NEVA.
It is a strange and awful sensation, when, after having enjoyed to the
full the powers and energies of manhood, we find ourselves suddenly
reduced by the unnerving hand of sickness to the feebleness of
infancy: when giant strength lies prostrate and busy activity is
chained to the weary bed. It is strange and it is awful, for it shows
us most sensibly how frail a thing is that vigour which, in our
boisterous days of health, we madly think an adamantine armour against
all adversity. It is strange and awful, for it leads us to the brink
of that fatal precipice over which all must fall, and displays, as if
from the very verge, the inside of our future grave.
From a stupor, in which all memory and every power of thought had been
at an end, Theodore woke as feeble and incapable as when, in the
nurse's arms, he moved his mother's heart by his first infant cry. The
same feelings of tenderness; the same mingled emotions, where pity,
and hope, and the pleasure of protecting, all unite; the same
sensations of affectionate interest for the thing we rear, and guard,
and watch for, as those which fill the breast of a mother towards her
child, affected, though in a less degree, those who attended the couch
of the young Roman during his illness and convalescence. It was but
slowly he recovered: for the fever which had seized upon him had been
fierce and powerful; and it had been only unfaded youth's tenacity of
life and the natural vigour of his frame which had finally conquered
that terrible assailant.
The persons who attended him were entirely women, except when his
faithful Cremera took his daily turn to watch by his bedside; and
though an elder and more matronly dame came in and out, and frequently
remained in his chamber for an hour or more, still his principal
attendant was the lovely girl whom he at first had seen, or a maiden
who seemed to be her sister, still younger than herself.
Often would he keep his eyes closed, to listen, uninterrupted, to the
sweet singing of the barbarian girl; often when he woke would he find
that graceful form bending over him, and those deep, intense blue eyes
gazing upon his countenance, as if to mark the outposts of victorious
health, spreading life's rosy banner where the pale flag of sickness
had been advanced so lately. As he recovered strength also, and his
tongue became more capable of its office, he would converse with her
from time to time in the language which she had used in singing and
though she spoke it not as her native dialect, yet they could thus
converse fluently.
With the matron it was different: she was kind, but not conversable;
yet, when she did speak, it was always in the pure Alan tongue; and
Theodore could almost have fancied that he heard once more the voice
of his mother. Under kind care and skilful management he at length
reached that point where his recovery became certain; and from that
moment his convalescence proceeded rapidly. He was soon able to quit
his chamber; and going forth, though with wavering and unsteady steps,
he walked along, enjoying the fresh air of the morning, beneath the
rude portico of unshaped stems of trees which shaded one side of that
long low dwelling, while his heart was raised with fresh gratitude to
Heaven at every sweet sound and sight that he was permitted again to
enjoy. There had been a time, not very long before, when life had
seemed to him a weary burden, which he desired not to retain; the
earth a dreary and a desert dwelling-place, in which he was but little
anxious to remain. But such feelings had only existed while the body
remained in strength and vigour, oppressed and impatient under a mind
overcharged with sorrows, anxieties, and cares. Now, however, the
corporeal frame had been weakened and cast down; the body as well as
the mind had been humbled and chastised; the blessings of life were
more valued, the past could be regarded with resignation, and the
future looked forward to with hope.
As he walked forth one day under the shadow of that portico, his eye
wandered over the whole plain, on which, at a little distance,
appeared some horsemen, whom he afterward found to be those who had
attended him thither. In the shade, however, were collected a number
of women, comprising all those whom he had hitherto seen; and Neva,
the blue-eyed daughter of the house, smiled gayly to see his wavering
steps. The next moment she greeted him with, "Come, sit you with the
women till you have strength enough to join the men;" and she made
room for him on the bench on which she sat between herself and her
mother.
All were employed in some domestic occupation; and the distaff, and
the spindle, and the wheel went on, while Theodore, sitting beside
them, began to ask the first questions which he had hitherto ventured,
regarding the place and the family in which he then was. He found that
the village which he saw stretching along under the forest contained
not less than two or three hundred wooden cottages; and his eye at
once showed him that the one in which he had found shelter and
received so much true kindness was by far the most extensive and most
ornamented of the whole. When he came to ask, however, whose was the
house in which he dwelt, and whose the family that tended him so
carefully, they answered him at once that it was that of Bleda, the
brother of Attila.
