Cosi gl'interi giorni in lungo incerto
Sonno gemo! ma poi quando la bruna
Notte gli astri nel ciel chiama e la luna
E il freddo aer di mute ombre e coverto;
Dove selvoso e il piano e piu deserto
Allor lento io vagando, ad una ad una
Palpo le piaghe onde la rea fortuna
E amore e il mondo hanno il mio core aperto.
_Ugo Foscolo._
It was night, gentle and serene, such a night as in the favored clime of
Andalusia is wont to succeed the sultriness of a summer's day. The
bright canopy of heaven shone in passionless serenity, emblazoned with
its countless stars. The moon flung a solemn light on the tall palaces
and stately turrets of Granada, and tinged the citron groves of Don
Alonso's garden with a flood of chaste and silvery splendor. The placid
beams reposed calmly and unbroken on the bosom of the still lake, or
danced fitfully on the bubbling eddies of the limpid water, as it fell
on the marble basin with a refreshing sound.
How beautiful this calm! In such a spot as this could the wearied mind
taste of the sweet repose of an earthless spirit. But hark! the
breathless silence is violated by a low harsh sound. It is the grating
voice of yonder ponderous Moorish casement. It opens, and a female form
is there wrapped in contemplation; her eye is fixed, her figure
motionless. She now raises the trembling fingers to her white forehead,
and reclines on her arm, as she watches, with the unconscious gaze of an
absent mind, the sportive waters as they played below. She seemed to
delight in the soft stillness, and to gather fresh life amidst the
mysterious shades that reigned around. Spirit-like, she sat in the
frowning window, enrobed in shadow, and the cold whiteness that
pencilled out her form, seemed to array it with the character of a
living statue.
It was Theodora--the hapless Theodora, who, a prey to the rooted
melancholy that consumed her, had left her couch to enjoy undisturbed
the luxury of grief. The garden soon brought to her fancy recollections
of past scenes, and the source of all her present misfortunes. It was in
a garden, and on such nights as these that her meetings with Gomez Arias
had taken place, as well as the last interview which had decided her
fate, and given birth to all the miseries which followed. Tranquil and
serene was all around; Theodora felt a wild and romantic sensation of
delight, while gazing on objects fraught with associations of past bliss
and present misery. The hallowed placidity of the blue vaulted heavens;
the soft whispering of the foliage that slumbered in the cold moonlight;
the spectre-like appearance of the tall trees, which stood partly
enrobed in shadowy darkness, and partly glowing in serene and chastened
splendor; the gentle murmuring of the sportive breeze--all tended to
lead her senses into a delusive, but pleasing reverie. She listened, and
thought she heard _his_ voice. She looked tremblingly as if in the
expectation of the appearance of her lover. The thicket of myrtle
rustles and shakes, and flings on the air its load of fragrance, when
from its green bosom softly steals forward a tall and majestic figure.
Could it be possible? Or had her bewildered imagination conjured up the
airy phantom to deceive her? It was _he_--Gomez Arias--and as she gazed
intensely, the shadow moved slowly along, lengthening in the moonlight
as it proceeded. No delusion was here; it was indeed her lover she
beheld, moving with the same graceful manner as when she saw him last in
the garden of her father. The phantom approached, not in the unearthly
sickly semblance of a tenant of the tomb, but radiant with the joy of a
successful lover; his eye beaming with the glow of life. It moved! it
passed! 'tis gone--and Theodora, in the complication of her feelings,
remained with her eyes fixed, looking intently on the space where she
had distinguished the form of her lover.
During some time she remained plunged in a delightful trance, till the
solemn knell of a neighbouring convent, summoning the cloistered monks
to their orisons, suddenly dissolved the potent charm, and banished the
bright illusion for the reality of sorrow. The dear image of her lover
had departed, and a veil of gloom seemed to fall over the surrounding
scene. An unearthly dullness pervaded the air; the night wind sighed
mournfully through the rustling boughs of the trees; the moon threw a
colourless light from behind a shroud of clouds, and the semblance of
death seemed to reign around.
