In the course of my tour I remained some time at Venice. The romantic character of the place delighted me; I was very much amused by the air of adventure and intrigue4 that prevailed in this region of masks and gondolas6; and I was exceedingly smitten7 by a pair of languishing8 black eyes, that played upon my heart from under an Italian mantle10. So I persuaded myself that I was lingering at Venice to study men and manners. At least I persuaded my friends so, and that answered all my purpose. Indeed, I was a little prone11 to be struck by peculiarities12 in character and conduct, and my imagination was so full of romantic associations with Italy, that I was always on the lookout13 for adventure.
Every thing chimed in with such a humor in this old mermaid14 of a city. My suite15 of apartments were in a proud, melancholy16 palace on the grand canal, formerly17 the residence of a Magnifico, and sumptuous18 with the traces of decayed grandeur19. My gondolier was one of the shrewdest of his class, active, merry, intelligent, and, like his brethren, secret as the grave; that is to say, secret to all the world except his master. I had not had him a week before he put me behind all the curtains in Venice. I liked the silence and mystery of the place, and when I sometimes saw from my window a black gondola5 gliding20 mysteriously along in the dusk of the evening, with nothing visible but its little glimmering21 lantern, I would jump into my own zenduletto, and give a signal for pursuit. But I am running away from my subject with the recollection of youthful follies22, said the Baronet, checking himself; “let me come to the point.”
Among my familiar resorts was a Cassino under the Arcades23 on one side of the grand square of St. Mark. Here I used frequently to lounge and take my ice on those warm summer nights when in Italy every body lives abroad until morning. I was seated here one evening, when a group of Italians took seat at a table on the opposite side of the saloon. Their conversation was gay and animated24, and carried on with Italian vivacity25 and gesticulation.
I remarked among them one young man, however, who appeared to take no share, and find no enjoyment26 in the conversation; though he seemed to force himself to attend to it. He was tall and slender, and of extremely prepossessing appearance. His features were fine, though emaciated27. He had a profusion28 of black glossy29 hair that curled lightly about his head, and contrasted with the extreme paleness of his countenance30. His brow was haggard; deep furrows31 seemed to have been ploughed into his visage by care, not by age, for he was evidently in the prime of youth. His eye was full of expression and fire, but wild and unsteady. He seemed to be tormented32 by some strange fancy or apprehension33. In spite of every effort to fix his attention on the conversation of his companions, I noticed that every now and then he would turn his head slowly round, give a glance over his shoulder, and then withdraw it with a sudden jerk, as if something painful had met his eye. This was repeated at intervals34 of about a minute, and he appeared hardly to have got over one shock, before I saw him slowly preparing to encounter another.
After sitting some time in the Cassino, the party paid for the refreshments35 they had taken, and departed. The young man was the last to leave the saloon, and I remarked him glancing behind him in the same way, just as he passed out at the door. I could not resist the impulse to rise and follow him; for I was at an age when a romantic feeling of curiosity is easily awakened37. The party walked slowly down the Arcades, talking and laughing as they went. They crossed the Piazzetta, but paused in the middle of it to enjoy the scene. It was one of those moonlight nights so brilliant and clear in the pure atmosphere of Italy. The moon-beams streamed on the tall tower of St. Mark, and lighted up the magnificent front and swelling38 domes39 of the Cathedral. The party expressed their delight in animated terms. I kept my eye upon the young man. He alone seemed abstracted and self-occupied. I noticed the same singular, and, as it were, furtive40 glance over the shoulder that had attracted my attention in the Cassino. The party moved on, and I followed; they passed along the walks called the Broglio; turned the corner of the Ducal palace, and getting into a gondola, glided41 swiftly away.
The countenance and conduct of this young man dwelt upon my mind. There was something in his appearance that interested me exceedingly. I met him a day or two after in a gallery of paintings. He was evidently a connoisseur42, for he always singled out the most masterly productions, and the few remarks drawn43 from him by his companions showed an intimate acquaintance with the art. His own taste, however, ran on singular extremes. On Salvator Rosa in his most savage44 and solitary45 scenes; on Raphael, Titian, and Corregio in their softest delineations of female beauty. On these he would occasionally gaze with transient enthusiasm. But this seemed only a momentary46 forgetfulness. Still would recur47 that cautious glance behind, and always quickly withdrawn48, as though something terrible had met his view.
