[Illustration: _Boxall del^t._ _C. Marr sculp^t._
ST. LEON,
“_I took her hand and by my caresses endeavoured to soothe and compose
her._” _Page 65._
_London, Published by Henry Colburn & Richard Bentley, 1831._]
ST. LEON,
BY
WILLIAM GODWIN.
[Illustration: _He put his hand to the wound;
the Animal stirred not._ _Page 273._]
LONDON.
COLBURN AND BENTLEY,
NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1831.
ST. LEON:
A
TALE OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY.
BY
WILLIAM GODWIN.
Ferdinand Mendez Pinto was but a type of thee, thou
liar of the first magnitude. CONGREVE.
LONDON:
HENRY COLBURN AND RICHARD BENTLEY,
NEW BURLINGTON STREET;
BELL AND BRADFUTE, EDINBURGH
AND CUMMING, DUBLIN.
1831.
LONDON:
Printed by A. & R. Spottiswoode,
New-Street-Square.
ADVERTISEMENT.
The Publishers of the Collection of “STANDARD NOVELS” are extremely
desirous that I should furnish them with a few lines, by way of
introduction to the appearance of ST. LEON in its present form. I am
however at a loss how to oblige them. In the original Preface I frankly
stated the sources upon which I had drawn for the idea and conduct
of the work. I have therefore no remarks to offer, but these which
follow:--
In 1794 I produced the novel of Caleb Williams. I believed myself
fortunate in the selection I had made of the ground-plot of that work.
An atrocious crime committed by a man previously of the most exemplary
habits, the annoyance he suffers from the immeasurable and ever-wakeful
curiosity of a raw youth who is placed about his person, the state of
doubt in which the reader might for a time be as to the truth of the
charges, and the consequences growing out of these causes, seemed to
me to afford scope for a narrative of no common interest. I was not
disappointed. Caleb Williams was honoured with the public favour.
The consequence was that I was solicited to try my hand again in a work
of fiction. I hesitated long. I despaired of finding again a topic
so rich of interest and passion. In those days it was deemed a most
daring thought to attempt to write a novel, with the hope that it might
hereafter rank among the classics of a language. The most successful
English writers in that province of literature had scarcely gone
beyond three. It had not then been conceived that the same author might
produce twenty or thirty, at the rate of two or three _per annum_,
and might still at least retain his hold upon the partiality of his
contemporaries. To Sir Walter Scott we are indebted for this discovery.
At length, after having passed some years in a state of diffidence and
irresolution, I ventured on the task. It struck me that if I could “mix
human feelings and passions with incredible situations,” I might thus
attain a sort of novelty that would conciliate the patience, at least,
even of some of the severest judges. To this way of thinking ST. LEON
was indebted for a “local habitation, and a name.”
One of my most valued friends [Mr. Northcote] has often told me, that
the public may sometimes be interested in the perusal of a book, but
that they never give themselves any trouble about the author. He
therefore kindly advised me on no occasion to say any thing in print
about myself. The present race of readers seem scarcely disposed
to verify this maxim. They are understood to be desirous to learn
something of the peculiarities, the “life, character, and behaviour,”
of an author, before they consign him to the gulph of oblivion, and are
willing to learn from his own testimony what train of thoughts induced
him to adopt the particular subject and plan of the work, upon the
perusal of which they are engaged.
_June, 1831._
PREFACE.
The following passage from a work, said to be written by the late Dr.
John Campbel, and entitled _Hermippus Redivivus_, suggested the first
hint of the present performance:--
“There happened in the year 1687, an odd accident at Venice, that
made a very great stir then, and which I think deserves to be rescued
from oblivion. The great freedom and ease with which all persons, who
make a good appearance, live in that city, is known sufficiently to
all who are acquainted with it; such will not therefore be surprised,
that a stranger, who went by the name of signor Gualdi, and who made a
considerable figure there, was admitted into the best company, though
nobody knew who or what he was. He remained at Venice for some months;
and three things were remarked in his conduct. The first was, that he
had a small collection of fine pictures, which he readily showed to any
body that desired it; the next, that he was perfectly versed in all
arts and sciences, and spoke on every subject with such readiness and
sagacity, as astonished all who heard him; and it was, in the third
place, observed, that he never wrote or received any letter, never
desired any credit, or made use of bills of exchange, but paid for
every thing in ready money and lived decently, though not in splendour.
