Tales and Stories
Tales and StoriesINTRODUCTION.I. THE SISTERS OF ALBANO.II. FERDINANDO EBOLI.III. THE EVIL EYE.IV. THE DREAM.V. THE MOURNER.VI. THE FALSE RHYME.VII. A TALE OF THE PASSIONS; OR, THE DEATH OF DESPINA.VIII. THE MORTAL IMMORTAL.IX. TRANSFORMATION.X. THE SWISS PEASANT.XI. THE INVISIBLE GIRL.XII. THE BROTHER AND SISTER.XIII. THE PARVENUE.XIV. THE POLE.XV. EUPHRASIA.XVI. THE ELDER SON.XVII. THE PILGRIMS.Copyright
Tales and Stories
Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley
INTRODUCTION.
It is customary to regard Mary Shelley’s claims to literary
distinction as so entirely rooted and grounded in her husband’s as
to constitute a merely parasitic growth upon his fame. It may be
unreservedly admitted that her association with Shelley, and her
care of his writings and memory after his death, are the strongest
of her titles to remembrance. It is further undeniable that the
most original of her works is also that which betrays the strongest
traces of his influence.Frankensteinwas written when her brain, magnetized by his companionship,
was capable of an effort never to be repeated. But if the frame of
mind which engendered and sustained the work was created by
Shelley, the conception was not his, and the diction is dissimilar
to his. Both derive from Godwin, but neither is Godwin’s. The same
observation, except for an occasional phrase caught from Shelley,
applies to all her subsequent work. The frequent exaltation of
spirit, the ideality and romance, may well have been Shelley’s—the
general style of execution neither repeats nor resembles
him.Mary Shelley’s voice, then, is not to die away as a mere echo
of her illustrious husband’s. She has theprima
facieclaim to a hearing due to every writer who
can assert the possession of a distinctive individuality; and if
originality be once conceded toFrankenstein, as in all equity it
must, none will dispute the validity of a title to fame grounded on
such a work. It has solved the question itself—it is famous. It is
full of faults venial in an author of nineteen; but, apart from the
wild grandeur of the conception, it has that which even the
maturity of mere talent never attains—the insight of genius which
looks below the appearances of things, and perhaps even reverses
its own first conception by the discovery of some underlying truth.
Mary Shelley’s original intention was probably that which would
alone have occurred to most writers in her place. She meant to
paint Frankenstein’s monstrous creation as an object of unmitigated
horror. The perception that he was an object of intense compassion
as well imparted a moral value to what otherwise would have
remained a daring flight of imagination. It has done more: it has
helped to create, if it did not itself beget, a type of personage
unknown to ancient fiction. The conception of a character at once
justly execrable and truly pitiable is altogether modern. Richard
the Third and Caliban make some approach towards it; but the former
is too self-sufficing in his valour and his villainy to be deeply
pitied, and the latter too senseless and brutal. Victor Hugo has
made himself the laureate of pathetic deformity, but much of his
work is a conscious or unconscious variation on the original theme
ofFrankenstein.None of Mary Shelley’s subsequent romances approachedFrankensteinin power and popularity.
The reason may be summed up in a word—Languor. After the death of
her infant son in 1819, she could never again command the energy
which had carried her so vigorously throughFrankenstein. Except in one instance,
her work did not really interest her. Her heart is not in
it.Valpergacontains many
passages of exquisite beauty; but it was, as the authoress herself
says, “a child of mighty slow growth;” “laboriously dug,” Shelley
adds, “out of a hundred old chronicles,” and wants the fire of
imagination which alone could have interpenetrated the mass and
fused its diverse ingredients into a satisfying whole. Of the later
novels,The Last Manexcepted,
it is needless to speak, save for the autobiographic interest with
which Professor Dowden’s fortunate discovery has informed the
hitherto slighted pages ofLodore. ButThe Last Mandemands
great attention, for it is not only a work of far higher merit than
commonly admitted, but of all her works the most characteristic of
the authoress, the most representative of Mary Shelley in the
character of pining widowhood which it was her destiny to support
for the remainder of her life. It is an idealized version of her
sorrows and sufferings, made to contribute a note to the strain
which celebrates the final dissolution of the world. The languor
which mars her other writings is a beauty here, harmonizing with
the general tone of sublime melancholy. Most pictures of the end of
the world, painted or penned, have an apocalyptic character. Men’s
imaginations are powerfully impressed by great convulsions of
nature; fire, tempest, and earthquake are summoned to effect the
dissolution of the expiring earth. InThe Last
Manpestilence is the sole agent, and the tragedy
is purely human. The tale consequently lacks the magnificence which
the subject might have seemed to invite, but, on the other hand,
gains in pathos—a pathos greatly increased when the authoress’s
identity is recollected, and it is observed how vividly actual
experience traverses her web of fiction. None can have been
affected by Mary Shelley’s work so deeply as Mary Shelley herself;
for the scenery is that of her familiar haunts, the personages are
her intimates under thin disguises, the universal catastrophe is
but the magnified image of the overthrow of her own fortunes; and
there are pages on pages where every word must have come to her
fraught with some unutterably sweet or bitter association. Yet,
though her romance could never be to the public what it was to the
author, it is surprising that criticism should have hitherto done
so little justice either to its pervading nobility of thought or to
the eloquence and beauty of very many inspired
passages.WhenThe Last Manis
reprinted it will come before the world as a new work. The same is
the case with the short tales in this collection, the very
existence of which is probably unknown to those most deeply
interested in Mary Shelley. The entire class of literature to which
they belong has long ago gone into Time’s wallet as “alms for
oblivion.” They are exclusively contributions to a form of
publication utterly superseded in this hasty age—the Annual, whose
very name seemed to prophesy that it would not be perennial. For
the creations of the intellect, however, there is a way back from
Avernus. Every new generation convicts the last of undue
precipitation in discarding the work of its own immediate
predecessor. The special literary form may be incapable of revival;
but the substance of that which has pleased or profited its age, be
it Crashaw’s verse, or Etherege’s comedies, or Hoadly’s pamphlets,
or what it may, always repays a fresh examination, and is always
found to contribute some element useful or acceptable to the
literature of a later day. The day of the “splendid annual” was
certainly not a vigorous or healthy one in the history of
Englishbelles-lettres. It came
in at the ebb of the great tide of poetry which followed on the
French Revolution, and before the insetting of the great tide of
Victorian prose. A pretentious feebleness characterizes the
majority of its productions, half of which are hardly above the
level of the album. Yet it had its good points, worthy to be taken
into account. The necessary brevity of contributions to an annual
operated as a powerful check on the loquacity so unfortunately
encouraged by the three-volume novel. There was no room for
tiresome descriptions of minutiæ, or interminable talk about
uninteresting people. Being, moreover, largely intended for the
perusal of high-born maidens in palace towers, the annuals
frequently affected an exalted order of sentiment, which, if
intolerable in insincere or merely mechanical hands, encouraged the
emotion of a really passionate writer as much as the present taste
for minute delineation represses it. This perfectly suited Mary
Shelley. No writer felt less call to reproduce the society around
her. It did not interest her in the smallest degree. The bent of
