Speaker 1: The Miniature by J. Y Akerman. Calling one day on
a friend who had amassed a large collection of autographs
and other manuscript curiosities, he showed me a small quarto
volume which had been bequeathed to him by a relative,
a physician who for many years had been an extensive
practice in London. He attended the patients at a private
asylum for insane persons of the better classes. Said my friend,
and I have often heard him speak of the writer
of that beautiful manuscript, a gentleman of good family, who
had been an inmate of Blank House upwards of thirty
years at the time he was first called to attend him.
On looking over the volume, I found it filled with
scraps of poetry, extracts from classic authors and even from
the Talmudic writers. But what interested me most was a
narrative of several pages which appeared so circumstantially related as
to leave little doubt of its being partly, if not wholly,
founded on fat. I beg permission to make a transcript,
which was readily granted, and the result is before the reader.
We laugh at what we call the folly of our
ancestors and their notions of destiny and the malignant influences
of the stars. For what will our children deride us?
Perhaps for dreaming that friendship was a reality, and that
constant love dwelt upon earth. I once believed that friendship
was not a vain name, and thought, with the antique
sage that one mind sometimes dwelt in two bodies. I
dreamt and woke to find that I had been dreaming.
George s was my chum at school and my inseparable
companion at college. We quitted it at the same time,
he to proceed to London, where he was in expectation
of obtaining a lucrative appointment in one of the English colonies,
and I to return for a short period to the
family mansion. When I reached Blank Hall, I found several visitors,
among whom was my cousin Maria d. She had grown
a woman since I had last met her, and I
now thought I had never seen a more perfect figure
or a more bewitching countenance. Then she sang like a
siren and was an elegant horsewoman. Will those who read
this wonder that I fell in love with her, that
I spent nearly the whole of the day in her company,
and that I could think of nothing in the world. Besides,
something occurred to delay my friend George's departure from England,
and as he was idling about town, I invited him
to Blank Hall. Great as was my regard for him,
I now, however, discovered that I could live less in
his company no marvel. I preferred the society of my
lovely cousin, upon whose art I had had the happiness
to learn My constant attentions had already made a sensible impression.
I hesitated to make her an offer, though I had
every reason to believe our attachment was mutual, partly perhaps
from that excessive delicacy which constantly attends on true love,
and partly because I wished to do so. When my
friend should have left us less exposed to intrusion, would
that the deep sea had swallowed him up, or that
he had wrought it under a tropical sun. Ere he
had come to Blank Hall one morning, I rose earlier
than usual, and was looking from my chamber window on
the beautiful prospect which the house commanded wrapped in a
delightful reverie of which my lovely cousin was the principal subject.
I paid, but little attention to the sound of voices below. Suddenly, however,
I awoke to consciousness for the sweet tones of a
woman in earnest conversation struck on my ear. Yes, it
was hers. It was Maria's. Who could have called her
forth at so early an hour. As I looked earnestly
towards the walk which ran through the plantation, I saw
emerge from it my cousin and my friend. My heart
rose to my lips and choked my utterance, or I
should have cried out at the sight, I withdrew from
the window and threw myself on the sofa, tormented with
surmises a thousand times more painful even than realities. At
the breakfast table, I was moody and thoughtful, which my friend,
perceiving attempted a joke, but I was in no humor
to receive it. When Maria, in a compassionating tone, remarked
that I looked unwell and that I should take a
walk or a ride before breakfast, adding that she and
George had walked for an hour and more in a
plantation near the house. Though this announcement was certainly but
ill calculated to afford perfect ease to my mind. It
was yet made with such an artless air that my
more gloomy surmises vanished, and I rallied. But I wish
my friend would take his departure right, truly, says the
Italian proverb love's girden is jealousy. After breakfast, George proposed
a stroll on foot to the ruins of the Cistercian Abbey,
about a mile distant from the hall, to which I
at once assented. As we walked along the beautiful and
shady lane which led to the ruin, George was as
loquacious as ever, talked of everybody and everything, and of
his confident expectation of realizing a fortune abroad. I was, however,
in no humor for talking, and made few remarks in reply.
But he appeared not to heed my taciturnity, and when
he arrived at the spot, broke forth into raptures at
the sight of the noble ruin. And truly it was
a scene, the contemplation of which might have lulled the
mines of most men. A thousand birds were caroling around us.
The grass near the ruin was not long in rank,
but short, close studded with trefoil and soft as a
rich carpet. Luxuriant Ivy climbed the shattered walls bleached by
the winds of centuries, and the lizards basking in the
sun darted beneath the fallen fragments at the sound of
our footsteps. As we approached the spot. We both sat
down on a large stone and surveyed the noble Oriole.
