Nineteen years had now elapsed from the day that had witnessed my union
with Marguerite de Damville. In all that time I had never been alone.
Alone in a certain sense indeed I had stood at Paris in the period
that had led to my exile, and at Soleure in that which immediately
succeeded it. In each case I was solitary, and my solitude was unhappy.
But my unhappiness was then in a certain sense spontaneous; my solitude
was a luxury in which I felt myself impelled to indulge. He that has
experienced both, will readily acknowledge the extreme difference
between the misery we embrace and the misery from which we shrink
with abhorrence and loathing. I relinquished in the former instances
my dearest connections, my proper post and situation; but I felt that
I could return to the one and resume the other at pleasure. I repeat
it therefore, Then I had not been alone, and now I was alone. The
same motive, which in this instance made me cut myself off from my
daughters that I might not be the cause of their misery, forbad me to
be the parent of a future offspring upon whom I might entail similar
misfortune. Tell me then, was I not alone? I recollected the words
of the stranger, wrung from him by the excess of his misery at the
summer-house of the lake, “Alone--alone!--friendless--friendless!” I
began to penetrate the enigma of his history.
I fixed my daughters with an ample revenue in the château of St.
Leon; I re-purchased for them all my paternal property. I waited some
time at Montauban to hear of the event of my project, and their final
settlement. I learned with pleasure that they found their situation
peaceful, easy, and reputable; I enjoined them that they should speak
and think of me as dead. I led them to suppose, when I left Montauban,
that I should set out upon an extensive tour, that I should traverse
the Indus and the Ganges, and penetrate into the furthest extremities
of the East. How uncommon, how pitiable a fate! I became prematurely
dead to my country and my race, because I was destined never to die!
The first sensation I derived from their prosperity, as I have already
said, was pleasure: my second was that which the devil might have felt,
when he entered paradise for the seduction of our first parents. I
contemplated with some degree of malignant envy a happiness of which
it was little probable I should ever partake. Let me not be censured
for this: let any man put himself in my situation, and say, whether the
pleasure he feels at contemplating the separated happiness of those he
loves be not a mingled sensation? With heavy heart I sought again the
road of Madrid.
Though my spirits underwent an extreme depression, I determined not
to desert myself or the advantages I had purchased at so inestimable
a price. I exerted myself to shake off my lethargy, and rouse the
faculties of my soul. I refused to give way to omens of evil portent,
and resolved to see what might yet be made of my endowments. There
is no misfortune that has not in it some slight mixture of good. My
being now alone, and detached from every relative tie, left me at
liberty to pursue my projects with a bolder enterprise. The mistake
of which I accused myself in the former instance, was the entering
too precipitately into the exercise of the gifts of the stranger,
before I had properly measured my strength, and investigated the
use and application of my tools. I had suffered sufficiently from
the past uncertainty and irresoluteness of my march. I determined,
as far as human precaution could secure its ends, to encounter no
more misfortunes, to subject myself to no further miscarriages, but
to take care that henceforth the tide of my pursuits should move
smoothly onward. I dedicated the six months immediately succeeding my
separation from my daughters, to the joint contemplation of morals and
natural philosophy. I was resolved to ascertain the simplest mode of
manufacturing wealth, the wisest methods for lulling the suspicions and
controlling the passions of mankind, and the true science of the use
of riches. Alas! I had in the sequel frequent occasions to confess,
that, though I had fortuitously entered into possession of the leading
secrets of natural magic, I was a mere tyro in the science of man, at
least in the degree in which the exercise of these secrets required the
possession of it.
Nothing material occurred to interrupt the occupations of the winter.
My apathy--intellectual activity, palsy of the heart,--went evenly
forward. I made no acquaintance; I was a mere spectator of the busy
scenes that passed around me. I was resolved not to entangle myself
with rashly formed connections; and it will commonly be found, that
he, whose contemplations are principally employed upon some secret and
guarded hoard of reflection, has little propensity to communicate upon
idle and indifferent matters.