her soul was entirely towards the ideal. This ideal was by no means
buried in the grave of Shelley. She aspired passionately towards an
imaginary perfection all her life, and solaced disappointment with
what, in actual existence, too often proved the parent of fresh
disillusion. In fiction it was otherwise; the fashionable style of
publication, with all its faults, encouraged the enthusiasm,
rapturous or melancholy, with which she adored the present or
lamented the lost. She could fully indulge her taste for exalted
sentiment in the Annual, and the necessary limitations of space
afforded less scope for that creeping languor which relaxed the
nerve of her more ambitious productions. In these little tales she
is her perfect self, and the reader will find not only the
entertainment of interesting fiction, but a fair picture of the
mind, repressed in its energies by circumstances, but naturally
enthusiastic and aspiring, of a lonely, thwarted, misunderstood
woman, who could seldom do herself justice, and whose precise place
in the contemporary constellation of genius remains to be
determined.The merit of a collection of stories, casually written at
different periods and under different influences, must necessarily
be various. As a rule, it may be said that Mary Shelley is best
when most ideal, and excels in proportion to the exaltation of the
sentiment embodied in her tale. Virtue, patriotism, disinterested
affection, are very real things to her; and her heroes and
heroines, if generally above the ordinary plane of humanity, never
transgress the limits of humanity itself. Her fault is the other
way, and arises from a positive incapacity for painting the ugly
and the commonplace. She does her best, but her villains do not
impress us. Minute delineation of character is never attempted; it
lay entirely out of her sphere. Her tales are consequently executed
in the free, broad style of the eighteenth century, towards which a
reaction is now fortunately observable. As stories, they are very
good. The theme is always interesting, and the sequence of events
natural. No person and no incident, perhaps, takes a very strong
hold upon the imagination; but the general impression is one of a
sphere of exalted feeling into which it is good to enter, and which
ennobles as much as the photography of ugliness degrades. The
diction, as usual in the imaginative literature of the period, is
frequently too ornate, and could spare a good many adjectives. But
its native strength is revealed in passages of impassioned feeling;
and remarkable command over the resources of the language is
displayed in descriptions of scenes of natural beauty. The
microscopic touch of a Browning or a Meredith, bringing the scene
vividly before the mind’s eye, is indeed absolutely wanting; but
the landscape is suffused with the poetical atmosphere of a Claude
or a Danby. The description at the beginning ofThe Sisters of Albanois a
characteristic and beautiful instance.The biographical element is deeply interwoven with these as
with all Mary Shelley’s writings. It is of especial interest to
search out the traces of her own history, and the sources from
which her descriptions and ideas may have been derived.The Mournerhas evident vestiges of her
residence near Windsor whenAlastorwas written, and probably reflects the general impression
derived from Shelley’s recollections of Eton. The visit to Pæstum
inThe Polerecalls one of the
most beautiful of Shelley’s letters, which Mary, however, probably
never saw. Claire Clairmont’s fortunes seem glanced at in one or
two places; and the story ofThe Polemay be partly founded on some experience of hers in Russia.
Trelawny probably suggested the subjects of the two Greek
tales,The Evil Eye, andEuphrasia. The Mortal Immortalis a
variation on the theme ofSt. Leon, andTransformationon
that ofFrankenstein. These are
the only tales in the collection which betray the influence of
Godwin, and neither is so fully worked out as it might have been.
Mary Shelley was evidently more at home with a human than with a
superhuman ideal; her enthusiasm soars high, but does not transcend
the possibilities of human nature. The artistic merit of her tales
will be diversely estimated, but no reader will refuse the
authoress facility of invention, or command of language, or
elevation of soul.
I. THE SISTERS OF ALBANO.
“ And near Albano’s scarce divided wavesShine from a sister valley;—and afarThe Tiber winds, and the broad ocean lavesThe Latian coast where sprang the Epic war,
‘ Arms and the Man,’ whose re-ascending starRose o’er an empire; but beneath thy rightTully reposed from Rome; and where yon barOf girdling mountains intercepts the sightThe Sabine farm was till’d, the weary bard’s
delight.”It was to see this beautiful lake that I made my last
excursion before quitting Rome. The spring had nearly grown into
summer, the trees were all in full but fresh green foliage, the
vine-dresser was singing, perched among them, training his vines:
the cicada had not yet begun her song, the heats therefore had not
commenced; but at evening the fire-flies gleamed among the hills,
and the cooing aziola assured us of what in that country needs no
assurance—fine weather for the morrow. We set out early in the
morning to avoid the heats, breakfasted at Albano, and till ten
o’clock passed our time in visiting the Mosaic, the villa of
Cicero, and other curiosities of the place. We reposed during the
middle of the day in a tent elevated for us at the hill-top, whence
we looked on the hill-embosomed lake, and the distant eminence
crowned by a town with its church. Other villages and cottages were
scattered among the foldings of mountains, and beyond we saw the
deep blue sea of the southern poets, which received the swift and
immortal Tiber, rocking it to repose among its devouring waves. The
Coliseum falls and the Pantheon decays,—the very hills of Rome are
perishing,—but the Tiber lives for ever, flows for ever, and for
ever feeds the land-encircled Mediterranean with fresh
waters.Our summer and pleasure-seeking party consisted of many: to
me the most interesting person was the Countess Atanasia D——, who
was as beautiful as an imagination of Raphael, and good as the
ideal of a poet. Two of her children accompanied her, with animated
looks and gentle manners, quiet, yet enjoying. I sat near her,
watching the changing shadows of the landscape before us. As the
sun descended, it poured a tide of light into the valley of the
lake, deluging the deep bank formed by the mountain with liquid
gold. The domes and turrets of the far town flashed and gleamed,
the trees were dyed in splendour; two or three slight clouds, which
had drunk the radiance till it became their essence, floated golden
islets in the lustrous empyrean. The waters, reflecting the
brilliancy of the sky and the fire-tinted banks, beamed a second
heaven, a second irradiated earth, at our feet. The Mediterranean,
gazing on the sun,—as the eyes of a mortal bride fail and are
dimmed when reflecting her lover’s glance,—was lost, mixed in his
light, till it had become one with him.—Long (our souls, like the
sea, the hills, and lake, drinking in the supreme loveliness) we
gazed, till the too full cup overflowed, and we turned away with a
sigh.At our feet there was a knoll of ground, that formed the
foreground of our picture; two trees lay basking against the sky,
glittering with the golden light, which like dew seemed to hang
amid their branches; a rock closed the prospect on the other side,
twined round by creepers, and redolent with blooming myrtle; a
brook, crossed by huge stones, gushed through the turf, and on the
fragments of rock that lay about, sat two or three persons,
peasants, who attracted our attention. One was a hunter, as his
gun, lying on a bank not far off, demonstrated, yet he was a tiller
of the soil; his rough straw hat, and his picturesque but coarse
dress, belonged to that class. The other was some contadina, in the
costume of her country, returning, her basket on her arm, from the
village to her cottage home. They were regarding the stores of a
pedlar, who with doffed hat stood near: some of these consisted of
pictures and prints—views of the country, and portraits of the
Madonna. Our peasants regarded these with pleased
attention.
