ALBION’S RETURN
I need not trouble the reader with a minute detail of the circumstances
of Albion’s voyage, but shall pass on to what happened after he arrived
in England.
It was a fair evening in September 1815 when he reached Strathelleraye.
Without waiting to enter the halls of his fathers he proceeded immediately
to Oakwood House. As he approached it he almost sickened when for
an instant the thought that she might be no more passed across his
mind, but summoning hope to his aid and resting on her golden anchor
he passed up the lawn and gained the glass doors of the drawing-room.
As he drew near a sweet symphony of harp music swelled on his ear.
His heart bounded within him at the sound. He knew that no fingers
but hers could create those melodious tones with which now blended
the harmony of a sweet and sad but well-known voice. He lifted the
vine branch that shaded the door and beheld Marina, more beautiful
he thought than ever, seated at her harp sweeping with her slender
fingers the quivering chords.
Without being observed by her, as she had her face turned from him,
he entered, and sitting down leaned his head on his hand and, closing
his eyes, listened with feelings of overwhelming transport to the
following words:—
Long my anxious ear hath listened
For the step that ne’er returned;
And my tearful eye hath glistened,
And my heart hath daily burned,
But now I rest.
Nature’s self seemed clothed in mourning;
Even the star-like woodland flower,
With its leaflets fair, adorning
The pathway to the forest-bower,
Drooped its head.
From the cavern of the mountain,
From the groves that crown the hill,
From the stream, and from the fountain,
Sounds prophetic murmured still,
Betokening grief.
Boding winds came fitful, sighing,
Through the tall and leafy trees;
Birds of omen, wildly crying,
Sent their calls upon the breeze
Wailing round me.
At each sound I paled and trembled,
At each step I raised my head,
Hearkening if it his resembled,
Or if news that he was dead
Were come from far.
All my days were days of weeping;
Thoughts of grim despair were stirred;
Time on leaden feet seemed creeping;
Long heart-sickness, hope deferred
Cankered my heart.
Here the music and singing suddenly ceased.
Albion raised his head. All was darkness except where the silver
moonbeams showed a desolate and ruined apartment instead of the elegant
parlour that a few minutes before had gladdened his sight.
No trace of Marina was visible, no harp or other instrument of harmony,
and the cold lunar light streamed through a void space instead of
the glass door. He sprang up and called aloud: ‘Marina! Marina!’
But only an echo as of empty rooms answered. Almost distracted he
rushed into the open air. A child was standing alone at the garden
gate, who advanced towards him and said: ‘I will lead you to Marina
Angus; she has removed from that house to another.’
Albion followed the child till they came to a long row of tall dark
trees leading to a churchyard, which they entered, and the child
vanished, leaving Albion beside a white marble tombstone on which
was chiselled:—
MARINA ANGUS
She died
18th of June 1815
at
12 o’clock
midnight.
When Albion had read this he felt a pang of horrible anguish wring
his heart and convulse his whole frame. With a loud groan he fell
across the tomb and lay there senseless a long time, till at length
he was waked from the death-like trance to behold the spirit of Marina,
which stood beside him for a moment, and then murmuring, ‘Albion,
I am happy, for I am at peace,’ disappeared!
For a few days he lingered round her tomb, and then quitted Strathelleraye,
where he was never again heard of.
The reason of Marina’s death I shall briefly relate. Four years after
Albion’s departure tidings came to the village that he was dead.
The news broke Marina’s faithful heart. The day after, she was no
more.
C. B.,
_October 12th_, 1830.
THE RIVALS
THE RIVALS
A SHORT DRAMA WRITTEN BY
CHARLOTTE BRONTË
AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN YEARS.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
LORD ARTHUR.
_The Rivals:_
MARIAN.
LADY ZENOBIA ELLRINGTON.
These characters will be easily recognised under their assumed names
in the story entitled ‘Albion and Marina,’ pp. 75-94.
THE RIVALS
SCENE—_A thick forest, under the trees of which_ LADY ZENOBIA ELLRINGTON
_is reposing, dressed in her usual attire of a crimson-velvet robe
and black plumes. She speaks_:
’Tis eve: how that rich sunlight streameth through
The unwoven arches of this sylvan roof!
How their long, lustrous lines of light illume,
With trembling radiance, all the agèd boles
Of elms majestic as the lofty columns
That proudly rear their tall forms to the dome
Of old cathedral or imperial palace!
Yea, they are grander than the mightiest shafts
That e’er by hand of man were fashioned forth
Their holy, solemn temples to uphold;
And sweeter far than the harmonious peals
Of choral thunder, that in music roll
Through vaulted isles, are the low forest sounds
Murmuring around: of wind and stirrèd leaf,
And warbled song of nightingale or lark
Whose swelling cadences and dying falls
And whelming gushes of rich melody
Attune to meditation, all serene,
The weary spirit; and draw forth still thoughts
Of happy scenes half veilèd by the mists
Of bygone times. Yea, that calm influence
Hath soothed the billowy troubles of my heart
Till scarce one sad thought rises, though I sit
Beneath these trees, utterly desolate.
But no, not utterly, for still one friend
I fain would hope remains to brighten yet
My mournful journey through this vale of tears;
And, while he shines, all other, lesser lights
May wane and fade unnoticed from the sky.
But more than friend, e’en he can never be:
[_Heaves a deep sigh._
That thought is sorrowful, but yet I’ll hope.
What is my rival? Nought but a weak girl,
Ungifted with the state and majesty
That mark superior minds. Her eyes gleam not
Like windows to a soul of loftiness;
She hath not raven locks that lightly wave
Over a brow whose calm placidity
Might emulate the white and polished marble.
[_A white dove flutters by._
Ha! what art thou, fair creature? It hath vanished
Down that long vista of low-drooping trees.
How gracefully its pinions waved! Methinks
It was the spirit of this solitude.
List! I hear footsteps; and the rustling leaves
Proclaim the approach of some corporeal being.
[_A young girl advances up the vista, dressed in
green, with a garland of flowers wreathed
in the curls of her hazel hair. She comes
towards_ LADY ZENOBIA, _and says_:
GIRL.
Lady, methinks I erst have seen thy face.
Art thou not that Zenobia, she whose name
Renown hath come e’en to this fair retreat?
LADY ELLRINGTON.
Aye, maiden, thou hast rightly guessed. But how
Didst recognise me?
GIRL.
In Verreopolis
I saw thee walking in those gardens fair
That like a rich, embroidered belt surround
That mighty city; and one bade me look
At her whose genius had illumined bright
Her age, and country, with undying splendour.
The majesty of thy imperial form,
The fire and sweetness of thy radiant eye,
Alike conspired to impress thine image
Upon my memory; and thus it is
That now I know thee as thou sittest there
Queen-like, beneath the over-shadowing boughs
Of that huge oak-tree, monarch of this wood.
LADY ELLRINGTON [_smiling graciously_].
Who art thou, maiden?
GIRL.
Marian is my name.
LADY ELLRINGTON [_starting up: aside_].
Ha! my rival! [_Sternly_] What dost thou here
alone?
MARIAN [_aside_].
How her tone changed! [_Aloud_] My favourite
cushat-dove,
Whose plumes are whiter than new-fallen snow,
Hath wandered, heedless, from my vigilant care.
I saw it gleaming through these dusky trees,
Fair as a star, while soft it glided by:
So have I come to find and lure it back.
LADY ELLRINGTON.
Are all thy affections centred in a bird?
For thus thou speakest, as though nought were worthy
Of thought or care saving a silly dove!
MARIAN.
Nay, lady, I’ve a father, and mayhap
Others whom gratitude or tenderest ties,
If such there be, bind my heart closer to.
LADY ELLRINGTON.
But birds and flowers and such trifles vain
Seem most to attract thy love, if I may form
A judgment from thy locks elaborate curled
And wreathed around with woven garlandry,
And from thy whining speech, all redolent
With tone of most affected sentiment.
[_She seizes MARIAN, and exclaims with
a violent gesture:_
Wretch, I could kill thee!
MARIAN.
Why, what have I done?
How have I wronged thee? Surely thou ’rt distraught!
LADY ELLRINGTON.
