Chapter i.
Oswald, Lord Nelville, Peer of Scotland, quitted Edinburgh for Italy
during the winter of 1794-5. He possessed a noble and handsome figure,
an abundance of wit, an illustrious name, and an independent fortune,
but his health was impaired by deeply-rooted sorrow, and his physicians,
fearing that his lungs were attacked, had prescribed him the air of the
South. Though indifferent as to the preservation of his life, he
followed their advice. He expected, at least, to find in the diversity
of objects he was about to see, something that might divert his mind
from the melancholy that preyed upon it. The most exquisite of
griefs--the loss of a father--was the cause of his malady; this was
heightened by cruel circumstances, which, together with a remorse
inspired by delicate scruples, increased his anguish, which was still
further aggravated by the phantoms of the imagination. Those who suffer,
easily persuade themselves that they are guilty, and violent grief will
extend its painful influence even to the conscience.
At twenty-five years of age he was dissatisfied with life, his mind
anticipated every thing that it could afford, and his wounded
sensibility no longer enjoyed the illusions of the heart. Nobody
appeared more complacent, more devoted to his friends when he was able
to render them service; but not even the good he performed could afford
him a pleasurable sensation.
He incessantly sacrificed his own taste to that of others; but it was
impossible to explain, upon principles of generosity alone, this total
abnegation of every selfish feeling, most frequently to be attributed to
that species of sadness which no longer permitted him to take any
interest in his own fate. Those indifferent to him enjoyed this
disposition so full of benignity and charm; but those who loved him
perceived that he sought the happiness of others like a man who no
longer expected any himself; and they almost experienced a pain from his
conferring a felicity for which it was impossible to make him a return
in kind.
He was, notwithstanding, of a nature susceptible of emotion, sensibility
and passion; he combined every thing that could evoke enthusiasm in
others and in himself; but misfortune and repentance had taught him to
tremble at that destiny whose anger he sought to disarm by forbearing to
solicit any favour at her hands.
He expected to find in a strict attachment to all his duties, and in a
renunciation of every lively enjoyment, a security against those pangs
that tear the soul. What he had experienced struck fear into his heart;
and nothing this world can afford, could, in his estimation, compensate
the risk of those sufferings; but when one is capable of feeling them,
what mode of life can shelter us from their power?
Lord Nelville flattered himself that he should be able to quit Scotland
without regret, since he resided in it without pleasure; but the
unhappy imagination of the children of sensibility is not so formed: he
did not suspect what ties attached him to those scenes which were most
painful to him,--to the home of his father. There were in this
habitation, chambers, places, which he could not approach without
shuddering, and, nevertheless, when he resolved to quit them, he felt
himself still more solitary. His heart became dried up; he was no longer
able to give vent to his sufferings in tears; he could no longer call up
those little local circumstances which affected him deeply; his
recollections no longer possessed anything of the vivid semblance of
real existence; they were no longer in affinity with the objects that
surrounded him; he did not think less on him whose loss he lamented, but
he found it more difficult to recall his presence.
Sometimes also he reproached himself for abandoning those abodes where
his father had dwelt. "Who knows," said he to himself, "whether the
shades of the departed are allowed to pursue every where the objects of
their affection? Perhaps it is only permitted them to wander about the
spot where their ashes repose! Perhaps at this moment my father regrets
me, while distance prevents my hearing his voice exerted to recall his
son. Alas! while he was living must not a concourse of strange events
have persuaded him that I had betrayed his tenderness, that I was a
rebel to my country, to his paternal will, to everything that is sacred
on earth?"--These recollections excited in Lord Nelville a grief so
insupportable that not only was he unable to confide it to others, but
even dreaded himself to sound it to the bottom. So easily do our own
reflections become to us an irreparable evil.
It costs us more to quit our native country when to leave it we must
traverse the sea; all is solemn in a journey of which ocean marks the
first steps. An abyss seems to open behind you, and to render your
return for ever impossible. Besides, the sublime spectacle which the sea
presents must always make a deep impression on the imagination; it is
the image of that Infinity which continually attracts our thoughts, that
run incessantly to lose themselves in it. Oswald, supporting himself on
the helm, his eyes fixed on the waves, was apparently calm, for his
pride, united to his timidity, would scarcely ever permit him to
discover, even to his friends, what he felt; but he was internally
racked with the most painful emotions.
