Domestic and studious occupations did not wholly engross the attention
of Constantia. Social pleasures were precious to her heart, and she was
not backward to form fellowships and friendships with those around her.
Hitherto she had met with no one entitled to an uncommon portion of
regard, or worthy to supply the place of the friend of her infancy. Her
visits were rare, and, as yet, chiefly confined to the family of Mr.
Melbourne. Here she was treated with flattering distinctions, and
enjoyed opportunities of extending as far as she pleased her connections
with the gay and opulent. To this she felt herself by no means inclined,
and her life was still eminently distinguished by love of privacy and
habits of seclusion.
One morning, feeling an indisposition to abstraction, she determined to
drop in, for an hour, on Mrs. Melbourne. Finding Mrs. Melbourne's
parlour unoccupied, she proceeded unceremoniously to an apartment on the
second floor, where that lady was accustomed to sit. She entered, but
this room was likewise empty. Here she cast her eyes on a collection of
prints, copied from the Farnese collection, and employed herself for
some minutes in comparing the forms of Titiano and the Caracchi.
Suddenly, notes of peculiar sweetness were wafted to her ear from
without. She listened with surprise, for the tones of her father's lute
were distinctly recognized. She hied to the window, which chanced to
look into a back court. The music was perceived to come from the window
of the next house. She recollected her interview with the purchaser of
her instrument at the music shop, and the powerful impression which the
stranger's countenance had made upon her.
The first use she had made of her recent change of fortune was to
endeavour to recover this instrument. The music dealer, when reminded of
the purchase, and interrogated as to the practicability of regaining the
lute, for which she was willing to give treble the price, answered that
he had no knowledge of the foreign lady beyond what was gained at the
interview which took place in Constantia's presence. Of her name,
residence, and condition, he knew nothing, and had endeavoured in vain
to acquire knowledge.
Now, this incident seemed to have furnished her with the information she
had so earnestly sought. This performer was probably the stranger
herself. Her residence so near the Melbournes, and in a house which was
the property of the magistrate, might be means of information as to her
condition, and perhaps of introduction to a personal acquaintance.
While engaged in these reflections, Mrs. Melbourne entered the
apartment. Constantia related this incident to her friend, and stated
the motives of her present curiosity. Her friend willingly imparted what
knowledge she possessed relative to this subject. This was the sum.
This house had been hired, previously to the appearance of the yellow
fever, by an English family, who left their native soil with a view to a
permanent abode in the new world. They had scarcely taken possession of
the dwelling when they were terrified by the progress of the epidemic.
They had fled from the danger; but this circumstance, in addition to
some others, induced them to change their scheme. An evil so unwonted as
pestilence impressed them with a belief of perpetual danger as long as
they remained on this side of the ocean. They prepared for an immediate
return to England.
For this end their house was relinquished, and their splendid furniture
destined to be sold by auction. Before this event could take place,
application was made to Mr. Melbourne by a lady whom his wife's
description showed to be the same person of whom Constantia was in
search. She not only rented the house, but negotiated by means of her
landlord for the purchase of the furniture.
Her servants were blacks, and all but one, who officiated as steward,
unacquainted with the English language. Some accident had proved her
name to be Beauvais. She had no visitants, very rarely walked abroad,
and then only in the evening with a female servant in attendance. Her
hours appeared to be divided between the lute and the pen. As to her
previous history or her present sources of subsistence, Mrs.
Melbourne's curiosity had not been idle, but no consistent information
was obtainable. Some incidents had given birth to the conjecture that
she was wife, or daughter, or sister of Beauvais, the partizan of
Brissot, whom the faction of Marat had lately consigned to the scaffold;
but this conjecture was unsupported by suitable evidence.
This tale by no means diminished Constantia's desire of personal
intercourse. She saw no means of effecting her purpose. Mrs. Melbourne
was unqualified to introduce her, having been discouraged in all the
advances she had made towards a more friendly intercourse. Constantia
reflected, that her motives to seclusion would probably induce this lady
to treat others as her friend had been treated.