A slight incident indeed disturbed me for a few days during this
interval; but it passed away, and for the present I thought of it no
more. During the festival of Christmas it happened that I felt an
inclination to be the spectator of a celebrated bull-fight, that was
exhibited before the emperor and his court. For the most part I was
studious of privacy; I therefore felt the less scruple in indulging
this unusual caprice. At the commencement of the spectacle, I was
attentive only to the exhibition. I was delighted with the form and
beauty of the animals, with the freedom and grandeur of their motion,
with the terrible energy of their assault and repulse. It was not
long, however, before my eye was transiently caught by an individual,
who sat in a gallery at no great distance, and who seemed to view me
attentively. His figure bespoke some degree of refinement; but his eye
was fiery, malicious, and savage. Presently however I turned again
towards the area, and thought of him no more. Some time after by mere
accident I looked towards the same gallery, and observed this man still
in an attitude to examine me. It seemed as if he had not removed his
eyes from me during the whole interval. This was repeated three or
four times. Without knowing why, I became anxious and uneasy. I had a
confused feeling that I had seen the man before, but whether in France,
Switzerland, or Italy, I could not tell. I experienced that sort of
disagreeable sensation from looking at his face, which arises in the
mind from an association of the object present, with some mischief or
suffering that was contemporary with its being perceived in a preceding
instance. I am now persuaded that this man was one of the multitude to
whom I had addressed myself from the bench on the hill a short time
before my flight from Pisa, and that he was among the most eager to
interrupt and molest me. But he was apparently a Spaniard by birth,
and I could not at this time develope the mystery that hung about his
features. Finding that I could neither rid myself of his curious and
watchful observation, nor of the disturbance it gave me, I withdrew
from the gallery where I had hitherto been sitting, and removed to
another gallery on the opposite side of the area. About half an hour
after, looking accidentally round, I saw this very man at my elbow. I
then accosted him with the enquiry, “Do you know me, sir?” to which he
immediately returned, with a pure Castilian accent, “_No, señor!_” He
then began to be more reserved in his attention to me, without however
entirely withdrawing it.
As soon as the entertainment was over, I went away, and saw no more
of my Spaniard. I began to tax myself with pusillanimity in suffering
so insignificant an incident to disturb me. A few days after however
I suddenly lighted upon him in the street. He was talking to three or
four of his countrymen, and in the progress of his discourse frequently
pointed to me. I could now perceive something particularly hostile
and ferocious in his countenance. The first impulse I felt was,
that I would no longer suffer the unquietness and anxiety the sight
of him produced in me, but would go up to him, and force him to an
explanation. I believed however that, in the temper he indicated, this
could not be done without involving myself in a quarrel; and I thought
it wiser to endeavour to conquer in silence an unreasonable sensation.
I therefore passed on; he immediately broke from his company, and
attempted to follow me. This I determined not to endure. I laid my
hand on my sword with a peremptory look, and waved to him to desist.
His countenance then assumed an air of diabolical malignity, he shook
his head furiously, and turned down another street. A strange sort of
animosity this, between two persons utter strangers to each other,
and which had as yet not deigned to express itself by a word! But
such is the world! We hate we know not why. We are ready to cut each
other’s throats, because we do not like the turn of a feature, or the
adjustment of a sword-knot. Prejudice, party, difference of countries,
difference of religions, and a thousand wild chimeras of fanaticism or
superstition, are continually arming us against a man, of whose virtues
and qualities we are ignorant, and into whose benevolent or evil
intentions we disdain to enquire.
I saw this Spaniard but once more. It was as I was on the point of
entering the house, a part of which I occupied. I was particularly
mortified at this circumstance. It was plain the man entertained, for
whatever reason, a determined animosity against me; and I was grieved
to furnish him with that advantage for injuring me, which consisted in
being acquainted with the place of my residence. I would have turned
away and gone down the street; but I had too fully marked my design of
entering the house, before I reconnoitered my enemy. The displeasure I
felt was so unaccountably great, that it was with difficulty my courage
got the better of it; and I determined not to change the place of my
abode. In a short time however, as I have already said, I thought of
this incident no more. That it should have disturbed and unhinged
me, in the degree that it had done, even for a moment, was a thing I
could not account for. Had the calamities in which the legacy of the
stranger involved me, converted me in so short a time, from a knight
and a soldier, into a character of that morbid timidity, as to tremble
at every shadow? Or, is there in some human countenances a fascination,
a sort of mysterious sympathy and presentiment, that makes us cower and
quail whenever we meet their eye-beams?
Several weeks now passed away, and I had nearly forgotten all the
circumstances of this seemingly foolish story, when, in a little
excursion I chanced to make from Madrid to a place about twelve miles
distant, I was overtaken upon the road by a cavalier of respectable
appearance, who presently took occasion to enter into conversation
with me. He explained to me several of the objects that presented
themselves on either side, told the names of the different nobility and
grandees who occupied the villas we saw, and sometimes entered into the
particulars of their history. I at first gave little encouragement to
this communicative traveller; but there was something so polite in his
manner, and intelligent in his discourse, that I could not prevail upon
myself to treat him with rudeness or disrespect. After having talked
for some time upon indifferent topics, he led to the general state of
literature in Europe. Few subjects could appear less dangerous than
this, as there were few upon which I felt myself better qualified to
converse. By degrees I threw off some of my original reserve, and I
found my companion well informed and ingenious, lively in his manner,
and pertinent in his remarks.
By this time the unknown, having discovered that I had only come from
Madrid for a day’s relaxation, invited himself to dine with me at my
inn. I departed from my established system of conduct on this occasion,
and admitted his overture. After dinner he gave me some account
of himself and his family, and seemed to expect from me a similar
explicitness. I was less pleased with him in this particular, than
I had been with his frank and undesigning conversation on the road.
