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THE HAND OF CLAY.
OR, THE SCULPTOR'S TASK.
A TALE OF MYSTERIES.
1. CHAPTER I.
It was a summer's night in Italy. The
still heavens were tinted with the softest
blue, amid which the stars burned like eyes
of intelligence. The pure-rayed planets,
seen through the translucent atmosphere,
seemed near and low as they shed their
gentle lustre down. The young moon was
just venturing her bark upon the eastern
verge of the sky, a glittering star hanging
above its brow. Music rose at intervals
upon the soft, evening wind, and the voices
of nightingales rung melodiously from many
a shaded grove and palace garden. It was
a night in Rome! As the moon rose above
the level horizon of the Champagna, she
touched with a trembling line of gold the
rippling waves of the Tiber, and enriched
with amber lights the lofty crosses and towers
of the imperial city. Among the numerous
casements into which its soft lustre penetrated,
was that of the lovely Countess,
Isabel di Valoni. It was the eve of her bridal
with the Prince of B—. She was not
twenty-four, and yet had been two years
widowed. Her attendants had just left her,
and she was sitting alone by the casement,
looking upon the Tiber, which flowed sparkling
by at the foot of the gardens. Around
her rose, and extended, terrace and balcony,
and towers and palaces, all being recreated
from darkness, touch by touch, by the pencil
of the advancing moon. Yet she heeded
nothing of the lavish beauty of the scene,
nor did the notes of far off music upon the
water mellowed into heavenly harmony by
the distance touch her ear. Her face was
pale and tearful, and rested upon the fair
hand which looked like alabaster contrasted
with the raven tresses that fell across the delicately
veined wrist.
Isabel di Valoni was the most beautiful
woman in Rome—nay, in Italy! kings had
bent the knee before the shrine of her smiles,
and princes were willing attendants of her
footsteps! Yet now, alone, with glittering
tears stealing slowly across her cheek, her
touching sorrow pervading her whole person,
she reclines by the moonlit casement.
To-morrow is also to be her bridal night!
and she marries the man who is her heart's
choice; yet she is unhappy. Fear, as well
as grief, is couched in the expression of her
features! Her bosom heaves at intervals
with agitation, and her hands convulsively
clasp! At length she gives utterance to her
thoughts:
`Shall I thus weakly give way to wretchedness
for an idle dream! Yet thrice have
I dreamed of the fearful doom! thrice have
these words rung in my ears in my sleep,
from an unseen voice.
`Beware, Isabel di Valoni! the death of
Medici Valoni hath not unwedded thee!
Thou art his bride, living or dead!'
`Alas, what fearful doom hangs over my
head! can this dream be sent by Heaven to
warn me of danger! Can Medici, my deceased
husband, have power thus to bind
me! It is too horrible! Defend me, holy
saints, from evil!'
After bending before her crucifix a moment,
she rose and left the casement, to
seek relief in the society of her friends,
from the fears that weighed down her
soul.
2. CHAPTER II.
The following evening, the gorgeous
apartments of the palace of the Valoni were
thrown open to the guests of the bridal.
The princely and the noble; the talented
and the beautiful; the sculptor, the painter,
the scholar, men of genius and of rank
thronged thither; for the Prince gave out
invitations to embrace all who usually had
the honor of visiting him. At seven o'clock
the more favored guests, the relations of the
bride and bridegroom attended them into
the private chapel of the palace, where the
ceremony was to be performed. The Countess
had been laughed out of her fears on
account of her dream by her friends, and
encouraged by the cardinal, to whom she
had made confession. Yet she approached
the altar with a pale cheek, and unsteady
step, glancing with a timid look on every
side, as if she expected to behold start before
her gaze some fearful spectre! The
cardinal opened the massal, and bade them
kneel! Around them stood four gentlemen,
relations of the Prince, whom, to relieve
her fears, he had stationed near her person
to protect her from any danger that might
menace. Each of these gentlemen held in
his hand a naked sword, nor did they once
take their eyes from the bride! The rumor
that something was anticipated that night,
to interrupt the ceremony, had been buzzed
about, and the throng of guests who were admitted
into the chapel crowded close around
the altar. The cardinal began the service!
The Prince and Countess were kneeling at
his feet, and the former was about to place
the ring upon her finger, when a glittering
stiletto, grasped in a naked arm, descended
from behind into the bosom of the bride!
The Countess gave a wild shriek and fell into
the arms of the Prince.
So instantaneous was the blow with the
appearance of the arm thrust from a cloak,
hat there was no time to warn—no time to
defend her! But ere the dagger was withdrawn,
the hand of the assassin fell to the
ground, cleft at the wrist by the sword of
one of the gentlemen. The chapel was simultaneously
filled with a cry of horror. The
assassin, in the commotion, had instantly
fallen back and hid himself amid the throng!