How hast thou wronged me? Where didst weave
the net
Whose cunning meshes have entangled round
The mightiest heart that e’er in mortal breast
Did beat responsive unto human feeling?
MARIAN.
The net? What net? I wove no net; she’s frantic!
LADY ELLRINGTON.
Dull, simple creature! Canst not understand?
MARIAN.
Truly, I cannot. ’Tis to me a problem,
An unsolved riddle, an enigma dark.
LADY ELLRINGTON.
I’ll tell thee, then. But, hark! What voice is that?
VOICE [_from the forest_].
Marian, where art thou? I have found a rose
Fair as thyself. Come hither, and I’ll place it
With the blue violets on thine ivory brow.
MARIAN.
He calls me; I must go; restrain me not.
LADY ELLRINGTON.
Nay! I will hold thee firmly as grim death.
Thou need’st not struggle, for my grasp is strong.
Thou shalt not go: Lord Arthur shall come here,
And I will gain the rose despite of thee!
Now for my hour of triumph: here he comes.
[LORD ARTHUR _advances from among the trees,
exclaiming on seeing_ LADY ELLRINGTON.
LORD ARTHUR.
Zenobia! How com’st thou here? What ails thee?
Thy cheek is flushed as with a fever glow;
Thine eyes flash strangest radiance; and thy frame
Trembles like to the wind-stirred aspen-tree!
LADY ELLRINGTON.
Give me the rose, Lord Arthur, for methinks
I merit it more than my girlish rival;
I pray thee now grant my request, and place
That rose upon my forehead, not on hers;
Then will I serve thee all my after-days
As thy poor handmaid, as thy humblest slave,
Happy to kiss the dust beneath thy tread,
To kneel submissive in thy lordly presence.
Oh! turn thine eyes from her and look on me
As I kneel here imploring at thy feet,
Supremely blest if but a single glance
Could tell me that thou art not wholly deaf
To my petition, earnestly preferred.
LORD ARTHUR.
Lady, thou’rt surely mad! Depart, and hush
These importunate cries. They are not worthy
Of the great name which thou hast fairly earned.
LADY ELLRINGTON.
Give me that rose, and I to thee will cleave
Till death. Hear me, and give it me, Lord Arthur!
LORD ARTHUR [_after a few minutes’ deliberation_].
Here, take the flower, and keep it for my sake.
[MARIAN _utters a suppressed scream, and sinks
to the ground_.
LADY ELLRINGTON [_assisting her to rise_].
Now I have triumphed! But I’ll not exult;
Yet know, henceforth, I’m thy superior.
Farewell, my lord; I thank thee for thy preference!
[_She plunges into the wood and disappears._
LORD ARTHUR.
Fear nothing, Marian, for a fading flower
Is not symbolical of constancy.
But take this sign; [_Gives her his diamond ring_]
enduring adamant
Betokens well affection that will live
Long as life animates my faithful heart.
Now let us go; for, see, the deepening shades
Of twilight darken our lone forest-path;
And, lo! thy dove comes gliding through the murk,
Fair wanderer, back to its loved mistress’ care!
Luna will light us on our journey home:
For, see, her lamp shines radiant in the sky,
And her bright beams will pierce the thickest boughs.
[_Exeunt, and curtain falls._
From an unpublished manuscript by Charlotte Brontë, entitled ‘Visits
in Verreopolis,’ vol. i., completed December 11th, 1880.
THE FAIRY GIFT
UNDER the title of ‘The Four Wishes’ this story was first printed
by Mr. Clement Shorter in April 1918, in an edition limited to twenty
copies for private circulation only.
It was published, with three illustrations, in the _Strand Magazine_,
December 1918, pp. 461-466.
The title of ‘The Fairy Gift’ was given to the story by Charlotte
Brontë.
C. W. H.
THE FAIRY GIFT
ONE cold evening in December 17—, while I was yet but a day labourer,
though not even at that time wholly without some aspirations after
fame and some intimations of future greatness, I was sitting alone
by my cottage fire engaged in ambitious reveries of _l’avenir_, and
amusing myself with wild and extravagant imaginations. A thousand
evanescent wishes flitted through my mind, one of which was scarcely
formed when another succeeded it; then a third, equally transitory,
and so on.
While I was thus employed with building castles in the air my frail
edifices were suddenly dissipated by an emphatic ‘Hem!’ I started,
and raised my head. Nothing was visible, and, after a few minutes,
supposing it to be only fancy, I resumed my occupation of weaving
the web of waking visions. Again the ‘Hem!’ was heard; again I looked
up, when lo! sitting in the opposite chair I beheld the diminutive
figure of a man dressed all in green. With a pretty considerable
fluster I demanded his business, and how he had contrived to enter
the house without my knowledge.
‘I am a fairy,’ he replied, in a shrill voice; ‘but fear nothing;
my intentions are not mischievous. On the contrary, I intend to gift
you with the power of obtaining four wishes, provided that you wish
them at different times; and if you should happen to find the fruition
of my theme not equal to your anticipations, still you are at liberty
to cast it aside, which you must do before another wish is granted.’
When he had concluded this information he gave me a ring, telling
me that by the potency of the spell with which it was invested my
desires would prove immediately successful.
I expressed my gratitude for this gift in the warmest terms, and
then inquired how I should dispose of the ring when I had four times
arrived at the possession of that which I might wish.
‘Come with it at midnight to the little valley in the uplands, a
mile hence,’ said he, ‘and there you will be rid of it when it becomes
useless.’
With these words he vanished from my sight. I stood for some minutes
incredulous of the reality of that which I had witnessed, until at
last I was convinced by the green-coloured ring set in gold that
sparkled in my hand.
By some strange influence I had been preserved from any feeling of
fear during my conversation with the fairy, but now I began to feel
certain doubts and misgivings as to the propriety of having any dealings
with supernatural beings. These, however, I soon quelled, and began
forthwith to consider what should be the nature of my first wish.
After some deliberation I found the desire for beauty was uppermost
in my mind, and therefore formed a wish that next morning when I
arose I should find myself possessed of surpassing loveliness.
That night my dreams were filled with anticipations of future grandeur,
but the gay visions which my sleeping fancy called into being were
dispelled by the first sounds of morning.
I awoke lightsome and refreshed, and springing out of bed glanced
half-doubtingly into the small looking-glass which decorated the
wall of my apartment, to ascertain if any change for the better had
been wrought in me since the preceding night.
Never shall I forget the thrill of delighted surprise which passed
through me when I beheld my altered appearance. There I stood, tall,
slender, and graceful as a young poplar tree, all my limbs moulded
in the most perfect and elegant symmetry, my complexion of the purest
red and white, my eyes blue and brilliant, swimming in liquid radiance
under the narrow dark arches of two exquisitely-formed eyebrows,
my mouth of winning sweetness, and, lastly, my hair clustering in
rich black curls over a forehead smooth as ivory.
In short, I have never yet heard or read of any beauty that could
at all equal the splendour of comeliness with which I was at that
moment invested.
I stood for a long time gazing at myself in a trance of admiration
while happiness such as I had never known before overflowed my heart.
That day happened to be Sunday, and accordingly I put on my best
clothes and proceeded forthwith towards the church. The service had
just commenced when I arrived, and as I walked up the aisle to my
pew I felt that the eyes of the whole assembly were upon me, and
that proud consciousness gave an elasticity to my gait which added
stateliness and majesty to my other innumerable graces. Among those
who viewed me most attentively was Lady Beatrice Ducie. This personage
was the widow of Lord Ducie, owner of the chief part of the village
where I resided and nearly all the surrounding land for many miles,
who, when he died, left her the whole of his immense estates. She
was without children and perfectly at liberty to marry whomsoever
she might chance to fix her heart on, and therefore, though her ladyship
had passed the meridian of life, was besides fat and ugly, and into
the bargain had the reputation of being a witch, I cherished hopes
that she might take a liking for me, seeing I was so very handsome;
and by making me her spouse raise me at once from indigence to the
highest pitch of luxury and affluence.
These were my ambitious meditations as I slowly retraced my steps
homeward.
In the afternoon I again attended church, and again Lady Ducie favoured
me with many smiles and glances expressive of her admiration. At
length my approaching good fortune was placed beyond a doubt, for
while I was standing in the porch after service was over she happened
to pass, and inclining her head towards me, said: ‘Come to my house
to-morrow at four o’clock.’? I only answered by a low bow and then
hastened back to my cottage.
