I FOUND the following in an old Italian manuscript:
Towards the middle of the sixteenth century, there lived in Ferrara (that city flourished then under the scepter of those magnificent dukes, the patrons of poetry and arts) two young persons bearing the names of Fabio and Muzio. Equal in age, nearly related, and almost inseparable, they had been knit together from their tender infancy by the most cordial friendship.
The correspondence of their lot strengthened this bond. They both belonged to ancient houses; they both possessed independent fortunes, and had no longer any relatives living. Their tastes and inclinations were similar. They had the same love for the arts; Muzio devoted himself to music; Fabio cultivated painting. All Ferrara was proud of them and considered them alike the ornament of the court and of the city.
They did not, however, resemble each other in personal appearance, although both were distinguished by the graceful elegance of youth. Fabio, the taller of the two, was blonde, with fair complexion and blue eyes. Muzio, on the contrary, was swarthy-visaged, with dark hair, and in his eyes of somber brown was never seen the amiable fire, nor on his lips the joyous smile that characterized Fabio. His thick brows lowered over narrow lids, while the golden brows of Fabio arose in delicate semi-circles on a forehead smooth and pure. Muzio also was less vivacious in conversation. In spite of all that, the two friends were equally favored by women; for it was not in vain that they were quoted as models of generosity and chivalric courtesy.
At the same time as they, there lived in Ferrara a young girl of the name of Valeria. She passed for one of the beauties of the city, although she was to be seen but very rarely. She led a retired life, leaving her dwelling only to attend church, or on the occasion of the grand festivals, to participate in the public promenades. She lived with her mother, a widow of noble birth and small fortune, who had no other children. In all those with whom she came in contact Valeria inspired a feeling of involuntary admiration, mingled with a sentiment of gentle respect equally involuntary. So modest was her bearing, so. little conscious did she seem of the power of her charms!
There were those, it is true, that thought her a little too pale, and they were wont to say that the look in her eyes, which she nearly always kept lowered, expressed a reserve approaching timidity. She rarely smiled, and very few had heard her voice; and yet there ran the report that that voice was very sweet and that in the retirement of her chamber, early in the morning, while the city still slept, Valeria loved to sing the melodies of olden time to the sound of a lute with which she accompanied herself.
In spite of the pallor of her complexion, this young girl bloomed in vigorous health; and, even to the old men, all who saw her pass could not help saying: “Oh, how happy will be the youth for whom this flower, folded in its petals, still untouched and virginal, shall expand itself in blossom.”
FABIO and Muzio saw Valeria for the first time at a grand public fête given by order of Hercules, Duke of Ferrara, the son of the celebrated Lucrezia Borgia, in honor of certain great nobles just arrived from Paris on the invitation of his Duchess, the daughter of Louis XII., King of France.
Valeria was seated at the side of her mother, in the middle of a magnificent tribune, erected after the design of Palladio, in the principal square of Ferrara for the most noble ladies of the city.
On the same day, Fabio and Muzio both fell desperately in love with Valeria; and as neither of them had been accustomed to conceal anything from the other, each of them soon became aware of what was passing in the heart of his friend. They decided between them to try to approach the young girl, and if she deigned to choose between them, that he who might be rejected should submit without a murmur. Some weeks later, thanks to the good reputation that they justly enjoyed, they were enabled to gain admission to the mansion of the noble widow, else so difficult of access.
From that moment they were able to see Valeria almost every day, and to converse with her; so that the fire kindled in the hearts of the two young men at each visit burned with ever-increasing ardor. But Valeria showed no preference for either, although their presence was apparently grateful to her. With Muzio she was wont to occupy the time with music; but she conversed more willingly with Fabio, who put her more at her ease.
They finally decided to learn their fate, and sent to Valeria a letter, in which they prayed her to declare to which of them she consented to accord her hand. Valeria showed the letter to her mother, and, while affirming that she was not averse to remaining unwedded, added that she would leave the whole matter to the choice of her mother, if she should think it time for her to take a husband.
The worthy widow shed some tears at the idea of parting from her beloved child, but found no reason why she should refuse the two suitors, whom she considered equally worthy of her daughter’s hand. However, as at the bottom of her heart she preferred Fabio, whose character seemed to her to accord more with Valeria’s, and designated him as her choice. The next day Fabio was made acquainted with his good fortune, and nothing remained for Muzio but to keep his promise and submit.
This he did; but he did not possess the fortitude to remain a witness of the triumph of his friend and rival. He sold the greater part of his property, and, having accumulated several thousand ducats, he departed on a long voyage into Easter lands. In taking leave of Fabio, he said he would not return until the last vestiges of his love had completely disappeared.
It was not without regret that Fabio separated from the friend of his childhood; but the joyful anticipation of his approaching happiness soon effaced every other feeling, and he gave himself up entirely to the blissful transports of reciprocated love.