It was possible, however, to gain access to her, if not as a friend, yet
as the original proprietor of the lute. She determined to employ the
agency of Roseveldt, the music-shopman, for the purpose of rebuying
this instrument. To enforce her application, she commissioned this
person, whose obliging temper entitled him to confidence, to state her
inducements for originally offering it for sale, and her motives for
desiring the repossession on any terms which the lady thought proper to
dictate.
Roseveldt fixed an hour in which it was convenient for him to execute
her commission. This hour having passed, Constantia, who was anxious
respecting his success, hastened to his house. Roseveldt delivered the
instrument, which the lady, having listened to his pleas and offers,
directed to be gratuitously restored to Constantia. At first, she had
expressed her resolution to part with it on no account, and at no price.
Its music was her only recreation, and this instrument surpassed any she
had ever before seen, in the costliness and delicacy of its workmanship.
But Roseveldt's representations produced an instant change of
resolution, and she not only eagerly consented to restore it, but
refused to receive any thing in payment.
Constantia was deeply affected by this unexpected generosity. It was not
her custom to be outstripped in this career. She now condemned herself
for her eagerness to regain this instrument. During her father's
blindness it was a powerful, because the only, solace of his melancholy.
Now he had no longer the same anxieties to encounter, and books and the
pencil were means of gratification always at hand. The lute therefore,
she imagined, could be easily dispensed with by Mr. Dudley, whereas its
power of consoling might be as useful to the unknown lady as it had
formerly been to her father. She readily perceived in what manner it
became her to act. Roseveldt was commissioned to redeliver the lute, and
to entreat the lady's acceptance of it. The tender was received without
hesitation, and Roseveldt dismissed without any inquiry relative to
Constantia.
These transactions were reflected on by Constantia with considerable
earnestness. The conduct of the stranger, her affluent and lonely slate,
her conjectural relationship to the actors in the great theatre of
Europe, were mingled together in the fancy of Constantia, and
embellished with the conceptions of her beauty derived from their casual
meeting at Roseveldt's. She forgot not their similitude in age and sex,
and delighted to prolong the dream of future confidence and friendship
to take place between them. Her heart sighed for a companion fitted to
partake in all her sympathies.
This strain, by being connected with the image of a being like herself,
who had grown up with her from childhood, who had been entwined with her
earliest affections, but from whom she had been severed from the period
at which her father's misfortunes commenced, and of whose present
condition she was wholly ignorant, was productive of the deepest
melancholy. It filled her with excruciating, and, for a time,
irremediable sadness. It formed a kind of paroxysm, which, like some
febrile affections, approach and retire without warning, and against the
most vehement struggles.
In this mood her fancy was thronged with recollections of scenes in
which her friend had sustained a part. Their last interview was commonly
revived in her remembrance so forcibly as almost to produce a lunatic
conception of its reality. A ditty which they sung together on that
occasion flowed to her lips. If ever human tones were qualified to
convey the whole soul, they were those of Constantia when she sang:--
"The breeze awakes, the bark prepares,
To waft me to a distant shore:
But far beyond this world of cares
We meet again to part no more."
These fits were accustomed to approach and to vanish by degrees. They
were transitory, but not unfrequent, and were pregnant with such
agonizing tenderness, such heart-breaking sighs, and a flow of such
bitter yet delicious tears, that it were not easily decided whether the
pleasure or the pain surmounted. When symptoms of their coming were felt
she hastened into solitude, that the progress of her feelings might
endure no restraint.
On the evening of the day on which the lute had been sent to the foreign
lady, Constantia was alone in her chamber immersed in desponding
thoughts. From these she was recalled by Fabian, her black servant, who
announced a guest. She was loath to break off the thread of her present
meditations, and inquired with a tone of some impatience, who was the
guest. The servant was unable to tell; it was a young lady whom he had
never before seen; she had opened the door herself, and entered the
parlour without previous notice.
Constantia paused at this relation. Her thoughts had recently been fixed
upon Sophia Westwyn. Since their parting four years before she had heard
no tidings of this woman. Her fears imagined no more probable cause of
her friend's silence than her death. This, however, was uncertain. The
question now occurred, and brought with it sensations that left her no
power to move:--was this the guest?