On Monday afternoon I dressed myself in my best, and putting a Christmas
rose in the buttonhole of my coat, hastened to the appointed rendezvous.
When I entered the avenue of Ducie Castle a footman in rich livery
stopped me and requested me to follow him. I complied, and we proceeded
down a long walk to a bower of evergreens, where sat her ladyship
in a pensive posture. Her stout, lusty figure was arrayed in a robe
of purest white muslin, elegantly embroidered. On her head she wore
an elaborately curled wig, among which borrowed tresses was twined
a wreath of artificial flowers, and her brawny shoulders were enveloped
in a costly Indian shawl. At my approach she arose and saluted me.
I returned the compliment, and when we were seated, and the footman
had withdrawn, business summarily commenced by her tendering me the
possession of her hand and heart, both which offers, of course, I
willingly accepted.
Three weeks after, we were married in the parish church by special
licence, amidst the rejoicings of her numerous tenantry, to whom
a sumptuous entertainment was that day given.
I now entered upon a new scene of life. Every object which met my
eyes spoke of opulence and grandeur. Every meal of which I partook
seemed to me a luxurious feast. As I wandered through the vast halls
and magnificent apartments of my new residence I felt my heart dilating
with gratified pride at the thought that they were my own.
Towards the obsequious domestics that thronged around me I behaved
with the utmost respect and deference, being impelled thereto by
a feeling of awe inspired by their superior breeding and splendid
appearance.
I was now constantly encompassed by visitors from among those who moved
in the highest circles of society. My time was passed in the enjoyment
of all sorts of pleasures; balls, concerts, and dinners were given
almost every day at the castle in honour of our wedding. My evenings
were spent in hearing music, or seeing dancing and gormandising; my
days in excursions over the country, either on horseback or in a
carriage.
Yet, notwithstanding all this, I was not happy. The rooms were so
numerous that I was often lost in my own house, and sometimes got
into awkward predicaments in attempting to find some particular apartment.
Our high-bred guests despised me for my clownish manners and deportment.
I was forced to bear patiently the most humiliating jokes and sneers
from noble lips. My own servants insulted me with impunity; and,
finally, my wife’s temper showed itself every day more and more in
the most hideous light. She became terribly jealous, and would hardly
suffer me to go out of her sight a moment. In short, before the end
of three months I sincerely wished myself separated from her and
reduced again to the situation of a plain and coarse but honest and
contented ploughboy.
This separation was occasioned by the following incident sooner than
I expected. At a party which we gave one evening there chanced to
be present a young lady named Cecilia Standon. She possessed no mean
share of beauty, and had besides the most graceful demeanour I ever
saw. Her manner was kind, gentle, and obliging, without any of that
haughty superciliousness which so annoyed me in others of my fashionable
acquaintances. If I made a foolish observation or transgressed against
the rules of politeness she did not give vent to her contempt in
a laugh or suppressed titter, but informed me in a whisper what I
ought to have done, and instructed me how to do it.
When she was gone I remarked to my wife what a kind and excellent
lady Miss Cecilia Standon was. ‘Yes,’ exclaimed she, reddening, ‘every
one can please you but me. Don’t think to elude my vigilance, I saw
you talking and laughing with her, you low-born creature whom I raised
from obscurity to splendour. And yet not one spark of gratitude do
you feel towards me. But I will have my revenge.’ So saying she left
me to meditate alone on what that revenge might be.
The same night, as I lay in bed restless, I heard suddenly a noise
of footsteps outside the chamber door. Compelled by irresistible
curiosity, I rose and opened it without making any sound. My surprise
was great on beholding the figure of my wife stealing along on tiptoe
with her back towards me, and a lighted candle in her hand. Anxious
to know what could be her motive for walking about the house at this
time of night I followed softly, taking care to time my steps so
as to coincide with hers.
After proceeding along many passages and galleries which I had never
before seen, we descended a very long staircase that led us underneath
the coal and wine cellars to a damp, subterraneous vault. Here she
stopped and deposited the candle on the ground. I shrank instinctively,
for the purpose of concealment, behind a massive stone pillar which
upheld the arched roof on one side.
The rumours which I had often heard of her being a witch passed with
painful distinctness across my mind, and I trembled violently. Presently
she knelt with folded hands and began to mutter some indistinguishable
words in a strange tone. Flames now darted out of the earth, and
huge smouldering clouds of smoke rolled over the slimy walls, concealing
their hideousness from the eye.
At length the dead silence that had hitherto reigned unbroken was
dissipated by a tremendous cry which shook the house to its centre,
and I saw six black, indefinable figures gliding through the darkness
bearing a funeral bier on which lay arranged, as I had seen her the
previous evening, the form of Cecilia Standon. Her dark eyes were
closed, and their long lashes lay motionless on a cheek pale as marble.
She was quite stiff and dead.
At this appalling sight I could restrain myself no longer, and uttering
a loud shriek I sprang from behind the pillar. My wife saw me. She
started from her kneeling position, and rushed furiously towards
where I stood, exclaiming in tones rendered tremulous by excessive
fury: ‘Wretch, wretch, what demon has lured thee hither to thy fate?’
With these words she seized me by the throat and attempted to strangle
me.
I screamed and struggled in vain. Life was ebbing apace when suddenly
she loosened her grasp, tottered, and fell dead.
When I was sufficiently recovered from the effects of her infernal
grip to look around I saw by the light of the candle a little man
in a green coat striding over her and flourishing a bloody dagger
in the air. In his sharp, wild physiognomy I immediately recognised
the fairy who six months ago had given me the ring.
That was the occasion of my present situation. He had stabbed my
wife through the heart, and thus afforded me opportune relief at
the moment when I so much needed it.
After tendering him my most ardent thanks for his kindness I ventured
to ask what we should do with the dead body.
‘Leave that to me,’ he replied. ‘But now as the day is dawning, and
I must soon be gone, do you wish to return to your former rank of
a happy, honest labourer, being deprived of the beauty which has
been the source of so much trouble to you, or will you remain as
you are? Decide quickly, for my time is limited.’
I replied unhesitatingly, ‘Let me return to my former rank,’ and
no sooner were the words out of my mouth than I found myself standing
alone at the porch of my humble cottage, plain and coarse as ever,
without any remains of the extreme comeliness with which I had been
so lately invested.
I cast a glance at the tall towers of Ducie Castle which appeared
in the distance faintly illuminated by the light reflected from rosy
clouds hovering over the eastern horizon, and then, stooping as I
passed beneath the lowly lintel, once more crossed the threshold
of my parental hut.
A day or two after, while I was sitting at breakfast; a neighbour
entered and, after inquiring how I did, etc., asked me where I had
been for the last half year. Seeing it necessary to dissemble, I
answered that I had been on a visit to a relation who lived at a
great distance. This satisfied him, and I then inquired if anything
had happened in the village since my departure.
‘Yes,’ said he, ‘a little while after you were gone Lady Ducie married
the handsomest young man that was ever seen, but nobody knew where
he came from, and most people thought he was a fairy; and now about
four days ago Lady Ducie, her husband, and Lord Standon’s eldest
daughter all vanished in the same night and have never been heard
of since, though the strictest search has been made after them. Yesterday
her ladyship’s brother came and took possession of the estate, and
he is trying to hush up the matter as much as he can.’
This intelligence gave me no small degree of satisfaction, as I was
now certain that none of the villagers had any suspicion of my dealings
with the fairy.
But to proceed. I had yet liberty to make three more wishes; and,
after much consideration, being convinced of the vanity of desiring
such a transitory thing as my first, I fixed upon ‘superior talent’
as the aim of my second wish; and no sooner had I done so than I
felt an expansion, as it were, of soul within me.
Everything appeared to my mental vision in a new light. High thoughts
elevated my mind, and abstruse meditations racked my brain continually.
But you shall presently hear the upshot of this sudden éclaircissement.
One day I was sent to a neighbouring market town, by one Mr. Tenderden,
a gentleman of some consequence in our village, for the purpose of
buying several articles in glass and china.