Soon after, he espoused Valeria, and it was then for the first time that he came to understand the value of the treasure that he had acquired.
He possessed a pretty villa, surrounded by a garden full of beautiful trees, a short distance from Ferrara; and there he established himself with Valeria and her mother.
Then began for them all an era of happiness. Family life displayed in a new and charming light the perfections of Valeria. Fabio became a painter of note, almost a master where he had been a dilettante. Valeria’s mother, while witnessing their felicity, continually prayed in gratitude to God.
Four years passed thus rapidly, like a dream. One thing alone was wanting to the happiness of the young pair: they had no children. But hope did not abandon them. At the end of the fourth year, they were overwhelmed by a misfortune, this time an irreparable one: the widow died, after an illness of a few days.
Valeria mourned long. It was hard to reconcile her to her loss. But another year passed, and life again took its accustomed course. It was then on a beautiful summer’s evening that Muzio reappeared in Ferrara, without having announced to anyone his arrival.
During the five years that had elapsed since his departure, no one had heard of him. His name even had not been mentioned any more than if he had disappeared from the surface of the earth. When Fabio met his friend in one of the streets of Ferrara he could hardly restrain a cry of fright at first, then of joy. He invited him immediately to accompany him to his house in the country. In the garden there, a solitary pavilion stood, a commodious habitation.
Fabio put it at his disposition. Muzio accepted with eagerness, and on the morning of the following day he took up his abode in it, with his servant.
The latter was a Malay mute; mute, but not deaf; and, to judge of him by the vivacity of his expression, he was a man of more than ordinary acuteness. His tongue had been cut out.
Muzio brought with him a number of chests filled with a multitude of precious objects, which he had collected during the course of his long peregrinations.
Valeria rejoiced sincerely at the return of Muzio; and he saluted her with a quiet and friendly cheerfulness. It was clear to be seen that he had kept the promise given to Fabio. In the course of the day he installed himself in his pavilion.
Aided by the Malay, he removed from the chests all the rarities that he had brought: Carpets, silk stuffs, garments of velvet and brocade, arms, cups, dishes, enameled vases, objects in gold and in silver incrusted with pearls and turquoises, chiseled boxes in amber and ivory, flagons of cut crystal, spices, perfumes, skins of animals, plumes of unknown birds, and a multitude of objects the very use of which seemed mysterious and inexplicable.
Among these precious things there was a rich necklace of pearls that Muzio had received as a present from the Shah of Persia for a certain secret and important service. He asked permission of Valeria to place it around her neck himself. This necklace seemed heavy to the lady, and endowed with a strange warmth. It seemed to glue itself to her skin.
Towards evening, after the repast was over, Muzio, in the shade of the citron trees and rose laurels, began to relate his adventures. He spoke of the distant countries that he had seen, of the mountains rearing their summits far above the clouds, of immense waterless deserts, and of rivers like seas; he spoke of edifices and gigantic temples, of trees thousands of years old; he named the cities and the nations that he visited; their names alone aroused one like the breath of Saga. The entire Orient was well known to Muzio. He had traversed Persia and Arabia, where the horses are the noblest and the most beautiful of animated creatures. He had penetrated into the remote recesses of India, where the people, grand and tranquil, resemble majestic plants. He had reached the frontiers of Thibet, where the living God, called Dalaï-Lama, dwells on earth in the form of a silent man with elongated eyes. Marvelous were his tales.
Fabio and Valeria listened motionless, as though held by enchantment. The lineaments of Muzio’s face had changed but slightly. Swarthy from childhood, they had grown darker still from exposure to the rays of a more ardent sun; and the eyes seemed hollower than formerly. The expression, however, had become different, graver and more concentrated. The countenance did not become animated, even when he spoke of the dangers to which he had been exposed, the night in the forest where the roar of the tiger reverberated, the day on the solitary path where the traveler is ambushed by fanatics, who strangle him in honor of a licentious goddess, exacting human victims. Muzio’s voice had become hollower and more monotonous. The movements of his hands and of his entire body had lost the suppleness natural to the Italian race.
Assisted by his Malay domestic, who was servilely active, Muzio showed his hosts several tricks taught him by Indian Brahmins. Thus, for example, having previously hidden himself behind a curtain, he suddenly appeared seated in the air, his legs folded beneath him, and merely touching with the fingers of one hand the top of a bamboo cane placed in a perpendicular position. This astonished Fabio not a little, and even terrified Valeria. He must be a sorcerer, she thought. Also, when he took it into his head to call some tame serpents, inclosed in a basket covered with a rich red carpet, by blowing on a little flute; when their flat and dusky heads appeared beneath the fringes of the cover, darting their forked tongues, Valeria was seized with fright and begged Muzio to remove from her sight those hideous reptiles, the appearance of which caused her a nameless horror.