He brought to mind the time when the sight of the sea animated his youth
with the desire of plunging into her waves, and measuring his force
against her's.--"Why," said he to himself, with the most bitter regret,
"why do I yield so unremittingly to reflection? How many pleasures are
there in active life, in those exercises which make us feel the energy
of existence? Death itself then appears but an event, perhaps glorious,
at least sudden, and not preceded by decline. But that death which comes
without having been sought by courage, that death of darkness which
steals from you in the night all that you hold most dear, which despises
your lamentations, repulses your embrace, and pitilessly, opposes to you
the eternal laws of nature and of time! such a death inspires a sort of
contempt for human destiny, for the impotence of grief, for all those
vain efforts that dash and break themselves upon the rock of necessity."
Such were the sentiments that tormented Oswald; and what particularly
characterised his unhappy situation, was the vivacity of youth united to
thoughts of another age. He entered into those ideas which he conceived
must have occupied his father's mind in the last moments of his life;
and he carried the ardour of twenty-five into the melancholy
reflections of old age. He was weary of every thing, and yet still
regretted happiness, as if her illusions were still within his grasp.
This contrast, quite in hostility with the ordinance of nature, which
gives uniformity and graduation to the natural course of things, threw
the soul of Oswald into disorder; but his manners always possessed
considerable sweetness and harmony, and his sadness, far from souring
his temper, only inspired him with more condescension and goodness
towards others.
Two or three times during the passage from Harwich to Empden the sea put
on the appearance of approaching storm; Lord Nelville counselled the
sailors, restored confidence to the passengers, and when he himself
assisted in working the ship, when he took for a moment the place of the
steersman, there was in all he did, a skill and a power which could not
be considered as merely the effect of the agility of the body,--there
was soul in all that he did.
On his quitting the vessel all the crew crowded around Oswald to take
leave of him; they all thanked him for a thousand little services which
he had rendered them during the voyage, and which he no longer
remembered. Upon one occasion, perhaps, it was a child which had
occupied a large share of his attention; more often an old man, whose
tottering steps he had supported when the wind agitated the ship. Such a
general attention, without any regard to rank or quality, was perhaps
never met with. During the whole day he would scarcely bestow a single
moment upon himself: influenced alike by melancholy and benevolence, he
gave his whole time to others. On leaving him the sailors said to him
with one voice, "My dear Lord, may you be more happy!" Oswald had not
once expressed the internal pain he felt; and the men of another rank,
who had accompanied him in his passage, had not spoken a word to him on
that subject. But the common people, in whom their superiors rarely
confide, accustom themselves to discover sentiments and feelings by
other means than speech: they pity you when you suffer, though they are
ignorant of the cause of your grief, and their spontaneous pity is
unmixed with either blame or advice.
Chapter ii.
Travelling, whatever may be said of it, is one of the saddest pleasures
of life. When you find yourself comfortable in some foreign city it
begins to feel, in some degree, like your own country; but to traverse
unknown realms, to hear a language spoken which you hardly comprehend,
to see human countenances which have no connection either with your past
recollections or future prospects, is solitude and isolation, without
dignity and without repose; for that eagerness, that haste to arrive
where nobody expects us, that agitation, of which curiosity is the only
cause, inspires us with very little esteem for ourselves, till the
moment when new objects become a little old, and create around us some
soft ties of sentiment and habit.
The grief of Oswald was, then, redoubled in traversing Germany in order
to repair to Italy. On account of the war it was necessary to avoid
France and its environs; it was also necessary to keep aloof from the
armies who rendered the roads impracticable. This necessity of occupying
his mind with particulars material to the journey, of adopting, every
day, and almost every instant, some new resolution, was quite
insupportable to Lord Nelville. His health, far from becoming better,
often obliged him to stop, when he felt the strongest desire to hasten
to his journey's end or at least to make a start. He spat blood, and
took scarcely any care of himself; for he believed himself guilty, and
became his own accuser with too great a degree of severity. He no longer
wished for life but as it might become instrumental to the defence of
his country. "Has not our country," said he, "some paternal claims upon
us? But we should have the power to serve it usefully: we must not offer
it such a debilitated existence as I drag along to ask of the sun some
principle of life to enable me to struggle against my miseries. None but
a father would receive me to his bosom, under such circumstances, with
affection increased in proportion as I was abandoned by nature and by
destiny."