I encountered him frequently afterwards. At the theatre, at balls, at concerts; at the promenades49 in the gardens of San Georgio; at the grotesque50 exhibitions in the square of St. Mark; among the throng51 of merchants on the Exchange by the Rialto. He seemed, in fact, to seek crowds; to hunt after bustle52 and amusement; yet never to take any interest in either the business or gayety of the scene. Ever an air of painful thought, of wretched abstraction; and ever that strange and recurring53 movement, of glancing fearfully over the shoulder. I did not know at first but this might be caused by apprehension of arrest; or perhaps from dread54 of assassination55. But, if so, why should he go thus continually abroad; why expose himself at all times and in all places?
I became anxious to know this stranger. I was drawn to him by that Romantic sympathy that sometimes draws young men towards each other. His melancholy threw a charm about him in my eyes, which was no doubt heightened by the touching56 expression of his countenance, and the manly57 graces of his person; for manly beauty has its effect even upon man. I had an Englishman’s habitual58 diffidence and awkwardness of address to contend with; but I subdued59 it, and from frequently meeting him in the Cassino, gradually edged myself into his acquaintance. I had no reserve on his part to contend with. He seemed on the contrary to court society; and in fact to seek anything rather than be alone.
When he found I really took an interest in him he threw himself entirely60 upon my friendship. He clung to me like a drowning man. He would walk with me for hours up and down the place of St. Mark—or he would sit until night was far advanced in my apartment; he took rooms under the same roof with me; and his constant request was, that I would permit him, when it did not incommode me, to sit by me in my saloon. It was not that he seemed to take a particular delight in my conversation; but rather that he craved61 the vicinity of a human being; and above all, of a being that sympathized with him. “I have often heard,” said he, “of the sincerity62 of Englishmen—thank God I have one at length for a friend!”
Yet he never seemed disposed to avail himself of my sympathy other than by mere63 companionship. He never sought to unbosom himself to me; there appeared to be a settled corroding65 anguish9 in his bosom64 that neither could be soothed66 “by silence nor by speaking.” A devouring67 melancholy preyed68 upon his heart, and seemed to be drying up the very blood in his veins69. It was not a soft melancholy—the disease of the affections; but a parching70, withering71 agony. I could see at times that his mouth was dry and feverish72; he almost panted rather than breathed; his eyes were bloodshot; his cheeks pale and livid; with now and then faint streaks73 athwart them—baleful gleams of the fire that was consuming his heart. As my arm was within his, I felt him press it at times with a convulsive motion to his side; his hands would clinch74 themselves involuntarily, and a kind of shudder75 would run through his frame. I reasoned with him about his melancholy, and sought to draw from him the cause—he shrunk from all confiding76. “Do not seek to know it,” said he, “you could not relieve it if you knew it; you would not even seek to relieve it—on the contrary, I should lose your sympathy; and that,” said he, pressing my hand convulsively, “that I feel has become too dear to me to risk.”
I endeavored to awaken36 hope within him. He was young; life had a thousand pleasures in store for him; there is a healthy reaction in the youthful heart; it medicines its own wounds—
“Come, come,” said I, “there is no grief so great that youth cannot outgrow77 it.”—“No! no!” said he, clinching78 his teeth, and striking repeatedly, with the energy of despair, upon his bosom—“It is here—here—deep-rooted; draining my heart’s blood. It grows and grows, while my heart withers79 and withers! I have a dreadful monitor that gives me no repose—that follows me step by step; and will follow me step by step, until it pushes me into my grave!”
As he said this he gave involuntarily one of those fearful glances over his shoulder, and shrunk back with more than usual horror. I could not resist the temptation to allude80 to this movement, which I supposed to be some mere malady81 of the nerves. The moment I mentioned it his face became crimsoned82 and convulsed—he grasped me by both hands: “For God’s sake,” exclaimed he, with a piercing agony of voice—“never allude to that again; let us avoid this subject, my friend; you cannot relieve me, indeed you cannot relieve me; but you may add to the torments83 I suffer;—at some future day you shall know all.”