“ One might easily make out a story for that pair,” I said:
“his gun is a help to the imagination, and we may fancy him a
bandit with his contadina love, the terror of all the
neighbourhood, except of her, the most defenceless being in
it.”
“ You speak lightly of such a combination,” said the lovely
countess at my side, “as if it must not in its nature be the cause
of dreadful tragedies. The mingling of love with crime is a dread
conjunction, and lawless pursuits are never followed without
bringing on the criminal, and all allied to him, ineffable misery.
I speak with emotion, for your observation reminds me of an
unfortunate girl, now one of the Sisters of Charity in the convent
of Santa Chiara at Rome, whose unhappy passion for a man, such as
you mention, spread destruction and sorrow widely around
her.”I entreated my lovely friend to relate the history of the
nun. For a long time she resisted my entreaties, as not willing to
depress the spirit of a party of pleasure by a tale of sorrow. But
I urged her, and she yielded. Her sweet Italian phraseology now
rings in my ears, and her beautiful countenance is before me. As
she spoke, the sun set, and the moon bent her silver horn in the
ebbing tide of glory he had left. The lake changed from purple to
silver, and the trees, before so splendid, now in dark masses, just
reflected from their tops the mild moonlight. The fire-flies
flashed among the rocks; the bats circled round us: meanwhile thus
commenced the Countess Atanasia:—The nun of whom I speak had a sister older than herself; I
can remember them when as children they brought eggs and fruit to
my father’s villa. Maria and Anina were constantly together. With
their large straw hats to shield them from the scorching sun, they
were at work in their father’spodereall day, and in the evening, when Maria, who was the elder by
four years, went to the fountain for water, Anina ran at her side.
Their cot—the folding of the hill conceals it—is at the lake-side
opposite; and about a quarter of a mile up the hill is the rustic
fountain of which I speak. Maria was serious, gentle, and
considerate; Anina was a laughing, merry little creature, with the
face of a cherub. When Maria was fifteen, their mother fell ill,
and was nursed at the convent of Santa Chiara at Rome. Maria
attended her, never leaving her bedside day or night. The nuns
thought her an angel, she deemed them saints: her mother died, and
they persuaded her to make one of them; her father could not but
acquiesce in her holy intention, and she became one of the Sisters
of Charity, the nun-nurses of Santa Chiara. Once or twice a year
she visited her home, gave sage and kind advice to Anina, and
sometimes wept to part from her; but her piety and her active
employments for the sick reconciled her to her fate. Anina was more
sorry to lose her sister’s society. The other girls of the village
did not please her: she was a good child, and worked hard for her
father, and her sweetest recompense was the report he made of her
to Maria, and the fond praises and caresses the latter bestowed on
her when they met.It was not until she was fifteen that Anina showed any
diminution of affection for her sister. Yet I cannot call it
diminution, for she loved her perhaps more than ever, though her
holy calling and sage lectures prevented her from reposing
confidence, and made her tremble lest the nun, devoted to heaven
and good works, should read in her eyes, and disapprove of the
earthly passion that occupied her. Perhaps a part of her reluctance
arose from the reports that were current against her lover’s
character, and certainly from the disapprobation and even hatred of
him that her father frequently expressed. Ill-fated Anina! I know
not if in the north your peasants love as ours; but the passion of
Anina was entwined with the roots of her being, it was herself: she
could die, but not cease to love. The dislike of her father for
Domenico made their intercourse clandestine. He was always at the
fountain to fill her pitcher, and lift it on her head. He attended
the same mass; and when her father went to Albano, Velletri, or
Rome, he seemed to learn by instinct the exact moment of his
departure, and joined her in thepodere, labouring with her and for
her, till the old man was seen descending the mountain-path on his
return. He said he worked for a contadino near Nemi. Anina
sometimes wondered that he could spare so much time for her; but
his excuses were plausible, and the result too delightful not to
blind the innocent girl to its obvious cause.Poor Domenico! the reports spread against him were too well
founded: his sole excuse was that his father had been a robber
before him, and he had spent his early years among these lawless
men. He had better things in his nature, and yearned for the peace
of the guiltless. Yet he could hardly be called guilty, for no
dread crime stained him. Nevertheless, he was an outlaw and a
bandit; and now that he loved Anina, these names were the stings of
an adder to pierce his soul. He would have fled from his comrades
to a far country, but Anina dwelt amid their very haunts. At this
period also the police established by the French Government, which
then possessed Rome, made these bands more alive to the conduct of
their members; and rumours of active measures to be taken against
those who occupied the hills near Albano, Nemi, and Velletri,
caused them to draw together in tighter bonds. Domenico would not,
if he could, desert his friends in the hour of danger.On afestaat this time—it
was towards the end of October—Anina strolled with her father among
the villagers, who all over Italy make holiday by congregating and
walking in one place. Their talk was entirely of theladriand the French, and many terrible
stories were related of the extirpation of banditti in the kingdom
of Naples, and the mode by which the French succeeded in their
undertaking was minutely described. The troops scoured the country,
visiting one haunt of the robbers after the other, and dislodging
them, tracked them as in those countries they hunt the wild beasts
of the forest, till, drawing the circle narrower, they enclosed
them in one spot. They then drew a cordon round the place, which
they guarded with the utmost vigilance, forbidding any to enter it
with provisions, on pain of instant death. And as this menace was
rigorously executed, in a short time the besieged bandits were
starved into a surrender. The French troops were now daily
expected, for they had been seen at Velletri and Nemi; at the same
time it was affirmed that several outlaws had taken up their abode
at Rocca Giovane, a deserted village on the summit of one of these
hills, and it was supposed that they would make that place the
scene of their final retreat.The next day, as Anina worked in thepodere, a party of French horse passed
by along the road that separated her garden from the lake.