His countenance changed, and he asked no more questions. Ere he had
sat long there the horsemen returned from the field, bringing with
them some game which they had procured; and eagerly, and with signs of
much regard, they gathered round Theodore, and wished him joy on his
recovered health. Towards evening two herdsmen drove home from a
distance a large flock of diminutive cattle, and a shepherd brought
some sheep into the fold. Two or three other lesser flocks were driven
slowly across the plain to different houses in the village; but the
men who drove them formed the only male population, with the exception
of his own attendants, which Theodore had yet seen since he entered
Dacia.
As the days passed on, and he mingled more with the people, he found
that this first view was fully confirmed, and that almost all the men
of the land, except such as were too old or too young to bear arms,
had gone forth with Attila in his invasion of the Roman empire.
"Were Rome now," thought Theodore, "what Rome once was, while this
barbarian monarch invades and ravages the East, the legions of the
West would pour across Pannonia, and, sweeping the whole land, take as
hostages the women and children here left unprotected. But alas! I
fear me that neither the legions of the East will have power to
withstand the myriads of Attila, nor the West have energy to hasten
his return, by invading his territories, and taking hostages for his
future tranquillity. 'Tis true they may not know that the land is left
in such a state; but, alas! I must not point out its weakness. Even to
save my country, I must not return the mercy shown me, and the kind
hospitality received, by base ingratitude. Doubtless, when strength
returns, I could escape; doubtless I could bear to Valentinian, or,
better still, to [AE]tius, tidings of the condition in which this land
is left, and thereby, perchance, deliver the empire itself. But it
must not be! No, no! such a task must not be mine."
The situation, however, was a painful one; and the knowledge, too,
that he was dwelling in the house of Bleda, of the man who had striven
to take his life, and whose enmity--though he knew not why--was
evidently fiercely raised against him, added to the gloom he felt, and
made him anxious to proceed farther into the country.
Ruga, the wife of Bleda, however, was herself one of the Alani, from a
tribe which had remained amid their original valleys on the Georgian
side of Caucasus. She had by this time learned that the mother of the
young stranger had been a daughter of the same nation, though sprung
from a different tribe; and, little aware of the enmity of her husband
towards him, she now pressed Theodore anxiously to stay with them till
the armies of the Huns returned. Her daughter, too, urged the same
request with all the native simplicity of a guileless heart; and
Theodore himself, as innocent in thought and purpose, believed that he
could there remain happily, without risk or danger to the peace of any
one, were it not for the enmity of Neva's father. He made inquiries,
however, and he found that no chance existed of any of the Huns
returning for several months; and he determined to remain for a time,
hoping that, if he could win the regard of the chieftain's family, the
causeless animosity of Bleda himself might by their report be done
away.
There, then, he stayed, increasing in the love of all, and habituating
himself to the language, the sports, and the manners of the people. He
had found, on his recovery, that the purse of gold pieces which he had
borne with him from Dalmatia, and which had been but little diminished
on the journey, had been carefully preserved during his sickness; and,
though the amount was not very large, yet the difference in the value
of everything among the Huns and among the Romans was so great, that
his small store seemed grown into an inexhaustible treasure. The
attendants whom Attila had given him would receive no recompense for
their services; and the sports of the chase, which he pursued in
company with them and Cremera, afforded more than sufficient provision
for his followers and for himself. Ruga declared that her house had
never been so bountifully supplied, even when Bleda himself was
present; and the simpler food, to which the women of the Huns were
accustomed, received no slight additions from the hunter skill and
bold activity of their guest.
For several weeks Theodore pursued this course in peace, proceeding to
the woods or plains, or to the mountains, early in the morning with
his followers, and retuning ere nightfall to the village. To those
followers, indeed, the young Roman endeared himself every day more and
more. His courage, and the dexterity with which he acquired all their
wild art in the chase and in the management of the horse, won their
reverence; while his kindness, his gentleness, and his easy suavity,
touched another chord, and gained their hearts. If stag, or wolf, or
bear turned upon him, every one was ready to defend him; and Theodore
soon found that on any enterprise which he chose to undertake, except,
indeed, where some higher duty forbade, he might lead those men to
danger, or to death itself. Nor did he make less progress in the
regard of the villagers. The old men took a pleasure in teaching him
their language, and in telling him wild tales of other days, and other
lands; the children clung to him, and gathered round his knee; the
shepherds brought him whatever they found in their wanderings, which
seemed to their rude eyes either rare or valuable. To, his cultivated
opinion all questions were referred; and when they found that, ere two
months were over, he could wield their arms, and speak their language,
with as much facility as they could themselves, adding to their
barbarian dexterity all the arts and knowledge of a civilised nation,
they seemed to think him something more than mortal.