During supper, Muzio offered his friends wine of Shiraz, which he poured for them from a round-bellied and long-necked flagon. It was a liquor of an extremely strong aroma, of a golden color, changing to a greenish shade. It sparkled mysteriously in the little cups of jade into which it had been poured. Very sweet and very thick, it resembled no European wine, and when drunk slowly in little sips, it produced in all the limbs a sensation of agreeable drowsiness.
Muzio induced his friends to drink each a cup of it, drinking himself also without ever removing his eyes from Valeria. Before she had drunk, stooping over the table, he moved his fingers above her cup and murmured something between his half-closed lips. Valeria remarked it, it is true; but, as in all the actions of Muzio, there was something strange and unintelligible, she contented herself with thinking.
“Can it be that he has become a convert to some new religion? Or is this, perhaps, in accordance with the customs of the countries he has visited?”
Then, after a short silence, she asked him if he had continued to occupy himself with music. His only answer was to order the Malay to bring him his Indian violin. This violin was very much like those of today; but it had three strings, instead of four, and the sounding-board was covered with a serpent’s skin of a bluish color. A very slender reed formed the bow. It was bent in the shape of a semi-circle, and a diamond cut to a point glittered at its end.
Muzio began by playing a few slow and mournful airs that he said were popular, but they seemed strange and even barbarous to an Italian ear. The sound of the metallic cords was feeble and plaintive. But when he struck up his closing melody, the same sound became of a sudden stronger and began to vibrate with startling resonance. A passionate melody gushed forth from under the bow, growing in depth and strength to a masterly fullness. It undulated slowly, like the serpent whose skin covered the instrument; and with such fire, such triumphant joy did the numbers burn and sparkle, that Fabio and Valeria felt their hearts tighten, and the tears came into their eyes, while Muzio, his head inclined and pressed forcibly against his violin, his face pale, and his brows drawn together in a single line, seemed still more concentrated and somber than was his wont; and the diamond at the end of the bow, going and coming, threw out luminous sparks, as though kindled by the fire of that marvelous melody.
When Muzio stopped at last, still pressing all the time the violin between his shoulder and chin, but letting the hand drop that held the bow, “What is that?” Fabio cried.
Valeria did not speak, but her entire being seemed to repeat her husband’s question.
Muzio laid the violin on the table, and, shaking back his hair with a light movement, he answered with a half-smile:
“That? It is a song I heard one day in the island of Ceylon. Among the people, it is called, ‘The Song of Triumphant Love.’”
“ Repeat it,” murmured Fabio.
“No, that cannot be repeated,” murmured Muzio. “Besides, it is growing late. The signora needs repose; and I, too, am weary.”
During the course of the day, Muzio had borne himself simply and respectfully towards Valeria, like an old friend. But on going away, he clasped her hand vehemently, pressing his fingers into the palm and searching with his eyes the countenance of the young wife so persistently, that, although she did not lift her eye-lashes, she felt the glance, and her cheeks became suddenly fiery red. She said nothing to Muzio, but withdrew her hand abruptly, and when he was gone, she looked a long time at the door through which he had departed. That species of fear with which he had always inspired her came back to her mind, and a vague anxiety took possession of her.
Muzio retired to his pavilion, and the husband and wife went to their apartment.
Valeria waited long before sleep visited her pillow. The blood flowed sluggishly in her veins, and in her ears there vibrated a low, ringing sound. Was it the effect of the strange wine she had drunk, or the result of Muzio’s fantastic tales? or was it caused by his playing? Towards morning, she fell asleep, and had a singular dream. She thought she entered a vast chamber, vaulted low, the like of which she had never seen before. All the walls were covered with enameled tiles of a pale blue color, in-wrought with filigrees of gold. Thin columns of chiseled alabaster supported the marble vault, and this vault, as well as the columns, seemed half-transparent. A rosy glow penetrated every part of the chamber, lighting up every object with a monotonous and mystic radiance. Cushions of brocade were piled up on the narrow carpet placed on the middle of a mosaic floor that was as smooth as glass. Censers representing monstrous animals gave out a light vapor in the corners of the room. There were no windows. A door covered with a curtain of dusky velvet fell in silent folds in a recess of the wall. And, lo! the door opens, and Muzio enters. With his eyes fixed on Valeria, he moves rapidly towards her. He salutes her, opens his arms and laughs… She cannot stir… Strong arms encircle her waist, dry lips burn her, she falls backward on the cushions.
Moaning with horror, after long efforts, Valeria awakes. Not comprehending for a while what had happened to her, she sits up in bed and looks around her. A shudder runs through her whole body. Fabio is lying at her side. He sleeps, but in the clear light of the full moon that shines in through the window, his face is pale like that of a corpse, and more mournful. Valeria aroused her husband. As soon as she met his gaze, he cried:
“What is the matter?”
