Delphi Complete Works of William Godwin 1st ed. (2022), page 19
part #1 of Delphi Classics Series
But the delusion was of no long continuance. I soon perceived that it was impossible for a maniac to be suffered to proceed to so horrid extremities. I perceived in every thing that related to the count, a spirit very different from that of frenzy. It is thus that I have plunged from uncertainty to uncertainty. From adopting a solution wild and absurd, I am thrown back upon a darkness still more fearful, and am lost in conjectures of the most tremendous nature.
And where is it that I am obliged to refer my timid enquiries? Alas, I have no friend upon whose bosom to support myself, I have no relation to interest in my cause. I am forlorn, forsaken and desolate. By nature not formed for defence, not braced to encounter the storms of calamity, where shall I hide my unprotected head? Forgive me, my lord, if I am mistaken; pardon the ravings of a distracted mind. It is possible I am obliged to recur to him from whom all my misfortunes took their source, who has guided unseen all those movements to which this poor and broken heart is the sacrifice. Perhaps the words that now flow from my pen, are directed to the disturber of my peace, the interceptor of all that happiness most congenial to my heart, the murderer of my husband!
Where, in the mean time, where is this countess, this dreaded rival? You, my lord, have perhaps ere this time seen her. Tell me, what are those ineffable charms that seduced a heart which was once so constant? St. Julian was never mercenary, and I have a fortune that might have filled out his most unbounded wishes. What is that strange fascination, what that indescribable enchantment, that sunk a character so glorious, that libertines venerated, and the friends of virtue adored, to a depth so low and irretrievable? I have thought much of it, I have turned it every way in my mind, but I can never understand it. The more I reflect the further I am bewildered.
But whither am I wandering? What strange passion is it, that I so carefully suppressed, over which I so loudly triumphed, that now bursts its limits? How fatal and deplorable is that train of circumstances, that brings a name, that was once inscribed on my heart, to my remembrance, accompanied with attendants, that awaken all my tenderness, and breathe new life into each forgotten endearment! Is it for me, a wife, a mother, to entertain these guilty thoughts? And can they respect him by whose fatal hand my husband fell? How low is the once spotless Matilda della Colonna sunk!
But I will not give way to this dereliction and despair. I think my heart is not made of impenetrable stuff. I think I cannot long survive afflictions thus complicated, and trials thus severe. But so long as I remain in this world of calamity, I will endeavour to act in a manner not unworthy of myself. I will not disgrace the race from which I sprung. Whatever others may do, I will not dishonour the family to which I am united. I may be miserable, but I will not be guilty. I may be a monument of anguish, but I will not be an example of degeneracy.
Gracious heaven! if I have been deceived, what a train of artifice and fraud rushes upon my terrified recollection? How carefully have all my passions, in the unguarded hour of anguish and misery, been wrought and played upon? All the feelings of a simple and undissembling mind have been roused by turns, to excite me to a deed, from which rectitude starts back with horror, which integrity blushes to look on! And have I been this poor and abject tool in the hand of villains? And are there hearts cool and obdurate enough, to watch all the trembling starts of wretchedness, to seduce the heart that has given itself up to despair? Can they look on with frigid insensibility, can they behold distress with no other eye but that of interest, with no other watch but that which discovers how it may be disgraced for ever? Oh, wretched Matilda! whither, whither hast thou been plunged!
My memory is up in arms. I cannot now imagine how I was induced to so decisive and adventurous a step. But I was full of the anguish of disappointment, and the resentment of despair. How assiduously was I comforted? What sympathy, what angelic tenderness seemed to flow from the lips of him, in whose heart perhaps there dwelt every dishonourable and unsated passion? It was all a chaos. My heart was tumultuous hurry, without leisure for retrospect, without a moment for deliberation. And do I dare to excuse myself? Was I not guilty, unpardonably guilty? Oh, a mind that knew St. Julian should have waited for ages, should have revolved every circumstance a thousand times, should have disbelieved even the evidence of sense, and the demonstration of eternal truth! Accursed precipitation! Most wicked speed! No, I have not suffered half what I have deserved. Heap horrors on me, thou dreadful dispenser of avenging providence! I will not complain. I will expire in the midst of agonies without a groan!
But these thoughts must be banished from my heart for ever. Wretched as I am, I am not permitted the consolation of penitence, I am not free to accuse and torment myself. No, that step has been taken which can never be repealed. The marquis of Pescara was my husband, and whatever were his true character, I will not crush his memory and his fame. I have, I fear, unadvisedly entered into connexions, and entailed upon myself duties. But these connexions shall now be sacred; these duties shall be discharged to the minutest tittle. Oh, poor and unprotected orphan, thou art cast upon the world without a friend! But thou shalt never want the assiduity of a mother. Thou, at least, are guileless and innocent. Thou shalt be my only companion. To watch over thee shall be the sole amusement that Matilda will henceforth indulge herself. That thou wilt remind me of my errors, that I shall trace in thee gradually as thy years advance, the features of him to whom my unfortunate life owed all its colour, will but make thee a more proper companion, an object more congenial to the sorrows of my soul.
