The Assignation

by Edgar Allan Poe

　　To meet thee in that hollow vale.

　　[ Exequy on the death of his wife, by Henry King, Bishop ofChichester .]

　　ILL-FATED and mysterious man ! - bewildered in the brilliancy ofthine own imagination, and fallen in the flames of thine own youth !Again in fancy I behold thee ! Once more thy form hath risen beforeme ! - not - oh not as thou art - in the cold valley and shadow -but as thou shouldst be - squandering away a life of magnificentmeditation in that city of dim visions, thine own Venice - which is astar-beloved Elysium of the sea, and the wide windows of whosePalladian palaces look down with a deep and bitter meaning upon thesecrets of her silent waters. Yes ! I repeat it - as thou shouldstbe . There are surely other worlds than this - other thoughts thanthe thoughts of the multitude - other speculations than thespeculations of the sophist. Who then shall call thy conduct intoquestion ? who blame thee for thy visionary hours, or denouncethose occupations as a wasting away of life, which were but theoverflowings of thine everlasting energies ?

　　It was at Venice, beneath the covered archway there called thePonte di Sospiri , that I met for the third or fourth time theperson of whom I speak. It is with a confused recollection that Ibring to mind the circumstances of that meeting. Yet I remember - ah! how should I forget ? - the deep midnight, the Bridge of Sighs,the beauty of woman, and the Genius of Romance that stalked up anddown the narrow canal.

　　It was a night of unusual gloom. The great clock of the Piazzahad sounded the fifth hour of the Italian evening. The square of theCampanile lay silent and deserted, and the lights in the old DucalPalace were dying fast away. I was returning home from the Piazetta,by way of the Grand Canal. But as my gondola arrived opposite themouth of the canal San Marco, a female voice from its recesses brokesuddenly upon the night, in one wild, hysterical, and long continuedshriek. Startled at the sound, I sprang upon my feet : while thegondolier, letting slip his single oar, lost it in the pitchydarkness beyond a chance of recovery, and we were consequently leftto the guidance of the current which here sets from the greater intothe smaller channel. Like some huge and sable-feathered condor, wewere slowly drifting down towards the Bridge of Sighs, when athousand flambeaux flashing from the windows, and down the staircasesof the Ducal Palace, turned all at once that deep gloom into a lividand preternatural day.

　　A child, slipping from the arms of its own mother, had fallen froman upper window of the lofty structure into the deep and dim canal.The quiet waters had closed placidly over their victim ; and,although my own gondola was the only one in sight, many a stoutswimmer, already in the stream, was seeking in vain upon the surface,the treasure which was to be found, alas ! only within the abyss.Upon the broad black marble flagstones at the entrance of the palace,and a few steps above the water, stood a figure which none who thensaw can have ever since forgotten. It was the Marchesa Aphrodite -the adoration of all Venice - the gayest of the gay - the most lovelywhere all were beautiful - but still the young wife of the old andintriguing Mentoni, and the mother of that fair child, her first andonly one, who now, deep beneath the murky water, was thinking inbitterness of heart upon her sweet caresses, and exhausting itslittle life in struggles to call upon her name.

　　She stood alone. Her small, bare, and silvery feet gleamed in theblack mirror of marble beneath her. Her hair, not as yet more thanhalf loosened for the night from its ball-room array, clustered, amida shower of diamonds, round and round her classical head, in curlslike those of the young hyacinth. A snowy-white and gauze-likedrapery seemed to be nearly the sole covering to her delicate form ;but the mid-summer and midnight air was hot, sullen, and still, andno motion in the statue-like form itself, stirred even the folds ofthat raiment of very vapor which hung around it as the heavy marblehangs around the Niobe. Yet - strange to say ! - her large lustrouseyes were not turned downwards upon that grave wherein her brightesthope lay buried - but riveted in a widely different direction ! Theprison of the Old Republic is, I think, the stateliest building inall Venice - but how could that lady gaze so fixedly upon it, whenbeneath her lay stifling her only child ? Yon dark, gloomy niche,too, yawns right opposite her chamber window - what, then, couldthere be in its shadows - in its architecture - in its ivy-wreathedand solemn cornices - that the Marchesa di Mentoni had not wonderedat a thousand times before ? Nonsense ! - Who does not rememberthat, at such a time as this, the eye, like a shattered mirror,multiplies the images of its sorrow, and sees in innumerable far-offplaces, the wo which is close at hand ?