Lord Nelville had flattered himself that the continual variety of
external objects would distract his imagination a little from those
ideas by which it was habitually occupied; but that circumstance was far
from producing, at first, this happy effect. After any great misfortune
we must become familiarised anew with everything that surrounds us;
accustom ourselves to the faces that we behold again, to the house in
which we dwell, to the daily habits that we resume; each of these
efforts is a painful shock, and nothing multiplies them like a journey.
The only pleasure of Lord Nelville was to traverse the Tirolese
Mountains upon a Scotch horse which he had brought with him, and which
like the horses of that country ascended heights at a gallop: he quitted
the high road in order to proceed by the most steep paths. The
astonished peasants cried out at first with terror at beholding him thus
upon the very brink of precipices, then clapped their hands in
admiration of his address, his agility, and his courage. Oswald was fond
of this sensation of danger; it supports the weight of affliction, it
reconciles us, for a moment, with that life which we have reconquered,
and which it so easy to lose.
Chapter iii.
In the town of Inspruck, before entering Italy, Oswald heard a merchant
at whose house he had stopped some time, relate the story of a French
emigré called the Count d'Erfeuil, which greatly interested him in his
favour. This man had suffered the entire loss of a very large fortune
with the most perfect serenity; he had, by his talent for music,
supported himself and an old uncle, whom he had taken care of until his
death; he had constantly refused to accept offers of pecuniary
assistance pressingly made to him; he had manifested the most brilliant
valour--a French valour--during the war, and the most invincible gaiety
in the midst of reverses. He was desirous of going to Rome to see a
relation, whose heir he was to be, and wished for a companion, or rather
a friend, in order to render the journey more agreeable to both.
The most bitter recollections of Lord Nelville were connected with
France; nevertheless he was exempt from those prejudices which divide
the two nations; for a Frenchman had been his intimate friend, and he
had found in this friend the most admirable union of all the qualities
of the soul. He, therefore, offered to the merchant who related to him
the story of the Count d'Erfeuil, to take this noble and unfortunate
young man to Italy; and at the end of an hour the merchant came to
inform Lord Nelville that his proposition was accepted with gratitude.
Oswald was happy in being able to perform this service, but it cost him
much to renounce his solitude; and his timidity was wounded at finding
himself, all of a sudden, in an habitual relation with a man whom he did
not know.
The Count d'Erfeuil came to pay a visit to Lord Nelville, in order to
thank him. He possessed elegant manners, an easy politeness, good taste,
and appeared, from the very first introduction, perfectly at his ease.
In his company one would feel astonished at all that he had suffered,
for he supported his fate with a courage approaching to oblivion; and
there was in his conversation a facility truly admirable when he spoke
of his own reverses; but less admirable, it must be confessed, when it
extended to other subjects.
"I owe you infinite obligation, my lord," said the Count d'Erfeuil, "for
rescuing me from this Germany, where I was perishing with _ennui_." "You
are here, nevertheless," replied Lord Nelville, "generally beloved and
esteemed." "I have friends here," replied the Count d'Erfeuil, "whom I
sincerely regret; for we meet in this country the best people in the
world; but I do not know a word of German, and you will agree with me
that it would be too long and fatiguing a task for me to set about
learning it now. Since I have had the misfortune to lose my uncle I do
not know what to do with my time, when I had the care of him it filled
up my day, at present the twenty-four hours weigh heavily upon my
hands." "The delicacy of your conduct towards your uncle," said Lord
Nelville, "inspires everybody with the most profound esteem for your
character, Count." "I have only done my duty," replied the Count
d'Erfeuil; "the poor man had overwhelmed me with kindnesses during my
childhood; I should never have deserted him had he lived a hundred
years! But it is happy for him, however, that he is dead; it would be a
happy thing for me also were I to follow him," added he, laughing; "for
I have not much hope in this world. I used my best endeavours, during
the war, to get killed; but, since fate has spared me, I must only live
as well as I can." "I shall congratulate myself on my arrival here,"
answered Lord Nelville, "if you find yourself comfortable at Rome, and
if--" "Oh, _mon Dieu_," interrupted the Count d'Erfeuil, "I shall find
myself comfortable every where: when we are young and gay every thing
accommodates itself to us. It is not from books, nor from meditation,
that I have derived the philosophy which I possess, but from knowledge
of the world, and trials of misfortune; and you see, my lord, that I
have reason to reckon upon chance, since it has procured me the honour
of travelling with you." In finishing these words the Count d'Erfeuil
saluted Lord Nelville with the best grace in the world, settled the hour
of departure for the following day, and took his leave.
