ROSALIA’S WANDERINGS.
“There’s a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough hew them as we will.”
SHAKSPEARE.
I do not know how _you_ feel, but I am fatigued with chasing up and down
the world, from Maryland to the Mediterranean, and from the Balize to
the Bosphorus, my eccentric set of people, who have exploded in their
passion and blown themselves to the four winds of Heaven! I feel like an
admiral at sea with a squadron, in which _each_ ship is in a mutiny, and
_all_ in a storm—or like a shepherdess with a very short crook, a very
wild watch-dog, and a very unruly flock.
And now I must leave the ninety-and-nine in the wilderness, and go after
the one that is lost—our pet-lamb, Rosalia—who, if she has escaped the
wolf, has withal wandered too far from the fold in going out of sight.
Upon the evening of her arrival at Genoa, Rosalia had been shown into
her chamber, had been assisted off with her travelling dress by the
chambermaid, had been supplied with some warm water for bathing; and
then, at her own request, had been left alone. Finding herself in
solitude, she had taken a pencil and paper, and traced the lines of her
farewell letter to Raymond Withers. Then like one in a dream, driven by
one force, the instinct of flight from Raymond, led by one attraction,
the wish for distance and sleep, she began her hasty preparations for
escape. Selecting from her wardrobe a dress that Raymond had never seen
her wear, and therefore would be unable to describe, one also that would
attract the least possible attention, and in which she would be able to
glide, spirit-like and unobserved, through the gloaming—namely, a black
velvet pelisse, black beaver bonnet, and black lace veil—she arrayed
herself, and taking her guitar, with a vague idea of its being
serviceable to her, she opened her door and looked cautiously out. It
was the hour of dinner throughout the house, and the servants were all
away from this division of the establishment. She hurried cautiously
down the stairs, watching her opportunity, and eluding observation now
by passing vacant galleries, now by gliding through a crowd of busy and
hurrying waiters, she escaped from the house and stepped out into the
street—into a broad, grand, spacious street, built up on either side
with princely palaces, so magnificent that any one of them might have
been considered the chief ornament of any other city. Terrified, almost
crushed by the stupendous magnificence around her, the timid girl
hurried through the stately streets of the gorgeous city, “Genoa the
Proud,” as it has been styled for its grandeur. Hurrying along under the
shadows of the palaces, gliding through the crowds of lazzaroni, the
poor, frightened girl approached the north-western rampart. She met many
country people coming through the gates, with tall baskets of fruit upon
their heads, and in the crowd that was passing _into_ the city, she
passed _out_ unchallenged and unnoticed. She found herself upon the high
road leading through the plains, through the forest, and lastly through
a defile of the Appenines to the city of Parma. She went on.
The sun had set before she had emerged from the city, and now as she
went up the pleasant road, bordered by beautiful herbage and fragrant
flowers, by citron and orange groves, the soft and purple evening of
Italy, with its clear sky and brilliant stars, was around her. The
delicious coolness of the atmosphere stole all the heat from her veins
as she wandered on. There seemed something in the air, or the ground,
that strengthened her, for as she walked, her faintness and languor left
her, and peace fell into her heart and all around her. Oh, yes! it must
have been the pure air,—the fresh earth,—the hum of insects,—the hushed
flutterings of birds’ wings, as they settled on their nests,—the distant
murmur of the bay, and the nearer whisper of the breeze—in other words,
the influence of nature, the mercy of God that was quieting her excited
nerves, cooling her burning fever and composing her stormy bosom. True
that she _knew_ she was a delicate, a houseless, friendless, penniless,
and helpless wanderer in a strange country—she _knew_ this, but somehow
she could not _feel_ it! She only felt the delicious influence of the
evening air. A great deal of the anguish she had experienced at parting
with Raymond had been expended in the passionate letter she had written,
in the passionate tears she had shed. The gathered force of the storm
had burst and was over! She was now refreshed. Instead of fainting on
the road at every step she took, coolness and strength seemed to strike
up from the living earth through her feet, passing into all her limbs.