　　Many steps above the Marchesa, and within the arch of thewater-gate, stood, in full dress, the Satyr-like figure of Mentonihimself. He was occasionally occupied in thrumming a guitar, andseemed ennuye to the very death, as at intervals he gave directionsfor the recovery of his child. Stupified and aghast, I had myself nopower to move from the upright position I had assumed upon firsthearing the shriek, and must have presented to the eyes of theagitated group a spectral and ominous appearance, as with palecountenance and rigid limbs, I floated down among them in thatfunereal gondola.

　　All efforts proved in vain. Many of the most energetic in thesearch were relaxing their exertions, and yielding to a gloomysorrow. There seemed but little hope for the child ; (how much lessthan for the mother ! ) but now, from the interior of that darkniche which has been already mentioned as forming a part of the OldRepublican prison, and as fronting the lattice of the Marchesa, afigure muffled in a cloak, stepped out within reach of the light,and, pausing a moment upon the verge of the giddy descent, plungedheadlong into the canal. As, in an instant afterwards, he stood withthe still living and breathing child within his grasp, upon themarble flagstones by the side of the Marchesa, his cloak, heavy withthe drenching water, became unfastened, and, falling in folds abouthis feet, discovered to the wonder-stricken spectators the gracefulperson of a very young man, with the sound of whose name the greaterpart of Europe was then ringing.

　　No word spoke the deliverer. But the Marchesa ! She will nowreceive her child - she will press it to her heart - she will clingto its little form, and smother it with her caresses. Alas !another's arms have taken it from the stranger - another's armshave taken it away, and borne it afar off, unnoticed, into the palace! And the Marchesa ! Her lip - her beautiful lip trembles : tearsare gathering in her eyes - those eyes which, like Pliny's acanthus,are "soft and almost liquid." Yes ! tears are gathering in thoseeyes - and see ! the entire woman thrills throughout the soul, andthe statue has started into life ! The pallor of the marblecountenance, the swelling of the marble bosom, the very purity of themarble feet, we behold suddenly flushed over with a tide ofungovernable crimson ; and a slight shudder quivers about herdelicate frame, as a gentle air at Napoli about the rich silverlilies in the grass.

　　Why should that lady blush ! To this demand there is no answer- except that, having left, in the eager haste and terror of amother's heart, the privacy of her own boudoir, she has neglectedto enthral her tiny feet in their slippers, and utterly forgotten tothrow over her Venetian shoulders that drapery which is their due.What other possible reason could there have been for her so blushing? - for the glance of those wild appealing eyes ? for the unusualtumult of that throbbing bosom ? - for the convulsive pressure ofthat trembling hand ? - that hand which fell, as Mentoni turned intothe palace, accidentally, upon the hand of the stranger. What reasoncould there have been for the low - the singularly low tone of thoseunmeaning words which the lady uttered hurriedly in bidding him adieu? "Thou hast conquered," she said, or the murmurs of the waterdeceived me ; "thou hast conquered - one hour after sunrise - weshall meet - so let it be !"

　　* * *The tumult had subsided, the lights had died away within thepalace, and the stranger, whom I now recognized, stood alone upon theflags. He shook with inconceivable agitation, and his eye glancedaround in search of a gondola. I could not do less than offer himthe service of my own ; and he accepted the civility. Havingobtained an oar at the water-gate, we proceeded together to hisresidence, while he rapidly recovered his self-possession, and spokeof our former slight acquaintance in terms of great apparentcordiality.

　　There are some subjects upon which I take pleasure in beingminute. The person of the stranger - let me call him by this title,who to all the world was still a stranger - the person of thestranger is one of these subjects. In height he might have beenbelow rather than above the medium size : although there weremoments of intense passion when his frame actually expanded andbelied the assertion. The light, almost slender symmetry of hisfigure, promised more of that ready activity which he evinced at theBridge of Sighs, than of that Herculean strength which he has beenknown to wield without an effort, upon occasions of more dangerousemergency. With the mouth and chin of a deity - singular, wild,full, liquid eyes, whose shadows varied from pure hazel to intenseand brilliant jet - and a profusion of curling, black hair, fromwhich a forehead of unusual breadth gleamed forth at intervals alllight and ivory - his were features than which I have seen none moreclassically regular, except, perhaps, the marble ones of the EmperorCommodus. Yet his countenance was, nevertheless, one of those whichall men have seen at some period of their lives, and have neverafterwards seen again. It had no peculiar - it had no settledpredominant expression to be fastened upon the memory ; acountenance seen and instantly forgotten - but forgotten with a vagueand never-ceasing desire of recalling it to mind. Not that thespirit of each rapid passion failed, at any time, to throw its owndistinct image upon the mirror of that face - but that the mirror,mirror-like, retained no vestige of the passion, when the passion haddeparted.