The loss of his hand had given advantage of
of blood, drew the attention of the others
for an instant from him.
`Seize him!' cried the Prince. `He cannot
escape! He will be detected by the loss
of his hand! Close all the palace doors,
and guard them well! He must not escape!'
The excitement was now intense. Every
man looking upon his neighbor with
horror and suspicion, and each shrieking at
the idea of a bleeding assassin mingling
among them.
`It is a woman's hand, by Heaven!' cried
the Count Parma, the cavalier who had
severed it; `and a well-born woman's, too!'
And he held up to view a very exquisitely
formed female hand, the drops of crimson
gore staining its blue-veined skin and contrasting
its whiteness! The fingers were
singularly symmetrical, and on one of them
was a ring of a peculiar setting.
`This ring,' exclaimed the Count, `will
detect the murderer? See, your highness,
it is a ruby set with turquoise?'
The Prince glanced at the ring, grasped
at it wildly, uttered a deep groan, and sunk
senseless by the side of his dead bride.
The murderer was no where found in the
chapel! No traces of blood were visible in
any of the apartments beyond the altar, and
the whole terrible affair remained wrapped
in mystery.
`Count Parma,' said the Prince, in a distressed
tone, having been recovered from
his swoon, the chapel being by this time
emptied of all the guests, `give me that
hand which you have cast upon the altar for
public recognition!'
The Count obeyed, fixing upon the Prince
an inquiring gaze; for he, as well as many
present, now believed that he could tell
better than any one the history of the beautiful
hand.
The Prince took it and gazed upon it with
a look of painful interest, and then removing
the ring, placed it, to the wonder of
all, upon the answering finger of the dead
countess, murmuring, `Nevertheless, thou
alone art my wedded wife!' He then placed
the hand upon the altar, and kissing his
murdered bride upon the cheek, left the
chapel.
That night the Prince of B— died!
There was no wound upon his person, nor
were there found any signs of poison! He
was entombed by the side of his intended
wife, the Countess di Valoni.
This extraordinary assassination, with the
wonderful escape of its perpetrator, the sudden
death of the Prince of B—, and the
marvellous circumstance of the severed
hand, which was placed publicly upon the
altar for many days, caused no little sensation
throughout Rome, for some weeks.
But at length, it still remaining a mystery,
the public interest in it subsided, and in a
few weeks died away; for, startling events
follow upon the steps of each other too frequently,
and men also have too much of
their own concerns to regard, to suffer any
one particular subject long to engage their
minds.
3. CHAPTER III.
Frederick Rother was a young German
sculptor. He had been a pupil of Thorwaldsen,
but now had his own studio, being considered
in Rome equal in genius and art to
his master. This was many years ago, before
the immortal Swede had attained that
celebrity which has given him an imperishable
fame. The German was a young man
of high and commanding intellect. His imagination
was lively, yet not untinctured
with the gloom of German superstition.
He loved night and solitude; the reading of
books touching the dark lore of necromancy;
and research into the mazes of metaphysics
was a passion with him. He also
was a poet, and would have been a lover if
he had not been wedded to his sublime
art.
One night, he was seated in his studio,
wrapped in his evening robe, smoking his
meerschaum, and, with his eyes fixed upon
the ceiling, was buried in deep musing upon
the spiritual world of Swedenbourg, whose
writings he had just laid down, when a slight
knock at his door aroused him.
`Come in,' he said, without changing his
reclining position, for he supposed it to be a
little Italian boy who attended upon him at
his rooms.
The door slowly opened, and a full-sized
middle-aged man, enveloped in a grey cloak,
entered. On his head was a low cap like a
priest's. The studio was strongly lighted,
for Frederick was to complete a bust that
night, and had all his tools ready to work
when he should have finished his meerschaum.
There was something in the air of
his visitor that instantly impressed him with
awe; and rising, he awaited his wishes.
The man came near him, and taking a seat
to which the sculptor pointed, waved his
hand for Frederick to be re-seated. The
artist obeyed in silence. There was something
in the expression of the stranger's
eyes that made him feel uneasy, and he
could not keep his gaze from them. They
arrested his like a basilisk's. The stranger's
features were dark and intellectual, his face
thin, and his hair black, long and flowing.
His brows were heavy and projecting; and
beneath them, like lamps, burned a pair of
deep-set eyes that were inconceivably penetrating.
`Are you the sculptor, Frederick de Rother?'
and musical.
The sculptor replied in the affirmative,
not a little relieved to have the silence
broken.
`You have the reputation of being the first
sculptor in Rome?'
`I am but a pupil still,' answered Rother,
modestly.
`I require the aid of your art,' said the
visitor, without remarking his reply.