Curiosity made her look at them; and her beauty was too great not
to attract. Their observations and address soon drove her away; for
a woman in love consecrates herself to her lover, and deems the
admiration of others to be profanation. She spoke to her father of
the impertinence of these men; and he answered by rejoicing at
their arrival, and the destruction of the lawless bands that would
ensue. When in the evening Anina went to the fountain, she looked
timidly around, and hoped that Domenico would be at his accustomed
post, for the arrival of the French destroyed her feeling of
security. She went rather later than usual, and a cloudy evening
made it seem already dark; the wind roared among the trees, bending
hither and thither even the stately cypresses; the waters of the
lake were agitated into high waves, and dark masses of thundercloud
lowered over the hill-tops, giving a lurid tinge to the landscape.
Anina passed quickly up the mountain-path. When she came in sight
of the fountain, which was rudely hewn in the living rock, she saw
Domenico leaning against a projection of the hill, his hat drawn
over his eyes, histabarofallen
from his shoulders, his arms folded in an attitude of dejection. He
started when he saw her; his voice and phrases were broken and
unconnected; yet he never gazed on her with such ardent love, nor
solicited her to delay her departure with such impassioned
tenderness.
“ How glad I am to find you here!” she said; “I was fearful
of meeting one of the French soldiers: I dread them even more than
the banditti.”Domenico cast a look of eager inquiry on her, and then turned
away, saying, “Sorry am I that I shall not be here to protect you.
I am obliged to go to Rome for a week or two. You will be faithful,
Anina mia; you will love me, though I never see you
more?”The interview, under these circumstances, was longer than
usual. He led her down the path till they nearly came in sight of
her cottage; still they lingered. A low whistle was heard among the
myrtle underwood at the lake-side; he started; it was repeated; and
he answered it by a similar note. Anina, terrified, was about to
ask what this meant, when, for the first time, he pressed her to
his heart, kissed her roseate lips, and, with a muttered “Carissima
addio,” left her, springing down the bank; and as she gazed in
wonder, she thought she saw a boat cross a line of light made by
the opening of a cloud. She stood long absorbed in reverie,
wondering and remembering with thrilling pleasure the quick embrace
and impassioned farewell of her lover. She delayed so long that her
father came to seek her.Each evening after this, Anina visited the fountain at the
Ave Maria; he was not there: each day seemed an age; and
incomprehensible fears occupied her heart. About a fortnight after,
letters arrived from Maria. They came to say that she had been ill
of the malaria fever, that she was now convalescent, but that
change of air was necessary for her recovery, and that she had
obtained leave to spend a month at home at Albano. She asked her
father to come the next day to fetch her. These were pleasant
tidings for Anina; she resolved to disclose everything to her
sister, and during her long visit she doubted not but that she
would contrive her happiness. Old Andrea departed the following
morning, and the whole day was spent by the sweet girl in dreams of
future bliss. In the evening Maria arrived, weak and wan, with all
the marks of that dread illness about her, yet, as she assured her
sister, feeling quite well.As they sat at their frugal supper, several villagers came in
to inquire for Maria; but all their talk was of the French soldiers
and the robbers, of whom a band of at least twenty was collected in
Rocca Giovane, strictly watched by the military.
“ We may be grateful to the French,” said Andrea, “for this
good deed; the country will be rid of these ruffians.”
“ True, friend,” said another; “but it is horrible to think
what these men suffer: they have, it appears, exhausted all the
food they brought with them to the village, and are literally
starving. They have not an ounce of maccaroni among them; and a
poor fellow who was taken and executed yesterday was a mere
anatomy: you could tell every bone in his skin.”
“ There was a sad story the other day,” said another, “of an
old man from Nemi, whose son, they say, is among them at Rocca
Giovane: he was found within the lines with somebaccallàunder hispastrano, and shot on the
spot.”
“ There is not a more desperate gang,” observed the first
speaker, “in the states and theregnoput together. They have sworn never to yield but upon good
terms. To secure these, their plan is to waylay passengers and make
prisoners, whom they keep as hostages for mild treatment from the
Government. But the French are merciless; they are better pleased
that the bandits wreak their vengeance on these poor creatures than
spare one of their lives.”
“ They have captured two persons already,” said another; “and
there is old Betta Tossi half frantic, for she is sure her son is
taken: he has not been at home these ten days.”
“ I should rather guess,” said an old man, “that he went
there with good-will: the young scapegrace kept company with
Domenico Baldi of Nemi.”
“ No worse company could he have kept in the whole country,”
said Andrea; “Domenico is the bad son of a bad race. Is he in the
village with the rest?”
“ My own eyes assured me of that,” replied the
other.
“ When I was up the hill with eggs and fowls to the piquette
there, I saw the branches of an ilex move; the poor fellow was weak
perhaps, and could not keep his hold; presently he dropped to the
ground; every musket was levelled at him, but he started up and was
away like a hare among the rocks. Once he turned, and then I saw
Domenico as plainly, though thinner, poor lad, by much than he
was,—as plainly as I now see—Santa Virgine! what is the matter with
Nina?”She had fainted. The company broke up, and she was left to
her sister’s care. When the poor child came to herself she was
fully aware of her situation, and said nothing, except expressing a
wish to retire to rest. Maria was in high spirits at the prospect
of her long holiday at home; but the illness of her sister made her
refrain from talking that night, and blessing her, as she said
good-night, she soon slept. Domenico starving!—Domenico trying to
escape and dying through hunger, was the vision of horror that
wholly possessed poor Anina. At another time, the discovery that
her lover was a robber might have inflicted pangs as keen as those
which she now felt; but this at present made a faint impression,
obscured by worse wretchedness. Maria was in a deep and tranquil
sleep. Anina rose, dressed herself silently, and crept downstairs.
