The Uncollected Writings of Thomas de Quincey, Vol. 2: With a Preface and Annotations by James HoggDe Quincey, Thomas
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The Uncollected Writings of Thomas de Quincey, Vol. 2: With a Preface and Annotations by James Hogg
De Quincey, Thomas
English literature
The bugles were still playing; the company were walking about the
garden, or sitting before the house. The sun had gone down behind thick,
murky clouds, and the country was lying in the gray dusk, when a parting
gleam suddenly burst forth athwart the cloudy veil, and flooded every
spot around, but especially the building, and its galleries, and
pillars, and wreaths of flowers, as it were with red blood. At this
moment the parents of the bride and the other spectators beheld a train
of the wildest appearances move toward the upper corridor. Roderick led
the way as the scarlet old woman, and was followed by hump-backs,
mountain-paunches, massy wigs, clowns, punches, skeleton-like
pantaloons, female figures embanked by enormous hoops and over-canopied
with three feet of horsehair, powder and pomatum, and by every
disgusting shape that can be conceived, as though a nightmare were
unrolling her stores. They jumped, and twirled, and tottered, and
stumbled, and straddled, and strutted, and swaggered along the gallery,
and then vanished behind one of the doors. But few of the beholders had
been able to laugh: so utterly were they amazed by the strange sight.
Suddenly a piercing shriek burst from one of the rooms, and there rushed
forth into the blood-red glow of the sunset the pale bride, in a short
white frock, round which wreaths of flowers were waving, with her lovely
bosom all uncovered, and her rich locks streaming through the air. As
though mad, with rolling eyes and distorted face, she darted along the
gallery, and, blinded by terror, could find neither door nor staircase;
and immediately after rushed Emilius in chase of her, with the sparkling
Turkish dagger in his high, upraised hand. Now she was at the end of the
passage; she could go no further; he reached her. His masked friends and
the gray old woman were running after him. But he had already furiously
pierced her bosom, and cut through her white neck; her blood spouted
forth into the radiance of the setting sun. The old woman had clasped
round him to tear him back; he struggled with her, and hurled himself
together with her over the railing, and they both fell, almost lifeless,
down at the feet of the relations who had been staring in dumb horror at
the bloody scene. Above and below, or hastening down the stairs and
along the galleries, were seen the hideous masks, standing or running
about in various clusters, like fiends of hell.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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