Her doubts were quickly dispelled, for the stranger taking a light from
the table, and not brooking the servant's delays, followed Fabian to the
chamber of his mistress. She entered with careless freedom, and
presented to the astonished eyes of Constantia the figure she had met at
Roseveldt's, and the purchaser of her lute.
The stranger advanced towards her with quick steps, and mingling tones
of benignity and sprightliness, said:--
"I have come to perform a duty. I have received from you to-day a lute
that I valued almost as my best friend. To find another in America,
would not, perhaps, be possible; but, certainly, none equally superb and
exquisite as this can be found. To show how highly I esteem the gift, I
have come in person to thank you for it."--There she stopped.
Constantia could not suddenly recover from the extreme surprise into
which the unexpectedness of this meeting had thrown her. She could
scarcely sufficiently suppress this confusion to enable her to reply to
these rapid effusions of her visitant, who resumed with augmented
freedom:--
"I came, as I said, to thank you, but to say the truth that was not all,
I came likewise to see you. Having done my errand, I suppose I must go.
I would fain stay longer and talk to you a little. Will you give me
leave?"
Constantia, scarcely retrieving her composure, stammered out a polite
assent. They seated themselves, and the visitant, pressing the hand she
had taken, proceeded in a strain so smooth, so flowing, sliding from
grave to gay, blending vivacity with tenderness, interpreting
Constantia's silence with such keen sagacity, and accounting for the
singularities of her own deportment in a way so respectful to her
companion, and so worthy of a steadfast and pure mind in herself, that
every embarrassment and scruple were quickly banished from their
interview.
In an hour the guest took her leave. No promise of repeating her visit,
and no request that Constantia would repay it, was made. Their parting
seemed to be the last; whatever purpose having been contemplated
appeared to be accomplished by this transient meeting. It was of a
nature deeply to interest the mind of Constantia. This was the lady who
talked with Roseveldt, and bargained with Melbourne, and they had been
induced by appearances to suppose her ignorant of any language but
French; but her discourse, on the present occasion, was in English, and
was distinguished by unrivalled fluency. Her phrases and habits of
pronouncing were untinctured by any foreign mixture, and bespoke the
perfect knowledge of a native of America.
On the next evening, while Constantia was reviewing this transaction,
calling up and weighing the sentiments which the stranger had uttered,
and indulging some regret at the unlikelihood of their again meeting,
Martinette (for I will henceforth call her by her true name) entered the
apartment as abruptly as before. She accounted for the visit merely by
the pleasure it afforded her, and proceeded in a strain even more
versatile and brilliant than before. This interview ended like the
first, without any tokens on the part of the guest, of resolution or
desire to renew it; but a third interview took place on the ensuing day.
Henceforth Martinette became a frequent but hasty visitant, and
Constantia became daily more enamoured of her new acquaintance. She did
not overlook peculiarities in the conversation and deportment of this
woman. These exhibited no tendencies to confidence or traces of
sympathy. They merely denoted large experience, vigorous faculties, and
masculine attainments. Herself was never introduced, except as an
observer; but her observations on government and manners were profound
and critical.
Her education seemed not widely different from that which Constantia had
received. It was classical and mathematical; but to this was added a
knowledge of political and military transactions in Europe during the
present age, which implied the possession of better means of information
than books. She depicted scenes and characters with the accuracy of one
who had partaken and witnessed them herself.
Constantia's attention had been chiefly occupied by personal concerns.
Her youth had passed in contention with misfortune, or in the quietudes
of study. She could not be unapprised of contemporary revolutions and
wars, but her ideas concerning them were indefinite and vague. Her views
and her inferences on this head were general and speculative. Her
acquaintance with history was exact and circumstantial, in proportion as
she retired backward from her own age. She knew more of the siege of
Mutina than that of Lisle; more of the machinations of Cataline and the
tumults of Clodius, than of the prostration of the Bastile, and the
proscriptions of Marat.
She listened, therefore, with unspeakable eagerness to this reciter, who
detailed to her, as the occasion suggested, the progress of action and
opinion on the theatre of France and Poland. Conceived and rehearsed as
this was with the energy and copiousness of one who sustained a part in
the scene, the mind of Constantia was always kept at the pitch of
curiosity and wonder.