The Count d'Erfeuil and Lord Nelville set out on the morrow. Oswald,
after some expressions of politeness had passed between them, was
several hours without saying a word; but perceiving that this silence
was disagreeable to his companion, he asked him if he anticipated
pleasure from a residence in Italy: "_Mon Dieu_," replied the Count
d'Erfeuil, "I know what I have to expect from that country. I have no
hope of any amusement there: a friend of mine, who had passed six months
at Rome, has assured me there is not a province of France where one may
not find a better theatre and a more agreeable society than at Rome, but
in that ancient capital of the world I shall surely find some Frenchmen
to chat with, and that is all I desire." "You have not attempted to
learn Italian?" interrupted Oswald. "Not at all," replied the Count
d'Erfeuil; "that did not enter into my plan of study." And in saying
this he assumed such a serious air that one would have believed it was a
resolution founded upon grave motives.
"If I may speak my mind to you," continued the Count d'Erfeuil, "as a
nation, I love only the English and the French, one must either be proud
like them or brilliant like us; all the rest is only imitation." Oswald
was silent; the Count d'Erfeuil some moments after resumed the
conversation by the most lively sallies of wit and gaiety. He played
with words and phrases in a very ingenious manner, but neither external
objects nor intimate sentiments were the object of his discourse. His
conversation proceeded, if it may be so expressed, neither from without
nor within; it was neither reflective nor imaginative, and the bare
relations of society were its subject.
He repeated twenty proper names to Lord Nelville, either in France, or
in England, to know if he was acquainted with them, and related upon
this occasion highly seasoned anecdotes with a most graceful turn; but
one would have said, in hearing him, that the only discourse suitable to
a man of taste was, to use the expression, the gossip of good company.
Lord Nelville reflected some time on the character of Count d'Erfeuil;
that singular mixture of courage and frivolity, that contempt of
misfortune, so great if it had cost more efforts, so heroic if it did
not proceed from the same source that renders us incapable of deep
affections. "An Englishman," said Oswald to himself, "would be weighed
down with sadness under similar circumstances.--Whence proceeds the
resolution of this Frenchman? Whence proceeds also his mobility? Does
the Count d'Erfeuil then truly understand the art of living? Is it only
my own disordered mind that whispers to me I am superior to him? Does
his light existence accord better than mine with the rapidity of human
life? And must we shun reflection as an enemy, instead of giving up our
whole soul to it?" Vainly would Oswald have cleared up those doubts; no
one can escape from the intellectual region allotted him; and qualities
are still more difficult to subdue than defects.
The Count d'Erfeuil paid no attention to Italy, and rendered it almost
impossible for Lord Nelville to bestow a thought upon it; for he
incessantly distracted him from that disposition of mind which excites
admiration of a fine country, and gives a relish for its picturesque
charms. Oswald listened as much as he could to the noise of the wind and
to the murmuring of the waves; for all the voices of nature conveyed
more gratification to his soul than he could possibly receive from the
social conversation indulged in at the foot of the Alps, among the
ruins, and on the borders of the sea.
The sadness which consumed Oswald would have opposed fewer obstacles to
the pleasure which he could have derived from Italy than the gaiety of
Count d'Erfeuil, the sorrows of a sensitive mind will blend with the
contemplation of nature and the enjoyment of the fine arts; but
frivolity, in whatever form it presents itself, deprives attention of
its force, thought of its originality, and sentiment of its profundity.
One of the singular effects of this frivolity was to inspire Lord
Nelville with a great deal of timidity in his intercourse with Count
d'Erfeuil: embarrassment is nearly always on the side of him whose
character is the more serious. Mental levity imposes upon the mind
habitually disposed to meditation, and he who proclaims himself happy,
appears wiser than he who suffers.
The Count d'Erfeuil was mild, obliging, and easy in every thing; serious
only in self love, and worthy of being regarded as he regarded others;
that is to say, as a good companion of pleasures and of perils; but he
had no idea whatever of sharing sorrows: he was wearied to death with
the melancholy of Oswald, and, as much from goodness of heart as from
taste, was desirous of dissipating it.