“This gentleman met one day at the coffee-house with a Venetian
nobleman, who was an extraordinary good judge of pictures: he had heard
of signor Gualdi’s collection, and in a very polite manner desired to
see them, to which the other very readily consented. After the Venetian
had viewed signor Gualdi’s collection, and expressed his satisfaction,
by telling him that he had never seen a finer, considering the number
of pieces of which it consisted; he cast his eye by chance over the
chamber-door, where hung a picture of this stranger. The Venetian
looked upon it, and then upon him. ‘This picture was drawn for you,
sir,’ says he to signor Gualdi, to which the other made no answer,
but by a low bow. ‘You look,’ continued the Venetian, ‘like a man of
fifty, and yet I know this picture to be of the hand of Titian, who has
been dead one hundred and thirty years, how is this possible?’--‘It is
not easy,’ said signor Gualdi, gravely, ‘to know all things that are
possible; but there is certainly no crime in my being like a picture
drawn by Titian.’ The Venetian easily perceived, by his manner of
speaking, that he had given the stranger offence, and therefore took
his leave.
“He could not forbear speaking of this in the evening to some of his
friends, who resolved to satisfy themselves by looking upon the picture
the next day. In order to have an opportunity of doing so, they went
to the coffee-house about the time that signor Gualdi was wont to come
thither; and not meeting with him, one of them, who had often conversed
with him, went to his lodgings to enquire after him, where he heard,
that he had set out an hour before for Vienna. This affair made a great
noise, and found a place in all the newspapers of that time.”[1]
It is well known that the philosopher’s stone, the art of transmuting
metals into gold, and the _elixir vitæ_, which was to restore youth,
and make him that possessed it immortal; formed a principal object of
the studies of the curious for centuries. Many stories, beside this of
signor Gualdi, have been told, of persons who were supposed to be in
possession of those wonderful secrets, in search of which hundreds of
unfortunate adventurers wasted their fortunes and their lives.
It has been said of Shakespear, that he
Exhausted worlds, and then imagined new[2]:
but the burthen sustained by Shakespear was too heavy for the shoulders
of any other individual. I leave the first part of the task above
mentioned to be divided among those celebrated novelists, living and
dead, who have attempted to delineate the scenes of real life. In
this little work I have endeavoured to gain footing in one neglected
track of the latter province. The hearts and the curiosity of readers
have been assailed in so many ways, that we, writers who bring up the
rear of our illustrious predecessors, must be contented to arrive at
novelty in whatever mode we are able. The foundation of the following
tale is such as, it is not to be supposed, ever existed. But, if I have
mixed human feelings and passions with incredible situations, and thus
rendered them impressive and interesting, I shall entertain some hope
to be pardoned the boldness and irregularity of my design.
Some readers of my graver productions will perhaps, in perusing
these little volumes, accuse me of inconsistency; the affections and
charities of private life being every where in this publication a topic
of the warmest eulogium, while in the Enquiry concerning Political
Justice they seemed to be treated with no great degree of indulgence
and favour. In answer to this objection, all I think it necessary
to say on the present occasion is, that, for more than four years,
I have been anxious for opportunity and leisure to modify some of
the earlier chapters of that work in conformity to the sentiments
inculcated in this. Not that I see cause to make any change respecting
the principle of justice, or any thing else fundamental to the system
there delivered; but that I apprehend domestic and private affections
inseparable from the nature of man, and from what may be styled
the culture of the heart, and am fully persuaded that they are not
incompatible with a profound and active sense of justice in the mind of
him that cherishes them. True wisdom will recommend to us individual
attachments; for with them our minds are more thoroughly maintained in
activity and life than they can be under the privation of them; and it
is better that man should be a living being, than a stock or a stone.