But, while this historian described the features, personal deportment,
and domestic character of Antoinette, Mirabeau and Robespierre, an
impenetrable veil was drawn over her own condition. There was a warmth
and freedom in her details, which bespoke her own co-agency in these
events, but was unattended by transports of indignation or sorrow, or by
pauses of abstraction, such as were likely to occur in one whose hopes
and fears had been intimately blended with public events.
Constantia could not but derive humiliation from comparing her own
slender acquirements with those of her companion. She was sensible that
all the differences between them arose from diversities of situation.
She was eager to discover in what particulars this diversity consisted.
She was for a time withheld, by scruples not easily explained, from
disclosing her wishes. An accident, however, occurred to remove these
impediments. One evening this unceremonious visitant discovered
Constantia busily surveying a chart of the Mediterranean Sea. This
circumstance led the discourse to the present state of Syria and Cyprus.
Martinette was copious in her details. Constantia listened for a time;
and, when a pause ensued, questioned her companion as to the means she
possessed of acquiring so much knowledge. This question was proposed
with diffidence, and prefaced by apologies.
"Instead of being offended by your question," replied the guest, "I only
wonder that it never before occurred to you. Travellers tell us much.
Volney and Mariti would have told you nearly all that I have told. With
these I have conversed personally, as well as read their books; but my
knowledge is, in truth, a species of patrimony. I inherit it."
"Will you be good enough," said Constantia, "to explain yourself?"
"My mother was a Greek of Cyprus. My father was a Slavonian of Ragusa,
and I was born in a garden at Aleppo."
"That was a singular concurrence."
"How singular? That a nautical vagrant like my father should sometimes
anchor in the Bay of Naples; that a Cyprian merchant should carry his
property and daughter beyond the reach of a Turkish sangjack, and seek
an asylum so commodious as Napoli; that my father should have dealings
with this merchant, see, love, and marry his daughter, and afterwards
procure from the French government a consular commission to Aleppo; that
the union should in due time be productive of a son and daughter,--are
events far from being singular. They happen daily."
"And may I venture to ask if this be your history?"
"The history of my parents. I hope you do not consider the place of my
birth as the sole or the most important circumstance of my life."
"Nothing would please me more than to be enabled to compare it with
other incidents. I am apt to think that your life is a tissue of
surprising events. That the daughter of a Ragusan and Greek should have
seen and known so much; that she should talk English with equal fluency
and more correctness than a native; that I should now be conversing with
her in a corner so remote from Cyprus and Sicily, are events more
wonderful than any which I have known."
"Wonderful! Pish! Thy ignorance, thy miscalculation of probabilities is
far more so. My father talked to me in Slavonic; my mother and her maids
talked to me in Greek. My neighbours talked to me in a medley of Arabic,
Syriac, and Turkish. My father's secretary was a scholar. He was as well
versed in Lysias and Xenophon as any of their contemporaries. He
laboured for ten years to enable me to read a language essentially the
same with that I used daily to my nurse and mother. Is it wonderful then
that I should be skilful in Slavonic, Greek, and the jargon of Aleppo?
To have refrained from learning was impossible. Suppose, a girl, prompt,
diligent, inquisitive, to spend ten years of her life partly in Spain,
partly in Tuscany, partly in France, and partly in England. With her
versatile curiosity and flexible organs would it be possible For her to
remain ignorant of each of these languages? Latin is the mother of them
all, and presents itself of course to her studious attention."
"I cannot easily conceive motives which should lead you before the age
of twenty through so many scenes."
"Can you not? You grew and flourished, like a frail mimosa, in the spot
where destiny had planted you. Thank my stars, I am somewhat better than
a vegetable. Necessity, it is true, and not choice, set me in motion,
but I am not sorry for the consequences."
"Is it too much," said Constantia, with some hesitation, "to request a
detail of your youthful adventures?"
"Too much to give, perhaps, at a short notice. To such as you my tale
might abound with novelty, while to others, more acquainted with
vicissitudes, it would be tedious and flat. I must be gone in a few
minutes. For that and for better reasons, I must not be minute. A
summary at present will enable you to judge how far a more copious
narrative is suited to instruct or to please you."
END OF VOL. II