Theodora could no longer sustain the dreary scene, and she hurried back
to her couch, to linger through the night in the unavailing attempt to
court repose. Alas! refreshing sleep came not to close her weary
eyelids. At intervals, indeed, a heavy slumber stole over her, but so
oppressive was its influence, that she struggled hard to regain her
senses. The night wore away, and the morning dawned, but it brought no
alleviation to her sorrow. At an early hour she rose from her couch,
and, as if led by an instinctive impulse, she drew near the window that
commanded a view of the garden. There, musing on the vision of her past
night, she was surprised by the entrance of Lisarda, one of her
attendants. She came bustling in with an air of importance, and
apparently with a firm resolution that no opportunity should escape in
the proffer of her good services, and in the exercise of her loquacious
talents.
"Good day, sweet lady! Save you, my dear lady! How have you passed the
night?--Very composedly I trow, for this is a most quiet and sequestered
apartment: but, our Lady defend us! how pale you look;--surely, you are
not ill?--_La virgen nos valga_.[32] Samuel Mendez shall be commanded
here forthwith; for this same Samuel, you must know, is a very sapient
leech, and well versed in occult medical science, though a very dog of a
cursed unbelieving Jew;[33] he shall be sent for anon; there is no cause
to fear him, for the infidel dare not use any of his poisonous drugs to
such as you, my sweet lady. The _Samaritano_[34] would answer with his
life any mischance to yours; and that is methinks a right way of
effecting cures. So permit me to send for Samuel Mendez."
"Thank you most kindly," answered Theodora, "but my disease is not to be
removed by the powers of medicine. Alas! it is seated in the mind," she
added, smiling sadly, "and there all the science of Samuel Mendez would
be unavailing."
"Cheer up, my sweet lady," returned Lisarda, "for this is a time of
rejoicing at Granada, and it would be a pity to have one sorrowful heart
amidst the revelries of this mansion. Good heavens! we are all mad for
joy in the very anticipation of so much feasting and merry-making."
"I congratulate you sincerely," said Theodora, "though I cannot be a
partaker of the general joy."
"Oh, but you must," exclaimed Lisarda, "you must be glad, aye, and
rejoice too;--and how can you in troth do otherwise, seeing that our
master, Don Alonso de Aguilar, is hourly expected in the city?"
"It will indeed," returned Theodora, "throw a beam of comfort into my
poor heart to behold my brave and generous deliverer, and to pour forth
the tribute of my humble gratitude, which he so justly deserves."
"His arrival," continued Lisarda, with marvellous volubility of tongue,
"is the signal of numberless pleasures; for now, thank God and the
mighty _Santiago_, the Moors have had such a dressing that they will be
in no humour for some time to renew their unruly frolics, and that happy
event which we have so long a time been anxiously awaiting will at last
be accomplished."
"Yes," said Theodora, mechanically, "peace will be restored."
"Aye, peace will be restored," quoth she of the expeditious tongue;
"peace will be restored; and in sooth how should it not? But then that
is not the only happiness in store for the friends and retainers of Don
Alonso."
As she said this, Lisarda looked steadfastly on Theodora, as if
expecting to be questioned about the said happiness, but as she
perceived no symptoms of such an intention, she found the necessity of
affording both questions and answers, lest the dialogue should draw to a
conclusion, a catastrophe much dreaded by the good Lisarda.
"Now, by _San Jose Bendito_!" she continued in the tone of one that is
most good-naturedly inclined to give unsought-for information; "my
gentle lady, I would venture to assert that you cannot guess the motive
of such happy anticipations."
"I cannot indeed," answered Theodora, with indifference.
"Well, I will keep you no longer in suspense, since you evince so
anxious a desire to be acquainted with all the particulars."
Theodora betrayed some little impatience at the unconscionable chatter
of her attendant; but the giddy maid, heedless of every thing,
continued in a tone of great delight--
"So, the Lord save us! but the happiness in question is nothing less
than a wedding."
"A wedding!" cried Theodora, with some emotion.
"Aye, a wedding," repeated Lisarda, emphatically, accompanying the
stress she laid on the word with a most appropriate movement of her head
and hands, as the right one struck the palm of its left companion, in
token of asseveration: "A wedding," she continued; "and such a wedding
too, that the like has not been seen at Granada for many, many a year.
