GOING TO LAW.
Giulia was in Naples, but she was neither enjoying herself nor
benefiting herself, as much as she ought to have done. The Princess of
Sulmona, who stood in the double relation to her of daughter-in-law and
sister-in-law, and who had once been her chosen companion and bosom
friend, had, since her second marriage, been gradually estranged from
her: and, from time to time, the Duchess had received letters from her
in so altered a tone, that she might have exclaimed--
"Is all the friendship that we two have shared,
When we have chid the hasty-footed time
For parting us,--oh! and is all forgot?"
Firstly, a demand for a certain ewer and chalice of silver, richly
chased by Benvenuto, which were heirlooms, and held by Giulia in charge
for her nephew and Isabella's son, the little Vespasiano. On reading
this missive, the Duchess took the trouble to write her a long,
explanatory, and reproachful letter, reminding her of things whereof
Isabella ought not to have needed reminding.
Letter the second, after a considerable pause, took no notice of
Giulia's answer, but enforced attention to letter the first, making
additional claim to a large ruby ring and a string of oriental pearls.
On reading this, the Duchess said: "She's mad!"--burnt the letter, and
did not answer it.
Letter the third was filled with the most aggravating things that one
woman could say to another.
Giulia replied by desiring her instantly to return a service of plate
and several family jewels which had been lent her on her marriage.
In answer to this, Giulia received a lawyer's letter, telling her that
her husband's will was null and void, and threatening her with
proceedings.
Fancy the state of the poor Duchess! She received this letter just
before she went, for the first time, with Vittoria, to hear Ochino
preach; and however attentive he might have thought her, she was in fact
thinking of the lawyer's letter all the while, and writing imaginary
letters to the Pope and the Emperor. For, Giulia had overpowering
allies; and if her sweet nature were sufficiently stirred to call them
to her succour, woe unto those who attacked her! This had been
exemplified immediately after the Duke's death, when his kinsmen,
Ascanio Colonna and Napoleone Orsini, taking advantage of her supposed
helplessness, laid claim to his estates. Up in arms were the Pope and
the Emperor directly. The Pope pronounced the will valid, and the
Emperor put her in possession of her estates. Yet, now, here was the
whole matter to go over again, and with some one much nearer and dearer!
Giulia had a fit of crying; and the humid eyes and dejected mien which
Ochino and Valdés attributed to her convictions of sin were traceable to
a much lower source.
"How well dear Ochino laboured the point of justification by faith!"
exclaimed Vittoria, after their return from church. "Did you ever hear
it better demonstrated?"
"To say the truth, dear Vittoria," replied the Duchess, "I scarcely
heard two words of it, and do not remember one."
The Marchioness looked shocked; but Giulia continued--
"Isabella threatens me with a lawsuit, and I am determined to write to
the Pope about it."
"Oh, pray do not," cried Vittoria, "you are always a great deal too
violent. You use such extraordinarily strong measures when mild ones
would do."
"_I_, violent? Why, that is the last thing I am! It is because I am
unprotected that people trample on me!"
"Trample! O, my dear Giulia!"
"Why, only remember how Ascanio and Napoleone came down upon me directly
my poor Duke was dead!"
"Yes, and only remember how _you_ came down upon them. You raised the
whole country about it. No one less than the Pope and the Emperor would
serve your turn."
"Well, and did not they say I was right? and did not they take my part?"
"Truly they did!--but it does not follow that they would do so again.
Men are apt to fly to the rescue, directly they think a helpless woman
is oppressed; but if they find out she is able and willing to fight her
own battles, they let her! And indeed, dear Giulia, it does not become
a woman to be pugnacious."
"Pugnacious!" The word was highly offensive, and the Duchess was deeply
hurt. She threw herself on a pile of cushions and began to tear a
nosegay to pieces, without saying a word.
"Hear what St. Paul says," pursued Vittoria, sitting down beside her,
and turning over the leaves of a little book.
"St. Paul knows nothing about it," muttered the Duchess.
"There you are quite mistaken," said Vittoria, still eagerly hunting up
the passage, "St. Paul knew something about everything, for he was a
great genius and an eminently practical man, besides being a holy
apostle. This is what he says--'Dare any of you, having a matter against
another, go to law before the unjust, and not before the saints?... I
speak to your shame. Is it so, that there is not a wise man among you?
No? Not one, that shall be able to judge between his brethren? But
brother goeth to law with brother, and that before the unbelievers! Now,
therefore, there is utterly a fault among you, because ye go to law one
with another. Why do ye not rather take wrong? Why do not ye rather
suffer yourselves to be defrauded?'"
"That is very fine for St. Paul to say," said Giulia. "I wonder how he
would have liked it himself."
"Giulia! you must not say such things as that. It is wicked."
"Why, to hear you talk, one would think it was I who wanted to go to law
with Isabella; whereas, it is Isabella who wants to go to law with
_me_!"
And Giulia began to cry.