Letter XVIII
The Count de St. Julian to the Marchioness of Pescara
CERENZO
MADAM,
You may possibly before this letter comes to your hands have learned an event that very nearly interests both you and me. If you have not, it is not in my power at this time to collect together the circumstances, and reduce them to the form of a narration. The design of my present letter is of a very different kind. Shall I call that a design, which is the consequence of an impulse urging me forward, without the consent of my will, and without time for deliberation?
I write this letter with a hand dyed with the blood of your husband. Let not the idea startle you. Matilda is advanced too far to be frightened with bugbears. What, shall a mind inured to fickleness and levity, a mind that deserted, without reason and without remorse, the most constant of lovers, and that recked not the consequences, shall such a mind be terrified at the sight of the purple blood, or be moved from its horrid tranquility by all the tragedies that an universe can furnish?
Matilda, I have slain your husband, and I glory in the deed. I will answer it in the face of day. I will defy that man to come forward, and when he views the goary, lifeless corse, say to me with a tone of firmness and conviction, “Thou hast done wrong.”
And now I have but one business more with life. It is to arraign the fair and traiterous author of all my misfortunes. Start not at the black catalogue. Flinch not from the detail of infernal mischief. The mind that knows how to perpetrate an action, should know how to hear the story of it repeated, and to answer it in all its circumstances.
Matilda, I loved you. Alas, this is to say little! All my thoughts had you for their centre. I was your slave. With you I could encounter tenfold calamity, and call it happiness. Banished from you, the world was a colourless and confused chaos. One moment of displeasure, one interval of ambiguous silence crouded my imagination with every frantic apprehension. One smile, one word of soft and soothing composition, fell upon my soul like odoriferous balm, was a dulcet and harmonious sound, that soothed my anguish into peace, that turned the tempest within me to that still and lifeless calm, where not a breath disturbs the vast serene.
And this is the passion you have violated. You have trampled upon a lover, who would have sacrificed his life to save that tender and enchanting frame from the impression of a thorn. And yet, Matilda, if it had been only a common levity, I would have pardoned it. If you had given your hand to the first chance comer, I would have drenched the cup of woe in solitude and darkness. Not one complaint from me should have reached your ear. If you could have found tranquility and contentment, I would not have been the avenging angel to blast your prospects.
But there are provocations that the human heart cannot withstand. I did not come from the hand of nature callous and intrepid, I was the stoic of philosophy and reason. To lose my mistress and my friend at once. To lose them! — Oh, ten thousand deaths would have been mercy to the loss! Had they been tossed by tempests, had they been torn from my eyes by whirlwinds, I would have viewed the scene with eye-balls of stiffened horn. But to find all that upon which I had placed my confidence, upon which I rested my weary heart, foul and false at once: to have those bosoms, in which I fondly thought I reigned adored, combined in one damned plot to overwhelm and ruin me — Indeed, Matilda, it was too much!
Well, well. Be at peace my soul. I have taken my revenge. But revenge is not a passion congenial to the spirit of St. Julian. It was once soft and tender as a babe. You might have bended and moulded it into what form you pleased. But I know not how it is, it is now remorseless and unfeeling as a rock. I have swam in horror, and I am not satiated. I could hear tales of distress, and I could laugh at their fancied miseries. I could view all the tragedies of battle, and walk up and down amidst seas of blood with tranquility. It is well. I did not think I could have done all this. But inexplicable and almighty providence strengthens, indurates the heart for the scenes of detestation to which it is destined.
And is it Rinaldo that I have slain? That friend that I held a thousand times to my bosom, that friend over whose interests I have watched without weariness? Many a time have I dropped the tear of oblivion over his youthful wanderings. I exulted in the fruits of all my toil. Yes, Matilda, I have seen the drops of sacred pity bedew his cheek. I have seen his bosom heave with generous resentment, and heroic resolution. Oh, there was a time, when the author of nature might have looked down upon his work, and said, “This is a man.” What benefits did not I receive from his munificent character, and wide extended hand?
And who made me his judge and his avenger? What right had I to thrust my sword into his heart? He now lies a lifeless corse. Upon his breast I see the gaping and death-giving wound. The blood bursts forth in continued streams. His hair is clotted with it. That cheek, that lately glowed, is now pale and sallow. All his features are deformed. The fire in his eye is extinguished for ever. Who has done this? What wanton and sacrilegious hand has dared deface the work of God? It could not be his preceptor, the man upon whom he heaped a thousand benefits? It could not be his friend? Oh, Rinaldo, all thy errors lie buried in the damp and chilly tomb, but thy blood shall for ever rise to accuse me!
Letter XIX
The Marquis of San Severino to the Marchioness of Pescara
NAPLES
MADAM, I have just received a letter from your ladyship which gives me the utmost pain. I am sincerely afflicted at the unfortunate concern I have had in the melancholy affairs that have caused you so much uneasiness. I expected indeed that the sudden death of so accomplished and illustrious a character as your late husband, must have produced in a breast susceptible as yours, the extremest distress. But I did not imagine that you would have been so overwhelmed with the event, as to have forgotten the decorums of your station, and to have derogated from the dignity of your character. Madam, I sincerely sympathize in the violence of your affliction, and I earnestly wish that you may soon recover that self-command, which rendered your behaviour upon all occasions a model of elegance, propriety and honour.
