Melmoth the Wanderer 1820 Read online

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  The terrors of the night rendered Stanton a sturdy and unappeasable applicant; and the shrill voice of the old woman, repeating, ‘no heretic – no English – Mother of God protect us – avaunt Satan!’ – combined with the clatter of the wooden casement (peculiar to the houses in Valentia) which she opened to discharge her volley of anathematization, and shut again as the lightning glanced through the aperture, were unable to repel his importunate request for admittance, in a night whose terrors ought to soften all the miserable petty local passions into one awful feeling of fear for the Power who caused it, and compassion for those who were exposed to it. – But Stanton felt there was something more than national bigotry in the exclamations of the old woman; there was a peculiar and personal horror of the English. – and he was right; but this did not diminish the eagerness of his The house was handsome and spacious, but the melancholy appearance of desertion

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  – The benches were by the wall, but there were none to sit there; the tables were spread in what had been the hall, but it seemed as if none had gathered round them for many years; – the clock struck audibly, there was no voice of mirth or of occupation to drown its sound; time told his awful lesson to silence alone; – the hearths were black with fuel long since consumed; – the family portraits looked as if they were the only tenants of the mansion; they seemed to say, from their mouldering frames, ‘there are none to gaze on us;’ and the echo of the steps of Stanton and his feeble guide, was the only sound audible between the peals of thunder that rolled still awfully, but more distantly, – every peal like the exhausted murmurs of a spent heart. As they passed on, a shriek was heard. Stanton paused, and fearful images of the dangers to which travellers on the Continent are exposed in deserted and remote habitations, came into his mind. ‘Don’t heed it,’ said the old woman, lighting him on with a miserable lamp; – ‘it is only he

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  The old woman having now satisfied herself, by ocular demonstration, that her English guest, even if he was the devil, had neither horn, hoof, or tail, that he could bear the sign of the cross without changing his form, and that, when he spoke, not a puff of sulphur came out of his mouth, began to take courage, and at length commenced her story, which, weary and comfortless as Stanton was,

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  ‘Every obstacle was now removed; parents and relations at last gave up all opposition, and the young pair were united. Never was there a lovelier, – they seemed like angels who had only anticipated by a few years their celestial and eternal union. The marriage was solemnized with much pomp, and a few days after there was a feast in that very wainscotted chamber which you paused to remark was so gloomy. It was that night hung with rich tapestry, representing the exploits of the Cid, particularly that of his burning a few Moors who refused to renounce their accursed religion. They were represented beautifully tortured, writhing and howling, and ‘Mahomet! Mahomet!’ issuing out of their mouths, as they called on him in their burning agonies; – you could almost hear them scream. At the upper end of the room, under a splendid estrade, over which was an image of the blessed Virgin, sat Donna Isabella de Cardoza, mother to the bride, and near her Donna Ines, the bride, on rich almohadas, the bridegroom sat opposite her; and though they never spoke to each other, their eyes, slowly raised, but suddenly withdrawn, (those eyes that blushed), told to each other the delicious secret of their happiness. Don Pedro de Cardoza had assembled a large party in honour of his daughter’s nuptials; among them was an Englishman of the name of Melmoth, a traveller; no one knew who had brought him there. He sat silent like the rest, while the iced waters and the sugared wafers were presented to the company. The night was intensely hot, and the moon glowed like a sun over the ruins of Saguntum; the embroidered blinds flapped heavily, as if the wind made an effort to raise them in vain, and then desisted.

  (Another defect in the manuscript occurred here, but it was soon supplied).