True virtue will sanction this recommendation; since it is the object
of virtue to produce happiness, and since the man who lives in the
midst of domestic relations will have many opportunities of conferring
pleasure, minute in the detail, yet not trivial in the amount, without
interfering with the purposes of general benevolence. Nay, by kindling
his sensibility, and harmonising his soul, they may be expected, if he
is endowed with a liberal and manly spirit, to render him more prompt
in the service of strangers and the public.
Nov. 26, 1799.
TRAVELS OF ST. LEON.
CHAPTER I.
There is nothing that human imagination can figure brilliant and
enviable, that human genius and skill do not aspire to realize. In the
early ages of antiquity, one of the favourite topics of speculation was
a perfect system of civil policy; and no sooner had Plato delineated
his imaginary republic, than he sought for a spot of earth upon which
to execute his plan. In my own times, and for upwards of a century
before them, the subject which has chiefly occupied men of intrepid
and persevering study, has been the great secret of nature, the
_opus magnum_, in its two grand and inseparable branches, the art of
multiplying gold, and of defying the inroads of infirmity and death.
It is notorious that uncommon talents and unparalleled industry have
been engaged in this mighty task. It has, I know, been disputed by the
audacious adversaries of all sober and reasonable evidence, whether
these talents and industry have in any case attained the object they
sought. It is not to my purpose to ascertain the number of those whose
victory over the powers and inertness of matter has been complete. It
is enough that I am a living instance of the existence of such men. To
these two secrets, if they are to be considered as two, I have been
for years in the habit of resorting for my gratification. I have in my
possession the choice of being as wealthy as I please, and the gift of
immortal life. Every thing that I see almost, I can without difficulty
make my own; for what palaces, pictures, parks or gardens, rarities of
art or nature, have not a price at which their owner will consent to
yield them? The luxuries of every quarter of the world are emptied at
my feet. I can command, to an extent almost inconceivable, the passions
of men. What heart can withstand the assault of princely magnificence?
What man is inaccessible to a bribe? Add to these advantages, that I am
invulnerable to disease. Every sun that rises, finds the circulations
of my frame in the most perfect order. Decrepitude can never approach
me. A thousand winters want the power to furrow my countenance with
wrinkles, or turn my hairs to silver. Exhaustless wealth and eternal
youth are the attributes by which I am distinguished from the rest of
mankind.
I do not sit down now to write a treatise of natural philosophy. The
condition by which I hold my privileges is, that they must never be
imparted. I sit down purely to relate a few of those extraordinary
events that have been produced, in the period of my life which is
already elapsed, by the circumstances and the peculiarity to which I
have just alluded.
It is so obvious, as to make it almost improper to specify it, that
the pursuit in which so many of my contemporaries are engaged, and
the end of which I have so singularly achieved, is in its appearance
infinitely more grand and interesting than that which occupied the
thoughts of Plato and the most eminent writers of antiquity. What is
political liberty compared with unbounded riches and immortal vigour?
The immediate application of political liberty is, to render a man’s
patrimony or the fruits of his industry completely his own, and to
preserve them from the invasion of others. But the petty detail of
preservation or gradual acquisition can never enter into competition
with the _great secret_, which endows a man in a moment with every
thing that the human heart can wish. Considered in this light, how mean
and contemptible does the ambition of the boasted ancients appear,
compared with ours? What adept or probationer of the present day would
be content to resign the study of God and the profounder secrets
of nature, and to bound his ardour to the investigation of his own
miserable existence?
It may seem perhaps to many, that the history of a person possessed
of advantages so unparalleled as mine, must be, like the history
of paradise, or of the future happiness of the blessed, too calm
and motionless, too much of one invariable texture and exempt from
vicissitude, to excite the attention or interest the passions of the
reader. If he will have patience, and apply to the perusal of my
narrative, he will in no long time perceive how far his conjecture is
founded in sagacity and reason.
Some persons may be curious to know what motives can have induced a
man of such enormous wealth, and so every way qualified to revel in
delights, to take the trouble of penning his memoirs. The immortality
with which I am endowed seems to put out of the question the common
motives that relate to posthumous fame.