Let them boast of their Moorish gallantry and their infidel marriages--a
fig for them! No, no; a Christian for me--a Christian, who will be
satisfied with one woman, and in truth why should he not?"
"And who is the fortunate bride?" demanded Theodora, not from any motive
of curiosity, but merely to acquiesce in the loquacious humor of her
attendant.
"The bride!" exclaimed Lisarda, "the bride! why, who should be the
bride?--Have I not already told you?"
"No, indeed, you have not."
"Really," resumed Lisarda, conceitedly, "for a thoughtless silly girl, I
am the most unaccountable female in Spain."
Theodora did not attempt to contradict her, as she was certainly a most
unaccountable girl for a woman of forty.
"Well," proceeded Lisarda, "before it again slips from my memory, I must
acquaint you that the bride is no other than our beloved and most noble
mistress, the lady Dona Leonor."
"She well deserves a gentle bridegroom," observed Theodora, with
affability.
"She does in troth," replied Lisarda; "and how should she not, being as
she is? We have had no lack of suitors--aye, and the noblest. Good
Heavens! what ado there has been about it--gallants we have had,
clustering about us like bees when they flock around their queen. The
bridegroom is indeed a most deserving and accomplished cavalier; and so
he should, to be the favored choice of Dona Leonor. However, he is not
the one I patronized, and who I hoped at one time would marry my
lady--he, alas! was prevented from proceeding in so desirable an
engagement, not from any fault of his or mine either, but from an
unexpected event that presented the most insurmountable impediment to
the marriage."
"And that was--?" inquired Theodora.
"Death!" replied Lisarda: "it being rumoured and readily believed, that
the unfortunate caballero was murdered by those blood-thirsty Moors of
the Alpujarras; and indeed his long disappearance from Granada makes the
unwelcome intelligence to rest on no shallow foundation."
Theodora felt an involuntary chill at this part of her attendant's
narration; for the similarity of fate between Leonor's lover and her own
could not but be productive of a most harrowing sensation. Lisarda,
however, continued, unconscious of the pang she had inflicted.
"And it was a marvellous pity," said she, "for a more gallant and
generous cavalier was not easily to be met with in all Spain. So gentle,
so brave, so rich, and so generous withal;--now, never did he appear
before me, but he needs must force some present or other upon me; and,
indeed, spite of my shyness, I found the greatest difficulty in
resisting the acceptance of gifts which were offered in so delicate a
manner: peace be to his soul! it was always a ring, a gem, a pair of
pendants, or----"
"And what is the name of the present bridegroom?" interrupted Theodora.
"Certainly he is a sweet gallant too, and in great estimation at
court----"
"And his name is--?" inquired Theodora.
"Though, to say the truth, there are many others equally meritorious. It
is not the Maestre de Calatrava; oh, no; his attractions are rather too
mature to suit the taste of Dona Leonor."
"Who is he?" again demanded Theodora "A most handsome man, certainly;
now--but do not suppose it is Don Felix de Almagro, or young Garcilaso,
or Don Juan de---- No,----".
"Well, but, good Lisarda, what is his name?"
"Oh, he bears a most glorious name; but now I think on't, what a
thoughtless, silly girl I am; surely I was to bring you a beautiful
dress, that my lady ordered for you: sweet lady, you must forgive me; I
will run forthwith and rectify my fault."
Then, without waiting for a reply, she flew out of the room. Theodora
felt a strange sensation at the intelligence she had just received. A
wedding was shortly to be solemnized, at which her presence would
naturally be required, and the idea of witnessing a ceremony which would
bring to her mind a train of painful associations, failed not to
increase her agitation. Then she was lost in conjectures respecting the
bridegroom, and she felt impressed with a belief that he could be no
other than Don Antonio de Leyva. She felt a dread at the prospect of
appearing before him, whom her venerable parent had chosen for her
partner in life.
Theodora strove to drive away such unpleasant images, and to divert her
attention she hurried to the garden. There she walked to the same spot
where the resemblance of her lover had appeared the preceding night;
feeling a strange indefinable delight in visiting a spot endeared by the
awful visitation of her beloved and never to be forgotten Gomez Arias.