She stored her market-basket with what food there was in the house,
and, unlatching the cottage-door, issued forth, resolved to reach
Rocca Giovane, and to administer to her lover’s dreadful wants. The
night was dark, but this was favourable, for she knew every path
and turn of the hills, every bush and knoll of ground between her
home and the deserted village which occupies the summit of that
hill. You may see the dark outline of some of its houses about two
hours’ walk from her cottage. The night was dark, but still;
thelibecciobrought the clouds
below the mountain-tops, and veiled the horizon in mist; not a leaf
stirred; her footsteps sounded loud in her ears, but resolution
overcame fear. She had entered yon ilex grove, her spirits rose
with her success, when suddenly she was challenged by a sentinel;
no time for escape; fear chilled her blood; her basket dropped from
her arm; its contents rolled out on the ground; the soldier fired
his gun, and brought several others round him; she was made
prisoner.In the morning, when Maria awoke she missed her sister from
her side. I have overslept myself, she thought, and Nina would not
disturb me. But when she came downstairs and met her father, and
Anina did not appear, they began to wonder. She was not in
thepodere; two hours passed,
and then Andrea went to seek her. Entering the near village, he saw
the contadini crowding together, and a stifled exclamation of “Ecco
il padre!” told him that some evil had betided. His first
impression was that his daughter was drowned; but the truth, that
she had been taken by the French carrying provisions within the
forbidden line, was still more terrible. He returned in frantic
desperation to his cottage, first to acquaint Maria with what had
happened, and then to ascend the hill to save his child from her
impending fate. Maria heard his tale with horror; but an hospital
is a school in which to learn self-possession and presence of mind.
“Do you remain, my father,” she said; “I will go. My holy character
will awe these men, my tears move them: trust me; I swear that I
will save my sister.” Andrea yielded to her superior courage and
energy.The nuns of Santa Chiara when out of their convent do not
usually wear their monastic habit, but dress simply in a black
gown. Maria, however, had brought her nun’s habiliments with her,
and, thinking thus to impress the soldiers with respect, she now
put them on. She received her father’s benediction, and, asking
that of the Virgin and the saints, she departed on her expedition.
Ascending the hill, she was soon stopped by the sentinels. She
asked to see their commanding officer, and being conducted to him,
she announced herself as the sister of the unfortunate girl who had
been captured the night before. The officer, who had received her
with carelessness, now changed countenance: his serious look
frightened Maria, who clasped her hands, exclaiming, “You have not
injured the child! she is safe!”
“ She is safe—now,” he replied with hesitation; “but there is
no hope of pardon.”
“ Holy Virgin, have mercy on her! What will be done to
her?”
“ I have received strict orders: in two hours she
dies.”
“ No! no!” exclaimed Maria impetuously, “that cannot be! You
cannot be so wicked as to murder a child like her.”
“ She is old enough, madame,” said the officer, “to know that
she ought not to disobey orders; mine are so strict, that were she
but nine years old, she dies.”These terrible words stung Maria to fresh resolution: she
entreated for mercy; she knelt; she vowed that she would not depart
without her sister; she appealed to Heaven and the saints. The
officer, though cold-hearted, was good-natured and courteous, and
he assured her with the utmost gentleness that her supplications
were of no avail; that were the criminal his own daughter he must
enforce his orders. As a sole concession, he permitted her to see
her sister. Despair inspired the nun with energy; she almost ran up
the hill, out-speeding her guide: they crossed a folding of the
hills to a little sheep-cot, where sentinels paraded before the
door. There was no glass to the windows, so the shutters were shut;
and when Maria first went in from the bright daylight she hardly
saw the slight figure of her sister leaning against the wall, her
dark hair fallen below her waist, her head sunk on her bosom, over
which her arms were folded. She started wildly as the door opened,
saw her sister, and sprang with a piercing shriek into her
arms.They were left alone together: Anina uttered a thousand
frantic exclamations, beseeching her sister to save her, and
shuddering at the near approach of her fate. Maria had felt
herself, since their mother’s death, the natural protectress and
support of her sister, and she never deemed herself so called on to
fulfil this character as now that the trembling girl clasped her
neck,—her tears falling on her cheeks, and her choked voice
entreating her to save her. The thought—O could I suffer instead of
you! was in her heart, and she was about to express it, when it
suggested another idea, on which she was resolved to act. First she
soothed Anina by her promises, then glanced round the cot; they
were quite alone: she went to the window, and through a crevice saw
the soldiers conversing at some distance. “Yes, dearest sister,”
she cried, “I will—I can save you—quick—we must change
dresses—there is no time to be lost I—you must escape in my
habit.”
“ And you remain to die?”
“ They dare not murder the innocent, a nun! Fear not for me—I
am safe.”Anina easily yielded to her sister, but her fingers trembled;
every string she touched she entangled. Maria was perfectly
self-possessed, pale, but calm. She tied up her sister’s long hair,
and adjusted her veil over it so as to conceal it; she unlaced her
bodice, and arranged the folds of her own habit on her with the
greatest care—then more hastily she assumed the dress of her
sister, putting on, after a lapse of many years, her native
contadina costume. Anina stood by, weeping and helpless, hardly
hearing her sister’s injunctions to return speedily to their
father, and under his guidance to seek sanctuary. The guard now
opened the door. Anina clung to her sister in terror, while she, in
soothing tones, entreated her to calm herself.The soldier said they must delay no longer, for the priest
had arrived to confess the prisoner.To Anina the idea of confession associated with death was
terrible; to Maria it brought hope. She whispered, in a smothered
voice, “The priest will protect me—fear not—hasten to our
father!”Anina almost mechanically obeyed: weeping, with her
handkerchief placed unaffectedly before her face, she passed the
soldiers; they closed the door on the prisoner, who hastened to the
window, and saw her sister descend the hill with tottering steps,
till she was lost behind some rising ground. The nun fell on her
knees—cold dew bathed her brow, instinctively she feared: the
French had shown small respect for the monastic character; they
destroyed the convents and desecrated the churches. Would they be
merciful to her, and spare the innocent? Alas! was not Anina
innocent also? Her sole crime had been disobeying an arbitrary
command, and she had done the same.