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  The company were dispersed through various alleys of the garden; the bridegroom and bride wandered through one where the delicious perfume of the orange trees mingled itself with that of the myrtles in blow. On their return to the hall, both of them asked, Had the company heard the exquisite sounds that floated through the garden just before they quitted it? No one had heard them. They expressed their surprise. The Englishman had never quitted the hall; it was said he smiled with a most particular and extraordinary expression as the remark was made. His silence had been noticed before, but it was ascribed to his ignorance of the Spanish language, an ignorance that Spaniards are not anxious either to expose or remove by speaking to a stranger. The subject of the music was not again reverted to till the guests were seated at supper, when Donna Ines and her young husband, exchanging a smile of delighted surprise, exclaimed they heard the same delicious sounds floating round them. The guests listened, but no one else could hear it; – every one felt there was something extraordinary in this. Hush! was uttered by every voice almost at the same moment. A dead silence followed, – you would think, from their intent looks, that they listened with their very eyes. This deep silence, contrasted with the splendour of the feast, and the light effused from torches held by the domestics, produced a singular effect, – it seemed for some moments like an assembly of the dead. The silence was interrupted, though the cause of wonder had not ceased, by the entrance of Father Olavida, the Confessor of Donna Isabella, who had been called away previous to the feast, to administer extreme unction to a dying man in the neighbourhood. He was a priest of uncommon sanctity, beloved in the family, and respected in the neighbourhood, where he had displayed uncommon taste and talents for exorcism; – in fact, this was the good Father’s forte, and he piqued himself on it accordingly. The devil never fell into worse hands than Father Olavida’s, for when he was so contumacious as to resist Latin, and even the first verses of the Gospel of St John in Greek, which the good Father never had recourse to but in cases of extreme stubbornness and difficulty, – (here Stanton recollected the English story of the Boy of Bilsdon, and blushed even in Spain for his countrymen), – then he always applied to the Inquisition; and if the devils were ever so obstinate before, they were always seen to fly out of the possessed, just as, in the midst of their cries, (no doubt of blasphemy), they were tied to the stake. Some held out even till the flames surrounded them; but even the most stubborn must have been dislodged when the operation was over, for the devil himself could no longer tenant a crisp and glutinous lump of cinders. Thus Father Olavida’s fame spread far and wide, and the Cardoza family had made uncommon interest to procure him for a Confessor, and happily succeeded. The ceremony he had just been performing, had cast a shade over the good Father’s countenance, but it dispersed as he mingled among the guests, and was introduced to them. Room was soon made for him, and he happened accidentally to be seated opposite the Englishman. As the wine was presented to him, Father Olavida, (who, as I observed, was a man of singular sanctity), prepared to utter a short internal prayer. He hesitated, – trembled, – desisted; and, putting down the wine, wiped the drops from his forehead with the sleeve of his habit. Donna Isabella gave a sign to a domestic, and other wine of a higher quality was offered to him. His lips moved, as if in the effort to pronounce a benediction on it and the company, but the effort again failed; and the change in his countenance was so extraordinary, that it was perceived by all the guests. He felt the sensation that his extraordinary appearance excited, and attempted to remove it by again endeavouring to lift the cup to his lips. So strong was the anxiety with which the company watched him, that the only sound heard in that spacious and crowded hall, was the rustling of his habit, as he attempted to lift the cup to his lips once more – in vain. The guests sat in astonished silence. Father Olavida alone remained standing; but at that moment the Englishman rose, and appeared determined to fix Olavida’s regards by a gaze like that of fascination. Olavida rocked, reeled, grasped the arm of a page, and at last, closing his eyes for a moment, as if to escape the hor
rible fascination of that unearthly glare, (the Englishman’s eyes were observed by all the guests, from the moment of his entrance, to effuse a most fearful and preternatural lustre), exclaimed, ‘Who is among us? – Who? – I cannot utter a blessing while he is here. I cannot feel one. Where he treads, the earth is parched! – Where he breathes, the air is fire! – Where he feeds, the food is poison! – Where he turns, his glance is lightning! – Who is among us? – Who?’ repeated the priest in the agony of adjuration, while his cowl fallen back, his few thin hairs around the scalp instinct and alive with terrible emotion, his outspread arms protruded from the sleeves of his habit, and extended towards the awful stranger, suggested the idea of an inspired being in the dreadful rapture of prophetic denunciation. He stood – still stood, and the Englishman stood calmly opposite to him. There was an agitated irregularity in the attitudes of those around them, which contrasted strongly the fixed and stern postures of those two, who remained gazing silently at each other. ‘Who knows him?’ exclaimed Olavida, starting apparently from a trance; ‘who knows him? who brought him here?’