In the garden, therefore, she remained some time, now walking amidst
fragrant avenues of orange and citron, now resting on the marble edge of
the fountain, refreshing her hands and face in the transparent liquid,
or gazing on the clear and sparkling pebbles embedded on the golden
sand. Her sighs seemed attuned to the soft but melancholy sound of the
murmuring fountain, and she was insensibly falling into her wonted train
of reverie, when she was startled by the noise of advancing footsteps;
she raised her eyes and perceived a man coming directly across the path
on which she was standing; to her utter amazement, she beheld in the
disturber of her meditations the person, the very person of Roque. The
valet himself was rivetted to the spot at this mutual recognition, and
his features exhibited a curious amalgamation of sensations difficult to
be defined. He crossed himself thrice, uttered a faint ejaculation, and,
with wandering eyes and open mouth, he looked and looked again, as if
doubting the reality of what he saw. Being at length perfectly satisfied
that it was Theodora herself, the unhappy and forsaken victim of his
master, he made a hasty movement to leave the place.
"Stay, Roque, stay!" eagerly cried Theodora; "thou surely dost not mean
to leave me thus:--What alarms thee? Is it my dejected and forlorn
appearance? Alas! it may well awaken thy surprise; for deep and bitter
anguish has left its sad traces on my features."
Roque then approached, but not without casting a look around, as if
fearful of being observed.
"What ails thee, Roque?" demanded Theodora surprised; "thou
tremblest,--wherefore? What mystery is here?"
"_El cielo, San Pedro y San Pablo me valgan!_" ejaculated Roque, again
crossing himself.
"Oh!" cried Theodora, clasping her hand in eager supplication--"do not
harrow up my feelings with this suspense:--Speak!--"
"Good heavens! my lady, how came you here?"
"Alas!" answered Theodora, "the tale of my sufferings is as tedious in
length as it has been deep in sorrow; rather inform me of matters far
more interesting to my heart: tell me," she then proceeded, with
vehement earnestness, "tell me the circumstances of that horrid event
which has doomed me for ever to despair."
"That horrid event!" re-echoed Roque, with a look of marvellous
stupidity.
"Ah! Roque, it was a fearful deed, and not in vain did my heart warn me
with ominous forebodings."
"Yes, gentle lady," said Roque, in a tone of compunction, "it was a
fearful deed, I confess."
"And thou, Roque," continued Theodora, "thou hast to answer for a great
share of the misery which ensued."
"Alas, my dear lady! I know that my courage failed me in that dreadful
moment, but perhaps I am not wholly undeserving of pardon, for what
other course could I then pursue?"
"To fight," resolutely said Theodora.
"Fight," returned the valet, "fight! good God! you would not have had me
fight a host of ruffian Moors, would you, lady? A thousand they might
have been, for aught I know. Indeed, at the time, I lost my talent for
calculation, but they looked as many, and as for poor Roque, whom Heaven
has been pleased to endow with a most pacific temperament, thinking of
fighting a thousand Moors, he might as well be expected to engage
against Satan, backed by a whole legion of his infernal subjects."
"But was it well," rejoined Theodora, "to abandon thy master in the
hour of danger?"
"Abandon my master!" exclaimed Roque, "_valgame el cielo!_ Under favor,
Senora, it was my master that abandoned me."
"Out upon thee, fellow! I thought thee possessed of more manly feelings
than to make light with so sad a subject, and introduce an unseemly
jest."
"By all the saints in the calendar, lady--but I am in no mood for
merriment. I am not in very truth, and may the first jest I attempt to
utter strangulate me outright, before it escapes from my lips. But
really, with respect to abandoning my master, thank the blessed virgin,
that is a crime of which no one can accuse me. A man cannot help feeling
shy at engaging in broils and combats, if his star doth not propel him
thereto,--and that in verity is pretty nearly my case; but if any one is
tempted to question my fidelity, this miserable carcass of mine can bear
witness to the contrary, by displaying the honorable bruises I have
reaped in the service of my master.--Alack! had I been less constant in
following my Senor Gomez Arias, certain cudgellings and beatings without
number would not so continually have fallen to the lot of Roque."
"Darest thou speak in this strain," interposed Theodora, "when thou
betookest thyself to a shameful flight, at the very first appearance of
the Moors, leaving thy gallant and unfortunate master to be murdered at
their hands?"