“ Courage!” cried Maria; “perhaps I am fitter to die than my
sister is. Gesu, pardon me my sins, but I do not believe that I
shall out live this day!”In the meantime, Anina descended the hill slowly and
trembling. She feared discovery,—she feared for her sister,—and
above all, at the present moment, she feared the reproaches and
anger of her father. By dwelling on this last idea, it became
exaggerated into excessive terror, and she determined, instead of
returning to her home, to make a circuit among the hills, to find
her way by herself to Albano, where she trusted to find protection
from her pastor and confessor. She avoided the open paths, and
following rather the direction she wished to pursue than any beaten
road, she passed along nearer to Rocca Giovane than she
anticipated. She looked up at its ruined houses and bell-less
steeple, straining her eyes to catch a glimpse of him, the author
of all her ills. A low but distinct whistle reached her ear, not
far off; she started,—she remembered that on the night when she
last saw Domenico a note like that had called him from her side;
the sound was echoed and re-echoed from other quarters; she stood
aghast, her bosom heaving, her hands clasped. First she saw a dark
and ragged head of hair, shadowing two fiercely gleaming eyes, rise
from beneath a bush. She screamed, but before she could repeat her
scream three men leapt from behind a rock, secured her arms, threw
a cloth over her face, and hurried her up the acclivity. Their
talk, as she went along, informed her of the horror and danger of
her situation.Pity, they said, that the holy father and some of his red
stockings did not command the troops: with a nun in their hands,
they might obtain any terms. Coarse jests passed as they dragged
their victim towards their ruined village. The paving of the street
told her when they arrived at Rocca Giovane, and the change of
atmosphere that they entered a house. They unbandaged her eyes: the
scene was squalid and miserable, the walls ragged and black with
smoke, the floor strewn with offals and dirt; a rude table and
broken bench was all the furniture; and the leaves of Indian corn,
heaped high in one corner, served, it seemed, for a bed, for a man
lay on it, his head buried in his folded arms. Anina looked round
on her savage hosts: their countenances expressed every variety of
brutal ferocity, now rendered more dreadful from gaunt famine and
suffering.
“ Oh, there is none who will save me!” she cried. The voice
startled the man who was lying on the floor; he lept up—it was
Domenico: Domenico, so changed, with sunk cheeks and eyes, matted
hair, and looks whose wildness and desperation differed little from
the dark countenances around him. Could this be her
lover?His recognition and surprise at her dress led to an
explanation. When the robbers first heard that their prey was no
prize, they were mortified and angry; but when she related the
danger she had incurred by endeavouring to bring them food, they
swore with horrid oaths that no harm should befall her, but that if
she liked she might make one of them in all honour and equality.
The innocent girl shuddered. “Let me go,” she cried; “let me only
escape and hide myself in a convent for ever!”Domenico looked at her in agony. “Yes, poor child,” he said;
“go save yourself: God grant no evil befall you; the ruin is too
wide already.” Then turning eagerly to his comrades, he continued:
“You hear her story. She was to have been shot for bringing food to
us: her sister has substituted herself in her place. We know the
French; one victim is to them as good as another: Maria dies in
their hands. Let us save her. Our time is up; we must fall like
men, or starve like dogs: we have still ammunition, still some
strength left. To arms! let us rush on the poltroons, free their
prisoner, and escape or die!”There needed but an impulse like this to urge the outlaws to
desperate resolves. They prepared their arms with looks of
ferocious determination. Domenico, meanwhile, led Anina out of the
house, to the verge of the hill, inquiring whether she intended to
go. On her saying to Albano, he observed, “That were hardly safe;
be guided by me, I entreat you: take these piastres, hire the first
conveyance you find, hasten to Rome, to the convent of Santa
Chiara: for pity’s sake, do not linger in this
neighbourhood.”
“ I will obey your injunctions, Domenico,” she replied, “but
I cannot take your money; it has cost you too dear: fear not, I
shall arrive safely at Rome without that ill-fated
silver.”Domenico’s comrades now called loudly to him: he had no time
to urge his request; he threw the despised dollars at her
feet.
“ Nina, adieu for ever,” he said: “may you love again more
happily!”
“ Never!” she replied. “God has saved me in this dress; it
were sacrilege to change it: I shall never quit Santa
Chiara.”Domenico had led her a part of the way down the rock; his
comrades appeared at the top, calling to him.
“ Gesu save you!” cried he: “reach the convent—Maria shall
join you there before night. Farewell!” He hastily kissed her hand,
and sprang up the acclivity to rejoin his impatient
friends.The unfortunate Andrea had waited long for the return of his
children. The leafless trees and bright clear atmosphere permitted
every object to be visible, but he saw no trace of them on the
hill-side; the shadows of the dial showed noon to be passed, when,
with uncontrollable impatience, he began to climb the hill, towards
the spot where Anina had been taken. The path he pursued was in
part the same that this unhappy girl had taken on her way to Rome.
The father and daughter met: the old man saw the nun’s dress, and
saw her unaccompanied: she covered her face with her hands in a
transport of fear and shame; but when, mistaking her for Maria, he
asked in a tone of anguish for his youngest darling, her arms
fell—she dared not raise her eyes, which streamed with
tears.
“ Unhappy girl!” exclaimed Andrea, “where is your
sister?”She pointed to the cottage prison, now discernible near the
summit of a steep acclivity. “She is safe,” she replied: “she saved
me; but they dare not murder her.”
“ Heaven bless her for this good deed!” exclaimed the old man
fervently; “but you hasten on your way, and I will go in search of
her.”Each proceeded on an opposite path. The old man wound up the
hill, now in view, and now losing sight of the hut where his child
was captive: he was aged, and the way was steep. Once, when the
closing of the hill hid the point towards which he for ever
strained his eyes, a single shot was fired in that direction: his
staff fell from his hands, his knees trembled and failed him;
several minutes of dead silence elapsed before he recovered himself
sufficiently to proceed: full of fears he went on, and at the next
turn saw the cot again. A party of soldiers were on the open space
before it, drawn up in a line as if expecting an attack. In a few
moments from above them shots were fired, which they returned, and
the whole was enveloped and veiled in smoke. Still Andrea climbed
the hill, eager to discover what had become of his child: the
firing continued quick and hot. Now and then, in the pauses of
musketry and the answering echoes of the mountains, he heard a
funeral chant; presently, before he was aware, at a turning of the
hill, he met a company of priests and contadini, carrying a large
cross and a bier. The miserable father rushed forward with frantic
impatience; the awe-struck peasants set down their load—the face
was uncovered, and the wretched man fell helpless on the corpse of
his murdered child.The Countess Atanasia paused, overcome by the emotions
inspired by the history she related. A long pause ensued: at length
one of the party observed, “Maria, then, was the sacrifice to her
goodness.”
“ The French,” said the countess, “did not venerate her holy
vocation; one peasant girl to them was the same as another. The
immolation of any victim suited their purpose of awe-striking the
peasantry. Scarcely, however, had the shot entered her heart, and
her blameless spirit been received by the saints in Paradise, when
Domenico and his followers rushed down the hill to avenge her and
themselves. The contest was furious and bloody; twenty French
soldiers fell, and not one of the banditti escaped,—Domenico, the
foremost of the assailants, being the first to fall.”I asked, “And where are now Anina and her
father?”
“ You may see them, if you will,” said the countess, “on your
return to Rome. She is a nun of Santa Chiara. Constant acts of
benevolence and piety have inspired her with calm and resignation.