The wife of the chieftain forgot her matronly state, so far as to hold
long conversations with him on the nation whose blood flowed in both
their veins; and her fair daughter sprang forth with eager gladness to
welcome him back from the chase, or if he went not thither, wandered
with him in the mornings to show him fair paths through the wood, and
teach him what fruits were hurtful, what beneficial to man, in those
wild solitudes; or sat near him in the evenings, and, with her long
lashes veiling her cast down blue eyes, sang all the songs which she
knew he loved to hear.
It was those deep blue eyes, and their look of devoted tenderness,
which first woke Theodore from his dream of peace. Neva was lovely,
gentle, kind, noble in all her feelings, graceful in all her
movements, frank, simple, and sincere. Pure in heart and mind, the
elegancies of polished life seemed scarcely needful to her native
grace. In whatever task employed, she looked, she acted, as--and no
one could doubt she was--the daughter of a king: and yet Theodore's
thoughts were seldom upon her. Sometimes, indeed, when he saw a flower
of peculiar beauty, or when his arrows struck some bird of rare
plumage, or some beast of a finer fur, he thought, "I will take this
home for Neva;" but his fancy never strayed amiss to warmer feelings
or more dangerous themes than those.
Oh, no! his thoughts were far away! The one deep-rooted passion,
strong and intense as life itself--that one bright passion, as pure,
when it is noble, in man as in woman, as incapable of falsehood either
by thought or act--left not one fond fancy free for any other than
her, his first, young, early, only love. When the sun in floods of
glory went down beyond the western hills, he thought of her lonely in
that distant land, and willingly believed that with her, too, memory
turned to him. When the bright moon wandered through the sky, and
poured her silver flood of light over those wide plains, he would gaze
forth, and call to mind that first peculiar night when he heard the
dear lips he loved breathe answering vows to his beneath the palace
portico on the Dalmatian shore; he would call up again before his eyes
the scene in all its loveliness; he would fancy he could feel that
soft, dear form pressed gently to his bosom; he would seem to taste
the breath of those sweet lips as they met his in the kiss of first
acknowledged love; and he would imagine--justly, truly imagine--that
at that hour the same treasured remembrances might fill the bosom of
Ildica with visions as entrancing, and that memory might with her,
too, give to hope a basis whereon to raise her brightest architecture.
When the morning woke in the skies, and when, ere he went forth to
taste the joys of renewed existence, he knelt down to offer to the God
of his pure faith adoration, and thanks, and prayer, the name of
Ildica would first rise with his petitions to Heaven, and her
happiness would be the subject of his first aspirations.
Could he think, then, of any other I could he dream that it was
possible to love any one but her? No! he did not, he could not; but,
as time wore on, and summer sunk glowing into the arms of autumn,
there came a deep light into the eyes of Neva, which pained, which
alarmed him. He would sometimes, when he suddenly turned towards her,
find her gazing upon him with a look of intense, thoughtful affection,
which was followed by a warm and rapid blush; and, without one feeling
of empty vanity, Theodore began to see that his stay might produce
evil to her who had so kindly tended him.
Still, however, Neva's regard assumed that air of simple, unrestrained
frankness, which is less frequently the token of love than of
friendship. In her pure mind, and in her uncultivated land, all seemed
clear and open before her. She felt no shame in the sensations which
she knew and encouraged towards the young stranger. She saw no
obstacle to prevent her from becoming his bride. She was the daughter
of a king, but she knew him to be worthy of her love; and as that love
became apparent to her own eyes also, she only felt proud of her
choice. The sole difference which that knowledge of her own heart's
feelings wrought in Neva was, that with her bright brown hair she now
began to mingle gold and gems, and that, from time to time, a bright
but transient glow would tinge her cheek when her eyes and Theodore's
met. Far from shrinking from his society, far from trembling at his
approach, she gave way at once to all the feelings of her heart as
they arose; greeted him with glad smiles in the morning; sprang forth
to meet him when he returned from the chase; sat by him in the
lengthening evenings; and, feeling the deep earnest love of first
affection burning at her heart, she took no means to hide or to
conceal it from others or herself.