At this unexpected accusation, Roque appeared astounded, and for some
time could collect no adequate term to express his surprise. He cast a
look of mixed amazement and compassion, shrugged up his shoulders, and,
in a scarcely audible tone, muttered to himself:--"Poor thing! may the
Lord preserve her--sorrow hath brought this about."
Theodora, heedless of his manner, continued;--"Alas! what was the
courage of a single man against the united force of so many enemies?"
"Aye--aye--nothing," responded Roque, "nothing certainly;--but under
favor, my good lady, though my master's courage stood ever the fairest
test, yet I do not clearly perceive how he is entitled to encomiums for
feats which, though he might, he _did_ not actually achieve."
"What!" exclaimed Theodora, with warmth, "would you even defraud his
memory of its too-well merited guerdon, the possession of a glorious
name?"
"Good my lady," humbly replied Roque, "I would not defraud my master of
a single _maravedi_, much less of so valuable a treasure as a glorious
name. But I am strangely puzzled to determine how I can deprive him of a
commodity which in my hands would lose its worth. Nor indeed can I
perceive why you bestow such commendations on the deeds of my master,
since, in the instance to which you allude, I rather suspect he was in
nowise anxious to distinguish himself."
"Thy speech," said Theodora, "is enigmatical, and wherefore it is so I
cannot surmise. But his very enemies confessed that he fought bravely,
and fell like a hero. Aye, Roque, they further added, that had you not
abandoned him in that critical moment, their victory would not have been
so easily effected."
"_Santa Barbara!_" cried Roque, more astounded than ever, "the Moors
said that? Well it was very kind of the _malandrines_ to speak in such
good terms of my honored master.--Good God! good God!" he then
continued, in a confused incoherent manner--"My lady, pray forgive my
impertinence, but will you tell me if I am awake?"
"Awake!" repeated Theodora.
"Yes, my dear lady, for either I must be now asleep, or you must have
been dreaming when the facetious Moors favored you with such an
extraordinary story."
"Oh, Roque! cease this ribaldry, so unbecoming in thee when we speak of
_him_ whom thou knowest I so much loved--when we speak of his untimely
death."
"The death of Gomez Arias, say you!" exclaimed Roque, retreating with
increased amazement. "My master dead?--in the name of Heaven! what say
you lady!"--
"The truth;--with these unhappy eyes did I see his murdered body in the
Alpujarras:--art thou then, Roque, so ignorant of his fate?"
"Oh, quite so," replied Roque; "this is the very first intelligence I
received of such an event;--and I suppose you will tell me next that you
have seen his ghost."
"Alas!" returned Theodora, "it was but last night that I beheld his
figure as perfectly as when I saw him last in the Alpujarras!"
Roque assumed as much gravity as he was able, considering the difficulty
he had to restrain his risibility; and, supposing that the intellect of
the poor lady was impaired, in a comic serious tone observed:--"Well, my
master is a most wonderful man, that his murdered body should be food
for the ravens of the Alpujarras, and his troubled spirit be haunting
Don Alonso's garden; when at the same time I saw him myself not long
since, in perfect sanity of body and soul, parading the promenades of
Granada."
Theodora gasped for breath; she gazed on Roque with astonishment. The
valet was in the greatest perplexity; but thinking that Theodora still
doubted the veracity of his statement, he again, in a serious tone and
asseverating manner, said--"Yes, my lady, you are deceived--my master is
alive."
"Alive!" screamed aloud Theodora, and her whole frame shook like the
aspen leaf; "alive! where? where is he?"
"In this city, and will come to the palace presently. More I cannot tell
you, lady;--permit me now to withdraw, and oh! that you might do the
same!"
Roque, as we have already observed, was far from being of a cruel and
hardened disposition, and his acquiescence in the unprincipled actions
of his master arose more from dread of his character than perversity of
heart. He was now strangely perplexed, anticipating the disastrous
results which might spring from the unlooked-for meeting of Gomez Arias
and the forsaken victim of his satiated passion. He almost regretted
having removed the error under which Theodora laboured with regard to
her lover's death.