I was passionately fond of Gothic architecture and had often
admired this window, But I thought I had never seen
it look so beautiful before. My moody thoughts fled, and
I was wrapped in the contemplation of the exquisite tracery
when I was suddenly roused by my friend, who, patting
me familiarly on the back, exclaimed, it is a beautiful
ruined dick. How I wish thy sweet cousin Maria had
accompanied us. I was struck dumb by this declaration, but
my look was sufficiently eloquent to be understood by him,
and he did not fail to interpret it aright. He
appeared confused, and I, regaining my self possession, arose from
my seat with the laconic remark. Indeed, George attempted a laugh,
but it failed. It was evidently as much disconcerted and
disquieted as myself. How Lynx is love. We mutually read
each other's hearts at the same moment. I am sorry
for you, Dick, said he, after a short pause, affecting
very awkwardly an air of indifference one my soul. I am,
but I'm over head and ears in love with the girl,
and should die at the bare thought of her encouraging another.
I wished, for the strength of Milo that I might
have dashed out his brains against the huge stone on
which she had been sitting. I felt my very blood
seethe and simmer at the declaration, and with my clenched fist,
I struck him a violent and stunning blow, which, though
it did not beat him to the ground, sent him
staggering several paces backward. Liar, I screamed, frantically, take that
you dare not proceed with your folly. Recovering his feet,
George laid his hand on his sword, which he half unsheathed,
But as if conscious of there being no witness present,
or wishing perhaps still further to convince me of the
bandage he possessed, he did not draw nay, said I
out with your weapon. Nothing less will do. I would
rather lose my birthright than yield to thee one without
whom life would be valueless. He smiled, bitterly, wiped his
bruised and bloody face, and slowly drew from his bosom
a small miniature encircled with diamonds, which he held before
my eyes. One glance was sufficient. It was a portrait
of Maria. It was that face which, sleeping or waking,
has haunted me these thirty years. Pasted villain, I cried,
clutching at the portrait with my left hand, while I
snatched with my right hand my sword from its sheath.
You have stolen it with assumed coolness, which it was
impossible he could feel. He smiled again, put the miniature
in his bosom, and drew his sword. The next moment
our weapons crossed with an angry clash, and were flashing
in the morning sun. My adversary was a perfect master
of his weapon, and he pressed upon me with a
vigor which any attempt to retaliate would have rendered dangerous
in one so much inferior to him in skill. Maddened
as I was, I yet restrained myself and stood on
my guard, my eyes fixed on his and watching every glance.
My desire to destroy him was intense. The fiend nerved
my arm, and while he warned with the conflict, I
became more cool and vigilant. At length he appeared to
grow weary, and then I pressed upon him with the
fixed determination of taking his life. But he rallied instantly,
and in returning a thrust which I intended for his heart,
and which he parried scarcely in time, his foot slipped
and he fell on one knee, the point of my
sword entering the left breast by accident. It was not
a deep wound, and perhaps he felt it not, for
he attempted to master my sword with his left hand,
while he shortened his own weapon and thrust fiercely at
my throat, making at the same time a spring to
regain his feet. But his his fate was sealed. As
he rose. I dashed aside the thrust intented for me,
and sheathed my weapon in his left breast. I believe
I must have pierced his heart, for he sank on
his knees with a gasp, and the next moment fell
heavily on his face with his sword still clutched tightly
in his hand. Wearied and panting from the efforts of
the violent struggle, I threw myself on the large stone
which had so recently served us for a seat, and
looked on the body of my adversary. He was dead.
That fatal thrust had destroyed all rivalry, but at the
price of a murder, the murder of one who had
been my friend from boyhood upwards. A thousand conflicting emotions
rapped me as I beheld the piteous sight. Hatrede was extinguished,
and remorse succeeded. Yet I still thought of the audacity
of him who had provoked such deadly resentment. Fear, too,
fear of the consequences of this fatal encounter in a
solitary spot without witnesses, added to the intensity of my misery,
and I groaned in anguish. What was to be done.
Should I go and deliver myself up to justice and
declare the whole truth? Should I fly and leave the
body of my friend to tell the dismal tale? Or
should I bury him secretly and leave it to be
supposed that he had been robbed and murdered? As each
suggestion was canvassed and rejected. In my despair, I even
thought of dying by my own hand. A miserable wretch,
I exclaimed, what hast thou done? To what dire necessity?
Has a fair and false face driven me? Yet? I
will look once more on those bewitching features which had
brought me to this wretched pass. I stooped and turned
the dead man on his back. His pallid face was
writhen and distorted, his lips were bloody, and his eyes,
which were wide open, seemed still to glare with hatred
and defiance, as when he stood before me in the
desperate struggle for life and death. I tore open his
vest and discovered the wound that had killed him. It
had collapsed and looked no bigger than the puncture of
a bogkin, But one little round crimson spot was visible.