Theodore had pondered over these things for some days, and considered
how it were best to act; but he deceived himself in regard to Neva;
and the very openness with which she suffered her passion to appear
made him believe that it was as yet unconfirmed. He compared it with
the shy and trembling love of Ildica. He remembered the same kind
affection in her, too, when a girl, ere their feelings took a warmer
tone than brotherly regard; the candid display of preference for his
society, and the interest in all his pursuits which she had then
evinced. He recollected, also, the change that had taken place as
simple affection grew into intense love--how timid, how retiring, how
apprehensive that love had been! and by comparing those two stages of
a passion he had known and marked, with the conduct of the lovely girl
under whose father's roof he had dwelt--as pure, as innocent, as full
of real modesty as Ildica herself--he judged, that whatever her
feelings might become, they were not yet such as might ever render
them painful to herself.
As the period for which he had promised to remain had not yet expired,
and he could assign no cause for suddenly absenting himself, he
determined to seek the first opportunity of speaking, in the presence
of Neva, of the ties which bound him to her he loved. Little mention
had hitherto been made of his family or his circumstances in his own
land. The wife of Bleda seemed to take no further interest in his
former life than was connected with his mother and her nation; and
Neva herself, in the present happiness which she derived from his stay
among them, appeared never to remember that there was such a thing as
a past, affecting him in a way she knew not--though that past was
unfortunately destined to affect all the future for herself. She asked
nothing, she thought of nothing but of the present; and thus Theodore
felt that he would have to commence the subject himself. Though it was
one he loved not to speak on upon every light occasion, yet he
resolved to do so. But still, after long hesitation, he determined not
to tell the tale of his early days, when, sitting in the family of
Bleda, every eye might be ready to mark his own emotions--or, indeed,
those of others; for although to his own heart he put forward the
motive of concealing the expression of his feelings, his real
inducement was consideration for the fair girl, who might be more
moved, he feared, by the words he had to speak, than he was willing to
admit even to himself.
After two long days of unsuccessful hunting, having found nothing
within several miles of the village, he threw down his spear and
arrows, declaring he would go no more; and on the following morning,
while the dew was still upon the grass, Neva offered to lead him up to
the fall of a river in the woods, whose roar he had often heard at a
distance, but which he had never seen, so deeply was it buried in the
intricacies of the forest. He gladly followed, resolved to seize that
moment to tell her all. And yet Theodore was agitated, for he wished
not to pain or grieve her; but still he feared, from her whole manner,
and from the tender light which poured from her blue eyes, that the
words he had to speak would be displeasing to her ear. It was a bright
morning, and between the tall trunks of the trees, over bush, and
underwood, and mossy turf, the slanting sun poured his golden light,
in the first bright freshness of the rising day.
"What a lovely morning is this!" said Theodore, after they had walked
on some way, for Neva had remained silent under emotions of her own.
"What a lovely morning!--how clear, how beautiful!"
"Have you not such in your own land?" demanded Neva.
"Oh yes," answered Theodore, "we have many; and these mornings and the
evenings are our chief hours of delight, for the heat of the risen day
is oppressive. I remember such a morning as this," he added, willing
to lead the conversation to the matter on which he desired to
speak--"I remember such a morning, some four or five months ago, so
bright, so beautiful, shining upon my path as I returned from
Constantinople towards what I have always called my home."
"And was it not your home?" demanded Neva. "Did no one wait you there
to welcome you?"
"Oh, several," answered Theodore--"several that I loved, and still
love more dearly than anything else on earth." Neva cast down her
eyes, and her cheek grew deadly pale. "There was my mother," continued
Theodore--"I mean the mother who has adopted me, and ever treated me as
one of her own children." The colour came again into Neva's cheek.