I never resumed the subject; for however much my curiosity might be aroused, I felt too true compassion84 for his sufferings to increase them by my intrusion. I sought various ways to divert his mind, and to arouse him from the constant meditations85 in which he was plunged86. He saw my efforts, and seconded them as far as in his power, for there was nothing moody87 or wayward in his nature; on the contrary, there was something frank, generous, unassuming, in his whole deportment. All the sentiments that he uttered were noble and lofty. He claimed no indulgence; he asked no toleration. He seemed content to carry his load of misery88 in silence, and only sought to carry it by my side. There was a mute beseeching89 manner about him, as if he craved companionship as a charitable boon90; and a tacit thankfulness in his looks, as if he felt grateful to me for not repulsing91 him.
I felt this melancholy to be infectious. It stole over my spirits; Interfered92 with all my gay pursuits, and gradually saddened my life; yet I could not prevail upon myself to shake off a being who seemed to hang upon me for support. In truth, the generous traits of character that beamed through all this gloom had penetrated93 to my heart. His bounty94 was lavish95 and open-handed. His charity melting and spontaneous. Not confined to mere donations, which often humiliate96 as much as they relieve. The tone of his voice, the beam of his eye, enhanced every gift, and surprised the poor suppliant97 with that rarest and sweetest of charities, the charity not merely of the hand, but of the heart. Indeed, his liberality seemed to have something in it of self-abasement and expiation98. He humbled99 himself, in a manner, before the mendicant100. “What right have I to ease and affluence,” would he murmur101 to himself, “when innocence102 wanders in misery and rags?”
The Carnival103 time arrived. I had hoped that the gay scenes which then Presented themselves might have some cheering effect. I mingled104 with him in the motley throng that crowded the place of St. Mark. We frequented operas, masquerades, balls. All in vain. The evil kept growing on him; he became more and more haggard and agitated105. Often, after we had returned from one of these scenes of revelry, I have entered his room, and found him lying on his face on the sofa: his hands clinched106 in his fine hair, and his whole countenance bearing traces of the convulsions of his mind.
The Carnival passed away; the season of Lent succeeded; Passion week arrived. We attended one evening a solemn service in one of the churches; in the course of which a grand piece of vocal107 and instrumental music was performed relating to the death of our Saviour108.
I had remarked that he was always powerfully affected109 by music; on this occasion he was so in an extraordinary degree. As the peeling notes swelled110 through the lofty aisles111, he seemed to kindle112 up with fervor113. His eyes rolled upwards114, until nothing but the whites were visible; his hands were clasped together, until the fingers were deeply imprinted115 in the flesh. When the music expressed the dying agony, his face gradually sunk upon his knees; and at the touching words resounding116 through the church, “Jesu mori,” sobs117 burst from him uncontrolled. I had never seen him weep before; his had always been agony rather than sorrow. I augured118 well from the circumstance. I let him weep on uninterrupted. When the service was ended we left the church. He hung on my arm as we walked homewards, with something of a softer and more subdued manner; instead of that nervous agitation119 I had been accustomed to witness. He alluded120 to the service we had heard. “Music,” said he, “is indeed the voice of heaven; never before have I felt more impressed by the story of the atonement of our Saviour. Yes, my friend,” said he, clasping his hands with a kind of transport, “I know that my Redeemer liveth.”
We parted for the night. His room was not far from mine, and I heard him for some time busied in it. I fell asleep, but was awakened before daylight. The young man stood by my bed-side, dressed for travelling. He held a sealed packet and a large parcel in his hand, which he laid on the table. “Farewell, my friend,” said he, “I am about to set forth121 on a long journey; but, before I go, I leave with you these remembrances. In this packet you will find the particulars of my story. When you read them, I shall be far away; do not remember me with aversion. You have been, indeed, a friend to me. You have poured oil into a broken heart,—but you could not heal it.—Farewell—let me kiss your hand—I am unworthy to embrace you.” He sunk on his knees, seized my hand in despite of my efforts to the contrary, and covered it with kisses. I was so surprised by all this scene that I had not been able to say a word.
But we shall meet again, said I, hastily, as I saw him hurrying towards the door.
“Never—never in this world!” said he, solemnly. He sprang once more to my bed-side—seized my hand, pressed it to his heart and to his lips, and rushed out of the room.