`I am honored by your notice of me,' said
Frederick, `but I regret to say that I have
on hand unfinished engagements for many
months to come!'
`I want your service to-night,' answered
the stranger, sternly.
`Impossible! I have to put the finishing
chisel to that bust of Cardinal R—,
which will occupy me till midnight. He
leaves Rome in the morning, and takes it to
his country-place with him.'
`I must have my wishes complied with,'
said the man in the grey cloak, imperatively,
and he fixed his eyes so steadily upon Frederick,
that he dropped his own with a sensation
of pain.
`You are unknown to me,' he began to
object, `and—' here hesitated, and became
suddenly silent. The eyes of the stranger
rested upon his forehead so intently, that he
was deprived of the power to articulate.
He felt indignant, and would have risen, but
found he had no power over his limbs. His
eyelids fell, and he began to experience a
chilly sensation pervading his frame. Gradually
he felt himself losing all sense of external
things! his mind became all at once
wonderfully clear and perceptive; the most
beautiful images passed before him; music,
such as mortal ear never listened to, floated
around him; soft voices whispered sweet
and strange words, which his heart, not his
ears, heard; his spirit expanded, and became
like air, and he seemed to be borne on
wings of light, through a universe of happiness
and splendor inconceivable! and then
sudden darkness veiled all things; silence
unbroken reigned, and the deepest oblivion
followed! He sat like a marble statue, colorless
and motionless.
The stranger rose with a smile of power
upon his lip, and approached him, and waved
his hand! The young man rose with ready
obedience, and stood before him immoveable!
The stranger placed his hand upon
his eyelids, and they flew open with startling
brilliancy, his eyes looking unnaturally lustrous
and beautiful, like those in a wax figure!
They were neverthless, without expression,
and unwinking! The man then
bade him take clay and his moulding-tools,
and follow! With his eyes still closed like
one in sleep, the young man obeyed, and
followed him to the street, keeping a pace
behind.
Wrapping himself in his cloak, the stranger
took his way along a narrow street that
led by the Tiber, and crossing a bridge not
far from Trajan's pillar, ascended a terrace
that led to a range of palaces. He followed
the marble paved way beneath lime and orange
trees, until it terminated in a grand
stair-case! This he ascended; and after
crossing a magnificent garden, adorned with
fountains and statues, closely followed by the
sculptor, who bent not his fixed eyes for
one instant during the whole way, from the
person of his mysterious conductor, they
came to a portico which led them into a hall
of one of the finest mansions in Rome. It
was dark, save where the moonlight streamed
in through stained casements, yet the
stranger kept on his way to an inner suite of
apartments, furnished with princely grandeur.
Room after room he passed through,
and then opened a door leading into a small
but elegant chamber!
`Is he with you, signor?' cried a young
female of exquisite beauty, rising from an
ottoman, and looking eagerly towards him!
`He has obeyed my will, as thou seest,'
answered the other, taking the sculptor by
the hand, and leading him into the room.
`This is well. There is now no danger of
betrayal if he is returned in the same way,'
she said with energy.
She was about twenty years of age, and,
were also characterized by the finest expression
of Italian beauty. Her dark eyes were
large, languishing, yet full of latent fire;
and her mouth was beautifully haughty in
its ruby outline. Her cheek was now pale,
as if from recent illness, and the soft languor
peculiar to a convalescing invalid,
heightened the grace of her manner, and
gave a touching infantile character to her
loveliness. There was, however, with all
that was pleasing and fascinating in her appearance,
much to fear.
`How handsome he is! Heavens! what
eyes!' she said, as Frederick stood before
her in an attitude of natural elegance that
would have been a noble study for himself,
could he have been conscious of himself!
But he stood there the body of man, living
and breathing, strong and beautiful, but destitute
of the soul! And what wonderful being
was he, who had, by a look, thus subdued
him, and made him submissive to
the slightest motion of his will. It was
Mesmer!
`Lady,' he said, `the time flies, and I
would have the artist do his work!' She
turned pale, and slightly trembled. He then
turned to Frederick, and fixing his eyes
intently upon him, waved his hand slowly
upward, and, strangely with the progress
of the motion, came expression and intelligence
into the wildly brilliant eyes color to
the cheek, and the animation of mind to the
countenance! The lady watched the change
with enthusiastic delight! It was like the
breaking of morning!
As if by magic he had been restored to
the exercise of all his faculties. He looked
about him with amazement! The gorgeous
chamber bewildered him; where could
he be? The beautiful being reclining upon
the couch, was she mortal? was he mortal?
or was he dreaming? His eyes fell on Mesmer,
and instantly his face became pale, and
he recollected the last moments of consciousness
in the studio! The `magician,' as
men, in those days, termed him, smiled kindly
upon him, and approached him with his
hand extended. Frederick grasped it with
strange warmth of feeling, and felt his heart,
he could not conceive wherefore, felt kindly
affectioned toward him. But where was
he? He put the question to him.