"Nobody is so unfortunate as I," said she.
"I pity you," said Vittoria, "but I own I think you are blameworthy."
"In what?"
"In your spirit."
"Why, what would you do in my place?"
"I would not write to the Pope."
"That's what you would _not_ do. What would you do?"
"Settle it by amicable agreement."
"But Isabella will not be amicable!"
"If she will not, that is _her_ fault."
"Certainly! And so it is her fault."
"Well, my dear Giulia, I would not trouble myself so for all the pearls
and diamonds in the world. What are they, but so much dust? If you throw
them into a crucible, they will lose all their beauty, and--"
"So should I, if you put _me_ into a crucible," said Giulia, beginning
to laugh; and her own little joke did more to make her see the bright
side of things than all her cousin's wise saws.
"I know what I'll do," said she. "I'll write to Ferrante."
Ferrante was her only surviving brother.
"Ah, that is a good thought," said Vittoria. "He will be sure to help
you."
So the Duchess wrote to Don Ferrante; and when Don Ferrante's answer
came, which was not within a fortnight, he told her he was sorry to find
she was embroiling herself again with her husband's relations; a
contentious spirit was worse than a continual dropping: he feared she
had had a little too much prosperity and petting: misfortunes were the
lot of all, and it was vain to repine because a rose-leaf was doubled on
our couch, &c., &c., &c. Think how many people were a great deal worse
off, &c., &c., &c.
Clearly, there was no comfort to be had from Don Ferrante. So Giulia,
getting another aggravating letter from Isabella, consulted the best
lawyers in Naples; who advised her not to answer her, but to leave them
to conduct the correspondence (for a consideration).
Then came so much parry and thrust, and tergiversation, and objurgation,
and recrimination, that poor Giulia became seriously ill. Then the
Marchioness of Pescara was very kind to her, and sat by her all day, and
would have done so all night, but she fidgeted her to death, by what
Giulia called preaching, though Vittoria only spoke what she meant for a
word in season; and Giulia longed to tell her she would rather be nursed
by her own maids.
"Ah, Leila!" said Cynthia, as she knelt, fanning her mistress, "I wish
we were all back at Fondi."
"Why do you wish that, Cynthia?"
"You would be better there, Leila. You would be under the care of Bar
Hhasdai."
"Bar Hhasdai has no cure for worry, Cynthia."
"I think you would be better there, Leila."
"Cynthia! do _you_ care for me? do you love me?"
Cynthia replied by repeatedly kissing the hem of the Duchess's garment.
"Ah, it is all very well to make that dumb show; but do you really love
me?"
"Yes, Leila, I love you. When the hound flew at me, you were bathed in
my blood, and did not mind."
"Of course, poor girl, I could not help pitying you. By the bye,
Cynthia--would you do anything that would make me better?"
"Try me, Leila."
"Well then, Cynthia--do tell me--frankly, as a friend--I'll forget I am
your mistress--I will not punish you. _Did_ you have any communication
with Barbarossa?"
Cynthia's face changed. "Oh, Leila! how can you ask?"
"Well then, say no! It is so easily spoken."
"It is not easy."
"Easy or difficult, you _must_ say."
Cynthia's obstinate look came on, which showed the case to be hopeless.
"Oh, very well, Cynthia; then you do not love me, that is all." And the
Duchess turned her face away.
"I _do_ love you, Leila."
"No, I don't believe you."
Cynthia took her hand and wetted it with tears. The Duchess drew it
away.
"I wish you would kill me, Leila."
"Don't tell such stories, Cynthia. You know it is not my nature to kill
people; though there were persons wicked enough to say I had killed poor
Muza, after cutting out his tongue, which you know he had lost before he
ever came to me."
"I know it, Leila."
"Muza was perhaps sent back as a spy; though he pretended he had
escaped. There are so many wicked people in the world that I do not know
who to trust--I believe I shall end by distrusting everybody."
"Oh no, Leila. Do not!"
"Why, how can I trust _you_? You have eaten of my bread and drank of my
cup these two years, and you are no more _of_ us than if you were a
stone."
"I love my own people, I own," said Cynthia. "And so would you love
yours, if you were exiled from them."
"I love mine without being exiled from them."
"But you would find you loved them still more if you were sold into
slavery."
"If Barbarossa had taken me to Constantinople! Well, I believe I should.
There is no making anything of you, Cynthia. You are a riddle. I believe
I could love you if you were not so close. But you shut yourself up like
a hedgehog. Sing me one of your Moorish songs--that one about Zelinda
and Ganzul. Perhaps you may quiet my poor nerves."
So Cynthia immediately began a long, wailing ballad, the Spanish version
of which begins:--
"En el tiempo que Zelinda
Cerro ayrada la ventana
A la disculpa, a los zelos
Que il Moro Ganzul le dava."
Before she reached the happy reconciliation of Ganzul and Zelinda, the
Duchess was asleep.