Here the Baronet paused. He seemed lost in thought, and sat looking upon the floor and drumming with his fingers on the arm of his chair.
“And did this mysterious personage return?” said the inquisitive122 gentleman. “Never!” replied the Baronet, with a pensive123 shake of the head: “I never saw him again.” “And pray what has all this to do with the picture?” inquired the old gentleman with the nose—“True!” said the questioner—“Is it the portrait of this crack-brained Italian?” “No!” said the Baronet drily, not half liking124 the appellation125 given to his hero; “but this picture was inclosed in the parcel he left with me. The sealed packet contained its explanation. There was a request on the outside that I would not open it until six months had elapsed. I kept my promise, in spite of my curiosity. I have a translation of it by me, and had meant to read it, by way of accounting126 for the mystery of the chamber127, but I fear I have already detained the company too long.”
Here there was a general wish expressed to have the manuscript read; particularly on the part of the inquisitive gentleman. So the worthy Baronet drew out a fairly written manuscript, and wiping his spectacles, read aloud the following story:
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1
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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inoculate
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| v.给...接种，给...注射疫苗 | |
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mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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gondola
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| n.威尼斯的平底轻舟；飞船的吊船 | |
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gondolas
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| n.狭长小船( gondola的名词复数 )；货架（一般指商店，例如化妆品店）；吊船工作台 | |
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smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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languishing
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| a. 衰弱下去的 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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mermaid
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| n.美人鱼 | |
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suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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arcades
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| n.商场( arcade的名词复数 )；拱形走道（两旁有商店或娱乐设施）；连拱廊；拱形建筑物 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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enjoyment
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emaciated
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profusion
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glossy
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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furrows
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| n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 )；（脸上的）皱纹v.犁田，开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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domes
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| n.圆屋顶( dome的名词复数 )；像圆屋顶一样的东西；圆顶体育场 | |
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furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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recur
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| vi.复发，重现，再发生 | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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49
promenades
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| n.人行道( promenade的名词复数 )；散步场所；闲逛v.兜风( promenade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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50
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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51
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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53
recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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assassination
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| n.暗杀；暗杀事件 | |
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56
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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57
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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63
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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corroding
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| 使腐蚀，侵蚀( corrode的现在分词 ) | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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67
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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68
preyed
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| v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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69
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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70
parching
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| adj.烘烤似的，焦干似的v.（使）焦干， （使）干透( parch的现在分词 )；使（某人）极口渴 | |
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71
withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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72
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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73
streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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74
clinch
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| v.敲弯，钉牢；确定；扭住对方 [参]clench | |
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75
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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76
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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77
outgrow
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| vt.长大得使…不再适用；成长得不再要 | |
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78
clinching
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| v.（尤指两人）互相紧紧抱[扭]住( clinch的现在分词 )；解决（争端、交易），达成（协议） | |
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79
withers
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| 马肩隆 | |
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80
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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81
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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82
crimsoned
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| 变为深红色（crimson的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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83
torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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84
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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85
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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86
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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87
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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88
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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89
beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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90
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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91
repulsing
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| v.击退( repulse的现在分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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92
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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93
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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94
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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95
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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96
humiliate
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| v.使羞辱，使丢脸[同]disgrace | |
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97
suppliant
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| adj.哀恳的；n.恳求者，哀求者 | |
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98
expiation
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| n.赎罪，补偿 | |
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99
humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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100
mendicant
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| n.乞丐；adj.行乞的 | |
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101
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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102
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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103
carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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104
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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105
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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106
clinched
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| v.（尤指两人）互相紧紧抱[扭]住( clinch的过去式和过去分词 )；解决（争端、交易），达成（协议） | |
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107
vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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108
saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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109
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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110
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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111
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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112
kindle
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| v.点燃，着火 | |
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113
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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114
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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115
imprinted
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| v.盖印（imprint的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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116
resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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117
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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118
augured
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| v.预示，预兆，预言( augur的过去式和过去分词 )；成为预兆；占卜 | |
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119
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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120
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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121
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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122
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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123
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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124
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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125
appellation
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| n.名称，称呼 | |
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126
accounting
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| n.会计，会计学，借贷对照表 | |
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127
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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