　　Upon leaving him on the night of our adventure, he solicited me,in what I thought an urgent manner, to call upon him very early thenext morning. Shortly after sunrise, I found myself accordingly athis Palazzo, one of those huge structures of gloomy, yet fantasticpomp, which tower above the waters of the Grand Canal in the vicinityof the Rialto. I was shown up a broad winding staircase of mosaics,into an apartment whose unparalleled splendor burst through theopening door with an actual glare, making me blind and dizzy withluxuriousness.

　　I knew my acquaintance to be wealthy. Report had spoken of hispossessions in terms which I had even ventured to call terms ofridiculous exaggeration. But as I gazed about me, I could not bringmyself to believe that the wealth of any subject in Europe could havesupplied the princely magnificence which burned and blazed around.

　　Although, as I say, the sun had arisen, yet the room was stillbrilliantly lighted up. I judge from this circumstance, as well asfrom an air of exhaustion in the countenance of my friend, that hehad not retired to bed during the whole of the preceding night. Inthe architecture and embellishments of the chamber, the evidentdesign had been to dazzle and astound. Little attention had beenpaid to the decora of what is technically called keeping, or tothe proprieties of nationality. The eye wandered from object toobject, and rested upon none - neither the grotesques of the Greekpainters, nor the sculptures of the best Italian days, nor the hugecarvings of untutored Egypt. Rich draperies in every part of theroom trembled to the vibration of low, melancholy music, whose originwas not to be discovered. The senses were oppressed by mingled andconflicting perfumes, reeking up from strange convolute censers,together with multitudinous flaring and flickering tongues of emeraldand violet fire. The rays of the newly risen sun poured in upon thewhole, through windows, formed each of a single pane ofcrimson-tinted glass. Glancing to and fro, in a thousandreflections, from curtains which rolled from their cornices likecataracts of molten silver, the beams of natural glory mingled atlength fitfully with the artificial light, and lay weltering insubdued masses upon a carpet of rich, liquid-looking cloth of Chiligold.

　　"Ha ! ha ! ha ! - ha ! ha ! ha ! " - laughed the proprietor,motioning me to a seat as I entered the room, and throwing himselfback at full-length upon an ottoman. "I see," said he, perceivingthat I could not immediately reconcile myself to the bienseance ofso singular a welcome - "I see you are astonished at my apartment -at my statues - my pictures - my originality of conception inarchitecture and upholstery ! absolutely drunk, eh, with mymagnificence ? But pardon me, my dear sir, (here his tone of voicedropped to the very spirit of cordiality,) pardon me for myuncharitable laughter. You appeared so utterly astonished.Besides, some things are so completely ludicrous, that a man mustlaugh or die. To die laughing, must be the most glorious of allglorious deaths ! Sir Thomas More - a very fine man was Sir ThomasMore - Sir Thomas More died laughing, you remember. Also in theAbsurdities of Ravisius Textor, there is a long list of characterswho came to the same magnificent end. Do you know, however,"continued he musingly, "that at Sparta (which is now Pal ; ochori,)at Sparta, I say, to the west of the citadel, among a chaos ofscarcely visible ruins, is a kind of socle, upon which are stilllegible the letters 7!=9 . They are undoubtedly part of '+7!=9! .Now, at Sparta were a thousand temples and shrines to a thousanddifferent divinities. How exceedingly strange that the altar ofLaughter should have survived all the others ! But in the presentinstance," he resumed, with a singular alteration of voice andmanner, "I have no right to be merry at your expense. You might wellhave been amazed. Europe cannot produce anything so fine as this, mylittle regal cabinet. My other apartments are by no means of thesame order - mere ultras of fashionable insipidity. This is betterthan fashion - is it not ? Yet this has but to be seen to become therage - that is, with those who could afford it at the cost of theirentire patrimony. I have guarded, however, against any suchprofanation. With one exception, you are the only human being besidesmyself and my valet, who has been admitted within the mysteries ofthese imperial precincts, since they have been bedizzened as you see!"

　　I bowed in acknowledgment - for the overpowering sense of splendorand perfume, and music, together with the unexpected eccentricity ofhis address and manner, prevented me from expressing, in words, myappreciation of what I might have construed into a compliment.