The curiosity here mentioned, if it really exists, I cannot consent to
gratify. I will anticipate nothing. In the progress of my story, my
motive for recording it will probably become evident.
I am descended from one of the most ancient and honourable families
of the kingdom of France. I was the only child of my father, who died
while I was an infant. My mother was a woman of rather a masculine
understanding, and full of the prejudices of nobility and magnificence.
Her whole soul was in a manner concentrated in the ambition to render
me the worthy successor of the counts de St. Leon, who had figured
with distinguished reputation in the wars of the Holy Land. My father
had died fighting gallantly in the plains of Italy under the standard
of Louis the Twelfth; a prince whose name was never repeated to me
unaccompanied with the praises due to his military prowess, and to
the singular humanity of disposition by which he acquired the title
of _The father of his people_. My mother’s mind was inflamed with the
greatness of my ancestors, and she indefatigably sought to kindle in my
bosom a similar flame. It has been a long-established custom for the
barons and feudal vassals of the kings of France to enter with great
personal expense into the brilliant and dazzling expeditions of their
sovereigns; and my father greatly impaired his fortune in preparations
for that very campaign in which he terminated his life. My mother
industriously applied herself to the restoration of my patrimony; and
the long period of my minority afforded her scope for that purpose.
It was impossible for any boy to be treated with more kindness and
considerate indulgence than I was during the period of my adolescence.
My mother loved me to the very utmost limits perhaps of human
affection. I was her darling and her pride, her waking study, and her
nightly dream. Yet I was not pampered into corporeal imbecility, or
suffered to rust in inactivity of mind. I was provided with the best
masters. I was excited, and successfully excited, zealously to apply
myself to the lessons they taught. I became intimately acquainted with
the Italian writers of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. I was
initiated in the study of the classics, to the cultivation of which
the revival of letters at this time gave particular ardour. I was
instructed in the principles of the fine arts. There was no species of
accomplishment at that time in vogue, that my mother was not anxious I
should make my own. The only science I neglected was the very science
which has since given rise to the most extraordinary events of my life.
But the object to which my attention was principally called, was the
pursuit of military exercises, and the cultivation of every thing that
could add to the strength, agility, or grace of my body, and to the
adventurousness and enterprise of my mind. My mother loved my honour
and my fame more than she loved my person.
A circumstance that tended perhaps more than any other to fix the yet
fluctuating character of my youthful mind, was my being present as a
spectator at the celebrated meeting between Francis the First and Henry
the Eighth, king of England, in a field between Ardres and Guines. My
mother refused to accompany me, being already arrived at an age in
which curiosity and the love of festive scenes are usually diminished,
and the expenses incurred by all the nobility who attended upon this
scene being incompatible with the economy to which she rigidly adhered.
I was therefore placed under the protection of the Marquis de Villeroy,
her brother, and, with two servants who attended me, formed a part of
his suite.
I was at this time fifteen years of age. My contemplations had been
familiar with ideas of magnificence and grandeur, but my life had
been spent in the most sequestered retirement. This contrast had a
particular effect upon my disposition; it irritated to a very high
degree my passion for splendour and distinction; I lived in the fairy
fields of visionary greatness, and was more than indifferent to the
major part of the objects around me. I pined for every thing the
reverse of my present condition; I cultivated the exercises in which
I was engaged, only as they were calculated to prepare me for future
achievements.
By the incident I have mentioned, I was transported at once from a
scene of modest obscurity, to a scene of the most lavish splendour that
the world perhaps ever contemplated. I never remembered to have seen
even Paris itself. The prevailing taste of Europe has for some time led
very much to costliness in dress. This taste, in its present profusion,
I believe took its rise in the field of the Vale of Ardres. The two
kings were both in the vigour of their youth, and were said to be the
handsomest men of the age in which they lived. The beauty of Henry was
sturdy and muscular; that of Francis more refined and elegant, without
subtracting in any considerable degree from the firmness of his make.
Henry was four years older than his brother monarch. The first of them
might have been taken as a model to represent a youthful Hercules, and
the last an Apollo.