Strictly speaking however the expectation implied was only a breach
of politeness; I had no reason to suppose that he foresaw it to be
particularly offensive to me. Observing my backwardness, he immediately
changed the subject. Presently he remarked, that by my physiognomy
and accent he perceived I was a Frenchman, and asked me if I had known
Cornelius Agrippa, who died about twelve years before at Grenoble. I
answered in the negative. The unknown then entered into a warm eulogium
of the talents of Agrippa, inveighed against the illiberal treatment
he had experienced in consequence of his supposed proficiency in
magic, and spoke with great asperity of the priests and inquisitors
who had been his persecutors. I became attentive, watchful, and
suspicious. He went on to expatiate upon the praises of the art magic,
which nothing, he said, but the jealousy of churchmen had brought
into disrepute; affirmed that it had been treated with respect, and
counted illustrious, by the ancients, in the instance of Pythagoras,
Apollonius Tyaneus, and others; and expressed a great desire to become
a student of the art himself. This kind of discourse made me repent
that I had been drawn in so far as to sit down with this unknown, and
admit him as my companion of the day. During the whole time he was
the principal speaker. Sometimes he paused, with a seeming desire to
hear my sentiments. But I had now formed my resolution, and gave him
no encouragement. Presently after I called for my horse. I should have
observed, that his servant who followed him engaged in conversation
with mine, at the same time that the dialogue began between their
masters. Seeing me about to depart, the unknown motioned as if to
accompany me. Upon this I became serious.
“_Señor caballero_,” said I, “I have now had the pleasure of your
company to dinner: I am going home, and have the honour to bid you
farewell. It is neither my disposition, nor the habit of the grave and
dignified nation among whom I at present reside, to form permanent
acquaintances upon casual rencounters: you will not therefore think I
violate the hospitality for which I am indebted to them, if I intimate
to you my desire to return alone.”
All this I said with the grave and formal tone becoming a Spaniard,
and the unknown had nothing to reply. It was evident however that
my dryness chagrined him; and he even muttered words of resentment
between his teeth. I could observe now a degree of hostility and fury
in his countenance, which remarkably contrasted with the pliancy and
obligingness of his preceding demeanour. I took no notice however
of these circumstances, and rode away. I have since had sufficient
reasons to convince me that these two persons, whose story, but for
that explanation, may appear to the reader exceedingly frivolous, were
the one an informer, and the other a spy of the holy inquisition.
The man who had seen me at Pisa had his imagination terrified and
his superstition set in arms by all that he had heard of me in that
place; and thought he could not perform a more meritorious work, than
by giving intelligence to the fathers what sort of person had taken
refuge in the metropolis of this most Catholic kingdom. It was with
this view he had watched me, and at length, by an accident he deemed
peculiarly fortunate, lodged me in my proper habitation. Having given
in his denunciation, my travelling companion was next fastened on me by
the contrivance and zeal of the fathers inquisitors. He was a familiar
of the holy office; and it is well known that persons of the fairest
prospects and most polite education in Spain are led by their religious
impressions to place a pride in performing menial and even perfidious
offices in the service of the inquisition. The kind of dishonour I put
upon him in parting, though of a nature he could not openly resent,
I fear conspired with his zeal for God’s and the church’s honour,
to induce him to relate a story concerning me, more modelled by the
bitterness of his personal feelings, than distinguished by a regard to
truth.
Such was the snare, woven and drawing close round me on all sides for
my destruction. I was made uneasy by the rencounter of the traveller,
but by no means aware of the whole extent of the mischief that impended
over me. When I came to retrace, point by point, the discourse he had
held, I could not conceive that the turn it had taken originated in
accident. I perceived, with no little grief of heart and concern, that
I was known. It was however necessary that I should reflect maturely
upon the conduct to be pursued by me. I ought not gratuitously to
expose myself to danger. But then, on the other hand, it is a point of
general wisdom, and was particularly incumbent in my extraordinary
circumstances, not to suffer vigilance to degenerate into restless
anxiety. It would be easy for me, if I were not strictly on my guard,
continually to find food for suspicion, and to surround myself with
imaginary plots and dangers. This was a vice that I was willing enough
to pity in others; but there was no character that I more cordially
disdained for myself. There was none more pointedly in opposition to
that gallant, generous, confiding spirit, which had distinguished
those military heroes of my native soil, who had been the exclusive
object of my earliest admiration, and whom, in my present dejected
and deserted situation, I still desired to resemble. When I came to
reflect, I easily perceived that this vice was particularly allied to a
life of solitude; and that he who is cut off from the genuine and happy
connections of husband, father, and friend, is of all men most liable,
in their absence, to conjure up for himself the unnatural intercourses
and reciprocations of hostility. It was thus that I artificially
reconciled myself to my situation, and obstinately closed my eyes upon
those equivocal demonstrations of danger which from time to time were
presented to my view.