“Oh, a — terrible dream!” she murmured, shuddering still.
But, at this very moment, from the pavilion there came sounds bursting forth, and Fabio and Valeria recognized the melody that Muzio had played to them and called “The Song of Triumphant Love.”
Fabio looked at Valeria in surprise. She, turning away, closed her eyes, and both of them with bated breath listened to the chant until it ended. When the last strain died away, the moon veiled itself in clouds and the chamber became suddenly darkened. Both laid their heads on the pillow without exchanging a word, and neither of them knew when the other fell asleep.
The next morning when Muzio came to breakfast he appeared self-complaisant, and saluted Valeria cheerfully. She answered the salutation with embarrassment, and having observed him secretly, she all at once was conscious of feeling an indefinable dread of that satisfied and smiling countenance and of those piercing and curious eyes. He was beginning again his recitals, when Fabio interrupted him at the first word:
“It seems that you were not able to sleep in your new lodgings. My wife and myself heard you playing your piece of yesterday.”
“Ah, you heard it? Yes, I played it, it is true; but I had fallen asleep before that; I had had even a very singular dream.”
Valeria became attentive.
“What dream?” asked Fabio.
“It seemed to me,” said Muzio, without taking his eyes from Valeria, “I entered an immense vaulted hall, furnished with oriental magnificence. Carven columns sustained the arched ceiling. The walls were decked with enameled tiles, and, although there were neither windows nor tapers, the entire hall was illumined with a rosy light, as though the walls had been of translucent stone. In the corners, Chinese censers were burning. Cushions of brocade were strewn along the ground upon a narrow carpet. I entered by a door that was hidden by a tapestry hanging, and by another door, just opposite, a woman whom I had formerly loved appeared, and she seemed so beautiful that I felt all my ancient passion revive.”
Muzio stopped significantly.
Valeria did not move. She had grown gradually pale, and her breathing had become labored.
“Then,” continued Muzio, “I awoke and I played that song.”
“But who was the woman?” Fabio asked.
“Who was she? The wife of a Hindoo. I met her in the city of Delhi. She is no longer of this world; she is dead.”
“And her husband?” demanded Fabio, not knowing why he asked the question.
“The husband? He is said to be dead also. I soon lost sight of both of them.”
“It is strange,” mused Fabio. “Last night my wife had an extraordinary dream, too,” — Muzio turned towards Valeria, — “but she refused to tell it to me.”
Here Valeria arose and left the room. Muzio soon went away, also, saying that he must go to Ferrara on business, and that he would not be back before evening.
Some weeks before the return of Muzio, Fabio had begun a portrait of his wife, painting her in the character of St. Cecilia. He had perfected himself greatly in his art. The celebrated Luini, a pupil of Leonardo da Vinci, had visited him in Ferrara, and, while aiding him with his advice, had imparted to him the precepts of his illustrious master. The portrait was almost completed. There remained only to give the finishing touches to the face, and Fabio might be justly entitled to feel proud of his work.
After having conducted Muzio, Fabio directed his steps toward his attlier, where Valeria was accustomed to await him. But he did not find her. He called her with a loud voice; she did not respond. He sought her in the house and found her nowhere. Seized with a certain inquietude, he ran into the garden, and there in one of the remotest walks, he perceived her. She was seated on a bench, her head inclining on her breast and her hands folded across her knees. Behind her, brought into relief by a background of gloomy cypresses, a marble satyr, his face twisted in a malicious and mocking grimace, held the reeds of a pipe to his pointed lips.
At the appearance of her husband, Valeria visibly rejoiced, and in answer to his anxious questions, said she had a slight headache, but that should not hinder her from giving him the usual sitting.
Fabio led her into the atélier, placed her in suitable position, and took his brushes; but he found it impossible to finish the face as he wished it; not because it was pale and seemed fatigued, but he could not find in it today that pure and holy expression that was for him one of her chief charms, and that gave him the idea of representing her in the character of St. Cecilia. He ended by throwing his brushes aside and telling his wife that he did not feel like painting, and that she would do well to retire and, rest herself.
Then he turned his easel with the picture against the wall. Valeria followed his advice, and, complaining again of her headache, retired to her chamber. Fabio remained alone in his studio.
He could not help feeling a sort of vague apprehension. Muzio’s sojourn under his roof, which he had so much desired, began to become irksome to him. Not that he was jealous; Valeria was incapable of giving rise to such a sentiment; but he recognized no longer in his friend his comrade of old. All these new and strange elements that Muzio had brought from those far distant lands and that seemed to have entered into his very being: those feats of magic, the songs, the strange drinks, this mute Malay, even to the odor of spices that emanated from Muzio’s clothes, from his hair and from his very breath, all inspired Fabio with a feeling that resembled suspicion and almost fear.