　　"Here," he resumed, arising and leaning on my arm as he saunteredaround the apartment, "here are paintings from the Greeks to Cimabue,and from Cimabue to the present hour. Many are chosen, as you see,with little deference to the opinions of Virtu. They are all,however, fitting tapestry for a chamber such as this. Here, too, aresome chefs d'oeuvre of the unknown great ; and here, unfinisheddesigns by men, celebrated in their day, whose very names theperspicacity of the academies has left to silence and to me. Whatthink you," said he, turning abruptly as he spoke - "what think youof this Madonna della Pieta ?"

　　"It is Guido's own ! " I said, with all the enthusiasm of mynature, for I had been poring intently over its surpassingloveliness. "It is Guido's own ! - how could you have obtained it? - she is undoubtedly in painting what the Venus is in sculpture."

　　"Ha ! " said he thoughtfully, "the Venus - the beautiful Venus ?- the Venus of the Medici ? - she of the diminutive head and thegilded hair ? Part of the left arm (here his voice dropped so as tobe heard with difficulty,) and all the right, are restorations ; andin the coquetry of that right arm lies, I think, the quintessence ofall affectation. Give me the Canova ! The Apollo, too, is a copy- there can be no doubt of it - blind fool that I am, who cannotbehold the boasted inspiration of the Apollo ! I cannot help - pityme ! - I cannot help preferring the Antinous. Was it not Socrateswho said that the statuary found his statue in the block of marble ?Then Michael Angelo was by no means original in his couplet -

　　'Non ha l'ottimo artista alcun concetto Che un marmo solo in se non circunscriva.' "It has been, or should be remarked, that, in the manner of thetrue gentleman, we are always aware of a difference from the bearingof the vulgar, without being at once precisely able to determine inwhat such difference consists. Allowing the remark to have appliedin its full force to the outward demeanor of my acquaintance, I feltit, on that eventful morning, still more fully applicable to hismoral temperament and character. Nor can I better define thatpeculiarity of spirit which seemed to place him so essentially apartfrom all other human beings, than by calling it a habit of intenseand continual thought, pervading even his most trivial actions -intruding upon his moments of dalliance - and interweaving itselfwith his very flashes of merriment - like adders which writhe fromout the eyes of the grinning masks in the cornices around the templesof Persepolis.

　　I could not help, however, repeatedly observing, through themingled tone of levity and solemnity with which he rapidly descantedupon matters of little importance, a certain air of trepidation - adegree of nervous unction in action and in speech - an unquietexcitability of manner which appeared to me at all timesunaccountable, and upon some occasions even filled me with alarm.Frequently, too, pausing in the middle of a sentence whosecommencement he had apparently forgotten, he seemed to be listeningin the deepest attention, as if either in momentary expectation of avisiter, or to sounds which must have had existence in hisimagination alone.

　　It was during one of these reveries or pauses of apparentabstraction, that, in turning over a page of the poet and scholarPolitian's beautiful tragedy "The Orfeo," (the first native Italiantragedy,) which lay near me upon an ottoman, I discovered a passageunderlined in pencil. It was a passage towards the end of the thirdact - a passage of the most heart-stirring excitement - a passagewhich, although tainted with impurity, no man shall read without athrill of novel emotion - no woman without a sigh. The whole pagewas blotted with fresh tears ; and, upon the opposite interleaf,were the following English lines, written in a hand so very differentfrom the peculiar characters of my acquaintance, that I had somedifficulty in recognising it as his own : -

　　Thou wast that all to me, love, For which my soul did pine - A green isle in the sea, love, A fountain and a shrine, All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers ; And all the flowers were mine. Ah, dream too bright to last ! Ah, starry Hope, that didst arise But to be overcast ! A voice from out the Future cries, "Onward ! " - but o'er the Past (Dim gulf ! ) my spirit hovering lies, Mute - motionless - aghast ! For alas ! alas ! with me The light of life is o'er. "No more - no more - no more," (Such language holds the solemn sea To the sands upon the shore,) Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree, Or the stricken eagle soar ! Now all my hours are trances ; And all my nightly dreams Are where the dark eye glances, And where thy footstep gleams, In what ethereal dances, By what Italian streams. Alas ! for that accursed time They bore thee o'er the billow, From Love to titled age and crime, And an unholy pillow ! - From me, and from our misty clime, Where weeps the silver willow !That these lines were written in English - a language with which Ihad not believed their author acquainted - afforded me little matterfor surprise. I was too well aware of the extent of hisacquirements, and of the singular pleasure he took in concealing themfrom observation, to be astonished at any similar discovery ; butthe place of date, I must confess, occasioned me no little amazement.It had been originally written London , and afterwards carefullyoverscored - not, however, so effectually as to conceal the word froma scrutinizing eye. I say, this occasioned me no little amazement ;for I well remember that, in a former conversation with a friend, Iparticularly inquired if he had at any time met in London theMarchesa di Mentoni, (who for some years previous to her marriage hadresided in that city,) when his answer, if I mistake not, gave me tounderstand that he had never visited the metropolis of Great Britain.I might as well here mention, that I have more than once heard,(without, of course, giving credit to a report involving so manyimprobabilities,) that the person of whom I speak, was not only bybirth, but in education, an Englishman .

