The portrait of Gilbert I have drawn is not incorrect. He was as noble as
I have represented him, and it is certain that, in speaking to me as he
did that day, he was very far from the thought of laying a snare for me,
or even for himself. Whether he was absolutely sincere or not I cannot
say, but probably as much so as I, at least during the few first days
after this conversation. Thanks to the method of reasoning I have given
above, and which I thought original, it seemed to me that this frequent
intercourse with a man unusually superior to any one I had ever known, and
who, very far from addressing me any silly flattery, almost invariably
appealed to all that was highest in my nature, and, without alluding to
the cause of my troubles, knew how to divert my mind completely from
them—it seemed to me, I say, that this intimacy, this sort of imaginary
relationship which I had accepted, was not only lawful, but beneficial,
and I regarded it even as a just compensation for so many cruel
deceptions. In a word, I had lost, through the frivolity of my recent
life, that clearness of spiritual vision which is maintained by vigilance
alone, and I was a long time without suspecting that this idle frivolity,
with all the exuberant gayety that accompanied it, was a thousand times
less dangerous than the long conversations, to which the perfect harmony
of a kindred mind, and the contact with a soul so noble that it seemed to
ennoble mine, lent such a charm, and gave to my life a new interest which
I had never experienced before.
There was no apparent, or even real, difference in our interviews from
what they were before, and any one might have heard every word he
addressed me. And yet I felt that he by no means talked to me as he did to
others, and I, on my side, conversed with him as I did with no one else.
We were seldom alone together, it is true, but every evening, either in
the drawing‐room or on the terrace, he found an opportunity of conversing
with me a few moments without witnesses. He did not conceal from me that
he regarded these as the most precious moments of the evening; and as to
this I scarcely differed from him. Occasionally, something inexpressible
in his voice, his looks, and even in his silence, made me tremble, as if I
felt the warning of some approaching danger. But as he never deviated a
single word from the _rôle_ he had taken, my torpid conscience was not
aroused! Lorenzo was still absent, though the time fixed for his return
had long gone by; and when I was expecting him the second time, I received
a letter announcing a further delay, caused, as he said, by “a
circumstance that was unforeseen and independent of his will.”
A flush of anger rose to my face while reading this letter, though I felt
and acknowledged that the prolongation of his absence did not cause me the
same chagrin it once would. I did not ask why. I took pleasure in
recalling with a kind of complacency the aggravating wrongs I had
repeatedly endured, and it seemed to me he had less right than ever to
deny a heart he had so cruelly wounded any consolation whatever that
remained.
The day this second letter arrived we were on the point of starting for
Mt. Vesuvius, where, for a week, crowds of people had been going out of
curiosity, as is the case at every new eruption. It was nearly night
before we set out. My aunt and her two daughters were of the party,
besides Gilbert, Mario, and Lando, as well as two foreigners who, from the
time of the Carnival, had assiduously haunted the steps of my two cousins.
One was a young Baron von Brunnenberg, an excellent dancer and a great
lover of music; the other an Englishman, no less young, of fine figure and
herculean proportions, whose name was Harry Leslie.
There was a certain embarrassment at our departure among the members of
the party, caused by the simultaneous desire of several of them to avoid
the _calèche_ in which Donna Clelia had at once installed herself. I
observed this hesitation, which was far from flattering to my poor aunt,
and hastened to take a seat beside her. The young baron, who escorted her,
then concluded to follow my example, and I made a sign to Lando to take
the vacant place. He obeyed me less eagerly than usual. Stella, my two
cousins, and the young Englishman took possession of the other carriage,
which assumed the lead, followed with an envious eye by the baron as well
as Lando, who, I remarked, seemed in a less serene frame of mind than
usual. Gilbert and Mario came after in a _carozzella_, which formed our
rear‐guard.
At first everything went on pleasantly. My aunt was very fond of pleasure
excursions, and she regarded this as one, particularly as we were all to
take supper together at my house on our return. The conversation did not
slacken an instant as far as Resina, where we arrived at nightfall. There
we left the main road to take that which led directly to Mt. Vesuvius.
A new crater had this time been formed below the well‐known cone from
which the fire and smoke generally issued. It was like a large, gaping
wound on the side of the mountain, which sent forth torrents of fire,
ashes, and red‐hot stones.
Consequently, instead of being obliged to climb to the summit in order to
witness the eruption, we were able to drive so near the stream of lava
that we only had to walk a short distance to see the terrible opening,
which was approached more or less closely, according to the degree of
boldness or curiosity with which each one was endowed.
But the spectacle presented an imposing appearance long before we saw it
close at hand, and I was in the height of admiration when I heard a murmur
beside me: “O Gesù, Gesù!... O Madonna santa!...” Turning around, I beheld
my aunt, pale with fright, kissing the cross of the rosary she held in her
hand.
Donna Clelia, as we are perfectly aware, knew how to brave danger when she
found an occasion worthy of the trouble. We had a proof of this on the
memorable day of the combat on the Toledo. But, as it has perhaps also
been perceived, she was rather indifferent to the picturesque.
Consequently, there was nothing at this moment to stimulate her courage,
and I was alarmed at the condition in which I saw her.
“O Ginevrina mia!...” said she at last in a trembling voice, “_non mi
fido!_ No, I have not the courage to go any further.... Madonna!...”
This last appeal was caused by a stream of fire brighter than any of the
preceding ones, and accompanied by a loud detonation.