And why did the Malay, while waiting on the table, look at him (Fabio) with that sly and ironical air? Truly, one would think that he understood Italian. Muzio had said of him that, by the loss of his tongue, the Malay had acquired wonderful power. What power? And how did he acquire it — by the sacrifice of his tongue? All this seemed very strange and incomprehensible.
Fabio entered his wife’s sleeping-room. She lay extended on the bed, but she did not sleep. Hearing steps, she trembled violently, but afterwards she was glad to see him, as in the garden. Fabio seated himself near her, took her hand in his, and, after a short silence, asked her what was the extraordinary dream that had terrified her so much the night before. Was it like the one Muzio had related?
Valeria blushed and answered hastily:
“Oh, no! no! I saw a monster that was about to rend me!”
“A monster in the form of a man?” Fabio inquired.
“No, in the form of a beast! A beast!”
And Valeria hid her blushing face in the pillow.
Fabio still held his wife’s hand for some moments, then pressed it in silence to his lips and went away.
Sad was the day they passed. It seemed as though something heavy and gloomy were hanging over their heads. But what? That they could not say. They wished to be together, as if a danger menaced them. But of what should they speak, since they knew nothing.
Fabio tried to take up the portrait again, to read Ariosto, whose poem, which had just appeared at Ferrara, was making a great noise throughout Italy; but he could do nothing. Muzio returned very late in the day to partake of the evening meal.
He seemed tranquil and content, but he said little. He questioned Fabio about their common friends, about the campaign in Germany, and the Emperor Charles. He spoke of his desire to visit Rome to see the new Pope. Again he offered Valeria some wine of Shiraz, and when she refused, he murmured, as though speaking to himself: “It is no longer necessary.”
Fabio having retired with his wife to their apartment, was soon asleep; but, awaking an hour later, he found that no one shared his couch. Valeria was no longer there. He arose quickly and at the same moment he perceived his wife in her night-dress re-entering the chamber through the window that was on a level with the garden. The moon was shining in full splendor, although a short time before a light rain had fallen on the ground.
With closed eyes, having an expression of secret terror on her motionless face, Valeria approached the bed, and, feeling her way, with hands extended before her, she lay down in silent haste. Fabio questioned her; she answered nothing; she seemed to sleep. He touched her, and felt on her garment and on her hair drops of rain, and on the soles of her feet grains of sand.
Then he sprang from the bed and darted into the garden through the half-open window. The light of the moon, painfully bright, inundated every object. Fabio looked rapidly about him and perceived the print of two pairs of feet in the sand. One pair had been naked; and these prints led to a bower of jessamine which stood between the pavilion and the house. He stopped, lost in amazement, when all at once the strains of that air that he had heard the night before, resounded again. Fabio rushed into the pavilion. Muzio was standing in the middle of the room playing his violin. Fabio sprang towards him.
“You have been in the garden. You were out doors; your clothes are wet with rain.”
“What? No, I do not know,” Muzio answered slowly, as if astonished at Fabio’s arrival and excitement.
Fabio grasped his arm.
“Why do you play that air again? Have you had another dream?”
Muzio looked at Fabio with the same appearance of astonishment and stupefaction.
“Answer me!”
“The moon is there like a buckler round, The river shines as a serpent creeps, The friend is awake, the enemy sleeps, And the hawk rends the bird with many a wound. Help, oh, help me!” sang Muzio, as if dreaming.
Fabio recoiled two steps, scrutinized Muzio in silence, and, after hesitating a moment, returned to his chamber. Valeria was sleeping heavily, her head bent down to her shoulder, and both arms extended listlessly. Fabio found it difficult to awaken her. But as soon as she perceived him, she threw herself on his neck and embraced him convulsively, while her entire body trembled.
“What is the matter, my beloved? What ails you?” Fabio repeated, trying to calm her.
But she continued to tremble and sob on his breast.
“Ah, what horrible dreams I have!” she murmured at last, hiding her face.
Fabio wanted to question her, but she only shuddered.
The window panes were already growing red with the first level beams of the morning, when she fell asleep in her husband’s arms.
The next day at dawn, Muzio had disappeared, and Valeria told her husband that she intended to pay a visit to the neighboring monastery, where her confessor lived, a worthy old monk, in whom she had the greatest confidence. In response to his questions, she said she was desirous through confession to free her soul of the burden with which the strange impressions of the last few days had weighed her down.
Observing the wasted lineaments of Valeria, and listening to her enfeebled voice, Fabio could not but approve of her intention. The venerable father, Lorenzo, alone could give her salutary counsel and dissipate her doubts. Valeria departed for the monastery under the escort of four domestics. Fabio remained at home and did nothing but wander in the garden until his wife’s return, trying to solve the mystery of her peculiar condition, and experiencing, without cessation, fear, anger, and the anguish of uncertain suspicions. He entered the pavilion several times; but its occupant had not returned, and the Malay, with his head bent humbly and an evil smile hidden far away (at least, it seemed so to Fabio) under the brazen mask of his face, placed himself in front of him.