　　* * *"There is one painting," said he, without being aware of my noticeof the tragedy - "there is still one painting which you have notseen." And throwing aside a drapery, he discovered a full-lengthportrait of the Marchesa Aphrodite.

　　Human art could have done no more in the delineation of hersuperhuman beauty. The same ethereal figure which stood before methe preceding night upon the steps of the Ducal Palace, stood beforeme once again. But in the expression of the countenance, which wasbeaming all over with smiles, there still lurked (incomprehensibleanomaly !) that fitful stain of melancholy which will ever be foundinseparable from the perfection of the beautiful. Her right arm layfolded over her bosom. With her left she pointed downward to acuriously fashioned vase. One small, fairy foot, alone visible,barely touched the earth ; and, scarcely discernible in thebrilliant atmosphere which seemed to encircle and enshrine herloveliness, floated a pair of the most delicately imagined wings. Myglance fell from the painting to the figure of my friend, and thevigorous words of Chapman's Bussy D'Ambois , quivered instinctivelyupon my lips :

　　"He is up There like a Roman statue ! He will stand Till Death hath made him marble !""Come," he said at length, turning towards a table of richlyenamelled and massive silver, upon which were a few gobletsfantastically stained, together with two large Etruscan vases,fashioned in the same extraordinary model as that in the foregroundof the portrait, and filled with what I supposed to beJohannisberger. "Come," he said, abruptly, "let us drink ! It isearly - but let us drink. It is indeed early," he continued,musingly, as a cherub with a heavy golden hammer made the apartmentring with the first hour after sunrise : "It is indeed early - butwhat matters it ? let us drink ! Let us pour out an offering to yonsolemn sun which these gaudy lamps and censers are so eager to subdue!" And, having made me pledge him in a bumper, he swallowed in rapidsuccession several goblets of the wine.

　　"To dream," he continued, resuming the tone of his desultoryconversation, as he held up to the rich light of a censer one of themagnificent vases - "to dream has been the business of my life. Ihave therefore framed for myself, as you see, a bower of dreams. Inthe heart of Venice could I have erected a better ? You beholdaround you, it is true, a medley of architectural embellishments. Thechastity of Ionia is offended by antediluvian devices, and thesphynxes of Egypt are outstretched upon carpets of gold. Yet theeffect is incongruous to the timid alone. Proprieties of place, andespecially of time, are the bugbears which terrify mankind from thecontemplation of the magnificent. Once I was myself a decorist ; butthat sublimation of folly has palled upon my soul. All this is nowthe fitter for my purpose. Like these arabesque censers, my spiritis writhing in fire, and the delirium of this scene is fashioning mefor the wilder visions of that land of real dreams whither I am nowrapidly departing." He here paused abruptly, bent his head to hisbosom, and seemed to listen to a sound which I could not hear. Atlength, erecting his frame, he looked upwards, and ejaculated thelines of the Bishop of Chichester :

　　"Stay for me there ! I will not fail To meet thee in that hollow vale." In the next instant, confessing the power of the wine, he threwhimself at full-length upon an ottoman.

　　A quick step was now heard upon the staircase, and a loud knock atthe door rapidly succeeded. I was hastening to anticipate a seconddisturbance, when a page of Mentoni's household burst into the room,and faltered out, in a voice choking with emotion, the incoherentwords, "My mistress ! - my mistress ! - Poisoned ! - poisoned !Oh, beautiful - oh, beautiful Aphrodite !"

　　Bewildered, I flew to the ottoman, and endeavored to arouse thesleeper to a sense of the startling intelligence. But his limbs wererigid - his lips were livid - his lately beaming eyes were riveted indeath. I staggered back towards the table - my hand fell upon acracked and blackened goblet - and a consciousness of the entire andterrible truth flashed suddenly over my soul.