The splendour of dress that was worn upon this occasion exceeds almost
all credibility. Every person of distinction might be said in a
manner to carry an estate upon his shoulders; nor was the variety of
garments inferior to the richness. Wolsey, a man whose magnificence of
disposition was only surpassed by the pride of his soul, was for the
most part the director of the whole. He possessed the most absolute
ascendancy over the mind of his master, at the same time that Francis
artfully indulged his caprice, that he might claim from him in return a
similar indulgence in weightier matters.
The pomp of processions, and the ceremony of opening this memorable
festival, went first; a sort of solemn and half-moving pageant, which
the eye took in at leisure, and took in till it was filled. This was
succeeded by every thing that was rapid, animated, and interesting:
masques and exhibitions of all kinds; and, which was still more to me,
and which my soul devoured with indescribable ardour, joustings, tilts,
and tournaments without end. The beauty of the armour, the caparisons
of the steeds, the mettle of the animals themselves, and the ardour and
grace of the combatants, surpassed every thing that my fancy had ever
painted. These scenes were acted in the midst of a vast amphitheatre of
spectators, where all that was noble and eminent of either country was
assembled--the manliness of aspiring youth, and the boundless varieties
of female attraction. All were in their gayest attire; every eye was
lighted up with complacency and joy. If Heraclitus, or any other morose
philosopher who has expatiated on the universal misery of mankind, had
entered the field of Ardres, he must have retracted his assertions, or
fled from the scene with confusion. The kings were placed at either
end of the lists, surrounded with their courtiers. Every eye through
this vast assembly was fixed upon the combatants; the body of every one
present was inclined this way or that, in unconscious sympathy with the
redoubted knights. From time to time, as the favourites of either party
prevailed, the air was rent with shouts and acclamations.
What added to the fascination of all that I have yet mentioned, was
that now, for the first time in an equal degree perhaps for centuries,
the stiffness of unwieldy form was laid aside, and the heart of man
expanded itself with generosity and confidence. It burst the fetters
of ages; and, having burst them, it seemed to revel in its new-found
liberty. It is well known that, after a few days of idle precaution
and specious imprisonment on both sides, Francis one morning mounted
his horse, and appeared, without guards or any previous notice, before
the tent of Henry. The example was contagious, and from this time all
ceremony was laid aside. The kings themselves entered personally into
the combats of their subjects. It was a delightful and a ravishing
spectacle, to witness the freedom of the old Roman manners, almost
of the old Roman Saturnalia, polished and refined with all that was
graceful and humane in the age of chivalry.
It may easily be imagined what an effect a scene like this was
calculated to produce upon a youth of my age and my education. I
recollected with anguish that the immaturity of my years precluded me
from taking any active part in the spectacle. My appearance however was
sufficiently advantageous. I was presented to Francis the First. He
did me the honour to question me respecting my studies; and, finding
in me some knowledge of those arts and that literature, of which he
was himself so zealous a favourer, he expressed to my uncle a great
satisfaction with my figure and acquisitions. I might from this time
have been taken to court, and made one of the pages to this illustrious
monarch. But the plan of my mother was different. She did not wish for
the present that my eye should be satiated with public scenes, or that
the public should grow too familiarly acquainted with my person. She
rightly judged that my passion for the theatre of glory would grow more
impetuous, by being withheld for some time from the gratifications for
which it panted. She wished that I should present myself for the first
time among the nobility of France an accomplished cavalier, and not
suffer the disadvantage of having exposed in the eye of the world those
false steps and frailties, from which the inexperience of youth is
never entirely free. These motives being explained to the king, he was
graciously pleased to sanction them with his approbation. I accordingly
returned to finish the course of my education at my paternal château
upon the banks of the Garonne.