When I had made my purchases I directed them to be packed up in straw,
and then with the basket on my back trudged off homeward. But ere
I was half-way night overtook me. There was no moon, and the darkness
was also much increased by a small mizzling rain. Cold and drenched
to the skin, I arrived at The Rising Sun, a little wayside inn, which
lay in my route.
On opening the door my eyes were agreeably saluted by the light of
a bright warm fire, round which sat about half a dozen of my acquaintance.
After calling for a drop of something to warm me, and carefully depositing
the basket of glass on the ground, I seated myself amongst them.
They were engaged in a discussion as to whether a monarchical or
republican form of government was the best. The chief champion of
the republican side was Bob Sylvester, a blacksmith by trade, and
of the largest loquacity of any man I ever saw. He was proud of his
argumentative talents, but by dint of my fairy gift I soon silenced
him, amid cheers from both sides of the house.
Bob was a man of hot temper, and not calculated for lying down quietly
under a defeat. He therefore rose and challenged me to single combat.
I accepted, and a regular battle ensued. After some hard hits he
closed in furiously, and-dealt me a tremendous left-handed blow.
I staggered, reeled, and fell insensible. The last thing I remember
was a horrible crash as if the house was tumbling in about my ears.
When I recovered my senses I was laid in bed in my own house, all cut,
bruised, and bloody. I was soon given to understand that the basket of
glass was broken, and Mr. Tenderden, being a miserly, hard-hearted man,
made me stand to the loss, which was upwards of five pounds.
When I was able to walk about again I determined to get rid of my
ring forthwith in the manner the fairy had pointed out, seeing that
it brought me nothing but ill-luck.
It was a fine clear night in October when I reached the little valley
in the uplands before mentioned. There was a gentle frost, and the
stars were twinkling with the lustre of diamonds in a sky of deep
and cloudless azure. A chill breeze whistled dreamily in the gusty
passes of the hills that surrounded the vale, but I wrapped my cloak
around me and standing in a sheltered nook boldly awaited the event.
After about half an hour of dead silence I heard a sound as of many
voices weeping and lamenting at a distance. This continued for some
time until it was interrupted by another voice, seemingly close at
hand. I started at the contiguity of the sound, and looked on every
side, but nothing was visible. Still the strain kept rising and drawing
nearer. At length the following words, sung in a melancholy though
harmonious tone, became distinctly audible:—
Hearken, O Mortal! to the wail
Which round the wandering night-winds fling,
Soft-sighing ’neath the moonbeams pale,
How low! how old! its murmuring!
No other voice, no other tone,
Disturbs the silence deep;
All, saving that prophetic moan,
Are hushed in quiet sleep.
The moon and each small lustrous star,
That journey through the boundless sky,
Seem, as their radiance from afar
Falls on the still earth silently,
To weep the fresh descending dew
That decks with gems the world:
Sweet teardrops of the glorious blue
Above us wide unfurled.
But, hark! again the sighing wail
Upon the rising breeze doth swell.
Oh! hasten from this haunted vale,
Mournful as a funeral knell!
For here, when gloomy midnight reigns,
The fairies form their ring,
And, unto wild unearthly strains,
In measured cadence sing.
No human eye their sports may see,
No human tongue their deeds reveal;
The sweetness of their melody
The ear of man may never feel.
But now the elfin horn resounds,
No longer mayst thou stay;
Near and more near the music sounds,
Then, Mortal, haste away!
Here I certainly heard the music of a very sweet and mellow horn.
At that instant the ring which I held in my hand melted and became
like a drop of dew, which trickled down my fingers and falling on
the dead leaves spread around, vanished.
Having now no further business I immediately quitted the valley and
returned home…
Being very tired and sleepy I retired to bed. As I have no doubt
my reader is by this time in much the same state, I bid him good-bye.
CHARLOTTE BRONTË,
_December 18th_, 1830.
From _Visits in Verreopolis_, vol. II. chap. ii., by the Honourable
Charles Albert Florian, Lord Wellesley, aged ten years. Published
by Sergeant Bud. The tale is related by, and is a passage from the
early life of, Captain Bud, the father of the fictitious publisher.—C.
W. H.
LOVE AND JEALOUSY
NO title was given by Charlotte Brontë to this story, which was probably
intended as a sequel to the short drama printed on pp. 95-104.
The original manuscript has been divided into two parts, one sheet
of four pages having been removed and certain words erased (see footnotes
on pages 126 and 129), apparently in an attempt to make it appear
as two separate and complete manuscripts. The missing words have
been obtained from a transcript made before the manuscript was mutilated.
C. W. H.
LOVE AND JEALOUSY
IN the autumn of the year 1831, being weary of study, and the melancholy
solitude of the vast streets and mighty commercial marts of our great
Babel, and being fatigued with the ever-resounding thunder of the
sea, with the din of a thousand self-moving engines, with the dissonant
cries of all nations, kindreds, and tongues, congregated together
in the gigantic emporium of commerce, of arts, of God-like wisdom,
of boundless learning, and of superhuman knowledge; being dazzled
with continually beholding the glory, the power, the riches, dominion,
and radiant beauty of the city which sitteth like a queen upon the
waters; in one word, being tired of Verdopolis and all its magnificence,
I determined on a trip into the country.
Accordingly, the day after this resolution was formed, I rose with
the sun, collected a few essential articles of dress, etc., packed
them neatly in a light knapsack, arranged my apartment, partook of
a wholesome repast, and then, after locking the door and delivering
the key to my landlady, I set out with a light heart and joyous step.
After three days of continued travel I arrived on the banks of a
wide and profound river winding through a vast valley embosomed in
hills whose robe of rich and flowery verdure was broken only by the
long shadow of groves, and here and there by clustering herds and
flocks lying, white as snow, in the green hollows between the mountains.
It was the evening of a calm summer day when I reached this enchanting
spot. The only sounds now audible were the songs of shepherds, swelling
and dying at intervals, and the murmur of gliding waves. I neither
knew nor cared where I was. My bodily faculties of eye and ear were
absorbed in the contemplation of this delightful scene, and, wandering
unheedingly along, I left the guidance of the river and entered a
wood, invited by the warbling of a hundred forest minstrels. Soon
I perceived the narrow, tangled woodpath to widen, and gradually
it assumed the appearance of a green shady alley. Occasionally bowers
of roses and myrtles appeared by the pathside, with soft banks of
moss for the weary to repose on. Notwithstanding these indications
of individual property, curiosity and the allurements of music and
cool shade led me forwards. At length I entered a glade in the wood,
in the midst of which was a small but exquisitely beautiful marble
edifice of pure and dazzling whiteness. On the broad steps of the
portico two figures were reclining, at sight of whom I instantly
stepped behind a low, wide-spreading fig-tree, where I could hear
and see all that passed without fear of detection. One was a youth
of lofty stature and remarkably graceful demeanour, attired in a
rich purple vest and mantle, with closely fitting white pantaloons
of white woven silk, displaying to advantage the magnificent proportions
of his form. A richly adorned belt was girt tightly round his waist
from which depended a scimitar whose golden hilt, and scabbard of
the finest Damascus steel, glittered with gems of inestimable value.
His steel-barred cap, crested with tall, snowy plumes, lay beside
him, its absence revealing more clearly the rich curls of dark, glossy
hair clustering round a countenance distinguished by the noble beauty
of its features, but still more by the radiant fire of genius and
intellect visible in the intense brightness of his large, dark, and
lustrous eyes.
The other form was that of a very young and slender girl, whose complexion
was delicately, almost transparently, fair. Her cheeks were tinted
with a rich, soft crimson, her features moulded in the utmost perfection
of loveliness; while the clear light of her brilliant hazel eyes,
and the soft waving of her auburn ringlets, gave additional charms
to what seemed already infinitely too beautiful for this earth. Her
dress was a white robe of the finest texture the Indian loom can
produce. The only ornaments she wore were a long chain which encircled
her neck twice and hung lower than her waist, composed of alternate
beads of the finest emeralds and gold; and a slight gold ring on
the third finger of her left hand, which, together with a small crescent
of pearls glistening on her forehead (which is always worn by the
noble matrons of Verdopolis), betokened that she had entered the
path of wedded life. With a sweet vivacity in her look and manner
the young bride was addressing her lord thus when I first came in
sight of the peerless pair:
‘No, no, my lord; if I sing the song you shall choose it. Now, once
more, what shall I sing? The moon is risen, and, if your decision
is not prompt, I will not sing at all!’
