind;
and repeating several times its appalling reverberations
—broad as the air, and apparently stirring the earth
from its very orbit—lost itself threateningly, but calmly,
as if amid the vastness of other spheres. Claude had
not yet moved when a torrent came rushing down, and
he was drenched to the skin; when he raised his head,
the sky was wrapped in utter darkness. The wind
swept over the wood, bending the tallest trees, and
twisting their gnarled limbs till they groaned as if
with fear and pain. The peal was followed by another,
and so close and heavy that the instinct of self-preservation
occupied his mind, to the exclusion of the
subject which had so deeply agitated him. He hastened
out of the Park into the broad road, where he
was less in danger than among the trees. There is
something in a good drenching which deadens human
passions, and shows how weak and idle are even some
of those words which make us commit deeds irreparable.

The floods which drenched him were delicious,
and cooled his fever. He breathed more freely, he
trod more firmly; and, if the truth must be added, at a
considerably swifter pace than he generally adopted.
His course was bent also towards the gate, and he reentered
the town.

The rain, almost as suddenly as it had commenced,
ceased, and a fissure appeared across the masses of
black clouds which obscured the heavens. The dispersion
of the vapours was so extremely rapid, that, even
thrilled as he was by the incident which had just occurred,
it fastened his attention. Forming themselves into
separate piles, the clouds broke apart in all quarters,
leaving the blue void stainless, and the stars glittering
with unwonted brightness. Then the whole air, earth,
and heaven were suddenly illuminated by a soft radiance.
A massive breadth of vapour had passed from
before the moon, and she broke out full orbed and almost
light as day, while each torn fragment of silver cloud
disappeared entirely, and the air became as still as the
heaven.

“Oh God,” said he, “I worship thee in thy temple,
I call upon thee for aid. May this be to me an emblem
of my own soul. Its passions, however tremendous,
belong to earth; its calm hopes to Heaven. I
commit myself to thee.”

And his soul now poured itself in prayer, which
seemed to rise unimpeded to the Throne of Mercy.
He had implored a sign, and Heaven had granted it.
The serenity of nature taught him by its example to
sit serene after the mildest storm, which the same
hand that conjured up could waft away, and that no
tempest could reach the fair arrangement of right and
truth. Slowly he wandered to his home. No weakness
disturbed his spirit or his intellect. He had made
up his determination to pass the indignity he had received
in silence. The mortal body was subdued and
ever mastered by the superior mind. At the word of
reflection and of religion the hot blood flowed cool and

placid through his frame. His obedient pulse played
temperately, and all his soul was peace.