Her prayers are daily put up for Domenico’s soul, and she hopes,
through the intercession of the Virgin, to rejoin him in the other
world.
“ Andrea is very old; he has outlived the memory of his
sufferings; but he derives comfort from the filial attentions of
his surviving daughter. But when I look at his cottage on this
lake, and remember the happy laughing face of Anina among the
vines, I shudder at the recollection of the passion that has made
her cheeks pale, her thoughts for ever conversant with death, her
only wish to find repose in the grave.”
II. FERDINANDO EBOLI.
During this quiet time of peace we are fast forgetting the
exciting and astonishing events of the Napoleonic wars; and the
very names of Europe’s conquerors are becoming antiquated to the
ears of our children. Those were more romantic days than these; for
the revulsions occasioned by revolution or invasion were full of
romance; and travellers in those countries in which these scenes
had place hear strange and wonderful stories, whose truth so much
resembles fiction, that, while interested in the narration, we
never give implicit credence to the narrator. Of this kind is a
tale I heard at Naples. The fortunes of war perhaps did not
influence its actors, yet it appears improbable that any
circumstances so out of the usual routine could have had place
under the garish daylight that peace sheds upon the
world.When Murat, then called Gioacchino, king of Naples, raised
his Italian regiments, several young nobles, who had before been
scarcely more than vine-dressers on the soil, were inspired with a
love of arms, and presented themselves as candidates for military
honours. Among these was the young Count Eboli. The father of this
youthful noble had followed Ferdinand to Sicily; but his estates
lay principally near Salerno, and he was naturally desirous of
preserving them; while the hopes that the French government held
out of glory and prosperity to his country made him often regret
that he had followed his legitimate but imbecile king to exile.
When he died, therefore, he recommended his son to return to
Naples, to present himself to his old and tried friend, the
Marchese Spina, who held a high office in Murat’s government, and
through his means to reconcile himself to the new king. All this
was easily achieved. The young and gallant Count was permitted to
possess his patrimony; and, as a further pledge of good fortune, he
was betrothed to the only child of the Marchese Spina. The nuptials
were deferred till the end of the ensuing campaign.Meanwhile the army was put in motion, and Count Eboli only
obtained such short leave of absence as permitted him to visit for
a few hours the villa of his future father-in-law, there to take
leave of him and his affianced bride. The villa was situated on one
of the Apennines to the north of Salerno, and looked down, over the
plain of Calabria, in which Pæstum is situated, on to the blue
Mediterranean. A precipice on one side, a brawling mountain
torrent, and a thick grove of ilex, added beauty to the sublimity
of its site. Count Eboli ascended the mountain-path in all the joy
of youth and hope. His stay was brief. An exhortation and a
blessing from the Marchese, a tender farewell, graced by gentle
tears, from the fair Adalinda, were the recollections he was to
bear with him, to inspire him with courage and hope in danger and
absence. The sun had just sunk behind the distant isle of Istria,
when, kissing his lady’s hand, he said a last “Addio,” and with
slower steps, and more melancholy mien, rode down the mountain on
his road to Naples.That same night Adalinda retired early to her apartment,
dismissing her attendants; and then, restless from mingled fear and
hope, she threw open the glass-door that led to a balcony looking
over the edge of the hill upon the torrent, whose loud rushing
often lulled her to sleep, but whose waters were concealed from
sight by the ilex trees, which lifted their topmost branches above
the guarding parapet of the balcony.Leaning her cheek upon her hand, she thought of the dangers
her lover would encounter, of her loneliness the while, of his
letters, and of his return. A rustling sound now caught her ear.
Was it the breeze among the ilex trees? Her own veil was unwaved by
every wind, her tresses even, heavy in their own rich beauty only,
were not lifted from her cheek. Again those sounds. Her blood
retreated to her heart, and her limbs trembled. What could it mean?
Suddenly the upper branches of the nearest tree were disturbed;
they opened, and the faint starlight showed a man’s figure among
them. He prepared to spring from his hold on to the wall. It was a
feat of peril. First the soft voice of her lover bade her “Fear
not,” and on the next instant he was at her side, calming her
terrors, and recalling her spirits, that almost left her gentle
frame, from mingled surprise, dread, and joy. He encircled her
waist with his arm, and pouring forth a thousand passionate
expressions of love, she leant on his shoulder, and wept from
agitation, while he covered her hands with kisses, and gazed on her
with ardent adoration.Then in calmer mood they sat together; triumph and joy
lighted up his eyes, and a modest blush glowed on her cheek: for
never before had she sat alone with him, nor heard unrestrained his
impassioned assurances of affection. It was, indeed, Love’s own
hour. The stars trembled on the roof of his eternal temple; the
dashing of the torrent, the mild summer atmosphere, and the
mysterious aspect of the darkened scenery, were all in unison to
inspire security and voluptuous hope. They talked of how their
hearts, through the medium of divine nature, might hold commune
during absence; of the joys of reunion, and of their prospect of
perfect happiness.The moment at last arrived when he must depart. “One tress of
this silken hair,” said he, raising one of the many curls that
clustered on her neck. “I will place it on my heart, a shield to
protect me against the swords and balls of the enemy.” He drew his
keen-edged dagger from its sheath. “Ill weapon for so gentle a
deed,” he said, severing the lock, and at the same moment many
drops of blood fell fast on the fair arm of the lady. He answered
her fearful inquiries by showing a gash he had awkwardly inflicted
on his left hand. First he insisted on securing his prize, and then
he permitted her to bind his wound, which she did half laughing,
half in sorrow, winding round his hand a riband loosened from her
own arm. “Now, farewell,” he cried; “I must ride twenty miles ere
dawn, and the descending Bear shows that midnight is past.” His
descent was difficult, but he achieved it happily, and the stave of
a song—whose soft sounds rose like the smoke of incense from an
altar—from the dell below, to her impatient ear, assured her of his
safety.As is always the case when an account is gathered from
eye-witnesses, I never could ascertain the exact date of these
events. They occurred, however, while Murat was king of Naples; and
when he raised his Italian regiments, Count Eboli, as aforesaid,
became a junior officer in them, and served with much distinction,
though I cannot name either the country or the battle in which he
acted so conspicuous a part that he was on the spot promoted to a
troop.Not long after this event, and while he was stationed in the
north of Italy, Gioacchino, sending for him to headquarters late
one evening, entrusted him with a confidential mission, across a
country occupied by the enemy’s troops, to a town possessed by the
French. It was necessary to undertake the expedition during the
night, and he was expected to return on that succeeding the
following day. The king himself gave him his despatches and the
word; and the noble youth, with modest firmness, protested that he
would succeed, or die, in the fulfilment of his trust.It was already night, and the crescent moon was low in the