[126] To this he answered: ‘Well, if I am threatened with the entire
loss of the pleasure if I defer my choice, I will have that sweet
song which I overheard you singing the evening before I left Scotland.’
[3]
3 The last four words in this sentence have been erased from the
MS.—C. W. H.
With a smiling blush she took a little ivory lyre, and, in a voice
of the most touching melody, sang the following stanzas:—
He is gone, and all grandeur has fled from the mountain;
All beauty departed from stream and from fountain;
A dark veil is hung
O’er the bright sky of gladness,
And, where birds sweetly sung,
There’s a murmur of sadness;
The wind sings with a warning tone
Through many a shadowy tree;
I hear, in every passing moan,
The voice of destiny.
Then, O Lord of the Waters! the Great and All-seeing!
Preserve in Thy mercy his safety and being;
May he trust in Thy might
When the dark storm is howling,
And the blackness of night
Over Heaven is scowling;
But may the sea flow glidingly
With gentle summer waves;
And silent may all tempests lie
Chained in Æolian caves!
Yet, though ere he returnest long years will have vanished,
Sweet hope from my bosom shall never be banished:
I will think of the time
When his step, lightly bounding,
Shall be heard on the rock
Where the cataract is sounding;
When the banner of his father’s host
Shall be unfurled on high,
To welcome back the pride and boast
Of England’s chivalry!
Yet tears will flow forth while of hope I am singing;
Still despair her dark shadow is over me flinging;
But, when he’s far away,
I will pluck the wild flower
On bank and on brae
At the still, moonlight hour;
And I will twine for him a wreath
Low in the fairy’s dell;
Methought I heard the night-wind breathe
That solemn word: ‘Farewell!’ [4]
4 The above poem appears to have been composed more than twelve months
before the story in which it appears. In _The Red Cross Knight and
Other Poems_, 1917 (a little book printed for private circulation
only, in an edition limited to thirty copies), the poem was printed
for Mr. T. J. Wise from a manuscript dated July 1831.—C. W. H.
When the lady had concluded her song I stepped from my place of
concealment, and was instantly perceived by the noble youth (whom, of
course, every reader will have recognised as the Marquis of Douro).
He gave me a courteous welcome, and invited me to proceed with him
to his country palace, as it was now wearing late. I willingly accepted
the invitation, and, in a short time, we arrived there.
It is a truly noble structure, built in the purest style of Grecian
architecture, situated in the midst of a vast park, embosomed in
richly wooded hills, perfumed with orange and citron groves, and
watered by a branch of the Gambia, almost equal in sight to the parent
stream.
The magnificence of the interior is equal to that of the outside.
There is an air of regal state and splendour throughout all the lofty
domed apartments which strikes the spectator with awe for the lord
of so imposing a residence. The marquis has a particular pride in
the knowledge that he is the owner of one of the most splendid, select,
and extensive libraries now in the possession of any individual.
His picture and statue galleries likewise contain many of the finest
works, both of the ancient and modern masters, particularly the latter,
of whom the marquis is a most generous and munificent patron. In
his cabinet of curiosities I observed a beautiful casket of wrought
gold. At my request he opened it and produced the contents, viz.
a manuscript copy of that rare work, ‘The Autobiography of Captain
Leaf.’ It was written on a roll of vellum, but much discoloured and
rendered nearly illegible by time. To my eager inquiries respecting
the manner in which he had obtained so inestimable a treasure, he
replied, with a smile:
‘That question I must decline to answer. It is a secret with which
I alone am acquainted.’
I likewise noticed a brace of pistols, most exquisitely wrought and
highly finished. He told me they were the _chef-d’œuvre_ of Darrow,
the best manufacturer of firearms in the universe. I counted one
hundred gold and silver medals, which had been presented to this
youthful but all-accomplished nobleman by different literary and
scientific establishments. They were all contained in a truly splendid
gold vase awarded to him last year by the Academy of Modern Athenians
(as that learned body somewhat presumptuously chooses to style itself)
as being the composer of the best epigram in Greek. Above this was
suspended a silver bow and quiver, the first prize given by the Royal
Society of Archers, together with a bit, bridle, spurs, and stirrups,
all of fine gold, obtained from the Honourable Community of Equestrians.
Near these lay several withered wreaths of myrtle, laurel, etc.,
etc., won by him as conqueror in the great African Biennial Games.
On a rich stand of polished ebony were ranged twenty-three beautiful
vases of marble, alabaster, etc., all richly carved in basso-relievo,
remarkable for classic elegance of form, design, and execution. Some
of these were filled with cameos, others with ancient coins, and
others again bore branches of scarlet and white coral, pearls, gems
of various sorts, fossils, etc. But what interested me more than
all these trophies of victory and specimens of art and nature, costly,
beautiful, and almost invaluable as they were, was a little figure
of Apollo, about six inches in height, curiously carved in white
agate, holding a lyre in his hand, and placed on a pedestal of the
same valuable material, on which was the following inscription:—
In our day we beheld the god of Archery, Eloquence, and
Verse, shrined in an infinitely fairer form than that worn
by the ancient Apollo, and giving far more glorious proofs
of his divinity than the day-god ever vouchsafed to the
inhabitants of the old Pagan world. Zenobia Ellrington
implores Arthur Augustus Wellesley to accept this small
memorial, and consider it as a token that, though forsaken
and despised by him whose good opinion and friendship
she valued more than life, she yet bears no malice.
There was a secret contained in this inscription which I could not
fathom. I had never before heard of any misunderstanding between
his lordship and Lady Zenobia, nor did public appearances warrant
a suspicion of its existence. Long after, however, the following
circumstances came to my knowledge. The channel through which they
reached me cannot be doubted, but I am not at liberty to mention
names.
One evening about dusk, as the Marquis of Douro was returning from a
shooting excursion into the country, he heard suddenly a rustling noise
in a deep ditch on the roadside.[5] He was preparing his fowling-piece
for a shot when the form of Lady Ellrington started up before him. Her
head was bare, her tall person was enveloped in the tattered remnants
of a dark velvet mantle. Her dishevelled hair hung in wild elf-locks
over her face, neck, and shoulders, almost concealing her features,
which were emaciated and pale as death. He stepped back a few paces,
startled at the sudden and ghastly apparition. She threw herself on her
knees before him, exclaiming in wild, maniacal accents:
‘My lord, tell me truly, sincerely, ingenuously, where you have been.
I heard that you had left Verdopolis, and I followed you on foot
five hundred miles. Then my strength failed me, and I lay down in
this place, as I thought, to die. But it was doomed I should see
you once more before I became an inhabitant of the grave. Answer
me, my lord: Have you seen that wretch Marian Hume? Have you spoken
to her? Viper! Viper! Oh, that I could sheathe this weapon in her
heart!’
5 The first twelve words in this sentence have been erased from the
MS.—C. W. H.
Here she stopped for want of breath, and, drawing a long, sharp,
glittering knife from under her cloak, brandished it wildly in the
air. The marquis looked at her steadily, and, without attempting
to disarm her, answered with great composure:
‘You have asked me a strange question, Lady Zenobia; but, before
I attempt to answer, you had better come with me to our encampment.
I will order a tent to be prepared for you where you may pass the
night in safety, and, to-morrow, when you are a little recruited
by rest and refreshment, we will discuss this matter soberly.’[6]
6 It is the custom in Verdopolis, where perhaps forty or so noblemen,
with their attendants, go to shoot or hunt wild beasts or birds in
the desolate and uninhabited Mountains of the Moon, to form a sort
of camp for their mutual protection and defence. These camps sometimes
contain upwards of a hundred individuals.—_Note by Author_.
Her rage Was now exhausted by its own vehemence, and she replied
with more calmness than she had hitherto evinced:
‘My lord, believe me, I am deputed by Heaven to warn you of a great
danger into which you are about to fall. If you persist in your intention
of uniting yourself to Marian Hume you will become a murderer and
a suicide. I cannot explain myself more clearly; but ponder carefully
on my words until I see you again.’