"Then there was my sister," he went on. "And last," he added, in a
lower tone, "there was my promised bride, my Ildica, who will one day
be my wife."
Neva spoke not, but the rose again left her cheek. That, however, was
the only sign of emotion she displayed, except, perhaps, that she
walked on more rapidly, and that her small feet brushed the dew from
the grass on either side of the path, wavering, as she went, with an
unsteady pace. Theodore followed close to her side, scarce knowing how
to break that painful silence. It had continued so long, that, ere a
word was uttered, he heard the roar of the waterfall, and he resolved
to speak, let it be on what it would. But at the first word he
breathed, the fair girl pressed her right hand upon her heart with a
convulsive sob, and fell fainting at his feet.
Theodore caught her up in his arms, and ran on upon the path. He could
not find the cataract, but the stream which formed it soon caught his
eye; and, laying Neva on the bank, he bathed her brow with water from
the river, and strove to recall her to herself by words of comfort and
consolation.
At length she opened her eyes; and finding herself lying in the arms
of the man she loved, with her head supported on his shoulder, she
turned her face to his bosom, and wept long and bitterly. Theodore
said little, but all he did say were words of kindness and of comfort;
and Neva seemed to feel them as such, and thanked him by a gentle
pressure of the hand. At length she spoke. "I had thought," she said,
in the undisguised simplicity of her heart, "I had thought to be your
first and only wife. I was foolish to think that others would not love
you as well as I."
Theodore had now the harder task of explaining to her, and making her
comprehend, that in his land and with his religion, polygamy, so
common among her people, could not exist; but the effect produced was
more gratifying than he could have expected.
"Better, far better that it should not," cried the girl, raising her
head, and gazing full in his face with those earnest, devoted eyes.
"Better, far better that it should not. Had you asked me, I could not
have refused, feeling as I feel; but I should have been miserable to
be the second to any one. To have seen you caress her, to have known
that you loved her better, and had loved her earlier than you loved
me, would have been daily misery; but now I can love you as a thing
apart. You will marry her, and I will have no jealousy, for I have no
share: I will think of you every hour and every moment, and pray to
all the gods to make you happy with her you love. But oh, stranger, it
were better, till I can rule my feelings and my words, and gain full
command over every thought, that you should leave me."
"Would to God!" said Theodore, "that I had never beheld you, or that
you could forget all such feelings, and look on me as a mere
stranger."
"Not for worlds," she exclaimed, "not for all the empire of my uncle
Attila. I would not lose the remembrance of thee if I could win the
love of the brightest and the best on earth. I would not change the
privilege of having seen, and known, and loved thee, for the happiest
fate that fancy could devise. Oh, Theodore, would you take from me my
last treasure? But perchance you think me bold and impudent in thus
speaking all that is at my heart; but if you do so, you do not know
me."
"I do, I do indeed," cried Theodore--"I do know, I do admire, I do
esteem you; and had not every feeling of my heart been bound to
another ere I saw you, I could not have failed to love one so
beautiful, so excellent, so kind. Nay, I do love you, Neva, though it
must be as a brother loves a sister."
"Hush, hush!" she said. "Make me not regret--and yet love me so still.
Forget, too, that I love you better, but oh, believe that no sister
ever yet lived that will do for you what Neva will; and in the moment
of danger, in the hour of sickness, in the time of wo, if you need
aid, or tendance, or consolation, send for me; and though my unskilful
hand and tongue may be little able to serve, the deep affection of my
heart shall find means, if they be bought with my life's blood, to
compensate for my weakness and my want of knowledge;" and, carried
away by the intensity of her feelings, she once more cast herself on
his bosom and wept. "But you must leave me," she continued, "you must
leave me. Yes, and when I see you again, I will see you calmly--not as
you now see me. Yet you must have some excuse for going, and whither
will you go?"
"When your uncle Attila bade me come into Dacia till his return,"
replied Theodore, "Edicon, who remained with me, affirmed that it was
the monarch's will I should proceed to his own usual dwelling-place,
on the banks of the Tibiscus."
Neva thought for a moment as if she did not remember the name; but
then exclaimed, "Ha! the Teyssa--what you call the Tibiscus we name
the Teyssa. That is much farther on; but let my mother know that such
were the directions of Attila, and she will herself hasten your
departure; for my father and my uncle often jar, and my mother would
fain remove all cause of strife. Or I will tell her," she added, with
a faint smile, "I will tell her; and you shall see how calmly I can
talk of your departure."