"What is it you find wanting?" said he to him often; "are you not young,
rich, and if you choose, in good health? for you are only ill because
you are sad. For my part I have lost my fortune, my existence: I know
not in fact what will become of me; nevertheless I enjoy life as if I
possessed all the prosperity that earth can afford." "You are endowed
with a courage as rare as it is honourable," replied Lord Nelville; "but
the reverses which you have experienced are less injurious in their
consequences than the grief which preys upon the heart." "The grief
which preys upon the heart," cried the Count d'Erfeuil; "Oh! it is true,
that is the most cruel of all;--but--but yet we should console ourselves
under it; for a sensible man ought to drive away from his soul every
thing that can neither be useful to others nor to himself. Are we not
here below to be useful first and happy afterwards? My dear Nelville let
us hold to that."
What the Count d'Erfeuil said was reasonable, according to the general
import of the word, for it savoured a good deal of what is usually
called common sense: passionate characters are much more capable of
folly than cool and superficial ones; but so far was the Count
d'Erfeuil's mode of feeling from exciting the confidence of Lord
Nelville that he would gladly have convinced him he was the most happy
of men in order to avoid the pain which his consolation gave him.
However the Count became greatly attached to Lord Nelville: his
resignation and his simplicity, his modesty and his pride, inspired him
with an involuntary respect for his character. He was concerned at the
calm exterior of Oswald; he ransacked his head to bring to recollection
all the most grave sayings which, in his childhood, he had heard from
his aged parents, in order to try their effect upon Lord Nelville; and,
quite astonished at not overcoming his apparent coldness, he said to
himself: "Do I not possess courage, goodness, and openness of
disposition? Am I not beloved in society? What is it then that I want to
make an impression upon this man? There surely must be some
misunderstanding between us which probably arises from his not
understanding French sufficiently well."
Chapter iv.
An unforeseen circumstance greatly increased the sentiment of respect
which the Count d'Erfeuil experienced already, almost without knowing
it, for his travelling companion. The health of Lord Nelville had
obliged him to stop some days at Ancona. The mountains and the sea
render the situation of this city very fine, and the crowd of Greeks who
work in front of their shops seated in the oriental manner, the
diversity of costume of the inhabitants of the Levant, whom one meets in
the streets, give it an original and interesting appearance. The art of
civilization has a continual tendency to render all men alike in
appearance and almost in reality; but the mind and the imagination take
pleasure in the characteristic differences of nations: it is only by
affectation and by calculation that men resemble each other; all that is
natural is varied. The eyes then, at least, derive some little pleasure
from diversity of costume; it seems to promise a new manner of feeling
and of judging.
The Greek, the Catholic, and the Jewish worships exist simultaneously
and peaceably in the city of Ancona. The ceremonies of these several
religions differ widely from each other; but in those various forms of
worship, the same sentiment lifts the soul to heaven--the same cry of
grief, the same need of support.
The catholic church is on the top of a mountain, which dominates the
sea: the roaring of the waves is often mingled with the song of the
priests. The interior of the church is overladen with a crowd of rather
tawdry ornaments; but if one stop beneath the portico of the temple, the
soul is filled with the purest sentiments of religion, heightened by
that sublime spectacle the sea, on whose bosom man has never been able
to imprint the smallest trace. The earth is tilled by him, the mountains
are cut through by his roads, and rivers shut up into canals to
transport his merchandise; but if the waves are furrowed for a moment by
his vessels the billows immediately efface this slight mark of
servitude, and the sea appears again as it was the first day of the
creation.
Lord Nelville had fixed his departure for Rome for the morrow, when he
heard, during the night the most dreadful cries in the city. He hastily
quitted the inn in order to learn the cause, when he beheld a terrible
fire, which proceeded from the port, and climbed from house to house
even to the very top of the city. The flames were mirrored at a distance
in the sea; the wind, which increased their fierceness, also disturbed
their image in the surging waves, which reflected in a thousand ways the
lurid traits of the conflagration.
The inhabitants of Ancona[2], not having among them pumps in good
condition, were obliged to carry water to extinguish the flames, which
they did with great eagerness. Amidst the din of different cries was
heard the clank of chains, from the galley slaves, who were employed in
saving that city which served them for a prison. The different nations
of the Levant, which commerce draws to Ancona, expressed their fear by
the stupor which appeared in their looks. The merchants, on beholding
their warehouses in flames, entirely lost their presence of mind. Alarm
for the loss of fortune affects the common order of men as much as the
fear of death, and does not inspire that energy of the soul, that
enthusiasm which brings resources to our aid.