Then, bowing her forehead to the ground in an attitude of adoration,
she kissed his feet, muttering at the same time some unintelligible
words. At that moment a loud rushing, like the sound of a whirlpool,
became audible, and Lady Zenobia was swept away by some invisible
power before the marquis could extend his arms to arrest her progress,
or frame an answer to her mysterious address. He paced slowly forward,
lost in deep reflection on what he had heard and seen. The moon had
risen over the black, barren mountains ere he reached the camp. He
gazed for awhile on her pure, undimmed lustre, comparing it to the
loveliness of one far away, and then, entering his tent, wrapped
himself in his hunter’s cloak, and lay down to unquiet sleep.
Months rolled away, and the mystery remained unravelled. Lady Zenobia
Ellrington appeared as usual in that dazzling circle of which she was
ever a distinguished ornament. There was no trace of wandering fire in
her eyes which might lead a careful observer to imagine that her mind
was unsteady. Her voice was more subdued and her looks pale, and it
was remarked by some that she avoided all (even the most commonplace)
conversation with the marquis.
In the meantime the Duke of Wellington had consented to his son’s
union with the beautiful, virtuous, and accomplished, but untitled,
Marian Hume.
Vast and splendid preparations were making for the approaching bridal,
when just at this critical juncture news arrived of the Great Rebellion
headed by Alexander Rogue. The intelligence fell with the suddenness
and violence of a thunderbolt. Unequivocal symptoms of dissatisfaction
began to appear at the same time among the lower orders in Verdopolis.
The workmen at the principal mills and furnaces struck for an advance
of wages, and, the masters refusing to comply with their exorbitant
demands, they all turned out simultaneously. Shortly after, Colonel
Grenville, one of the great millowners, was shot. His assassins being
quickly discovered and delivered up to justice were interrogated by
torture, but they remained inflexible, not a single satisfactory
answer being elicited from them. The police were now doubled. Bands
of soldiers were stationed in the more suspicious parts of the city,
and orders were issued that no citizen should walk abroad unarmed.
In this state of affairs Parliament was summoned to consult on the
best measures to be taken. On the first night of its sitting the
house was crowded to excess. All the members attended, and above a
thousand ladies of the first rank appeared in the gallery. A settled
expression of gloom and anxiety was visible in every countenance.
They sat for some time gazing at ache other in the silence of seeming
despair. At length the Marquis of Douro rose and ascended the tribune.
It was on this memorable night he pronounced that celebrated oration
which will be delivered to posterity as a finished specimen of the
sublimest eloquence. The souls of all who heard him were thrilled with
conflicting emotions. Some of the ladies in the gallery fainted and
were carried out. My limits will not permit me to transcribe the whole
of this speech, and to attempt an abridgment would be profanation.
I will, however, present the reader with the conclusion. It was as
follows:—
I will call upon you, my countrymen, to rouse yourselves
to action. There is a latent flame of rebellion smouldering
in our city, which blood alone can quench: the hot blood
of ourselves and our enemies freely poured forth! We
daily see in our streets men whose brows were once open
as the day, but which are now wrinkled with dark dissatisfaction,
and the light of whose eyes, formerly free as
sunshine, is now dimmed by restless suspicion. Our upright
merchants are ever threatened with fears of assassination
from those dependants who, in time past, loved,
honoured, and reverenced them as fathers. Our peaceful
citizens cannot pass their thresholds in safety unless laden
with weapons of war, the continual dread of death haunting
their footsteps wherever they turn. And who has
produced this awful change? What agency of hell has
affected, what master-spirit of crime, what prince of sin,
what Beelzebub of black iniquity, has been at work in
this Kingdom? I will answer that fearful question:
ALEXANDER ROGUE! Arm for the battle, then, fellow-countrymen;
be not faint-hearted, but trust in the justice of
your cause as your banner of protection, and let your war-shout
in the onslaught ever be: ‘God defend the right!’
When the marquis had concluded this harangue, he left the house amidst
long and loud thunders of applause, and proceeded to one of the shady
groves planted on the banks of the Guadima. Here he walked for some
time inhaling the fresh night-wind, which acquired additional coolness
as it swept over the broad rapid river, and was just beginning to
recover from the strong excitement into which his enthusiasm had
thrown him when he felt his arm suddenly grasped from behind, and
turning round beheld Lady Zenobia Ellrington standing beside him,
with the same wild, unnatural expression of countenance which had
before convulsed her features among the dark hills of Gibbel Kumri.
‘My lord,’ she muttered, in a low, energetic tone, ‘your eloquence,
your noble genius has again driven me to desperation. I am no longer
mistress of myself, and if you do not consent to be mine, and mine
alone, I will kill myself where I stand.’
‘Lady Ellrington,’ said the marquis coldly, withdrawing his hand
from her grasp, ‘this conduct is unworthy of your character. I must
beg that you will cease to use the language of a madwoman, for I
do assure you, my lady, these deep stratagems will have no effect
upon me.’
She now threw herself at his feet, exclaiming in a voice almost stifled
with ungovernable emotion:
‘Oh! do not kill me with such cold, cruel disdain. Only consent to
follow me, and you will be convinced that you ought not to be united
to one so utterly unworthy of you as Marian Hume.’
The marquis, moved by her tears and entreaties, at length consented
to accompany her. She led him a considerable distance from the city
to a subterranean grotto, where was a fire burning on a brazen altar.
She threw a certain powder into the flame, and immediately they were
transported through the air to an apartment at the summit of a lofty
tower. At one end of this room was a vast mirror, and at the other
a drawn curtain, behind which a most brilliant light was visible.
‘You are now,’ said Lady Ellrington, ‘in the sacred presence of one
whose counsel, I am sure, you, my lord, will never slight.’
At this moment the curtain was removed, and the astonished marquis
beheld Crashie, the divine and infallible, seated on his golden throne,
and surrounded by those mysterious rays of light which ever emanate
from him.
‘My son,’ said he, with an august smile, and in a voice of awful
harmony, ‘fate and inexorable destiny have decreed that in the hour
you are united to the maiden of your choice, the angel Azazel shall
smite you both, and convey your disembodied souls over the swift-flowing
and impassable river of death. Hearken to the counsels of wisdom,
and do not, in the madness of self-will, destroy yourself and Marian
Hume by refusing the offered hand of one who, from the moment of
your birth, was doomed by the prophetic stars of heaven to be your
partner and support through the dark, unexplored wilderness of future
life.’
He ceased. The combat betwixt true love and duty raged for a few
seconds in the marquis’s heart, and sent his life-blood in a tumult
of agony and despair burning to his cheek and brow. At length duty
prevailed, and, with a strong effort, he said in a firm, unfaltering
voice:
‘Son of Wisdom! I will war no longer against the high decree of heaven,
and here I swear by the eternal—’
The rash oath was checked in the moment of its utterance by some
friendly spirit who whispered in his ear:
‘There is magic. Beware!’
At the same time Crashie’s venerable form faded away, and in its
stead appeared the evil genius, Danhasch,[7] in all the naked hideousness
of his real deformity. The demon soon vanished with a wild howl of
rage, and the marquis found himself again in the grove with Lady
Ellrington.
7 Danhasch, son of Schemhourasch, a genie rebellious to God (_Arabian
Nights Entertainments_).—C. W. H.
She implored him on her knees to forgive an attempt which love alone
had dictated, but he turned from her with a smile of bitter contempt
and disdain, and hastened to his father’s palace.
About a week after this event the nuptials of Arthur Augustus, Marquis
of Douro, and Marian Hume were solemnized with unprecedented pomp
and splendour. Lady Ellrington, when she thus saw that all her hopes
were lost in despair, fell into deep melancholy, and while in this
state she amused herself with carving the little image before mentioned.
After a long time she slowly recovered, and the marquis, convinced
that her extravagances had arisen from a disordered brain, consented
to honour her with his friendship once more.
I continued upwards of two months at the Marquis of Douro’s palace,
and then returned to Verdopolis, equally delighted with my noble
host and his fair, amiable bride.
_August 20th_, 1882.