And it seemed to her childish fancy that in the low music of the
insects, of the waters and the winds, she heard the angels whisper,
“Come along! come along! be a good girl! we are with you!” and she
toiled on, _led_ on, not knowing where, until the road declined and
narrowed into a deep, cool, green forest dell, when, overpowered by a
delicious drowsiness, she lay down to sleep. She did not feel alone or
wretched—it was strange, but she did _not_. Nature seemed to embrace her
in a loving, maternal, _conscious_ embrace; God seemed bending over her
in blessing. She lay down in the green and growing leaves that seemed to
close over her like kindred arms. She fancied in her dreamy, sleepy
half-consciousness, that the leaves which kissed her cheek _knew_ what
they were doing—that the large, bright, solitary star that gazed at her
through the overhanging foliage, _loved_ as it watched her; only half
awake, she stretched her hand up towards it, gratefully smiled, dropped
her arms, and fell asleep!—into a sweet, healthful sleep, and dreamed a
heavenly dream. She saw the Heath, the bay, and the river. The heath no
longer a desert, but covered with fields of waving grain and pastures,
that fed flocks of sheep and droves of kine. She saw the forest
glittering green in morning dew, and the river flowing brightly on to
the bay that flashed in the morning sun. She saw the Hall, no more a
ruin, but rebuilt upon the old model—an imposing, yet beautiful villa of
white freestone, with verandas running all around it; with vines twined
about its pillars; with birds singing in their leaves, and children
sporting under their shade. She saw Hagar in the high, bright bloom of
health and happiness. She saw Raymond seated at his wife’s side, with
one arm enfolding her form; she saw or _felt_ herself seated at their
feet, her head reposing upon Hagar’s lap, and Raymond’s sedative, white
fingers running through her ringlets; and she knew that she loved them
_both_ well enough to give her life for them, nor could she distinguish
any difference in the affection she bore to either. Her heart was
filling and rising with a strange joy; she awoke. What was before her?
The sky of Italy still bent above her—the bright star still looked down
through the foliage upon her,—the flowers and herbs of Italy still
bloomed around her—the high road to Parma lay before her,—but what was
on that road? A group of men with torches, bending over her. She gazed
in startled wonder for a moment,—she was awake and conscious again!—an
unpardoned sinner—a fugitive and a wanderer far from her native country.
Were these grim-looking men with torches come in pursuit of her, and
would they carry her back to Genoa? or were they a band of the dreadful
banditti that, inhabiting the fastnesses of the Appenines, sometimes
poured down in hordes, scourging the country with fire and sword, even
to the city gates? Quick as lightning all this flashed through her
brain, and she fainted from terror before the tones of a very sweet
voice from a carriage on the high road could reassure her, in the
following question, apparently addressed to the men around her—
“What is it, Signor Guillio?”
“A woman, a young lady, I should judge, your Highness.”
“_A young lady?_”
“Yes, your Highness.”
“Is she hurt?”
“I’m afraid so, madam! I am nearly sure that the carriage wheels passed
over her limb, and that she has fainted from the pain.”
“Oh, I am _very_ sorry!—but how could she have come there? and how very
careless to drive over her. Signora Morchero, will you have the kindness
to alight and examine into the extent of the mischief done?”
A lady now descended from the carriage, and stepping up to the recumbent
form of the fainting girl, stooped and examined her—noticing the
richness of her dress, the rareness of her beauty, the delicacy of her
hands and feet, and the highbred expression of every lineament while
trying to discover where she might have received injury.
“Will you not examine her limbs, to see if they have been fractured,
Signora?” again inquired or rather commanded the voice from the
carriage.
The lady bent down, and feeling her ankles, arose again and said—
“Her limbs are not fractured, madam, I think, and the obstruction that
the wheels passed over may have been only her guitar; still she is in a
swoon.”
“This is very extraordinary—what does she look like?”
“She has the appearance of a young person of rank.”
“Signor Guillio, give me your hand—I wish to alight,” said the lady in
the carriage.
The gentleman, who held a torch, passed it to a page, and went up to the
vehicle, reverently assisting the lady to descend from her carriage.
Leaning on his arm, she approached the prostrate girl; bidding the page
hold the torch lower and nearer her face, the lady examined her features
attentively. She seemed struck,—deeply interested. Indeed, it was a
strange, beautiful picture, upon which no one could look with
indifference; the lovely, snowy face, with its delicate Grecian profile,
half-shaded by the luxuriant tresses of bright golden hair, and both
thrown out into strong relief by the black velvet dress and the dark
green pillow of leaves.
“Lift her up, Signor Guillio, and place her in the hindmost carriage,
with our page and tirewoman; lift her gently,” said the lady, “we cannot
leave her here.”
The gentleman obeyed; but just as he raised her in his arms, Rosalia
opened her eyes; she shuddered and closed them again in fear; but the
lady addressed her in a soothing tone, and she looked up once more.
“You have lost your way, probably, young lady?”
Rosalia looked up into the lady’s gentle face—she understood Italian
imperfectly, so she answered in the affirmative, not knowing what else
to say.