In the meantime, Valeria, with less of shame than terror, had confided everything to her confessor. Father Lorenzo heard her attentively, and then gave her his blessing and administered absolution, thinking to himself all the time:
“This is sorcery. These are works of the devil. We must be on our guard.”
Under the pretext of wishing to tranquilize her mind completely and console her, he accompanied her to the villa.
At the sight of the confessor, Fabio felt a new access of anxiety; but the old, experienced monk had considered in his own mind how he ought to act. When he was alone with Fabio, he did not, of course, betray to him the secrets of the confessional, but he advised him, nevertheless, to get rid of his guest, if it were possible; for by his stories and songs, and through his whole manner, he troubled Valeria’s imagination. This step was the more urgent since, according to the old man’s recollection, he had never been very firm in matters of religion, and having been absent so long in countries unillumined by the light of Christianity, it might be that he had brought from them the pestilence of false doctrine. Nay, he may have defiled his soul with the secrets of the magic arts. For these reasons, in spite of the claims of ancient friendship, good sense and prudence both showed the necessity of a separation.
Fabio agreed in every respect with the views of the venerable monk. Valeria’s countenance regained its former serenity when her husband communicated to her the advice of the confessor; and, accompanied by the good wishes and thanks of the two, and loaded down with rich gifts for his church and for the poor, Father Lorenzo went back to the monastery.
Fabio proposed to have an explanation with Muzio immediately after supper; but his strange guest did not return. Fabio then decided to put off the conversation until the next day. The young husband and wife withdrew to their apartment.
Valeria soon fell asleep; but no slumber visited the eyes of Fabio. All that he had felt, all that he had seen presented itself more vividly in the silence of the night. More persistently still, he sought a solution to the questions to which, as before, he found no answer.
Had Muzio really become a magician? Could he have poisoned Valeria’s mind? She was ill, but what was the disease? While, with his hand supporting his head, and holding back his fevered breath, he abandoned himself to his torturing reflections, the moon had ascended into a cloudless heaven. At the same time as its beams began to penetrate the window panes on the side nearest the pavilion (or was it, perhaps, fancy?), a breath began to penetrate, a light, perfumed undulation. And, lo! A passionate, continuous whispering is heard. Then, at the same instant, Fabio perceived that Valeria commenced to move feebly. He springs erect and looks. She rises, slips one foot after the other out of the bed, and, like a sleep-walker, fixing her dull, expressionless eyes straight before her, with both hands extended in front, she glides stealthily towards the door leading into the garden!
Fabio darted through the other door of the room, and, running around the house, locked the door into the garden on the outside. He had had hardly time to turn the key, when he felt somebody trying to open it from within; some one that pushed it violently again and again. Then there were broken moans.
Had Muzio returned from the city? This idea coursed through Fabio’s brain like lightning. He rushed towards the pavilion.
What does he see?
Along the road, all bathed in the brilliant light of the moon, like another sleep-walker, with both hands extended in front, with eyes wide open and expressionless, Muzio advances to meet him. Fabio runs up to him, but the other, without noticing him, passes on with staid step and immobile face. He laughs the sinister laugh of the Malay. Fabio is about to call his name, but just then, he hears the noise of an opened window in the house. He turns around.
Sure enough, the bedroom window is wide open, and Valeria, crossing one foot over the sill, is standing before him; her arms, feeling around her in the air, seem to seek Muzio. She is about to spring towards him.
An unspeakable fury overwhelms the breast of Fabio, like a sudden flood.
“Accursed sorcerer!” he cried in ungovernable rage.
And grasping him by the throat with the one hand, he caught with the other the dagger that Muzio wore at his girdle, and thrust it into his side up to the hilt.
Muzio uttered a terrible cry, and, pressing the palm of his hand to the wound, tottered to the pavilion. At the very instant that Fabio stabbed him, Valeria uttered also a cry equally heart-rending, and fell to the ground as though struck by lightning.
Fabio darted toward her. He bore her to her couch and spoke to her.
She remained a long time motionless; but she opened her eyes at last and uttered a deep and quivering sigh like one that has just been saved from imminent death. Then, perceiving her husband, she clasped her two arms about his neck.
“Oh, it is you! you!” she murmured.
Little by little, her hands relaxed their hold, her head drooped backward, and, ejaculating the words: “Thank God, all is finished; but how weary I am!” she fell immediately into a profound and peaceful slumber.
Fabio threw himself into a chair near his wife and while resting his eyes on her pale and emaciated visage, which had already grown contented and calm, he began to reflect on what had just taken place, and on what it would be necessary to do. What was best? If he had slain Muzio, and recalling how deeply the blade of the dagger had entered his side, he could not doubt it; if he had slain Muzio, the murder could not be concealed. He would be compelled to bring it to the knowledge of the Duke and the judges.