NAPOLEON AND THE SPECTRE
THIS story was printed by Mr. Clement Shorter in February 1919, in
an edition limited to twenty-five copies for private circulation
only. Extracts from it were printed in _Poet-Lore_, vol. ix., Autumn
Number, 1897. The complete story is now published for the first time.
In the Introduction by Mr. Shorter in the privately printed pamphlet
we are informed that the story is supposed to be ‘told at an inn
by a traveller whose name is not given, but who is described as a
dapper little man, dressed in brown coat and waistcoat and cream-coloured
continuations.’
I venture to copy the following further extract from Mr. Shorter’s
Introduction to the story:—
The identity of the ghost is revealed by Napoleon’s exclamation
when he is recovering from his somnambulistic trance,
‘Where in the world is Piche?’ Piche is General Pichegru,
who, when Napoleon was first consul, joined in a plot to
assassinate him. The plot was discovered and Pichegru was arrested
and imprisoned; but before the day fixed for his trial ‘he was
found dead in his cell with his black silk cravat twisted tightly
round his neck by means of a stick.’
Whether he was strangled at the instigation of Napoleon, as
has been asserted by some historians, is not clear; but Charlotte
Brontë apparently believed in Napoleon’s guilt, and in the story
causes the ghost of his victim to haunt him.
C. W. H.
NAPOLEON AND THE SPECTRE
WELL, as I was saying, the Emperor got into bed.
‘Chevalier,’ says he to his valet, ‘let down those window-curtains,
and shut the casement before you leave the room.’
Chevalier did as he was told, and then, taking up his candlestick,
departed.
In a few minutes the Emperor felt his pillow becoming rather hard,
and he got up to shake it. As he did so a slight rustling noise was
heard near the bed-head. His Majesty listened, but all was silent
as he lay down again.
Scarcely had he settled into a peaceful attitude of repose, when
he was disturbed by a sensation of thirst. Lifting himself on his
elbow, he took a glass of lemonade from the small stand which was
placed beside him. He refreshed himself by a deep draught. As he
returned the goblet to its station a deep groan burst from a kind
of closet in one corner of the apartment.
‘Who’s there?’ cried the Emperor, seizing his pistols. ‘Speak, or
I’ll blow your brains out.’
This threat produced no other effect than a short, sharp laugh, and
a dead silence followed.
The Emperor started from his couch, and, hastily throwing on a
_robe-de-chambre_ which hung over the back of a chair, stepped
courageously to the haunted closet. As he opened the door something
rustled. He sprang forward sword in hand. No soul or even substance
appeared, and the rustling, it was evident, proceeded from the falling
of a cloak, which had been suspended by a peg from the door.
Half ashamed of himself he returned to bed.
Just as he was about once more to close his eyes, the light of the
three wax tapers, which burned in a silver branch over the mantelpiece,
was suddenly darkened. He looked up. A black, opaque shadow obscured
it. Sweating with terror, the Emperor put out his hand to seize the
bell-rope, but some invisible being snatched it rudely from his grasp,
and at the same instant the ominous shade vanished.
‘Pooh!’ exclaimed Napoleon, ‘it was but an ocular delusion.’
‘Was it?’ whispered a hollow voice, in deep mysterious tones, close
to his ear. ‘Was it a delusion, Emperor of France? No! all thou hast
heard and seen is sad forewarning reality. Rise, lifter of the Eagle
Standard! Awake, swayer of the Lily Sceptre! Follow me, Napoleon,
and thou shalt see more.’
As the voice ceased, a form dawned on his astonished sight. It was
that of a tall, thin man, dressed in a blue surtout edged with gold
lace. It wore a black cravat very tightly round its neck, and confined
by two little sticks placed behind each ear. The countenance was
livid; the tongue protruded from between the teeth, and the eyes
all glazed and bloodshot started with frightful prominence from their
sockets.
‘Mon Dieu!’ exclaimed the Emperor, ‘what do I see? Spectre, whence
cometh thou?’
The apparition spoke not, but gliding forward beckoned Napoleon with
uplifted finger to follow.
Controlled by a mysterious influence, which deprived him of the capability
of either thinking or acting for himself, he obeyed in silence.
The solid wall of the apartment fell open as they approached, and,
when both had passed through, it closed behind them with a noise
like thunder.
They would now have been in total darkness had it not been for a
dim light which shone round the ghost and revealed the damp walls
of a long, vaulted passage. Down this they proceeded with mute rapidity.
Ere long a cool, refreshing breeze, which rushed wailing up the vault
and caused the Emperor to wrap his loose nightdress closer round,
announced their approach to the open air.
This they soon reached, and Nap found himself in one of the principal
streets of Paris.
‘Worthy Spirit,’ said he, shivering in the chill night air, ‘permit
me to return and put on some additional clothing. I will be with
you again presently.’
‘Forward,’ replied his companion sternly.
He felt compelled, in spite of the rising indignation which almost
choked him, to obey.
On they went through the deserted streets till they arrived at a
lofty house built on the banks of the Seine. Here the Spectre stopped,
the gates rolled back to receive them, and they entered a large marble
hall which was partly concealed by a curtain drawn across, through
the half transparent folds of which a bright light might be seen
burning with dazzling lustre. A row of fine female figures, richly
attired, stood before this screen. They wore on their heads garlands
of the most beautiful flowers, but their faces were concealed by
ghastly masks representing death’s-heads.
‘What is all this mummery?’ cried the Emperor, making an effort to
shake off the mental shackles by which he was so unwillingly restrained,
‘Where am I, and why have I been brought here?’
‘Silence,’ said the guide, lolling out still further his black and
bloody tongue. ‘Silence, if thou wouldst escape instant death.’
The Emperor would have replied, his natural courage overcoming the
temporary awe to which he had at first been subjected, but just then
a strain of wild, supernatural music swelled behind the huge curtain,
which waved to and fro, and bellied slowly out as if agitated by
some internal commotion or battle of waving winds. At the same moment
an overpowering mixture of the scents of mortal corruption, blent
with the richest Eastern odours, stole through the haunted hall.
A murmur of many voices was now heard at a distance, and something
grasped his arm eagerly from behind.
He turned hastily round. His eyes met the well-known countenance
of Marie Louise.
‘What! are you in this infernal place, too?’ said he. ‘What has brought
you here?’
‘Will your Majesty permit me to ask the same question of yourself?’
said the Empress, smiling.
He made no reply; astonishment prevented him. No curtain now intervened
between him and the light. It had been removed as if by magic, and
a splendid chandelier appeared suspended over his head. Throngs of
ladies, richly dressed, but without death’s-head masks, stood round,
and a due proportion of gay cavaliers was mingled with them. Music
was still sounding, but it was seen to proceed from a band of mortal
musicians stationed in an orchestra near at hand. The air was yet
redolent of incense, but it was incense unblended with stench.
‘Mon Dieu!’ cried the Emperor, ‘how is all this come about? Where
in the world is Piche?’
‘Piche?’ replied the Empress. ‘What does your Majesty mean? Had you
not better leave the apartment and retire to rest?’
‘Leave the apartment? Why, where am I?’
‘In my private drawing-room, surrounded by a few particular persons
of the Court whom I had invited this evening to a ball. You entered
a few minutes since in your nightdress with your eyes fixed and wide
open. I suppose from the astonishment you now testify that you were
walking in your sleep.’
The Emperor immediately fell into a fit of catalepsy, in which he
continued during the whole of that night and the greater part of
next day.
CHARLOTTE BRONTË.
From the manuscript of the ‘Green Dwarf,’ an unpublished story which
was commenced on July 10th, 1833, and completed on September 2nd,
1833.—C. W. H.
THE TRAGEDY AND THE ESSAY
THE TRAGEDY AND THE ESSAY
FROM THE MANUSCRIPT ENTITLED
ARTHURIANA, OR
ODDS AND ENDS
BEING
A MISCELLANEOUS COLLECTION
OF PIECES
IN
PROSE AND VERSE,
BY
LORD CHARLES A. F.
WELLESLEY.
Commenced September 27th, 1833.
Finished November 20th, 1833.
THE TRAGEDY AND THE ESSAY
ONE wet and rainy afternoon Arthur was sitting alone in his room.
The unfavourable weather, united to a severe headache the consequence
of certain vigils of the previous night, indisposed him for serious
study, and he sat toasting his feet at a bright fire and languidly
turning over Vernet’s splendid views of the scenery round Verdopolis.