“But merciful Lord! What folly!” she continued. “What caprice! What
madness! How can you wish to rush into such a lake of fire while you are
still alive!... Oh! no, not yet; no, never! _O mamma mia!
misericordia!_...”
Each new stream of fire produced a more lively exclamation of terror. All
at once she leaned her head on my shoulder, exclaiming:
“Ginevrina!... I feel I am going to have a _papariello_!”(106)
At this we stopped the carriage. It was evidently dangerous to take her
any further. But what should we do?... Must we give up our excursion, and
retrace our steps? We were not inclined to do this. Besides, the other
carriage was some distance in advance, and could not be recalled. In this
dilemma we were rejoined by the _carozzella_. Gilbert and Mario leaped
from their carriage to ascertain what had happened to us.
“What is it, Zia Clelia?” said Mario, approaching the carriage, and
perceiving my aunt in the attitude I have just mentioned. She raised her
head.
“O Mario! _figlio mio!_ It is because I cannot endure this storm of fire.
It is the end of the world—the day of judgment!... How it oppresses me!...
How it stifles me!... O my God! and the _povere ragazze, dove sono?_... O
holy Virgin, lead us all back safe and sound to Naples, and I promise you
that for nine days....”
She finished her vow mentally, for Mario at once decided on the only thing
that could be done, and devoted himself to the task. He would take her
back to Resina in the carriage, and there await our return.
The exchange was soon effected. My aunt did not require any insisting,
after we promised to bring her daughters back without allowing them to
incur any danger. In the twinkling of an eye she was placed beside Mario
in the _carozzella_ with her back to Mt. Vesuvius, while Gilbert took her
place beside me, and we pursued our way as fast as possible, in order to
make up for the time we had lost.
We soon arrived at the place where we were obliged to leave the carriage.
Gilbert aided me in descending, and then gave me his arm, while Lando and
the baron went in search of the other members of the party, who only had
Mr. Leslie to protect them. They were soon out of sight, and Gilbert
remained alone with me.
I will not repeat here what every one has seen or read concerning the
eruptions of Mt. Vesuvius. I will merely say to those who have not had the
experience, that this extraordinary spectacle, assuredly the most
wonderful and at the same time the most terrific in the whole world of
nature, causes a singular fascination which induces the spectator to
approach continually nearer and nearer the fiery crater. It seems
impossible to turn away his eyes. He keeps on, therefore, without looking
to the right or left, without seeing where he is walking, stumbling at
every step over heaps of lava scarcely cold, regardless of the rough path
with its sharp, burning stones, the effect of which is afterwards seen on
his garments and shoes, though he does not think of it while exposed to
the danger, more apparent, perhaps, than real, but which indubitably
exists, however, as is proved by the numerous accidents that occur at
every new eruption.
Leaning on Gilbert’s arm, I was too firmly supported to stumble, and was
able to ascend to the top of a ridge of lava formed by preceding
eruptions; and there, protected by an immense block on the very edge of
the flaming abyss, I contemplated the awful, imposing spectacle! Gilbert
did not utter a word, and I attributed his silence to the impression which
likewise rendered me dumb in the presence of this terrific convulsion of
nature. The burning lava, issuing, as I have said, from a crater on the
side of the mountain, did not spring up to fall back again on the summit,
as usual, but it advanced like a large river of fire over the heaped‐up
masses of cold, black lava, giving them the most singular, fantastic
forms. It was like a city, not on fire, but of fire! It seemed as if one
could see houses, towers, and palaces; and in the midst of these imaginary
edifices moved the fiery stream! For lava does not flow. However steep the
descent, it stops and goes no further as soon as the crater ceases to emit
it. But it had not yet stopped. On the contrary, it pursued its slow,
pitiless course, consuming vineyards, swallowing up houses, and burning
the trees and bushes in its way.
It was a sight difficult to endure for a long time, and yet I could not
turn my eyes away from so mysterious and terrible a spectacle.
“O my God!” I murmured, “this is truly _la città dolente!_ We have before
our eyes an exact representation of the last day of the world!...”
Gilbert made no reply. He was overcome by I know not what emotion more
powerful than mine, and, looking at his face by the red light of the fire,
I was alarmed at the change in his features and their unusual expression.
“Would that that day had arrived for me!” said he at length. “Would that
this were really the last day of my life! Yes, I would like to be
swallowed up in that flame! I would like to die here on the spot where I
am—beside you—worthy of you....”
In spite of the terrific scene before me, in spite of the noise of the
explosions and the sullen sound of the lava, the tone in which he spoke
was distinctly audible, and made my heart beat with mingled emotion and
fear.
“I am afraid you are becoming dizzy, Monsieur de Kergy,” said I in a
trembling voice; “take care. Its effect, they say, is to draw one into the
abyss.”
“Yes, Donna Ginevra,” replied he in the same strange tone, “you are right.
I am dizzy. I am approaching the verge of an abyss, I know. I have rashly
exposed myself to the danger. I have presumed too much on my strength.”
The look he fastened on me, as he uttered these words, gave them a meaning
I could not mistake. It was no longer Gilbert who spoke—it was not he to
whom I had accorded the rights of a safe and faithful friend. The veil
with which I had wilfully blinded my eyes suddenly fell off, and the
emotion I was seized with, the material flames that surrounded me, and the
certain peril into which another step would have plunged me, gave an exact
idea of the danger to which I had foolishly exposed my honor and my soul!