The cries of sailors have always something doleful and prolonged in
them, and were now rendered still more so by terror. The mariners on the
shores of the Adriatic are clad in a red and brown hooded cloak of most
singular appearance, and from the midst of this vestment emerged the
animated countenances of the Italians, painting fear in a thousand
shapes. The inhabitants, throwing themselves down in the streets,
covered their heads with their cloaks, as if nothing remained for them
now to do but to avoid seeing their disaster; others precipitated
themselves into those flames from which they entertained no hope of
escaping. A thoughtless fury and a blind resignation appeared by turns;
but nowhere was seen that cool deliberation which redoubles our
resources and our strength.
Oswald recollected that there were two English vessels in the harbour
which had on board pumps of the best construction: he ran to the
captain, who accompanied him in a boat to bring away these pumps. The
inhabitants, seeing them enter the boat, exclaimed, "_Ah! strangers you
do well to quit our unhappy city_!" "We shall come back again," said
Oswald. They did not believe him. He returned however, fixed one of the
pumps opposite the first house on fire, near the port, and the other
facing that which was burning in the middle of the street. The Count
d'Erfeuil exposed his life with carelessness, courage, and gaiety; the
English sailors, and the domestics of Lord Nelville, all came to his
aid; for the inhabitants of Ancona remained motionless, hardly
comprehending what these strangers were about, and not expecting the
least success from them.
The bells rang in every quarter, the priests made processions, the women
lamented and prostrated themselves before the images of the saints at
the corners of the streets; but no one thought of those natural means
which God has given to man for his defence. However, when the
inhabitants perceived the happy effect of Oswald's activity; when they
saw that the flames were being extinguished, and that their houses would
be saved, they passed from astonishment to enthusiasm; they thronged
about Lord Nelville, and kissed his hands with such lively eagerness
that he was obliged to appear angry in order to drive away from him all
who might obstruct the rapid succession of orders, and of efforts
necessary to save the city. Every body was arranged under his command;
for, in the least as well as in the greatest circumstances, when danger
presents itself courage assumes its proper station; as soon as men are
possessed with fear they cease to be jealous of one another.
Oswald, however, amid the general din, distinguished some cries more
horrible than the rest, which resounded from the other extremity of the
city. He demanded whence these cries proceeded, and was informed that
they came from the quarter which was allotted for the Jews: the officer
of the police was accustomed to shut the gates of this quarter in the
evening, and, the fire having reached that part of the city, the Jews
had no means of escape.
Oswald shuddered at this idea, and demanded that the gate should be
immediately opened; but some women of the people who heard him threw
themselves at his feet, entreating him to desist.--"_You see very
well_," said they, "_our good angel! that it is certainly on account of
these Jews who reside here that we have suffered this fire, it is they
who bring calamity upon us, and if you set them at liberty all the water
in the sea will not extinguish the flames_." And they besought Oswald to
let the Jews be burnt with as much eloquence and tenderness as if they
were soliciting an act of clemency. This was not the effect of natural
cruelty, but of a superstitious imagination acutely impressed by a great
misfortune; however, Oswald could hardly contain his indignation on
hearing these strange entreaties.
He sent four English sailors with hatchets to break open the gates which
inclosed these unfortunate people, who spread themselves in an instant
through the city, running to their merchandise with that greed of
possession which has something very melancholy in it, when it induces
mortals to risk their lives for worldly wealth. One would say that in
the present state of society the simple blessing of life is esteemed by
man of little value.
There now remained but one house at the top of the city, which the
flames surrounded in such a manner that it was impossible to extinguish
them, and more impossible to enter it. The inhabitants of Ancona had
manifested so little concern for this house, that the English sailors,
not believing it to be inhabited, had dragged their pumps towards the
harbour. Oswald himself, stunned by the cries of those who surrounded
him and solicited his aid, had not paid attention to it. The fire had
extended the latest to that quarter, but had made considerable progress
there. Lord Nelville demanded so impatiently what house that was, that
at length a man informed him it was the madhouse. At this idea his whole
soul was agitated; he turned, but found none of the sailors around him;
the Count d'Erfeuil was not there either, and he would vainly have
addressed himself to the inhabitants of Ancona: they were almost all
occupied in saving their merchandise, and considered it absurd to run
any risk to rescue men, of whom there was not one who was not incurably
mad: "_It is a blessing from Heaven_," said they, "_for them, and for
their relations, that they should die in this manner; without any one
incurring a crime by their death_."