While thus employed, or rather indis-employed, in the vain endeavour
to kill time, a servant entered and announced: ‘Mr. Hamilton.’
‘Show him in,’ said Arthur with alacrity, glad of anything which
might be likely to divert the tedious ennui which oppressed him.
As the young architect, who it is well known is one of my brother’s
numerous toadies, appeared at the door, he rose and, offering him
his hand, said with that winning air of condescension which has gained
for him the hearts of the rising geniuses in Verdopolis:
‘Well, Edwin, how are you this suicidal day?’
‘Quite well, my lord, I thank you. I trust I find your lordship the
same?’
As they seated themselves on a sofa the marquis replied:
‘I cannot say that I am very brisk this afternoon, I have a slight
headache…’
A brief silence followed of which Arthur seemed impatient, and he
broke it by saying:
‘Now tell me, Edwin, what was your motive for coming to see me this
dull day. I’m mistaken if you had not some particular reason.’
‘Why, my lord,’ replied the architect, blushing and looking down
with an embarrassed air, ‘I can’t deny that I have.’
‘What is it, then?’ replied my brother eagerly. ‘Have you been striking
out some plan for a new public building? If so, let me see it directly.’
‘No, my lord; my employment lately has been of another kind to that
to which you allude. I have been wooing—’
‘Wooing!’ interrupted the marquis. ‘What! you are going to be married,
are you? Humph! I see it all now. On my conscience, it’s a perfect
miracle how such a bashful fellow as you ever summoned courage to
pop the question! But pray, what is the fair lady’s name?’
‘Melpomene, the muse of tears!’ replied the modest Hamilton, blushing
to the temples as he spoke. ‘In short, I’ve ventured hither to show
your lordship a tragedy which I have written, called “Petus and Aria.”’
At these words the spirit of criticism began to sparkle in Arthur’s
eye and the smile of sarcasm to curl his lip. Poor Hamilton shrunk
together as he saw his patron gazing on him with that-cool, keen,
composed aspect of contempt which he sometimes assumed in order to
torture the wretches dependent on his favour.
‘A tragedy!’ he began. ‘Produce it by all means. But first tell me,
Edwin, is it constructed in the Grecian or Gothic style of architecture?
Or perhaps you may have invented a kind of composite order out of
your own head?’
‘Eh, my lord?’ murmured his hapless victim.
‘Petus and Aria,’ continued the unrelenting monster; ‘the former
was, I believe, a somewhat timid and henpecked gentleman, whom for
his arrant poltroonery I have always looked upon with supreme contempt;
and the latter a strapping virago that showed herself particularly
anxious to get her husband out of the world which he dishonoured.
Queer materials these for a tragedy!’
To his observations Hamilton’s only answer was a look of imploring
agony. Its silent eloquence, however, touched Arthur more nearly
than words would have done. He smiled and said in a more encouraging
tone than he had hitherto used:
‘Come, Edwin, dismiss that miserable expression from your face and
let us see this notable play.’
With a trembling hand the architect drew the manuscript from his
pocket and presented it to my brother. Half an hour of profound silence
ensued, during which he continued to endure all the torments of suspense.
At length the marquis laid it down, and the single word ‘Admirable!’
which escaped from his lips at once relieved Hamilton from a host
of fears.
‘Are you in earnest, my lord?’ asked he.
‘Perfectly so; and as a proof of it I advise you to offer this play
without loss of time to Mr. Price of the Theatre Royal. I will write
a few lines in favour of it to him, and I do not doubt but that my
recommendation will be sufficient to secure you handsome treatment
in that quarter.’
A fortnight passed. Rumours began to be rife through Verdopolis that
Mr. Hamilton the architect, whose skill had long advanced him to
the rank of rival to the celebrated Turner, had laid down the compasses
and taken up the pen. Ere long these reports were confirmed by the
appearance one Wednesday morning of Price’s bill of fare, containing
the following announcement:—
This evening will be performed at the Theatre Royal
PETUS AND ARIA,
an entirely new tragedy by Edwin Hamilton, Esq.,
under the patronage of the Marquis of Douro.
The character of Aria to be performed by Mrs. Siddons;
that of Petus by Garry David.
That night Price had reason to lick his lips with satisfaction. Never
before was there such a crowded house: pit, box, and gallery overflowed;
and the manager after all expenses were paid netted a clear profit
of five hundred pounds.
It was on this occasion that I took my station among the branches
of the mighty golden chandelier which hangs from the centre of the
dome; and from thence obtained a bird’s-eye view of the whole magnificent
scene.
Certainly there are few sights more animated and inspiring than a
crowded theatre. The brilliant lights, the ceaseless hum of voices,
the busy and visionary stage, all conspire to raise indescribable
feelings in the soul. More than a thousand of the loveliest women
on earth sparkled in the dress circle, where the waving of plumes,
the rustling of robes, and the light-bright eyes were perfectly dazzling.
Among these my eyes singled out Lady Zenobia Ellrington. I noticed
her particularly, because she seldom visits the theatre. There she
sat robed in gorgeous purple, a star-light band of jewels gleaming
among her rich raven locks. Lord Ellrington stood beside her in his
usual plain black attire, and wearing a white cravat in the centre
of which shone a single diamond. From my elevated station I beheld
the entrance of Mr. Hamilton. The Marquis of Douro preceded him,
accompanied by a beautiful girl in a white dress and green sash without
any ornament on her head except a profusion of chestnut curls which,
clustering in the most luxuriant ringlets, obliged her every now
and then to raise her small hand in order to put them back from her
snowy forehead and laughing blue eyes, which they almost concealed.
I need not say that this was the marchioness.
Who shall describe the tumultuous rush of feelings which rose in
Edwin’s bosom as he glanced hurriedly round at the vast assembly
on which his fate this night depended. His eyes wildly wandered from
the rough tenants of the gallery to the glittering population of
the boxes, and finally fixed themselves on the mighty green curtain
which still hung before the stage. The few moments that elapsed before
its removal seemed to him an hour, but at last the tinkle of the
prompter’s bell sounded and at once it was gathered to the ceiling.
The prologue (which had been furnished by Arthur) was received
with thunders of applause, amidst which arose one solitary note of
disapprobation. All eyes turned on the utterer of this presumptuous
squeal, which was a small deformed thing of the ape kind dressed in a
green coat, and bearing the name of Captain Andrew.
‘Knock him down!’ was the general cry of the gods in the gallery;
which mandate was presently executed by my friend, John Bud, who
stood near. The first scene now came on, in the course of which Mrs.
Siddons displayed all her finest powers and even excelled herself.
Peals of applause again shook the theatre to its foundations. Hamilton
was scarcely able to contain the joy and gratitude which this intoxicating
success excited. His cheeks glowed, his eye sparkled, and his frame
trembled all over. His transports, however, were soon about to receive
a fearful check. At the commencement of the second act Petus rushed
into the tent of Camilus, exclaiming: ‘General, we breathe the air
of death. Our plot is smoked!’
‘Well,’ cried Lord Lofty, who with a bevy of puppies like himself
occupied a box at no great distance; ‘Well, sir, and if your Pipe
is smoked, can’t you light another?’
The laughter of some of the audience was raised by this sally of
miserable wit, which from what followed seemed to have been a preconcerted
signal for an indiscriminate attack on the tragedy. The thread of
approval being once broken it appeared impossible to reunite it.
Hisses, groans, and peals of laughter now rose at the finest passages.
The gods, who are ever ready to join in a tumult, without nicely
inquiring into the cause, yelled aloud for the instant condemnation
of the whole concern. Lofty and his gang joined them clamourosly
in this demand, and at length the uproar rose to such a pitch that
Mr. Price was compelled to come forward to the footlights and declare
that since the audience disapproved of the play he consented to withdraw
it.
‘All hope of fame is gone and I desire to live no longer,’ said Hamilton,
turning on the marquis his corpse-like countenance.
‘Courage, Edwin,’ replied the latter. ‘It is part of my creed that
there is no wound too deep to receive relief from the divine balsam
of revenge. I know who is your principal foe, and if I live you shall
enjoy the remedy in perfection.’