`In the presence of her for whose service
I come for you. How you came here, you
shall learn hereafter. Now you have a delicate
task. Prepare your clay and tools, and
take your station by this lady's couch!'
He complied, overwhelmed with wonder
and curiosity, and still questioning whether
he was awake? He had never beheld such
earthly beauty as her's before him! His
gaze rested upon one of her arms, which,
partly bared to the elbow, displayed a contour
so faultless, that he could have worshipped
it! The hand, too, was divine! The
pearly hue of the surface, the azure-tinted
veins, like those in delicate marble, the tapering
elegance of the fingers, never had he
dreamed of such perfection! He was enraptured
as an artist, and quite in love as a
man!
The lady smiled with a melancholy expression
as she witnessed his admiration; and
Mesmer said, to his surprise,
`Sir, you are brought here, thus secretly,
to mould a hand like that, as perfect
and faultless in every respect!'
`Impossible!' he exclaimed.
`It is rare workmanship, but thou hast
genius to do it!' said Mesmer, quietly. Signore,
unrobe your right arm?'
She obeyed; and to the sculptor's horror
and surprise, he beheld a freshly-healed
stump; the fellow to the hand he had worshipped,
was gone. Instantly the story of the
Countess di Valoni flashed upon his mind,
and he started back with an exclamation of
intense feeling. He immediately felt Mesmer's
eye upon him, and recollecting that it
might be dangerous to betray his suspicions,
he remained standing, gazing upon the mutilated
member with strange and hardly
suppressed emotion.
`It is a painful loss,' said the magician.
`Kneel beside her, sir artist, and mould and
fit accurately to that arm a hand the match
no objections! Obey.'
Frederick knelt, and for a few moments
was silently engaged in shaping the lump of
pink-tinted clay he had brought into a rough
resemblance of a human hand. He then
bent over the other, and for some time studied
its inimitable proportions. At length he
commenced his task.
Mesmer bent over him and watched his
proceedings in silence, while the lady conversed
and smiled and completely bewildered
him with the power of her charms.
At the expiration of two hours, the work
was completed. A hand of clay, accurately
fitting the wrist whence the other hand
had been cloven was made, and, save, in
life, was the counterpart to the other!
`Thou hast done thy work well,' said
Mesmer, as he took it up and examined the
hand. `Now thou shalt witness mine.'
`First tell me who art thou?' asked the
German youth.
`I will answer thee—for thou must be my
disciple. I am THE MESMER!'
`I now know thy power, and by what
means I am here,' said de Rother, with animation,
after recovering from his surprise,
`I have read thy mysterious books, and
heard of thy miracles. Initiate me into the
mysteries of thy dark philosophy, wonderful
man, and I will serve thee with all my
soul!'
`Take thy first lesson! Behold!'
The female extended her mutilated arm,
and he firmly bound with silk the clay to the
flesh. Then, while she instinctively shuddered,
he fixed upon her his burning gaze!
In a moment, her eyes closed and her head
sunk upon her bosom. Then Mesmer knelt
before her, and bowing his head upon her
hand of clay, clasped it between his, and
thus remained several minutes. The sculptor
stood looking on with wonder and fear!
At length, the `magician' rose and addressed
her:
`Is it animate, lady?'
`Yes,' was the low answer, which seemed
to come from her chest, for her lips moved
not.
He removed the silk, and the horrified
Frederick fell upon his knees and crossed
himself! The hand he had moulded of clay
had become a living member, kindred in
sympathy and loveliness with the other!
Mesmer turned and looked upon him with
triumphant power. He now waved his hand
to awake her, but lo, a new horror was to
paralyze both! The face of the mesmerized
had begun slowly to change into clay before
their eyes. The glorious beauty of her
countenance became dark and earthy, and
the eyes were extinguished in eternal
night. The neck and arms became rapidly
converted to earth, and in a few minutes
there reclined on the couch before them a
statue of clay, like Eve's, before the breath
of life had been communicated; save the
hand which the sculptor had made, which
remained adhesive to the dead clay warm,
throbbing, living flesh.
When satisfied that what he beheld was
real, Mesmer uttered a cry of horror, and
fled! Frederick stood paralyzed with fear,
and fascinated by the hand from which he
could not turn his gaze. At length, overcome
by terror as he beheld the finger lift in
warning, he sunk upon the ground insensible,
when the writer awoke and found he had
been dreaming upon a volume on `Mesmerism,'
over which, while reading it late at
night, he had fallen asleep.
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