west, when Count Ferdinando Eboli, mounting his favourite horse, at
a quick gallop cleared the streets of the town; and then, following
the directions given him, crossed the country among the fields
planted with vines, carefully avoiding the main road. It was a
beauteous and still night; calm and sleep occupied the earth; war,
the blood-hound, slumbered; the spirit of love alone had life at
that silent hour. Exulting in the hope of glory, our young hero
commenced his journey, and visions of aggrandizement and love
formed his reveries. A distant sound roused him: he checked his
horse and listened; voices approached. When recognising the speech
of a German, he turned from the path he was following, to a still
straighter way. But again the tone of an enemy was heard, and the
trampling of horses. Eboli did not hesitate; he dismounted, tied
his steed to a tree, and, skirting along the enclosure of the
field, trusted to escape thus unobserved. He succeeded after an
hour’s painful progress, and arrived on the borders of a stream,
which, as the boundary between two states, was the mark of his
having finally escaped danger. Descending the steep bank of the
river, which, with his horse, he might perhaps have forded, he now
prepared to swim. He held his despatch in one hand, threw away his
cloak, and was about to plunge into the water, when from under the
dark shade of theargine, which
had concealed them, he was suddenly arrested by unseen hands, cast
on the ground, bound, gagged, and blinded, and then placed into a
little boat, which was sculled with infinite rapidity down the
stream.There seemed so much of premeditation in the act that it
baffled conjecture, yet he must believe himself a prisoner to the
Austrian. While, however, he still vainly reflected, the boat was
moored, he was lifted out, and the change of atmosphere made him
aware that they entered some house. With extreme care and celerity,
yet in the utmost silence, he was stripped of his clothes, and two
rings he wore drawn from his fingers; other habiliments were thrown
over him; and then no departing footstep was audible; but soon he
heard the splash of a single oar, and he felt himself alone. He lay
perfectly unable to move, the only relief his captor or captors had
afforded him being the exchange of the gag for a tightly-bound
handkerchief. For hours he thus remained, with a tortured mind,
bursting with rage, impatience, and disappointment; now writhing as
well as he could in his endeavours to free himself, now still in
despair. His despatches were taken away, and the period was swiftly
passing when he could by his presence have remedied in some degree
this evil. The morning dawned, and, though the full glare of the
sun could not visit his eyes, he felt it play upon his limbs. As
the day advanced, hunger preyed on him, and, though amidst the
visitation of mightier, he at first disdained this minor, evil,
towards evening it became, in spite of himself, the predominant
sensation. Night approached, and the fear that he should remain,
and even starve, in this unvisited solitude had more than once
thrilled through his frame, when feminine voices and a child’s gay
laugh met his ear. He heard persons enter the apartment, and he was
asked in his native language, while the ligature was taken from his
mouth, the cause of his present situation. He attributed it to
banditti. His bonds were quickly cut, and his banded eyes restored
to sight. It was long before he recovered himself. Water brought
from the stream, however, was some refreshment, and by degrees he
resumed the use of his senses, and saw that he was in a dilapidated
shepherd’s cot, with no one near him save the peasant girl and a
child, who had liberated him. They rubbed his ankles and wrists,
and the little fellow offered him some bread and eggs, after which
refreshment and an hour’s repose Ferdinando felt himself
sufficiently restored to revolve his adventure in his mind, and to
determine on the conduct he was to pursue.He looked at the dress which had been given him in exchange
for that which he had worn. It was of the plainest and meanest
description. Still no time was to be lost; and he felt assured that
the only step he could take was to return with all speed to the
headquarters of the Neapolitan army, and inform the king of his
disasters and his loss.It were long to follow his backward steps, and to tell all of
indignation and disappointment that swelled his heart. He walked
painfully but resolutely all night, and by three in the morning
entered the town where Gioacchino then was. He was challenged by
the sentinels; he gave the word confided to him by Murat, and was
instantly made prisoner by the soldiers. He declared to them his
name and rank, and the necessity he was under of immediately seeing
the king. He was taken to the guard-house, and the officer on duty
there listened with contempt to his representations, telling him
that Count Ferdinando Eboli had returned three hours before,
ordering him to be confined for further examination as a spy. Eboli
loudly insisted that some impostor had taken his name; and while he
related the story of his capture, another officer came in, who
recognised his person; other individuals acquainted with him joined
the party; and as the impostor had been seen by none but the
officer of the night, his tale gained ground.A young Frenchman of superior rank, who had orders to attend
the king early in the morning, carried a report of what was going
forward to Murat himself. The tale was so strange that the king
sent for the young Count; and then, in spite of having seen and
believed in his counterfeit a few hours before, and having received
from him an account of his mission, which had been faithfully
executed, the appearance of the youth staggered him, and he
commanded the presence of him who, as Count Eboli, had appeared
before him a few hours previously. As Ferdinand stood beside the
king, his eye glanced at a large and splendid mirror. His matted
hair, his bloodshot eyes, his haggard looks, and torn and mean
dress, derogated from the nobility of his appearance; and still
less did he appear like the magnificent Count Eboli, when, to his
utter confusion and astonishment, his counterfeit stood beside
him.He was perfect in all the outward signs that denoted high
birth; and so like him whom he represented, that it would have been
impossible to discern one from the other apart. The same chestnut
hair clustered on his brow; the sweet and animated hazel eyes were
the same; the one voice was the echo of the other. The composure
and dignity of the pretender gained the suffrages of those around.
When he was told of the strange appearance of another Count Eboli,
he laughed in a frank good-humoured manner, and, turning to
Ferdinand, said, “You honour me much in selecting me for your
personation; but there are two or three things I like about myself
so well, that you must excuse my unwillingness to exchange myself
for you.” Ferdinand would have answered, but the false Count, with
greater haughtiness, turning to the king, said, “Will your majesty
decide between us? I cannot bandy words with a fellow of this
sort.” Irritated by scorn, Ferdinand demanded leave to challenge
the pretender; who said, that if the king and his brother-officers
did not think that he should degrade himself and disgrace the army
by going out with a common vagabond, he was willing to chastise
him, even at the peril of his own life. But the king, after a few
more questions, feeling assured that the unhappy noble was an
impostor, in severe and menacing terms reprehended him for his
insolence, telling him that he owed it to his mercy alone that he
was not executed as a spy, ordering him instantly to be conducted
without the walls of the town, with threats of weighty punishment
if he ever dared to subject his impostures to further
trial.