Your ladyship proposes certain questions to me in your epistle of a very singular nature. You will please to remember, that they will for the most part be brought in a few days before a court of judicature. I must therefore with all humility intreat you to excuse me from giving them a direct answer. There would be an impropriety in a person, so illustrious in rank, and whose voice is of considerable weight in the state, forestalling the inferior courts upon these subjects. One thing however I am at liberty to mention, and your ladyship may be assured, that in any thing in my power I should place my highest felicity in gratifying you. There was indeed some misinformation upon the subject; but I have now the honour to inform you from authority upon which I depend, that the count de St. Julian is now, and has always remained single. I believe there never was any negociation of marriage between him and the noble house of Aranda.
Madam, it gives me much uneasiness, that your ladyship should entertain the smallest suspicion of any impropriety in my behaviour in these affairs. I believe the conduct of no man has been more strictly conformed, in all instances, to the laws of decorum than my own. Objects of no small magnitude, have upon various occasions passed under my inspection, and you will be so obliging as to believe that upon no occasion has my veracity been questioned, or the integrity of my character suffered the smallest imputation. The rectitude of my actions is immaculate, and my honour has been repeatedly asserted with my sword.
Your ladyship will do me the favour to believe, that though I cannot but regard your suspicions as equally cruel and unjust, I shall never entertain the smallest resentment upon their account. I have the honour to be, with all possible deference and esteem, Madam,
Your ladyship’s most faithful servant, The marquis of San Severino.
Letter XX
The Count de St. Julian to Signor Hippolito Borelli
LEONTINI
My dear FRIEND,
Travelling through the various countries of Europe, and expanding your philosophical mind to embrace the interests of mankind, you still are so obliging as to take the same concern in the transactions of your youthful friend as ever. I shall therefore confine myself in the letter which I now steal the leisure to write, to the relation of those events, of which you are probably as yet uninformed. If I were to give scope to the feelings of my heart, with what, alas, should I present you but a circle of repetitions, which, however important they may appear to me, could not but be dull and tedious to any person less immediately interested?
As I pursued with greater minuteness the enquiries I had begun before you quitted the kingdom of the two Sicilies, I found the arguments still increasing upon me, which tended to persuade me of the innocence of Matilda. Oh, my friend, what a letter did I address to her in the height of my frenzy and despair? Every word spoke daggers, and that in a moment when the tragical event of which I was the author, must naturally have overwhelmed her with astonishment and agony. Yes, Hippolito, this action must remain an eternal blot upon my character. Years of penitence could not efface it, floods of tears could not wash it away.
But before I had satisfied my curiosity in this pursuit, the time approached in which it was necessary for me to take a public trial at Naples. This scene was to me a solemn one. The blood of my friend sat heavy at my heart. It is true no provocation could have been more complicated than that I had received. Take it from me, Hippolito, as my most mature and serious determination, that a Gothic revenge is beneath the dignity of a man. It did not become me, who had aimed at the character of unaccommodating virtue, to appear in defence of an action that my heart disallowed. To stand forward before the delegated power of my country with the stain of blood upon me, was not a scene for a man of sensibility to act in. But the decision of my judges was more indulgent than the verdict of my own mind.
One of the persons who was most conspicuous upon this occasion, was the marquis of San Severino. Hippolito, it is true, I have been hurried into many actions that have caused me the severest regret. But I would not for ten thousand worlds have that load of guilt upon my mind, that this man has to answer for. And yet he bore his head aloft. He was placid and serene. He was even disengaged and gay. He talked in as round a tone, of honour and integrity, of veracity and virtue, as if his life were spotless, and his heart immaculate. The circumstances however that came out in the progress of the affair, were in the highest degree disadvantageous to him. The general indignation and hatred seemed gradually to swell against him, like the expansive surges of the ocean. A murmur of disapprobation was heard from every side, proceeded from every mouth. Even this accomplished villain at length hung his head. When the court was dissolved, he was encountered with hisses and scorn from the very lowest of the people. It was only by the most decisive exertions of the guards of the palace, that he was saved from being torn to pieces by the fury of the populace.
You will be surprized to perceive that this letter is dated at the residence of my fathers. Fourteen days ago I was summoned hither by the particular request of my brother, who had been seized with a violent epidemical distemper. It was extremely sudden in its operation, and before I arrived he was no more. He had confessed however to one of the friends of our house, before he expired, that he had forged the will of my father, instigated by the surprize and disappointment he had felt, when he understood that that father, whom he had employed so many unjustifiable means to prepossess, had left his whole estate, exclusive of a very small annuity, to his eldest son. Since I have been here, I have been much employed in arranging the affairs of the family, which, from the irregular and extemporary manner in which my brother lived, I found in considerable disorder.