She then spoke for some time longer, in a tranquil tone, of all the
arrangements that were to be made; and as she did so, still, from time
to time, her eyes were raised to the young Roman's face with a long,
earnest glance, as if she would fain have fixed his image upon memory,
so that no years could blot it out. Then in the stream she bathed the
traces of the tears from her eyes; and looking up calmly, though
sadly, said, "Let us go, my brother. It is sweet, but it must end."
They took some steps homeward; but, ere they had gone far, she paused,
and laying her hands upon his, she said, "Oh, Theodore! promise me,
that if ever, while you are in your land, you need help or aid, you
will send to me. Send me this trinket back by a messenger;" and she
gave him one of the small golden ornaments which she wore in her hair;
"send it me back, and I will come to you, be it wheresoever it may.
Deeply as I love thee, I would not wed thee now for worlds; but, oh! I
would give life itself to render thee some service, which should make
thee say in after years, 'Alas! poor Neva! she loved me well indeed!'"
Thus wandered they homeward; and often did she pause to add something
more, and to give some new token of that deep and all unconcealed, but
pure affection, which had taken so firm a hold of her young heart.
Theodore, too, strove to sooth and to comfort her; and all that was
kind, all that was tender--except such words as only the ear of the
beloved should ever hear--he said, to give her consolation. As they
came near the village, however, she spoke less, for she seemed to fear
that her emotions might leave traces behind for other eyes than his;
but she gained courage as they went on; and, to Theodore's surprise,
when they joined the household, no sign of all the busy feelings which
he knew to be active in her breast was in the slightest degree
apparent, except, indeed, in a shade of grave melancholy, which was
not natural to her.
She chose the moment while all were assembled at the morning meal to
announce to her mother the necessity of Theodore's departure. The
matron had made some observation upon the young Roman's recovered
health, when she replied, "We shall lose him soon, my mother. He has
been telling me that the commands of Attila the King were strict, that
he should go on to the king's own dwelling by the Teyssa."
She spoke calmly; so calmly, indeed, that there were but two persons
among all the many who seemed to notice that she touched on things
more interesting than ordinary. Theodore could not but know all the
emotions which that calm tone concealed; and her mother, as soon as
she heard the subject of her discourse, fixed her eyes upon her with a
look of mingled wonder, tenderness, and surprise, as if she, too,
could see into her daughter's heart, and asked, by that glance, "Can
you, my child, talk thus calmly of his going?"
After that momentary pause, however, she replied aloud, "If Attila
bade him go forward, the king must be obeyed. My son, you should have
told us this before; for though my husband is also a king, yet Attila
is his elder brother, and we wish not to offend him."
"If fault there be," replied Theodore, "the fault is mine. The
commands of the king affixed me no certain time; and I do, indeed,
believe that he named his own residence as my dwelling-place only for
my greater safety."
"'Tis not unlikely," said the wife of Bleda; "but still, my son, you
must obey: tarry not here more days than needful; for we know not when
Attila or Bleda may return."
Theodore, too, knew that it was needful he should go, and yet he felt
regret at leaving those who had treated him with so much kindness and
tenderness; at leaving scenes in which he had known a brief interval
of tranquillity and peace, after having undergone so long a period of
grief, of horror, and of danger. He gave himself but the interval of
one day, however; and then, in the early morning, his horse and his
followers stood prepared at the door. The wife of Bleda gave him her
blessing as he departed with motherly tenderness; and Neva herself
stood by, and saw him mount without a tear wetting the dark lashes of
her tender blue eyes, without a sigh escaping from her lip. All she
said was, "Farewell, my brother: remember us."
Theodore himself could have wept; and as he saw her stand there in her
beauty, her innocence, and her devoted love, deeply and bitterly did
he regret--ay, and reproach himself, for having, however unwittingly,
brought a cloud over her sunshine, and first dulled the fine metal of
her bright and affectionate heart. He sprang upon his horse and rode
away, turning back more than once to gaze upon them as they stood
gathered round the door of their dwelling, and to wave his hand in
token of adieu.