  The guests severally disclaimed all knowledge of the Englishman, and each asked the other in whispers, ‘who had brought him there?’ Father Olavida then pointed his arm to each of the company, and asked each individually, ‘Do you know him?’ ‘No! no! no!’ was uttered with vehement emphasis by every individual. ‘But I know him,’ said Olavida, ‘by these cold drops!’ and he wiped them off; – ‘by these convulsed joints!’ and he attempted to sign the cross, but could not. He raised his voice, and evidently speaking with increased difficulty, – ‘By this bread and wine, which the faithful receive as the body and blood of Christ, but which his presence converts into matter as viperous as the suicide foam of the dying Judas, – by all these – I know him, and command him to be gone! – He is – he is –’ and he bent forwards as he spoke, and gazed on the Englishman with an expression which the mixture of rage, hatred and fear, rendered terrible. All the guests rose at these words, – the whole company now presented two singular groupes, that of the amazed guests all collected together, and repeating, ‘Who, what is he?’ and that of the Englishman, who stood unmoved, and Olavida, who dropped dead in the attitude of pointing to him.

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  The body was removed into another room, and the departure of the Englishman was not noticed till the company returned to the hall. They sat late together, conversing on this extraordinary circumstance, and finally agreed to remain in the house, lest the evil spirit (for they believed the Englishman no better) should take certain liberties with the corse by no means agreeable to a Catholic, particularly as he had manifestly died without the benefit of the last sacraments. Just as this laudable resolution was formed, they were roused by cries of horror and agony from the bridal-chamber, where the young pair had retired.

  They hurried to the door, but the father was first. They burst it open, and found the bride a corse in the arms of her husband.

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  He never recovered his reason; the family deserted the mansion rendered terrible by so many misfortunes. One apartment is still tenanted by the unhappy maniac; his were the cries you heard as you traversed the deserted rooms. He is for the most part silent during the day, but at midnight he always exclaims, in a voice frightfully piercing, and hardly human, ‘They are coming! they are coming!’ and relapses into profound silence.

  The funeral of Father Olavida was attended by an extraordinary circumstance. He was interred in a neighbouring convent; and the reputation of his sanctity, joined to the interest caused by his extraordinary death, collected vast numbers at the ceremony. His funeral sermon was preached by a monk of distinguished eloquence, appointed for the purpose. To render the effect of his discourse more powerful, the corse, extended on a bier, with its face uncovered, was placed in the aisle. The monk took his text from one of the prophets, – ‘Death is gone up into our palaces.’ He expatiated on mortality, whose approach, whether abrupt or lingering, is alike awful to man. – He spoke of the vicissitudes of empires with much eloquence and learning, but his audience were not observed to be much affected. – He cited various passages from the lives of the saints, descriptive of the glories of martyrdom, and the heroism of those who had bled and blazed for Christ and his blessed mother, but they appeared still waiting for something to touch them more deeply. When he inveighed against the tyrants under whose bloody persecutions those holy men suffered, his hearers were roused for a moment, for it is always easier to excite a passion than a moral feeling. But when he spoke of the dead, and pointed with emphatic gesture to the corse, as it lay before them cold and motionless, every eye was fixed, and every ear became attentive. Even the lovers, who, under pretence of dipping their fingers into the holy water, were contriving to exchange amorous billets, forbore for one moment this interesting intercourse, to listen to the preacher. He dwelt with much energy on the virtues of the deceased, whom he declared to be a particular favourite of the Virgin; and enumerating the various losses that would be caused by his departure to the community to which he belonged, to society, and to religion at large; he at last worked up himself to a vehement expostulation with the Deity on the occasion. ‘Why hast thou,’ he exclaimed, ‘why hast though, Oh God! thus dealt with us? Why hast thou snatched from our sight this glorious saint, whose merits, if properly applied, doubtless would have been sufficient to atone for the apostacy of St Peter, the opposition of St Paul, (previous to his conversion), and even the treachery of Judas himself? Why hast thou, Oh God! snatched him from us?’ – and a deep and hollow voice from among the congregation answered, – ‘Because he deserved his fate.’ The murmurs of approbation with which the congregation honoured this apostrophe, half-drowned this extraordinary interruption; and though there was some little commotion in the immediate vicinity of the speaker, the rest of the audience continued to listen intently. ‘What,’ proceeded the preacher, pointing to the corse, ‘what hath laid thee there, servant of God?’ – ‘Pride, ignorance and fear,’ answered the same voice, in accents still more thrilling. The disturbance now became universal. The preacher paused, and a circle opening, disclosed the figure of a monk belonging to the convent, who stood among them.