“Are you hurt?” inquired the lady.
Rosalia replied that she was not.
“Were you going on to Parma?”
Again, in her surprise and uncertainty, Rosalia replied affirmatively.
“Then we can take you there,” said the lady, and turning again to the
gentleman whom she had addressed as Signor Guillio, she said—
“Put her into the carriage with the Signora Bianca, and let us proceed
on our journey; it is late, and the air is chill.”
Signor Guillio assisted the girl to arise, and, lifting her guitar, led
her on to a plain, dark carriage, that, standing some yards behind the
foremost one, was out of sight from the spot on which she had been
lying. Lifting and placing her in it, he merely said to the occupant
already there—
“A traveller, Signora, whom the Grand Duchess has picked up, and intends
carrying on with her to Parma,” and handing in the guitar, he closed the
door, and returned to the carriage of the lady, who had already resumed
her seat. The party moved on.
The carriages rolled on. Rosalia seemed to herself to be still sleeping,
still dreaming. Nay, _this_ position seemed more unreal than the dream
from which she had been awakened. At length she said to her silent, and
sulky, or weary companion—
“Will you have the goodness to inform me, Signora, to whom I am indebted
for this kindness?”
“Do you not know, then?”
“Indeed, I do not. I seem to myself to be dreaming, and have only a dim
notion of how I came here; who was the benevolent lady who spoke so
kindly to me?”
“You are a very new comer into this neighborhood, as well as a
foreigner, if you do not recognise Her Royal Highness, Maria Louisa,
Grand Duchess of Parma, who has been spending some weeks at the sea
side, and is now returning to her own capital.”
The simple girl was struck into silence by astonishment and awe.
It was near midnight when the carriages entered the gates of a fortified
city, and rolling through the streets, at length paused before a
magnificent palace. The party entered its portals. Rosalia was provided
with a lodging within its precincts, by the woman who had been her
fellow-passenger.
It was about eleven o’clock the next day when she was summoned to the
presence of the Grand Duchess. Maria Louisa was in her dressing-room
under the hands of her ladies, who were arranging her morning toilet.
Rosalia entered the sumptuous apartment and the august presence with
downcast eyes and hands simply folded upon her bosom; her golden
ringlets, parted above her high, pure brow, fell glittering down upon
the black velvet boddice of her dress. Everything in her looks and
motions repelled suspicion and disarmed prejudice as she floated
gracefully on and paused meekly before the Grand Duchess.
“Who and what are you—whence come you, and whither are you going, young
girl?” inquired Maria Louisa.
Rosalia raised her gentle lids to meet the noble but haughty eyes of the
Grand Duchess, and, inspired by a sudden impulse, in meek accents begged
permission to tell her little tale.
Maria Louisa, seeing her languid appearance, pointed to a low ottoman at
her feet, bade her seat herself and proceed. But _how_ to proceed
without deeply inculpating Raymond, she did not know; at last she
thought—
“This great lady is so far above us, and so far away from us, that the
full knowledge of the facts put in her possession cannot hurt
Raymond—and at least, if I speak at all, I _must_ tell the truth,” and
then Rosalia, in her imperfect Italian, “broken music,” told her story,
told it truly, weeping and blushing, but not concealing her own errors,
or sparing her own feelings. Maria Louisa listened with close attention
and deep interest. Now, whether it was that, by reason of the narrator’s
broken language, the Grand Duchess did not understand her errors, or
whether because of her ingenuous confession, Maria Louisa was inclined
to overlook or forgive them, is not known; but it is certain, that
having fully ascertained the perfect destitution of the friendless young
stranger, and her entire willingness to enter her service, the Grand
Duchess, in rising to leave her dressing-room, said—
“I appoint the Signora Rozzallia second assistant to my lady of the
wardrobe,” and dismissed her. Later in the day, Her Royal Highness was
heard to say,—“That young maiden has a perfect cherub’s face. Truth and
goodness radiate from it.” Later in the _week_, Rosalia was called to
sing and play before Maria Louisa; and later in the month, she became
the favorite attendant of the Grand Duchess.
A strange, vague fear and doubt kept Rosalia from writing to any of her
friends at present. After the lapse of some weeks, she began writing to
Sophie; but a strong dislike to expose the vice of Raymond to any of his
own friends, caused her to destroy the letter on finding it to be
impossible to give any true account of herself without compromising him
with his family.
Thus months elapsed, while she remained in the service of Maria Louisa,
Grand Duchess of Parma, where we will leave her for the present.