The hemorrhage was internal. There lay the miniature, which a
few minutes before had been held up exultingly to my
frantic gaze. I seized and pressed it to my lips
forgetting in my transports. How dearly I had purchased it.
This delirium, however, soon subsided, and my next thoughts were
of the dead body. I looked about me for some
nook where I might deposit it. There was a chasm
in the ground among the ruins a few yards off,
where the vaulted roof of the crypt had fallen in.
It was scarcely large enough to admit the corpse, but
I raised it in my arms, bore it thither, and
with some difficulty, thrust it through the aperture. I heard
it fall, as if to some distance, with a dull,
heavy sound, and casting in after it, my adversaries had
and sword. I hurried from the spot like another came
at dinner. One glance from Maria, as I replied in
answer to her inquiry after George that he was gone
to make a call a few miles off. One glance,
I say, thrilled through my very soul, and almost caused
me to betray myself. All noticed my perturbed look, and
complaining of violent headache, I withdrew from the table. Ere
the meal was ended, and betook myself to my chamber.
How shall I paint the horror of that evening, of
the night that succeeded it, and the mental darkness which
fell upon my wretched self. Ere the morning dawned, night
came I rang for lights and attempted to read, but
in vain, and after pacing my chamber for some hours,
overpowered by fatigue, I threw myself on the bed and
slept how long I know not. A succession of hideous
dreams haunted my slumbers. Still I was not awakened by them.
The scenes shifted when arrived at their climax, and a
new ordeal of horror succeeded. Yet, like him who suffers
from nightmare, with a vague consciousness that all was not real,
I wished to awake. Last of all, I dreamt that
I was arraigned for the murder of my friend. The
judge summed up the evidence, which, though purely circumstantial, was
sufficient to condemn me, and amidst the silence of the
crowded court, broken only by the sobs of anxious and
sympathizing friends and relatives, I received sentence of death and
was hurried back to my cell. Here, abandoned by all hope,
I lay groveling on my straw bed and cursed the
hour of my birth. A figure entered, and, in gentle
accents which I thought I recognized, bade me arise, quit
my prison house and follow The figure was that of
a woman closely veiled. She led the way and passed
the jailers, who seemed buried in profound sleep. We left
the town, crossed the common, and entered a wood. When
I threw myself at the feet of my deliverer and
passionately besought her to unveil. She shook her head, mournfully,
bade me wait awhile till she should return with a
change of apparel, and departed. I cast myself down at
the foot of an aged oak, drew from my bosom
the portrait of Maria, and wrapped in the contemplation of
those lovely features, I did not perceive the approach of
a man, the ranger of the forest, who, recognizing my
prison dress, darted upon me, exclaiming, villain, you have escaped
from jail and stolen that miniature from the hall. I
sprang to my feet, thrust the fatal portrait into my bosom,
and would have fled, but he seized and closed with me,
and the struggle which followed we both fell. I undermost.
At that moment I awoke, I was in reality struggling
with some one, but whom I could not tell. For
my candle said burnt out, and the chamber was in
total darkness. A powerful, bony hand grasped me tightly by
the throat, while another was thrust into my bosom, as
if in search of the miniature which I had placed
there previous to lying down. With a desperate effort, I
disengaged myself and leaped from the bed. But I was
again seized, and again my assailant attempted to reach my
fatal prize. We struggled violently. At one time I seemed
to be overpowering him, and for several moments there was
a pause during which I heard my own breathing and
felt my own heart throbbing violently. But he with whom
I contended seemed to breathe, not nor to feel like
a warm and living man. An indescribable tremor shook my frame.
I attempted to cry out, but my throat was rigid
and incapable of articulation. I made another effort to disengage
myself from the grasp of my assailant, and in doing
so drew him as I found by the curtains near
to the window. Again the hand was thrust into my bosom,
and again I repelled it, panting with the violence of
the struggle, while a cold sweat burst out at every pore.
I disengaged my right hand, and determined to see whom
I was contending with. I dashed aside the curtain. The
dim light of the waning moon shone into the chamber.
It fell upon the face of my antagonist, and one
glance froze the blood in my veins. It was he.
It was George, he whom I had murdered, glaring upon
me with eyes which no mortal could look upon. A
second time my brain whirled. A sound like the discharge
of artillery shook the place, and I fell to the ground,
blasted at the sight. Here follows a few incoherent sentences
which I have not deemed it necessary to transcribe. The
reader will probably supply the sequel to this sad story.
End of the miniature.