Meantime Theodora, partly recovered from the violent shock which her
feelings had sustained, felt a chill of doubt and a vague apprehension
of evil that deadened the first impression of transporting pleasure
which the certainty of her Lope's existence had produced. She
endeavoured to give a solution to the enigma, but met with none
congenial to her feelings. The circumstance of her lover being in
Granada, and apparently unconcerned for her fate, withered the budding
hopes within her bosom, for she fondly imagined that Gomez Arias could
never be separated from her but by death. This suspense was terrible,
and Roque's demeanor tended to increase her anxiety. She fixed her
starting eyes on him, and holding his hand with a fearful grasp, in a
voice wild with emotion, she exclaimed:--"Roque! Roque! in the name of
Heaven, unravel this mystery."
She hesitated a moment, but the very poignancy of her anguish gave her
force to demand--"Did Gomez Arias, then, leave me in the power of the
Moors without attempting my defence?"
Roque made no answer.
Theodora became intensely excited, and with the piercing voice of
despair:--"Then it is true!" she exclaimed, "your silence confirms my
fears!"
A ghastly smile was on her lip, and a deadly paleness overspread her
features.
Roque now perceived the utter impossibility of keeping his master's
cruelty any longer a secret from his victim: yet he dreaded to acquaint
her with the whole extent of her misery; he trembled for the
consequences that such an avowal would produce upon her feelings, and he
knew that with a fond woman of extraordinary sensibility and elevated
sentiments, the death of a lover might be more easily supported than his
dereliction. On the other hand it was imperatively demanded by
circumstances that Gomez Arias and Theodora should never meet again;
for, alas! such a meeting could be productive only of reproach and shame
to the former--anguish, despair, and perhaps death to the latter.
Theodora, meantime, read in the agitated countenance of the valet a tale
of distress more cruel than any she had yet endured; whilst Roque, who
trembled lest, by an imprudent continuance of his interview with
Theodora, they might be surprised by Gomez Arias, summoned up his
resolution, and determined at once to acquaint her with her lover's
treason:--"Lady!" he exclaimed with emphasis, "in the name of God,
endeavour to brace your nerves against the dreadful intelligence I have
to communicate.--You must forget him for ever;--nay, if you consult the
happiness of all those that are interested in your welfare or in his,
you will decide never to see him more."
"What mean you?" demanded Theodora, with redoubled agitation.
"Your lover is false, lady; you must fly to your parent, or encounter
the peril of being immured in the gloomy seclusion of a convent. Such
were my master's intentions towards you, when the arrival of the Moors
happened in time to frustrate them. Should he, however, learn that you
are at Granada, where your presence may throw invincible impediments in
his way, the knowledge would be perhaps attended with disastrous
results. I am a poor man, a butt to sustain my master's ill humors, but
I will not so far dishonor my feelings as to permit the possibility of
your being exposed a second time to the dreaded manoeuvres of Gomez
Arias. Fly, lady, fly to your kind parent."
Theodora fixed a wild look on Roque, and the horrid nature of his
recital seemed to have frozen the springs of feeling. She did not speak,
nor was any passion, save that of despair, depicted on her countenance;
a settled stupor sat upon her pallid brow, and shone in the cold glance
of her eyes.
Roque was moved by the picture of loveliness that stood before him,
motionless in the intensity of grief; but he was conscious of the
danger he incurred by protracting his stay.
"Alas!" he said in a soothing tone, "you are very, very unfortunate; but
consider, lady, the consequences of our being seen together. Allow me to
retire, then, and command my services; but, oh, do not by any means
appear before----"
He was interrupted by Theodora, who suddenly started before that
dreadful name once so endearing could be pronounced.
"Roque," she cried, in a tone and manner that bespoke her possessed of
more resolution than could be gathered from the expression of her
countenance, "Roque, I will retire; be silent, and let me see you
again.--Yes," she added with a voice of presageful import, "it is better
I should not see him more!"
She then hastily retired from the spot, and sought the way to her
apartment. That feeling so deeply rooted in the female heart--the desire
of probing a lover's perfidy to the utmost, determined her to follow
the valet's advice. No, she dreaded not the most disastrous
consequences; for, alas! what has betrayed woman to fear, when she seeks
justice from the man for whom she has sacrificed all! Is it death? Ah!
it is her best refuge and only consolation!