The state of my mind during the three succeeding years amply justified
the sagacity of my mother. I was more eager for improvement than I had
ever yet been. I had before formed some conceptions of the career of
honour from the books I had read, and from the conversation of this
excellent matron. But my reveries were impotent and little, compared
with what I had now seen. Like the author of our holy religion, I had
spent my forty days without food in the wilderness, when suddenly my
eyes were opened, and I was presented with all the kingdoms of the
world, and all the glory of them. The fairy scene continued for a
moment, and then vanished; leaving nothing behind it on all sides, but
the same barrenness and gloom by which it had been preceded. I never
shut my eyes without viewing in imagination the combats of knights
and the train of ladies. I had been regarded with distinction by my
sovereign; and Francis the First stood before my mind the abstract and
model of perfection and greatness. I congratulated myself upon being
born in an age and country so favourable to the acquisition of all that
my soul desired.
I was already eighteen years of age, when I experienced the first
misfortune that ever befel me. It was the death of my mother. She felt
the approach of her dissolution several weeks before it arrived, and
held repeated conversations with me, respecting the feelings I ought
to entertain, and the conduct it would become me to pursue, when she
should be no more.
“My son,” said she, “your character, and the promise of your early
years, have constituted my only consolation since the death of your
excellent father. Our marriage was the result of a most sincere and
exclusive attachment; and never did man more deserve to be loved than
Reginald de St. Leon. When he died, the whole world would have been
nothing to me but one vast blank, if he had not left behind him the
representative of his person, and the heir to his virtues. While I was
busied in your education, I seemed to be discharging the last duty to
the memory of my husband. The occupation was sacred to the honour of
the dead, even before it became so peculiarly pleasing to me upon its
own account, as I afterwards found it. I hope I have in some measure
discharged the task, in the manner in which my lord your father would
have wished it to have been discharged, if he had lived. I am thankful
to Heaven, that I have been spared so long for so dear and honourable a
purpose.
“You must now, my son, stand by yourself, and be the arbitrator of
your own actions. I could have wished that this necessity might have
been a little further deferred; but I trust your education has not
been of that sort which is calculated to render a young man helpless
and contemptible. You have been taught to know your rank in society,
and to respect yourself. You have been instructed in every thing that
might most effectually forward you in the career of glory. There is not
a young cavalier among all the nobility of France more accomplished,
or that promises to do greater honour to his name and his country. I
shall not live to witness the performance of this promise, but the
anticipation even now, pours a long stream of sunshine on my departing
hour.
“Farewell, my son! You no longer stand in need of my maternal care.
When I am gone, you will be compelled more vividly to feel that
singleness and self-dependence which are the source of all virtue.
Be careful of yourself. Be careful that your career may be both
spotless and illustrious. Hold your life as a thing of no account,
when it enters into competition with your fame. A true knight thinks
no sacrifice and suffering hard, that honour demands. Be humane,
gentle, generous, and intrepid. Be prompt to follow wherever your
duty calls you. Remember your ancestors, knights of the Holy Cross.
Remember your father. Follow your king, who is the mirror of valour:
and be ever ready for the service of the distressed. May Providence be
your guardian. May Heaven shower down a thousand blessings, upon your
innocence, and the gallantry of your soul!”
The death of my mother was a severe blow to my heart. For some time all
the visions of greatness and renown which had hitherto been my chosen
delight appeared distasteful to me. I hung over her insensible corpse.
When it had been committed to the earth, I repaired every day to the
spot where it was deposited, at the hour of dusk, when all visible
objects faded from the eye, when nature assumed her saddest tints,
and the whole world seemed about to be wrapped in the darkness of the
tomb. The dew of night drizzled unheeded on my head; and I did not turn
again towards the turrets of the château, till the hour of midnight had
already sounded through the stillness of the scene.
Time is the healer of almost every grief, particularly in the sprightly
season of early youth. In no long period I changed the oppression
of inactive sorrow, for the affectionate and pious recollection of
my mother’s last instructions. I had been too deeply imbued with
sentiments of glory, for it to be possible, when the first excess
of grief was over, that I should remain in indolence. The tender
remembrance of my mother itself, in no long time, furnished a new
stimulus to my ambition. I forgot the melancholy spectacle of the last
struggles of her expiring life; I even became accustomed no longer to
hear her voice, no longer to expect her presence, when I returned to
the château from a short excursion. Her last advice was now all that
survived of the author of my existence.