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  After all the usual modes of admonition, exhortation and discipline had been employed, and the bishop of the diocese, who, under the report of these extraordinary circumstances, had visited the convent in person to obtain some explanation from the contumacious monk in vain, it was agreed, in a chapter extraordinary, to surrender him to the power of the Inquisition. He testified great horror when this determination was made known to him, – and offered to tell over and over again all that could relate of the cause of Father Olavida’s death. His humiliation, and repeated offers of confession, came too late. He was conveyed to the Inquisition. The proceedings of that tribunal are rarely disclosed, but there is a secret report (I cannot answer for its truth) of what he said and suffered there. On his first examination, he said he would relate all he could. He was told that was not enough, he must relate all he knew.

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  ‘Why did you testify such horror at the funeral of Father Olavida?’ – ‘Every one testified horror and grief at the death of that venerable ecclesiastic, who died in the odour of sanctity. Had I done otherwise, it might have been reckoned a proof of my guilt.’ ‘Why did you interrupt the preacher with such extraordinary exclamations?’ – To this no answer. ‘Why do you refuse to explain the meaning of those exclamations?’ – No answer. ‘Why do you persist in this obstinate and dangerous silence? Look, I beseech you, brother, at the cross that is suspended against this wall,’ and the Inquisitor pointed to the large black crucifix at the back of the chair where he sat; ‘one drop of the blood shed there can purify you from all the sin you have ever committed; but all that blood, combined with the intercession of the Queen of Heaven, and the merits of all its martyrs, nay, even the absolution of the Pope, cannot deliver you from the curse of dying in unrepented sin.’ – ‘What sin, t
hen, have I committed?’ ‘The greatest of all possible sins; you refuse answering the questions put to you at the tribunal of the most holy and merciful Inquisition; – you will not tell us what you know concerning the death of Father Olavida.’ – ‘I have told you that I believe he perished in consequence of his ignorance and presumption.’ ‘What proof can you produce of that?’ – ‘He sought the knowledge of a secret withheld from man.’ ‘What was that?’ – ‘The secret of discovering the presence or agency of the evil power.’ ‘Do you possess that secret?’ – After much agitation on the part of the prisoner, he said distinctly, but very faintly, ‘My master forbids me to disclose it.’ ‘If your master were Jesus Christ, he would not forbid you to obey the commands, or answer the questions of the Inquisition.’ – ‘I am not sure of that.’ There was a general outcry of horror at these words. The examination then went on. ‘If you believed Olavida to be guilty of any pursuits or studies condemned by our mother the church, why did you not denounce him to the Inquisition?’ – ‘Because I believed him not likely to be injured by such pursuits; his mind was too weak, – he died in the struggle,’ said the prisoner with great emphasis. ‘You believe, then, it requires strength of mind to keep those abominable secrets, when examined as to their nature and tendency?’ – ‘No, I rather imagine strength of body.’ ‘We shall try that presently,’ said an Inquisitor, giving a signal for the torture.