INTRODUCTION.
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.
AN ITALIAN STORY.
XIII. THE PARVENUE.
XIV. THE POLE.
XV. EUPHRASIA.
A TALE OF GREECE.
XVI. THE ELDER SON.
XVII. THE PILGRIMS.
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.
Frankenstein was
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 the
prima facie claim
to a hearing due to every writer who can assert the possession of a
distinctive individuality; and if originality be once conceded
to
Frankenstein, 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 of
Frankenstein.None
of Mary Shelley’s subsequent romances approached
Frankenstein in
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
through
Frankenstein.
Except in one instance, her work did not really interest her. Her
heart is not in it.
Valperga contains
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 Man
excepted, it is needless to speak, save for the autobiographic
interest with which Professor Dowden’s fortunate discovery has
informed the hitherto slighted pages of
Lodore. But
The Last Man
demands 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. In
The Last Man
pestilence 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.When
The Last Man is
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 English
belles-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 of The
Sisters of Albano
is 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 Mourner has
evident vestiges of her residence near Windsor when
Alastor was
written, and probably reflects the general impression derived from
Shelley’s recollections of Eton. The visit to Pæstum in
The Pole recalls
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 of
The Pole may be
partly founded on some experience of hers in Russia. Trelawny
probably suggested the subjects of the two Greek tales,
The Evil Eye, and
Euphrasia. The Mortal Immortal
is a variation on the theme of
St. Leon, and
Transformation on
that of
Frankenstein. 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’s
podere all 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 the
podere, 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
a festa
at 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
the ladri
and 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 the
podere, 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, his tabaro
fallen 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 some
baccallà under his
pastrano, and shot
on the spot.”
“
There
is not a more desperate gang,” observed the first speaker, “in
the states and the
regno put 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; the
libeccio brought
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 the
podere; 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 the
argine, 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.It
requires a strong imagination, and the experience of much misery,
fully to enter into Ferdinand’s feelings. From high rank, glory,
hope, and love, he was hurled to utter beggary and disgrace. The
insulting words of his triumphant rival, and the degrading menaces
of
his so lately gracious sovereign, rang in his ears; every nerve in
his frame writhed with agony. But, fortunately for the endurance of
human life, the worst misery in early youth is often but a painful
dream, which we cast off when slumber quits our eyes. After a
struggle with intolerable anguish, hope and courage revived in his
heart. His resolution was quickly made. He would return to Naples,
relate his story to the Marchese Spina, and through his influence
obtain at least an impartial hearing from the king. It was not,
however, in his peculiar situation, an easy task to put his
determination into effect. He was penniless; his dress bespoke
poverty; he had neither friend nor kinsman near, but such as would
behold in him the most impudent of swindlers. Still his courage did
not fail him. The kind Italian soil, in the autumnal season now
advanced, furnished him with chestnuts, arbutus berries, and
grapes.
He took the most direct road over the hills, avoiding towns, and
indeed every habitation; travelling principally in the night, when,
except in cities, the officers of government had retired from their
stations. How he succeeded in getting from one end of Italy to the
other it is difficult to say; but certain it is, that, after the
interval of a few weeks, he presented himself at the Villa
Spina.