But how recount, how explain a thing so incomprehensible? He (Fabio) had slain in his own house his relative, his best friend! They will ask why, what was the reason? What could he say? But if Muzio was not slain? Fabio could not remain in this incertitude; and, having assured himself that Valeria was sleeping, he arose from his chair cautiously and left the room, directing his steps toward the pavilion.
Everything seemed quiet there. A single window only was lighted. Fabio opened the outside door with trembling heart. He saw the marks of bloody fingers on it, and on the sand in the road there were drops of blood. He passed through the dark entrance, and stopped at the threshold, struck with amazement.
In the middle of the room, on a Persian carpet, with a velvet cushion under his head, and covered with a broad red shawl with black figures, Muzio lay. His limbs were straight and rigid, his face yellow like wax, his eyes closed under bluish lids. He did not breathe. He appeared dead. The Malay knelt at his feet, also enveloped in a red shawl. He held in his hand an unknown plant, like a fern, and bending forward, looked fixedly at his master. A small torch stuck in the floor burned with a greenish glow, furnishing the sole light of the apartment. The flame never wavered nor smoked.
The Malay did not stir at Fabio’s entrance. He cast on him only one rapid glance, which he directed again toward Muzio. From time to time he raised, then lowered, the bough, moving it around in the air. His mute lips half opened and moved slowly, as if giving utterance to some silent conjuration.
The dagger with which he had stabbed his friend lay on the ground between the Malay and Muzio. The Malay once touched its ensanguined blade with the fern-like bough. A minute passed; another, and then another. Fabio approached the Malay, and, stooping towards him, asked in a low voice:
“Dead?”
The Malay inclined his head, and, drawing his right hand forth from under the shawl, he pointed to the door with an imperious gesture. Fabio was going to repeat the question, but the imperious hand renewed the gesture, and he withdrew, astonished, indignant, but obedient.
He found Valeria sleeping as before, with a calmer expression on her face. He did not undress, but seated himself at the window and became absorbed in thought. The rising of the sun found him in the same place. Valeria was still sleeping.
Fabio wished to wait until Valeria awoke before going to Ferrara, when suddenly some one knocked lightly at the door. Fabio hastened to open it, and saw before him his old majordomo, Antonio.
“Signor,” said the old man, “the Malay desires to say that his master has fallen ill, and wishes to return with his effects to the city. He wishes also to ask you to lend him some men to assist in packing the baggage, and about dinner time to send him sumpter and saddle horses, and an escort to conduct them. Do you order it?”
“Did the Malay say all that?” asked Fabio. “But how did he compass it? He is mute.”
“Here, signor, is a paper on which he has written it correctly in our language.”
“And Muzio, you say, is ill?”
“Yes, very ill, and cannot be spoken to.”
“Has a physician been sent for?”
“No; the Malay would not permit it.”
“And was it the Malay that wrote you that?”
“Yes, it was he.”
Fabio was silent for an instant.
“Well, take the necessary steps.”
Antonio withdrew.
Fabio stood stupefied. Then he is not dead, he thought; and he did not know whether he ought to be glad or sorry.
Ill! It was only a few hours ago that he saw him a corpse.
Fabio returned to his wife. She awoke, and, raising her head, she exchanged a long look with her husband.
“He is no more?” Valeria said suddenly. Fabio started.
“How, no more? Do you mean-?”
“He is gone!” Valeria continued.
Fabio felt his heart lighter.
“No, not yet,” he said; “but he is going today.”
“And shall I never, never see him again?”
“Never.”
“And the dreams will not come back any more?’’
“No.”
Valeria drew a deep sigh of satisfaction, and once again a happy smile appeared on her lips. She reached her hands to her husband.
“And we shall never speak of him. Do you understand, my beloved? I shall not leave my chamber until he is gone. And now send me my maidens, and — Wait, take that thing away.”
She pointed to the pearl necklace that lay on a little table at her side.
“Throw it into the deepest well you can find. Embrace me; I am your Valeria. Do not come to see me until — the other is gone.”
Fabio took the necklace, whose pearls seemed faded, and carried out his wife’s orders. Then he wandered around in the garden, viewing the pavilion from a distance, before which the disorder of packing had already begun. Men were bringing out the chests and loading the horses. The Malay did not appear at all among these busy people. An irresistible impulse lead Fabio to look once more at what was going on in the pavilion. He recollected that there was a secret door in the rear of the building that gave access to the room where he had seen Muzio that morning. He stole around to this door, found it unlocked, and, drawing aside the heavy tapestry that covered it on the inside, he took a hesitating glance.
Muzio was no longer stretched out on the carpet. Dressed in a traveling suit, he was seated in an arm chair; but he seemed a corpse, as much as at the first visit. His ghastly head lay backward on the chair, his hands, of an ochre-yellow hue, resting fat on his knees, were motionless; his bosom no longer rose and fell.