Whilst they held such language as this around Oswald, he proceeded with
the utmost speed towards the madhouse, and the crowd, by whom he was
censured, followed him with a confused sentiment of involuntary
enthusiasm. As Oswald approached the house, he saw, at the only window
which was not surrounded with flames, a number of lunatics, who regarded
the progress of the fire with that horrid kind of smile which either
supposes ignorance of all the ills of life, or so much grief at the
bottom of the soul that death in no shape can terrify it. An
inexpressible shudder seized upon Oswald at this sight; he had felt in
the most dreadful moment of his despair, that his reason was on the
point of being affected, and since that epoch, the aspect of madness
always inspired him with the most sorrowful emotions of pity. He seized
a ladder which he found near the spot, fixed it against the wall, and
entered by the window into an apartment where the unhappy people who
remained in the madhouse were assembled together.
Their insanity was so harmless, that they were suffered to be at large
in the interior of the house with the exception of one, who was chained
in this very room, where the flames already began to appear through the
door, but had not yet consumed the floor. These miserable creatures,
quite degraded by disease and suffering, were so surprised and enchanted
by the appearance of Oswald among them, that they obeyed him at first
without resistance. He ordered them to descend before him, one after
another, by means of the ladder, which the flames might devour in a
moment. The first of these wretched people obeyed without uttering a
word; the accent and the physiognomy of Lord Nelville had entirely
subdued him. A third wished to resist, without suspecting the danger
that he incurred by each moment of delay, and without thinking of the
peril to which he exposed Oswald in detaining him. The people, who felt
all the horrors of his situation, cried out to Lord Nelville to return,
and to let those maniacs get away how they could. But the deliverer
would listen to nothing till he had achieved his generous enterprise.
Of the six lunatics who were in the madhouse, five were already saved;
there now only remained the sixth who was chained. Oswald loosened his
irons, and endeavoured to make him take the same means of escaping as
his companions had done; but it was a poor young man, whose reason was
entirely destroyed, and, finding himself at liberty, after being chained
for two years, he darted about the room with an extravagant joy. This
joy rose to fury, when Oswald tried to make him go out at the window.
Lord Nelville perceiving that it was impossible to prevail upon this
maniac to save himself, though the flames increased around them, seized
him in his arms, in spite of the efforts of the unhappy wretch, who
struggled against his benefactor. He carried him off, without knowing
where he placed his feet, so much was his sight obscured by the smoke;
he leaped from nearly the middle of the ladder, and consigned the
lunatic, who loaded him with curses, to some people whom he made promise
to take care of him.
Oswald, animated by the danger he had just run, his hair dishevelled,
his look so proud yet so mild, struck the crowd who beheld him with
admiration, and almost with fanaticism; the women, above all, expressed
themselves with that imagination which is an almost universal gift in
Italy, and even gives a nobleness to the conversation of the common
people. They threw themselves on their knees before him, and cried,
"_You are surely St Michael, the patron of our city; display thy wings
most holy saint! but do not quit us: deign to ascend the steeple of the
cathedral, that all the city may behold, and pray to thee_." "_My child
is sick_," said one, "_heal him_." "_Tell me_," said another, "_where my
husband is, who has been absent several years_?" Oswald sought a means
of escape. The Count d'Erfeuil arrived, and said to him, pressing his
hand, "My dear Nelville, we ought to share all things with our friends;
it is unkind of you thus to monopolise all the danger." "Release me from
these people," said Oswald to him, in a low voice. A moment of darkness
favoured their flight, and both of them went in haste to get post
horses.
Lord Nelville experienced, at first, some pleasure from the good action
he had just performed, but with whom could he enjoy it now that his best
friend was no more? How unhappy is the lot of orphans! The most
fortunate events, as well as the most painful, make them feel alike the
solitude of the heart. How is it possible, in effect, ever to replace
that affection which is born with us, that intelligence, that sympathy
of blood, that friendship prepared by heaven between the child and the
father? We may still, it is true, find an object of love; but one in
whom we can confide our whole soul is a happiness which can never be
found again.