Around the chair, on the floor littered with dried herbs, were placed several shallow cups filled with a dark liquid, from which emanated a strong, almost suffocating odor of musk. Entwined around each cup was seen a little copper-colored serpent, whose golden eyes glittered at intervals, and right in front of Muzio, about two paces from him, stood the tall form of the Malay. He was clad in a robe of checkered damask held around the waist by the tail of a tiger, and his head was covered with a three-cornered tiara. He kept in continual motion. Now he bowed reverentially, and seemed to murmur as if in prayer; then he drew himself erect to his full height, even rising on the points of his toes; now he made wide, rhythmical movements with both arms, or thrust them pertinaciously in the direction of Muzio. He seemed to threaten or command, corrugating his brows and stamping with his feet. All these gesticulations and movements caused him apparent suffering. He breathed with an effort and copious perspiration ran down his face.
All of a sudden, becoming motionless and filling his lungs with air, he closed his fists, as though he grasped a bridle, and, biting his lips, with his face puckered up, he brought them with a violent effort against his breast. Then, to the unspeakable horror of Fabio, Muzio’s head lifted itself from the back of the chair, and stooped forward, following in little jerks the hands of the Malay. The Malay let his hands fall, and Muzio’s head fell backward heavily. He repeated his first gestures, and the obedient head repeated the movements after him.
The dark liquid began to boil in the cups; the cups themselves gave out a low, tinkling sound, and the little copper-colored serpents undulated in folds around each of them. Then the Malay took a step forward, and, lifting his eyebrows excessively and opening his eyes to an enormous extent, he made an abrupt movement of command with his head towards Muzio; and the eyelids of the dead man quivered, unglued themselves slowly, and beneath them the lifeless balls could be seen, dull and faded like lead. The face of the Malay grew bright with the pride of assured success, and with a joy, an almost spiteful joy. He opened his mouth wide, and a prolonged howl issued with an effort from the bottom of his throat. Muzio’s lips opened also, giving vent to a feeble groan, as an answer to the other sound that had nothing human in it.
But Fabio was unable to stand it any longer; it seemed like assisting at some diabolical incantation. He himself uttered a loud cry and fled from the house without turning his head, and making the sign of the cross.
Three hours later, Antonio came to announce that all was ready, the coffers packed and Signor Muzio prepared to depart.
Without saying anything to his servant, Fabio went to the terrace whence the pavilion was to be seen. Some horses stood loaded ready to depart, and a powerful stallion was led forward as far as the steps of the entrance. The animal was girded with a saddle large enough for two persons. Servants with uncovered heads and the armed escort were in waiting also. The door of the pavilion opened, and Muzio appeared, supported by the Malay, who was in his ordinary dress. Muzio’s face was of a deathly pallor, and his arms hung like a dead man’s; but he moved, yes, he moved his feet, one after the other, and when lifted on the horse, he held himself erect, and, feeling with his hands, found the reins.
The Malay slipped his feet into the stirrups, sprang up behind him on the saddle, placed his two arms tightly around his waist, and the troop began its march. The horses traveled at a walk. When they turned to pass before the house, it seemed to Fabio that there appeared on the inanimate visage of Muzio two white points, which moved slowly from left to right: Could it be that Muzio had directed his eyeballs towards him? The Malay alone saluted him with his habitually ironical air.
Had Valeria witnessed the departure? The blinds of her windows were carefully closed, but was she, perhaps, standing behind them?
She appeared at dinner affectionate and calm, although she still complained of feeling weary. But there was no more inquietude, nor that constant stupefaction, that secret fear; and when, the day after Muzio’s departure, Fabio took up again the work on her portrait, he found once more in the features of his wife that angelic purity the momentary eclipse of which had troubled him so much, and his brush could trace its course on the canvas with exactitude and ease.
The young couple began to live again their former life. Muzio had disappeared for them as though he had never existed. One would say that Fabio and Valeria had tacitly agreed never to pronounce his name, never to inquire into his destiny, a destiny that remained a mystery to everybody.
One day the idea came into Fabio’s mind that it was his duty to relate to Valeria what had happened that terrible night; but Valeria seemed to divine his intention; for she held her breath and closed her eyes, like one that expects to receive a blow. Fabio understood her, and the blow never fell.
On a beautiful day in autumn, Fabio finished his picture of St. Cecilia. Valeria was seated at an organ and her fingers were wandering over the keys, when suddenly, without her will having anything to do with it, that “Song of Triumphant Love” that Muzio had played, resounded under her hands, and at the same moment, for the first time since her marriage, she felt in her bosom the palpitation of a new life. She shuddered and stopped.
What was the meaning of it?
Could it be that — ?
Here the manuscript ended.
